12
Sep 19

not equal parties

On the face of it, the fact that a middle-aged white heterosexual male of Roman Catholic persuasion is making a credible run in 2019 at becoming Prime Minister of Canada (the most insistently “woke” country in the world) is patently absurd.

Absurd, that is, until you consider that his opponent, the incumbent, is also a middle-aged white heterosexual Roman Catholic male.

One of these men, however, is truly scary – a regressive, intolerant, misogynistic, homophobic reprobate.  Or so we are told.

The other is the ultra-hip, feminist-extraordinaire Justin Trudeau, our current Prime Minister and grand-master of the Liberal Party smear machine that is ruthlessly (and with some success) painting Conservative Party leader Andrew Scheer as a dimpled menace. Read the rest of this entry »

17
Jul 19

censorshipI have no plans to see Unplanned.

With two busy medical practices and four non-passive kids between us, the odds of my wife and I carving out time to take in the anti-abortion film - or any other movie for that matter – are roughly on par with Donald Trump resigning his presidency to take up knitting.

It’s not that I have no interest in the abortion debate.  Like many Canadians, I do, and as I have explained elsewhere, one doesn’t have to be religious to entertain moral misgivings about ending unborn life. Read the rest of this entry »

30
Jan 19

“Twitter will ruin us, and we should stop.”

So said Farhad Manjoo in The New York Times last Wednesday, in his opinion piece entitled “Never Tweet”.

He’s right.

And I’m stopping - as I said I would.  I’ve deleted my account permanently.  And I won’t miss what Manjoo rightly calls “the world’s most damaging social network”.

After getting chased off the platform last week, I returned briefly to Twitter on Monday to circulate my “Bitter-tweet” retort to the swarming I endured.

The response to my new post was overwhelming, and almost entirely positive – welcome proof that not everyone has gone stark raving mad.

It didn’t stay positive, of course: that’s not the Twitter way.  Twenty-four hours later the incessant natter of the trans-activist jungle had resumed its Chinese-water-torture cadence, its intellectual depth summed up nicely by a pungent “breathe in all my farts” dismissal of my essay. Read the rest of this entry »

6
Jan 19

“History doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes,” Mark Twain is supposed to have said.

He was right, but he wasn’t saying anything new, as anyone familiar with the Bible can attest.

In Ecclesiastes you will find, as ancient precursor to Twain’s observation, this axiom from King Solomon:

What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.

Solomon’s words surfaced in my mind on New Year's Eve as the last hours of 2018 bled away.  I stared glumly into the bathroom mirror at yet another volcanic eruption studding my 51-year-old mug, echoes of my pimply-faced adolescence ping-ponging in my brain.  Zits don’t ordinarily occupy the same territory as hard-won wrinkles - nor should one ever need reading glasses to properly inspect them.

I have my oncologist to thank for this acned absurdity.  One year ago, as 2018 rose unsteadily from the ashes of 2017, the stubborn beast of a cancer in my head reincarnated itself alongside the new year, thumbing its nose at all previous efforts to slay it.  I wasn’t keen to risk another craniotomy after four mighty kicks at that can; I’m all for being “open-minded”, but preferably not surgically.  So, after lengthy discussion with my cancer specialist, I took a flyer on a novel drug, armed with lotions and potions to keep the inevitable side effects at bay. Read the rest of this entry »

20
Dec 18

* names and some details of clinical cases changed to protect privacy

Act One

 A Crisis of Identity

The number leapt out at me.  One hundred and three!

An incandescent flash of comprehension flooded my brain.

It was fourteen years ago.  I was standing beside the trauma bay bed, holding one of Jack’s tiny clenched fists in my hand as I gazed at his contorted face, his tongue thrusting rhythmically and his eyes rolled insistently upward.

His spasming body was submerged in a beehive of activity.  Medical personnel supplied critically needed oxygen, readied resuscitation equipment, and delivered intravenous medications and fluids.

Paramedics had crashed through the doors ten minutes earlier, wheeling Jack on a stretcher.  It had been a sleepy Monday morning in the ED to that point, the mundane chit-chat of nursing staff disturbed only by the raspy breathing and occasional seal-bark cough of a young boy with croup.  After dosing the young lad with dexamethasone and settling a misty mask of epinephrine over his face to ease his breathing, I sat in the doctors’ cubicle with my resident, killing time by quizzing her on the case we had just seen. Read the rest of this entry »