HEART and STROKE SAGA III

On Wednesday, December 13^th at approximately 7:45am EST or 4:45am PST (the time zone Ron’s and my biological clocks are attuned to) we entered the Salle de bal Victoria Ballroom on the second floor of the downtown Ottawa Marriott Hotel. The buffet breakfast was in full swing, but we were still in time for food and the opening remarks of the new head of the Scientific Review Committee of the Heart and Stroke Foundation. At 8:30 EST the large gathering dispersed and headed for their appropriate committee rooms—Ron to the Salon Albert and me across the hall from him, to the Salon Laurier. Both rooms were located on the Lower Level or Niveau inférieur. (I think the French appellation here is a bit insulting, n’est-ce pas?)

This year Ron was assigned to the Basic science stroke/neurophysiology/neuroregulation Committee while I was assigned to one of two committees devoted to Clinical cardiovascular and cerebrovascular research. Each committee had a Chair and a Deputy Chair and the members came from all parts of the country. On my committee both the Chair and the Deputy Chair were female as were the majority of the committee members. On Ron’s committee the opposite gender distribution was the case.

My committee had 39 applications to consider within a day and a half. Each application was summarized and judged on its merits by two committee members who had been assigned beforehand to do so. After their presentations, the debate began, with each application ultimately being awarded a numerical score from 1 – 5, with marks of 3.5 or better deemed to fall in the fundable range. There was little time for chitchat. Everyone got right down to the business at hand. I was impressed by the quality of the discussion and the energy and conscientiousness of my committee. We broke twice for coffee and once for lunch. However, by 6 pm everyone was ready to call it quits for the night.

The next morning the committees regrouped at 8 am, starting with a working continental breakfast served in their committee rooms. I cannot remember exactly when my group wrapped up. I think it was around 12:30 pm. Most of the members had their luggage with them, ready to go, to catch their flights home. Fortunately the weather, although frigid, was sunny, and there were no problems at the airport. Ron’s committee continued working until 2pm, at which time he and I met and chatted with the HSF staff. Our return flight was not scheduled to leave until the following day at 6:30 pm EST.  

Our room at the hotel was #722, one of the rooms which the Ottawa Marriott has refurbished to accommodate disabled patrons. Essentially this means that the bathroom has a roll-in shower and a tilting mirror to accommodate guests who use wheelchairs. When Ron and I first arrived at the Marriott three years ago, #722 was one of two rooms we ended up occupying. We had one room for showering, #722, and another room diagonally across the hall for sleeping and using the toilet. In the intervening years the hotel had addressed a number of Ron’s earlier criticisms.

1. #722’s bathroom room now had handle grips on both sides of the toilet, and

2. It now had two double beds for sleeping instead of a single double.

Nonetheless, the hotel still does not stock bed bars but Ron was able to improvise with one of the dining room chairs from the salle de bal Victoria which had a handle grip on the top of the chair’s back.

As Ron continually points out to hotel management in the establishments we have patronised since his stroke five years ago, a bed bar is a simple, inexpensive device which is indispensable for handicapped people, especially when they, like him, do not have the proper use of one side of their body. Ron’s right arm and leg still suffer from the after effects of his brain attack. He has to wear a brace in his right foot which slips into his shoe permitting him to walk short distances with the use of a cane; he is still only able to type with the thumb and index finger of his left hand; and he needs a bed bar so that he can pull himself upright in bed.

I doubt if there is a hotel or motel in Canada which does not have a crib or a high chair, but we have yet to find one with a bed bar.

In half-hearted defence of hotel management, most of whom belong to the class of people Linda Ferron terms “the temporarily ENabled”, I will say that, prior to Ron’s stroke, I had never heard of a bed bar either. Nor would I have been able to pick one out at a Red Cross Medical Equipment Rental Store. For those of you who have never seen one a bed bar is constructed out of aluminum for easy manipulation; it is sort of U-shaped with two long ends which attach to a handle bar and slip between a box spring and a mattress.

However, there was another problem with room #722, one which we only became cognizant of on the last night of our current stay. While I was freezing my ears and the tip of my nose, walking the three long blocks to the Parliament Buildings in minus 29 degrees (wind chill included) to check out the skating rink on the hill established to celebrate Canada’s 150^th anniversary, and, while Ron was conferring with Jean Woo, the seventh floor filled up with the parents and siblings of nine-year-old boys. The lads and their families were in Ottawa to take part in hockey games to be played on the outdoor rink on Parliament Hill over the weekend.

