Because yesterday was a Sunday, our afternoon ravine walk, cold, brisk, windy but sunny, was shared by others from within the community, walking their dogs in a leisurely ambulation. 

Two weeks earlier we had met up with a woman whom we've had an acquaintance with for many years who lives on the street directly behind us.  We've seen her son grow from a gangly pre-teen to a university student.  He would occasionally walk the family dog, a large golden retriever.  Now he is away and she walks the new family dog, a Jack Russell.  When we'd seen her two weeks previously she asked us to be alert for the possible presence of a little cat.  This was their 15-year-old house cat, never permitted outdoors but having, for some odd reason, made a break for freedom, and they were worried about its safety.

We also came across another couple we'd known for ages who used to walk a deaf little dog that would bark incessantly, cute as they come, but since succeeded by two fluffy little dogs of unknown ancestry, but a fortuitous mix, nonetheless.  One of those two little fluffy dogs had succumbed to old age the year before, and now the remaining one shuffles along, overweight, but content to be with those who love it.

They informed us they had word that the pair of owls that have taken to nesting in the ravine every spring are once again at it, and they were intent on taking photos.  We'd ourselves had the good luck to come across the nestling last year when it was just about the size of its parents, close to the creek, sitting in one tree leaning over the water, one of its parents waiting in another, nearby tree.

The woman with the missing cat informed us that yes, a week after it had gone missing, their elderly cat had returned, seemingly well, and they were beside themselves with delight, happy to have it returned to them.  It had just seemed to saunter home on its own.  Three days later, she said, it died, without warning, of kidney failure.  Might the cat have known instinctively that it had little time left to live, and been intent on experiencing freedom before it died?

Later, on the second-half of our loop, we came across the owl-seeking pair and they informed us they had indeed located the new nest; the female owl was sitting on eggs.  Telling us in detail precisely where we could find it, and lamenting that they'd been unable to take pictures because the camera batteries had run out of juice.

The year is 1689.  A nine-year-old Puritan boy, John Gyles, was abducted in a raid by Malecite Indians, where he spent the next nine years of his life as a slave in present-day New Brunswick.  From an account that he left when he was rescued finally and reunited with the remnants of his family, these are a few of the incidents that he experienced.

"As O-ski-Tchin stirred the fire  -  he said abruptly: "You had a brother, Chon.  He was seized with you at Pemaquid."
"Yes - James! Have you word of him?"
"He is dead", the Indian told him matter-of-factly.  He had heard it from a Penobscot just two days before.  James Gyles and another English youth had escaped after three years' captivity.  They were overtaken by the Indians at New Harbour and brought back.
"And they slew my brother?"
O-ski-tchin spared him nothing.  The Penobscots had tortured the pair with fire; then their noses and ears were cut off, and they were made to eat them.  After that they were burned to death at the stake.

One winter John and his slave-friend Jack Evans were on separate hunting trips.  Jack had taken a little pet white dog.  In the spring John's party returned first and he waited days, then weeks, for the other group.  When at last it came in view John was one of the first standing on the riverbank.  But there was no sign of Jack.  John ran to an Indian he knew.
"What is delaying Jack?"
The Indian was silent for a moment.  Then he explained.  One day Jack had been carrying a heavy burden on his back.  He was weak from hunger, as they all were.  A gale was blowing.  Descending an icy hill Jack broke through, cutting his knee badly.  He tried to keep going, urging his dog to catch up.  But the cold north wind bludgeoned him.  Sleet was falling.  His legs were plunging ever more slowly into the snow.
"Wait for me!" he called to the Indians.  "Un-ko-wuts!" (I am cold!)
But, sore beset themselves, they plodded on without heeding his pleas.  The last anyone remembered of Jack he was sitting on any icy ledge, legs immersed in water, holding out his arms to them.
Some Indians walked back the next morning.  They found Jack still on the ledge, encased in ice, looking sightlessly ahead.  In his arms was his little dog, also frozen dead.

From: Great Canadian Adventures: John Gyles' Amazing Ordeal by Stuart Trueman

After a week of truly morose weather; gloomy, overcast, freezing rain mixed with ice pellets and miserable winds, the temperature dropped last night to minus-7-degrees Celsius, capping off the week in winter-style.  But then, this morning, we awoke to bright sunshine, and the ambient temperature at the freezing mark.  An improvement over what we've gone through in previous days.

And our little Riley was beside himself with happiness.  Happiness for Riley is luxuriating in the sun.  The moment he is aware that there is sun, he seeks to bathe himself in it, whether in the house, or outside.  For a period of time sunshine streams into the house through the dining room windows and that is where he parks himself.  As soon as the sun is gone from the front of the house he agitates to be allowed out to sit on the deck, in the sun.

And that's fine if it's mild enough, but the temperature had only risen to plus-two-degrees when he insisted on being allowed to go out on the deck.  So, out he went, finding himself a comfortable, full-sun exposure.  He was, it is true, wearing a little orange coat to retain his body warmth, but even so, a light wind ruffling his ears, it was much too cool yet to be out there.  So he lasted about ten minutes, then reluctantly agreed to re-enter the house.

This ritual will continue throughout spring, but balmier days are ahead and he'll be afforded the opportunity to bask in them.

He is still handsome, although he looks quite aged for someone not quite 60.  But then, in the 20 years I've known him he has always looked that way.  Frail, dignified, white-haired and -bearded, inquisitive, friendly, and good-hearted.  He and Rajinder are extremely proud and protective of their two children.  When we first knew them Lovaleen was beyond the toddler stage, and Imran was just learning to walk.  The most beautiful children we'd ever seen.

Little wonder; their mother was a vision of exquisite loveliness.  At that time, even though she was in the workforce, having a very good job with the public service, she wore saris, and they emphasized her beauty.  As a member of a visible minority she was a valuable addition to the federal government's workforce, since the emphasis there has always been on welcoming visible minorities and women to the public service; in fact, encouraging them to join the public service, actively seeking out their engagement so they might reflect the representative makeup of the public.

Lovaleen is now a mother herself, of two infants, a little boy and a little girl.  Her parents drive to Toronto for long week-ends often to stay with their daughter and her husband, to visit with their grandchildren.  Their son-in-law is doing very well for the family, as a medical technician.  His family, living in Toronto, have extended ties back in India, to Mohindar's extended family.

Imran now attends university, and he is an industrious young man.  While he was growing up he become involved in soccer and hockey little-league teams, and was heartbroken when he was diagnosed with a medical condition that would not permit his continued involvement in organized sports.  But he is also a studious young man, and alert to the needs of his parents.  His father, partially disabled by a shoulder injury which several operations did nothing to alleviate, depends on his son to do all manner of physically onerous household duties, and Imran never disappoints, while managing to hold down a part-time job as well.

