Merry Christmas Everyone

Posted on December 25, 2007

I was showing Alain a picture of my grand-parents that was taken in the 70’s. I love that picture and carry it in my wallet as proudly as they still carry around my first grade school picture.

It’s a lovely picture, this picture Alain took of me. It being the season to be jolly, to be with family, with loved ones and to baster the big birds or whatever will you, Alain and I are stuck in lovely old Montreal, far far away from all that jolliness.

This is what I’m missing out on. This is what I get. This is me, without even so much as a drop of makeup, being a tad bit melancholic and feeling far far away from home.

If you have to joy of being with your family this holiday, you may find yourself in situation where you feel like telling me that it’s not all that it’s cracked out to be. Truth is, it isn’t and I’m well aware of that. Family can be awkward. Being surrounded by them is something that can be difficult at times, and sometimes you have to keep reminding yourself that it’s all going to be over soon just to be able to get through it. But if you were in my shoes, about a thousand kilometers away from your loved ones, sitting by yourself on Christmas Eve for the first time of your life, I can guarantee you that you’d rather feel underwhelmed by your family than the way I do right now.

I’m not depressed or on the verge of tears or anything. I’m staying strong. It’s actually not so bad until you start thinking about everything you’re missing out on. I’m feeling a deep hole in the pit of my stomach for that poutine rapée I didn’t get to eat at my dad’s tonight. I’m also feeling it for the strong drink my grandpa would’ve fixed me up to celebrate his birthday last night. I’m also feeling that my glass is half empty when my sister told me about all the wine she was going to drink in my honor tonight with the family. Oh, it’s not so bad really. But do yourself favor and be grateful for those precious times you get to share with your family, and think of the ones like me when you find yourself wishing you were somewhere else instead of hanging out with your folks.

The closest I can get to my loved ones is pulling a picture out of my wallet and opening presents over the phone with my folks.

A photo of me.

Posted on December 21, 2007

My friend Amy says I look like a photographer on this picture. I like that.

My friend Alain (www.alainastuc.com) took this picture of me. I like it.

We were waiting for the metro. We were on a very nerdy photographic journey.

A quest for a magnificent F1.4 lens in the old Montreal. It was cold.

I exploded into joyous exclamations the whole way. “A MOTHA FUCKIN 1.4!!!!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOO!”. People looked at me strangely.

This was the only serious moment of the trip. I don’t really know why one of my eyes is smaller than the other.

The lens didn’t work. I bought it anyway. So heavy and luminous. I couldn’t resist.

Alain said that I was officially a huge nerd. If I’m going to be a nerd, this is exactly the kind of nerd I want to be.

About a week later, I got a very powerful urge to buy a lens that works. I managed to make it to the camera store 5 minutes before they closed. They were taking my information down before the lens was even out on the counter. It was expensive.

I bought a 1.8 that night. It works perfectly. Autofocus and all. What a beauty.

But that 1.4…. how can I forget about that heavy and magnificently luminous 1.4. One day, I’ll make some money. I’ll get it fixed. I’ll take beautiful pictures with it.

I’m a nerd… pimples and all…

Macro pictures of Adam

Posted on December 19, 2007

Apostle de Hustle

Posted on December 17, 2007

For more pictures, see “Music & Shows” in the Photography section.

The Storm

Posted on December 5, 2007

This past Monday, the beautiful city of Montreal got dumped on by 17 million dollars worth of snow. Think that seems like a lot? Well turns out it is. Being a Maritimer, storms have always been “the big thrill” of the season. I guess there’s a part of me who still gets excited by huge storms and naively believes that it means that I can stay in bed.

In the Maritimes, snow storms mean shoveling off the driveway. It means staying off the roads for a day while the plows take care of the mess. In Montreal, a storm means being late for work every day for the following week (even if you give yourself plenty of time). It turns your daily commute into a full body workout. It turns the city transit into a wet and salty sardine can of frustrated people. It turns your boots into a soggy and uncomfortable mistake. It means expensive parades of snow removal caravans trolling around the city and waking you up at night. Three dozen centimeters of the white gold on one city means that about five people will get lost in its romantic appeal while millions of others will get frustrated by the inconceivable incompetence of the city to deal with something as inevitable as this. Seriously, it’s going to take at least a week until every street has been cleared. That means that five days after the actual storm, there will still be streets covered in the crunchy and increasingly dangerous mess. Moreover, I read in the newspaper yesterday that it’s costing the city a total of nearly $17 millions to clean this up.

