On what I said at Margo's celebration of life

 I apologize for the delay, but here is what I said at Margo's celebration of life:

"My name is Daniel, large nephew of Margo, my adventure auntie.

I am here to offer up a pair of apologies which reveal something of my beloved aunt. The first apology is for wearing a kilt which is nae doone at Hieland funerals. However, this is a celebration of life and a kilt is the only remotely formal garment that I can wear over the fixation.

I also believe Margo would have appreciated it as she was fond of men in Highland wear. She once told me that shortly before her marriage, she heard that her Father, Grandpa, was proudly boasting to his friends about how he would be giving away two brides that summer as her cousin Jane had asked him to stand in for her late father. Now between Margo’s feminism and rebelliousness, she wasn’t at all keen on the idea of being “given away”. However, as Grandpa was getting on in years and had suffered the loss of his daughter Shelia earlier that year, she made a deal, mostly with herself. She said to him: “If you're going to give me away, you’ll have to wear your kilt with the Bonnie Prince Charlie jacket.” To hear her tell it, he hadn’t been planning on wearing his kilt but was quite happy to oblige her. And he looked very elegant doing so.

My second apology is for not having been wholly truthful with her when we were in Santiago de Compostela together. 

If I may digress, this was my first long distance bike trip and I had been apprehensive about it despite having been thoroughly organized into it by Margo. 

Cycle-touring has since become my favourite type of vacation. For many years, I had an ongoing project of crossing from sea to sea by bike in three-week sections as that the maximum length of time I could take off work.

Getting back to Margo, she, Chris and I had biked to Compostela from Seville following a pilgrimage route across Spain and a bit of Portugal. As the only even nominal Catholic of the group, I insisted that we be honest and say to anyone who asked that we were doing it as tourists, not pilgrims. We visited the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, said to be the resting place of Saint James the Apostle and at one time, number three on the Pope’s list of recommended pilgrimage destinations, after Jerusalem and Rome. I went down into the small crypt where the mortal remains of the Saint and a pair of his disciples were kept. 

A few minutes later, Margo came down and in a slightly too loud and strident voice asked me: “Do you think that anyone actually prays to Saint James here?”

I replied: “Yes, I know some do.” 

What I didn’t tell her was I knew that because I had just offered a rather skeptical but sincere silent prayer to the Saint."

On a long delayed lunch

Well, I’m in Vancouver. I got here through a combination of careful thought, mild indulgence and kindness.

I am tall to the point that even in normal times, I find airline seating on the cramped side. With my left leg unable to bend that much and having a large external fixation on it, economy class seating was right out, unless it was some form of extra legroom seating. Even then, well what with the crutches I felt claustrophobic just thinking about it. This was not helped by the flights I took last summer. The flights on Bearskin Airlines and the Learjet had claustrophobic elements to them.

When went to look for flights, I found that WestJet didn’t offer direct flights between Montreal and Vancouver which ruled it out as flying with them was both longer and more expensive than with Air Canada. I don’t understand why WestJet doesn’t offer flights between Canada’s second and third largest cities. It makes it harder for me to take them seriously. (Long after I booked with Air Canada, I found out that Porter Airlines now offers Montreal to Vancouver flights.)

Through judicious searching, I found some suitable flights on Air Canada that offered several things that I wanted. One of them was wide bodied jets to reduce the feeling of claustrophobia. They also offered premium economy seats, hence more space. In fact, my flight out was a mix of business class and premium economy as the seats were in what is business class on international flights but the service was only premium economy. It was a bit of an indulgence, but it helped me get here.

As it was, I had a few panic attacks both before and during the flight. I was quite nervous and a little fearful, starting with going through security. I really wasn’t sure what the procedures were for crutches or external fixations. However, it went reasonably smoothly and the security personnel seemed to know what they were up to. Once through security, I might have asked to be taken to my gate via an electric cart. However, my gate was so close to the security checkpoint that it was only twice as far to walk to the gate as to where the carts were parked. It would have taken far longer to find a driver and to sit down as I took me to walk to the gate.

At the gate, there were some flight attendants waiting around and two of them were sitting on a bench with a handicap sign on it. I nervously but politely asked them if they would let me sit down on the bench. They were happy to do so.

