My health is deteriorating rather too fast for my own taste. The steroids keep me from running out of breath, but I still find myself breathing hard too often. I am trying to figure out how much of this psychological, and how much physical. I am leaning toward the latter though would prefer the former.

Today has been very difficult. We started the day by going to the funeral home to make our arrangements. We have chosen the coffin and paid for everything. We then went to sign the power of attorney papers effectively giving Janet control of my life. Not that she has not had that unofficially for years, this was a mere formality. Finally, went to the cemetery and chose the plot.

The cemetery is located downtown. We were surprised to find that they still had space. The place was opened in 1830 and is almost full. It is near our house. You get to it by taking a circuitous route, so it is not always in view. Janet can walk to it quite easily. All the lands around it used to belong to the Lamb family. They gave a lot of it away and developed a whole other section. The cemetery is part of those lands, as is a small children’s farm called Riverdale Farm. I will be in good company with the cows, horses, and goats. There is a park in front of the farm in which there is the weekly organic farmers market. Seems somehow ironic.

Lots of traffic, which is a good thing.

Everyone is a bit surprised that we are making our own arrangements. Specially me. A lot of people make the arrangements expecting to die further down the road. To make arrangements with a couple of months left seems to have perplexed everyone.

It is surreal to walk into a funeral home and get a tour. Gee, that is the table I will be lying on. You guys will be sitting in those chairs. Don’t forget to wave. I may have a bit of difficulty waving back, but assume that I have at the very least, attempted to do so. We discussed the casket. Is there special music you want? Any other special needs? Will that be cash or charge? Done.

We had lunch, then made our way to the cemetery. Got a tour of the grounds. These are the plots that are available. You like? We have the location indicated in the above picture by the little yellow flag you can barely see. That is where the feet go.

Are you weirded out yet? We are having these discussions like it is normal. Something we do every day. We have now started working on the program. Who will be the MC? Say prayers? Eulogy? Do you invite people to say something at your own funeral? Do people get up and say what they want? Is there a protocol to all this? Does the protocol change when you are making your own arrangements?

I have chosen the pallbearers and am about to send out the eMails. I don’t even know if the people I have chosen are planning to go to the cemetery or not. I guess I am about to find out. You have to make sure the heights of everyone is close to being the same. I don’t want to fall out or anything because one person is too tall. Maybe I will choose 8 women. Hah! Still have a sense of humour, macabre as it is.

The Baha’i calendar is made up of 19 months on 19 days each. The geniuses amongst you will figure out that this comes to 361 days. This leaves us with 4 to 5 intercalary days which come at the end of the 18th month. These are generally spent feasting and preparing for the fast. The latter takes place in the 19th month. You cannot eat or drink from sunrise to sunset. You can eat and drink to your hearts content overnight. The trouble is that your stomach tends to shrink somewhat as the Fast progresses. You tend to not gorge as much as you might think.

Women who are pregnant or feeding a child, anyone under 15 years or over 70 years of age, anyone travelling over 2 hours, the sick and infirm, are all forbidden to fast. For the rest of us, the fast provides an occasion for spiritual rejuvenation, a time to meditate on our lives, and renew our physical strengths. We can break some habits, like that muffin you have every morning. Far from thinking of it as a punishment, or a chore, the fast is viewed as a time of contemplated renewal.

The Fast ends at the Spring Equinox or March 21. This is probably the biggest feast of the year. We eat all day and socialise like mad. The Iranian tradition for Naw-Ruz is that the younger members of the community spend the day visiting the elders of the community to pay their respects. My parents were the elders while we lived in Montreal.  This is an interesting exercise. The elders are forced to socialise by providing food and candies and tea,  No Iranian house is complete without tea. We spent the day serving people and washing dishes, getting ready for the next crowd. It was actually fun. Very festive.

We had a Naw-Ruz party at our house this year. About 25 people showed up to help bring in the new year. This is the year 147 according to the Baha’i calendar. Our Faith was founded in 1863. More info for those who are interested (and even for those who are not!) at the main Baha’i web site.

