There is stress in going through the immigration process legally. There is always the thought in the back of my mind that USCIS will find some reason not to let me stay. However,  until they tell me I can’t stay, I can be here legally as a visitor. I don’t have to be afraid of being stopped by the police. I have a valid driver’s license; I have insurance; I have registration; I have an American husband. And as of yesterday, I have an alien registration number. It came on an important looking piece of paper with The United States of America written boldly across the top. Having that number made me feel safe, that I could breath a little easier.

So, it was of great interest that I watched a movie about a man who brought his wife to America illegally, had a son and lived for 15 years in fear of being found out and being sent back to Mexico.He worked 7 days a week. His wife had left him when he couldn’t give her the American Dream. His fear of being caught and his longing to be a normal American citizen was palpable as you watched him in the movie scenes. His life seemed so hopeless and empty of anything but hard labor. What was left to him was the hope that his son would make something of himself and have a better life than he. An absolutely remarkable movie.

Ten years ago, my ocular pressure was so high that my doctor in Guelph started  me on eye drops. They made my lashes long and silky and grew hair on my face. I later learned the same drug was being tested to grow hair on bald men.

When I moved to British Columbia, my doctor put me on another eye drop which worked fine, and I lost the luscious lashes and the hair on my face.

When I moved back to Ontario, a new ophthalmologist put me on a combination eye drop of timolol and latanoprost. Everything was hunky dory up to about two years ago.

At this point, I’m closing in on 65 years of age. It’s expected that when I stand up, it takes a while for the joints to get lubricated and work smoothly. A certain amount of stiffness is common for women my age. Hell, around here, some women my age are on walkers. Anyway, joint stiffness and pain settle in to my left knee and hips. I can’t cross my legs. I feel as if cement has been poured into my left leg.

The thought crosses my mind that something is wrong. I look at my mother who was, at the time, 97, and she has no problem crossing her legs. She’s got ample hips, so I put it down to my having very narrow hips like my dad, who ended up having a hip replacement.

When I started working at the starch plant with John, my left elbow and right thumb became stiff and sore. I chalked it up to the repetitive action of bagging. However, even with a month’s rest, the stiffness and soreness never lessened. Strange.

So, I bought a brace for my knee, a brace for my elbow, a brace for my thumb and a brace for my wrist. Then, I developed a limp.  I assumed it was the arthritis in my hip and knee getting worse. I assumed this was all the normal result of getting old, and the result of over doing athletics in my younger days. I assumed I was going to have a knee or hip replacement in the near future.

Then, my eye drops stopped working. My ocular pressure was rising and had been for about 18 months. My Spokane doctor puts me on new drops. Expensive drops. He tells me that the new drops have few side effects, not like Timolol which has the most side effects of all the eye drops. Hmmm!

When my optometrist, in trying to lower my pressure, had me put timolol in my eyes in the morning and latanoprost in the evening, I started having anxiety attacks, became depressed and lost my appetite. I thought it was because of the stress of immigrating here, but it wasn’t. I knew in my little heart of hearts it wasn’t.

One morning, after being on the new drops for a few days, I got out of bed and was shocked to feel no pain in my knee. Days went by and I lost my limp; I lost the soreness in my elbow and knee. I could get up from a chair and simply walk, not groan in pain and walk as if I had cement legs. I was blown away. Not old age! Not arthritis! I’m sure timolol was the culprit. When I stopped taking it, the joints got better. As well, the anxiety and depression lifted immediately.

Not quite believing my luck, I looked timolol up on the internet. It’s side effects included everything I had been suffering from. I wasn’t imaging getting better. I was better, and it was because I was no longer taking timolol. Thank God it stopped working.

What if it hadn’t stopped working, and I had hip and knee replacements earlier than I needed to? How many people my age think that their conditions are a result of old age and not the drugs they are taking?  Don’t get me wrong. I still have arthritis in my knee and hip, but it’s very manageable. Maybe when I’m 75 I might have to get surgery, but no time soon.

When I told John my discovery, he said, “Welcome to the world of Western medicine!”

It’s a mine field!!

My optometrist sent me to an ophthalmologist  because trying to stabilize my ocular pressure was beyond him. He had me taking two different drops morning and night hoping the combination would normalize the pressure. Didn’t work. I saw a specialist the very next day. A very nice doctor who had plenty of time to answer all my questions, explain what he was seeing as he went along, chatted about retiring at the end of the year.

Side point: I liked my Canadian doctor, but he had no time for idle chitchat, not even professional chitchat unless I insisted, and even then he was half way out the door answering me.

