Running out of steam

So, having a newborn isn't easy.

MUCH easier when she's getting good nourishment!

My dad told me today that he's running out of steam. I didn't know what to say. He called me. He NEVER calls me. He called to see how we all were doing.

Running out of steam.

I don't much like the sounds of that.

How The Globe & Mail Caused a Prostitute to Turn Down My Email Address

Yep, the title is for real. But there's a lot of lead-up to the title. As is often the case with stories that I'm telling. Too long to get to the good stuff, and a lot of digressing. Sadly. But all-in-all it's a really good story.

Picture this, Sicily 1929. Or, St. Mike's Hospital in Toronto, Friday October 8th, 2010.

Well, to backtrack further, let's go back to Wednesday night.

Jodi was giving me some grief about the fact that I hadn't planned on what would happen when our daughter was born, as far as work was concerned. The JK/SK team planned on meeting Thursday at lunch, and after school if needed, and I was going to have long-range plans in place and a better sense of what we were going to report on for the first (SK) report cards.

So, I decided instead to work on my Occasional (Supply) Teacher folder.

And it's a good thing I did.

Jodi's waters broke Wednesday at midnight.

I texted my vice-principal, explaining that I had never called in an illness/absence and the system wasn't taking my information, so I couldn't register to do it myself. After going back and forth, and my sincere apologies for inconveniencing him, I was booked off for Thursday and Friday.

Now back to Jodi.

She called our fabulous midwife Jessica, and she told her that if she wasn't in labour, to go back to bed. She may go into labour in the night, and if not, she'd come to see Jodi in the morning.

No labour through the night, so Jessica came and told us that everything seemed fine with the baby, and that we should go for some long walks to possibly trigger labour. The first long walk to La Paloma caused Jodi to tighten up, but not go into labour. The same thing with the second walk.

So, no labout meant a non-stress test with Jessica at St. Mike's Friday morning at 7:45 AM. This was when there was a transfer of care, as it was decided in collaboration with the doctor, Jessica and us, that she would be induced.

So, we were in a delivery room, with Jodi hooked up to a fetal monitor, an IV and Oxytocin/Pitocin, the inducing drug. Labour started, and the surges/contractions were manageable. They then got "hyper", and there wasn't any down-time to relax, so in order to stabilize the situation, Jodi was given an epidural. This calmed down the whole process and it was restarted in essence.

We spent about ten hours with a nursing student (Sarit) who was observing the process, and that was great. She had the chance to learn about midwives and also Jessica showed her a bunch of stuff.

Our doctor, Dr. Robertson, is married to the friend of a dear friend, and he also works in St. Mike's, so he came to visit. The nurses were great, minus the initial visit from the hardcore old-school nurse, who after a stern comment from me and kind words from Jessica outside, came back in and rocked!

With active labour beginning in earnest, again, we had two midwives and a midwifery student, one nurse at all times, Dr. Robertson, her resident, two anaesthetists, a paeditrician and a partridge in a pear tree. GREAT service/experience.

Jodi worked really hard, and with really solid coaching/support from Jessica and I, and fantastic encouragement from Dr. Robertson and Sabrina (the super nurse!), she delivered Norah Inessa Kruger Rice at 11:45 PM on Friday October 8th.

Owing to no beds available, they left us in the delivery room, which was fine for Jodi and Norah, 'cause they were on the bed. The chairs were only so comfortable, so I couldn't sleep. Not to mention that I was pretty damn wired on coffee, sugar, and sugar. Oh, and coffee.

So, I wasn't sleeping.

I decided it might be a good idea to go and get the newspapers from Friday October 8th, 2010, the day my daughter was born.

I got eye and NOW. I got Metro and InToronto. I got the Star and Sun. I walked around for about 15 minutes and found the Post. I could not find the Globe & Mail. Not a chance. It only dawned on me after the fact that the reason why I couldn't find a G&M was because there aren't any boxes. They've changed the format/size and I suspect they've pulled their boxes and will be replacing them with new ones.

So, I said, f**k it. I don't need the Globe. I put the papers in the car and went back to the room. I posted on Facebook that I didn't have the Globe and a friend said that I should get it, lamenting that she didn't do it for her newborn son.

So, I decided I would go north along Yonge Street in search of a place that sells newspapers, that is open 24 hours. I walked up to Yonge/College to a Shoppers Drug Mart.

No Globe.

They suggested trying Hasty Market on Carlton.

No Globe.

I headed east to Church and Carlton.

There are often prostitutes at that corner.

There was only one that night.

And she was being yelled at by a woman who looked to be about 50, and was either drunk, high, medicated, crazy, psychotic or some combination thereof. And not just yelled at, but really being put-down with painfully aggressive language.

Then Crazy Lady slapped the hooker.

Now, I'll be honest and say that you're asking for element of verbal abuse when you're standing on a street corner and it's obvious you're a prostitute. But you don't deserve to slapped, let alone spoken to THAT aggressively. I'll also be honest when I say that I'm the first one to watch a girl-girl fight. That said, the Hooker didn't want anything to do with Crazy Lady.

