MenGetPregnantToo

Have a Heart! Legally, I Must Explain Organ Donation to My 7-Year-Old.

"Take another little piece of my heart now, baby." - Janis Joplin.

What are the chances she was referring to organ donation?

****

In Quebec, as part of our national health care programme, each citizen is issued a Medicare Card. 
On the back of the card is a space for a signature - much like the rectangular window on the back of a credit card. Your signature in this box indicates, to whoever discovers your body, your wish to be an organ donor. 

My son's card has just come up for renewal. My wife had signed and returned the form accompanying the new card, giving our consent for our son to donate his organs should the unthinkable happen.
The form was returned to us with the following response from the Quebec Government: 

According to the Civil Code of Quebec, when the decision to consent to organ and tissue donation is made, the donor's signature is required, regardless of the donor's age. This indicates that the person making the decision knows what he/she is doing.

Our son turns eight in a few weeks.
At this moment, he is sitting next to his 5-year-old sister at Montreal's Bell Centre watching Disney on Ice.
I suppose when he gets home, the government would like me to explain organ donation to him.
Should I get right to it, or wait for him to first tell me about how they made Peter Pan fly across center ice? Or how Lumière couldn't keep up with Belle and the Beast?

If you don't mind, Dear Reader, I'd like to practice the speech on you first, before I sit down with my kid. OK?

"Wow! It sounded like a great show! Did you have fun?...wow...great!....What? Hot dogs and cotton candy! Lucky you...I hope you'll be hungry for supper...I think I'll make you a bowl of spinach and oatmeal....ha! ha!...just kidding, sweetie. Listen, sit down, Daddy has something important to discuss with you, and if I don't tell you about it, Daddy is in violation of provincial law. Anyway...one day, something might happen to you. Something bad. What? Well, bad enough that, like with your Great-Uncle, you won't be around anymore. Yes - dead -  that's right, that's is the right word, I didn't want to say it...I don't know why. Well, you know how people are buried when that happens? Well, before they do that, you can tell doctors to take things like  your heart, or your liver, or your kidneys or lungs, and give them to another little boy or girl who might need them. Hmmm? Oh, because not all children are as lucky as you are sweetie; some children are very sick, or they get a really big boo-boo, or get into some kind of accident; and after that not all of them is working properly. Sometimes, when that happens, one of the ways to fix them is to put a part into them which is working just fine. One place to get those parts is from a little boy or girl who doesn't need them anymore. Oh, I know you still need them now, this is just in case. No, honey, no one is going to take them away from you if you're still using them; this is only for when you can't use them anymore...Oh, I don't know for sure sweetie, hopefully not for a long time, hopefully not until you are very old. No, Daddy hopefully won't be around by then because Daddy will be sooooo old, that I would have had to live to be, like, two-hundred!...It's ok, sweetie, don't be sad; nothing is going to happen, everything is ok. Come, give me a hug...now obey the law, and sign here."

Heart Keeper by h. koppdelaney

My daughter's card comes up for renewal in February. Should I have her sit in on this conversation, or sit her down separately in five months when she's more able to understand?

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If I do survive this conversation, I have a request for the Quebec Government which they can fulfill for me as a small reward for putting me through this trial: If ever his heart is being passed along, maybe they can also spread around his sense of humor, and sensitivity. And share the understanding and sweetness he shows golden-agers. How about that little bit of cynicism which is beginning to creep into conversations about Santa Claus? - I like that part of him; it challenges the parent in me.
And, wherever I am when that all happens, please send me a little piece of his heart, ok? Not the whole thing...just a little piece. 

 

Sincerely,

(Future) Organ Donor.

Second-Guessing is Key to Any Marriage, I Think.

Scenario: 7:40am. Temperature of 4°C (39°F). Today's forecast high is 16°C (61°F). The forecast also calls for a 40% chance of showers "later today".
How do you dress your child?
Discuss with your spouse; I'll read War and Peace. When you both agree on an answer, email me. I'll be halfway through Moby Dick by then.

