What I Say…

When asked about my history.

Back in the late seventies and early eighties of the previous century, I was the enfant terrible of Canadian film making, the hot young director, the man to watch. But after failing to find funding for two or three of my scripts, and with a desperate need to pay the mortgage and feed the family, I inveigled my way into directing episodic television.

That gave me a great, if sporadic, income and a comfortable, if anxiety inducing lifestyle. I had a few good years in which I made a six figure income. I made a bit more investing and flipping real estate. For a time I thought I might end my days a rich man. But then I bought a fifty foot sailboat I couldn’t afford and found myself with the biggest hole in my pocket you could imagine. My wealth did not grow.

At some point in the nineties we decided to sell our large house on the ocean in Gibsons, pay off the boat, and move to a more modest house in Nanaimo. That would have worked if the housing market hadn’t tanked. As is turned out the million dollars I was hoping for turned into half that. We could buy a house free and clear, but I was left with a mortgage on the boat, moorage fees, maintenance costs, and ever reducing work. When I did get a job, the money went into paying off the credit cards and buying bottom paint. The boat owned me, so I sold it. At a huge loss.

Toward the end of the century I received a rather large royalty payment for my television work. I was too young to retire. Digital film making was just coming into its own, and films like “The Blair Witch” managed to make a lot of money. But they had terrible technical quality, usually looking like the camera had been mounted on the head of a trained seal, and truly awful sound. They made excuses for this deficiency by framing their stories around things like home movies found in the woods, or interviews in a psychiatrist’s office. I looked at the prosumer technology, which in those days was mini-DV, and thought, wow. If this were treated seriously the product could look like a movie.

I took my royalty payment and bought 3 Canon mini-DV cameras, tripods, a small crane, and lots of cassettes. I joined forces with a local agent to find a cast, and I started the Volksmovie Movement (Since renamed and lying fallow as the Artisan Movie Movement). The premise was that film equipment is highly overpriced and the same results can be accomplished with things we could buy at a big box store. Work lights could be adapted with barn doors. A furnace filter makes a great diffusion screen. One of our actors welded up a really great little dolly adapted from a fridge dolly. I covered the hard costs. The actors provided the crew.

A side belief was that the skills of a film crew are not that difficult, that I could train a camera crew or grip crew in days at most. Most people can hold a microphone fish pole with minimal instruction. We set out to make a romantic comedy, with everybody doing everything, a collaborative venture. Everybody was involved in the script. Everybody was involved in all aspects of the shooting. We would shoot a scene. I would do a rough edit. Then we would meet to look at it and decide what should be shot next. It was glorious fun.

The end result was “Passion” and I’m very proud of it. It is rich with locations and characters. It looks like a movie. It has great moments. It got great audience response, provided it was shown to a large audience. My business plan was to show it at the film festivals, find a few television sales to return the cash investment, and do it again.

That’s where things went totally south. I had been to every Toronto Film Festival for the past twenty years. I was sure this movie was going to amaze them. I didn’t know that they would be flooded with amateur digital films.

A friend of mine who made fight videos lent his son his camera. His son made a short film of himself french kissing the family dog. He was invited to three film festivals. The organizers could afford to give him that much screen time, and knew they would be assured of a noisy enthusiastic teenage audience. Our film was feature length and competing with the latest “special” film from Hollywood that came to town with big name stars and a promotion budget.

What’s worse, our film played well to a large audience, where the laughs could stimulate more laughs. It doesn’t play well to a single audience. It’s in turns bright and silly, and dark. It’s about a middle aged stalker, a main character the audience is primed to view with disgust. Many people hated it.

We didn’t get a single festival invitation.

In desperation, I set up a private screening in Vancouver in a small art cinema. I hired a publicist in hopes of attracting some press. We had a good screening, with good audience response. But not a single journalist showed up. My publicist didn’t show up. I might as well have torn up a thousand dollar bill on the corner of Seymour and Davie street for all the good I had done my movie.

This is when I went seriously crazy. With no returns from our first effort, I decided to throw my limited remaining funds, plus my credit cards, at our second movie, a sweet romantic movie about tree planters. This was ill advised to say the least. While Passion could find a script based on what was available, “Getting Screefed” was tightly scripted. It included special effects like a storm at night, constant rain, beautiful forest and landscape images. It really needed a large format film and a good special effects team. We soldiered on regardless.

I bought a generator, a Volkswagen van, a school bus, a child’s swimming pool for water storage, lots of tarps and hoses. We set up a tree planter camp, found a cast, and started filming.

Since once again this was a cooperative venture, and nobody was getting paid, there were logistical problems in getting the cast out into the bush for filming. All the fires had to be done as CGI, because of the fire hazard. The rain scenes had to be done with garden hoses supplied from our swimming pool up on the hill. I had an ultralight airplane motor to make wind effects. It was difficult.

And yet we shot some wonderful scenes. Enough to cut a good looking trailer. Just not enough to make a movie.

And as I got into the editing at the end of the summer I realized that every scene had problems, many of which could not be fixed by creative editing. The hope was to edit what we had shot and come back the next summer to complete the film. Then somebody trashed the Volkswagen van we had parked at the camp site, smashed the windshield and ripped out the wiring in a juvenile attempt to hot-wire the ignition. Somebody stole the generator out of the school bus. I realized that it didn’t matter, because I was at the end of my credit cards and couldn’t afford gas for the generator anyway. It was time to recognize reality and give up.

