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Sunday, June 25, 2017

Most Type 2 Diabetics Who Are Not on Insulin Do Not Require Constant Blood Glucose Monitoring │ Doctors and Their Suicidally Silent Depressions

With just myself home last evening, I opted to tune in a movie, hoping I wouldn't end up with a loser like the one I sat through the previous Saturday ─ a stinker that had me rooting for the intrepid astronauts battling a squid-like creature that developed from a microbe picked up on Mars.

The astronauts sacrificed themselves to prevent the creature from reaching Earth, but their sacrifices were in vain. It outsmarted them, and was patiently waiting inside the module as some poor Thai or Vietnamese fishermen worked their way over to the floating module and pried open its hatch.

And that was that ─ the asses who produced this atrocity didn't bother offering anything more. Humanity was done.

The movie I selected last evening and watched was titled A Cure for Wellness.

Just towards the end it appeared to me that the main character had failed in his struggle against the diabolical spa in the Alps, and was now destined to become one of the willing victims.

However, he managed to access the final vestiges of normalcy ─ something I was not expecting; and in so doing, was able to intervene when the spa director ─ actually, a baron over 200 years old ─ was about to force his bound virginal daughter into a rape so that he could impregnate her and thereby keep his family line genetically pure.

It looked like the main character and the young lass rode off into the night on a bicycle to start a life together somehow, leaving the spa structure ─ formerly a fortress ─ burning down for the second time in its history; but that of course leaves far too much unexplained to just simply accept that it would be a case of HEA.

However, at least I could hold onto that potential outcome and go to bed far less disturbed than I did a week earlier.

I must say, I had no idea that actress Mia Goth was as ample as she proved to be in the topless scene where her father tries to sexually penetrate her.  

If I was the young man of my 20s, I am sure that I would have fallen in love with the character she played, wishing that I had someone like her to cycle away with from the bleakness of my existence to a life somewhere with her.

I don't remember when it was that I made it to bed ─ I just know that it was after 11:00 p.m. And after my usual night of broken sleep, I made one last bid to gather just a little more slumber after checking the time around 5:44 a.m.

That gave me about another hour in bed.

My youngest stepson Poté had come home at some point last night after my bedtime, and was still in bed when I went downstairs to make my day's first hot beverage.

Anon, though, he would rise, for he apparently had to work today.

I had a vague hope of getting out for some local grocery shopping, but priority was to be given to an exercise session in the backyard tool shed before my younger brother Mark managed to show up from where he had spent the night at his girlfriend Bev's home.

So around 9:00 a.m., I was out in the shed tackling that exercise. It was already becoming humid and warm in there, so it is well that I got at it when I did.

I don't think Mark showed up until shortly after 10:00 a.m. I was busy building the foundation of a new post at my Latin Impressions website, the weakest of my six hosted websites where visitors are concerned.

Mark was to seek a nap late in the morning; and while he was doing so, I fixed myself my first meal of the day.

I don't know how successful Mark's bid at napping was, but when he emerged from his bedroom, it wasn't too long thereafter that I heard him readying to leave for the afternoon ─ with some cans of a brand of coolers.

I verified that he intended to go somewhere where he could enjoy some sunshine and have some peaceful drinks. My guess is that he would either go to Bear Creek Park here in Surrey, or maybe go down by the Fraser River.

Since I was home alone once he was away (my eldest stepson Tho had spent the night elsewhere), I was soon to get in some sunning on the backyard sundeck.

That session commenced at 1:30 p.m., and I wrapped it up at 2:39 p.m. I could barely endure lying out there ─ the day is so hot! In fact, when I came inside, the heat began to feel as if it was approaching an intolerable level.

I leafed through the morning Province downstairs; and then I came upstairs here to the room where I have my computer ─ and a rapidly-rotating ceiling fan. Conditions felt better.

Now for want of anything else, I am going to post this scan I made of an old photo from the collection of my mother Irene Dorosh ─ there is no information on the back of the photo, so I have no idea when nor where the photo was taken:

You may or may not know that Type 2 diabetics do not necessarily have to take insulin, but you likely have the image of diabetics keeping tabs on their blood sugar levels with periodic needle-pricks of a finger so that they can assess just where they stand at any given time.

Well, research has come out with the claim that for most of those diabetics who do NOT need to take insulin, this practice is unnecessary:


Here are a couple of other reports concerning that study:



As a woman in that last report states, she was rather obsessive about this monitoring.

That leads me to wonder how many of these qualifying diabetics are so ingrained with the notion of this testing being essential that they will be unable to fully stop it, even if they learn that it may not be of any benefit?

Another item that caught my interest today relates to suicide rates according to professions.

For example, this October 18, 2011, article titled The 19 Jobs Where You're Most Likely To Kill Yourself at BusinessInsider.com seems to have considerable variance when compared to this May 11, 2017, article titled The Jobs With The Highest And Lowest Suicide Rates at HuffingtonPost.ca.

But accepting that physicians are in an elevated risk of suicide by virtue of their profession, the following report gives an itneresting perspective on it:


Although he did not link to it, he did cite this article as a reference:


The New York Times had a related article that was published back on January 11, 2016: Silence Is the Enemy for Doctors Who Have Depression.

I have to admit always wondering why professionals like physicians would be more likely to suicide than some poor working slob with no hopes of anything better in life, performing the same mindless drudgery all bloody day long ─ each and every day of the workweek ─ for a working lifetime.