Ron and I remained innocent of their presence until approximately 8pm when the whole gang arrived on the floor after dinner, with much whooping and hollering. We figured the kids would probably settle down around nine and peace would reign. By 9:30 pm the rectangular hallway which accesses all the rooms on the floor was still being used as a race track for shrieking children. By this time I decided it was time to play the Grinch and dampen spirits. I donned a T-shirt over my night dress and stepped into the hall where I was greeted by a gaggle of parents who were drinking straight vodka from hotel glasses. When I voiced my complaint one of the moms said:

            “Wow. We didn’t know there was anyone else here. They told us at the desk that this was the team floor.”

            “Well, try to keep it down,” I grumbled. “Some of us need to sleep.”

            By 10 pm, after a couple of calls to the front desk and a couple of subsequent visits to the floor by the manager, I nodded off to dreamland. (I always use ear plugs.) I believe that Ron was not so lucky. Ironically, this, too, was a repeat performance from 2015 when the floor had filled up with a team of 20-something male hockey players who seemed more intent on partying than they did on preparing themselves for their games the next day. After my repeatedly calling the desk to complain about the noise, the hubbub eventually died down around 2 am.

            The next morning management couldn’t have been nicer to us, offering us a complimentary breakfast, a complimentary lunch and permission to check out at 4 in the afternoon. At some point in these discussions, amidst the constant jolly holiday celebrations and staff parties that noisily over crowd the lounges and dining areas of the hotel at this time of the year, I did manage to glean the reason for housing teams on the 7^th floor: It is the only floor in the hotel which is completely furnished with double beds.

(To be con’t.) 

HEART and STROKE SAGA II

The sun was rising as our WestJet flight to Ottawa took off from the Edmonton International Airport. Despite murmurings amongst the flight crew about a blizzard in Toronto which was creating havoc and diverting planes, the stewardesses greeted their passengers with confidant smiles and assurances of a pleasant flight. These did little to allay my concerns about an unscheduled overnight stop in Flinflon, e.g., which would cause Ron and I to miss the Heart and Stroke meetings. However, after a leisurely breakfast and a cup of heavily creamed coffee, my attention was quickly diverted by the tablet which our attendant gave me. I pulled a pair of ear phones out of my purse and immediately began playing with the touch screen. As some of you blog followers might recall, I am a technopeasant when it comes to up to date technology. This was my first time at the controls of the wondrous device. To my surprise the tablet was amazingly easy to navigate, with touch actually proving faster and easier than type. Nonetheless at length I grew bored. After winning back to back games of Free Cell and Spider Solitaire, I flipped through my options and settled on a movie: War for the Planet of the Apes.

            I will not attempt to justify my selection by suggesting that I was familiar with the critical acclaim the film has received. Nor will I argue that I know first-hand how impaired one’s emotions and judgment can become at 37,000 feet. (Hadn’t I been moved to tears by Demi’s Moore’s portrayal of G.I. Jane on a trans-Atlantic flight Ron and I had made a couple of decades ago?) Let me simply say that I have been fascinated by chimpanzees for much of my adult life. I love Jane Goodall and admire her tireless work on the chimps’ behalf.  Any movie which shows how compassionate and intelligent apes can be compared to humans immediately draws me in. However, just at the point in the film, (the point at the bottom of the plot W where the hero’s fortunes look the bleakest; in this case where Caesar, the head ape, is splayed out on an X- shaped cross), the Captain came on the air to announce that we were beginning our descent into Ottawa, where the temperature was minus three degrees and a snowstorm was blowing.

            We landed safely but were forced to wait out on the tarmac for a gate to be freed up so we could disembark. All the flight cancellations in Toronto had caused a ripple effect. Gates in Ottawa were at a premium. Thus it was here, stalled on a runway, where I beheld a wonder, the like of which I had never before witnessed. Seven huge snowplows sped nose to tail up and down the runways clearing snow. Each individual snow plow was a marvel in its own right. A large cab sat atop pairs of huge tires. A giant blade was affixed to the front of each machine while two more sets of monster tires backed two more giant scrapers down the body of the beast. A mixture of sand and salt fell from its bowels. Completing the spectacle, at the rear of the cavalcade, was a smaller snow plow which threw a plume of snow high into the dark sky. All the plows’ headlights were on full. It was only mid-afternoon EST but the snow was falling in thick clumps. Vision was blurry at best. Yet here were seven snowplows racing, circling and cavorting in unison in a stunning exhibition which might best be described as SYNCHRONISED SNOWPLOWING. In time a gate came free and our aged 737 moved into the freed up space.

