I am filing this report, after my recent trip to Southern, B.C. As expected I was invited to participate in a pickle ball game with my esteemed brother, a retired criminal lawyer. Notwithstanding the retired bite,my brother has failed to shed the personal traits that led him to be a successful criminal lawyer.Instead, today, he has projected those traits into the sport of pickle ball.
As I entered the arena, a beautiful modern facility in South Surrey, B.C. I was treated with the utmost respect by the staff. Soon I was changed and ready for combat. To my surprise I was taken, much like a prisoner walking to the gallows,directly to the courts where play was in progress. We quickly took our place in line and soon were on the court where I was introduced to my partner.. After a short warm-up and a brief explanation of the game my partner and I faced off against my brother and his partner. My partner, who proved to be highly patient and a wonderful teacher, took me under his wings, and in a wonderful display of how the game is to be played, almost singlehandly demolished my brother and his partner.Later, when we switched partners, I learned that the game is not that easy to master.
As soon as the other courts became available, we switched to the beginner level. I felt much more comfortable and thus was able to participate more fully and joyfully.
Pickle ball can be a highly competitive sport, where very fit seniors re-live their competitive and athletic passions. On the other hand ,for others, it can be enjoyed at a recreational level where sportsmanship, sociability rule supreme. The choice is yours.
Enthusiastic, warm, and welcoming, the members of the South Surrey Pickle Ball club I meet were active seniors from all walks of life. Many had health issues, which they refused to let limit their life. I recall one partner who had a heart condition, who told me that he may have to sit out a game if his pulse got to high. He was a real inspiration to me in how he coped with his condition yet did not let it interfere with his passion and enjoyment of the game.
Pickle ball is a wonderful way to get exercise, met interesting people and become a member of an active community. It is played at all levels both recreationally and competitively. Find a level you feel comfortable and you are on your way to many hours of pleasure, joining others in the game which has taken the senior community in North America by storm. Have Fun!
Monday, January 26, 2015
Monday, December 22, 2014
The Saga Of The Well Oiled Office Fridge
Being a responsible citizen is no easy task. Despite my best efforts to dispose of my office fridge, circa 2000, I found it frustrating and at times humbling to do so.Unbeknown to me, modern charities have rigid rules in place to thwart the unsuspecting donor.
After phoning the charity to inquire about the goods I was donating, I was told to come on down. Pulling up to the clearly marked depot I am met by a massive muscular endowed individual who had this snarly look on his face. I knew not to mess with him. He then proceeded to unload my vehicle, gladly taking the totally new suitcase as well as my vintage microwave. However when it came to the office fridge, he told me it was unacceptable to the charity.
Not to be undone by my failure to dispose of the fridge, I returned to my condo to do further research. After hitting the appropriate search engine I was given the name of another local charity which claimed in writing no less, to accept used fridges.
Immediately I took off in my car ,with the fridge secured in the trunk. I arrive at the second depot, this time being met by a clean cut man who proceeded to inform me ,in a most pleasant manner, that the fridge, now looking it's stated age, was too old for re-cycling. Substitute older person in this story and you have a subject, that is old age I wish to address in a later blog. At this juncture ,the nice young man, simply informed me there was another re-cycling depot at the end of the road, which surly would take the aging fridge off my hands.
A determined man, with an expressed purpose to de-clutter my locker, so as to be ready for my anticipated move to B.C., I was not going to be deterred by this second hurdle. After recognizing the traffic patterns, I proceeded to the gate of the re-cycling plant,. Here I was met by a young lady who give me a ledger, asked my business and then give me instructions where to go." Turn left and look for a heap of metal. "I turned left and before me was the biggest pile of mental junk known to mankind. Boats, cars, house trailers, all were there. Fearful the heap would fall on me, thereby burying me alive, I found strength I have not possessed in years, pulling the fridge free and getting back into the car the fastest my short little legs would carry me.
I got back into the car, proceeded to the booth, where I was weighed again, and then given the magnificent sum of $4.30.Altogether a rewarding day in the life of a well oiled office fridge.
After phoning the charity to inquire about the goods I was donating, I was told to come on down. Pulling up to the clearly marked depot I am met by a massive muscular endowed individual who had this snarly look on his face. I knew not to mess with him. He then proceeded to unload my vehicle, gladly taking the totally new suitcase as well as my vintage microwave. However when it came to the office fridge, he told me it was unacceptable to the charity.
Not to be undone by my failure to dispose of the fridge, I returned to my condo to do further research. After hitting the appropriate search engine I was given the name of another local charity which claimed in writing no less, to accept used fridges.