After thirty years of directing TV, I was no longer the hot young director. I was the old television hack. My main clients had lost their shows, or aged out of the business, or got in trouble with the IRS. My phone wasn’t wringing. My arrogant persona had made enemies over the years.

Trying to be a film maker in Nanaimo was like trying to be a lumberjack in the Sahara. I could move to some city where movies actually are made, like Los Angeles or New York, or Toronto or even Vancouver. I could go to parties and schmooze. Sooner or later somebody would give me a break and I’d be back directing episodic television and made for TV movies. But I had been there and done that. I didn’t have the heart to do it again.

Time to get out of Dodge. I took a one week introductory course in teaching ESL (English as a Second Language), put my name up at an Internet bulletin board, and I was away to China.

Best decision I ever made.

A Relapse (again) and Vaccination Day

Okay, whatever laid me low in early February has not vacated this body for more salubrious climes. Once again it hurts to take a deep breath. Once again there’s something in my chest and throat that is troubling.

I slept until noon today. There was barely enough milk left for a cup of coffee. In a little over an hour I will drive to Beban Park for a needle into my upper arm and a shot of vaccine.

We are still trying to get the pulleys to work correctly to raise and lower our huge flat screen TV. A third iteration will happen this evening.

That’s enough for now.

Nostalgia Ain’t What it Use to Be

I have always disliked nostalgia. Going back into the past has seldom been pleasant for me, because it was always accompanied by a feeling of loss, of time that can’t be recaptured. But recently I had a completely different experience of nostalgia.

I couldn’t sleep. Three in the morning and I was lying in bed wide awake, wondering if I should get up and make a coffee and maybe do something. Then the memories started coming. They were short, vivid, detailed, and totally random. They ranged from fishing in the little creek when I was six years old, carrying the little trout home in my pockets, cleaning them and watching my mother fry them up for my breakfast to taking a standing ovation in Alice Tulley Hall after the screening of “Skip Tracer” at the New York Film Festival. Sometimes they connected into a chain – meeting my first wife, greeting her in Toronto after her nightmare drive across the country with her mother and sisters, having to convince her to marry me after she’d had three days of her mother trying to convince her not to, honeymoon in Niagara Falls with the bed that wouldn’t stop vibrating, driving back to Maple Ridge after we were married, and harvesting a grouse for dinner on the way with my sling shot., meeting her grandmother in Saskatchewan and going to the farm to buy Sally Squink, our wiener piglet, Sally in the motel room after breaking out of her crate, her tiny hooves clicking on the tile floor, Sally weaning herself on yellow plumbs, grown up Sally plowing a furrow through my aunt’s lawn. Flip to running across the street in London to the Japanese restaurant to get a cup of hot saki because it was so bitterly cold. Flip to being parked and knocked off the road by an oncoming truck while leaning over the front seat to get my sound gear together on the back seat, resulting in bending the steering wheel with my back while my wife got a concussion, followed by the ambulance ride. Flip to scenes from China, from Guangzhou, from Vietnam, from Thailand, from Australia, classrooms and students, tours of ancient villages. And back to teen years again at university. Playing chess at the Club Voltaire in Frankfurt, exploring the castle in Koenigstein, feeding the gophers while hitching to Toronto, the long lonely drive to L.A. on my hunt for work…. It just went on and on. For hours.

But this time the nostalgia wasn’t painful. It was more like watching a corny old feel good movie with lots of plot turns and high drama. It was like flipping through pages of my life. It was comforting. What an incredible ride it has been. I’m still sad that it’s over, but there’s nothing in there that I regret. Not even the moments of emotional pain that, at the time, made suicide seem an attractive alternative.

I thought about writing it all down. Writing my autobiography. And then I thought why? Who would want to read it? Why would I want them to read it?

Fuck off. This was my life. You can’t have it.

Not Necessarily Collaborative

One thing I would be told when somebody in the production, usually somebody with power, wanted a change that I, as the director, didn’t want was: Film is a collaborative medium.

That always annoyed me. So, more or less as a refutation and a joke, I made the following film. “The Reunion of Cyril and John”. For this short film, I acted both parts, did the sound recording, lighting, camera work, directing and editing.

https://youtu.be/wrypLSEd73o

I realize it would be severely limiting to try to make a full length feature film this way, but I think this is a proof in principle that it could be done. So there and take that all you producers trying to interfere with my artistic vision. Screw you.

Not Dying Yet

Just planning ahead. Please register for my celebration of life party. It may not happen for a couple of years yet, but let’s all be ready.

I really hope to see you then and there. It’s going to be one hell of a party. As people register, I’ll start developing the program and lining up the performances. At the moment I’m planning on about three days of party, to allow friends from time zones in China and Australia a chance to drop in to say hello….uh…goodbye.