The downside, of course, to all the attention, is that I pay for every test  he and his assistant put me through.  The good news is that my eyes are healthy, but the fliud isn’t draining and the doctor doesn’t know why. Could be that my body has gotten used to the old drops. Could be that my channels have collapsed or are blocked. No way of knowing. They can put a man on the moon, but they don’t have a piece of equipment that can see the channels. If they did, use of it would probably cost a trip to the moon.

So, he gives me a prescription for two new drops. He calls these his “second string”. Being an ex-coach, I don’t like the sound of that. Sometimes, your second string outplays the first string, but not often. Unless it’s Duke’s second string and then….never mind.

I used to have to put one drop in each eye before going to bed. Then, I had to put one drop of one drug in at night and then one drop of another in the morning. 10 minutes tops out of my day, but felt like hours taken up with this stuff. Now, I have two different drugs to put in my eyes in the evening, waiting 10 minutes between drugs, and again in the morning.  My life feels as if it is revolving around caring for my eyes. Better than going blind like Aunt Mary…so, I’ll not complain.

I had a bad feeling about the cost of these “second string” drugs. One was generic, the other not. Costco was my best bet for a good price. However, even with a discounted price, the non-generic cost me $117; the generic cost me $63.00. The one drug will last me almost 2 months. The other, a month. If they work, it’ll be worth it. If not…?

Today cost me $493. I can afford it, but as John says, “Every penny we spend on essentials, keeps us from going to Tahiti.” Or something like that. As soon as I get my permanent residency status, I can apply for Medicare, and, then, these costs  go away. Even the doctors and pharmacists are looking forward to that day. I believe that it grieves them that I’m paying out of my own pocket. My new doctor told me he’d hold off as long as he could on laser surgery until I got insurance.

Moving through the American health system is somewhat like an innocent moving deep into the forest, unaware of which animal is going to gobble her up, and which one is tame and friendly. And leaving a trail of breadcrumbs isn’t going to help.

John originally turned away from meat when he left Michigan for California and decided to leave much of his past behind, which included the killing and hunting of animals. He went so far as to not buy or wear the skins of animals. He’s always maintained that it was during this period that he had the greatest sense of health and well being.

Perhaps, it is our age and our increasing awareness that much of our health depends on us, that much of poor health doesn’t come suddenly and surprisingly from some outside source. Since I’ve been in the United States and been made to realize that not taking care of myself is going to be expensive, I’ve decided to become very proactive in keeping myself healthy. I believe that eating a vegetarian diet is an intelligent way to do that.

We have no interest in being vegans. Eating organic eggs from happy little hens who are running about and aren’t slaughtered for their eggs,  seems ok to me. Eating organic yogourt, goat cheese and the such from local and living animals who are well cared for doesn’t pose a problem for me. I like cream in my coffee.

We thought having people over for dinner, or going out for dinner at friends’ homes would create huge hassles. Some of our friends are dreadful eaters. A couple we see regularly don’t like vegetables. Most eat meat and tons of starches. I don’t have a woman friend who doesn’t need to lose 15 pounds and take out a gym membership. However, our friends will eat what we eat when they come to our house, and, after telling them that we don’t eat meat, we’ll eat what we can from their table.

So there you have it! We feel great; we have lots of energy; I can now stay up to eleven o’clock playing scrabble; I can exercise everyday with enthusiasm, and my bowels move regularly. Gotta love vegetarian fiber!

A month ago,  M had Gladys taken to the hospital for tests because she was hallucinating. She believed that my father was in her clothes closet and coming out at night. She fell trying to get away from him when he came at her with a knife. As well, there were young women who were fornicating with monkeys in the next room.

These hallucinations were caused by Gladys poor physical condition. She was dehydrated from not drinking enough fluids. A major cause of death in the elderly. She had a bladder infection from not drinking enough fluids. Her electrolytes were out of whack, and she was barely eating. All of this brought on the hallucinations…much like  people who get stranded in the wilds without food or drink. Once she was re-hydrated, her infection looked after, she returned to normal.

The family, of course, knew that this wasn’t going to be the end of these episodes. They would return because Gladys doesn’t drink fluids nor does she eat very much. It’s very, very sad. She can’t be force fed, nor can liquids be poured down her throat. I think hallucinating that your dead husband is coming after you with a knife is a horrible way to wind down your days.  I hoped Gladys would end her life peacefully, not running from unwelcome ghosts out of her past.

Gladys is almost 98 years old, and she looks wonderful. When she is hydrated and nourished, her mind is sharp as ever. But if losing her mind is what her end is going to be like, I pray for a speedy end. Once my mother’s mind is gone, then Gladys has left,  and there isn’t any point in the body remaining.

