Living in a Testosterone World

I’m at the doctor’s again today. She is incredibly thorough and I’m now scheduled for tests on this and that until 2010. The only glitch with her is when I ask her (she, who is probably in her late thirties at most) why I have had this test result or that test result, she says “It is to be expected at your age, but we will check it out anyway”. Ouch.

I’m sitting waiting for yet another test (my folic acid level is too high apparently – whatever folic acid is!?). The lab is really busy and you take a number. I am told it is probably an hour wait. I think to myself that I can either be mad at this and fume silently or take it in stride and read the magazines and pretend the hour is a calm oasis in my day. I choose the latter. I read a really interesting article about the difference between how women and men handle stress. The short version – women tend to talk stress out with their friends; men use testosterone to “fight it out of themselves”. It being a health magazine; the upshot was that women deal with stress better than men do.

So an hour later, I have a two-second blood test and I am on my way. It is an absolutely beautiful spring day in Toronto and I am driving my treasured Mustang Convertible. Windows are open to the wonderful fresh breeze. I’m thinking it might even be warm enough to put the top down and live life large.

In a long line of cars trying to turn left from a southbound busy street onto an even busier westbound street, I’m in the middle of the intersection behind two other cars (it’s a very LARGE intersection). The first car goes through the yellow, the second car is almost creamed by a truck going northbound and barrelling through the yellow-now-turning-red-light. I decide not to chance it since the light is now clearly red. Problem is that I am well into the intersection at this point.

So, I back up as carefully and as closely as I can so I can get out of the intersection. The guy behind me can’t back up any further because he’s got a line of cars beyond him. I am more over the crosswalk than I am behind it, but still far back enough that people can go across without being in a line of traffic.

Some burly guy starts to cross the crosswalk. As he gets close to my car, he yells at me through my open window, ``Don`t ya think that if someone is trying to cross the crosswalk, ya`d move your car!``. I say, “I’m sorry; I don’t think I can get any further back than this; I’m sorry”.

AWWWWKKKKK. TWOOOONGGGNNHH.

He gathers the mucus in his throat and levels a full out gobspit on the hood of the Mustang.

Okay then, if I didn’t get the point of the magazine article, I sure did then. Full out testosterone in action.

Hey, guy, who was crossing Hurontario and Burnhamthorpe at around noon today in front of a red Mustang Convertible and who left a present on my hood, take it from a woman: Maybe next time, talk it out with your friends. It might be better for your health.

After all, your present to me lasted all of five minutes once it was dried by the sun and the wind. But Jim (who heard the story as soon as I got home) and I are seriously feeling pity for you that you must have been having such a bad day to be that upset by a trivial moment. Although I don't think you do pity well, I truly hope that life delivers you better days tomorrow and forever.

Cancer Doesn't Discriminate, and Neither Should I

Once again I am participating in the Canadian Cancer Society’s Relay for Life. This is the third year in a row that various members of my family gather together to remember my Mother and others who lost the fight to Cancer, or who struggle on, or who are grateful survivors. We stay up all night long and walk or run on a track, and always share memories of my Mom. Her passing has left a big hole in our hearts and in our lives and this night gives us a chance to share the burden of losing the greatest cheerleader each of us were fortunate to have.

I raise donations through the online site for the Relay. This year the site allows you to upload your address book from your e-mail provider so you can send out e-mails directly to your friends and colleagues. I uploaded the almost 500 names in my address book and then had to figure out how to weed out duplicates or people who were purely ancillary (like the contact I have for Roy Thompson Hall if I need tickets or the customer service people at my telephone provider tagged “random bell telephone guy”).

As I was going through the names, I found myself thinking “should I even ask this person?: (1) I have lost close contact with them, or (2) they are a colleague but not necessarily a friend and I feel like I’m imposing, or (3) they are likely not going to donate since they haven’t done so in the past, or (4) many other reasons..

Then I remembered how cancer doesn’t discriminate. Cancer took my Mom away from children and grandchildren and friends who counted on her unconditional love and support. Cancer almost took my husband and we were so fortunate that the Insidious One was caught in time. Cancer visited a woman with small children who was terrified that she would never see them to their adulthood. Cancer is beating its deadly wings around a woman who is already living with a ticking time bomb in the form of a brain tumour. Cancer added its burden to a good friend of mine this month, almost at the same moment she found out that she is losing her job.