It would kill me. 

Well, I had better get this post finished up and published ─ for all I know, my wife Jack may yet show up late this afternoon or early evening from Vancouver, and my brother Mark may even arrive home from the bar early.

So here now is a journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster. I was renting in a private house on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

At the time, I was about a month into a full-time contract of about three months duration at a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is known today as Fraserside Community Services Society.

I was a swamper on their blue pick-up truck, a role that I had held previously on a very part-time basis ─ off and on ─ back to at least 1974. The driver of that truck was usually a grand gal in her early 40s named Esther St. Jean.

In its earliest years, S.A.N.E. was housed in an old building on Carnarvon Street. That building was torn down long ago, but back then it was located where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station now opens up onto Carnarvon Street.

There was some manner of S.A.N.E. social function set for that evening that I had only mentioned once before in my journal, so I have no details concerning it to recall.
FRIDAY, June 25, 1976

Up by 6:30 a.m.

The day wasn't too hard on me, though the excessive vegetation (including a whole turnip for breakfast) upset the order of my digestive system.

I got off work today quite before 3:00 p.m., and shall be in shape for the supper at S.A.N.E. tonight.

I stopped at Safeway for $5.81 worth of groceries.

I was soon in bed having a short nap.

The supper went well. In all I had 8 pieces of chicken, a fair amount of Chinese food, 2 pieces of cake and 2 buns, potato salad, a cup of coffee, and 2 glasses of wine. 

We played a number of games for prizes (I won a pair of socks in a card draw).

In attendance among the guys were Mike Fleming and friend Ken, Bill Sevenko, Gordie, Thor, and Peter; Took couldn't get himself out of the Dunsmuir in time.

The evening didn't break up till after 10:00 p.m.

Bed at 11:00 p.m. 
Everyone I mentioned were likely part-time employees of S.A.N.E. Evidently one employee never managed to extricate himself from the Dunsmuir Hotel beer parlour to attend.

But was the function held at S.A.N.E. itself? I have no idea. If so, then the absence of "Took" was unforgivable, for the hotel and the building housing S.A.N.E. were practically neighbours.

I think the guy still owed me $20, too. 

He could afford to drink beer all evening, but not pay me up.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Regular Consumption of Any Kind of Fried Potatoes Lead to a Shorter Life Expectancy │ Another Analysis Finds Overdiagnoses Are Rife in Mammography

My inebriated younger brother Mark never showed up last evening until something like 10:45 p.m.

Initially I was annoyed because I was not interested in feeling compelled to sit up much longer ─ especially with the sort of company he would be providing.

He fussed around in the kitchen fixing himself a sandwich or some such, and ate it in the dark at the dining room table. I had the latest episode of American Ninja Warrior tuned in, and he made a couple of comments concerning the action.

Although he was out of sight from where I was seated in the living room, he had direct view of the T.V.

It had dawned upon me that when Mark is in this state, he is generally unable to retain consciousness once he has eaten anything. The show was in its late stages, and Mark encouragingly grew silent.

Then when the programme was done, I peeked to where he was seated. His position was turned so that he was facing directly to the T.V., but he was indeed unconscious, his head and shoulders slumped down and somewhat forward.

So I tuned in a news station, and headed on upstairs to start readying for bed. It was around 11:30 p.m., I would say.

As I readied for bed, I heard a considerable thump sound, and supposed that Mark likely took a dive to the floor.

I could hear movement after that, so I didn't feel much compunction to venture downstairs to see if all was well. Instead, I quickly finished readying for bed, and then shut myself up in my bedroom and sought to sleep, earplugs in place.

Although I had my usual broken sleep overnight, I never felt sufficiently awake until a little after 5:00 a.m. to bother paying a visit to the bathroom and drinking some water.

I was visited with a little further sleep, and believe that it was 6:21 a.m. when next I checked the time and decided to get myself up.

When I went downstairs to make my day's first hot beverage, I noticed that Mark was too damned drunk last night to bother locking the front door before he went to bed ─ whenever that may have been.

Neither of my stepsons were home overnight, so I knew neither of them was likely responsible.

I got busy adding the final bit of content to the post I have been working on for over 10 days at my Lawless Spirit website, finally publishing the post in the late morning: Holistic Vancouver II.

It was my intention to get in some early exercise in the backyard tool shed before Mark was up for the day, so just ahead of 8:00 a.m. I got busy making that happen.

I weighed myself afterward while entirely undressed ─ I was around 187 or 188 pounds. I am sure that was why the pull-ups were especially strenuous, as they have been the past recent sessions. My normal adult weight is in the low 180s.

Mark was not to rise until around 9:00 a.m. He bade me a "Good morning" as he passed by the room here upstairs where I keep my computer, and I responded in kind.

And that was the entirety of our conversation this day.

He had returned to bed late in the morning before I had quite finished the website post I was involved with. I made myself my first meal of the day, and then I also sought a nap.

I think it was 12:49 p.m. once I was in bed, lying upon my left side to facilitate digestion. I remained in bed for an hour, by which time Mark had risen and left for the day. If all goes well between him and his girlfriend Bev, he will spend tonight at her home.

My youngest stepson Poté had come home in the latter morning, and pretty much gone directly to bed. He was still there when I rose from my nap in the early afternoon, so I decided to take on a sunning session on the backyard sundeck.

I believe that I may have started it at 2:01 p.m., and was out there for well over an hour. It is getting hot hereabouts!