Without getting into the why, I needed  to find an American eye doctor who would prescribe new drops  for my glaucoma. I assumed, I needed an ophthalmologist  because it was an ophthalmologist in Guelph who had  looked after me.  I literally shopped around for one in Spokane. I needed no referral from a doctor; I opened up the yellow pages and started phoning. My first call was to an eye clinic that boasted of nine specialists eager to take care of me. It would cost me $608 to walk through the front door.  I was pressed for time, and needed an appointment as soon as possible; I booked an appointment for a month later.

The next day, I phoned another eye clinic and received an appointment within a week. I assumed the cost would be the same, so I didn’t think to ask.  My appointment turned out to be with an optometrist. In the US, an optometrist treats patients with glaucoma. They monitor ocular pressure, prescribe drops and give field vision tests. Their cost is hugely lower than an ophthalmologist’s. Because I paid with cash, I received a 20% discount. The appointment cost me $69.40 US . I was over the moon with relief.

However, the point of my blog has little to do with aforementioned. My glaucoma drops, the doctor prescribed, cost  $83 US. I’d never in all the years I’d taken drops thought about the cost of my drops. Why should I? My Canadian insurance paid for everything except a few dollars. Until now, I treated any drugs I was prescribed with total disregard. If I lost a prescription, no big deal. If my drops didn’t last the entire month, so what?

Now, my drops are precious. I put them in my eyes as if they were liquid gold. I’m horrified if I waste any amount. No more do I take my medications for granted.

The doctor had to prescribe a second set of drops to be put in each morning. So, I’m thinking, my God, if these drops cost the same as the others, I’ll be paying over $185US a month for eye drops. I’m not liking this. My doctor thought that the new drops would cost less, but he wasn’t sure.

I asked him to give me the prescription so I could shop around for the best price.  The cost of drugs vary from pharmacy to pharmacy. He was taken aback because he never wrote out prescriptions. They were sent via email to drug stores by his assistant. But, he found the process amusing and sent me on my way.

When I offered the Walgreen’s  clerk my prescription. He refused it because it wasn’t written on the correct paper. When he saw the stupid look on my face, he explained what he needed to see on the paper…some logo on the left bottom corner.  I would have to wait until the next day after the drugstore phoned the doctor in order to get my prescription.

I asked if I could at least know how much the drops would cost. He said he couldn’t tell me. I must have looked particularly blank, because something twigged with him and he asked if I were paying cash. When I answered yes, he trotted off to find out the cost. I guess the cost varies depending on the insurance company, making it impossible to give a cost to a customer.  When he came back, I fully expected to hear that the cost was somewhere over $40. My drops were going to cost $11.70US. Go figure!!

So, if any of you are still wondering what my point is, it is that I took my Canadian drugs shamefully for granted. Now that I have to pay 100% for my drugs, I treat them like family.

I am beyond tense about this immigration thing. I need to write  to be able to get rid of some of the nervousness around it. The paper work has been enormous. After having such a hard time getting through immigration last time I flew here, I don’t want to leave and then chance not getting back in.

I’m here legally six months, and by the end of March the petition for me to stay here as a permanent resident needs to be filed. Most of it was easy enough, although I wonder how dumb immigrants get into the country. I consider myself very literate and yet, I’m reading some of the questions on the forms and scratching my head. There is a phone line to talk to a customer service rep who is to answer questions concerning filling out the form. I spent 30 minutes going around in circles and never connecting with one. One does not want to mess up these forms. I’m paying over $1000 to file one form and $470 to file another. The forms instantly get rejected if they are not filled out properly, and one starts over again. “Refund” is not a word I saw on any of the instruction forms.

If I knew when I was young that I’d be immigrating to the USA,  I’d never have gotten married the first two times, and just waited around for John. I need copies of the divorce decrees from my first two marriages. Luckily, I had one already. My first marriage was over 40 years ago and I had completely lost track of my first husband. I had no divorce decree. I had no way of finding him and I needed him because I needed his birth date. Birthdays, marriages, anniversaries, over the years get jumbled and forgotten, and I had forgotten Mike’s birthday.

In searching the internet, I came across my first husband’s obituary. He had died in a town not very far from Guelph, 10 years ago. Although I hadn’t seen nor heard from him in all these years, I felt a great sadness. He was so young, only in his 50s.

I attempted to find his wife, his son, his brothers in order to get his birth date, but failed. I returned to the obituary and saw an email address attached to the obit. I reached a genealogist who knew another genealogist in England who specialized in my first husband’s family. He was able to send me Mike’s birth date.

