Category: Uncategorized

My interesting outing during the pandemic started with Kathy dropping me off at the Queensway Carleton Hospital at 6:30 am on Feb. 24, 2021, for a total hip replacement. Leaving my car seat elevation cushion on the passenger side for when I’ll come back, I picked up the folded walker and my backpack with a long shoehorn and a “grabber” that helps to pick up items. This gadget has a trigger-like construction at one end that when activated closes jaws at the other end. I used it to pick up clothing with when I cannot not lean down. The brochure on hip replacement was in the backpack along with my meds that I did not take in the morning because I usually eat before I take them, and I could not eat before surgery. Under my winter coat, I wore a shirt with a zippered breast pocket where I put my health card, the only personal item that I was supposed to have in the hospital; had shorts on with sweatpants and loafers without shoelaces for easy put on.

The volunteer at the door inside gave me a mask similar to those sold in boxes at Costco so I had to change my fancier mask I bought at the Canadian Automobile Association; not sure why the other masks are better, but there was no reason to argue about it.

The next stop was the Covid screening and was also short since I told the screener that i was a the QCH last week for my Pre Operative Assessment and nothing had changed. She asked for my name and birthdate and checked me off her list that must have numbered in the hundreds.

Carrying my walker, backpack, I did as she instructed, and followed the blue line on the wall to room number 5, where I was received by a cheerful woman who asked me if I was staying overnight. I said that it was day surgery but was apprehensive about it. She chided me and asked why have a sleepover in a noisy place when I would enjoy much better food at home and a good bed. Once we reconfirmed my name and birthdate again, I put my health card into a glass box in front of the vinyl privacy paneland pushed it towards her. She put on my right wrist a paper bracelet with my name and birth date on it that I kept all day. Then I had to sit in the waiting area of room number 5 that was divided by transparent panels between the chairs to replace distancing.

In a few minutes, a young fellow called my name along with two others and we followed him, appropriately distanced, down the hallway until he opened, with a passkey, the doors to the operating suites. I stood in front of another receptionist and reconfirmed my name and birthdate to make sure that I did not forget who I was.

The series of social interactions was pleasant, the people were friendly and Iwas led into a breakout area that was curtained off and where I was told to undress and put on a hospital gown with the back open. The cheerful young man explained that there was one plastic bag for my clothing and another one for my shoes. He triumphantly pulled out another plastic bag with a Melita type cone attached to it he explained I could use should I vomit on the way home and avoid messing up the car. That was the last thought on my mind at that time, but it was a helpful suggestion.

Lying on the bed with a heated blanket was relaxing until the first of many nurses came along.  She introduced herself by her first name and we went through my identity again.  But this time, the nurse asked me to verify the spelling of my name as well. I knew what was coming; an IV was inserted close to my left wrist. She explained the veins are better there than further up towards the elbow. I did not know that, because previously, any IVs I had had were inserted further up by my elbow in the fleshy part. She had to dig around in my arm to find the vein – that caused some twitching in my veins- but she was firm and declared success. She suggested I look at the cheerily dropping bubbles coming down the pipe filled with saline solution.  I did not know what that was for, perhaps for hydrating? Another thing she wanted to take care of was my wedding ring. She suggested I pull it off since some of the machinery in the operating room may not work well with metal. But it would not come off, after fifty plus years of healthy eating the finger got too fat. So she she wrapped around it two layers of tape.

But that was only the beginning of testing for my vitals and I was immediately hooked up with a blood pressure monitor that kept pressing my right arm every couple of minutes. The IV was in my left arm and the middle finger gained a clip measuring my blood oxygen. The nurse was miffed by my high blood pressure number in the BP column and made me take my daily pill for blood pressure that I had not taken without having food in the morning. She brought apple juice and a couple of cookies to take my pill. After that, she moved a wand around my forehead, going behind my ear to measure my temperature. Then my solicitous nurse went for her breakfast and was replaced by another nurse, who looked at my three-ring binder an inch thick to make sure that all protocols were followed. I noticed that the binder was key to all activities and my vitals were logged in. My friendly nurse returned and we exchanged views on jams. She made her plum jam she had for breakfast with toast. I shared with her that we have concord grapes at home that Kathy makes into jam . I discovered she came from a farm in the Kemptville area. Going through my fat file, she whipped out a sheet on “nerve block” that I had to read.