Poté had still not risen.

I had yet to go through the morning Vancouver Sun, so I did that while enjoying my day's second hot beverage.

And then I came upstairs and began work upon this blog post.

Poté rose while I was engaged with it, and his older brother Tho also showed up.

I want now to post the following scanned image ─ the description beneath is from the Google album where I have the scan saved:

The reverse of this photo is date-stamped as September 1983, so I imagine that was when the roll of film that this particular exposure was on was developed.

The photo is from the collection of my mother Irene Dorosh, and has this printed in ink on the back:

She and her husband Alex managed to get in a fair amount of traveling.

A dual question: Do you enjoy French fries? And if you do, how often do you have any?

The following report concerns a recent study, but there is considerable opinion also included in the report that is the authour's alone:


I rarely eat potatoes anymore, let alone those that have been fried up as French fries.

Here are a couple of other far less jaundiced reports on the study:



Clearly it is not the potato itself that is the problem ─ the problem lies with how the potato is prepared for the table.

So just how much do you love your French fries and potato chips and so forth? As those reports on the study points out, having servings just two times a week can double your risk of an early death; and that risk elevates the more times a week that you help yourself to these darned things.

Do you love them enough to part with some of your life? I sure don't.

On an entirely different topic now, it seems that no matter how many studies ─ and overviews or assessments of such studies ─ get published which make conclusions that mammograms have an exaggerated value in terms of saving lives from breast cancer, there is little movement to effectively cut back on the procedure.

Note this recent report:


And this was the reference give at the finish of the article, but which was not linked to:


Naturally reports such as that at NPR.org can easily find specialist naysayers disputing the study conclusions, but who were not involved with the study. After all, they clearly do have a vested interest in the Cancer Industry.

I find little inclination to listen to such voices. They make their living in that industry, so there is scant motivation to halt lucrative screening procedures.

And with that stated, I am going to close out today's blog post now with a journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

My quarters were pretty darned small, and I was renting them in a house on Ninth Street, about two houses up from Third Avenue.

I was probably about a month into full-time employment on a three-month contract with a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society.

I was a swamper on their blue pick-up truck.

This was nothing new for me ─ I had probably worked on a very part-time basis with S.A.N.E. all the way back to at least 1974.

In those early years, S.A.N.E. was housed in an old building that has since been torn down long ago; but back then it was sited right where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station now spreads out onto Carnarvon Street.

The driver of the truck was generally Esther St. Jean, a true sweetheart in her early 40s who was a pleasure to share company with.

I had reluctantly been out the previous evening, and never made it to bed until about 12:20 a.m.
THURSDAY, June 24, 1976

I got up shortly before 6:30 a.m.

I lied down for an hour (8:00 a.m. - 9:00 a.m.), reluctantly getting up after some REMs.

Last night could have been much worse, but Cathy only had $4, Bill $3, Don nothing, and I faked ownership of but $2 ─ I had $20 more.

There wasn't much bad work for me today, and I in fact acquired 2 pairs of footwear ─ a pair of stylish black boots and some tan loafers.

When I got home after an afternoon that found me barely able to stay awake, the landlady bugged me to mail my census form. I'll do it tonight, leaving for mom's just after 6:30 p.m.

Mom was there when I arrived.

My mail consisted of an Olympic & Western Lottery ticket from North Vancouver Canadian Big 4 Amateur Football Conference, a second notice of registration for a ticket in the Golden Sweepstakes, an offer from International Correspondence Schools, and a Worldwide Church of God letter.

I had a nutritious snack, thanks to mom, and I borrowed her June Let's Live.  

I thought strongly on my way home of how necessary a lottery win is to my existence.

Bed at 10:50 p.m.
I had gone out the evening before after my old friend William Alan Gill unexpectedly showed up with my younger brother Mark's girlfriend Catherine Jeanette Gunther and her brother Don.

Bill was probably driving them, for Mark likely was working an afternoon / evening shift at the mill that employed him.

Jeanette wanted to celebrate her official divorce that was granted that day.

As I said earlier, I only went reluctantly, for I loved Jeanette. We hit one neighbourhood pub out in Surrey or Delta along Scott Road. I feigned being as broke as the others because I needed my $20 to live on, and nor was I interested in staying out late at my expence.

As it was, Bill had to pipe up and suggest touring both Crescent Beach and White Rock, effectively keeping me out late anyway ─ but at least I still had my $20.

That must have been annoying about my landlady. When she first left the census form with me by leaving it in a special receptacle in the basement for any mail that came for me, she also left a note saying that she would collect the form from me later. And so I filled out the portion relevant to me, and put it back in the receptacle.

And there it sat for two days.

Yet now she comes after me about not having yet mailed it?! Apparently it was due at Census by June 1st, yet she only left it for me on June 22nd. 

Anyway, after having put in my day at S.A.N.E., I set off on the 1½-hour hike early that evening to check for mail at the home of my mother Irene Dorosh off in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey.

That little house no longer exists, but its address used to be 12106 - 90th Avenue.

I would have only visited for a comparatively short while, for I still had the 1½-hour hike all the way back to New Westminster to get to my room again.

How many young people today have that sort of activity drive? No one walks anywhere anymore!

Lotteries were becoming a huge thing in my life ─ my sole hope of ever escaping the bare existence that was my lot.