In a city like Montreal, a storm means more than the snow-banks getting a little taller. It means days of lingering inconveniences and painful commute. It also means that you have to be so unbelievably patient with everything and everyone, but most people don’t do that (especially not most Quebecers). I’m not saying we should all be enthralled by the lovely looking fluff and loose our minds in romantic thoughts. I’m just saying that instead of loosing your temper at the countless stresses of the storm, we should all try to get through this together like grown ups. Have a good storm recovery everyone.

My Almost Near-Death Experience

Posted on December 1, 2007

It all started on Wednesday, when my boss suggested I treat myself to a relaxing lunch at a local restaurant. So I went. I didn’t know what to order, so I went for the special. When I put the “gallette au jambon et fromage” to my lips, I felt this strange tingly feeling. As the food rolled on my tongue, something didn’t taste right. It didn’t taste bad. It just didn’t feel like my taste-buds were diggin’ it at all. But I went on eating. I went back to work. My lips were swollen. My throat felt tight. I didn’t feel good at all. It was a strange type of nausea that wouldn’t go away. I felt terribly weak and shaky. I sat downstairs for like an hour, trying to deal with this feeling. I thought it might be a bad indigestion. I thought of food allergies, but for some reason, in my head, I thought it would magically pass and go away. I don’t have any food allergies. It can’t possibly be getting worse. It’ll pass. I puked. Mega-puked. Then I felt better. I felt better, but I decided to cut my day off short, go home, get into my pj’s and relax while watching movies for the rest of the day. On the cab ride home, my head started getting terribly itchy. I took off my toque and scratched. I got home, got into my pj’s, researched my symptoms online, trying to self-diagnose something else than food allergy. When that turned out inconclusive, I called my mom. I was getting itchier. My face was… itchy. My arms. My back. My legs. My belly. Then it all started swelling up like mad. I took a Benadryl. Then I took another. It wasn’t going away. While talking to my mom, at first I was in denial. Then, when I listened to the sound of my own voice, I realized my throat was closing up. That’s when I realized I had to go to the hospital. Like, right away. I was shaking so bad, I had a hard time dialing the number to the cabbies. I managed to dial. I said it was kind of an emergency. He said he’d do his best to send one off my way right away.

As I heard myself tell the cabby “Take me to the nearest hospital right away please”, I felt strange. Felt like I was in one of those movies when the action suddenly starts escalating and the hero is about to die. Every red light we hit felt like it took hours to turn back to green. At one point, I had to ask the driver if it was going to be much farther. I could feel my body swelling by the minute. I finally got to the hospital and started frantically searching for the ER. The Jean-Talon Hospital is renovating, and that turned the ER entrance into some kind of confusing labyrinth. I couldn’t believe it was a the third floor and NOT right behind the doors beside that red sign that said “URGENCE”. In my mind, you shouldn’t have to try and see the signs for turning left or right for the emergency room.

I finally found it. Elevator. Third floor. Ding! Take a number. Nonononono, I can’t take a number. I take a number anyway, just in case they actually make me wait. All these people waiting and no front desk. Where the hell is the front desk! “Information”. I don’t want information. I want to go where people actually go when it’s a real fuckin’ EMERGENCY. I go to the information desk anyway, because it seems like it’s the only place where I can actually talk to someone in this fuckin’ place.

“Yeah, j’pense que j’fais une allergie alimentaire. J’crois pas que j’peux attendre que vous appellez mon numéro. Quois que j’fais?” (Yeah, I think I’m having an allergic reaction to something I ate. I don’t think I can wait for my number to be called. What do I do?)

“Vous faites des allergies à quoi Madame?” (What are you allergic to m’mam?)

“Ché pas. J’savais pas que j’étais allergique à anything.” (I don’t know. I had no idea I was allergic to anything)

“Il devrait y avoir une infirmière là bas. Allez la voir. Elle devrait pouvoir vous aider.” (There should be a nurse over there. Go see her. She should be able to help you)

Okay. So I go to see the nurse. There’s someone in her office. I wait. I wait. I wait. The guy who was sitting there for triage comes out. Her phone rings. She picks up the phone. I wait. I wait. I look next to me. This little old lady of about 85 years old is bleeding from her face. It looks like she got beat up or something. He case looks like an emergency too. I feel bad going in front of her. The nurse hangs up. I go in and tell her my story. She asks me tonnes of questions. I have no idea what I’m allergic to. Everything’s going so fast. She seems pressed and in a hurry. I’m a little panicked.

