#IbelieveSurvivors

Today a judge found Jian Ghomeshi - former radio host of the once popular CBC show 'Q' - not guilty on one count of choking and four counts of sexual assault.

I, like many others, am saddened by the news. 

This isn't a commentary on the legalities of the case or even my way of saying the judge was wrong. My knowledge of our legal system is unfortunately fairly limited so I can't really properly argue against any of the court proceedings or findings. 

I will, however, comment on what many people are talking about: believing survivors of sexual assault. 

I am very, very fortunate in that I have never experienced sexual assault firsthand. There have been times I have felt unsafe, in situations like simply being a woman walking home alone at night. I was even followed once. I've endured unsolicited cat-calls and come-ons and been called names for shutting them down.

But I am fortunate. 

I've watched a friend have a drink roofied (thankfully she was with a large group and got home safely), and have heartbreakingly had a friend confide that she was sexual assaulted.

But I am fortunate. 

Several years ago, I was sexually harassed by a coworker. 
I wasn't really even able to process it as such until a few days later. 
He was an overweight guy who often asked for my nursing expertise (I was in school at the time and always showing up to work with giant textbooks) with health topics like exercise and nutrition. It wasn't unusual for me to get a text from him asking for some healthy recipes. 
One night, after a few questions about health matters, he asked if I ever masturbated. 
I wasn't sure how to answer but chalked it up to it being another health related question, albeit not a comfortable one. I told him everyone did and it was normal. 
Then he asked how tight I was. 
I was taken aback and didn't know how to respond. 
I laughed it off, thinking it might have been a joke. 
He apologized for offending me and I shut the conversation down.

I told another coworker the next day and his response was to also laugh it off. His response was essentially, "that's hilarious. You're not actually mad are you? He's harmless. Poor guy, he doesn't know how to talk to girls. We should help him".

Here's why I'm fortunate: I told my husband (who was my fiance at the time) and he flipped out. And not in a possessive 'you-can't-speak-to-my-woman' kind of way. He didn't laugh it off, and he didn't downplay how angry, upset, and embarrassed I was. He was angry that someone would disrespect me by asking such a vulgar, inappropriate question. 
Despite my protesting, he actually phoned the guy up and read him the riot act. 

Here's why I'm fortunate: I have parents and a sister who were similarly outraged and encouraged me to speak up. They never for a second laughed it off. 

Here's why I'm fortunate: I had another coworker that I confided in who took a similar stance. He didn't laugh, he didn't sympathize with the guy, he didn't discount my anger and embarrassment. Instead, he let me know that this guy had done similar things to other female coworkers. He encouraged me to report him to our supervisors and told me that he would encourage the other young women to do the same. 

Why did I laugh it off at first? Why wasn't I completely outraged until a day or so later? I didn't tell anyone right away because I was so embarrassed that I opted to just pretend like it never happened. I consider myself a strong feminist, but sadly I even questioned whether I was partially to blame. Had I led him on by not ending the conversation sooner?

When I did tell people, I got mixed reviews. When I told my supervisors at work, they held a formal meeting. I had to repeat the extent of the conversation and felt uncomfortable having to say the question he asked me out loud. I was afraid that they would think I had invited the question by not ending the conversation when he asked about masturbation. They eventually handed down disciplinary action: he was suspended for a short period and then wouldn't be allowed to work any shifts when management was not there. A slap on the wrist, really. 

Here's why I'm fortunate: When I wasn't sure how to react, I had supports that believed me, that didn't dismiss my emotions, that never once let me feel I was in any way to blame. 

While I don't feel right comparing my situation to those of the brave women who spoke out against Jian Ghomeshi, I can understand why they might not have wanted to. 

Maybe their initial reaction to the assault wasn't what we'd expect it to be. Maybe they weren't initially outraged. Maybe they laughed it off, in an effort to pretend it wasn't happening. 

Maybe they didn't tell anyone right away because they were afraid that the people they confided in would laugh it off, or say that poor Jian was harmless, or worst of all, maybe no one would believe them. 

Maybe they were afraid that they would have to relive the event, speak the words out loud again, and have people blame them and shame them for baiting him or leading him on. 

Maybe they were afraid that after all of it, after coming to terms with their own emotions, after confiding in friends who didn't believe them or who sympathized with their assaulter, after having to publicly relive the events and risk being shamed and judged, maybe after all of that they were afraid that he would walk away with nothing more than a slap on the wrist.  

The outcome of the trial is not what many of us wanted. But we're talking about it. My Facebook feed today was filled with angry men and women demanding justice for survivors of sexual assault. 

Let's continue to talk about the culture of rape that exists in our society. Let's continue to talk about how often sexual assualts happen and the staggering statistics of how infrequently they are reported. Let's continue to talk about why that is. Let's not dismiss, blame, or shame someone when they have the courage to talk about sexual assault. 