Friday, June 23, 2017

The Iron Man │ Eat Apples and Their Skins to Burn Fat and Slow Ageing │ Research Identifies Why Starvation Dieting Fails

Although I cannot now recall the precise time that I made it to bed last evening, it was ahead of 11:00 p.m., and I got to lock up the house before my youngest stepson Poté had come home from wherever it is that he persists in going so often in the evenings.

My younger brother Mark had managed to retain consciousness throughout the evening once he was home from the bar, but he had managed to curb his drinking due to a 6:30 p.m. dental appointment he kept for a crown procedure.

I took advantage in one break in sleep overnight to use the bathroom and drink some water, and it may have been around 6:21 a.m. when I checked the time this morning and made the choice to rise.

Mark of course had long gone to work, and so had my eldest stepson Tho. I was a little surprised to find that Poté was up and readying for work. He'll be staying out late one too many nights eventually ─ he can sleep through alarms with the best of 'em, so he's definitely taking chances.

If I am remembering correctly, it may have been something like 6:38 a.m. when he headed out the front door to his car to get away to work.

I got carried away this morning watching YouTube videos instead of getting to the task of finishing up the last bit of work I should have managed to put into the post this morning that I have been building at my Lawless Spirit website for the past 10 or so days.

I had come across an Australian interview from this past May with former actress Teri Garr ─ a lovely blonde who always attracted me in the 1970s and 1980s. I never knew that she had multiple sclerosis.

When I watched the interview, I just assumed that it was age and her MS that seemed to have affected her face somewhat, and she seemed a little thoughtful and slow of speech. But that Wikipedia article on her that I linked to said that in 2006 she suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm and required considerable therapy thereafter to regain speech and motor skills.

Man, time is a wretched bugger!

So I kept looking up videos of her in her beautiful prime on various talk shows.

Anyway, I wanted to get out fairly early today to do a couple of errands, so sloughing of time as I did meant that I never even began any work on that post at Lawless Spirit before I had to start readying for my hike this flawlessly sunny day.

I think that I got out of here before 9:30 a.m.

My first destination was the ATM outside the Coast Capital Savings Credit Union building over by the King George SkyTrain Station. I had a cheque to deposit from my brother Mark ─ his half of the annual home insurance that we had to pay for June 14.

And once I had gotten that done, I proceeded along the King George Boulevard to Save-On-Foods to do some grocery shopping.

So by the time I was back home again, I had covered at least 2½ miles.

It was only then that I got to work on that website post, but I only put in just over half of the work that I had intended for today.

Oh, well; I will simply top it off tomorrow morning and then publish it.

That walk was all the exercise that I managed to acquire today. I got in some sunning on the backyard sundeck afterward, commencing my session at 12:45 p.m. and knocking off at 1:59 p.m. I wasn't feeling too overheated, so I checked out the backyard tool shed where I normally exercise, but it was a little too warm in there by then.

In yesterday's post, I mentioned that on that date back in 1976, a book I had mail-ordered haf arrived from the F.&S.F. Book Co. of Staten Island in New York: The Iron Man by Robert E. Howard. It was a hardcover published by Donald M. Grant.

Supposedly, only 1,600 copies were published.

Here is a scan of the front dust jacket (along with the spine) of my copy:

This is the inside flap from that front dust jacket:

And now here is the back dust jacket, followed by the inside flap of that same back dust jacket:

And finally, the package shipping label and the postage stamps used in getting the package to me:

Note that the address on that shipping label was for my mother Irene Dorosh's home ─ it was my main mailing address. But that house no longer exists, so no structure is extant any longer that bears that same address.

Do you enjoy eating apples ─ skin and all?

I am sure most commercial apples are likely polluted with insecticides ─ and whatever it is that is used to make so many apples skins so unnaturally waxy.

I bet that coating makes washing off any insecticides a major undertaking, since the waxy coating would serve as a shield to protect the underlying insecticide.

Those are just my thoughts.

As I am sure you have, I have seen articles extolling the nutritional health benefits of apples, but I bet you have not likely seen an article that gets as specific into detail concerning those benefits as does the following report:


I have of late fallen away from eating apples very often, but methinks that I am going to have to correct that error.

I'll look for apples that have not been waxed. Sometimes in the Fall, apples such as the McIntosh will still have a dust-like covering all over the skin. The correct term for that dusty material is bloom, and it's the surest sign that the apple has not been washed and/or polished.

A couple brief descriptions of bloom are here and here. I am very familiar with it on certain plums, and on concord grapes.

That apple article mentioned that they have a substance that can help with the metabolism of body fat. This should certainly interest people preoccupied with diets and efforts at weight loss.

And so should the following study on mice ─ it has found an explanation of why voluntary starving is ineffective as a means of weight loss. These three reports speak of the study:




The only way most dieters are going to lose weight is by abandoning those fat-producing carbohydrates. It is not the healthy, natural fats in the foods we eat that have been the problem.

And those same healthy fats curb the appetite, while carbohydrate-rich foodstuffs can actually accelerate the desire for more of the same. 

Well, I see that my afternoon has gone and I am into the early evening ─ time to close out with a journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster. I was renting in a house located on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

I must have been just about done my first month of a three-month contract working full-time for a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society

In those earliest years, S.A.N.E. was housed in an old building on Carnarvon Street. The building was torn down long ago, but it was located about where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station today opens up onto that same Carnarvon Street.