Time for a Relapse

Monday last week my mystery ailment knocked me flat and sent me to emergency for a whole battery of tests, everything but a test for Covid. Tuesday I woke up feeling infinitely better. Wednesday I felt almost back to normal. And then yesterday, Friday, it came roaring back. Not as bad as it was on Monday, but bad enough. It hurts to take a deep breath. I struggle to walk up stairs and must pause to catch my breath at the top. I’m beginning to think this might actually be Covid 19, taking the piss because I had no fever and no cough. Whatever, it’s a bummer again. I’m shortly going back to bed, or as shortly as my 6’2 frame will allow.

My recent Facebook posts have garnered a whole shit ton of supportive and loving comments. Here’s one from Moira, another one of my amazing friends, an incredible artist who does a sketch every single day. You should check her out here: http://www.moiracarlson.com

Dear Zale,

I have been following your comments on Facebook about your plans for your death (and celebration thereof). I feel like I am ducking and avoiding by saying nothing but that presumes that I have something to say. Preferably something terribly wise or at least cogent. Sorry about that.

Death is a damn tricky concept. Our culture doesn’t deal with it well. Neither do I. I can give you platitudes about how you are loved and have people around you who care deeply about you and how that is the luckiest thing in this world. But it sounds like a platitude. It is a platitude.

Platitude: “A trite, meaningless, or prosaic statement, often used as a thought-terminating cliche, aimed at quelling social, emotional, or cognitive unease.” -from Wikipedia, the source of all knowledge. Oh yes, lots of cognitive unease.

So it is a platitude. But it is also true. And you are so very lucky that it is true. The older I get, the more I realize that what is really important is love. The damn Beatles were right.

One of the things you said on Facebook was that you were “not spiritual”. I have to disagree but perhaps it is really a matter of definition. I don’t think of “spiritual” as the same thing as believing in a god (certainly not the old gent in the white robes). I think of “spiritual” as having life force, having spirit, being attuned to the beauty and liveliness of this world. So in those terms, yes, you are spiritual.

I remember sitting and holding my father’s hand as he died. The moment it happened was so utterly clear to me. It was digital. One minute he was there and the next minute he wasn’t. The difference was spirit. At that moment his body became like a beloved old set of clothes, now too worn and perhaps fitting too tightly so that it needed to be discarded. I have no idea if, at that point, he was off on his next adventure or if that really was the end. Again, the older I get the more mysterious and unknowable the world becomes. Thank goodness.

I have nothing intelligent to say about how you choose to celebrate your passing. As far as I can see it is entirely your own business. So the whole point of this letter is just to say that I do care and that I am listening and that I value our friendship. Thank you for being you. In my very selfish way I have appreciated having you in my life and I will remember you when you are gone.

love,

Moira

And my long winded reply:
Dear Moira:
Thank you for this thoughtful and empathetic message.  By now I’m probably repeating myself with the things I have said about death and dying.  I have given it so much thought since my most recent diagnosis, talked about it, blogged about it, repeated the same clever and flippant phrases, and allowed it to consume far too much of my consciousness.  So if you have read my words on this somewhere before, my apologies.

I used to agree with Woody Allen who said (paraphrased or misquoted probably): I don’t mind dying.  I just don’t want to be here when it happens.
I used to think that I wanted to be walking in the park without my tinfoil hat and garbage can lid when a meteor hits me on the back of the head and I’m just instantly gone. My own fault in that I didn’t take sensible precautions and didn’t see it coming.  I used to think it would be nice to go to sleep some night feeling relaxed and happy with everything and just forget to breathe or forget to tell my heart to beat and just not wake up.

I have two examples of what I considered good deaths:  A man I once knew, an actual rocket scientist working on the Space Shuttle, finished his breakfast, walked over to the picture window, spread his arms wide and said “What a beautiful day.”  Then he fell over backwards and was dead before he hit the floor.  What a way to go.
My Uncle David in England, a long retired headmaster of a boys school with a hobby of photographing flowers, former intelligence officer with MI5, avowed communist and, I’m convinced, a counter spy responsible for the fall of the Soviet Union, rode his big Honda motorcycle home for tea at the age of ninety two.  He sat down at the table, quite content with his world and his life, took a sip of his tea, and died.  Well played, Uncle David.


That is the way I used to think I wanted to die. Let death take me while I was enjoying life, big surprise, except of course I wouldn’t be there to be surprised.  I have changed my mind about that.  This past year has been one of the most interesting and exciting and terrifying and heartwarming times of my life.  I clearly see death coming, and I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.  It started with what Ruth calls “Our crying tour.” during which we visited my closest friends to give them the news. My friends are the most talented and accomplished people I could ever hope to meet. Their universal reaction was almost enough to quiet that persistent voice in my head that tells me I’m a useless skin bag of crap and nobody could ever love me.
Take our visit to Rod Szasz and his Chinese wife, Chao as an example. As a couple, they deserve a whole biography to describe how amazing they are. On giving them the news, Rod rushed out of the room and came back with a very expensive bottle of scotch, poured us drinks, and told me to take the bottle home with me. (I declined, and told him I’d be back to drink it with him.)  His daughter, Akela, is currently studying medicine in Scotland and Rod was planning a visit.  “I’m taking you to Scotland,” he announced. I protested that I couldn’t put him to that expense.  But then their other daughter, Kipling, came into the kitchen where we were talking, took one look at everybody’s expression and demanded to know what was going on.
Kipling and I have been fiddle buddies for years.  That has fallen off recently because she prefers reading music and studying classical violin and doesn’t care that much for fiddle music.  She’s a very reserved young woman, not much given to expressing emotions, and I’ve never been sure she does more than tolerate me.  But when I gave her the news she broke down.  She came and hugged me, sobbing.  After she calmed down, we got out our fiddles and played a couple of pieces we both know.  I realized that there is nobody I’d rather pass my violin along to than her. It’s a high end instrument and surely worth a trip to Scotland. So I told Rod I’d accept his offer. The next day, Kipling ran in the Cancer run wearing a card that said “I’m running for Zale.”