I was going to get a nerve block in the “Block Room”. That hit me as scary; it sounded like a torture chamber in a medieval castle. And that was in addition to a spinal anaesthetic. I thought that before we are going to the block room i should void myself and was courteously accompanied by a young orderly carrying my saline solution that he hung on a hook in the toilet. I did not have to wait long and was pushed into the block room by another orderly and where I was received by another nurse who added to my hookups with EKG pads. The block room was narrow and I could hear my next door neighbour talking loudly to her anaesthetist with only a flimsy curtain between us.

I saw Dr. Charles, my surgeon, coming along the glassed corridor, outside, his bald pate shining under the neon lights. Dr. Charles had a purposeful stride, walking with long steps corresponding with his lanky frame that must be around six food five inches tall. He came and greeted me as Mr. Greiner, in contrast to all the other people who called me Andy and used their first name with me. He asked me how I was. I said I was ready but was curious why he was going to use the “lateral” surgical method, in contrast to the “anterior” method, where the recovery is much faster. The other advantage of the anterior method is that one can bend down in contrast to the other, which requires that one does not bring the upper body to less than ninety degrees with either legs. He explained that after three months both methods yield the same results and that men are much more stiff than women who benefit from the anterior method. I guess that it is the anatomy or men versus women that makes a difference in which approach to use. That clicked with me, I cannot reach my toes standing up or sitting down and reaching for my toes. Then Dr. Charles showed an interest in whether my legs were of equal length. He said that he could correct for that during surgery. He placed my feet against the back panel of the hospital bed and announced my legs were of the same lengths.

Ari, Dr. Rostas, the anesthetist came in to give me the “nerve block” and said that Dr Abdulla, another anesthetist, will assist him. I was wondering why they need two anesthetists but did not ask. Ari asked me to sit at the edge of the bed and lean forward to bend my spine down and warned me that the liquid he was washing my back was cold. I felt nothing but was sure that he put the needle in my back between the right vertebrates. Concurrently, Dr. Abdulla took out the saline solution pipe and told me he is giving me a cocktail to relax me. He inserted an injection type of object into the IV and pushed on it so hard to get the cocktail into my arm that I felt the pressure of the cocktail coming into my veins. I am sure the cocktail was not alcoholic, but who knows.

Now that I was fully hooked up, an orderly pushed me into the operating room where two people on my left pulled my legs and arm onto the operating table while two others pushed me from behind and asked me to turn sideways so that my right side was up and ready for an incision. By this time I was so preoccupied with all the people and activities that I forgot what happened next until Ari asked me how I was doing. I said fine and asked him where were we with my new hip. He said they were just putting the last clips into me. Wow! That felt good. Except that my body from the waist down was awol. I felt nothing, that was scary. I sent a message to my toe to wiggle but nothing happened. Then I touched my thigh with my hand, and that felt soft but had no feeling in it. Thought I could be dangerous since I could hurt myself without knowing it.

An orderly with a Spanish accent pushed me into the recovery area. He said he was from Venezuela and became an immediate friend noticing that my name was Jose, same as his. I looked down at my paper bracelet on my right wrist and yes, there was not enough space to spell out my middle name in full. That is Joseph and he saw only the Jose name. We connected, but I told him I was from Hungary; that nonplused him; I am sure he was aware Hungary had no Spanish speakers.

Judy, another nurse, took over from him and she immediately put on the equipment for my vital signs. She moved around awand just north of my crown jewels and declared that I had 240 grams of liquid in my bladder and men get the urge to void, a word I like much better than pee or urinate, when they have over 650 grams of liquid. I said that I could hold it for a while but would like to go void soon.

But that could not be done because the mobile xray unit came by and a wholesome young nurse with muscular arms stood next to my bed on the left and rolled me sideways towards her so that the young man accompanying her could insert under me a hard sheet may measure 18 by 24 inches. Once they adjusted the sheet below me, they took a couple of pictures. The xray machine looked like a giant robot with an enormous base – a neck and a block on the top that reminded me of science fiction characters.

The sedation was finally going away, and an orderly pushed me over to my last station in the post-operative unit where I met other nurses again who started with my identity questions. They offered me lunch that I took with pleasure, having not eaten since 7 pm the night before. Next to my bed there was a chalk board on which the nurse drew squares for all the last activities that I was going to go through before I could leave. That included “teaching”, physio, voiding, taking out the IV and then leaving among other items. I was “taught” about all the anti coagulant pills that I will take and all the painkillers. It was time for me to dress up and a young nurse pulled into me my shorts and sweatpants. I felt a bit awkward and mumbled something that she must be used to dressing men. By this time they had called Kathy to pick me up and they took me in a wheelchair to the entrance.