We served three types of rice, courtesy of Fetneh who cooked like a fiend while I watched. We bought pretty much everything else, the chicken, salads, vegetables. The deserts were brought by our friends. It made for a hectic Saturday and Sunday morning while we prepared the room for the large crowd. There were so many people I wanted to invite. The numbers were going a bit out of control. My apologies to all those who were not invited. It was a very sweet occasion.

Fetneh arrives on Sunday and left on Monday. Always sad to see her go. We are planning some mini trips as soon as the weather gets warmer. I think the first one may be to Montreal in June. Just 3 or 4 days. Leave here on Friday, come back on Sunday or Monday morning. We might go to New York before that. We will see. Janet plans on taking a few extended weekends to make all this possible. A visit to Montreal requires a meal at Quartier Perse, the best Iranian restaurant in the country. Our friend Mahin owns and runs the place.  Have not seen her in about a year. It is time for a visit.

Chemo resumes this week on Thursday. I am going to try and move the Chemo to Wednesdays. That way I get disconnected from my infuser bottle on Friday leaving the weekend open.  The schedule they have set up for the next 6 sessions is a bit convoluted. Should make for an interesting interaction with the lady who sets up the schedule.

Thank you all for being there for me, for listening, commenting. All very humbling.

The numbers are on the positive side. All down or neutral. Not down by as much as the last scan, but down is a good thing.

I have to call him to get some clarifications. I had tumours on my pelvic bone, my lungs, and both sides of the liver. The results show the liver tumours to have gotten smaller. These are the ones that concern the oncologist the most.

He almost ignores the others. As long as the liver is responding, the others must be too.

I will call him.

Chemo starts anew next Thursday. Yay!

Why?

Why Cancer?

Why me?

Why now?

There are no answers to these questions. Really not one. I should end this blog entry right here.

I am surprised by the number of cancer patients and supporting family members who are or have become devout believers in God. Some blame the Devil for their predicament. I have written about this before. It is fraught with errors and paths that will lead to totally wrong places.

I went to see a psychiatrist, one that specializes in cancer patients. I told her about the incessant Why’s. She smiled and said, you know there is no answer to that question. I really should end this blog entry here.

We keep asking. I am hoping to stop asking soon. Seems like a total waste of time and energy.

The final question in this loop, is to What end? What is the purpose of anyone getting any sort of chronic debilitating condition?

This brings up an interesting question. Why do we, as humans, assume that there is a purpose to everything? We seem to insist that every action that takes place has a reason for being.

I take a lot of pictures and am often approached by people asking me about what I am doing. They look at the camera, seems professional, look at what I am looking at, and finally say, what are you taking a picture of? I am never sure what the answer is. I always come up with something. Look at the parallel lines formed by all these pieces of construction. Oh yeah, wow, cool, thanks. Those balconies are made of wrought iron and they all look similar, if not at different heights, makes for an interesting view. Oh yeah, wow, cool, thanks. Most of the time, the pictures are experimental. You take, you look, you don’t see what prompted you to take the picture in the first place. It was just fun to do. Digital cameras make this sort of experimentation even more fun. You keep the picture and look at it every once in a while just to be sure you have not missed anything.

There was really no purpose to taking those pictures. I am killing time while Janet shops. I am just having fun. No purpose, really. I might find a use for the picture at some later date, by for now, it can sit somewhere in the bowels of my computer waiting its turn.

No purpose. Just fun. Or not. A cold is no fun, and as far as I am concerned, has no purpose associated with it. Yet we insist on asking the question, why did I get it, what is the purpose of me being debilitated to this extent? I have asked this question of many people in various conversations.

The most common answer is that it forces you to look at your life and re-evaluate things. In which case the 75% of the population who will not get cancer is missing out on one hell of an opportunity. Either that, or my view on life was deficient in some way.

The best answer was that it is a way to cull the population. I do not have a problem with that. Why cull me, take that guy in prison, or the other offender. WE are going in a loop.

There is little doubt that you re-evaluate your life. In some ways you have little choice. You are sitting around wondering what to do with yourself. One activity a day seems all that you can handle. The rest of the time is spent thinking. At least for me. Little choice. I day dream about winning the loto so that we can renovate the house. What would you do if you had millions? I think of new products, or how to improve existing ones. I send eMails harassing my friends. They probably feel too guilty to tell me to stop doing that. I jest. I always ask if they want to receive stuff. I post regularly to all sorts of social media sites. I keep busy until I am too tired to keep busy, then the thinking starts all over again.