Rod and Kipling and Ruth and I all went off to Scotland to visit and travel with Akela during her Christmas break.  Kipling and I played “Over the Sea to Skye” on the Island of Sky.  We played “Calum’s Road” on Calum’s Road.  We played “Hut on Staffin Island” in Staffin.  We played “Neil Gow’s Lament for the Death of his Second Wife” in Dorin Castle. We played “Flowers of Edinburgh” in an Edinburgh cemetery. It was truly a trip of a lifetime and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.


I was a little embarrassed when the oncologist told me to chill out. He said that my death is unlikely to happen all that soon, and I would probably live to die of something else. So far he’s been correct, though I don’t trust his optimism.  The thing about this damned disease is that it turns me into a hypochondriac.  Every little ache and pain of old age is a sign of the impending end. This past Monday was the most extreme example. I have no idea what hit me, but it hit me hard. I really felt like my time was coming soon, and I’d better get ready for it.  So I pushed though with finalizing my application for Medical Assistance in Dying, MAID, and got serious about plans for my exit event. After all the tests in ER, the ECG, the x ray, the blood work, the ultrasound, the CAT scan, the doctors were unable to find any cause for my pain, but I have no doubt that the pain was real. It wasn’t a panic attack, or psychosomatic.  Whatever it was, I woke up on Tuesday morning feeling infinitely better, and now I feel a weak and shaky normal.  Go figure.  Anyway, it motivated me to work out some details with Ruth, to give her passwords and usernames and other information I will be unable to supply after I’m gone. MAID is in place and ready to be activated, so no waiting period will be required. Today we’ll go to the bank and make sure Ruth has her name on all accounts.


I have seen examples of the kinds of death I don’t want to have. My mother lingered for weeks in and out of delirium, hand fed, hand cleaned, uncomfortable no matter what medical marvels the drugs provided.  Horrible to watch, and totally pointless.  Years ago I traveled from Toronto to New York to visit an actor I had worked with in hospice. Again, I couldn’t see the point to his suffering. Truly horrible.

As for looking to professional help: I just read an article about a football player who tried to blow his brains out by putting a nine millimeter pistol to his temple and pulling the trigger. I could make jokes about an athlete not having or needing brains, but he perforated his head with only the loss of one eye.  Years ago I talked to a paramedic who arrived on the scene seconds after a man had put a double barreled shotgun under his chin and pulled both triggers. Ten days later he walked out of the hospital, minus his lower jaw and nose.  How cruel was that. So I’m grateful for MAID.  When I decide to go, it will be good to have predictable and experienced medical help. Failing to kill myself would be so embarrassing, eh.
Also, if there’s going to be a celebration of life, our new, emotionally defanged, term for memorial service or wake, I want to be there.  It’ll be fun.  I hope you and Barry will attend.


Thanks again for your message, Moira. Love and hugs to both of you.
Zale

One last thing worth mentioning. Another friend who prefers to remain anonymous sent me an unsolicited $2000 saying it was to “grease the wheels”. I can’t pretend I don’t have good uses for the money, much as I hate to accept it. That’s going to buy us the wide screen TV for my celebration of life rather than us having to rent one. Wheel greased.

Ah, my wonderful, amazing, talented and beautiful friends. I am overwhelmed with love and gratitude for all of you.

Now, if you are reading these posts, isn’t it time you gave me a comment. Anything. Just anything that will let me know I’m not screaming into the void. That would be so appreciated. Criticize my writing. You know you want to.

UPDATE: I’ve just learned that leaving a comment is not as intuitive as I thought. To leave a comment you have to go to the bottom of the post and click on reply. It will ask you for your name and email, but promise not to publish your email. Also, if you want to use a fake name and fake email, it will still accept it. The thing is, your comment won’t show up until I approve it. Once I have approved it, all subsequent comments made with the same name and email address will show up without moderation. Thanks to John Gooding for helping me figure this out.

A Shot Across the Bow

I spent most of yesterday in emergency at the Nanaimo hospital, trying to figure out why I had a pain in my chest and couldn’t breath. I had an ECG, an ultrasound, some blood work, an x ray, and a CAT scan. The pain was intense. All of these tests found no explanation for the pain. They gave me a hydromorphone tablet at the hospital, and I had another triple dose when I got home. It hurt to turn my head, or hold my head up as I lay down. I really thought this was the beginning of the end, and I renewed my efforts to get registered form MAID (Medical Assistance in Dying) so there would be a very short delay before the doctors would put this body in park and turn off the ignition. Several people saw my Facebook post and got in touch to express their concern, and to them I explained that I’m dying and this is just the beginning of the end. Then, this morning, I woke up feeling much better, almost pain free. Go figure. It seems the grim reaper has backed off a bit. Whew.