When, around 1976, after having been in Canada for about five years, Mohindar finally agreed, as a devoted and dutiful son, to return to India to find a wife, he was 29 years old.  His family had done all the preliminary preparations.  He had never met Rajinder before, and when the two were exposed to one another, it was briefly and in the presence of a multitude of family members.  Rajinder was fifteen at the time, and not a word was exchanged between them.  It took two such get-togethers before Mohindar finally agreed to marriage.

He stayed with his new wife for four days before returning to Canada, then undertaking the paperwork to sponsor her emigration as his spouse, under family-class reunification.  Ottawa then had few Sikhs in its population.  It was altogether a much smaller city than it is now.  Now, there is a gurdwara where people gather weekly to pray and to socialize.

I finally managed, last evening, to compel and propel myself out the door, canvass kit in hand, at 7:00 p.m.  It was a cool, windy and heavily overcast day, but the rain had relented, and it was about 6-degrees, and as such an improvement over the previous week's weather patterns.

I decided I would diverge from my usual custom of approaching the top half of the street first, where I know all the residents, many of them with a decades-long friendly neighbourliness.  It is that half of the street that I have become accustomed to relying on for their positive response to my solicitations on behalf of various charities I've agreed to embark on their annual door-to-door canvass for.  On this occasion it was the Canadian Cancer Society.

This time I thought I'd do first what I usually leave for last; the bottom half of the street.  Beginning on the left-hand side off I went.  And it wasn't, many doors knocked upon fruitlessly later, that I finally arrived at the foot of the street where the homeowner greeted me warmly and enthusiastically that I secured the very first donation.  Of course I know her fairly well, from the first week we ourselves moved to the street.  At that time she was a young happily-married mother of two, expecting her third.

She is now divorced, her children grown, only her youngest now living with her, attending university.  She has brightened up considerably from that time five years ago when her husband left her.  At that time she had decided, on the advice of concerned friends, to get a puppy for companionship.  That puppy is now a fairly mature dog upon whom she dotes.  And she never fails to respond to requests for charitable donations, cheerfully.

Things improved only slightly, as I crossed the street to the opposite side and began knocking on doors there.  The houses there have turned over considerably since they were first built about 23 years ago.  Many people don't bother responding to their doorbells.  Doubtless they resent having their television viewing interrupted and possibly don't even hear their doorbells.  Those that do open the door to me, prefer not to give.

And then, things pick up as I begin to reach the half-way mark that demarcates the street's character for me, with people welcoming me, and responding generously.  By that time it is beginning to get dark and visibility although not completely impaired soon will be.  And I decide to pack it in for the day, resolving to venture out to complete the canvass another evening, or possibly Saturday afternoon. 

The reception I'm afforded by my nearer neighbours never fails to expunge the uneasy and melancholy feelings that overcome me at the hostile reception given me by those people inhabiting the bottom end of the street.  We re-connect and re-affirm our concerns, our kind consideration, our human interest in one another's well-being. 

And they do not hesitate to affirm their co-operation and responsibility to the many resources and concerns of the community that should be supported by all of us.

It is quite the experience, reading about the doughty souls whose intrepid forays into hostile, albeit beautiful and unknown lands caused them huge deprivations through the physical and mental exertions required to mount their expeditions into the Arctic and in the search for the Northwest Passage, in the late 18th, and throughout the 19th Centuries.  Their bold and costly exploits paved the way for a greater understanding of and appreciation for the lofty and inspiring nature of a frozen climate that was once a thriving greenspace on Earth.

They are remembered through readings of the exacting notebooks they left behind recounting their trials and tribulations and their occasional triumphs.  But these explorers from Britain, Norway, Russia, Denmark and America would never have been able to achieve those occasional triumphs without the aid and assistance of those people who had preceded them by thousands of years, and who had, through ancient migration, settled in that vast, white land of the midnight sun and unending dark days.

"But the Arctic chart memorializes more than men of rank, power, blood or property.  The real immortals, whose names are sprinkled throughout the Arctic on bays and bights, capes and channels, are those who dared and sometimes died so that the map might take form." *

The names of Franklin, Back, King, Dease, Simpson and Rae; Belcher, Penny, Osborn and Kellett; McClure McClintock, Collinson and Amundsen; Kane, Hall, Greely and Peary; Sverdrup, Nansen, Nares and Bellot, Hepburn and Ross and Parry, among others illuminate and distinguish the map of the Arctic. 

"What of Akaitchoo, the chief of the Copper Indians without whose presence all would have perished?  One searches the map in vain to find his name.  And where are the Eskimos, without whom no white explorer, from Parry to Peary could have conquered the frozen world?  Where is the name of Tookolito?  Or Ebierbing?  Their names are not write large on the chart of the Arctic; you will not find them in an ordinary atlas. Hall's name is there in bold type - but could he have found the Frobisher relics without them?  And where is Kalutunah, Hayes's companion, or Hans Hendrik?  No type at all for them.

"To the Innuee, the kabloonas were no longer superhuman beings who came from the sun or the moon but men like themselves with human weaknesses and failings.  To the kabloonas, the Innuee were no longer disgusting savages, indolent and ignorant, desperately in need of a Christian civilized upbringing.  But the gap still needed to be closed, as the map shows, for the haunts of the original people continued to bear the names of the strangers - and still do today." *

  
"This didn't bother the originals.  These squat little men who fed John Ross's company in the gulf of Boothia, who cheerfully extended their hospitality to Parry and Lyon at Repulse Bay and Igloolik, who taught Rae, Hall and Peary how to exist under polar conditions, gave no thought to such white concepts as fame, ambition, or immortality.  ... Nor would it concern them for an instant that their names should be left off the maps of the Arctic; after all, they had their own names for the snowy peaks and the frozen inlets that formed their world.  It is not their loss that the map ignores them; it is our own." *


*The Arctic Grail - The quest for the NorthWest Passage and the North Pole. 1818 - 1909; Pierre Berton

Procrastination is the downfall of the well-intentioned. 

As is usual, I know the canvass kit is there, awaiting my attention, to propel myself out the front door, onto the street, and into the business of knocking at doors to invite my neighbours to divest themselves of funds in support of charitable causes.  I detest, absolutely hate door-to-door canvassing.  But it's something I have compelled myself to be involved in for more decades than I care to recall.

I must be programmed for it.  Like an arachnid, spinning its web, hoping to catch unwary flies to satisfy its existential need.

When those calls come around, months before a charitable campaign for one thing or another is set to launch on its annual re-presentation, I often demur, and just as often succumb to the imploring voice at the other end, letting me know how much they depend on my volunteerism.

One of the campaigns I have never hesitated to become involved with is that of the Canadian Cancer Society.  Year after year I have gone out campaigning, writing out tax-deductible charitable receipts for those who give, offering literature to those who are curious. 

