Life's Too Short

I was peeing blood one cold day in February 2001, and so went quickly to the doctor, who simply scheduled an ultrasound test on my bladder the next day.  When done, the technologist said she had located a tumor, and I’d need further testing at the hospital.  Oddly, I showed up a day early (much to my surprise, after it was all over) and the first little bit was fine: the staccato explanation by a stone-faced elderly nurse, including a tour of the changeroom, as well as instructions as to how to dress for the procedure, which "once we're underway will only take a few minutes."  

Then after a brief wait, while sitting there in my Docs and a gown and after watching people calmly go in and out, I am taken into the room by a young female Chinese nurse.  It's a typical old-school mini operating room - even the bed is 3/4 size - and pretty dark except for the lights, and it’s cold.  She tells me to get up onto the bed and put my feet onto the adjoining ledge - I suppose similar to what girls go thru when examined, but without the stirrups.  While she hovers, and when I'm comfortably lying back, she says "I'm going to look at your penis ... and now I'm going to clean your penis for the doctor" and she walks over to the counter to get the goods.  "This might be cold on your penis."  It was.  But she also cleaned the whole package, then said, "now I'm going to inject a topical anestetic into your penis" and walks over to the counter.  I think she liked the word penis.  

Anyway, I've prepared myself mentally but am definitely sweating, so when she came back she has a syringe without a metal needle though.  Inside, I smiled.  "This won't hurt," she assures and then grabs hold with one hand and injects with the other.  This stuff's cold too and dribbles down onto the bed, after rolling down my balls, of course, and then she leaves.  About 1/2 hour later a male nurse (a very nice young man with a ponytail and lisp) walks in and says "The doctor will be seeing you in a minute.... You look fine, just fine," and leaves.

A short while later the doctor comes in with the male nurse and says "So we're here to have a look at your bladder ... well, let's not waste any time."  The nurse, who is standing at one side facing the doctor, asks if I can see the adjacent TV screen.  I nod.  While he's distracting me, the doctor is wheeling over the real goods.  Within a few seconds he has inserted the scope and I'm looking at the screen while writhing, just a little.  But then comes the dreaded "Hmmmm, I wasn't expecting this" and he removes the scope, which felt quite weird, and grabs a wire with a small metal knob on the end - and in it goes, joined shortly thereafter by the scope as well.  

Apparently, the hole that leads to the tube and then up to my bladder is constricted, caused by a "Stricture".  Nevertheless, he attempts to push the wire through and then calls for another nurse and "the light" before removing the wire and scope.  When he pulls out the scope, blood flies out like a fountain.  I almost passed out.  I should've.  Attached to "the light" is a flushing tube, so in it goes, while he's telling the male nurse to make sure he holds the penis "hard", as in firmly, and the other nurse to get him some other equipment "quickly".  "We're going to have to remove the stricture ... with your permission," he calmly says to me.  And before I know it, another tube is quickly but certainly not painlessly inserted, and along with what can only be referred to, non-medically, as clippers - ever see Dead Ringers?  

He moves this like it was a stick shift.  I'm squirming like a toad, to quote Jim Morrison, and then there's an intense painful stab feeling and he then superquickly removes those tools and re-inserts the original scope.  We then, unbelievably, have a look at the bladder.  He's quite calm.  I am not.  Fuck it hurt.  He takes a good look around the bladder walls and points out to me that there's nothing wrong, and "on a bright note," he adds "after removing the Stricture we found, you'll feel like a new man in a few days."  I mumbled something like "thanks doc".  

We're not done though.  He instructs the other nurse to bring a catheter and inserts it.  Then he instructs Wayne to clean me up.  While Wayne is delightfully (I'm sure) scrubbing away, the doctor hands me a prescription for antibiotics ("you'll be bleeding for a few days.") and tells me to come back in a month for a "follow-up" with him, but to come back on Monday 7am to have the catheter removed.  Gee, I can hardly wait for March 23.  What was supposed to have taken a few minutes actually took 45 minutes....
It was a very uncomfortable weekend.  