Death AKA the Grim Reaper image

All of this gave Ruth and me a bit of a heads up to plan my exit. I would like to have a time to say goodbye to everybody when it’s time to pull the plug- in effect to attend my own celebration of life. So the latest fantasy is that we will rent a huge monitor and set it up with Zoom so that people all over the world can attend my exit party. Maybe we could set up an agenda for people to say a few words, address old complaints, perform a musical number. At the appointed time, Dr. F_____ will arrive, hopefully dressed as The Grim Reaper. The medical team requires a few minutes with nobody else in attendance while they get me to indicate that I want to die, after which the camera can be turned on again and Ruth and any other visitors can come back into the room, subject to Covid19 restrictions, and everybody can watch me shuffle off this mortal coil.

Sounds like a plan and a party. Any thought or suggestions on this would be very welcome, but please don’t comment if you don’t support Medical Assistance in Dying. Feel free to tell me I’m making a big fuss and must be some kind of attention seeking freak, ’cause I’m fine with that and this will be my very last chance. I have no intention of making a French exit. Love you all.

As Time Goes By

There are things to really hate about getting old. Of course. What an obvious statement. What a mundane opening sentence. There are things almost too numerous to count to hate about being old. Let’s start with the tendency for old men to talk about their health.

I suppose we can be forgiven. We don’t have much else to talk about. Okay, there’s lots else to talk about, but our health becomes a preoccupation that looms over everything. Our health is the limiting factor on everything else. Our health is an indication that it’s all coming to an end. Whether we like it our not, our health creeps to the front of our mind and escapes through our mouth as a topic of conversation. I don’t have the self discipline to avoid that.

The arthritis in my right thumb has been getting so bad that I’ve all but given up the violin. For a while I thought it would allow me to at least play the piano, and for a while it did. But now, somehow, shooting pains make it hard to do a sensitive interpretation of my Scott Joplin pieces. So just as I start to get them back to performance level, I can’t stand to play them.

Can I curse now. Would that be justified? Excusable? Fuck it. I mean FUCK IT. This does not make me happy.

As part of my cancer treatment, I’ve been taking a testosterone blocker, brand name Erleada (for some reason. Did some marketing guy think that was a better, less confusing name, than it’s generic name?) actual name Apalutamide. This business of giving a drug a brand name, Tylenol instead of Ibuprofen for example, really annoys the hell out of me. It seems to mean they can charge twice as much for the drug because the buyer doesn’t know what it is. But that’s a rant for another day. I take four horse pill sized tablets of Apalutamide at lunch every day. Apalutamide is a testosterone blocker. I’ve been given injections to stop my production of testosterone. The Apalutamide is to mop up any molecules of the hormone that escaped that treatment. It’s very new. It hasn’t yet been approved to be paid for by the B.C. medical services, and it costs, so I’m told, four thousand dollars per month. The company seeking approval for it is giving it to me for free for “compassionate reasons.” Sweet of them. No really. I appreciated it.

Talking to my oncologist a month or so ago, I asked if my worsening arthritis could be a side effect of the reduced testosterone. He suggested I stop for a while and see what happens. So on December 04 I quit it cold turkey.

I was hoping for two things. I was hoping my PSA level would not go up, and I was hoping my arthritis pain would be eased. The latter may have happened but not to any significant extent. Then came my January 4 blood test….

On August 7, my blood test showed a PSA level of 0.12 On January 4 my PSA level was 0.13

Okay. That’s up. Not much. Probably not as much as the margin of error of the blood test. But it’s up. PSA stands for Prostate Specific Antigen. It’s a measure of cancer activity. Up is not good.

Call me a coward, but I’m back on the Apalutamide. I’d rather have arthritis pain and be unable to play the violin than die quicker than I want to. And believe me, I don’t want to.

One thing about metastasized cancer, it has turned me into a hypochondriac. Every little pain is now a warning of things getting worse. I can’t cross my right leg on to my left knee, and must use a devise to put my right sock on my foot. I have pain in both groins. For the past few weeks I’ve had an incredibly stiff neck. How much of the pain is coming from the cancer? How much is coming from the arthritis? How much just goes along with old age? There’s no way to know.

How long do I have? Again, there’s no way to know. I’m hoping for at least one more hunting season. Two or three would be nice. But I don’t know.

I’m truly grateful for the attention from Dr. Olivier, Dr. Pai, Dr. Atwell, Dr. Marback, and most especially Dr. King. Oh, and of course Dr. Fuganaga who is the first half of the assessment team signing me up for Medical Assistance in Dying. I’m more than grateful for my supportive wife who keeps assuring me I’m worth the $3k investment to buy me an implant to replace my missing front tooth. If I were a car with my mileage, needing repairs of that cost, I’d just run the beater into the nearest crusher. But Ruth says I’m not a car. So she’ll put up the bulk of the money to make me look good.

My hockey player look.

My son, Victor, insists that I’m depressed. I have argued with him about it, but am coming to the conclusion that he’s right. I keep looking for a reason to get up in the morning. This morning I couldn’t find one.

