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Bless Caregivers

Since 2001, I have been hospitalized and required extensive rehabilitation three times. The first was surgery and radiation for neck cancer. In the second case, in 2016, an unknown virus crossed my blood/brain barrier, leaving me paralyzed from the waist down for 2 ½ months. And recently, I received an emergency tracheostomy, caused by the long-term effects of my radiation in 2001.

Facing these medical challenges, I had only one main worry: recovery!

But my spouse, Terry, carried the load for her responsibilities, my responsibilities and everything in between.

The house, the bills, the bank. House maintenance and legal decisions. Being the brave front for family and friends. The daily visits to my bedside. The worry that my disability could prove to be permanent.

My First Steps (Part 6)

The plan, as it was explained to me, once leaving the Observation Section (OBS), was for me to be transferred to the general ward of the hospital for enhanced training by specialists in the maintenance of equipment, nutrition, mental health and physiotherapy, to name a few.

Once trained, my reintegration back to home would coincide with an appointment with a home care nurse, who would help set up the technologies required and arrange for home or external visits with other care providers.

An Old Dog Can Learn New Tricks (Part 5)

Like a kid starting his first day at school, my “awakening” in the intensive care unit after my operation was disorienting. The bright lights, the hustle and bustle of urgent care requirements, and the knowledge and understanding that some part of this big machine was in service to my specific needs. And like a kid’s first day at school, I was nervous about how that reality would evolve as the days and weeks progressed.

And in those first minutes, waking from my sleep and watching the business around me, my paradigm started to shift.

My Ship Docks (Part 4)

The journey to “get” my Tracheostomy was long and somewhat circuitous, starting with the forecast of it whispered to me by the intern during one of my many follow-up visits

to the Ottawa Cancer Clinic, through numerous faint-hope options to find a “cure”, to the emergency department of our local hospital, and finally, standing before the doctor ready to perform the procedure.

When I arrived at the Ottawa General ICU, I was expecting a full examination, analysis, conclusion and action plan. Such was not the case. That process had all started the minute I walked through the hospital doors in Almonte. The examination, analysis and conclusion were interactive and complex, completed by a wide team of experts drawn together for one specific decision, with all data electronically stored and available at any point along the chain from A to B.

The final decision was still mine of course. I still needed to accept the risks of surgery, and the questions posed to me by the receiving surgeon were clear as to the risks involved and the possible consequences of the unforeseen.

I smiled inwardly, thinking of one of my favourite Seinfeld episodes, where Kramer is deciding which consequences that he will accept during his operation, and for which consequences he would wish to be “unplugged”.

I agreed to the release, added my own wish for a Do Not Resuscitate (DNR) if things went south, and was wheeled into the operating room.

I was impressed by the briefing provided by the surgeon to the team who would be assisting. Ironically, my surgeon of the hour was an intern under the surgeon who removed my tumour in 2001. A full circle moment.

While being prepped, I was told that the first order of business was to map the location of the “cut” that would eventually house the breathing apparatus. Next, injections would numb the area, and finally I would be heavily sedated for the procedure but would likely be aware of the actions and movements of the team. I felt the mapping. Then nothing more.

I woke to the bright lights of the ICU. It was 7 PM, and my hand went directly to my throat to confirm the presence of my new breathing apparatus. I had no anxiety or regrets. The inconvenience and maintenance of the hardware would be a life challenge; the risk of ingesting food into my lungs was still an ever-present danger, albeit one considerably reduced.

I recall thinking, ‘I hope this was a good idea?!”

With that, I turned the page and took my first step into my future.

The Spiral Into Darkness (Part 3)

The start of 2026 was chaotic. First and foremost, it was a transition year for me. My 75^th birthday arrived in April, and I wasn’t ready for the milestone. Terry and I were stressed on a number of different fronts. The picture-perfect yacht of our life that we lived and enjoyed was suddenly rudderless.

Our lives were unravelling, and we struggled with decisions that should have been easy to make. We spent the winter in Florida, but were involved in fewer activities than during the heyday of our 60’s. The political situation in the USA was very stressful to deal with, and we seriously weighed the pros and cons of going or staying home in Canada. In the end, we took off to Spain for 5 weeks to visit and consider that country as a future winter option.

Another quirk; Our home in Canada was 10 years old, and maintenance was overdue, including gardening, levelling paving stones and increasing repairs and replacement of machinery around the pool. It is a beautiful yard, meant to be maintenance-free. Nothing is maintenance-free.

We lost good friends in 2026, some through the normal diseases of our time, others unexpectedly. While on our annual visit to Manitoba, we took a side trip to Reston, Manitoba to attend a celebration of life for long-time friend and Regina to visit a couple who were neighbours during our time in Winnipeg. The visit was a wonderful reminiscence of our shared history. A week later, they were both killed in a tragic accident. The loss was devastating and just another reminder of our overall vulnerability.

But underlying every stressor was my health. I had run out of options, and my body was tired from the growing exertion of breathing across progressively restrictive vocal cords and the escalating risk of choking. Swallowing was becoming more difficult, and food was getting caught up in my throat. I was losing weight that I couldn’t gain back. I had no appetite, and what I did eat took me a long time to consume.

On Sunday, September 13^th I awakened at 4 AM, exhausted and fearful. My back was against the wall; I had nowhere else to go, no options to consider, except dying! Terry came into the room.

“I need to go to the hospital,” I croaked.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” she replied.

Our town is blessed with a small but modern hospital, 5 minutes from our house, and the care and attention that I received there was both professional and caring. But my condition was too critical for their limited resources. I needed to be transferred to Ottawa. That decision posed another problem: would I make it there?

A medical team with L’Ornge critical care ambulance service drove to our hospital and consulted with the Almonte medical team. A senior anesthesiologist was also dispatched for his ENT experience. Their arrival and team chemistry created an electric energy focused on a major transport decision: did I need to be intubated for the 30-minute lights-and-sirens ambulance ride?

And while it was pretty awesome to watch the synergy of the situation, they were working to mitigate the risks to my health and safety in the next half hour.

Scary that I had risked so much, but humbling that so much time and effort was focused on my safe delivery to a final destination.