            Being disabled Ron was able to enrol in WestJet’s One Person One Fare program which allows a personal attendant to accompany him for free (except for taxes). Ron and his attendant get to sit in the premium seats at the front of the plane, close to the wash room. We are also able to take advantage of the perks afforded the occupants of these seats: free snacks, free meals, free drinks, free movies. Needless to say I take full advantage of these special treats while Ron mostly sits with his eyes closed, sipping from an occasional glass of orange juice, stoically enduring the ordeal of the flight from his aisle seat. A couple of things have surprised me on these flights:

1. How early in the day some people start to consume alcohol, and

2. How much alcohol they can consume.

While the disabled are allowed to pre-board, they are the last to disembark. The gangplanks have to be cleared before the wheelchairs arrive. This year there was a new addition for some of the wheelchairs: a white motorized device that affixes to the chair and takes the load off the pushers. We saw only a few of these small machines but I do understand their value. Most of the people pushing the passengers who need wheelchairs are women. Pushing Ron up a long ramp to a departure lounge, down long corridors and up and down elevators to the luggage carousels is no mean feat. I have enough trouble bringing up the rear and navigating with two sets of carry-on baggage. Needless to say we are learning to travel lighter and lighter.

One footnote might be appropriate here: Over the three years in which Ron has been enrolled in OPOF, it seems that WestJet is refining this program. In a couple of airports some of the staff suggested that it was my job, as Ron’s personal attendant, to push his wheelchair. Fortunately, although I was called on to perform, I never actually had to do the pushing. I think it was obvious that, realistically, I couldn’t handle the baggage and push Ron, too.

Saga to be con’t.

HEART and STROKE SAGA

For the past three years Ron and I have served as lay reviewers for research grant applications submitted to the Heart and Stroke Foundation for funding. Each year clinicians, physicians, academics, cardiologists, neurologists, and therapists etc. meet in mid-December in Ottawa. They convene in different committees to review and debate the scientific merits and feasibility of the annual grant proposals submitted to the Heart and Stroke Foundation. The grant applications are made by researchers ranging from individual neophytes all the way up to teams of senior researchers well-established as world leaders in their fields. Each grant application is reviewed in committee by the applicants’ peers who then submit a report to the Heart and Stroke Foundation stating the strengths and weaknesses of each application along with the committee’s recommendation whether or not the application merits funding. Any committee member who might, for various reasons clearly spelled out by HSF, be deemed to have a Conflict of Interest when a particular grant comes up for review, has to leave the room and cannot be privy to the debate or to the committee’s decision.

An additional requirement which the Heart and Stroke Foundation makes of its grant applicants is that they also submit a summary of their proposed research written in a language which members of the general public can understand. And here is where Ron and I and other lay reviewers step in. Prior to the Ottawa meetings we have received, read and commented on each lay summary made by the applicants to the committees to which we have been assigned. Each committee considers around forty submissions. After each application has been debated in committee the lay reviewer is asked to give his or her assessment of the project. If a lay reviewer finds a project unacceptable, their report also goes forward to HSF and no research funds will be awarded until the lay summary is rewritten and satisfies the reviewer’s expectations.

The tricky part of the annual gathering is getting everyone to Ottawa in mid-December around the solstice and the beginning of winter, when temperatures are wont to plunge and snow is likely to blow.

Let this year’s saga begin.

LEG ONE

One of the problems with flying to Ottawa is that, outside of the big Canadian cities, there are very few direct flights to our nation’s capital. Any flight to Ottawa from Comox, for example, our preferred point of departure, involves changing planes en route. That is the given. Add to this a new wrinkle. The disabled, the large and the tall can encounter problems fitting into the tiny washrooms on the new Bombardier turbo jets that have become the normal aircraft for travelling to and from secondary sites. Scheduling a route to Ottawa can get complex. The comparatively comfortable 737’s now make few flights into Comox. However, with the assistance of a flight advisor from WestJet Ron came up with an itinerary that fit his bill:

            Comox to Edmonton via 737. (Overnight at the airport hotel)

            Edmonton to Ottawa via 737 the next morning.

But they had not factored in fog.

Fortunately our afternoon flight to Edmonton was only delayed and not cancelled as many subsequently were. After a wait of thirty minutes our plane appeared out of the grey bank and we were good to go. After takeoff we were immediately above the fog, and suffused in brilliant sunshine. This was the third time Ron and I had taken the late afternoon flight from Comox to Edmonton. On a clear day, with the sunset painting the tips of the snow-capped mountains pink, I am convinced this is one of the most beautiful flights in the world.

It was dark when our plane landed in Edmonton. A half moon hung in the clear, cold sky as a WestJet attendant wheeled Ron all the way to the Renaissance Edmonton Airport Hotel. As she rolled Ron through the grand, circular corridor which curves upward in a semi-spiral to the expansive lobby, I felt like we had landed in a galaxy “far, far away.”  In this ultra modern hotel all the furniture looks to have been designed by Pablo Picasso or Salvador Dali—all form and dubious function—and The Library has no books. However, the Halo had plenty of food. After eating our meal in the company of a large party of Christmas revellers, who feasted on the far side of the chain mail curtain which separated us, we retired early and staggered to the departure gate, the next morning, at dawn.

To be con’t.