I think I was the first on board and a flight attendant stowed my crutches in a overhead bin while I pulled out the things I wanted on the flight from my carry-on bag. The business-class pod seat was very comfortable, though a little tricky to get in and out of with the fixation. It could also have done with an instruction card on how to use the various functions of the seat.

I watched a number of episodes of Disney+ TV series which Disney isn’t releasing on DVD, curse their eyes. I also needed to use the toilet a few times, a clear sign of nervousness. Thankfully, I was able to get there with the crutches, using the seats for support and balance. On one trip back to my seat, I realized that about a third of people in section were stretched out in sleeping positions rather than sitting up. It was a morning flight so maybe that was it.

People were very kind, both flight attendants and fellow passengers. When the plane go to the gate in Vancouver, a woman across the aisle from me retrieved my crutches from the overhead bin without me asking! I made a point of waiting until the able bodied passengers in my section had left before getting up to get my carry-on and stowing my gear.

At Vancouver Airport, I had to walk a certain distance before I could get my bearings and figured out where I was vis-à-vis baggage retrieval. By the time I had done that, it didn’t seem worth the effort to summon a cart. One of the perks of my ticket was that my bag was labelled priority, so it beat me to the luggage carousel. Admittedly, I gave it an advantage stopping to use the loo on the way.

I then set out to find the car rental place pulling my roller luggage with my left hand. This meant I was slow going down the ramp the rental level and a passing fellow traveller offered to help. I hope I was sufficiently polite in declining her offer.

There a bit of a snag at the rental place as when I arrived they didn’t have any cars ready: only SUVs. They offered them to me, but I insisted on a car as most of the time it would only me driving it and as I was going to the celebration of the life Margo, something of an environmentalist, I would very embarrassed if I showed up in anything larger than a Subaru Outback. The rental people had probably suffered more demanding customers. They checked their computers and found out that a Toyota Corolla was being sanitized and would be available in about ten minutes. So I waited.

As I driving away from the airport, I was pleased to see sensible bike paths beside the road. Going over the Arthur Laing bridge, there was a highly visible cyclist pedaling away. On the other side, I was waiting for the lights to change when the cyclist went past me. It made me feel glad.

My plan had been to find lunch on the way to Alma Street, but owning a miscalculation on my part, it only when I was approaching Dunbar Loop that a restaurant appeared. It was the Crepe Café. It had a sign at the door saying the daily special was butter chicken with naan bread which pleased me greatly. There were some workmen climbing down from some scaffolding outside the building. One of them went to open the door for me before I could protest. The butter chicken and naan bread really hit the spot.

 Afterwards, I stopped by the house on Alma Street to check in with the family. Chris, John, Louise and Patrick were there along with Chris’ sister Carolyn. I got to cuddle little Patrick. He wasn’t too sure about me, but then, at his age, there is little he is sure about! His physique is what is known as “bien nourrie” in Quebec. He definitely is a cutie. I don’t remember where John and Louise’s spouses and other children were, except that they weren’t there. We chatted away. Louise talked about how Tessa was using the climbing wall in the basement. That triggered something that I had thought of in Vancouver airport. In the domestic wing, there is a wall meant to look like a sloping cliff. I had wondered how often people try to climb it. I mentioned this to assembled company. This prompted John to relate how he nearly gotten into trouble rappelling off a building in Victoria as the building next door housed a “hush-hush” branch of the Canadian Government!

I drove to my hotel downtown, checked in, parked the car, went to my room and had a well-deserved snooze. Afterwards, I had supper, then got in contact with various relatives. I then gave into the urge to go to bed even though it was barely past 8 PM.

I was awoken by a text message from the Montreal General at 6:30 AM. It was about confirming next week’s appointment. I had made arrangements with St-Michael the Holy Mole to have breakfast at around 7 AM, so it wasn’t that bad.