But if this is all the time I’ve got left, do I really want to piss it away being mopey? I am looking for the joy. I am looking hard.

Zale the Gun Fondler

I got into an argument on Facebook recently with a rabid anti-gun crusader who was absolutely contemptuous of anybody with an interest in owning or playing with a gun. At the time the only argument I could offer was Sarah Silverman’s explanation for why she likes big hairy hanging balls: “Well, the heart knows what it wants.” Unsurprisingly that was greeted with a snort of disgust.
The quote I really wanted to give was from E.L Doctorow’s novel, “Johnny Bathgate” in which the protagonist describes firing a pistol for the first time. I only recently found that quote. Isn’t the Internet amazing.

“I will never forget how it felt to hold a loaded gun for the first time and lift it and fire it, the scare of its animate kick up the bone of your arm. You’re empowered, there’s no question about it. It’s an investiture, like knighthood. And even though you didn’t invent it or design it or tool it, the credit is yours because it’s in your hand. You don’t even have to know how it works. The credit is all yours. With the slightest squeeze of your finger, a hole appears in a piece of paper 60 feet away. And how can you not be impressed with yourself? How can you not love this coiled and sprung causation? I was awed. I was thrilled. The thing is, guns come alive when you fire them. They move. I hadn’t realized that.” – E.L. Doctorow “Billy Bathgate

People who aren’t into gun culture, who only see the gun in terms of mass shootings and crazies, people who didn’t grow up with guns, surrounded by Hollywood gun propaganda that soaked into the childhood psyche, will never understand.

My social bubble is just about 100% SJW liberals. Being a gun fondler is not typical of the group, and I tend to keep quiet about it. Why? Am I ashamed of this aspect of my nature? I don’t think so. I just know that most of my social bubble mates just can’t understand it, and there’s no way I can justify it. Becoming a Range Safety Officer at the Nanaimo Fish and Game club has been very interesting exercise in anthropology. It’s an environment where an interest in guns is totally normal and requires no justification. And of course I don’t quite fit in there either for the following reason:

For there record: If Canada bans all handguns and all rifles holding more than three shells in the magazine, I’m totally okay with that. It is time to put aside childish things.
Also, for the record, I never shoot at a human silhouette target. Shooting at a person is not a fantasy I indulge in.

But while guns are still legal, I do enjoy playing with them. I have since I was a kid, when my favourite toy was my double barreled pop gun that fired corks.

toy popgun that shot corks

After I outgrew the pop gun, I graduated to a .177 caliber pellet gun, and spent many happy hours trying to light matches at ten feet. I put so many pellets, that came in boxes of five hundred, through that gun that I didn’t have to look at the sights any more. They just automatically lined up and the pellet went where I expected it to go. I murdered enough birds to make me feel sick to my stomach when I think about it now.

For my eighth birthday, my father presented me with a Ranger single shot bolt action .22 rifle. Some of the happiest days of my childhood were those rare times when dad took me out to hunt grouse, which we never managed to find. The best part was just shooting at dad’s empty Sportsman cigarette packages.

Sportsman cigarette box 1950 Sportman cigarette box back. Collect the whole set.
There was a special smell to the oil and powder that can bring the memory back in living colour.

So I grew up on a diet of cowboys and gunslingers. Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, Lash LaRue, Gene Autry. At the beginning of every Gunsmoke episode, wearing my holster and cap gun, I tried to outdraw Matt Dillon. There was always a gun in the closet. Being interested in guns, and playing with guns, was just totally normal. Like smoking cigarettes seemed to be for all the adults.

Once I gained the rights and privileges of adulthood, I could indulge my interest any way I wanted. I bought a Ruger Super Blackhawk .44 magnum single action revolver and joined a fast draw club. I bought a four inch barrel to replace the six inch barrel the gun came with, and I had a gunsmith modify the hammer for fanning and chrome plate the cylinder so it could handle being fanned. On a trip to L.A. I also bought an Alfonso fast draw holster. Friday evenings I would join a diverse group of accountants and B.C. Tel executives, all wearing cowboy outfits, and we would try to break balloons at ten feet distance using blank cartridges, timed with an electronic timer. I got into loading black powder blanks and wax bullets. I won a turkey at the club turkey shoot. Gradually I came to see the gun for what it is, stripped of romance and tradition, a machine for propelling a lump of metal through the air at high speed. All the romance of a drill press.

So I got bored with cowboy fantasies and fast draw and came to see the whole western costume thing as rather silly and a huge historical lie created and perpetuated by Hollywood. I decided I wanted a modern gun, sold all my fast draw gear, and bought a Smith and Wesson Model 3906 9mm stainless steel semi-automatic. S&W 3906 stainless 9mm. semi automatic
I enjoyed that gun, but a legal issue arose that I will discuss another time and lawyers suggested I surrender my FAC (Firearm Acquisition Certificate now called the PAL, Possession and Acquisition License) and get rid of all guns. So I had a couple of decades with no guns and no ability to buy one. Can’t say I missed them.

Then, some time after returning from China, I discovered that my former sister in law and her husband had bought a .22 pistol and were into shooting, so I took the mandatory training to get my RPAL, bought a Smith and Wesson Victory .22LR like the one they were using, and jumped back into it.

I took the training and volunteered to become a Range Safety Officer because I wanted the hat.

