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Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Some Musings Upon Family Practitioners (in General)

My wife Jack may have gotten home around 9:30 p.m. last evening after working her second day this week at a Thai restaurant in the Guildford area ─ she has been putting in two days early each week now for what must be nigh on two months.

And so it was to be her second consecutive night here at home.

She will be returning to Vancouver (where she spends most of each week) late this afternoon.

I had a bit of an angry exchange thereafter that evening with my younger brother Mark after he roused from passing out during the first show I had tuned in, and then awoke well into the second.

He must have been watching the second show for 10 minutes before he observed to me, "Isn't that the girl with all the tattoos?"

He was referring to the actress playing the character Jane Doe on Blindspot, which I have tuned in since its beginning.

In an exasperation that I could not hide because I get so fed up with him snoring away through these shows, I sarcastically confirmed his observation, "Yes, it is. And why wouldn't the girl with all the tattoos be on Blindspot, her own series?"

He immediately got defensive, accusing me of "jumping all over" with the shows we watch. 

Well, I don't. I watch each episode all the way through. He's the one that jumping in and out of the darned shows because his brain can't handle the amount of alcohol he's swilling down on a daily basis after work.

More often than not on any given evening, he will pass out for at least a short time.    

So I shot back at him, "How can you watch a show for 10 or more minutes, and not recognize any of the various regular characters?"

We just left things at that, both of us undoubtedly fuming for a time over the exchange.

Anyway, after he had gone on up to his bedroom for the night, I was contemplating watching a Christmas movie if my wife Jack was going to be sitting up much longer.

As I waited and wondered, I was weathering Jimmy Kimmel's monologue at the start of his show when I began to suspect that maybe Jack had gone to bed. 

If she was going to be staying up, then she would be busy cooking. But she had not even begun to make preparation for anything like that.

So I investigated, and saw that our bedroom was dark ─ she had retired to it, leaving the door slightly ajar. Earlier, the light had been on. 

That cleared the way for me to shut things down, and I put away the second can of strong (8% alcohol) beer that I had on hand if I was going to be watching a Christmas movie.

It was 11:58 p.m. once I was in bed.

Well before I managed to slip into any sleep, my left nasal passageway blocked up, and I never was to have two clear  passageways the entire night.

But at least I managed to get better stretches of fractured sleep than I did the previous night, despite the impaired breathing.

This morning I checked the time at 5:50 a.m., still feeling like I could well use more sleep. I gave it a try, even though knowing that Jack's eldest son Tho was likely to be summoning his mother to drive his lazy ass to the SkyTrain for his commute to work.

However, considerable time seemed to pass without that happening, for he generally summons her around 6:00 a.m.

Then I heard Jack speak a soft word of acknowledgment, and she got up and began dressing. I had missed hearing Tho's tap on the bedroom door and his soft call-out to his mother, so I was likely slipping into sleep.

When Jack exited the bedroom, I peeked at the time and saw that it was 6:23 a.m. Tho must have slept in a little. 

I soon had dressed, and when I heard the both of them exit the house, I went downstairs to begin preparing my morning's hot beverage.

Jack was back before I had yet poured the hot water I had boiled on the stove. She wasted no time in heading back upstairs and returning to bed.

And I was quickly at work fulfilling the morning's assignment of content supply to the post I am constructing at Siam-Longings, one of my six hosted websites. 

When that duty was done very shortly after 10:00 a.m., I went to my working brother Mark's bedroom and covered up with the comforter on his bed, trying to nap.

I managed at least three dreams that I could partially remember, so I know that I did sink into some sleep. But it still was not yet 11:00 a.m. when I got up and removed my earplugs to confirm that Jack had gotten up by then.

And so I came downstairs as she freshened up in the bathroom for quite some time.

When she finally came downstairs, I could hear that she had footwear on. I presented myself as she was heading towards the front door, and got confirmation from her that she was indeed heading out for somewhere.

I am sure that she mumbled what was afoot, but I caught nothing of it. If she wasn't interested enough to speak out sufficiently loudly for me to be informed, then I wasn't interested enough to pursue from her the knowing of her plans.     

At present, it is 12:41 p.m. I have been taking advantage of her absence to get this post begun.

Incidentally, her youngest son Poté is still in bed. I can only assume that he has the day off work.

The weather has been quite sunny out there thus far.

Have you got a family physician? 

I don't. We did have one for many years when I was a teen and young adult, but I don't think I've seen the chap since at least as far back as the mid-1980s.

He may still be alive, but he certainly won't be practicing. And I have no idea whatever became of my family's medical records once he gave the practice up ─ there is probably some successor who has them.

A couple or so weeks back, there were some news reports getting lots of attention about an elderly female general practitioner in the States who was being shut down simply because the Establishment was aghast because she never used anything electronic in her practice insofar as records and such were concerned.

Here are some reports about her case:




Ever since I have been without a family physician, I have rather thought that I would probably prefer to have a female doctor if I was to again have the luxury of such a medical relationship.

When I was younger, I just didn't like the idea of ever having to be intimately examined by a male doctor. If somebody was going to be checking me out to that degree, then I wanted it to be a female physician.

I was quite a homophobe when I was a much younger man. 

It was not until I was into my late 40s and newly employed on an indeterminate basis with the federal government that I actually began working and getting to know avowed Gay people ─ I had never known anyone before who was Gay.