I was working as a swamper on S.A.N.E.'s blue pick-up truck, which was usually driven by a grand gal in her early 40s ─ Esther St. Jean. 
WEDNESDAY, June 23, 1976

Good luck to Cathy, I guess.

I arose about 6:35 a.m., definitely underslept.

There was a misty rain when I went to do my laundry, meeting Mike Schutz and speaking some while with him; I bought a TV Guide.

There was no truck duty till after lunch.

I laboured with Gordie; Melodie came along, and has led me to deduce she is impregnated and may be having an abortion.

Esther was an especially lousy driver, and I spent the day in the cooped-up truck on the verge of a headache.

Gilles was in today, but I slipped away after work unnoticed.

For a space today we were driving behind unawares Russ Jeffs.

There was an encouraging long letter from dad here (and the damn census thing); he's about written off existence with Marie, hopes to give up boozing, and is trying for some work. Maybe we'll get together yet.

Cathy knocked later ─ with her brother Don. She is a divorcée. Anyway, with Bill, we 3 went to Scott Road's neighbourhood pub where I expended $2, and drank 1½ mugs of beer.

We later drove to Crescent Beach & White Rock, thanks to Bill's big mouth.

When I finally got home, I yielded up my typewriter.

So much for catching up on sleep by retiring at 9:30 p.m. My bedtime is 12:20 a.m.
Catherine Jeanette Gunther was my younger brother Mark's girlfriend. They had been together for a couple of years by this time, but she had never gotten a legal divorce from her husband. This was the day it finally became official.

I had to do my laundry at a laundromat ─ I believe that it was up on Sixth Avenue, very near to the public library. Mike Schutz was one of the few guys from my New Westminster life that I wish I had not lost contact with.

As for working at S.A.N.E., I believe "Gordie" was a somewhat mentally challenged young fellow who could talk the wildest nonsense. "Melodie" was more likely correctly spelled Melody ─ she was the youngest of Esther's two daughters (Esther's only children).

"Gilles" was a very nice young French Canadian lad who sometimes worked at S.A.N.E., but I tried to avoid the guy because he always seemed intent on monopolizing all of my time. 

Russ Jeffs was my social worker ─ an elderly, genial, red-headed Englishman.

Jeanette was to come calling early that evening after I was back at my room for the day. Her brother Don was probably out visiting from the family home back in Saskatchewan. I don't ever remember meeting him.

My old friend William Alan Gill was renting a bachelor suite that may have been little more than about four blocks from my room. Since Bill had a new car, it is likely that he was present with Jeanette and Don ─ he may have been driving them.

I have no idea now what neighbourhood pub on Scott Road out in Surrey that we went to. Obviously if I have no memory of Don, then I certainly wouldn't remember being out anywhere with him, Jeanette, and Bill.

I no doubt just wanted to get back to my room that evening, but felt the compunction to help Jeanette celebrate her legal freedom. The two beaches Bill must have suggested checking out were both a long distance from Scott Road, let alone New Westminster!

Jeanette sometimes borrowed my Brother Deluxe portable typewriter.

I wonder whatever became of that little machine? I may have owned it since my junior high school days. It was likely a casualty of some rough times that were ahead for me when I had to part with so many things valuable to me.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

💀 ☠ Aggressive Cancer Treatment Unwarranted at the End of Life Stage │ The One Secret to Leading a Fulfilling Life

Well, the depravity took charge and kept me up late last night. It was at least 12:56 a.m. before I was finally in bed.

The evening hadn't been too bad, and even Mark was in reasonable form.

I don't know how I went amiss and failed to retire well ahead of midnight ─ it was not the start to my Thursday that I had planned.

During the evening, I introduced Mark to a so-called comedy that I had already watched two episodes of ─ I tuned in the first episode for him and re-watched it with him: The Ranch.

After watching the second episode by myself late on Tuesday evening, I felt a little more favourable about the series, but I am still struggling to embrace it. So much of it is contrived and lame.

If you know nothing of the series, the younger of two brothers returns home to the struggling family ranch after running out on it many years earlier. The two brothers are the same two actors featured in That '70s Show as 'Kelso' (Ashton Kutcher) and ever-sarcastic 'Hyde' (Danny Masterson). The latter's name ─ or nickname, actually ─ in The Ranch is 'Rooster,' and his personality is pretty much identical to that of Hyde.

Poor Sam Elliott would have been better cast as their grandfather than their father, but I must say that Debra Winger as their mother is looking rather appealing ─ and she turned 62 this year!

I'll tune in the second episode for Mark quite soon and see if he feels like continuing with it. As far as I could tell, he never cracked a smile during the first episode ─ neither did I, as I recall.

We both hate the out-of-place laugh track ─ nothing the characters say is ever that funny. The show is more of a family drama than a comedy. And the fake laughter gets in the way when an incident or statement suddenly becomes dramatic, as is often the case with the show ─ family conflicts abound.

As I said, I got to bed considerably later than I ever meant to. Still, I slept quite well, not finding myself awake enough to care to get up and use the bathroom until at least 5:15 a.m.

But I definitely surprised myself when I later checked the time and saw it to be 8:08 a.m. Mark and both of my two stepsons had all gone to work, so I was home alone ─ with the front door unlocked, of course. It is a most rare morning that either of my irresponsible stepsons will lock the door when he goes anywhere.

With the late start that I got in compiling further content into the Lawless Spirit post that I am working on, the only way I could think of to help ensure that I would have it within me to tackle the day's exercise session in the backyard tool shed was by having my day's usual two hot beverages while I sat here working on that website.