And this year, as usual, I have put off going out.  Usually, three-quarters of the way through the month of April I finally shove myself out the door.

This year, not yet.  I seem to be afflicted with some kind of inability to act; a temporary affliction, no doubt.  I meant to go out a few days ago, but the weather which had been so pleasant, when I should have begun last week, suddenly turned miserable. 

In place of warmth, sun and gentle breezes we now have sleet, wind and bone-chilling cold again.

I will get out there and fulfill my obligation as I always do.  It will just be done later than usual, this year.

Snow-covered bird nest within the crown of the weeping Mulberry

 What a sight to assail sleep-blurred, morning eyes.  Heavy, white snow clouding the landscape, with an overnight accumulation that sat there, glowering at us.  Hardly to be expected when just a few days ago we were in shirt-sleeves.  When, ambling through the ravine on our daily walk, the heat of the sun bore down so ferociously, even with bare arms we felt over-heated.

And wondered at the presence of so many red Admirals; we had never seen so many early-spring butterflies before.  They were whirling through the atmosphere, alongside the early and expected Mourning Cloaks.  Naturalists later explained that this new phenomenon was wide-spread throughout Ontario, caused serendipitously by a milder-than-normal winter that allowed the cocoons' inhabitants to make it through the winter, and to blossom forth into these early arrivals.  They warned too, that a late-season frost could kill off those fluttering orange-and-black beauties.  And so it did.

One can only pity the robins which had sung so enthusiastically, bursting with life and welcoming spring; how downcast they must now be.  And the juncos that had constructed a nest inside the crown of the deeply-branched weeping Mulberry adjacent our deck; how despairing they must be at this turn of events.

But then, I have memory of the emerging crimson buds of our plentifully-flowering magnolia tree being weighted down with late-season snow, on other occasions, during other emerging springs.  We tend to feel we are experiencing alarming new anomalies of nature, attributing them to the uncertainties associated with Climate Change, but in fact this simply demonstrates how fragile the seasons can be in their presentations, merging from one to the next.

Snow-burdened crimson-coloured blossom-buds of the Magnolia

As that old saying goes ... this too shall pass.

The compact, frail-appearing man before us with his shock of white hair conveyed to us just what a dilemma he faced.  He emphasized, with his normally quiet voice, the sudden onset of unrelenting pain.  When he had gone to see his arthritis specialist six years ago she assured him he was nowhere near being a candidate for knee surgery; he had a long way to go. 

Since that time he had gone a long way.  For one thing, he had experienced something else that was new; an emergency procedure with his heart.

And he had taken his cardiologist's warnings seriously enough, that it would be to his advantage to exercise his heart and his lungs, to take up some kind of recreational exercise that would challenge his heart in the most positive of ways.  He had already been previously convinced of the necessity to continue challenging his body physically and we saw him often in the ravine, chugging along, up hills, down into the valleys, a walking stick in each hand, propelling himself along.

Since the episode with his heart several years earlier, however, he had become committed to pushing his body in a more fierce manner, covering ground determinedly, pushing himself to ever new speeds and enlarging his walking circuit. 

His wife had admitted to him just recently that it had been a gross error on her part to succumb to the pain she experienced by lapsing into a wheelchair and remaining there.  And there, now, is where she lives out her life, with him always on duty, looking to her welfare.

He dreads ending up like that.  They are in consultation with an orthopedic surgeon to determine whether anything can possibly be done at this juncture to ameliorate her condition, for she is, as well as being fairly constantly immobilized, also in constant pain.  The surgeon hasn't held out too much hope, given her overall condition. 

And he wants to avoid a similar situation occurring for himself.

But now that he is experiencing so much pain it has become difficult to continue his walking regimen to offset the problems with his heart.  And there lies the heart of the dilemma. 

He is anguished with indecision; continue pushing himself to make his heart beat fast enough to satisfy himself that it is being adequately challenged, and suffer the unbelievable pain.  His arthritis specialist agreed he could continue the speed hiking for the damage is now done.

Bone grinding on bone.  How long he can countenance the pain is debatable.  If he forsakes the hiking he deserts his heart, and he fears that he will become completely debilitated.  Being buoyant, obtaining exercise by swimming would challenge his heart and lungs, I suggest, and bypass his knee joints, but he detests swimming.

We can but commiserate.

The latest economic forecast informs that inflation is down to manageable levels in Canada.  The single outstanding item on the index is gasoline at the pumps that has steadily increased.  Food prices appear to have stabilized, and I can recognize that at the supermarket.  Interestingly enough the latest advertising flier from the supermarket where we shop had quite a few sales items, and I don't see prices creeping up as steadily in the last month, as they had been.

On Friday morning I decided to take one of the large frozen blueberry envelopes out of the freezer to bake a blueberry pie for dinner dessert.  Among many other food items advertised, frozen wild-blueberry envelopes were on sale at a considerable saving, so it makes sense to take advantage of that.

We didn't want to leave little Riley at home by himself, so it was decided he would accompany my husband to Canadian Tire where they went to pick up an insert for the trailer hitch, while I would be left to my own devices, doing the food shopping for the week.  It seemed strange to be there myself.  I'd grown so accustomed to doing the shopping with my husband. 

At the cashier's, after I had packed everything into the three large plastic boxes we use for that purpose, and was steering the shopping cart-full out of the store, I was surprised to see him waiting there, in the foyer, holding Riley.

He used to do that, many years ago, with Button, when we had only her.  Riley seems unaffected by her absence, although he is very quiet, and seems to spend more time sleeping than we've been accustomed to seeing him do.  Unless it's just because we're noticing him more, in Button's absence.

Everything seems strangely muted to us, as though we're aware, but not yet reconciled to such a profound alteration in our life.

My husband feels well exercised and with good reason.  Among other things yesterday he decided it was past time to remove the winter ice tires from our winter-equipped vehicle, and replace them with the all-season tires, given the lovely weather we've had recently.  And now that he has replaced the ice tires, hauled them all downstairs to the basement, the long-range forecast for Monday is that snow is expected.  Which won't provide all that much of a challenge, to be sure.  And now the job's done until the reverse must be accomplished next winter.

When that was done he drove the car to an auto equipment establishment to have a trailer hitch installed.  It's been almost two years we've been without one, when the old car was traded in for this new one.  The knock-down trailer that had served us so well for decades is going to be put back into service on occasion when we have to get loads of garden dirt and sod to replace the pathetic mess that has been left of our lawns thanks to our local hungry crow population seek out those fat grubs that have installed themselves in the neighbourhood.

My husband took along the folding bicycle we've also had for slightly longer than the trailer, so he could ride it back home again after leaving the car to have the hitch installed.  That was roughly a half-hour bicycle ride, up an initial steep hill with a bicycle without gears, so he mostly walked up the hill.  And the return trip necessitated that he use the bicycle again on the way back hours later, to pick up the car.