Cancer doesn’t discriminate and neither should I. So, I sent the e-mail out and within three days I had received so many donations that I had to revise my goal upward. And several of the first and larger donations came from people over whose name I had hesitated!

Of course, I’m just curious enough to look at the list of those who opened the e-mail and didn’t donate. It started me wondering how many people donate to charity.

Statistics Canada has a report on charitable donations. Although it only tracks those who use the donations as tax write-offs, it gives a picture of charitable giving.

Canadian taxfilers reported making charitable donations surpassing $8.6 billion in 2007, up 1.4% from 2006. At the same time, the number of donors fell 0.9% to just under 5.7 million.

• Nationally, 24% of all taxfilers claimed charitable donations, slightly lower than in previous years. Manitoba had the highest percentage who declared a donation, at 27%, followed by Ontario, Prince Edward Island and Saskatchewan, all at 26%.
• Among the donors in 2007, the median donation was $250, meaning that half of the donors gave more than $250 and half less. This was unchanged from 2006, unlike in prior years when the median donation had consistently increased.

So the total dollar amount of donations is going up slightly, while the number of donors is going down. Essentially, less people are giving, but those who do donate are giving more money.

Stats Can also indicates that donors are usually those who have higher income (not surprisingly) and who are better educated. I’m surprised that education would have anything to do with whether or not a person would donate. Perhaps it is more likely that the better educated people would take the steps to write off the donations against their income tax. Or, if their donations are larger because they can afford it (being in a higher income bracket) they are donating enough to get a tax receipt. (Only donations over $20 receive a tax receipt in most cases.)

All very interesting. But only academic when you consider that, tragically, the rate of cancer is rising. A report from the Canadian Cancer Society says that Cancer is on the rise. And, startlingly,

• Almost 40% of women and almost 45% of men will develop Cancer in their lifetime;
• 24% of women and 29% of men will die of Cancer – or almost one in every four Canadians will fall victim to the Beast;
• 30% of new Cancer cases, and 18% of Cancer deaths will occur in people between the ages of 20 and 50 years of age, in the most productive stage of their life; and
• Cancer is on the rise in young women between the ages of 20 and 39.
  

Now, those are scary numbers! I’m thinking to beat the odds at least one in every four of those I asked to donate should do so. Would that hold the Beast at Bay or at least Buy Us Time to find better cures? I’m also thinking that I want my two girls to get to 39 years of age quickly. Hurry up, little ones, get beyond that stat!

Perhaps I should have asked the Random Bell Telephone Guy to donate after all?

Random Tears

I remember the first Mother’s Day after my mother died; I would walk around with random tears in my throat being so completely envious of all of the happy mother-daughter pairs that I suddenly felt were all around me. Going into a Hallmark store was my undoing. My mom and I shared a love of cards, the sappier the better. I stood in a line of I Love You, Mom cards and started to sob.

There are moments in your life when you miss someone so much,
you could pick them up out of your dreams and hug them.

I had another occasion of random tears today, but now I am the mother and Kelly is the daughter. I walked into my neighbourhood Loblaw’s, list in hand for a wonderful family dinner that I am planning tonight for Corey, Natasha and Ayden. It’s a beautiful day and the sun is shining, so I have sunglasses on.

As I walk in, the song that Kelly and I share is playing over the store speakers. I sense the tears well up in my throat as sudden as a summer storm. I feel the moisture coming slowly into my eyes as the missing-my-baby rain starts up in my heart.

I’m gulping back the ache in my throat as I walk over to the fish counter. I order salmon; I’m sure with a voice that sounded oddly choked. The clerk is weighing the salmon and pricing it. As the words of the song play on, I am trying valiantly to keep the tears from spilling out of my eyes, thankful for the sunglasses that shield the telltale shine of tears. The clerk comes over to tell me the price of the salmon and asks “was that okay?” (It was pricey!)

At that moment, I feel the tears leaking through the bottom of my sunglasses and rolling down my face. Although I say to the clerk that “it’s fine”, I can see if she’s wondering whether the price is fine or if I’m really saying -- it’s okay, I’m fine.

I flee the aisle and head to the other end of the store where the song is less audible. Then, finished my list, I head back because I’ve forgotten bread – located near the fish stand. The song is not playing anymore, but it is still looping through my mind and clutching at my heart. I stand still in the bread aisle; I’m sure looking as lost as I felt. A woman stops and looks at me and says, “What happened?” I’m thinking, “Oh my God, do I really look that fragile?”