It succeeded. I had the workout, finding myself afterward to weigh around 186 or 187 pounds ─ I am still somewhat 'up' in poundage from my normal adult weight in the low 180s at a height of five feet 10¾ inches (179.705 centimetres).

I still hadn't eaten anything today, but I wanted to get in a sunning session on the backyard sundeck ─ the day was cloudless and reasonably mild for such a day. I barely seeped any sweat at any point.

I commenced sunning at 11:57 a.m., and wrapped things up at 1:11 p.m.

And then I had myself a hearty first meal of the day.

By the way, an order I made to Amazon.ca on behalf of my brother Mark for CAN-C Eye Drops 2x 5ml Vials back on May 23 finally was delivered today. In a recent eye examination he had, he said that he was diagnosed with the early stages of a cataract, so he is hoping that this stuff will perform the sort of curative treatment that isn't supposed to be medically achievable.

He doesn't want surgery.

Yesterday I entirely forget that I had received notification from Google that it had created a collage of two photos from exactly one year previous as a commemoration ─ otherwise I would have posted it in that day's blog entry. This is the collage, and it depicts Mark and Mark's daughter Rene (Irene) who was 22 years old at the time.

She had a graduation ceremony to attend that day at Bellingham's Mount Baker Theater for passing a welding course at Bellingham Technical College:

These are the two original photos:

One of my closest friends ─ Larry Ernest Blue ─ died of cancer on January 21, 2011, if I have the date correct.

My older half sister Phyllis had a husband who died of cancer.

We all know someone who has died after succumbing to it.

Mainstream treatments tend to be darned harsh ─ often, as likely to kill the patient as the cancer. So just when should the mainstream medical profession call a halt to this sort of aggressive treatment?

Or should the fight continue until the death of the patient, even if the prognosis is that he or she will be dead in a month's time at most?

A recent study of American veterans with terminal cancer has found that the trend seems to be aggressive treatment, even in those final 30 days.

The following report is very enthusiastic in its negative interpretation of the study results:


A more reserved and clinical report on the study is available at the website of the University of Pennsylvania School of Nursing:


Might the first report have it correct, and the foremost reason for proceeding with "aggressive care" is primarily to rack up medical charges to the government and/or responsible medical plans?

Can there really be any specialists who truly believe that a terminal cancer expected to kill someone in 30 days or less can possibly be turned around with further abuse of the dying patient?

Whatever the case, I hope never to have to experience this for myself.

On another matter, how would you appraise your close relationships? Would you identify any of your relationships as being quality relationships? 
We measure quality relationships by gauging how much depth and vulnerability exists, how safe you feel sharing, and the extent to which you can really relax and reveal who you truly are ─ “warts and all.”
That quote is from this report:


Of course I know nothing of your situation, but I can declare that I do not have any such relationships. And it is what I miss about not having friends and relatives with whom I can regularly just kick back and have drinks with, and on occasion perhaps divulge personal 'secrets' that I harbour and keep to myself.

In other words, the "warts and all" mentioned in that quote ─ I have no one with whom I can talk about such matters, nor even reveal their existence.

My brother and I do not have that level of closeness, despite loving one another.

And although I also love my wife Jack, she and I are no longer intimate in any fashion; and I also know that I lost some of her respect when I allowed her to plunge us so deep into debt that my income alone became inadequate to meet our needs. 

I miss her friendship, for I know that has gone, too. We just seem to live with one another more or less amicably, but with nothing of the profound.

By the way, that report cited the following two articles, but did not link to them:


Anyway, if in your life you have quality relationships and realize it, then you have something pricelessly precious.

And now that I have succeeded in bringing myself down somewhat, I am going to close out today's post with the following journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting the little place I had back then in a house set on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

At this point, I must have been about a month into a three-month contract of full-time employment with a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society.

The old building that then housed S.A.N.E. has long since been demolished, but back then it was situated on Carnarvon street right about where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station now spreads forth.

I was a swamper on S.A.N.E.'s blue pick-up truck, which was usually driven by Esther St. Jean, a wonderful lady in her early 40s.
TUESDAY,June 22, 1976

I didn't get out of bed till 6:40 a.m.

I did a little bit of truck duty today with Took (and Esther).

David was around for a short while; he's back into an apartment on 10th St he had during the winter, but room 3 now.

Coming along Carnarvon after a pick-up ─ about 4:00 p.m. ─ I am sure I saw Angelina & Samantha Smith in front of Safeway. Thereafter I thought maybe I'd get a call from Art I didn't want; but no.

At home I found a census form in my mail box, with the landlady's note saying she'd collect it in the evening. So I filled my part out and put it back; the things were to have been mailed away June 1.

I shall leave for mom's and a mail check no later than 7:00 p.m.

For the first time in a long while mom was home when I arrived. 

She fed me a roast beef sandwich; I almost immediately developed a mild but lasting case of indigestion, but I was hungry.

Tomorrow is Cathy's divorce court.

Mail for me included a Golden Sweepstakes ticket notice of registration, a Lucky Leo draw ticket offer from Nelson's St. Joseph School, a $23.50 tithe receipt, and books from the F.&S.F. Book Co. of Staten Island (the hardcover Howard book The Iron Man, and the 3 paperbacks: Akers' The Suns of Scorpio, Carter's Mind Wizard of Callisto, and Farmer's Hadon of Ancient Opar).