These things done, he will address himself to a myriad of other routine tasks that must be undertaken every spring.  This year, however, he won't have the onerous work hanging over him that he had undertaken last spring, when some of our house windows and their frames required remediation work to secure their continued functionality.

Eventually, he'll be able to sit back and just enjoy the finer weather we're anticipating.

Although by the time she was about eight months old we began taking her on yearly jaunts to climb the White Mountain range in New Hampshire, we hadn't taken her anywhere else; for example, for prolonged canoe-camping experiences.  On several occasions while she was young she was left with our daughter while we went alpine camping or to do a lengthy canoe circuit in British Columbia with our younger son.

In 1996 we decided to take her on her first Algonquin Park canoe-camping expedition.  She took to it readily enough, but was perturbed quite visibly when I went out on the lake with our son and she was left behind with my husband, who was setting up camp for the day.  He took the time to take a photograph of her waiting, her eyes fixed on our red canoe and us within it, anxious for us to return.  And then, later, he painted the photograph and it has hung for all those years afterward on a wall above the fireplace in our family room.

We're grateful now, in her absence, that it's there.  My husband has picked through our many photograph albums to select those photos that feature her.  And he framed two of them, one with me teasing her with a small stone she wanted me to throw into a fast-moving stream for her retrieval.

 The other, my husband holding her, wrapped in a towel after she'd had a long lake swim.  After being completely drenched to the skin she always felt very cold, and we took care she would not become ill as a result.

Once, this is exactly what happened.  On another Algonquin Park canoe-camping trip we had set out onto the lake in a light drizzle that quickly turned into a heavy downpour.  We tried to keep her covered and dry, but to no avail; she became soaked through, and it was a fall day, brisk and cool.  The rain continued as we set up camp, and wrapped her in a fleecy of my husband's to try to retain her own body warmth.  That night she slept cuddled down deep in our double shared sleeping bag, but I could hear how laboured her breathing was, and the sound of a constant high-pitched gurgle emanating from deep within her chest alarmed me.

That continued throughout the night, and we feared for her.  She was struggling with feeling not herself, and the sound of her breathing was truly troubling.  We decided to pack up camp and head back to the mainland in the morning.  And then, during a long portage the sun suddenly emerged from behind those dense, dark clouds, the clouds soon disappearing, and the sun drying the atmosphere.

It dried and energized her, as well.  Her breathing became normal and she bounced along the trail as though nothing untoward had occurred.

There's that dreaded task done for another year.  And off he goes to put them in the mail to the Canada Revenue Agency.  Little wonder that so many people seek the help of professional accountants to complete their tax returns.  And ours is relatively uncomplicated, since we're both retirees of fairly long standing.

It is beyond helpful that we are able to split our incomes for income tax purposes.  Due to the fact that my annual income is so modest it's far below the poverty line.  Which makes it most convenient that my husband's is not, reflecting his multiple-decades of labour as a federal government employee.  The result being what is termed a gold-plated retirement income in the sense that it is linked to the cost of living (that lovely COLA clause), leaving us with a defined benefit pension in our retirement.

The charitable tax receipts were gathered and inputted, along with any other tax breaks that come the way of senior citizens.  That we allocate a significant portion of our income to alleviating the financial strain of a family member unemployed for the last several years is not something we can claim even though it keeps that individual from calling upon provincial and federal social welfare programs.

We can only feel ourselves to have been vastly entitled and we are grateful for that, by having had the good fortune to be born in Canada, a country which enables its citizens and taxpayers to live comfortable lives, even those who struggle to pay their bills, since all things are relative and what is difficult here compared to elsewhere in the world represents luxury the underprivileged in developing countries cannot even begin to imagine.

The working poor and the unemployed are able to call on a number of financially beneficial assists, and those retiring without the comfort of a modest pension do have the assurance of receiving the country's Old Age benefit and Canada Pension Plan payments if they qualify.  Beyond that there is an income top-up for seniors living under the poverty line.

Canadian seniors are very well dealt with; provincial government health plans and drug formulary benefits aid hugely in ensuring that we are not swamped with health-related bills we cannot pay.

We are grateful now for the occurrence of any distractions that will take us briefly into the world of wonders that has been temporarily left behind in the void that suddenly appeared in our lives.  This morning, we saw out of the sliding glass doors leading to the deck, a slate-backed junco slaking its thirst in the tiny pools left on the deckboards from last night's rain.

We've seen the first of the colt's foot blooming in the ravine, and the first one of the many serviceberries has hurried into bloom.  And there are trout lilies aplenty, ready to bloom.  While it's yet early in the early spring season for all the new growth to push out several yellow lily heads were blooming among the hundreds yet to mature, when they glimpse the sun.

A steady, light-green haze is beginning to settle over the trees and the shrubs in the ravine.  Suddenly, as though representing an overnight after-thought, trilliums are beginning to make their presence known, their drooping flower heads not quite prepared to open, but the promise is nigh. 

And we are, as every spring, grateful for those promises, they speak of the emergence of new life overtaking the old, and give hope for the future.

Button and Riley in New Hampshire, 2008

Scouting out dining room potential, 2005

Out for a winter ravine stroll

Her bright eyes named her

He imagines himself to have most likely inadvertently injected too much fast-acting insulin that day.  He was in a hurry, besides which his regimen of constantly checking his blood sugars and injecting insulin in response multiple times daily is so routine, he barely gives it a thought, other than for the purely mechanical equations that ensue. 

When he was younger he had experienced on a few occasions such severely violent hypoglycemic reactions.  He hardly anticipated one would occur when he was on a Toronto transit bus heading toward a destination that would allow him to pick up an important item he had ordered, before then heading downtown to his various appointments.

But occur it did, and he was helpless to forestall it.  As luck had it, the TTC driver, an alert woman who immediately called for help ensured a response that was swift and useful.  The response came from a nearby ambulance service because of their then-close proximity to Humber College's Osler Medical Centre.  The paramedics who knew their stuff were highly organized, professional and administered glucagon.

Then he was ambulanced directly to the William Osler Health Centre.  In retrospect, he felt he should have insisted he was well enough to return home, but he hadn't.  Once at the hospital a doctor examined him and recommended that he agree to remain there overnight for observation, and he agreed.  In his hearing, the doctor instructed the attending nurse, as he wrote those same instructions on the board at the foot of his bed, that his blood sugar levels were to be checked repeatedly throughout the night.

He was hooked up to an IV that dripped glucose steadily intravenously.  It soon became apparent that the nurses on duty had no intention whatever of checking his blood sugar, for none did.  He brought this oversight to their attention and they ignored him.  He asked a new nurse to just check the doctor's instructions and she ignored him, unconcernedly walking out of the room. 