She tells me to follow her. She calls out: “I have an allergic reaction here. Do we have a free room?” She takes me to a room. I sit there. I wait. I wait. I swell up. I itch. I scratch. I itch some more. I get lost in the overwhelming feeling of itching and scratching. It feels awesome and it feels terrible all at the same time. Then I look at my belly. It’s RED. It’s full of hives. HIVES EVERYWHERE! Bubbly and unbelievably red HIVES! Oh my god. I’m so swollen. My wrists!!! My wrists are like twice their usual tiny size. They feel like they’re about to explode. I open the door. “Ca va tu prendre du temps cecitte? Parce que je suis vraiment en train d’enfler bad icitte moi là.” (Is it going to be much longer? ‘Cuz I’m really swelling up bad over here). I wait. I wait. Then this pretty lady comes in. I thought she was another nurse at first. Then she introduces herself. She’s a doctor. So pretty.

Questions, Questions, Questions.

Answers, confusion, panic.

She takes me to the Shock Room. They tell me to get undressed and to put on the hospital robe. I get undressed and can’t figure out how that damn thing is supposed to go on. I’m shaking so bad. I can’t figure it out. Where the hell are the sleeves on this fuckin’ thing. I feel like I’m about to pass out. Breathe Sarah, breathe. Snaps. Buttons. Yes. They go…. what the hell is this fuckin’ thing! Oh, there we go. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Tie those up together. Yes. There we go. Hop on up. Oh. I’m so cold! I’m freezing. This nurse comes in. Sticks these electrodes on my chest. God, there’s a lot of those. Five electrodes. And poof! I’m on the screen. The squiggly lines going up and down, that’s my heartbeat. Is 130 okay? What does it mean? “Stick your finger in this please.” It’s that same clippy-thingy every patient is wearing on Grey’s Anatomy. They all wear it. Now it’s my finger in the clippy thing.

“Nurse, give this patient a round of epi.” That patient getting a round of epi… that’s me. “Your heart might start beating really fast. That’s normal. It’s like adrenalin.” She sticks it in my shoulder. They hang a bag. Stick the IV in my arm.

I’m laying in a hospital bed. In the shock room. I’m hooked up to a heart monitor. They’re taking my blood pressure. I’m hooked up to an IV. I’ve got the clippy thing on my finger. They’re sitting in the glass room. Staring at my heart monitor. I should probably call my mom to tell her not to worry. I should probably call my date and tell him not to wait up. Tell my mom not to worry? It’s not like I’m being hospitalized or anything. No. I’m just hooked up to the heart monitor. Watching the drop drip from the bag of clear but yellowish IV meds that’s going straight into my veins. No. Nothing to worry about. Do I get to make a phone call? I’m alone. All these people zapping by me. Others sitting and staring at the monitor. No one talking to me. No conversation. Silence. Murmurs. I can’t stop shaking. My shoulders are seizing. My chest is on a wild ride. I can’t stop my shoulders from shaking. I’m so cold. Nurse, can I get a blanket please. There you go dear. I’m still shaking. I still can’t stop shaking. I’m not cold anymore, but my shoulders are still shaking.

The guy on the other side of my curtain fell from a third floor balcony onto the first one. The railing got him right in the ribs. Man that must hurt. The nurses are talking about the idiots who have been calling out my name for the past 15 minutes in the emergency room waiting area. The nurses called the people idiots. I didn’t. That gets a chuckle out of me. Nobody notices the chuckle. They stare at the monitor.

This guy comes by and asks me a bunch of questions. My admittance. I’m being admitted into a hospital. Me. Admitted. Hospital. I can barely think. What’s my mom’s name? What’s my dad’s name. What’s my dad’s number. My address? What’s my address? Person to contact in case of emergency? Do they need to be in Montreal? Who would they contact in Montreal? Who would come to my rescue? … … …. My mom. She’s in New-Brunswick, yeah. Area code 506. … not 514. no.

They’re going to keep me in for observation for a while. Do I get to make a phone call? All I can think about is making a phone call.