Bed by 11:20 p.m.

My census form was still awaiting.
"Took" was a middle-aged Indigenous Canadian chap ─ he was very likable, but not shy about putting the bum on me for a loan, and I hated that. 

Philip David Prince was an old friend of mine whom I had known since we were in Grade VIII. He had been living in a room at 330 Fourth Street, but now had possibly moved back into what were familiarly referred to as the Fraser Apartments ─ a big complex of cheap rooms that may have been located at 115 Tenth Street. I cannot visually place its location any longer, but it doesn't look proper on that map.

It was the wife and oldest daughter of a former S.A.N.E. co-worker (Art Smith) that I was sure I had seen quite late in my working day ─ i.e., his wife Angelina (Angie) and daughter Samantha. Art was always trying to get me to come over to the home they were renting and have me there to drink with. I generally dreaded this for a few reasons I will not get into at this time.  

After my workday, early that evening I undertook the 1½-hour hike out to the home of my mother Irene Dorosh ─ she and her husband Alex were living in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey. Their little home no longer exists, but it was my main mailing address: 12106 - 90th Avenue.

The news about the impending divorce concerned my younger brother Mark's girlfriend, Catherine Jeanette Gunther. She had been waiting a long while to finally be freed of this legal encumbrance bonding her to her former husband.

I still have that Robert E. Howard book The Iron Man. I will scan its covers and try to remember to post the scans tomorrow as proof.

The visit to my mother's home would not have been for too long ─ I still had the 1½-hour hike ahead in order to get back to my room.

As for that census form, my mail box was just a receptacle outside my room's door leading into the basement. The landlady would put there any mail for me that had come through the mail slot of the main door to the house ─ I had no access to that area, for it was her domain.

So I had a door that led into the basement proper, as well as a door that opened up to the outside world. 

Perhaps the census form was still in my mail receptacle because the landlady did not realize that I had already dealt with it.

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Hacking of Pacemakers Is a Genuine Threat │ Low-Fat Dairy Diet Linked to Parkinson's Disease

The unexpected happened yesterday ─ my wife Jack was to spend a second consecutive night here at home instead of in Vancouver. As a result of having slept so inadequately Monday night, I never undertook any exercise at all yesterday.

Was this to be my fate today, too?

The girl certainly did some commendable cleaning work last afternoon of the backyard tool shed, and also a storage room that is attached to the house. I primarily stayed clear, and left her two sons to deal with her ─ she tends to become far too bitchy for my tolerance.

But I must say that the tool shed has never looked so neat and clean! It's still bad, but to thoroughly clean it up would require taking absolutely everything out of it and cleaning from there.

A couple of spiders ─ the sort that make a mainly horizontal platform-like web, and have a funnel like hideaway at an end or corner of the web where they await prey that may happen upon the web sheet ─ are now homeless. They had been in their locations for potentially a few years.

And those are just the two that I was aware of.

I was never really sure when or if Jack was to leave us to return to Vancouver yesterday, and it kept me wondering as the evening began to wear on. My younger brother Mark had come home from the bar and had some of her supper, and then passed out for awhile in his chair in the living room as Jack and I watched some T.V.

However, I realized well before Mark finally retired to his bedroom upstairs that Jack was not to be leaving us to go anywhere. She was here to remain.

This would spell another later than normal evening for me, so towards the midnight hour I began watching for my opportunity to hie myself to bed. I cannot do so when she is in and out of the bedroom, for one reason or another.

I believe that she may have been involved in the bathroom when I finally made my bid to go to bed, donning earplugs and blindfold as I did so. I think that it may have been around 12:10 a.m. It rather surprised me when Jack followed suit around 15 minutes or less afterward.

I had a better night of it than I did Monday night. In fact, I never even knew when her eldest son Tho probably roused her this morning to drive him to the SkyTrain so that he could get to work out in Burnaby from here in Surrey. Tho usually takes a bus to get to the SkyTrain, but he's too soft and lazy to do it when his mother is here to take advantage of.

So I must have slept unawares when he summoned her; heck, I did not even notice when she had come back home and returned to bed.

I did my very best to capture as much sleep as I could. And when finally I checked the time because I felt able to get a start on my day, I was a little surprised to find that it was perhaps two or three minutes beyond 7:40 a.m.

Her youngest son Poté must have the day off work. It is 12:13 p.m. as I type these words, and he is still home and in bed.

Anyway, after I had begun working this morning at adding further content into the post I am building at my Lawless Spirit website, Jack soon rose ─ this was most unusual for her, since she tries to sleep in to as near noon as she can.

She announced that she just could not sleep, and had made the decision to go and visit the Thai Buddhist temple in Burnaby ─ Wat Budhapanyanantarama. 

To that end, she was soon busy cooking so that she could take some food to the monks, and then getting dressed up in temple-friendly wear...when suddenly she exclaimed in good-humoured exasperation that she had just checked and the monks were not at the temple.

They often attend various functions.

She thought that perhaps she might yet salvage everything and instead go to the Thai Buddhist temple in Vancouver ─ Wat Yanviriya. However, when she tried phoning them, she only got their answering service. It was 9:40 a.m. at very most.

I did some online investigation, and found their hours listed as spanning 10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. daily, except for Sunday when they remain open until 10:00 p.m.

It would be senseless for Jack to undertake the rather long drive into Vancouver entirely on speculation that those monks, too, would not have some function with which they were involved, so she just decided to give it all up and remain home.