But off I went, bright and early on Monday morning, to get my catheter removed.  After a few friendly "hellos" to my newfound friends in the Urology department, I'm told a nurse will be with me shortly and I'll be at work before 9 – but I’m 40 and recently laid off, so there was no rush.  This time there were no explanations, no tours and no gowns.  Obviously this was going to be a breeze - especially since the bleeding had stopped.  I kept telling myself it'll be like pulling the dipstick out to check the oil: smooth as silk.  My name gets called out and into a closeby examination room I go.

I get a new nurse, an elderly yet nice and efficient woman.  "Okay, stand there and drop your pants, I'll have that catheter out in a few seconds.”  So I'm standing there, with my pants and shorts wrapped around my ankles, while she brings over some equipment: a needle, without the metal part again.  But this time it's empty.  It gets inserted into the catheter and she "withdraws" the urine from my bladder.  "Good," she says, "nice and clear... now take a deep breath...".  Well, what a feeling, and it did take a few seconds. But now there's blood flyin’ everywhere.  Ever have a feeling of deja vu?

She's yells for another nurse and tells me to lie down on the bed “quickly... grab hold and squeeze tight".  She runs to the counter and brings over some towels and gauzes.  The other nurse arrives: "Oh, you have a bleeder."  Then they start cleaning the floor (and my pants).  Shortly after, the first nurse says, "I'll be back in a few minutes" to which the second adds, "just hold tight", and leaves too.

So now I'm lying there holding tight with blood oozing out between my fingers when all of a sudden I give birth to a blood clot the size of a cat's head.  Unfuckinbelievable.  They come back a little while later and one says: "Ahhhh, that's what it was: a little clot." I stayed another hour until I had finished bleeding and could walk to the bathroom to take a leak - a real leak, which went fine.  So, they sent me home with a prescription from the doctor for ... iron pills.  Thanks.  On the way out, the second nurse says "don't take any aspirin, it'll upset your stomach."  Thanks again.  Too much fun.

Khat Run - Part One

Immediately prior to heading down to New York in the summer of 1995, and meeting Robert Roche upon our return, we were indeed getting by on fingernails and spit.  Things were looking grim.  Family and friends (with money) were few and far between.  There was the occasional meal.  Pizza crust was a luxury.  One day Al called.  Not Al from Trigger Happy, who at that time was helping us immensely by contacting bands who would gladly appear on a new Raw Energy compilation for a mere $500.  No, the Al that called was phoning to find out if we needed money: fun money, but money nonetheless.  All that was required was to take a trip to England, pick up some bags and bring them back to Canada.  If we – and the offer was extended to anyone who needed money – were interested than he’d have the guy contact us directly to explain further and make the necessary arrangements.

It happened rather fast.  One minute Chris is talking to Al about possibly making some money and getting a free trip to England and the next minute Abdul is asking who’ll be the first to go.  I volunteered to take the trip, as I was the lucky holder of a British passport.  Shortly thereafter he called back to say he needed a second volunteer – and that was John.  We’d each get paid $600 if we brought the bags back – full of Khat – into Canada.  Kkat (pronounced Chat) is a grass that is grown and harvested in Eastern Africa.  The men of Somalia and Ethiopia, of which they are plentiful in Toronto, chew it.  At a party years back, I was introduced to Khat at a party; it’s completely harmless and at the time was not illegal to import.  However, if caught, the product would be confiscated by customs officials.  Plants, in general, cannot be imported into Canada without proper permits.  Unfortunately, there is a timing issue with Khat, in that it goes bad quickly after being cut.  People need to arrive in London, pick up the bags and return immediately.  We were under no illusion that we would be given the opportunity to catch a few sites, or drop by the local pub, while there.

