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Friday, May 4, 2018

Long-Term Antibiotic Use May Elevate Risk of Death from Various Causes

Sundry Bilious Ruminations

My tether has just about run out ─ or so I feel today.

My younger brother Mark was naught but a malignant presence after he came home last evening from wherever he had been drinking yesterday.

When he drinks, all he does is bitch, or else moan about how only he seems to have any stress or afflictions.

If I was not expecting my wife Jack home later that evening, I would not have remained in the living room to endure the beer-soaked wretch.

Even if I was able to guiltlessly retire to my bed early, knowing that Jack would be coming home and have for her company the drunkard my brother becomes; she would only disturb my sleep if I was fortunate to find any before she was home.

She was a little later than usual in arriving home ─ I believe that it was somewhat after 11:30 p.m. She had worked the day at her friend Fanta's Thai restaurant in Langley. I had even begun to wonder if maybe she was not coming home, and would instead proceed directly to Vancouver where she spends most of each week.

It was to be one of those evenings when she was in no rush to get to bed.

Mark probably hauled his sorry frame upstairs to his bedroom around 12:30 a.m., bemoaning all the while.

I remained up for nearly another hour, finally excusing myself and leaving the T.V. remote control with my wife Jack where she sat at the dining table engrossed in the screen of her cellphone.

I now cannot say when it was that she was to come to bed, nor even if I was aware.

My first check of the time overnight was 5:44 a.m., and that was when I opted to rise and get to work on the edit of an old post at my website Siam-Longings.

I was to find that neither of my two stepsons had yet risen to ready for work.

My youngest stepson Poté still had his girlfriend with him in his bed last night when I retired.

Well, maybe a minute or two after 6:00 a.m. as I awaited the boiling of water for my morning's first hot beverage, I saw that her car was parked out front on the street, and just assumed that she had spent the night with Poté.

And then to my surprise I saw her walking into the driveway ─ she must have just arrived, and had not been here overnight.

Poté is a very heavy sleeper, so I was curious how she expected to get into the house ─ normally, she seems to be in touch with him by cellphone and he will wait for her at the front door.

I was the only one in the house who was up from bed.

She came to the front door...and just walked in. All I could conclude was that Poté deliberately left it unlocked for her last night when she left.

I remained out of sight ─ I have yet to have any communication whatsoever with her in the half-year or so that she has been a fixture here, and I have no intention of initiating any.

My eldest stepson Tho very soon thereafter rose and began readying for work, by which time I was upstairs here at my computer working on that post edit.

After he had left for work, the other two roused and were soon on their way ─ in Poté's car, for they work at the same business.

I worked on the post until maybe 9:30 a.m., but had grown too sleepy to care to continue. And since I was hearing Mark stirring in his bedroom, I decided to go and lie down ─ and the only place where I would be able to do so in relative undisturbance was my eldest stepson Tho's bed.

It is in an area of the house that is shared by the furnace and the laundry facilities, and is quite 'out of the way.' He even has what must be mosquito netting surrounding the bed, further camouflaging the bed.

It is also very dark there ─ he not only keeps the window blinds closed, but the most immediate window is also shrouded over with black plastic to keep out as much of the day as possible.

I covered up with the heavy blanket on top of the bed, turned onto my left side (thereby facing toward a wall), and slowly relaxed into a needed nap.

Mark had come to wash some clothes; but hidden in the darkened far reaches of that section of the house as I was, I wasn't noticeable under the heavy blanket, and with the mosquito netting all about.

When I felt somewhat refreshed, I had no idea on the time, for Tho has no clock. He relies on his cellphone. And I had not brought mine with me.

When I rose and came to the kitchen, I saw that it was just after 11:00 a.m. Mark was seated at the dining table reading an outdoors magazine.

I fixed up my day's second hot beverage, and then came into the living room to turn on the T.V. and tune in an episode of American Idol via our Android TV Box.

Mark joined me to watch it.

Jack was not too much longer before emerging from our bedroom, and she seemed agreeable enough.

She soon left to do some sort of shopping at T & T Supermarket over in Surrey Place (Central City), and was back reasonably promptly.

By then, the episode had finished, and Mark had gone upstairs to do some repair work on his bedroom's ensuite shower; and I was having my day's first meal.

It was an overcast day, but I had managed to get out early in the morning ─ that is, before 8:30 a.m. ─ and have my 13 or so minutes of exercise in the backyard tool-shed.

This freed me up to have that meal.

As I ate in the living room, Jack mentioned that her youngest son Poté was taking on a second job with a credit union. I already learned from him on Wednesday that the position was actually in their VISA call centre, and manning one of the call lines.