The mind churning, the questions returning, the doubts, the guilt, then the thankful sleep that stops everything cold. You wake up being a bit reasonable with yourself.

I have to keep busy to stop some of these questions from dominating my time. Fleeting time. There seems so much of it until it is gone. Then it seems that there was so little of it. I am told that I should write down what I do in a day. No time for that. Hah! I am so funny. Really, it matters little in my condition. Time can be fleeting, temporary, short. Whatever.

I have multiple projects on the go, a couple of which I am not qualified to do. Requires a bit of engineering design. I will have to find someone to help. Fetneh laughed at me when I told her about them. Make sure everyone has your passwords, she says, just in case, you know. We both laughed. Funny girl. I am writing a cartoon. Again, have to find an artist, though I might try my own hand at it first. Leslie is insisting that I do that.

Keep busy. Stop asking Why. It is what it is. Deal with it and move forward.

Move forward. Keep moving.

We met with the oncologist, the ever lovable Dr David Hedley. The results are not in. It takes apparently 5 radiologists to come up with the results. They consult and deliberate to make sure the results are accurate. Love them for it.

We should have the results by Monday coming and will report accordingly.

I went to give blood this morning. All is good. The nurses in the blood clinic were delighted to see me. This is very bizarre. I have great admiration for the nurses. They have a difficult job. We are all sick and tired and in a foul mood. Some are depressed, others whatever. The nurses have to smile and keep us going, their own problems set aside.

One of my nurses has a three year old who had a cold last week. She is doingbetter this week, and has decided to share her cold with her mother.

The other nurse is getting married this May She is all stressed out by the planning. She has two children.

Talking to people helps calm nerves and reveals so much about them. They have issues and burdens. We should take a bit of time to talk to them to relieve some of the tension.

I love these women to bits.

I knew nothing about Canada. Too buy surviving being the only coloured kid in an all white boarding school. I had no idea where the country was located and did not bother looking it up. I guessed I would have found out sooner or later.

My sisters and I lived in a campground for the summer before coming to Canada. We were in between locations. School was finished. We had to be in London to have access to the Canadian Embassy. They lost our papers at one point which created a bit of a panic. How long were we supposed to camp out? We called Canada every night around midnight to make sure mom was home from work. We called collect and updated our parents on all our activities. My father refused to accept charges one night letting us know we should call back in an hour. You have to remember we were stuck in London in a campground in a very rainy summer. We called an hour later. Turned out my mother was not home when we called the first time. What a trial.

My first impression of Canada was how big everything is here. Big cars, large roads, large buildings, large people. Everything was just so large. I was not a stranger to the cars. We had much the same cars in Iran when we lived there for a couple of years. We like our cars big. Helps that gas is really cheap in Iran. But everything was big in Canada.

My parents had rented an apartment at 22 St Joseph Boulevard in the City of Outremont. Did not mean much to us at the time. Barely knew where we were. The apartment complex was split into two building separated by the driveway leading to the underground parking lots. Driving out of there in the winter turned out to be a chore. You would back the car up to the furthest extremity of the driveway, and gun the engine hoping to make it up the hill. Never worked. You had to repeat the exercise a few times, back wheels screeching like raccoons making out. Somehow we always managed to get the car out of the driveway. This was in the days before front wheel drive cars and good winter tires.

My father could not get a job. He was 55 or 56 and everybody felt he was too old. And no Canadian experience. My sister was refused a job as a waitress because she did not have Canadian experience. What a hoot. My mother got a job right away as a finisher in a dress factory. She had gone to seamstress (?) school when we were living in Ethiopia and was quite an accomplished sewer. She even had a shop for a while while we were in Ethiopia, but gave up the venture and took a position in an all girl school teaching the students how to dress and coif. She appeared to enjoy the experience. The school was run by Princess Margaret, one of the nieces of the Emperor. She came to visit us when we lived in Iran. She died in jail after the Ethiopian revolution toppled the Emperor.