However, what has me so tense is the uncertainty of when I’m going to get a copy of the divorce decree. John only had to make a few phone calls and he will have two divorce decrees in his hand by next week. Not so in Canada. One is truly punished for losing a divorce decree.

First, I need the file number of the divorce proceedings. This requires getting in touch with a department of divorce proceedings in Ottawa. There is a phone number. Does a real person answer? No. A message tells you to leave a phone number and someone will get back to you. ! I’m still waiting.

My second course of action was to bypass phoning the divorce department and going to CanLaw where I paid $11 to buy a form which I faxed to the divorce department in Ottawa.

All of this I have done. I have no idea how long it will take for the department of divorce proceedings in Ottawa to get around to sending me my file number. I’m praying that it is here by the first of March. Once I receive my file number then I write the court in Kitchener where my divorce took place, pay them a small fee and then I get my copy of the divorce decree.

John and I can then put together the immigration package, write the cheques and then hope we’ve done everything correctly so that after 30 days we will receive a notice that our petition has arrived, been accepted and processing will begin.

That’s all I want, the package to be sent and accepted before my 6 months are up.

Worrying and being tense are pointless activities. We’re doing all we can do, but it is bloody mind wracking to have one’s fate in the hands of some bureaucracy in Ottawa.

This is my last blog forever and ever…and I mean it this time.

We walk every day; we shop everyday. Ted and I drive K to distraction with our constant interrogation. Each time she winces, we ask,”Having contractions?” Each time she goes into the kitchen and spends more than 5 minutes doing dishes or cleaning or getting a meal, we ask,”Feeling an energy surge?”

Today, she goes for a pedicure.  Something to look forward to. Tomorrow, she goes to see her midwife who will carry out a procedure called “membrane sweeping”.  Membrane sweeping is done by the midwife  while internally examining her patient. She “sweeps” a finger around the cervix (neck of the womb). The aim is to separate the membranes around the baby from the cervix. This releases hormones called prostaglandins, which may kick-start the labour.

A membrane sweep increases the likelihood that labour will start within 48 hours. It has a higher chance of working if the cervix is already softening and preparing for labour.

As well, the midwife will  give her an herbal concoction that is supposed to stimulate labour. If all this doesn’t get the kid moving, Krista will be artificially induced in a hospital setting when she’s 10 days late.

When all is said and done, this baby is coming one way or the other, and it’s coming soon. I am often tempted to tell Kris  not to be so impatient and hold on to the peace of the prenatal period, but, when a new mother hasn’t a clue as to the changes that are waiting around the corner for her, it is only natural to want the pregnancy part to be over and the baby to be here. We all want the baby to be here so we can be released from this state of natal suspension.

When I was pregnant with K, I never thought of anything going wrong. It could have been that for the first four months I was too busy being nauseated 24/7, and for the next four months felt like a giant hen sitting on her egg, interested only in sitting on her egg, and for the last month being so uncomfortable nothing entered my head but wanting the kid out of me. Never did I worry about birth defects, the baby being stillborn, the baby running out of room, the placenta falling away, high blood pressure… nothing, de nada, rien!!

However, with K’s pregnancy, and now that she’s so close to having the baby, I find myself thinking of problems that might come up. I don’t often worry, but when I talk to K and she says how big she is and she thinks it’s a wonder that the baby can even move inside her, I think, ” Gosh, maybe the baby is so big that he can’t move and that the midwife doesn’t know it, and the baby has to be gotten out NOW!” Stuff like that. Silly and unnecessary. K is getting more care than I did when I had her, and that’s saying a lot because women had excellent natal care in 1975.

K opted to pay for a test that would identify if the baby had any abnormalities. She has a midwife as well as a doctor who will oversee the delivery in the most modern of hospitals. K eliminated alcohol and junky foods from her diet. She exercises regularly. I remember drinking a few too many egg nogs at a Christmas party, I saw pregnancy as a license to get fat, but stopped smoking cigarettes as soon as I knew I was pregnant. I walked out of sheer boredom, waiting for the little creature to be born. My babies were born perfect little wonders, and there is no reason that this baby won’t be another perfect little wonder.

So, in less than a week, I climb abroad a train for Seattle and then a bus for Vancouver and arrive in time to wait with K for the birth of our baby. T, her partner,and I get to be in the delivery room. T is a little unsure about watching a live birth, and as much as I think it has to be tons better than being on the “yelling and pushing” end of things, I’m not sure who’s going to turn away first at the sight of blood. Can’t wait!!