After breakfast, I had a shower, then tried to write down the directions to Tartantown in Port Coquitlam. While I was packing on Sunday, I found out that my kilt no longer fit me. A quick internet search brought to Tartantown’s website which listed them as willing to rent kilts. Their limited range of tartans included Black Watch which I considered an adequate substitute. So, I set off for the wilds of suburban Vancouver. I must confess I made a few wrong turns. I stopped at least three times to check Google Maps as I was unwilling to subscribe to Toyota’s navigation system. On one occasion, I had pulled into a tire store to check progress. I was startled when a man in a black suit tried to open the right rear door. It turned out that he thought I was his Uber ride!

Anyway, I got there safely in the end. It was a bit anti-climactic as an employee greeted me, took my waist measurement and then took an appropriate kilt off the rack. I tried it on and it fit, funnily enough.

I then indulged in something that I had been waiting to do for 1 year, 1 month and 1 day. That is, something I had wanted to do the day of the accident. I am a bit ashamed to admit it but I had lunch at Taco Bell. I have a weakness for Taco Bell that stretches back almost thirty years. There used to be a few in Montreal, but they ceased to operate at some point during Covid. I’d like to blame LeGoat and his language policies, but that might be a stretch.

I had supper this evening with the Mole at the Happy Noodle House. I must admit, I like the creative nature of restaurant names in Vancouver than in Montreal. For that matter, I find the multicultural qualities of Vancouver distinctly refreshing from Montreal’s rather eurocentric qualities.

On some progress and strangeness

Earlier this week, my physio brought over a set of pedals meant to be hand cranking but usable by feet. He put it on the floor in front of me, and I fully pedaled for the first time in over a year. I came very close to crying for joy. I had a bit of trouble keeping my left foot properly on the pedal but it is still early days. My ability to ride a bike has long been a worry.

At the gym where I am currently getting my physio, I made a double take recently when out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a nun in a veil and a tight gym shirt approach the desk. In fact it was a young woman with very flat and long black hair with a white headband under it. I wonder what Naisi would do with the concept of a nun doing aerobics in a leotard and a veil.

I tested myself today by renting a car from my car sharing service. I used it to run some relatively minor errands in order to get a further feel for how comfortable I am driving. It was also an opportunity to practice my driving skills. I think I did quite well.

One of the errands involved going to Aubut, a grocery warehouse store. In the parking lot, I was surprised by the license plate of a red Volkswagen Golf station wagon. It was a custom plate which read "MEXIQUE". The surprising thing about that was the plate was from New Hampshire! Given that New Hampshire is a notoriously conservative state, why someone would have a license plate giving the French form of Mexico is somewhat perplexing, to say the least!

On progress and fatigue, failure and success

Because of an overly bureaucratic interpretation of the doctor's note, last week, I worked three full days. I was very tired at the end of each day. Thankfully, the days were Monday, Wednesday and Friday so I had the chance to recover.

Admittedly, Thursday wasn't much of a recovery day as I had a dentist appointment in the morning and a physio appointment in the afternoon. Jonas, my usual taxi driver, drove me to my dentist in Verdun. Our route took us past a slightly scruffy dépanneur on LaSalle Boulevard. It had set of iron bars coming down from the balcony above, the door of which was open. Hanging from the balcony within the cage was a boxing punch bag which was being pummeled by a shirtless East Asian man in bare feet. Jonas said that the man was frequently to be seen at his training there. He added, he would be very afraid to rob that dépanneur because of the man. Not that Jonas would even try to rob a dépanneur as he is an exceptionally decent man.

The dentist's office was on the third floor. I walked up the stairs, but after my teeth were cleaned, I took the building's slow and idiosyncratic elevator down. At the present time, I can go up stairs putting only one foot on each step. However, I have to put both feet on each step going down. This is frustrating and annoying, so hence why I took the elevator down.

The physio appointment was mostly evaluation. The man had me do a series of exercises to determine my sense of balance and mobility. Generally, I did them fairly smoothly with one noticeable failure. He placed a recycling bin on its side in front of where I was standing without crutches. He asked me to alternately lift one foot and tap the upper side of the bin with each foot six times as fast as possible. I started with my left foot and did it without trouble. I then tried my right foot. I began to topple forwards and in my panic tried to push off the bin with my right foot. CRACK! My foot went through the upper side of the bin coming to rest on lower side which lay in contact with floor. The physio steadied me, both physically and mentally. While I failed that particular test, overall, the overall result of the evaluation was that I was nearly ready to move to a cane rather than crutches.