Mom worked in a factory where her colleagues were all French speaking. To the end of her days, my mother could never pronounce anything in French. She ended up being the fore-lady in the factory, adored by her workers even though not a word of French ever passed her lips. Just goes to show how much politics plays a role in our prejudices.

My mother was a funny person. Very prim and proper and proud of her appearance. Never a hair out of place. Fashionable clothing at all times. Pure respect for others. Someone once described tact as the art of telling someone to go to hell and send them smiling on their way. That was mom, through and through. Not that she would ever tell anyone to go to hell, God forbid that would happen. She was very conscious of what she said, what was said in public, what should be considered private, what would other people think.

She passed away on January 15, 1979 after her lung cancer ravaged the rest of her body. She went from diagnosis to death in 10 months. She was 54. I blame her entirely for my cancer. She wants me to join her. She misses me. Not so fast, mom, not so fast.

Life was troubled in our first years in Canada. Culture shock was only part of the issue. Moving from Ethiopia in 1963 to Iran, out of Iran in 1965 to the U.K., and finally in Canada in 1968 was just a few moves too many. Each move created its own level of culture shock.

Ethiopia made for a good living environment for the family. Those were more innocent times. This in spite of the attempted coup we lived through. School was closed while bullets flew everywhere. My brother went out to investigate at some point. He threw himself on the ground when bullets started flying. The person behind him was not so lucky. My mother made us sleep in the corridor of our apartment. Safest place surrounded by walls and no windows. We would go out and play when there was a lull in the fighting, then rush back inside when the fighting started again.

Ethiopia is where I learned to swim, and ride a bike. We went to a French school. My parents figured we would learn English at home, and it would be good for us to have a second or third language to fall back on. We went to the amazing Lycee Francais Guebre Mariam run by the Lycee system out of France. Our classrooms were set up to mix the native Ethiopians with the rest of us. They came to school in bare feet. They had to go to see the nurse every morning to get de-liced. This usually meant that their heads would be powdered with DDT. They would come to class with white heads.

My mother was epileptic and suffered through three grand mals. She was sent to Germany to stay with her mother, sister and brother after each seizure. The doctors would give her drugs and stabilise her and she would rush back to be with us in Ethiopia. Her third grand mal was the worst and the doctors convinced her that we had to leave Ethiopia. We returned to Iran where our family supported us is all ways. We, the children, were not really told what was ging on. We were just leaving and returning to our native land.

We lasted all of two years there. My parents sent us to live in England. My brother was already there and we had numerous friends who would look after us. We were sent to school in a small town called Attleborough, for about three months. We settled in Huntingdon, 15 miles out of Cambridge where Fetneh and I went to school. Not sure what Shohreh was doing or what school she went to. We were there for about a year. Fetneh and I ended up in boarding school, a place called Wymondham College. Shohreh went to Bristol University. Fo’ad was around somewhere.

Not happy times, I am afraid. The kids in the school were very bigoted. I was the only coloured kid. Not a good scene. We left the U.K. in 1968 to come to Canada. Am I ranting too much. There is a point to all of this.

AS mentioned somewhere above, the house on St Joseph Boulevard was split into two buildings, the second one containing the washing machine and dryer. I had done some of the laundry when we lived in Iran. We had one of those old tubs with a ringer that would eat up your hand if you let it. Once in Canada, my job was to do the laundry again. Specially since it was so inconvenient. I helped with the vacuuming, and of course the windows. Fetneh assisted with the cooking and cleaning of the kitchen. We were all trying to find ourselves and each other again. We had not been a family for two to three years in the most formative parts of our lives.

It tool everyone to run the house. Like a finely tuned Swiss clock full of cogs and intricate machinery, the house had to be run. Clothes washed, floors cleaned, rooms maintained, tempers contained. Nothing unusual. Just the way things were.

We moved in 1970 to a house on Querbes Street, just around the corner. Bought the place for C$26,000. Sold in 10 years later for C$110,000. Not a bad return. It was a big house for a big family. We finished the basement. At least my brother and father did. My job was to not get injured cleaning thing up. Remove nails from the wood, sweep, don’t hurt yourself. I could barely yield a hammer without hitting myself. Better to handle the menial tasks, boring as they may be.