They take me to the other room. I’m lying there alone on the bed, looking at the IV bag. Looking at the old Indian-looking man next to me. Surrounded by his wife and daughter. They leave. The doctors come by to probe him. He doesn’t speak English. He doesn’t speak French. His daughter plays translator… but she’s not there. I look around. I’m right next to the defibrillator. You know that thing they use to shock people back to life… right there. Staring at me in the face. I close my eyes. … I try to read. I can’t read. I can’t focus. I try listening to a bit of music. That works.

There’s a girl at the other end of the room who’s puking her guts out. Gastro. Been there. Done that. Eight days ago, that was me. She groans. She whimpers. The sound her her spitting the bitter taste out of her mouth. Calling out for someone. Anyone to help her. I hear you sister.

In this room, they’re supposed to observe you. This is the above observation level observation room. They’re supposed to watch you. But they don’t hear you crying out for help. And us. The rest of us in this room. All four of us. We can’t do nothing to help you. We can’t even stand to listen to your muffled sounds of agony. They closed the curtain. We can’t see you. But the sounds of your disease make us feel worse. All I can think about is getting away from the puking gastro girl. That poor soul. She should’ve stayed home. Can you catch gastro twice in 8 days? I sure hope not.

I laid there for hours. Interminable hours. I got served hospital food. I imagine this as something slightly more luxurious than a plane ride. I don’t get to lay down in a plane. I don’t get free food in a plane. This is where my tax dollars are going. While I’m eating, a doctor comes by to see me. Pokes and prods me. Asks me how many times I puked today. If I had diarrhea. How many times? Tells me they shouldn’t have served me that food. That I’m not going to be able to stomach it. But I tell him I feel like I should eat this food. He tells me that none of this is good for me. Especially not the meat. Damn. And I was working so hard at getting psyched about this roast. Even just long enough to manage to swallow the rubbery thing down. And that’s not good for me? What the hell are they serving this in a hospital for anyway? Oh, so I can eat the gooey string beans and mashed potatoes? But I definitely can’t touch the meat or desert. Well that’s just great. Thanks a lot doc. Way to suck the fun out of the only good part of the ride. Where’s my pretty doctor anyway?! Joy-kill doc tells me I’m going to get discharged after the meal. That they’re going to make me wait in the waiting room for my blood test results and then send me home. Two hours they’re going to make me wait in a cold chair for the results. Yeah. My IV isn’t even close to being over yet. Still dripping, dropping. Don’t I need this? What the hell is going on in this place. Of course, I keep my mouth shut. I can’t find the strength to contest anything he says.

He comes back a while later. Tells me he made a mistake. That he thought I was Nathalie. I assume Nathalie is gastro-girl in the corner. That he’s sorry about the confusion. Yeah. Way to be sorry doc. Where’s my steak now?! Laying in a garbage can somewhere because some hot-shot couldn’t even be bothered to ask me my name before assuming that gastro chart was mine. Sure, I bet I looked like I’d been to hell and back that day. Yeah. Now that I’ve puked once and had diarrhea a few times I’m just hanging around for the sweet all-expense-paid ride in the tax paid hospital bed. Thanks for checking in doc. I’m really enjoying my stay at Hospital Jean-Talon. Thinking about suggesting it to the best friend and the kids for their next vacation.

They finally moved me out of the room with the gastro girl and the weird looking guy. I don’t even want to think why he’s there and what made him take the sweet trip by ambulance. And then there’s another gastro girl next to me. Damn. I’m so glad when the nurse rolls me out of there. Even if it is just to park me in the hallway, right in front of the nurses’ station for close observation. Yeah, I can’t even get their attention to get a glass of water in this place. Way to observe. 15 nurses, and no one is observing my dying thirst. Go Quebec!

Do I sound bitter? Please, don’t misunderstand my sense of sarcasm and think I’m ungrateful for them saving my life or anything. Sarcastic little thing I am.

They finally freed me at like 9:30 that night. Pretty doctor explained things to me. Said I’d have to wait a while to take the tests. Prescribed me a few things. Now, on top of never being able to leave the house without my asthma puffer, I have to lug around an epi-pen and at least 50 mgs of Benadryl at all times. Way to leave the purse home and not get it stolen again. Since we still don’t really know exactly what caused this episode, I have to be careful about what I eat. Their bet is on the nuts. My bet is on the nuts. So off the nuts I am.