The entire day was a blast, and I counted up to 19 people that I talked with in flesh and blood. It was the most people that I had socialized with in a day for over a year. And for that, I had to have a hip replacement! Note: because of the sedation, I may not have captured the activities in the right order.

Making a snap decision to go to Chennai, India, with a charity was not the first trip for us. We started traveling after my retirement when time became available. And the cost of travel was within our capabilities, especially when you start with a backpack.

My interest in travel goes back a long way. I was a voracious reader in my preteens and in Hungary in the 1950s, one of the best-known authors was Karl May, a German author who wrote adventure stories. He sold over 200 million copies of his books that have been translated into over 30 languages. Even Hitler was a fan of his in his youth and it is rumored that he gave May’s books to his generals for the strategies that Winnetou, the Apache chief in his best-selling series, used against his enemies. Altho May has never been to the US, he wrote about the American West and the Indians, whom he called redskins, and May did meticulous research to describe their way of life and the wars they had with the “pale-faced” people of the east. I and my friends devoured his books. I reread some of his books recently and found them on kindle. I still thought the stories entertaining altho the style old-fashioned by today’s standards when compared to thrillers with constant action. The description of the Indians and life in the old West in the US made a lasting impression on me and created an immense desire to travel in the US.

Besides May, I read the English author, Somerset Maugham, who wrote extensively on India under English colonial rule but also wrote a novel entitled “The Canadian” that described and compared life in England and Manitoba, Canada in the early 1900s. I enjoyed reading the book, and I reread it recently and found that some brits in the novel resembled the British immigrants I met when I came to Canada from Hungary in 1956. I found the cultural comparison between England and Manitoba extremely perceptive and reminded me of my experience in Vancouver in the late 1950s. I read Maugham in my native language and English when Hungarian translations were not available. And Maugham wrote many short stories about colonial India that made me interested in visiting India and the trip to Chennai appeared to be a great introduction to that part of the world.

Although books may give you the trigger to travel, it is when you get to your destination and start interacting with the locals that you experience the true meaning of travel. It is like watching travel pictures versus taking those pictures on site. We were backpackers in those days traveling with one backpack containing minimal clothing and toiletries and we had to interact with people in the hotels and restaurants and arrange our itinerary.

But travel is much more than seeing unique and exotic geographies and meeting different people who speak other languages. When traveling, you compare your beliefs, habits to other people and cultures and you define yourself more and more sharply compared to other peoples. You see poverty in some countries and ponder what your country did right and what the poor country did that resulted in poverty. You inquire about the natural resources that could give them economic leverage and ask about their education system that would be beneficial.

Vietnam interested us initially: we were living in Washington, DC, when the demonstrations against the Vietnam war broke out in the mid-1960s; in fact, I was on the Mall when a huge demonstration took place to end the war. The ongoing war in Vietnam affected many people. So then we started traveling. Vietnam was on the radar and we arranged a trip to go there.

On the first day in Vietnam, I saw a young shoeshine boy on the sidewalk in Hanoi and asked him to have my boots shined. He gave the price before he started and I had my boots on when he was working on it. When he finished both of my boots, he asked for twice the price he gave me, arguing that there were two boots! That got me upset, and I started arguing with him in front of passersby and the store owners next to us came out and watched us. Kathy said to me to just pay the boy, but I was upset and kept on arguing until one of the store owners told me to leave. Looking back now, this seems like a trifle and I should have paid and even given the boy a tip. I am not saying that everybody in Vietnam is out to fleece you, but you have to learn and deal with unpleasant experiences. And in Hoian, we bought shirts and clothing, some silk, so cheaply that we could not refuse; the tailor measured us up in the afternoon and asked us to return the next day for the completed product. And the shirts were ready and beautiful. The tailors worked all night to get the shirts ready; I found the Vietnamese very hardworking people.

At another time we signed up for a tour to visit a floating island close go Halong Bay and arrived at the island where we were the only people. Our group of six had a beer and then we were awaiting the return of our boat to take us back to the mainland. The boat never came and the people on the island offered to paddle us back for a fee. We were all disappointed by this turn of events since we said that we paid for our return trip, but the island people just waited for us, knowing that we had no way to get back without them. It took a young US law student to explain to us we were arguing over less than one dollar each! So we agreed to pay for our return trip.