It was a beautiful basement that doubled as my father’s office. We held gatherings there where my father talked to anyone who would listen about the Baha’i Faith. He was very well read, English, Farsi, and Arabic. He had studied the Bible and the Quoran, developing an interesting perspective on all the religions and their position in society. The regular Wednesday evening gatherings were called firesides. We usually had about 20 people show up for these. All ‘s were served supper, followed by my mothers famous banana cake and tea of course.

Fetneh and I were very busy on these evenings, helping set things up, clean, re-set things up, clean again. I met Janet at one of these sessions. We spent a bit of time washing and drying dishes. The rest is history as they say. My friend Mehran introduced us. Janet was living with Diana Gibbs at the time. They had been in residence together. Mehran and I helped move them to their apartment.

All cogs helping events run smoothly.

Janet and I got married in August of 1980. We moved to Toronto after our wedding. The house was sold, there was nowhere for us to stay in Montreal. We had made several trips to Toronto and had found an apartment on St Laurence Blvd near Bathurst Street.

We moved a  few more time, first to the Beach area, then to Coxwell Avenue across from the race tracks, finally to our house on Bloomfield Avenue where we stayed for 14 years. It took a while to establish roles and rules. They are constantly compromised and situations change. Finally though, I ran the house, she brought in the money. Every situation has its ups and downs. Ours is no different.

It occurred to me that we are all cogs in a beautiful machine that forms all the time changing its attributes adding and removing cogs as the need arises. Ours was a two-cog unit internally at least. As time goes by, you realise that there all sorts of external cogs that have some sort of influence on your life. People who reach in to help. listen, participate. All cogs in your life. Coming and going as their needs change and evolve. We are all cogs in each others lives, some thinner, others thicker; some smaller, others larger. Coming and going all the time.

Why the history above? We lived in Ethiopia in a compound of 8 apartments reserved for those teaching at the Technical School. My father taught there. The eight families relied on each other for all sorts of things. We had a guard to make sure the undesirables kept out of the compound. A cog. He was a nice guy and looked after us.

We moved to Iran which was the only place we could go to and have some sort of support network. Lots of cogs there. From cousins who gave my father a job, to others such as Mr. Khabirpour, husband of Nazenine (my first cousin) who lent us a car when the government of the day passed some sort of onerous law regarding new cars. We were driving an Opel Caravan that we drove from Germany to Iran in 7 days. Look at a map. It is some sort of dubious record my father was very proud of. My uncle in Germany helped my dad with the purchase. A cog. My grandmother and aunt put up with us in their small apartment. More cogs. The car we were lent was an old Dodge. Big, ugly and battleship gray. My mother would pull up behind other drivers and they would move out of the way. It was a hoot.

We moved to the U.K. where we were looked after by the Afnan family. We may be related to them somehow. We were old friends from days prior to Ethiopia. More cogs. They took us in and looked after us until we moved to Huntingdon. We were pretty much on our own in Huntingdon. Fo’ad went to Judo and insisted I go with him. They tried to convince me that I, standing short, could topple a guy my brother;s size or larger. They were all very nice. I was very intimidated and quit pretty soon after joining. Fo’ad tried many times to get me involved in some sort of martial arts, asking friends to demonstrate their prowess at breaking bricks and other items of general interest. Nothing doing. I am guessing now that I was in a bit of a shock given all the moves and the strange surroundings.

We moved to the boarding school. The Afnan family became our guardians for the next couple of years. We would go to Germany for Christmas and summer vacations and stay with my grandmother, Iran Joon, my aunt, and Uncle Said. They lived in a one bedroom apartment in Munich. My uncle and aunt would share the bedroom when we showed up. We would sleep in the living room floor. Every night, the furniture would be moved aside, bedding put down, and we would sleep. My grandmother would use this occasion to eat an orange, and read. She was quite overweight. We would take turns at making her laugh when she attempted to take afternoon naps. We delighted in watching her stomach jiggle and roll. She would always have metro passes ready for us to use. My uncle would purchase an old bicycle from the police auctions for my use. Cogs, cogs, and more cogs.