I now serve once a week at the Nanaimo Fish and Game Club and I enjoy the camaraderie of others who share my irrational interest. And believe me I am no where near as deep into that obsession as the true gun fondlers. But I seem to be sinking deeper.

My new Tokarev 7.62X.25 caliber pistol was for decades the official sidearm of the Eastern block police and military. It fires a crazy hot load, a necked down rimless cartridge with an 85 grain full metal jacket bullet that leaves the muzzle at 1406 feet/second. It kicks hard and is fun to shoot.

Tokareve ammo 7.62x.25

Each of these bullets cost fifty-five cents. That takes a lot of the joy out of making a loud noise and punching distant holes in a piece of paper. My father had a few words for people who engage is such activities: “More money than brains.” I can’t argue with that.

Can I justify any interest in any of this? Absolutely not. And, as I said earlier, if Canada decides to ban all hand guns and restrict gun owners to shotguns and rifles holding only three shells, I’m all for it.

Who needs these things, eh. Not me.

If this post triggered any thoughts, please leave a comment. It doesn’t have to be much. Just let me know I’m not shouting into the void. Thanks.

Signed Up for MAID

MAID is one of those super easy to remember acronyms. It stands for Medical Assistance in Dying. When I first heard about it I was incensed at the bureaucratic roadblocks in place before I could have access to this service. Specifically I was pissed at the idea that I would have to give ten days advanced notice before a doctor could be summoned to put me in park and turn off my ignition. It’s not that I’m against planning. But the thought of setting a date ten days in the future and having to wait through the ten days did not appeal to me. I’m an impulsive person. I want to make up my mind when it’s time to leave the party and just go.

And of course I’m perfectly capable of going out sideways (as my dear father was fond of calling it) without anybody’s help. A tank of nitrogen from the welding supply place and a plastic bag would do the trick nicely. But that still left the possibility of failure. Nothing would embarrass me more than failing to kill myself.

I once talked to a paramedic who arrived on the scene mere seconds after a man put both barrels of a double barrel shotgun under his chin and pulled both triggers. Ten days later he walked out of the hospital, minus his face. They saved his life. The shotgun pellets were deflected by the shape of his skull during the process of sweeping off his jaw, lips, and nose. Now, to me that sounds like a very serious suicide attempt, and the cruelty of saving his life is truly monstrous.

I read about a man who shot himself in the head with a pistol, and then walked around for a while, visiting a variety of locations, thoroughly confusing the police investigators, before succumbing to his injury. That also sounds like a serious attempt, followed by a whole lot of no fun.

So medical assistance is a very attractive option, if they will just cut the red tape and let me do things my own way. And now it turned out they will.

When I mentioned my concerns to my wonderful palliative care team, they told me that the ten day waiting period begins with putting in an application. Once that happens, and ten days elapses, a request for help finding the exit can be made at any time, and can proceed immediately. Well, that’s more like it. I made an appointment with our family doctor to get the process started.

I was told that a face to face appointment was required, and that took well over a month to achieve in these times of Covid19. I went in expecting my doctor to print out some forms and ask me some questions and then the clock would start on the ten days. But when I arrived at my doctor’s office, it turned out that the system had been adjusted and he wasn’t hip to the changes. There are now only two doctors in Nanaimo who do assessment. I was given the name of one of them, Dr. F______, and a phone number. I called. She asked me to go online to download the application form, fill it in, get it signed by two witnesses and myself all at the same time, and get it back to her. That happened in a day. Two of our best friends signed the form for me, I scanned it, and emailed it off. The next day Dr. F________ called to set up a time for a video interview. That happened last night. Now the form she has filled out goes to another doctor who will also get in touch with me to set up a video interview. But the ten days clock is now ticking.

I really enjoyed my conversation with Dr. F_________. It turned out the main point of the interview was to determine whether I qualified for MAID, i.e. do I have a terminal illness and do I not have a mental disorder and do I seem to be making rational decisions. As near as I can tell I passed this qualifying lap with flying colours. I told Dr. F_______ that I really appreciate her willingness to do this kind of service, and that I feel a distinct affinity for her as a person. I told her that if hers is the last face I’m ever going to see, I’m okay with that. She smiled, and seemed to take that as a compliment. I asked her if she would be willing to arrive dressed as death and carrying a scythe. She seemed to think that could be possible. She has attended some wild end of life parties at funeral homes in the past. I have the scythe hanging on my shed wall in the back yard. I might make a cardboard blade for it, just to make sure nobody get hurt.

Death AKA the Grim Reaper image

Years ago when Doctor Kevorkian was trying to goad the government into charging him with murder so he could present the case for medical assistance in dying, I watched him terminate the live of a man with ALS. That was a disturbing video. It was all so quick and clinical. The man was asked whether he wanted to die, replied that he did, and Kevorkian injected him with drugs that would accomplish that result. There was no emotion on display by anybody. It wasn’t an attractive ad for medical assistance in dying, but it did get Kevorkian arrested, tried for murder, and jailed. So it served it’s purpose.