Then I realize that she is talking about what has happened to six or seven aisles that the store used to have, filled with all sorts of breads and buns and bagels – of every flavour, size, and density. I say to her, “It looks like they have crammed all the bread into this small space, and left the rest of the space open to their new fresh dessert and pastry selection”. "Like”, she and I both say at the same moment, “we all need more pastry!” We share a Pepsi-on-you laugh.

“No”, she says, “We don’t need more pastry; just more sweetness in our lives. You have a great day.”

I walk away smiling through dried tears. I do have more sweetness in my life than many. I have Kelly.

“A daughter is the happy memories of the past,

the joyful moments of the present,
and the hope and promise of the future.”

Be Sweet, Baby Girl.

First we put all the lawyers in Jail...

Friends and I have been talking about whether people who are naturally competitive enter law school or whether law school (and the practice of law) forces people into a competitive mode. I have always thought that the culture of law schools deserves its own study, since people generally walk around stressed out and looking over their shoulders at others’ marks and achievements. It does not breed a team atmosphere. And since everyone is bell curved against each other, it forces people to feel like they are in a competition with people who are, inarguably, smart and academically accomplished.

Then, it would appear that people leave law school and go into a very competitive occupation by its nature, since law is founded on an “I win, you lose” proposition. And, perhaps that is why many lawyers are unhappy people. A lot of lawyers I meet are unhappy. And many lawyers thought I needed a very long stretch on a psychiatrist’s couch when I first broached the idea of going to law school.

Typically, as I was thinking about this, I came across a study that sheds some light on the answer:

In the early 1970s, a group of social scientists at Stanford University decided to create a mock prison in the basement of the university’s psychology building. They took a thirty-five-foot section of corridor and created a cell block with a prefabricated wall. Three small, six- by nine-foot cells were created from laboratory rooms and given steel-barred, black-painted doors. A closet was turned into a solitary confinement cell.

All the volunteers selected for the experiment were the most normal and healthy on psychological tests. Half of the group were chosen at random, to be guards, and were given uniforms and dark glasses and told that their responsibility was to keep order in the prison. The other half were told that they were to be prisoners. The scientists got the police department to “arrest” the prisoners in their homes, cuff them, bring them to the station house, charge them with a fictitious crime, fingerprint them, then blindfold them and bring them to the prison in the Psychology Department basement. Then they were
stripped and given a prison uniform to wear, with a number on the front and back that was to serve as their only means of identification for the duration of their incarceration.

The purpose of the experiment was to try to find out why prisons are such nasty places. Was it because prisons are full of nasty people, or was it because prisons are such nasty environments that they make people nasty? What the social scientists found out shocked them.

The guards, some of whom had previously identified themselves as pacifists, fell quickly into the role of hard-bitten disciplinarians. The first night they woke up the prisoners at two in the morning and made them do push-ups, line up against the wall, and perform other arbitrary tasks. On the morning of the second day, the prisoners rebelled. They ripped off their numbers and barricaded themselves in their cells. The guards responded by stripping them, spraying them with fire extinguishers, and throwing the leader of the rebellion into solitary confinement. “There were times when we were pretty abusive, getting right in their faces and yelling at them” one guard remembers.

“It was part of the whole atmosphere of terror.” As the experiment progressed, the guards got systematically crueller and more sadistic.

“What we were unprepared for was the intensity of the change and the speed at which it happened,” the lead scientist said. The guards were making the prisoners say to one another they loved each other, and making them march down the hallway, in handcuffs, with paper bags over their head. Five of the prisoners had to be released early because of their emotional reactions to the experiment. Many of the guards and prisoners could not believe how they would react in such a short period of time.

The conclusion of the study was that there are specific situations so powerful that they can overwhelm our inherent predispositions. There are certain times and places where all the normal influences that helped develop our behaviour (environment, parents, friends, school, neighbourhood) are swept away. There are instances where you can take normal people from good schools and happy families and good neighbourhoods and powerfully affect our behaviour merely by changing the immediate details of their situation.