We moved to Canada where the Baha’i community was very embracing. It was a small community. Canada had a population of 20 million at the time. I think there were five foreigners in the whole country. I jest. Some of our family members were already here. Nadia Majzub, and Faraneh Khadem. And others. We came to know the Javanmardi’s and Khodadaddeh’s, all of whom we are still friends with. All helped us settle into this brave new country.  Cogs.

I was a really bad student. Very lazy. Things came too easily at first and I had forgotten how to study when things got more complicated. I had help from a number of people in school. Small cogs. Really small. We had no idea what to expect from winter. Really and truly, how could anyone imagine what a temperature of minus 30 celsius feels like?

We bought the wrong clothes, and figured out what to do by watching others and listening. Small cogs.

You grow up, make decisions, marry, have children, choose a career, succeed, have fun, go skiing, fall on your ass, cry, get up and fix things, grow up. All happens with the help of others, all cogs in your life. Nothing happens in a vacuum. Nothing happens by your grit alone. Everything happens through the good graces of others helping you, in small ways, in some ways. All cogs in your life whether you acknowledge it or not.

I imagine a cog, you at the centre, with other cogs moving in and out of the picture, connecting, growing in size, getting smaller, moving on, changing colour and design, gravitating to another set of cogs, all moving in a fluid motion over time. Rising and falling. Always in motion, never standing still.

Is my cog broken? Are my gears all worn out rendering me immobile and useless waiting for others to help and assist? It sure seems that way sometimes. It sure seems that way when it comes to the small stuff, looking after the house, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, vacuuming and so on. Other days bring some other attributes to light making the gears and cogs gleam as if shone on by a brilliant ray of sunshine. Gone is the guilt, replaced by a sense of accomplishment by some creative process that appears to be taking over.

Writing a blog that appears to be affecting more people than imagined. In ways I could not have possibly foretold. Taking pictures, creating art, thinking, talking, joking.

My cog is doing fine. Spinning a bit slower than before, but it is spinning, connecting to others.

Life is good.

I thought I was doing well toward the end of last week, only to be thwarted by, what I can only call, a tsunami of events.

Turns out that it is quite difficult to overcome the effects of Neulasta+cold+chemo+diarrhea. Takes more than my patience can put up with.

Each one of these events takes its own toll, let alone the combination.  I wake up each morning a bit stronger than the previous day, but succumb to fatigue before long.  And I mean before long. An hour, maybe two, and I am off to sleep on the nearest convenient resting place.

I am seeing signs of recovery. Being able to stay up to watch the men’s hockey semi final game that went past midnight was an event. I have not done that in a while. Mind you, I had to take a long nap before to be able to accomplish that. Be that as it may, it was still an event. Slept the next day. That is the price to be paid.

Went to bed last night feeling emotionally drained. I have been told by a few people that I push myself too hard. This has not been possible this past month.

I will get better

I will get stronger

I will regain my emotional stability

I will… I will… I will…

Then came the cold. Started on Thursday last, came into full force on Friday relaying me to the bed on a continual basis. Temperatures fluctuating wildly between normal at C36.5 right up to C38.2 (F100.7 at its zenith). This went on for days until Janet insisted we go to emergency. Fo’ad was here for the week, I had all kinds of plans for us, all for naught. He and Barbara kept themselves busy while I lay on the couch pretending to be alive.

The emergency staff put us in isolation. They wore the yellow gowns and gloves and masks. I felt pretty safe from whatever disease they might have been carrying. Blood was taken, vitals signs taken twice, once in triage which showed my temperature to be normal, the second one showing some level of temperature. A chest X Ray was also de rigueur, just to make sure there was nothing in there, since they seemed to hear some sort of stuff lurking in the interior.

The blood came back clean with a high white blood cell count. Thank you Neulasta. The chest X Rays came back clean as a whistle.  I have never quite figured out why we consider whistles to be so clean after spending time collecting the spit of the blower. But there you go, lungs were clean. 3.5 hours later we are headed home. Viral infection. Drink lots of liquids. Call your oncologist tomorrow.