Well, the arrangements were simple: go to the Kipling Subway station and find the purple van that’ll drive us to the airport.  As well, the driver will give us an advance of $200 cash to cover any incidentals along the way and as a sign of good faith, I suppose, not to mention the air tickets, phone number of the UK contact on the ground and the bags, empty. John and I decided to both wear our suits, crumpled.  In anticipation of re-entering Canada, we thought we’d at least look “respectable” as opposed to the half-starved label guys living on office couches that we were.  

We got to the station on time.  We waited at the pre-arranged exit and eventually met up with our driver, Abdul, and another employee who was also taking the trip.  She’d done it (imported) before and was making a lot of money each week apparently.  Yes, we were now in the Import business.  It was dark and we didn’t see the bags, but as planned, we were given our tickets and the initial money.  We were also given some last minute instructions from Abdul: if asked at the airport what we are carrying in the bags, the appropriate response is “personal effects”.  He then jumped out the van upon arriving at the departure terminal and opened the back door to unload the “bags”, which were actually the biggest muthafuckin suitcases you’ve ever seen in your life.  One last piece of advice: “Stay apart.”  

Armed with the tickets, cash and two suitcases each, we headed to the check-in counter.  Oddly, there was no response from the various clerks, regarding our weightless luggage, who efficiently sent us on our way.  Naturally, we then went straight to the closest bar for a refreshing libation.  A few later, we were all sitting in the plane – separately – waiting for the bar cart to arrive.  When the plane was in the air, we met at the back of the plane to talk more with the veteran courier. Her name was Denise.  She was American.  She didn’t drink and suggested that John, who was pounding back JD and cokes, and I take it easy, as the alcohol would affect us more greatly upon landing – something about the air pressure.  Who can remember the movie or the meal?  Not I.  Completely forgettable.  But the next thing you know, we’re getting ready to land in London.  John was bombed.  He was excited to see Big Ben, and a pub.  

I picked up my suitacases without incident and proceeded to the lineup for British passport holders and noticed that Denise was already in the other lineup.  John, however, was still waiting for his suitcases to drop and blubbered that he’d meet with us outside.  Denise, in the meantime, had also phoned the contacts – unfortunately they didn’t answer the phone, as it was still 6 in the morning.  After gliding through immigration, and while we waited for John, Denise continued to phone the number of the house in London.  Finally, there was an answer – and due to the time that had been wasted (we should have been picked up and been on our way) – we were told to take a taxi.  Denise and I hailed a cab, a Toyota Camry, and began to stuff our suitcases into the trunk.  At the exact moment we had given up on John and had shut the car doors, he arrived at the sidewalk next to us, threw his suitcases onto the roof rack and hopped into the back seat with me.

We were on our way to collect the Khat.  We drove through the London suburbs, and didn’t see any of the famous landmarks along the way, arriving at the house.  We must have smelled, I’ll admit, except Denise, and when the door was opened, the contacts simply couldn’t believe their eyes and noses, undoubtedly.  “Would you like a cuppa nice hot tea?” they asked, “while we pack your bags.”  They were upset they had slept in and that we were late.  The plan was to turn us right back around within a matter of hours to be back in Toronto later that night.  I had a tea.  John slept.  Denise helped with the packing.  A couple lived in the house: not African, but rasta.  The girl had long blonde flowing dreads, and the fellow had long black dreads.  They packed the Khat really tightly into the suitcases, and when they were nearly finished, they selected John to go back first and called a friend to drive him back to the airport.  However, before giving him back the two full suitcases they asked if he could take another bag – for an additional $100.  And so they gave him not a plastic bag or a vanity case, but a hockey bag.  Each bag weighed, easily, 100 pounds.  John and his three bags then left for the airport.  I followed him shortly, and Denise followed me.  We had been on the ground in England no more than 3 hours.

Two and a half years ago

Back in June 2003, we had our first together: William. But he was not my first. In 1989, the same year I incorporated Raw Energy, I had my first: Eric.

Along came Richard

On February 18, we welcomed another little fella into the world. We named him Richard.