One of the quaintest experiences we had was when we returned from the north of Vietnam to Hanoi via an overnight train and arrived in the city at four am. The only place that we could stay indoors that early time was at a “travel cafe”, places where they served breakfast and where you could sign up for a trip to sightsee parts of the country. We sat down, put our backpacks on the floor, and ordered breakfast. Next to us was a quiet couple who spoke English. After a while, I asked them where they were from and they confided in us they were from North America. So I persisted. Where in North America? They said that they were from Canada. That perked us up and followed up, only to find out that they were from Ontario! Then, of course, we were interested in where exactly they lived in Ontario to learn that they were from Ottawa! We immediately made friends and continued staying friends ever since.

The interesting part of traveling is that the more you travel, the more you still want to see. We went from Vietnam to Laos and, at another time, to Cambodia and Myanmar when the latter country just opened up for foreigners. I suppose that if you have the travel bug, you can never kill it so long as you thrive on daily discoveries of local culture and willing to visit especially the less popular travel destinations. So when an offer came to visit India with a charity to do some work, we immediately accepted it.

Tom Belton was waiting for us pacing up and down at Toronto Pearson Airport, when we arrived late from an Ottawa flight to catch our next flight to Chennai, India. We rushed out of our flight and met Tom who jostled us to the next leg of our travel. With a storm in Ottawa, our taxi did not come to take us to the airport, and had to call our old friend Lynn Haggerty to take us out to the Ottawa Airport with our luggage. When we boarded, an announcement came on the speaker system that a crew will come soon but in the meantime, we’ll be de-iced. When that was finished, a computer problem was identified that had to be fixed. And then Air Canada forced a crew that just came from Vancouver and was at the Chateau Laurier to come back to the airport and take care of our flight. By the time the computer problem was fixed and the crew arrived, another de-icing had to take place and we were getting concerned that we may miss our next international flight in Toronto altho we had four hours between the flight. But we did arrive just in time, Tom waiting for us to shepherd us into the large Jet Airplane. Our adventure started six months before.

In the Fall of 2009, we were listening to a travel show by Rick Whiteford, one of many that he did to entice his clients to take his travel packages, in his office on Richmond Road, in Ottawa. Rick provided details of the places that he planned to visit in South-East Asia, then talked about the hotels he reserved, the food in the countries on the tour, and described that the typical day ended up with “cocktail hour”. Rick’s office was full of maybe twenty people sitting on closely packed chairs and coffee was also available with cookies. I enjoyed his shows not only for the information that he provided but also thinking ahead to a trip that I and Kathy might take soon.

When the show was over, we mingled with the people curious about their travel experiences. Next to me was a tall, athletic-looking man with grey hair and an affable discursive manner. We got engaged in a discussion about South-East Asia. He seemed knowledgeable about that part of the world and it turned out that he visited India many times. He asked us if we have ever been there. We have never traveled there. He asked us where we traveled and what was the type of travel that we did; did we use hotels, group tours, and so on. We told him we were more like backpackers and usually talked with Rick for advice and altho Rick arranged the flights and some hotels, we traveled by ourselves to get closer to the locals and engage with them. Our new friend was interested in us and he said that he was Tom Belton and did many trips with a charity called Sleeping Children Around the World (SCAW). So we started talking about SCAW and his experiences. The upshot of our friendly encounter was that he asked us if we would like to go to Chennai with him and his team in six months!

I never heard of Chennai until he explained that it was called Madras before; I have heard of Madras but did not know where it was except that it was in India. On the spur of the moment, we said that yes, we would be interested in going to Chennai! The trip sounded exotic to us and would take us to see a part of the world that we have not seen. That made Tom happy and said that we’ll have to follow up with a few items to become members of his team going to Chennai in six months.

The first item of business for him was to interview us and presuming that he judges us to have what it takes to join his team, he has his recommendation approved by the SCAW management team. So we thought that will be an interesting experience and subsequently, we had a long meeting with Tom during which he took copious notes on our previous travels, our way of traveling and our views towards India, the food eaten there, and if we have any problems with Indian folks. We must have come thru the interview with flying colors because Tom let us know in a few weeks that we were accepted by the Toronto SCAW management to be part of his team going to Chennai.

Tom related that the previous year when he went to India, he had some team members who were not in good enough physical shape to carry their suitcases and he wanted to be sure that in future trips he had able-bodied people and that we seemed to fit that mold. As well, Tom described SCAW is Toronto centric and most of the time the management team assembles a  team from Toronto without his input and that he wanted to have people he knew, some from Ottawa, to be on the team.

But that was not the end of our introduction to the SCAW experience; we received requests from the Toronto office to have us complete a medical form by our family doctor and that we obtain a police record. We submitted both pieces of information to the Toronto office.