So he kept waking himself up through the night to use his own meter and strips to check his blood sugar.  And the last reading was so high he carefully pulled the IV drip out of his wrist.

When the doctor returned the following morning he relayed to him what had occurred.  And he also had the opportunity to speak with the head nurse to inform her of his experience and his concerns and his impression of the professionalism of the nurses on staff. 

Then he returned home, cancelled a few appointments for the following days, and soon felt his normal self.

Button, 25 December 2010

 We are disconsolate.  We returned early this morning at 4:00 a.m. from our trip to one of this city's two emergency hospitals for animals, without our long-time companion, our little black-haired Pomeranian-Poodle, Button.  We have always made it a practise to take her everywhere with us.  We are quite unused to leaving her anywhere.  But of course, she is no longer there.  It was her body we left there.  Which hasn't made it any easier.  She is gone, and that is what is so painful for us.  We see her and reminders of what she has been to us, everywhere we look.

We were unable to sleep last night.  Tonight will likely be easier.  Our other little companion, Riley, has given no indication he is aware of her absence.  Which is not surprising, since they have never been companions.  Button had no interest in him from the start, when he was introduced into our home almost thirteen years ago, when she was seven years old.  They shared our home with us, and they shared our attention, but in the last few years our attention was disproportionately geared toward fulfilling Button's accelerating needs as she became more frail, more susceptible to accidents because of her loss of eyesight.

Riley slept well, last night.  And this morning he seems oblivious to her absence.  We are not.  Her absence will mean that we will take down barriers put in place to protect her from her feeble but determined march-abouts.  I have begun washing her blankets, her little coats, her collar, her harness that we use to guide her about during our daily ravine walks.

Last night, around half-past ten, she suddenly, while sleeping peacefully on the sofa downstairs, suffered a massive stroke.  She began experiencing a violent seizure.  Which I did not witness.  My husband was there, horrified at the amount of energy being expended as her neurons misfired and she was thrashing about in the throes of the seizure.  I heard his exclamation and came downstairs to find him holding her, comforting her.  And I took her as he began to call the 24-hour veterinarian hospital.  As I held her she emitted constant expressions of deep distress as though speaking of her fear and confusion, and I comforted her.

It was a long drive to the hospital.  As we parked, Riley began emitting the same sounds as Button had, obviously distressed at some dim memory that brought back to him remembrance of our having brought him there about six years ago, in an emergency that he had suffered, and which had been administered to there by one of the attending veterinarians, ameliorating his condition. 

We waited interminably it seemed, for two previous emergencies to be looked after, the owners of two cats waiting anxiously for their problems to be resolved as much as possible, before finally departing. 

Three things might have occasioned the seizure, the veterinarian whom we recognized from an earlier visit, informed us.  Although Button was now calm and relaxed, not too disoriented, she could undergo another seizure, even more dramatic, perhaps even a series of them, at any time.  The three things that might have caused the stroke were her heart, her kidneys, her brain perhaps having had oxygen or blood cut off because of a tumour.  There were tests that could be performed to determine the exact cause, and a regimen of drugs could be attempted to offset the potential of further seizures.

We were fortunate to have had her presence with us for over nineteen years, the veterinarian said.  In her professional career she hadn't seen too many of Button's age.  We had the option, now while she was not in pain, and experiencing the comfort of the seizure behind her, of ending her life.  The murmur in her heart was obvious, and the veterinarian felt the state of her heart was in what she termed a "third period" of deterioration.

What the garden in front, sans lawn, will look like in another month's time.

Most of us are aware of the supreme acuity of birds' vision.  That they also have amazing hearing abilities is likely less well known.  From the information we've been able to gather about our neighbourhood problems of crows digging up lawns, it seems that crows are able to distinguish sounds we humans could not even begin to imagine.  For example; hearing the munching sound that grubs make as they eat their way under the lawn thatch, gobbling at grass roots.  And it is those very grubs that the crows, opportunists that they are, omniverous as they are, look for.

And find them they do, pulling up large divots of lawn in their search for those grubs.  It likely isn't too far a stretch to the conclusion that those people who, caring for the health of their environment and the biosphere, eschewing the use of pesticides and herbicides, end up with grub infestations.  And they, who favour nature, also favour nature's cycles.  The grubs and the consequent crow attention is one of those cycles.

Now that it appears the crows might be finished with their lawn demolition work, our neighbours have been raking up their lawns.  Literally; wherever the crows have done their work, whatever is left of the lawns rake up readily enough, leaving little but bare soil behind.  It all looks rather dismal.  My husband was out doing that, raking up our lawn, and I was upstairs looking for online information on reactions to pneumonia inoculations.

That's when I casually also checked my email and discovered there a missive from our older son, who had also copied it to his younger brother with this startling information:

You're not going to believe this, but I just found out that the International Astronomical Union has named an asteroid after me!!!  A main belt asteroid. The page with information on it and why they named it after me is on the NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory site.  I can't believe this; first the most prestigious astronomical writing award in Canada (the RASC's Simon Newcomb Award), then this. I only found out because someone wrote an email of congratulations.

Now that's the kind of psychological tonic a mother wants to hear!  I ran downstairs and out the front door to breathlessly convey that information to my son's father.

What our oldest son is captivated by, enmeshed with, studies and observes.

Simply put, I hadn't thought to ask.  I had never previously, after all, suffered any notable reaction to any kind of inoculation I'd had.  And on this occasion my doctor who had, at the time of my general health examination, urged me to agree to having an inoculation against pneumonia, hadn't mentioned the possibility of any kind of reaction. 

Nor had the nurse, that poor harried woman, made any mention of such a thing; she was focused on just getting it over with, so she could get back to other pressing calls on her nursing skills.  It was obviously a busy morning for them.  Although when I asked, my enquiry elicited a laugh and the response that every day there turned into a madhouse.

That evening I became aware of something quite amiss.  No mere irritation in response to the inoculation, this.  My right upper-arm where the nurse had injected the serum inter-muscularly, was swollen and painful.  So much so that my physical movements were stringently impeded.  Everything became awkward that was previously simply second-nature to performing physical tasks.  And that night I slept very poorly, numerous times, very aware of great physical discomfort, my arm throbbing.

The following day I looked up online the question that was then burning in my mind: the potential side-effects relating to reactions from pneumonia inoculation.  And learned there were two types of the anti-pneumonia inoculation; one administered inter-muscularly, the other just under the skin, subcutaneously.  Just my luck.  And the incidence of reaction?  Well, 50%, so wasn't I among the fortunate ones.

Not so fortunate, as it turned out, since my upper arm continued to swell and to throb painfully, and become obviously contorted, and I became even more awkward at attempting to perform normal physical manoeuvres, to the point where my movements were almost completely curtailed, and my husband had to assist me with the most mundane efforts, including removing clothing, and alternately getting dressed.