 

In my experience, fathers completely reject the cool morning air and ignore the risk of precipitation. Mothers subtract 5 degrees from the actual exterior temperature, and prepare the child for the odd chance the 40% chance of showers becomes weather Noah would never venture out in. 
The real key to any marriage isn't coming to an agreement between husband and wife; it's getting your kid out the door before your spouse sees how you've dressed him:

"What, no boots?! No sweater under his jacket?!"
"They say a forty percent chance. Plus, it's heading into the mid-teens later, his feet will be hot, and he'll end up all sweaty."
"Or, he'll freeze at recess, have to walk around school in wet socks and sneakers all day, and ruin another pair of shoes."
"Fine, you dress him."
"You know what? Whatever. You take him shopping for new shoes every three months." 

The truth, as with most things in the universe - certainly when dealing with marriage politics - is somewhere in the middle. 
It's cold now, but he won't freeze.
It might rain later, but shoes dry, and he won’t get athlete's foot by wearing a boot for a couple of hours. But bickering about it is part of the pattern, isn't it?
As much as we allow our children to experience sibling rivalry, and we expose them to their friends' toys without ourselves being strong-armed in buying them for our basements, adults have the same need for conflict.
It's familiar; it allows us to constantly test boundaries with our spouse. When the conflict has passed (or been stifled and saved for that big blow-up a couple of times a year), it reminds us the person we married accepts our faults, and the relationship can withstand some stress.

Game - Confrontation by h.koppdelaney via Flickr

I think one of the reasons space aliens have not made themselves (plainly) visible to humans is sometimes - just sometimes - we argue over really stupid s**t.
 - How many more minutes of a movie should the kids watch before bed? The whole thing (45 min), or only another ten minutes? 
- Should they have a cookie for dessert and risk cavities and a habit-forming love for sweets, or should we deny them and spend the final hour of the day in Armageddon?
- If they are going to get a cookie, is it once they've eaten three pieces of broccoli, or four?
- Should we argue with them for twenty minutes, denying them the rest of the movie until they're in their pyjamas, or should we extend the evening by ten minutes after the movie to change them later? 
- Should we punish our spouse for not standing up to our in-laws, or allow our in-laws to punish them for taking a stand.

It's funny, isn't it? All the minutiae we fill our pie plates with before smothering it into our spouse's face.

The reason our grandparents - if they've survived life and each other - have such a distinct charm; the reason they have that quirky, edgy, pattern-filled rhythm to their relationship is:  they've been through a half-century of second-guessing.
But, at some point, he just told her he loved that crummy sweater and, yes, he's going to wear it every day; and she's told him that yes, the house looks better with the bathroom door closed - so leave it that way, will you?

After fifty years together, should we be so lucky, we will barely notice those quirks anymore. We'll mind our own business as we watch our children and grandchildren battle it out with their spouses.
One day we'll learn to cut all the bologna. Then, aliens will touch down and my wife will say to me:
"If you'd listened to me, they would have been here years ago." 

 

 

It's Time the Paralympics Loses its Prefix.

I am able-bodied.
So?
And?
Therefore?

*****

I am 10 days removed from my role as part of the media pool covering the Paralympic Games in London.
Our pool was not only a shallow one relative to the ocean of coverage which swelled around the London 2012 Olympic Games, it was a puddle.
What a shame.

 I was as ignorant as most of my contemporaries in regard to the Paralympics. I imagined - relative to the games in July -  somewhat interesting, smaller-scale, less-impressive athletic competitions put on display for more intimate gatherings of competitors' families and friends, as well as  some die-hard fans.
What a gross and insulting misjudgement. 

Dictionary.com defines 'Para' as : “at or to one side of; beside; side by side”.

The Paralympics stands to no-one's side. They are no more 'Para' to the Olympic Games than the July Games  were 'Para' to what followed two weeks later.
Same starting blocks.
Same track.
Same pool.
Same weights.
Same hours of training.
Same lifetimes of devotion.

Where these two events differ is in regard to reward and recognition.

During the Paralympics, I was in the International Broadcast Centre washing my hands at a sink adjacent to one being used by a world-record holder.
He was unaccompanied by security, left alone by the public, and barely recognized by everyone except media members from his home country. He wore no sponsored clothing, no gold jewellery, and no studded watch.
I doubt Usain Bolt ever used the washroom at the IBC.
For this Paralympian, the finish line symbolized what it had at the very first international meeting of athletes generations ago: the culmination of his effort, sweat, pain, time away from his family, and validation that he is among the best athletes in the world. 