Immediately I took off in my car ,with the fridge secured in the trunk. I arrive at the second depot, this time being met by a clean cut man who proceeded to inform me ,in a most pleasant manner, that the fridge, now looking it's stated age, was too old for re-cycling. Substitute older person in this story and you have a subject, that is old age I wish to address in a later blog. At this juncture ,the nice young man, simply informed me there was another re-cycling depot at the end of the road, which surly would take the aging fridge off my hands.
A determined man, with an expressed purpose to de-clutter my locker, so as to be ready for my anticipated move to B.C., I was not going to be deterred by this second hurdle. After recognizing the traffic patterns, I proceeded to the gate of the re-cycling plant,. Here I was met by a young lady who give me a ledger, asked my business and then give me instructions where to go." Turn left and look for a heap of metal. "I turned left and before me was the biggest pile of mental junk known to mankind. Boats, cars, house trailers, all were there. Fearful the heap would fall on me, thereby burying me alive, I found strength I have not possessed in years, pulling the fridge free and getting back into the car the fastest my short little legs would carry me.
I got back into the car, proceeded to the booth, where I was weighed again, and then given the magnificent sum of $4.30.Altogether a rewarding day in the life of a well oiled office fridge.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
PICKLE BALL-ONCE AN ALTHLETE ALWAYS AN ALTHLETE
Pickle ball, a sport in which players use paddles to hit a whiffle ball(perforated polymer ball) over a low net, is the latest craze to be adopted by fit seniors. The sport, which was named, not after the inventor's dog Pickles, as is widely believed, but from the term "pickle boat", referring to the last boat to return with it's catch.
After hearing about the sport from my brother, a retired criminal lawyer, who resides in B.C., I secretly formulated a plan to get him back for a deed he committed some 60 years ago. My father, a man's man, figured if his 2 sons were going to fight, they should learn to do it properly. Thus one evening he came home with 2 sets of professional boxing gloves for his young gladiators. The big moment came, my brother 2 years older with massive arms, took one swing and down I went knocked out cold. As befits the moment my brother, acting as his own referee, counted me out 1----10., then proceeded to help me.
Now, it is my time to exact revenge. My brother, a young 71, a former athlete of some note, has developed a highly competitive attitude(killer instinct), to the game of Pickle ball. I plan to challenge him to a match(without him knowing of my plan to perfect my skill), emerge victoriously, thereby striking a blow of revenge for all younger brothers. Who says sibling rivalry fades with age.
Thus,early on a crisp October Saturday morning I found myself entering a west end high school to learn the fundamentals of pickle ball. After registration and signing a waiver not to sue the sponsoring organization, I found myself in the middle of a group of seniors all anxious to learn the intricacies of the game. The beginner group as opposed to the intermediate group, consisted of a coed cohort,equal numbers of both sexes, ranging in age from early 60s to a petit senior-senior woman.
A gentleman, Patrick, who had played before, reluctantly took charge of explaining the rules of the game to us. Soon after we were divided into 2 groups of 4,assigned to a court and explained the boundaries of the court, For example, the net is 36 inches high, one of the rules I latter broke ,states there is no spiking(hitting the ball directly without letting it bounce, in the kitchen area(3 feet on either side of the net. The rule is there to protect the player from injury.
After a short warm up we were set to play. Dusting off my old athletic skills, I found despite the ravage of time, my eye-hand co-ordination was still operative, and the killer instinct alive and well.
In a totally inappropriate move, I entered the kitchen area, and blasted a spike that came within inches of decapitating my senior-senior opponent. Indeed David the athlete is back!
After realizing my indiscretion, in the interest of fair play, I scaled back my killer instinct, and a highly enjoyable time was had by all.
Afterwards, I apologized profusely to my senior-senior, and learned "Bunny" is 93 years young and a socially delightful woman.
After hearing about the sport from my brother, a retired criminal lawyer, who resides in B.C., I secretly formulated a plan to get him back for a deed he committed some 60 years ago. My father, a man's man, figured if his 2 sons were going to fight, they should learn to do it properly. Thus one evening he came home with 2 sets of professional boxing gloves for his young gladiators. The big moment came, my brother 2 years older with massive arms, took one swing and down I went knocked out cold. As befits the moment my brother, acting as his own referee, counted me out 1----10., then proceeded to help me.
Now, it is my time to exact revenge. My brother, a young 71, a former athlete of some note, has developed a highly competitive attitude(killer instinct), to the game of Pickle ball. I plan to challenge him to a match(without him knowing of my plan to perfect my skill), emerge victoriously, thereby striking a blow of revenge for all younger brothers. Who says sibling rivalry fades with age.