I was torn.

Walk north along Church in search of the Globe, or do something about it.

She didn't ask to be slapped or threatened. There was no one coming to her aid. I couldn't watch. I knew there was risk involved, but I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't do something.

I walked across the street and stood between the two women. I didn't say anything, nor did I lift my hands in any way. I just slid side-to-side to be in-between the two women. Here is some of the diatribe that venomously spewed out of Crazy Lady's mouth:

"You're a slut."

(pointing to the guy she was with) "If his granddaughter ends up a whore, I'll kill you."

"You suck c**k for a living."

"It's your fault I was raped."

She then ran around me and right at the hooker. She threw her against a fence, that thankfully was only a glancing blow.

Unfortunately, her purse fell and her Blackberry felt out of the purse.

Crazy Lady picked it up, and I said, "Don't. Don't. Don't."

But she threw it. And did the same thing with the purse.

She continued with the verbal abuse, as the hooker tried to get her boots with the 6" heels off. Obviously, intending to have it out with Crazy Lady.

The whole time, the guy that was with Crazy Lady was saying, "Christine, what are you doing? Christine, stop it."

It was during the second round of verbal abuse with me standing between the two women that I said to Cray Lady, "My daughter was born tonight. Please don't do this." To which she replied, "F**K YOU!", grabbed her male friend's glasses and ran away.

Realizing that it was most likely over, or maybe more like HOPING it was over, I headed north on Church. I found the Globe in Reiter's, along with some yummy chocolate. I asked the guy for a pen and piece of paper. I wrote down my name and email address. I'm not about to give a hooker my cell number, but I wanted her to have something to contact me if she needed/wanted a witness.

I took it back to her. By now there were four hookers at the corner, and the assaulted woman was telling the story. I asked her if she was alright. She replied aggressively that she was fine. I asked again if she was okay, and she calmly and nicely said she was fine. I went to give her my email address/name, when she said, and it tore my heart out,

"I don't need a witness." in a way that said, "I will not be going to the police, even though I was physically and verbally assaulted and threatened, and my property was damaged."

That just killed me.

So, I got my papers, sadly had to make a decision about how I felt about something at a time when I shouldn't have had to, and been told by several people that I can't do things like that.

But I can.

I have to, or I won't be able to look at myself in the mirror.

This all happened shortly after a former student of my school was shot and killed because he couldn't and wouldn't change old habits. If I'm going to ask my daughter to be a change-maker and make a difference in the world then I have to do likewise.

I made a decision.

I made the right decision.

Did I get lucky?

Maybe.

Would I do it again?

Yes.

More people need to make a little bit of change in their lives, and we'll all be better off.

Death

Ya, I know ominous.

Our dear friend's mother died recently. She had been ill for some time, and there was some question about her being to be at their wedding two years ago, and she was unable to travel to see their newborn son. So they hustled up a passport and made sure they went to see her.

That adorable little boy will never know his father's mother.

That hit home.

The topic of death is one that we do well to avoid, knowing that at some point we'll have to embrace it. Either through those around us dying, or our own mortality coming to the fore.

Death has been with me for as long as I can remember. I never knew my father's mother, as she died ten years before I was born. Never knowing a grandchild. By all accounts she was a good lady. A mensch. Someone who cared for others, and was viewed highly by all.

Much the same way I've viewed my mother's mother. All I wanted in life was to be taller than Grandma. At 4'11", it wasn't hard to achieve that. Maybe this is when I started to set my goals too low. In this case, it was a literal thing. I loved hanging out with Agnes Aitken (nee McIntyre) Balfour. I miss her more now then I ever have. It bothers me to no end that she never got to meet Jodi, and she'll never see my daughter.

She's the grandparent I always felt most connected to. Her love of Coke (Pepsi when it was on sale), bacon, mac & cheese made from scratch, cigarettes and laughing showed me that older people didn't have to be....old.

She was in-and-out of the hospital frequently in the last 5+ years of her life. As was her husband. My mom's dad. The not-so-incredibly positive guy. The man who told his doctor that he had never had a good day in his life, and he would tell him if he did manage to squeeze one in. Sure, Grandpa loved baseball and hockey, but he wasn't so cheery, and he would overly-protective, which meant being able to do less if he was looking after me.

But, we'd go to McDonald's, or A&W, or the pizza palace in the Eaton Centre, if we were doing banking downtown. Which was pretty cool.

I sent a fair bit of time downtown as a child, either with my grandparents at Yonge & Queen, or with my family in Chinatown/Kensington Market.

So, the grandmothers were positive. The grandfathers, not-so-much. My dad's dad would come for fish dinner (he was Kosher) once a week, I'd get my PJs on, and we'd drive him home. I didn't know my Zaida Joe. He died when I was 7 or 8, and I wasn't allowed to go to the funeral. I did have nightmares about him though. He had his legs amputated and I used to dream that there were snakes coming out of the stumps.

(Better than "Snakes on a Plane"?)