That makes sense. The law students (and then-as-lawyers) are the guards who are placed in a situation so powerfully competitive that it might overwhelm their inherent predispositions. I know this is true of me – I don’t like the win/lose of the law (although I can be good at it when placed in the arena) – I’d rather come to an amicable settlement that solves the problem for both parties. However, I will be competitive when the situation dictates, although it’s not a natural trait of mine.

Or is it? What do you think?

Embracing Clutter

I was parking at the library today and was beside a small car that was advertising a small business. It said “Emily’s Cure for Clutter”. My immediate thought was that MY cure for clutter would be to divorce my husband. As you might know, he is the absolute junk-thriving person on this earth. He still has his grade six Spanish books. I constantly tell him that I think the Spanish language has evolved in the almost sixty years since then! Nevertheless.

These past few weeks, we had a flood in the basement. A full out flood. Jim diligently found the right person to fix the leak. That is not surprising; Jim has tons of people in his life just waiting to be asked to help him. Cause he helps them without even considering any quid pro quo. So they are ever at the ready.

The leak is fixed. And now Jim has to take steps to soak up all the water in the basement. Lands alive! He has decided to put things in the GARBAGE! Fifteen year old stereos; ten year old computer parts; light bulbs for lights we have long since replaced; a chair that we bought for Corey when he was about ten (he is now twenty eight) not-quite-resplendent with no stuffing and squeaky wheels. I am positively amazed. It is a small step, but life happens in baby steps.

The stuff sits out at the curb -- for – oh about ten minutes – and people drive up to ferry away JIM’S JUNK. Since the stuff was gone all too quickly, Jim wonders whether maybe he erred – perhaps it was valuable stuff to begin with. Otherwise, why would it have found a new home so quickly? I remind him of one of my Mom’s expressions “One man’s junk is another man’s treasure”. He visibly relaxes.

He is thinking it is maybe time to retire the Spanish books?

I delight inside. Even though Jim clutters up my life, he is the absolute best thing that ever happened to me. He makes me smile with his dogged determination to find something worthwhile in every piece of junk that crosses his path and it reminds me of how he finds the very best in everyone that he meets. He is loved for that; and I am the most fortunate person on this earth who gets to share the clutter of his life with him.

So, Emily, I think I have the “cure”. Want to come and meet Jim? You will find clutter, but you will walk away with a new friend. And you and he might start a new business called “JIM’S JUNK”. Roll out the Spanish.

My Date with the Doctor

So, I decide that I am going to be totally myself – dress down jeans, turtleneck black top, black runners. If she doesn’t like me, then so be it. After all, a doctor should be the person who might possibly see you at your very worst (unless you're Paris Hilton, I doubt you attend the emergency department totally put together). She should be the most understanding that you might be having the GREATEST BAD HAIR DAY OF your life.

I wait a respectable 25 minutes to see her (I’m inured to the waiting time for doctors – I’m used to cooling my heels in doctors’ waiting rooms for at least an hour with ten year old magazines). I am taken to a vanilla waiting room. I hear my doctor paged to take a phone call from a pharmacy regarding a question on a prescription. So I – unabashedly – eavesdrop. She sounds kind and patient and helpful, a really good sign.

I wait a few more minutes and in comes a fashionably dressed, totally beautiful young woman. I’m thinking she’s another patient assigned to same vanilla waiting room as me. Natch, she is the DOCTOR.

She introduces herself and apologizes for the wait (SHE APOLOGIZES – I’ve never had a doctor apologize to me and I don’t know how to react). I tell her that we are supposed to be like on a blind date and I’m nervous. She laughs and makes me feel completely at ease. She says I have to like her too (I’m now seriously in love).

Now come the questions about me. Marriage. Kids. Career. Then – oh my gosh, she is levelling the tough questions now – Do I smoke? Do I drink? Do I take drugs? We now are the truth-or-dare part of speed dating.

Yes, I smoke. How much? A pack a day. I say, “You probably don’t want to date someone who smokes”. She says, “No, I wouldn’t date them. However, I would be their doctor. I would tell them how they should quit. They would tell me that they will try. They will ignore me and they won’t quit. But, I have to keep telling them because it is my obligation as a doctor.”

I’m now ready to give her a shiny diamond ring and meet her family, because she understands me.

Upshot, I pass. She gives me a prescription for a stop-smoking drug and an appointment to meet her again. She says she looks forward to seeing me again. We schedule a second date..

And, she gives me her phone number!

.

I walk out on a cloud. I am worthy to be a patient.