Anon, Jack was to decide that she would just get out and do some shopping at a nearby Walmart. And that freed me up to make up for yesterday somewhat, and get in a session of exercise in the backyard tool shed.

I found the pull-ups to be more of a strain than I anticipated. As I was to discover when I had finished and returned into the house for a weigh-in, I registered about 187 or 188 pounds ─ my usual adult weight tends to be in the low 180s. So this might be the reason for the perceived extra strain.

Jack's absence also allowed me to get a start on this post.

She was away for a generous amount of time. At her return, we soon had some lunch ─ my first meal of the day. I did some yard work, pulling up more bindweed, and digging out a few dandelions. Jack was busy with some kitchen chores.

Then finally ahead of 2:00 p.m., she apparently sought a nap. And that has allowed me to return to work upon this post. It is 2:18 p.m.

For a few years now, there has been speculation of the potential of hackers getting around to turning their attention to medical devices. This article may be somewhat extreme with its intensity, but it should give you some idea of what could be in store if this is ground unfamiliar to you:


Here are a couple of other (more tempered) reports on that security investigation into the medical devices that the article had talked about ─ I think that they both link to the actual investigative report:



If you or any of your loved ones have no need for any such surgical implants, be thankful. I cannot imagine having to live the remainder of my life with anything like them.

More and more, we are learning that the outdated and incorrect dogma which declares that people need to shun whole-fat foods and seek out the low-fat varieties, has been criminally damaging.

Now a new study has found that adhering to such a diet considerably increases a person's risk of developing Parkinson's disease:


The absolute nonsense that low-fat dairy products are the healthiest option has got to be eradicated from everyone's thinking ─ it is a perverse lie.

Here are a couple of further reports on this latest finding:



I love full-fat dairy. Unfortunately, back in my early adulthood, I also believed the low-fat lie. I never had the vaguest inkling of how valuable and wholesome dairy fat was. 

Okay, an update on my day now.

I was to find myself home alone shortly after 3:00 p.m. I thought that maybe Poté did have to work, but had a later shift, for he drove off shortly after 2:30 p.m. while his mother was still in our bedroom. 

However, he was back again just after 5:30 p.m.

Jack soon rose after Poté had fooled me into thinking that maybe he had gone to work; and just a few minutes after 3:00 p.m., I saw her off on her busy drive back to Vancouver where she would spend tonight. She never indicated when she might be back. 

We had the pleasure of her company for something like 45 hours this time. And there is much interesting food to eat that she prepared and left for everyone here.

I suppose that I could have sat outside during the latter afternoon for awhile once she was gone, catching some of the sunshine that was then prevailing. But instead, I remained in the house as a result of a wayward slide that I only corrected with Poté's return.

"When the cat's away...."

Tomorrow will witness stricter correctitude on my part. If the weather report is accurate, I even ought to be able to do some actual sunning.

Today was the first full day of Summer, incidentally.

I want to post the following scanned image of my older half-sister Phyllis and our mother Irene Dorosh:

The reverse of the photo is stamped or imprinted with the date April 1990, which would have to be when the roll of film was developed that this photo's negative exposure was a part of. But if the setting is my mother's home, that interior seems unfamiliar to me.

Perhaps the setting was Phyllis's home? That is certainly possible.

But whatever the case many be, here to close out today's post is a journal entry of mine from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a New Westminster basement housekeeping unit that I was renting in a house located on Ninth Street, and perhaps two houses up from Third Avenue.

I must have been nearing the completion of my first month of full-time employment on what was likely a three-month contract with a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that today calls itself Fraserside Community Services Society.  

In those earliest years of its existence, S.A.N.E. was housed in an old building on Carnarvon Street. That old building no longer exists, but it was situated right about where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station today spreads forth onto Carnarvon Street. 

I was generally working as a swamper on S.A.N.E.'s blue puck-up truck, which was usually driven by a wonderful woman in her early 40s named Esther St. Jean.
MONDAY, June 21, 1976

I've been awake since before 5:00 a.m.

Last night I decided to abandon my awful week-end overeating habit, and keep in view proper nutrition and fitness.

I lied down for 1½ hours; I enjoyed it mostly, but didn't get much further sleep.

For the first time this year I am going out into the world without any cover over my T-shirt. 

It's sunny.

Esther didn't come in the morning, not being expected till 1:00 p.m. So I took an early lunch and bought $5.11 in groceries at Safeway

Esther didn't come in till 3:00 p.m., and there was no heavy work to do.

Gilles came in today, wasting 20 minutes of my after-work time; he just doesn't want to leave me to myself.

My bedtime is just past 10:00 p.m.
I actually wrote that I lied down for 1½ 'minutes' ─ not 'hours.' But 'minutes' made no sense at all, so I made the alteration as I was typing out the entry.

I generally wore open jackets or untucked shirts over my t-shirts ─ I was usually too uncomfortable being seen in just a t-shirt. I was extremely physique self-conscious, never feeling good enough to be on public display.

"Gilles" was a very talkative young French Canadian lad who was often employed part-time at S.A.N.E. He was very likable, but I felt that he and I had little in common, and so I was disinclined to have my time consumed by him. 

And with Gilles, there was seldom such a thing as having his company for just a short while. I had other things I wanted to be doing with my personal time ─ not fruitlessly idling away hours with him because he had nothing better to do with himself.

Still, I would love to know what became of him in later life.