Thus,early on a crisp October Saturday morning I found myself entering a west end high school to learn the fundamentals of pickle ball. After registration and signing a waiver not to sue the sponsoring organization, I found myself in the middle of a group of seniors all anxious to learn the intricacies of the game. The beginner group as opposed to the intermediate group, consisted of a coed cohort,equal numbers of both sexes, ranging in age from early 60s to a petit senior-senior woman.
A gentleman, Patrick, who had played before, reluctantly took charge of explaining the rules of the game to us. Soon after we were divided into 2 groups of 4,assigned to a court and explained the boundaries of the court, For example, the net is 36 inches high, one of the rules I latter broke ,states there is no spiking(hitting the ball directly without letting it bounce, in the kitchen area(3 feet on either side of the net. The rule is there to protect the player from injury.
After a short warm up we were set to play. Dusting off my old athletic skills, I found despite the ravage of time, my eye-hand co-ordination was still operative, and the killer instinct alive and well.
In a totally inappropriate move, I entered the kitchen area, and blasted a spike that came within inches of decapitating my senior-senior opponent. Indeed David the athlete is back!
After realizing my indiscretion, in the interest of fair play, I scaled back my killer instinct, and a highly enjoyable time was had by all.
Afterwards, I apologized profusely to my senior-senior, and learned "Bunny" is 93 years young and a socially delightful woman.
- The following day, I am beset with muscle aches I have not felt in 30 years. Nevertheless, I consider the days' activities to be a roaring success and look forward to a long and fruitful career as a Picket Baller.
Saturday, October 25, 2014
My Heart Incident-Saturday April13/2013 9:30am
On Second Thought
Life's Lessons Revised
Illegitimi Non Carborundum:
Don't Let The Bastards Wear You Down
"I learned that it is not the result that is the goal, but how many people make the journey with you, love you and cherish you."
Globe and Mail Oct7/2013 Tasneem Veli
As I awake this Saturday morning, I find myself a resident of Room 5327 of the Heart Institute, University of Ottawa. Just 2 short days ago, I was woken out of a sound sleep by a heavy, labouring pain, which felt like an anchor on my chest. Immediately alarm bells sounded, "Was I having a heart attack", something I feared was my genetic destiny. Despite my best effort to eat well, exercise religiously, and to try to maintain a stress-free life, I found myself alarmed, scared and uncertain as to what my future life would be.
Despite my symptoms, I chose to proceed with my normal daily life including seeing patients like Mr. X, who was seeing me,ironically,to change his Type A personality. For those of you not familiar, Type A personalities tend to be aggressive, demanding, and are at high risk to have cardiac difficulties.
I was not completely convinced I was in the middle of a heart attack. Having seen my father suffer some 7 heart attacks, my symptoms did not quite match up to his.
Nevertheless, after enduring the pain all day without resolution, I decided to go to the hospital. A quick trip to the local hospital, not by ambulance as suggested by the telehealth nurse, but simply as a passenger in a car driven by my worried and frantic girlfriend.
Arrival at the very same hospital a very short time ago I was the distinguished Chief Psychologist, now a frightened and humble patient. A simply greeting by the triage nurse, a quick explanation of my symptoms, a designation of a 10 code priority, and literally 60 seconds latter I found myself on a gurney in the observation room.
During the next12 hours, my life flashes before me, images of past regrets, present conflicts and future dreams, intertwined in a cacophonic,multi-sensory environment of life and death drama. Am I really having a heart attack?
As I try to understand what has happened other allied heath workers probe and invade my body with various instruments in an attempt to answer this question.EKG,blood analysis and other modern diagnostic tests led to the conclusion by my emergency physician that I have had a mild heart attack. I am immediately given mass dosages of heparin to thin my blood.
A cardiology consultation is requested and soon after arrives a very young slim pony-tailed lady who claims to my amazement to be a 1st year resident. After further tests the young protégée, decides on the bases of a 6th sense, that something does not add up. She orders further tests whose results support her alternative diagnosis. This young Dr. states I did not have a heart attack but have a condition called parimycardius. An unusual condition in which a cold or virus attaches itself to the wall of the heart muscle. No doubt, my recent trip to Mexico, in which I broke my cardinal rule not to leave on a Monday, is a contributing factor although as a rational experienced psychologist, I would never admit this publicly.
Following my now brilliant Dr.'s advice and astute diagnosis, I proceeded to reward her with the following life lesson, "Don't be afraid to follow your inner voice or 6th sense and you will have a stellar career."
Following my new diagnosis, a more benign diagnosis than a heart attack, but still life changing, I spend the remainder of the night attempting to sleep on a gurney, all the while trying to come to terms with what this mean to me.