On Saturday morning, Volker, the man running my local breakfast place, gave me a sample of some bread he had baked with a special ingredient he had grown himself and had just harvested: hops! Apparently, he has some hops vines growing at this home. He had picked the flowers and boiled them in water. He then used the water to make bread. I had to admit the effect was subtle. He had a small basket of the hops flowers which he showed to the customers.

In the afternoon, I took a cab to the corner Sherbrooke and Côte des Neiges. Once there, I met with a nice driving instructor and took a drive. 

Yep, I drove a car.

One of the minor blessings of the collision is that it was my left leg that took the damage rather than my right leg. It is possible to drive a car with only your right leg in full operation, provided it isn't have a manual transmission. As manual transmissions are increasingly rare owing to advent of hybrids and electric cars, I am in luck. 

I had realized about two months ago that I was physically capable of driving a car. However, I was unsure whether I was mentally up to the task. My uncertainty and anxiety was increased because having been the victim of someone who shouldn't have been driving, I was determined not to be the cause of an accident. Another source of uncertainty was the fact that technically my license has always been valid, despite the fact that a year ago, I could barely turn over in bed without help. 

Anyway, I had booked a session with a driving school to evaluate my mental capacity to drive. To my mind, the instructor was really there to take over if I dissolved into a nervous jelly. Anyway, I drove west along Sherbrooke Street to Decarie. Then it was up Decarie to right onto the Boulevard before turning left onto Grosvenor and right onto Sunnyside. The instructor had been telling me where to turn. However, at that point, I asked if he might indulge a whim and let me turn onto Upper Landsdowne to look at Granny and Grandpa's old house. He was fine with that. The house was still there. Then it was right onto Edgehill Road, back to the Boulevard, left onto Côte des Neiges then a slow drive around Hill Park Circle before returning to where we had started via Côte des Neiges, Dr Penfield and Simpson Street. (The reason I listed the route we took is that with the exception of Hill Park Circle, all these streets are linked to the time I have spent in Westmount with Mummy's side of the family.)

The instructor gave me 10 out of 10 and his two recommendations were trivial. Not that it really mattered to me as I had decided that I was fit to drive around the corner of Sherbrooke and Greene Avenue, that is very early in the drive. I am glad that I spent the time and money to test myself. I am secure in my insecurity.

Afterwards, I walked down to the Guy Metro station and went to the Alexis Nihon Plaza to do some shopping. As I was getting quite tired, I took a taxi home. As we went down the Glen, I saw what I thought was a familiar figure on an unfamiliar bike going up at a reasonable speed. I noted the time. That night I phoned St-Michael the Holy Mole to inquire if it had been him on what I took to be the good bicycle Margo had gently nagged him into buying and to "brag" about having driven a car that day. The Mole had indeed being going up the Glen and was pleased to hear of my progress.

On it being a year to the day

It was a year ago today that my life became very hard. I am still not sure what to think of it. Even now, looking back, I am shocked at how close I was to death. 

I am doing very much better which doesn't really cover the ground I have covered and doesn't address the distance I still have to go. My pains mean I can only walk a very few steps very awkwardly without crutches. I took a taxi to meet St-Michael the Holy Mole at the Greenspot for breakfast. It is at the corner of Notre-Dame and Greene avenue. Afterwards I walked home with a short detour for a strawberry shortcake doughnut. That is about 1.4 km. It felt longer.

My thinking about how my life has gone in the last 366 days has been altered by something I learned on the morning of August 31st. I was woken up by a phone call from the RCMP in Shediac. It seems that the driver (may his name be spat upon) passed away. Apparently he had a heart attack on July 17th and died in the Moncton Hospital where I was initially treated. This removes any obligation to be in Moncton on the 4th of October for his sentencing, not that I was planning to attend anyway. I was a bit stunned by this news, for one thing, it means that I will never know just how sever his sentence would have been. I was still sleepy after I hung up, and pondered scenarios about him being enlisted in Hell's Colonic Brass Band until I fell asleep again.

I know one shouldn't speak ill of the dead but I am having a hard time not doing so. Then again, given the torment he put me through, I believe I am entitled to some rancor.