I know that had I been forewarned, I would have shrugged off the possibility of a reaction of this type.  Not for me, since my past record was one of tolerance to foreign substances in the form of inoculations being introduced into my body.  Quite the comeuppance.

When she took me on as a new patient she went to the trouble of explaining to me how seriously she took it that all of her patients undergo yearly general medical examinations.  I had put it off for the last two years; the length of time she had been my doctor, after my previous family doctor of 40+ years' duration had retired, (and he too used to cluck at the all-too-few times I would require his professional services, let alone undergo general examinations) but she kept reminding me.  Yesterday's appointment was for that purpose.

I couldn't help evaluating her throughout the process whereby she evaluated me.  Of course, my evaluation of her was strictly superficial, lacking any authority and simply out of curiosity.  Curiosity about the resolute determination some women are endowed with, to lead normal family lives, be mothers to young children, and still, somehow, manage a medical practise.  She looks now quite different from when I first saw her a mere two years earlier.  When her obvious pride in her appearance along with her confidence as a medical practitioner quite fascinated me.

I remain fascinated by this breed of super-achieving women, but she scarcely resembles the woman she was a scant few years earlier.  Though, a change of fortune in her home life could readily enough turn that around to some degree.  This is not the first time she has told me she does not manage to sleep well at night.  Unlike her first child, this second daughter, now almost a year old, wakes up frequently throughout the night, crying.

Although initially - this woman whose raven-black hair looks more dank now than lustrous, and who has gained weight noticeably, though still dressing ultra-stylishly, foregoing the classical white-jacket uniform my previous doctor wore, and appears tired and worn, ankles swollen - she had laughed softly when I admiringly asked her how she manages it all - family and career - she said she had a lot of help, leaving me with the impression that her husband took up a lot of slack, mentioning at the same time that her father often came to visit, from Europe, for prolonged periods, to help.

On the other hand, as she examined me, speaking in her rapid, accented staccato, I strained to listen carefully, not to miss anything as she took my blood pressure, examined my heart and pulse, ears and eyes, palpated my breasts and stomach, and informed me that she had detected a skipped heartbeat that my cardiologist has not noticed.  She took a swab for a lab test for cervical cancer, and set about urging me to take a colonoscopy, then spoke of a new initiative to persuade older people like to accept an inoculation against pneumonia.  And wrote up a series of tests; bone density, mammogram, blood test, and others that she wanted me to look into and have performed.

I groaned both inwardly and conspicuously, and she responded by smiling at me with a wry expression as though to commiserate; it is not all fun and comfort inhabiting a body that is slowly wearing down, even if in my case the body is doing very well for itself, and for me. 

I gave her no advice, such as musing that in my experience a child that is as restless and dissatisfied as hers appears from her description will always be that way, and as she grows into her childhood, her teens, her adulthood, that area of her character will produce a restless, dissatisfied adult.  And as her mother, she will bear the brunt of it. 

The advice she gave to me I followed to a degree.  First off the pneumonia inoculation.  Given intermuscularly by the attending nurse.  And which I just brushed off, commenting later to my husband that I felt nothing amiss.  That is, until later, in the evening, when I began to feel as though I had somehow managed to walk into a speeding Mack truck.

Because it had rained all night and was still drizzling this morning, interspersed with a few tantalizing peeks of the sun, we dressed ourselves in rainjackets and put on our little dogs' rainjackets as well before setting out for our daily ravine walk.  About time we had some rain, actually, since we have quite a moisture deficit this spring; not the usual amount of snow fell over winter, and too few rain events this spring.

The forest floor is rudely littered at this time of year with the inevitable fall of some of the more vulnerable trees, their trunks sadly fallen across other, older fallen trunks, in various stages of decay.  In a month's time the detritus will be far less visible, once the undergrowth begins to grow from the soil and the trees and shrubs assume their green mantle.  Right now, it looks as though nature is a careless housekeeper.

Because the trees are still denuded of their leaves, sightlines from one area of the ravine to another, are fairly open, and we were able to see Schweppes and Cadbury in the distance, walking with their owner.  As it happened, they spotted us, too, and while we waved in greeting at their owner, one of the little overweight pugs trundled up the hill to where we stood waiting for them to pass by.  He came over to wheedle peanuts.  If he could, he would eat every peanut we leave in cache places that are physically accessible to his minute height.

These, though, are the peanuts we bought in a 50-pound bag from a rural feed outlet.  And while they are top-grade Virginia peanuts, they are not considered to be graded and inspected for human consumption. We cannot, therefore, be assured that there are not aflatoxins present in quantities that might pose a risk to domesticated pets.

These peanuts are meant for distribution to wildlife, and that is precisely what they will be used for, exclusively.

Throughout our walk, it either rained lightly, or the sun came out briefly, illuminating the droplets nestling inside shrunken, desiccated leaves.  And, it was fairly cool, with a brisk wind.  The strange thing is that the moment we entered our house, the sky unloosed a heavy cloudburst, battering the windows and soaking everything.

Impeccable timing.

His routine has changed somewhat, lately, making it unlikelier for us to come across him as often as we have, in the past.  He sets out later now for his daily vigorous perambulations in the ravine, and we tend to prefer going out earlier in the day, as early as our own routine allows us to.
 

We don't nearly maintain the same pace he does.  We truly do perambulate.  He percolates.  With the use of two walking sticks, one in each hand, he virtually propels himself along.  We have, in contrast, two little dogs, one for each of us to guide along the pathways.  They take their time doing so, and so do we, the pace suited to all of us.

But for our ravine acquaintance, whom we still see fairly regularly, the whole idea of taking to the ravine trails is to maintain a certain level of physical capability, to exercise his heart and lungs, and to challenge himself continually to improve on his timing.  For us, the purpose is to get out into a natural surrounding and enjoy what nature offers us, season to season.

We don't feel compelled to challenge ourselves, as Max does.  This is something he has taken up since his unexpected heart surgery.  When, afterward, he was placed in a nursing care home temporarily, as part of his recovery process.  And where his wife, for whom he is the sole caretaker, was placed alongside him, as there was no other solution that presented itself.  Until he was fully recovered and they were both able to return home.  For him then to resume her daily care.

She is not ambulatory, and cannot manage on her own to provide for her own hygiene, meals, or any other critical survival techniques.  He is devoted to her care.  And once she is carefully tended, her quotidian needs provided for, he slips away for an hour or so to tend to his own needs.  And those include his daily ravine outings, and his shopping forays; shopping for food, mostly.

Each time we come across Max at various places throughout our daily ramble, we stop to talk and chat with one another.  His speech is slightly European-accented, for he is of Swiss origin, although his language capability is impeccable.  We discuss a myriad of topics.  What continues to disturb and puzzle me about Max, a slight, underweight man some ten years our junior, is that he unvaryingly is clad, winter storm-days or spring moderation, in the same white-starched shirt, over which is an unlined bright red-cotton jacket.  His only concession to the change in seasons seems to be his headgear; in the winter a warm woollen toque and mittens, and yesterday a cotton Tilley hat to protect against the sun.