Jack had been unaware of this, and had thought that he would be working as a cashier or teller or whatever employees in the main part of financial institutions are called.

I ventured that I sure wouldn't want the job, dealing with the public all shift long ─ and apparently the call centre is a 24-hour affair, so he will likely be working various shifts.

Immediately Jack seemed to need to leap to Poté's defence and contemptuously retorted that I was singular in that regard, for I didn't like talking to people ─ I didn't like talking to anyone.

That irked me ─ I had said nothing warranting her attack. And since she was going out of her way to spare even the remotest fault for Poté, I decided to mention the incident concerning his girlfriend and the unlocked front door.

To my amazement, she seemed to be declaring that what I was saying was not possible, for his girlfriend had gone home last night before Jack had gone to bed, and Jack had herself ensured that the front door was locked.

All well and fine, I rejoined with my temper rising, but it did not change the fact that I was standing in the living room this morning ─ the only resident in the house not in bed ─ and I witnessed the girlfriend walk up the driveway to the front door and waltz right in.

At this point I had needed to trail her into the kitchen where she had immediately started fussing with some pots and pans, making such an unreasonable clattering noise that I could only conclude that it was deliberate and intended to drown me out.

My ire totally raised, I matched it with an equally raised voice that had reached the level of a shout as I related what I had seen to ears that were evidently refusing to hear me.

Then I returned to the living room to continue with the meal that I was no longer enjoying.

She came into the living room to retrieve her cellphone, and muttered something about how unreasonable it was of me to be so angry about something as apparently trivial as the unlocked front door.

She returned to the kitchen, and immediately I heard her conversing in Thai with a male voice I could only presume to be Poté's ─ her tone was extremely agitated, and her words machine-gun fast.

Had she not aroused my temper as she had done with the sarcastic assault upon my disinclination to want a call centre job ─ an assault that I knew was taking place because somehow she felt that she had to turn the focus from her young son for choosing to become involved in this line of work ─ I would not have even bothered mentioning the incident about the girlfriend and the front door.

It bugged me, sure ─ but it was Jack who had made me furious. I was not furious about the unlocked door.

But I expect that she told Poté that I was out of my mind in some rage about the incident.

The whole stressful scene with Jack ─ so soon after the misery Mark caused me last evening ─ had me almost overwrought.

After a short time I attempted to defuse things by mentioning to Jack in the kitchen that a few plants I recognized as some manner of Brassica that had intruded into our backyard from a neighbour's yard within the past two years, and which Mark kept weed-eating because he had no idea that they were not weeds, had begun to flourish where I replanted the desperate things in a strip of garden alongside part of the house in the backyard.

One of the plants is just about four feet high, and it and at least one other have developed some smallish yellow flowers.

The comment I made to Jack was that I now figured that they were some manner of kale ─ not the type I am familiar with that have crinkly leaves, but another type with very lush and rather broad leaves. 

She did not deign to reply, and I had endured just about enough from her, so I went out into the backyard and took the lawn- or deck-chair I normally use when I sit in the Sun, and I removed it to a section of the backyard lawn where I would be out of sight from the kitchen window.

And there beginning at 1:38 p.m., I sat for just over 40 minutes.

I knew that Jack probably had to work in Vancouver today at her friend Ui's Thai restaurant, so I sullenly sat out there under the overcast sky, partly just to see if she would pack up and leave without a word of farewell.

When I returned into the house, she was still here, so I came to my computer upstairs and began playing a game of FreeCell. Mark was apparently having a nap in his bedroom, for the door was closed.

Well, Jack started readying to leave as I played the FreeCell game, and then without a word to me she left. And if she keeps with her latest schedule, she will not be home again until late Monday evening.

This is my life and my marriage.

And neither is one worth living.

Incidentally, Mark emerged from his bedroom awhile after Jack had left, and then he announced that he was heading out for the afternoon.

At least I know that if his alternate persona comes home this evening instead of the reasonable younger brother of mine who left here this afternoon, I will not have to sit in the living room and endure his disagreeable presence ─ there is no chance that Jack will be showing up this evening.

In fact, I think that henceforth I am not going to present myself as a buffer for her from Mark on those late evenings when I am expecting her home and he has imbibed more than a snoot-load.

This weekend, I am going to see about perhaps making accommodation possible for me to spend the occasional night out in the small backyard tool-shed on such evenings. That way, I will be able to get to my 'bed' early and not have hanging over me the sure later threat of Jack disturbing my sleep after she gets home.

If it so very much delights her to be so disagreeable to me, then she can bask in Mark's company if I find him to be at his worst on any given evening that I am expecting her home.

She rarely shows inclination to communicate with me anyway ─ I might as well remove myself and leave her the bed. It will also give her cause to wonder of me, for I never go anywhere on my own overnight.