To me, it was like they were exceptionally rare beings. 

But let's get back on topic.

It would be fantastic to have access to the sort of doctor that existed years ago ─ one who had time to become close to all of his or her patients, and who might even make house calls.

Were people less sick before? 

How has it come that medical practices are now so choked with such masses of patients that physicians cannot possibly handle the workload anymore?

I'm going to break from this musing. I want to generate the motivation to get outside to the backyard tool shed and involve myself in the pull-ups that I was too lacking to confront yesterday.

I want to do this before my wife Jack is back.


She was back by around 2:00 p.m. I had long finished the pull-ups, and was most of the way through a light meal.

She came home with a load of groceries, and soon enough was busy cooking for us.

There came a point after mid-afternoon when I decided to watch a Christmas movie to better  occupy myself while keeping myself more or less present as Jack busied herself.

The movie I selected was rather an oldie ─ 1990's A Mom for Christmas.   

It had its moments, although it was much too hokey for my total liking. I probably would have gotten a little more emotionally involved if Jack wasn't nearby ─ and I think she was paying the show some heed at times from her indirect vantage in the kitchen.

Some booze would have also helped.

It feels a little bit like time traveling to realize that the central child actress in the movie is now 38 years old.

Anyway, Jack left us to return to Vancouver until  probably next Monday evening ─ I saw her off at something like 5:39 p.m., if I am remembering correctly.

It always leaves me feeling rather wistful and lonely. I wished that I wasn't so economically limited that I was too reluctant to open one of the two bottles of rye whisky that I've been saving ─ I would very much have loved to take two or three stiff swigs just to numb the feelings.

Mention of the whisky made me reflect on what had become of the bottle of spiced rum that my brother Mark had given me for my October birthday, and I now see that I also have it in store.

I've been saving the bottles for the couple of days relating to both the official Christmas and the New Year's occasions. Maudlin sentimentalist that I am, I know that I will be needing everything I can muster by way of drink during the days centring directly around those two key events.

Well, the evening has arrived, so I had better work on getting this post finished.

I want to post this scan of a photo ─ the description beneath it is from the Google Plus album where I have the scan filed:

My mother Irene Dorosh.

The reverse of the photo is date-stamped July 1989 ─ no doubt the date the roll of film was developed that contained the image.

My recollection is struggling to identify just where the photo was taken. 

Might it be the co-op apartment she and her husband Alex lived in for possibly a few years in Newton prior to them relocating to Keremeos where they were both to pass away about five years apart?
I will have to forward the image to my older half-sister Phyllis to see if her memory is any clearer than mine.

Alright, I am going to close now with this old journal entry of mine from 41 years ago when I was 27 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting in a private home located on Ninth Street, and no more than two houses up from Third Avenue.

I had just finished a weekend of heavy partying, mostly in celebration of the upcoming marriage on December 18th of my maternal cousin Bruce Halverson and his fiancée Donna Montroy.

I had left my room during the noon hour on a Saturday, and was not back until near 11:00 p.m. Sunday evening.
MONDAY, December 13, 1976

I arose about 7:45 a.m. 

At his party, Bruce again said he would rent us suits for his wedding; I am expected to be present by 8:00 p.m. for the rehearsal on Friday.

I guess I'm pretty well over losing Melody, for I hardly had anything to do with her after the stag, and she & Chris left early without any bother for me whatsoever; my big loss is lottery misfortune, as I badly need cash. 

I might have 2 more unemployment cheques, but I don't know certainly.

Well, before going to mom's (she left yesterday for Reno with another woman; they'll be gone a week, but I hope Alex is working), I'll stop at city hall for 2 application forms; Mark probably will apply for the fireman position, but I am uncertain for myself.

I had thought of dropping in if Melody was at Bill's (he and Chris should be working), but I look pretty shaggy.

After visiting at mom's for mail and some eats, I intend to shop and then head for Mark's around 4:00 p.m.

But whatever I do, I shall leave here by 11:30 a.m.

A fair day.
And I wrote no more that day. Most likely, I never got back from Mark's duplex unit until the next day.

I was essentially recovered from the loss of my 20-year-old girlfriend Melody St. Jean to Chris, a young mill co-worker of my brother Mark.

Prior to meeting Chris and turning unfaithful, Melody had moved her furniture and herself into the apartment of my old friend William Alan Gill, who was living maybe four or so blocks from my room.

She, Bill, and I were to have rented accommodation somewhere that the three of us could live in together, but Chris's advent made that impossible.

Yet a number of weeks had now passed, and Melody and her furniture were still in Bill's apartment.

My mother's home was my main mailing address. I was going to make the 1½-hour hike to the little house that she shared with her husband Alex; and then in the latter afternoon hike over to where Mark was living in a duplex unit.

I would want to get away from my mother's home before Alex had gotten home from work, for I was never all that comfortable socially around the man.

Their house no longer exists, but its address in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey was 12106 - 90th Avenue

Mark lived less than three miles from there, and in the direction of Whalley. I think the duplex may have been a short distance along Semiahmoo Road from Old Yale Road.

I had been living in New Westminster since at least as far back as 1969, and maybe even 1968. But my time in New Westminster was coming to a close, although I now do not precisely remember anymore just when it was that I was to bid it farewell.

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