Early next morning a bed became available in the Heart Institute, which is physically located next to the Ottawa Civic Hospital. Transported via the long, dingy corridors that connect various wings of the hospital I am literally and figuratively traveling through the bowels of the hospital. Protocol requires a nurse and a security officer to accompany me.The unspoken reason, I am a risk for cardiac arrest and in an emergency a second person is needed to seek help. In a previous life I visited this esteemed institution, not in a supine position, but walking, thinking and successfully persuading the executive of the heart institute to add a psychology position to the Cardiac Rehabitation team.
Finally I arrive at Room 5727, where I am immediately examined by a nurse who tethers me to a telemetric device which monitors my vital signs, which are then projected onto various screens displayed throughout the ward. I am indeed a heart patient, restricted to H4 ward.
As I acclimatize to my surroundings, I soon learn I am in a protective community which has a rhythm and beat of it's own. Life is very structured. Each member of the team whether it be the cleaning staff, the woman who serves you your meal or your nurse is dedicated to assist you in a warm, friendly and engaging manner.
I learn quickly that 7am is the start of the 12 hour day shift, where every morning you are woken by your day nurse who examines you ,to be followed soon after by the blood technician who draws blood so that your enzymes can be monitored. In my particular case this is especially important as the enzymes indicate whether my heart muscle has been damaged. As a result of the virus attaching itself to my heart muscles, there are inflamed , rubbing or chafing with my heart. In the ears of a trained cardiologist a stethoscope allows the DR. to hear the rubbing and assess my progress.
My day consists of eating ,resting, walking the corridors of the ward and visiting with my fellow inmates who gather around the TV in the family room. Members of my new community include a farmer, a businessman, and a labour, mostly but not exclusively men from all walks of life. In many ways we represent the various ethnic and cultures from around the world all united in our struggle with heart disease. Many are waiting for bypass surgery others for a heart transplant. To show you how heart disease can impact anyone, on the ward there is a very young woman, a triathlon athlete no less , who was waiting for a heart transplant.
Despite our mutual frailties or perhaps because of them one tends to bond quickly to one's inmates. Whether it is walking the square corridors of the ward together, or in other cases simply waving as fellow inmates go bye, we become familiar with each others stories and try to offer support to each other. Some patients are long distances from their home , do not have the day to day support of their families, and therefore appreciate and value the ongoing inmate support.
Food, or the lack of it, is a big concern on the ward. Hospital meals are nutritious, but limited in quantity, more often than not leaving the inmate starving. One quickly leans on family ,visitors or sharing with your fellow inmate to combat this common problem. The communal fridge of the inmates is full of goodies which is shared by all.
After spending a very long week-end at the Heart Institute I am scheduled early Monday am for an echocardiogram, the results which will determine if I am released from the hospital. The new is good and I am released with specific instructions to severely restrict my physical activities and to take massive doses of aspirin. Fortunately my recover goes well . I realize I have dodged a bullet and am grateful and thankful for my return to good health.
Cardiac disease does not discriminate, no matter what one's status in life.We are all susceptible to health issues, a very humbling common denominator to us all.Carpe Diem-"seize the day".
Life's Lessons Revised
Illegitimi Non Carborundum:
Don't Let The Bastards Wear You Down
"I learned that it is not the result that is the goal, but how many people make the journey with you, love you and cherish you."
Globe and Mail Oct7/2013 Tasneem Veli
As I awake this Saturday morning, I find myself a resident of Room 5327 of the Heart Institute, University of Ottawa. Just 2 short days ago, I was woken out of a sound sleep by a heavy, labouring pain, which felt like an anchor on my chest. Immediately alarm bells sounded, "Was I having a heart attack", something I feared was my genetic destiny. Despite my best effort to eat well, exercise religiously, and to try to maintain a stress-free life, I found myself alarmed, scared and uncertain as to what my future life would be.
Despite my symptoms, I chose to proceed with my normal daily life including seeing patients like Mr. X, who was seeing me,ironically,to change his Type A personality. For those of you not familiar, Type A personalities tend to be aggressive, demanding, and are at high risk to have cardiac difficulties.
I was not completely convinced I was in the middle of a heart attack. Having seen my father suffer some 7 heart attacks, my symptoms did not quite match up to his.
Nevertheless, after enduring the pain all day without resolution, I decided to go to the hospital. A quick trip to the local hospital, not by ambulance as suggested by the telehealth nurse, but simply as a passenger in a car driven by my worried and frantic girlfriend.
Arrival at the very same hospital a very short time ago I was the distinguished Chief Psychologist, now a frightened and humble patient. A simply greeting by the triage nurse, a quick explanation of my symptoms, a designation of a 10 code priority, and literally 60 seconds latter I found myself on a gurney in the observation room.