Did I forget to mention that their computers were down? All night. Everything had to be done the old fashioned way, paper, phones, conversations. Hence the 3.5 hours.

I felt very bad for my brother who had driven all the way here only to find me in a state of total bed riddeness. He fellt bad that I felt bad, and the circle continues.

Fetneh also came by and stayed overnight. Had a wonderful time with her, as always.

I left a message for Dr. Hedley who called to get a picture of the situation. Chemo was a go as far as he was concerned. The major part of the cold should be over by Thursday.

Fo’ad and Barbara left on Wednesday. No sense in sticking around with the sicko. They had planned to return on Wednesday all along. Fo’ad had mentioned the possibility of stayin an extra day, if it would make a difference. Did not seem to make any sense. Off they go.

I woke up Thursday morning as if the previous few days had never happened. No temperature, slight cough, full of energy. Bring on the chemo.

As you might guess, chemo has become very routine. Walked in all alone. Janet came to pick me up at the end. I watched the nurses going to and fro at a brisk pace smiling and cheering the patients along. Have I mentioned how wonderful these nurses are? Truly amazing.

We went out for dinner last night, for no other reason than to get me out of the house. I went to the market in the morning. Came home and went straight to bed. The night out was welcome.

C’est tout pour cette semaine. A bientot.

Cop on a beat

Location: Toronto, Yonge and Bloor

Story: I love reflections. Janet was shopping and I was out taking pictures. What an opportunity this was. A blank canvas, with the slightest hint of reflections in the puddles of water. I took a first shot, reset the camera for a second slightly different angle. As soon as I released the shutter, this cop walk into the scene. Crap.

I developed the pictures and soon realised that this was the better shot. The cop made the picture bringin everything into focus.

The lesson os t always take your pictures to take a look at them. Then look at them again. You never know where the gems are until you have taken a step back and look at the pictures in a different light.

Camera: Mamiya C330 Professional, Double lens reflex, Medium format.

Many years ago a single cell organism, left the safety of the the water world and wandered on land. Courageous fellow. The theory is that the organism evolved to be able to breathe on land. I am not sure how long this evolution took, and why the creature did not die before he evolved enough to be able to breathe on land. I can almost imagine the conversation that took place among the group. No you go first, really, not dangerous. We are the only creatures around. Go on, go out there. So it did. And promptly died.

If we are to believe that this creature managed to stay alive for the amount of time it takes for it to evolve into a land breathing creature, then why don’t fish do that every time one is plucked from the ocean? Surely there is one fish or there capable of evolving into a land breathing creature as did the single cell organisms before it.

If it was not a single cell organism, then it was a fish of some kind. Again, more should be popping out of the ocean by now. Unless it was a particular breed that was amenable to land living, in which case all those particular species wandered onshore at the same time, en masse, as it where. Yo, everyone, time to go ashore. Does not make sense. If the fish took their time joining the party, then they evolved at different rates. Which brings up its own set of issues.

Where did the single cell organisms come from in the first place? Probably a land creature who went for a swim and decided it liked it better. It swam for a number of millennia before developing the necessary equipment allowing it to live in water. Which brings up the question of why would it develop the necessary tools to live in a different environment? Is there some cryptic code in the genes that says, OK, you have spent enough time in this environment, here are some gills. Or, if the traffic was in the other direction, here are some lungs.

We humans evolved from chimps. As my father used to say, maybe your ancestors came from chimps, mine came from humans. We are quick to accept these theories as God given truths, hardly questioning the plausibility of these theories. It takes years, if not centuries for organisms to evolve. What would make a creature develop wings? Looks up at the sky thinking that would be cool. How much time would that take? If it was that easy, why don’t humans have wings? We have always wanted to fly. We are stuck in planes instead. Birds are looking at us thinking, dumb humanoids. Just concentrate.

I am sure a number of you smart people out there will have thoughts on this. Please share. On some very basic level, it makes little sense to me after years of accepting these theories as well researched truths.

This brings us to the cancer cells within our bodies. We all have them in our bodies waiting for the right circumstances in which to grow and prosper. Is this evolution of some sort? Just a thought.

I will end this now. You get the gist of where this is going.