On what the doctor said

I had an appointment with my orthopedic surgeon on Thursday afternoon. I went to the General quite early with the intent of getting some lunch beforehand. As I went to sit down on a wall bench in the Hospitality Corner bistro, an orderly of colour, got up and moved the table for me. I protested mildly that it was unnecessary, but he said his job was to help the patients. We exchanged pleasantries during which I said that I knew I could not do his job, which he took (as I intended) as a compliment.

After an indifferent club sandwich, I went to the elevator bank, just missing one despite the efforts of the orderly who happened to be waiting there until his next set of duties. I got the next one down and went along to the X-ray department. As waited to be served, I saw an older woman in a wheelchair that was half bed asking ineffectually for help. Nothing loath, I asked her what her problem was. It was simply getting her mobile phone out of her bag.

I had a longish wait to be X-rayed, during which time, I used the washroom. As I was coming out, the same orderly was just outside the door asking me if I needed help. I was confused by this until he told me that I had pulled the emergency call cord. I hadn't realized that I had done so, but given that the washroom wasn't very large whereas I am large and awkward, it was not hard to imagine that I might have done so by accident. I was somewhat embarrassed by this and apologized, despite the orderly saying there was no need to apologize.

Once on the slab in the X-ray room, I was asked to remove the shoe on my left foot. I did so in my current way when lying down by I lifting my leg up and bending my knee. I then hold my foot that position without using my hands. The X-ray technician was impressed with my flexibility, saying he was not that flexible.

Afterwards, I went to the Orthopedics department where I was shown into an examination room very quickly by an orderly or junior doctor who not only remembered me but also the Welsh origin of my last name. The orthopedic surgeon saw me, looked at my X-rays and went "hmm". He was pleased by the progress my tibia had made in healing. However, it still has a way to go so I will be keeping my Taylor spatial frame at least until mid-October.

While I was with him, I asked him for a written authorization to work longer hours. He happily did so. I had to get the document stamped by the receptionist as well as make my next appointment. After doing so, I stood to one side of the reception desk to put the papers in my backpack. The next patient was another older lady in a heavy-duty electric wheelchair with impaired use of her hands. Between the short arms of the receptionist and her limited use of her arms, there was difficulty in hand over the various documents. I offered to help.

On taking joy in small things

One of the ways I have to cope with life, particularly these days, is to take joy in small things. In the last week I have done this a number of times.

The first of which was when I was walking along St-Antoine Street to my breakfast place on Thursday morning. It is in the process of having its water and sewage pipes replaced. These roadworks are a royal pain when it comes to getting around via crutches and taxi. However, on that trip, I witnessed a twenty foot length of 2 foot diameter reinforced concrete sewer pipe being lifted by a crane. There were two workers adjusting the exact location of the sling on the pipe so that when lifted, the pipe would be balanced. It took them at least three tries before they were satisfied. When the pipe was lifted well balanced, one of the workers took out his measuring tape to see just how far along from one end the sling was. As there were two other pipes of the same lengths, I think he wanted a reference for them. At least, that is what I would have done. I will also observed that I had stopped my hobbling to watch the procedure, giving way to my inner child. This was particularly easy as my inner child has a fascination with heavy machinery.

On Thursday evening, I noticed that my crutches seem to slip too easily on my floor. I inspected them and found that the rubber tips were somewhat worn.

Consequently, after work on Friday, I went to medical supply store on Wellington Street. After getting replacement tips, I decided to explore Wellington Street which is currently pedestrian only during the summer. I found much to amuse me. One of these was a sign in a ice cream parlour where I had stopped for a milkshake. There was a sign listing the various flavours of dip for soft ice cream.

It was the last one that really threw me for a loop. "Mac and cheese". Just to be sure, I checked with the staff that I wasn't misreading the sign. They assured me it was so. I can't think why anyone would want such a flavour.

I was later struck by just how silly one of the requested behaviour signs on Wellington Street was.

Have they really had a problem with people diving onto the street, I ask you?

A little further along, there was a golden retriever being very sociable and friendly much to its owner's annoyance as she evidently wanted to keep walking. The golden wanted to lie on its back and be petted.