But enough of that for today's post.

In my old age, I have become strongly concerned with my 'gut microbiota.' I wish that I had known when I was much younger some of what I know now about this vital equilibrium.

I read today of a recent study involving women who have been taking antibiotics for extended periods of time, that their risk of death for cardiovascular reasons is very much elevated.

It makes no sense to me that this risk would only apply to women, so I have absolutely no doubt that men ought to pay heed to this as well.

As usual, Jack Harrison really gets busy stirring up the muddy waters in commenting about the study results:

JacksDailyDose.com

And here are some further references with a far more reserved approach:

MedicalXpress.com

Medscape.com

Consumer.HealthDay.com

Are you willing to believe that the antibiotic use was coincidental to any deaths observed in later years, and that only the disease that the antibiotics were used against is the true culprit?

Also, I am curious if earlier antibiotic use in life perhaps lays the foundation for those elevated risks of death in one's senior years? Perhaps there is no turning back once the gut microbiota ─ established over many years of life since even before birth ─ have been destroyed by antibiotics.

Okay, three photos now that were taken this past February 25 ─ probably in the city of Udon Thani ─ when my wife Jack's niece got married.

I do not know anyone in the photos, so I cannot identify them beyond stating that the groom is in the first two photos, and seated nearest the camera (which was being operated by the bride's younger brother, Mark):




And now I m going to bring this post to a close with an 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 the basement of a private home located on Ninth Street [Google map], and two houses up from Third Avenue.

I usually tried to visit my mother Irene Dorosh two or three times a week, for the home she and her husband Alex shared was my main mailing address.

The little house is now gone forever, but its address used to be 12106 - 90th Avenue [Google map] in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey.

The walk to get there would take about 1½ hours, but lately I was greatly extending the distance by following the King George Highway (now Boulevard) all the way to Newton (72nd Avenue was in fact Newton Road) as seen on this Google map.

I would have travelled from the top of that map; and upon reaching 72nd Avenue, made a right turn and headed on over to 128th Street (Sandell Road) as shown on this Google map. From there, I would have turned right (or upward on the map) and worked my way to my mother's home.
WEDNESDAY, May 4, 1977

I feel I slept badly, with my dreams; I arose just before 4:30 a.m.

I'm going to go to mom's via Newton / Sandell, jogging easily in spite of Monday's muscle splint or whatever it be.

I leave 4:45 a.m., with my 2 letters to post.

*****

I got in all my running, but later in the day it was apparent I'd have to forsake it for plain walking, as even my left leg indicated the jarring was too much for mere flesh.

I weighed in at 189 [pounds], but I gorged today.

Awaiting my arrival was a collection of interesting pages from W. Paul Ganley in Buffalo, his Weirdbook Appendix.

I'd dearly love to subscribe to various magazines, and write too.

Today's mail brought my income tax refund cheque ─ $308.56!

I napped well.

The day held mostly cloud, but there was a fair bit of sun.

Mom said Bruce was to have a heart operation today. And apparently Fred likes Colleen, though Bill seems to as well.

[Bruce Halverson was my slightly younger maternal cousin who had suffered rheumatic heart disease many years earlier, and had already had previous heart surgery. He was not to live another year. Colleen was one of his sisters, and Fred Turner a friend of their family. William Alan Gill was one of my three oldest friends.]

I left mom's with the jeans she'd repaired for me, and a pair of Mark's too.

[I had been hiking over to my younger brother Mark's duplex unit for just about half a year at this point ─ he lived less than three miles from our mother, and in the direction of Whalley. I had been here so often that I had my own access, so it never mattered if he was home or not. He was living on Semiahmoo Road, and not too far from where it attached to Old Yale road as seen on this Google map. Actually, it seems to me now that the duplex may have been almost across the street from where 102nd Avenue ends on Semiahmoo Road.]  

Chris, the driver, came in with him for a while after work.

[Mark worked in a mill ─ possibly specializing in plywood. Chris was a co-worker of his, and they often car-pooled.]

Tonight I tried some Ogilvie oatmeal ─ the real stuff. It takes 20 minutes to cook, and I love it, just as I did the Alpen cereal I tried yesterday. Good stuff.

Mark said our drunken father called him last night.

Oh yes, I watched the Western Express Lottery; my 5 tickets were even, and ruddy Terry Moore drew nothing but odds. I wonder just what it is God has in store for me?

[It certainly was never to be a big winner on any lottery!]

My walk home after 11:00 p.m. was uneventful.
Mark used to hate our drunken father Hector's irrational and maudlin telephone calls so much that Mark sometimes would change his telephone number. 

And now Mark has essentially become our father.
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