It absolutely confounds me that he is comfortable on really inclement days when the winter wind howls, snowfall is incessant and the temperature has plunged deeply and he is dressed in that red jacket which he has zipped to the top, still leaving his throat exposed and vulnerable.  I want to wrap him in a scarf, chide him for not dressing adequately to the weather.  In contrast, we have an assortment of jackets, hats and mittens to suit the weather exigencies of the day.

It is not that he hasn't the financial wherewithal.  It is obviously of little concern to him.  We know, from our conversations that he has often embarked on securing the services of professionals to alter areas of his house to make them more wheelchair-accessible.  And he has a son and daughter-in-law, both health professionals to give advice and assistance if need be.

But then, it is yet another instance of people ascribing different perspectives, priorities and values to what they see as life's necessities.  He has all the major ones figured right.

When we first moved into this house as its initial (and to this date, only) owners, our neighbours had already been in residence for two to three years, our house being the last to be built on our street, as an experimental model.  By the time we moved in, however, the neighbourhood was ready to erect fences, all the home-owners prepared to exert themselves in a grand effort to fence in their backyards.

The fencing material was bought in one fell swoop, at an advantageous price, and everyone set to, being neighbourly, doing their best to finish the job as expeditiously as possible.  With everyone working together, no one house-holder was left with the job of doing their own fence; the closest neighbours were all involved, finishing one, moving on to the next, until the job was done.

That was over twenty years ago.  Some of the fences have aged better than others; some having to be replaced, and others requiring remedial work.  Last spring, we and one of our neighbours had to replace part of the fence separating our two properties; a strong wind had brought some of the sections down.  But two people working together got the job done in good time, with a minimum of fuss and bother.

Our fence along the back has been deteriorating for years.  The back neighbours are no longer the original owners, the house having been sold three times.  The new owners are young, and they are the type of people who do nothing for themselves and have scant interest in their neighbours.  We've found them to be extremely unfriendly.

They hire people to look after their two young children, they hire lawn professionals to mow their lawns, they hire people to come in to do their house cleaning.  And, when the fences on either side behind us separating their backs from those of their neighbours fell in hefty high winds, they left it to their neighbours to do the retrofitting of the fence, unwilling to themselves become involved.

My husband has known for awhile that he'd have to fix up that fence separating our backyard from theirs.  And, he felt, early spring, right now, was the right time, before the gardens began to grow in and make the work more difficult.  Off he went to buy the stakes, the posts, the lugs and whatever else he needed, and he set to, doing the job.  No mention to the neighbour behind that as this was a shared fence separating properties he too had an obligation here.  It's just simpler to pay for the materials and do the work, and then just forget about it.

Back fence and gardens in June

More's the pity.  But those attitudes are perhaps symptomatic either of changing social values, or the presence of a family simply disinterested in their social and civil personal responsibilities to what we so often consider to be the greater social contract.

Fittingly enough for a Good Friday, yesterday gave us a lovely spring day; open blue skies, relatively mild temperature, and a brisk wind.  On our ravine ramble we came across far more people than we normally would see - usually none - this day, since it was a holiday, and people were at home to use the day for their leisure and perhaps for some, religious introspection.

In fact, we came across a couple we hadn't seen for quite a few years, although we once saw them regularly in the ravine with their white terrier-mix, Sam; a happy and friendly dog they were extremely fond of.  And therein lies a story.

About fifteen years ago people who would see one another regularly walking through the ravine began to speak of the mysterious presence of an unidentified dog.  Glimpses were had of the dog, from time to time, but it would not allow anyone to approach, running off barking as soon as it became aware its presence was noted.  We wondered if it was a stray.  People were asking was anyone posting notice of a lost dog?

And then, because its presence continued, people began to worry about the animal.  How could it, a domestic animal, survive for long on its own?  What could it be eating?  And people began to leave out dog food at various places, hoping the dog would find it to consume it.  It was a truly sad thing to contemplate, a dog on its own, somehow surviving in the midst of a semi-urban community, losing itself in the anonymity of an urban forest.

And then, someone discovered, away over on a remote portion of the ravine readily enough accessed, but not normally travelled, a dog crate and within it an assortment of rumpled and now-dirty blankets.  Obviously, this is where the dog bedded down for the night, and where it sought comfort and safety.  Someone evidently abandoned the animal, leaving it the crate and blankets as a sop to their conscience.

The knowledge of the crate's existence and whereabouts spread, and someone began seriously attempting to befriend the dog bit by bit, leaving out tempting morsels of food, approaching now and again to try to familiarize the dog with their presence.  And eventually succeeding in capturing the dog.  Proceeding then, to adopt it into their family. And that's how Sam, the white terrier-mix, got his companion.

Sam died a few years back at age 16, his human companions told us yesterday.  And the dog they had adopted out of the ravine, had been with them for eleven years.  They said the veterinarian they had taken him to had estimated him to have been two years old at the time.  He, then, died at age 13.  Sam lived a long time for a middling-sized dog, becoming more frail and memory-frazzled as time went on.

They would not think of absorbing another dog into their lives.  But they were out there, walking a small pug, an overweight roly-poly little thing, their daughter's.  Just visiting.

It has always seemed to me that the older one is, the shorter, concomitantly, should one's hair be.  Long hair that hangs around the face tends to have an alluringly lightening effect on the young, while when it is sported by those long in the tooth, it tends to make the face look drawn and peaked. 

In any event, I've always worn my hair drawn back from my face.  My husband, when we were children, used to tell me I looked like a Cocker Spaniel when I sometimes relented and left my hair to float around my face, rather than drawing it back in a pony tail, in a pair of braids, in a top-knot, or whatever.  How I used to envy girls with straight hair. 

They, it always seemed to me, could do anything with their hair.

How the girls with straight hair used to envy me, with my naturally curly, thick head of hair.  There is simply no pleasing anyone, particularly the young, although the condition is not quite confined to the young.

I've also never found that having my hair professionally done was in any way pleasing to my aesthetic vision of myself.  Somehow, hairdressers never got it right.  The solution was to cut my own hair, myself, pair of scissors in one hand, hand mirror in the other, reflecting my profile and my back, in another, larger mirror.  It works for me. 

If I ever have any doubts that I've cut evenly at the back, my husband does a double-check and then proceeds to make corrections if any are needed, and they seldom are.  That's the beauty of having curly hair; it tends to wrap itself on those occasions, hiding any possible errors.