When we thought we completed all the info required, we tried to figure out the amount of money that we would require – SCAW is a hundred percent charity and we pay our trip as well the hotels and other expenditures and we wanted to know how much money we should take with us. Tom said that there is the hotel costs and the cost of the minibus that we would rent to travel around in India. After much discussion, we arrived at a rough daily cost for the trip. I understood his reticence when on the trip we discovered that some of the hotel costs were picked up by our local team members who were the elite of the Chennai community.

The next step was to get visas to India and since there is an Indian high commission in Ottawa, we got our visas ourselves, otherwise, Tom offered to do it for us as he has done for the other team members from the Toronto area.

After these initial steps, discussions, and activities, we received copies of correspondence between Tom and Chennai Rotary Club members who were going to assist us in our charity work in Chennai and surrounding areas. We received the name of the Rotary Club members, the itinerary, and details of our work in India. And that is how a snap and unexpected decision to visit Chennai as part of a team doing charity work in India started out.

Being sentimental?

What do we do with all the stuff we accumulate in our lives? We just keep stuff and as long as we have the space stuff stays in the house. Actually, it would be good to have limited space because then we would have to get rid of stuff. My brother now gets rid of objects when he buys a replacement, even though the old item may be functional.

            I still have stuff from my children who had left years ago; their skis had been in our basement for years because we thought they may come home and then the skis would be useful, so why dump them? But, when they come today, they rent skis since the technology has changed and the new skis are much better than the old ones. When he was in high school, my younger son fixed up the far end of the basement as his bedroom as he wanted to get away from us and his bed is still there, altho neither he nor anyone else has used that bed in decades.

            And I inherited my parents’ furniture when they passed away; my brother, the executor, wanted to give all of it away to charity, but I thought we should keep it for the year before we get rid of the furniture and other objects. Why did I do that? I had some sentimental feelings about the old furniture that I knew well and was not ready to part with them. So I have all their furniture in the basement since we have space. Right? I have given some furniture to my children who needed a table, for example, but I have four chairs plus three coffee tables and other stuff still in the basement. What is more challenging is to figure out what to do with my parents’ photo albums? You may think that there are many important old pictures, but I gave them most of those pictures, focusing on my children growing up, but there were a few old pictures of my grandparents. And now all the pictures are on google in the sky. So what am I to do with all the albums? Another set of items is my father’s diplomas from the old country and from Canada, all framed. I am sentimental and thought how and why would I get rid of them? They signify years of education and history; my father graduated in medicine in Budapest in 1939 and he went on to the Sorbonne to get further education in internal medicine and there is the French diploma. By the way, the old Hungarian diploma is in Latin which I find interesting. And then father took his Canadian certificates of medicine and professional licenses and now I inherited I think seven framed diplomas and licenses. What do I do with all these historical papers? I think of the labor that went into the studies and experiences that father had gone through to get all these achievements. If I get rid of these papers, a part of history disappears, at least in my mind. Is this what we do with history?

            Not only the diplomas that bother me but also the paintings that my father collected; I have some cow pictures, all original and framed. My father liked animals coming from a farm and cows were his choice for pictures. The one unique picture that I inherited is a large, framed original landscape that has a few bullet holes in it, repaired by professionals so you cannot see them unless you look at the backside of the picture. I cannot figure out where the picture was when the bullets hit, but it must have been during the second world war and in Budapest when the Russians were bombing the city.

            I thought about all the stuff that we have and thought that my children may like to have some paintings my father had and took pictures of them and sent them to my older son to see if it might interest him in some of them. He may have an interest or the sentimentality to have my father’s pictures. Well, I have not heard and when I asked him he said that he is busy and altho interested in some of them; he has not had the time to pick some. Now I do not want to just get rid of these pictures and if he does not want them, then I‘ll keep them for someone else. I also understand he has many pictures on the walls of his home and also that cow pictures may not fit the motifs of his house at all. So here we are, no takers. I offered the same pictures to my younger son, and he showed an interest in the bullet holed picture but otherwise, cows are not in his mindset as pictures for his walls. I may have to see if it may interest my daughter in the pictures, next. The bottom line is, no one may be interested in possessions from the old country. The younger generation and their lifestyles are more IKEA and disposable items than keeping pictures.

            I do not think that I am unique in trying to tackle what to do with old items in the house; talking with friends they call the experience of being rebuffed by their children in accepting old furniture and even dishes. I feel it is sad that we accumulated some stuff that I feel is memorable only to be disposed of because nobody wants them. We lose some history, but that is the way this is going.