During the next12 hours, my life flashes before me, images of past regrets, present conflicts and future dreams, intertwined in a cacophonic,multi-sensory environment of life and death drama. Am I really having a heart attack?
As I try to understand what has happened other allied heath workers probe and invade my body with various instruments in an attempt to answer this question.EKG,blood analysis and other modern diagnostic tests led to the conclusion by my emergency physician that I have had a mild heart attack. I am immediately given mass dosages of heparin to thin my blood.
A cardiology consultation is requested and soon after arrives a very young slim pony-tailed lady who claims to my amazement to be a 1st year resident. After further tests the young protégée, decides on the bases of a 6th sense, that something does not add up. She orders further tests whose results support her alternative diagnosis. This young Dr. states I did not have a heart attack but have a condition called parimycardius. An unusual condition in which a cold or virus attaches itself to the wall of the heart muscle. No doubt, my recent trip to Mexico, in which I broke my cardinal rule not to leave on a Monday, is a contributing factor although as a rational experienced psychologist, I would never admit this publicly.
Following my now brilliant Dr.'s advice and astute diagnosis, I proceeded to reward her with the following life lesson, "Don't be afraid to follow your inner voice or 6th sense and you will have a stellar career."
Following my new diagnosis, a more benign diagnosis than a heart attack, but still life changing, I spend the remainder of the night attempting to sleep on a gurney, all the while trying to come to terms with what this mean to me.
Early next morning a bed became available in the Heart Institute, which is physically located next to the Ottawa Civic Hospital. Transported via the long, dingy corridors that connect various wings of the hospital I am literally and figuratively traveling through the bowels of the hospital. Protocol requires a nurse and a security officer to accompany me.The unspoken reason, I am a risk for cardiac arrest and in an emergency a second person is needed to seek help. In a previous life I visited this esteemed institution, not in a supine position, but walking, thinking and successfully persuading the executive of the heart institute to add a psychology position to the Cardiac Rehabitation team.
Finally I arrive at Room 5727, where I am immediately examined by a nurse who tethers me to a telemetric device which monitors my vital signs, which are then projected onto various screens displayed throughout the ward. I am indeed a heart patient, restricted to H4 ward.
As I acclimatize to my surroundings, I soon learn I am in a protective community which has a rhythm and beat of it's own. Life is very structured. Each member of the team whether it be the cleaning staff, the woman who serves you your meal or your nurse is dedicated to assist you in a warm, friendly and engaging manner.
I learn quickly that 7am is the start of the 12 hour day shift, where every morning you are woken by your day nurse who examines you ,to be followed soon after by the blood technician who draws blood so that your enzymes can be monitored. In my particular case this is especially important as the enzymes indicate whether my heart muscle has been damaged. As a result of the virus attaching itself to my heart muscles, there are inflamed , rubbing or chafing with my heart. In the ears of a trained cardiologist a stethoscope allows the DR. to hear the rubbing and assess my progress.
My day consists of eating ,resting, walking the corridors of the ward and visiting with my fellow inmates who gather around the TV in the family room. Members of my new community include a farmer, a businessman, and a labour, mostly but not exclusively men from all walks of life. In many ways we represent the various ethnic and cultures from around the world all united in our struggle with heart disease. Many are waiting for bypass surgery others for a heart transplant. To show you how heart disease can impact anyone, on the ward there is a very young woman, a triathlon athlete no less , who was waiting for a heart transplant.
Despite our mutual frailties or perhaps because of them one tends to bond quickly to one's inmates. Whether it is walking the square corridors of the ward together, or in other cases simply waving as fellow inmates go bye, we become familiar with each others stories and try to offer support to each other. Some patients are long distances from their home , do not have the day to day support of their families, and therefore appreciate and value the ongoing inmate support.
Food, or the lack of it, is a big concern on the ward. Hospital meals are nutritious, but limited in quantity, more often than not leaving the inmate starving. One quickly leans on family ,visitors or sharing with your fellow inmate to combat this common problem. The communal fridge of the inmates is full of goodies which is shared by all.
After spending a very long week-end at the Heart Institute I am scheduled early Monday am for an echocardiogram, the results which will determine if I am released from the hospital. The new is good and I am released with specific instructions to severely restrict my physical activities and to take massive doses of aspirin. Fortunately my recover goes well . I realize I have dodged a bullet and am grateful and thankful for my return to good health.
Cardiac disease does not discriminate, no matter what one's status in life.We are all susceptible to health issues, a very humbling common denominator to us all.Carpe Diem-"seize the day".
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