Every now and again, when a few months have passed I begin to get that uncomfortable feeling looking at myself in the mirror, as though it was time I took to the shears again.  And then out come the scissors, the hand mirror and a comb.  I set to, and the result is a sense of satisfaction at having done the job, although it does not necessarily carry over to the next day when my hair is shampooed and I view the results.

Years ago, perhaps when she was just sixteen years of age, she developed a small growth over her left eye.  The veterinarian who looks after her didn't think much of it at the time.  Nor did we.  But the thing had a habit, over the succeeding years, of growing, then bursting.  At first we thought it would disappear.  It hasn't, it has remained there, sometimes irritating her, in turn growing, then bursting.

It is dreadfully unsightly, and obviously it becomes uncomfortable for her from time to time.  It hadn't occurred to us originally to ask whether it could be cauterized surgically, and our veterinarian hadn't suggested it.  Now that she's so much older, and though robust enough, in her 20th year, we consider her too physically frail to undergo any kind of intervention.

From time to time, when the damn thing bursts there is a generous flow of blood that she staunches by rubbing her face against whatever happens to be handy, necessitating some clean-up afterward if we're not sufficiently aware.  She herself precipitates breakage of the head when she tends to rub it too vigorously.  It doesn't present that much of an irritant to her, mostly when it has grown to a hefty size.

We're fortunate that she remains interested in everything around her, and despite her blindness manages to negotiate herself around obstacles, only bumping into objects occasionally, and we wince each time that happens.  We must guard her from stairs and anywhere she could fall, otherwise she does very well indeed.  Using a harness and keeping her on a fairly short leash assists her to negotiate the woodland trails we take her to daily.

As for her food, she relishes it far more now that she is elderly than she ever did when she was young.  Small irritants apart, like that growth over her eye, she is doing very well indeed.

As such things are wont to happen, it was inadvertence as much as imprudence that led to a recent instance of self-induced physical discomfort .  I am always struggling to produce good-tasting, nutritious meals, thinking up combinations and recipes that will appeal to my husband's sometimes-exacting standards, and mine as well.  After hearing the weather forecast for Sunday which, following Saturday's relative mildness and full sun, was destined to become overcast, windy, wet and much cooler, I soaked dried kidney beans overnight.

And, because the small portion of beef I had removed early in the morning was still frozen by the time pre-preparation came about, it cut easily into small bite-sized chunks.  I began with chopped onions and lots of chopped garlic cloves in olive oil, added the floured-and-seasoned beef chunks to brown them well, then the chopped tomatoes, tomato puree, chopped yellow and green bell peppers, drained kidney beans, and lots of chili powder and hot-pepper flakes.

It took no time before the house was pervaded by the promising aroma of the dish slowly simmering on the stove, promising to warm our very viscera at meal time on this inhospitably-cold and miserable day when the rain refused to cease, after having followed hours of snowfall.  I mentally congratulated our digestive systems and alimentary canals for their forbearance.

We enjoyed that delicious meal, with its accompanying fresh vegetable salad and concluding bowl of fresh clementine 'cuties'.  The chili was hot and delicious, as anticipated.  Neither of us felt, afterward any symptoms of say, heartburn, indigestion.  Because, we assumed, our bodies were well accustomed, after a wintertime of Sundays planned with hearty bowls of bean-and-vegetable soups.

It was not until the following day that the revenge of the hot chili flakes took their toll.  Neither of us ventured too far from a bathroom, that day.

It is both dispiriting and confounding to read in the news the latest data on the well-bring - or lack of same - of young girls in Canada through research conducted by the Public Health Agency of Canada.

Reported in the latest issue of the Canadian Medical Association Journal, there has been an upswing of suicide rates among that demographic.  Just to consider the reality that children living in a wealthy, socially advanced country of the world - where education and general well-being associated with health and social outcomes are a high priority - are vulnerable to the kind of catastrophic actions that take their own lives, is incredible to contemplate.

Boredom, the scourge of humanity, where there is nothing to advance interest in life, few values to be realized, fewer aspirations to drive the human spirit, and little hope in the future, is surely the cause.

It is true that extreme depression strikes in the unlikeliest of places, where young people living in stimulating environments among loving family members, and who put forward a facade of achievement and interest in life, occasionally surface in the news because they have, unaccountably, committed suicide.  The deep, dark depths of mental health illnesses strike anywhere, among the poor and the wealthy alike, a condition of life that many struggle to surmount.

Then there are the perceived social anomalies where those who are somehow different than what is considered the norm become outcasts, either voluntarily by revealing and revelling in their differences, challenging the social environment which then confirms them in their outcast state, leaving them isolated and bereft of emotional support to struggle for acceptance among their peers.  For some, that struggle and the ensuing attitudes of hopelessness and despair lead to suicide.

Those young people whose gender and sex orientation is different from the acceptable norm suffer rejection and misery.

And then, there is a demographic whose presence in the ranks of suicidal teens is greatly disproportionate to their general presence in society, Canada's aboriginal children.  Whose experience can be very much unlike the mainstream of young people growing up in Canadian society.  Children who live a tribal-clan existence on First Nations reserves, a completely artificial lifestyle where reserve aboriginals who express the desire to live as their ancestors did in accord with nature and the land they revere, in fact live an isolated existence most often without a larger purpose.

Their needs for emotional, educational and social support are most often absent.  In these often dysfunctional enclaves, parents fall victim to the mind-numbing allure of addictions to relieve their own boredom.  A boredom that results from having no goals, no aspirations, no opportunities, few responsibilities and fewer mental and physical challenges.  It's just as well that the latest Government of Canada budget has allocated a hefty additional sum in support of aboriginal education; it is sorely needed.

But greater educational opportunities can do only so much, when there is no general respect for achieving education instilled among the First Nations populations, where parents fail to urge their children to value education to enable them to achieve aspirational goals.  Hardly surprising when the parents themselves have never demonstrated to their children an interest in or willingness to become something other than bored, drug- and alcohol-addicted layabouts, existing on the public dole.

Suicide rates for girls aged 10 to 14 - the study just released illustrates - increased 50% from 0.6 per 100,000 in 1980, to 0.8 per 100,000 in 2008.  Among girls aged 15 to 19, the rate nearly doubled - from 3.7 to 6.2 per 100,000 during the same period.  Suicide is identified as the second leading cause of death - first is the unintentional injury causing death, such as car crashes - among 10- to 19-year-olds; 20.4% of all deaths in that age group.

Many of these deaths attributed to suicide are identified as being the result of a "game" where children strangle themselves - or their friends - to cut off the flow of blood and oxygen to the brain, resulting in an euphoric high.  During the process, the object is to feel light-headed, experience the high, then release pressure before passing out.  Sometimes, that plan goes awry, and death results.

"Among female children and adolescents overall suicide rates have increased, with suffocation becoming the most common method used", reported researchers.  It is a woeful expression of societal failure to answer to the needs of the most promising and the most vulnerable in society.