For any human being, becoming an elite member of any field requires first that one overcome the wave of public opinion reminding you the odds are stacked against you. Acting? Athletics? Music? Art? Writing? Better have something to fall back on, lest you find yourself waiting tables.
Paralympians are not only  - like writers and actors - told they have little chance of being among the most accomplished in their field; they are also reminded daily of popular opinion which ignorantly spews statements like: "people with disabilities shouldn't be in a swimming pool in the first place, unless it's part of rehabilitation." 
Tell that to the 17,500 people screaming as three swimmers touch the wall within .51 seconds of each other in a gold medal race. You didn't have to be inside the Aquatic Centre to hear the crowd.
Or to the 80,000 fans packed cheek-to-jowl in the Olympic Stadium as they swell into a fervour over an athlete's split time which sits within a half-second of a new world record.
These are among the best in the world at what they do.
Period.
There is no distinction. There is no 'Para'. There is no prefix. There is just pure sport. Pure effort. Pure emotion.
These are elite athletes. 

During his Closing Ceremony speech, Sebastian Coe - the Chair of the London Organizing Committee for the Olympic Games - recounted a conversation he had on the London Underground with an ambulance medic. This medic treated some of the wounded after the 2005 London Bombings; he was now one of 100,000 volunteers during the games. He told Mr. Coe:
    "I've seen the worst of mankind, now I've seen the best of mankind" .
Mr. Coe continued:
    "I will never think of disability the same way. The games have lifted the cloud of limitation."

These Paralympics offered me the opportunity to do the most satisfying work of my career. Never have I worked so hard, yet felt so fulfilled.
The only shame is that these Games are 'Para' to the mainstream - off to the side; little or no prime-time coverage, little funding, less sponsorship interest and little recognition for the athletes - especially once the games have finished. Because of our ignorance these sportsmen and women, who have already devoted and sacrificed so much, will have to work infinitely harder than the Usain Bolts to find themselves in Brazil in four years. 

It's a shame more of us are not, even from our sofas, part of the crowd in the stands who, as International Paralympic Committee Head Sir Philip Craven put it: "created a wall of noise...hungry and desperate for more."

 

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder. Then it Causes an Infarction.

As a working parent, one of the greatest challenges is the gear shift and balancing act required to be efficient at work, and devoted at home.
Rarely does my professional life take me on the road for very long; these past two weeks have been the exception.

I left for the London 2012 Paralympic Games on August 20th. I'll return home September 12th.
The first week was an exiting separation; long distance phonecalls, conversations through Skype's electronic magic, and postcards from overseas added a sense of Robinson Crusoe adventure to working abroad. 

Soon, phonecalls weren't enough.
The kids started school on Wednesday. For my daughter, it was her first day of kindergarten; her first steps into a big-kid school.
My son started grade two. Gone is his preschool innocence, replaced by a slighty jaded edge of a 7-year-old one year from being in the 'senior' yard.
After a week, he needed more than phonecalls from a Hilton. 

Although my wife will be joining me for the last week of my trip, preparing for her vacation adds to her already considerable workload. Groceries must be bought and meals must be planned for the week we're both away. She's attempting to make the house a little more Mary Poppins, a little less Dorothy-leaving-Kansas.

Babysitting will be shared among family members. Each person must be made aware of emergency pĥone numbers, school and after-school activity schedules, lunch menus, and homework routines.
It's becoming a question of whether her 'vacation' will be relaxing enough to alleviate the accumulated stress involved in preparing for it. 

The children, like weathervanes, feel change approaching; Something Wicked This Way Comes. They grow a little more raw, a little more sensitive, a little more weepy. This kind of emotional pressure tests any relationship: the kids with their mom at home; the kids with their dad on the phone; the husband and wife an ocean apart.

My hotel room and cable TV, my new colleagues in London who have become my friends, and the unparalleled inspiration of the Paralympic games are slowly having their hypnotic appeal shaken awake by my desire to be at home and contributing to my family's life.

I know it won't be long before we're four to a bed again during storytime after supper. Soon after that, certain memories of my three weeks in the United Kingdom will seems years behind.
My right brain is determined this experience is worth it - once in a lifetime.
Its counterpart is a little weary, a little lonely, and feeling a little helpless. 

Some parents travel regularly. I guess their family routines are as well organized as their carry-on luggage.
I'm not sure I could do this regularly.
Absense makes the heart grow fonder. But not far beyond that, it's just chest pains.