My mom's mom died when I was 21 and my mom's dad died when I was 23.

My mom said to me, when I was 15, that my grandparents were getting older, and that she didn't want to hear any excuses about not knowing them, after they died. That said, I would go and see them at least once a week. Did I really get to know them? Not really. I didn't ask a lot of questions, and subsequently, there are tonnes of things I don't know about them. But I'm okay with that.

I just wish my mom would take her own advice with her grandchildren. But there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about that. I suppose it's always easier to see with greater clarity when you're not looking at your own life.

Do I really know my parents? That's a tough call. I think in some ways I know them better then my siblings, but then I realize that it's really that I know them in a different way. I've said for a long time now that I view my parents, specifically my mom, as friends. In that, I'm 40 and subsequently not a child. I don't hold my parents up on a pedestal. I greatly respect the sacrifices that they made me for me, and some would say continue to make for me, and I like them. They're good people.

I've had some interesting conversations with my parents. Ones that I suspect my siblings have not had. But then again, my siblings have a different relationship with my parents, and they have probably had conversations with them that I never will.

Oh ya, death.

So, I've been reading the obituaries for about 25 years now. Yep. Started around 15. My parents would always read them, and I figured there wasn't any harm in knowing if loved ones of friends and family had died. Not passed on. Not passed away. Died. And they're not lost either!

So, I've been pretty morbid that way. Reading the obits. The good ones. The bad ones. The tacky ones. The ones that lie. The ones that...well, the ones that are just like train wrecks. And the ones that cause me to clip them. There have only been a few. There somewhere in the Man Cave. Currently lost.

My dad almost didn't make it to our wedding. My dad has been in-and-out of hospital once a month on average, for the past year-or-so. My dad in many ways reminds me of my grandfather. Or is that grandfathers?

That said, he's much happier then I remember either grandfather being.

Or is he? I suppose it's about perspective. The unaware child only knows so much. The man in his early 20s is only aware of so much. The soon-to-be 40 year old father is perhaps aware of more, but does he share all that sees and thinks?

Ah...dilemma.

The last time I spoke freely, as a concerned "friend", meant that things got strained between my mom and I. I'd rather that not happen again. So, I bite my tongue. A skill I've managed to learn in mid-life. (Yet another reason I'm glad we're going to have a girl. Boys are stupid.)

I cherish my relationship with my parents.

I've learned so many things from them. I've learned just as many things from friends and other parents over the years. I'm grateful for my ability to observe, process and evaluate, so that I can take the best of all worlds and apply it in life.

My life.

My daughter's life.

My mother's skepticism will serve me well. So will her discriminating eye. Her joy of life, and ability to laugh aloud are something that cannot be learned. It's genetic. A passion of expression, for both loves and hates, are so deeply rooted in my being that they can't be found, or removed. For better or worse. A sense of what's what, and joy of being around intellect of expression, serve of us both well. Always early, and with a few shopping lists. That's me.

My dad's ability to create, no doubt permeates my being. To create trouble, to create in the kitchen, to create mileage on the car - grocery shopping for any manner of delights. Unlike my dad, I don't bring home the cheap cookies. I make the best ones. Which I owe to him. An early exposure to grocery shopping, smells and tastes in markets, going to the farmer for produce, appreciating where he grew up (on Baldwin Street in Kensington Market) in a way that I never could appreciate the suburbs, taking what was in the kitchen and making magic. Or dinner.

I owe calmness (It's there. Honest.) to my dad. My shoulder shrug is straight out of his playbook. Which he got from his dad.

I should also say that in many ways I've patterned myself to be the antithesis of my dad. I didn't want to be complacent, conservative or old.

That's it. My dad has always seemed old. I've said before that I've never played catch with my dad, but did twice with my mom. I got carded buying alcohol recently. I'm 40.

That's flattering.

Now, I wonder where I fit in.

My brother said recently, "Dave, tools and fishing tackle are an extension of a man." Needless to say, I rather emphatically disagreed.

Being able to look at yourself in the mirror and liking what you see is what it's all about. Knowing that you're living your life in the right way for you, is what it's all about. Knowing that if you want to make a difference, that you do it. In your child's life. In your spouse's life. In your friends' lives. In your own little world. In the world at large.

So, I say this.

I've really rambled. I guess this is what happens when you start a blog post at 5:30 AM on a Saturday.

And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

Change is coming.

I'll be a dad before Halloween. Scary hunh?!?!

I've been talking to a lot more people about my Urban Nutrition Education Centre/Community Food Centre/Green Centre idea, and it's growing/evolving and frankly, I'm getting more excited about it.

I want to live my January 14, 1970 - whenever "dash" with vigor. And vim. And grace. And style. Frankly, it's all about passion.

I'm thinking about my friend Paul a lot these days.

Sad and happy thoughts.

I'm thinking about my dad a lot these days.

Sad and happy thoughts.

I'm thinking about my daughter a lot these days.

Happy thoughts.

I'm crying now.

Sad and happy tears.

I think that's healthy.