Now Canada has made medical assistance in dying legal, if certain rules are followed. The catch is that I will have to be able to give conscious and enthusiastic consent right up to the last minute. I can’t be unconscious, or unable to communicate. I won’t be able to write out instructions for my wife in the event that I have a stroke, or lose the ability to speak. This means I will have to set a date and be ready to go when that date arrives. I’m getting used to that idea.

Co-incidentally, my son Casey phone me the night of the call from Dr. F______. Casey is a paramedic. He has seen what happens if people miss the opportunity to die when they want to, and he doesn’t want to see it happen to his father. So he is totally on board with the MAID program. We talked about my interest in having a green burial, and Casey suggested that I could be buried in a green way on his beautiful property up in Salmo. He also said he would be honoured to be a witness to my death. That all prompted the following letter:

Subject: my current thinking about my inevitable demise.

Dear Casey:

Thanks for that phone call last night, and for your invitation to have a green burial on your property.  I had my first interview with Dr. Marcia F______, one of the two doctors in Nanaimo who are doing assessments and taking registrations for the MAID program.  That brought up a whole bunch of issues and things for me to think about, so now it’s four in the morning, I can’t sleep, and I wanted to write a some of this stuff down.
First I want to say that you can’t say fuck off to the authorities and just bury me on your property.  They would make you disinter me and replant me in a certified cemetery and, even with a long and expensive court battle, they would succeed in making that happen.  I love the idea of you establishing a family plot on your property.  Rather than taking up your time, I’ll do the research and find out what it will take to get you certified as a small cemetery.
My thoughts on my death have evolved a lot since my diagnosis.  I used to think that I didn’t want to see death coming, that I wanted to be walking in the park without my tinfoil hat and garbage can lid and get hit by a meteor and instantly gone.  But as I get into the conversations with you and with friends, I realize that I wouldn’t miss this time and experience for anything.  Already I’ve had the magical trip to Scotland with Rod and Ruth and Rod’s daughter, Kipling.  Who knows what other delights await me. Ruth wants us to plan our endings, and I’m all for that.
I also used to think that I didn’t want to make any kind of a fuss.  I thought I wanted to make a “French exit” from the party, one where you slip quietly away without anybody noticing that you are leaving until they realize that you are gone.  I’m now changing my mind on that too, and now thinking that saying goodbye to everybody could be a nice thing to do. So here’s the sequence of events as I fantasize it happening:
When I feel that the time is right, I want to set a date for a celebration of my life party.  I’d like it to happen here in Nanaimo, with invitations sent to everybody I have ever known, possibly in the Wellington Hall a block from our house if it looks like there will be more people coming than would fit comfortably in our house and yard. I would like a banner in evidence someplace stating: “This is not about you.” I’d like it to be a wild and joyful party, with plenty of booze and smokables and food, though I’d like to discourage people from actually getting drunk or stoned.  Just enough to lower inhibitions and set a party mood. (I may change my mind about this and make it a dry party.  The last thing I want to have to deal with is a bunch of emotional drunks.) I’d like mostly live music and an open mic for people to take a turn saying whatever they want to say to me, good or bad.  I’d like to MC the event myself. I’d like the party to start early, say about four in the afternoon, and go until eleven in the evening.
At some point, probably around eight o’clock, Dr. F________ will arrive.  She thinks she’d be okay with coming in costume dressed as Death and carrying her medical equipment and a scythe (which I can provide).  I’d like her to be welcomed warmly by everybody there, and given maybe half an hour or so to meet people and enjoy the party.  Then she and I, along with Ruth and you and a select group of family and friends, will slip away and go to our home.  There I would like time to have a shower and a shave and lie down on our bed with everybody gathered around me as Dr. F_______ puts the IV’s into my arms.  I think she said that the process takes about ten minutes and is much like going under anesthetics for an operation.  That being the case, I’d like to relax and listen to Philip Dyson play Scott Joplin’s “Solace” as I slip from consciousness. At the moment I think I’d like to have all of this video taped, but that may change after discussions with Ruth and others.  Maybe it would be better to keep it private and intimate.
Once I’m dead, I would like my body to be transported to Salmo to your property for a green burial.  I’m going to investigate the permissions required for this to happen.  And from this point everything is out of my hands and control.  So whatever happens will be up to you, Ruth, Laara, and possibly other relatives who want to be involved.
You need to make sure that your family is okay with all of this.  That’s a lot for your kids to deal with, and from Kiri’s reaction to the mere mention of palliative care I’d guess there will be some emotions to process.
So that’s it for tonight.  Once again I want to make it clear that I’m hoping for at least one more hunting season with my friend Rod, and as many going into the future as my health allows. So this is all long range planning.

Any questions?
Much love
Dad

Since writing this letter I have investigated getting permission for a green burial on Casey’s property. It turns out to be something that I can’t do, and he doesn’t have time to do. So that part of the plan is up int he air. I also realized that by the time I’m ready for a visit from Dr. F________, I will probably be too sick to MC a party, and probably too sick to want to experience a party. So who knows how much of this fantasy will come to pass in the end. But it is an interesting fantasy, eh.

I’m sure there will be more to say about all of this later. If you have any feelings or opinions about what I have written, in this or any other post, please take a few minutes and add a comment. I get the feeling I’m screaming into the void here, but I do know that some people stumble on my blog and read it. It this is you, please leave a comment.

All comments gratefully received.