Someday perhaps we will finally unanimously recognize these individuals as brave for coming forward. Someday perhaps we can ensure that offenders of sexual harassment and assaults don't walk away with mere slaps on the wrist. Someday survivors of sexual assault won't need reassurance that we believe them.

But until then, 

#Ibelievesurvivors

The Way we see Addiction (Warning: rant ahead)

I recently came across an article that I felt I needed to share on Facebook. 

It was a piece on the late Philip Seymour Hoffman, written by Russell Brand and published in The Guardian.

Mr. Brand argues that Mr. Hoffman was a victim of 'extremely stupid' drug laws. 

He says,

"Addiction is a mental illness around which there is a great deal of confusion, which is hugely exacerbated by the laws that criminalise drug addicts."

He points out that by making drugs illegal we make drug users criminals. That no self-respecting drug user is going to be deterred by prohibition. That our culture does not know how to treat drug addicts.

You can read the article for yourself here.

I shared this (in my opinion) wonderful article as I felt it provided an important look at addiction from the non-judgemental side. 

A FB friend of mine added a comment that made me quite angry.

"He is dead cause he is a Junkie looking for the ultimate high! ...if he wasn't famous, there would be no story; just another Junkie"

Since everyone is entitled to their own opinion, I posted a respectful response but I felt I still needed to vent a little.

The joys of having a blog. 

Feel free to stop reading here if you prefer the lighter fare. 

I just need to get this off of my chest.

Let's start with some definitions.

(*They aren't properly referenced, don't tell any of my former professors)

1. Addiction (from CAMH) :

" The word “addiction” is often used to refer to any behaviour that is out of control in some way. People often describe themselves as being addicted to, for example, a TV show or shopping. The word is also used to explain the experience of withdrawal when a substance or behaviour is stopped (e.g., “I must be addicted to coffee: I get a headache when I don’t have my cup in the morning”).

However, experiencing enjoyment or going through withdrawal do not in themselves mean a person has an addiction.

Because the term “addiction” is commonly used in such a vague way, there have been many attempts to define it more clearly. One simple way of describing addiction is the presence of the 4 Cs:

• craving
• loss of control of amount or frequency of use 
• compulsion to use
• use despite consequences. "

2. Deserving (from dictionary.com) : 

adjective

1.

qualified for or having a claim to reward, assistance, etc., because of one's actions, 

qualities, or situation: the deserving poor; a deserving applicant.

2.

meriting; worthy: a criminal deserving of a lifetime sentence.

3. Undeserving (from dictionary.com) :

— adjective
	not earned or merited; unwarranted: an undeserved reputation

Have you ever heard the phrase 'deserving' vs 'undeserving' used with respect to health care?

In case you haven't, let me give you an example.

I work with people living with HIV/AIDS.

When the disease first made its appearance, there were two broad categories someone with HIV/AIDS could fall into based on how you acquired the virus.

If you were a haemophiliac and became infected due to a HIV+ blood transfusion, or you were born to an HIV+ mother, guess what? You won the sympathy game. You were deserving of treatment and people's support.

If you were an injection drug user or a gay man, guess what? You asked for it. You brought it on yourself. You were undeserving of the sympathy, you should have been smarter.

Unfortunately this mentality still exists.

You're addicted to alcohol/cocaine/heroin/methamphetamines/prescription pills/etc?

Just stop using them.

Check yourself into rehab.

Get clean for your husband/wife/children/family.

Smarten up.

Simple, right?

Not so much.

The reasons that people start using drugs (I'll use this term broadly to include all drugs and alcohol) are numerous.

Some people use drugs to manage their pain (I have). Some people use drugs because it makes them feel better about themselves, whether because they are shy or because they have a mental health issue like depression or schizophrenia. 

Some of the client's I've worked with have suffered through horrible abuse. 

How many of them have been told they are just another junkie, looking for that ultimate high? How many times have they been brushed off, not taken seriously, stigmatized because they have an addiction?

What if you had grown up in a household where you were sexually and emotionally abused by the people who were supposed to care for you? 

What if the only way to escape that pain, physical and mental, was to numb yourself with drugs?

Seems like these people might deserve our support, right?

What if you tried drugs at a party with your friends and you really liked the way it made you feel?

And what if you kept using those drugs because suddenly you were confident and liked yourself? 

Are these people selfish and undeserving of our support?

You'd be more likely to help and support the man who broke his leg or the man who has cancer than the man who has overdosed, right?
The man with cancer didn't ask for it.

There should be NO classification of the deserving and the undeserving, especially when it comes to who we help and support as a society.

Everyone is deserving.

"...if he wasn't famous, there would be no story"

This is just about the only point in the Facebook comment that I agree with. 

People die everyday from drug addiction and we don't talk about it. 
We walk passed them on the street and toss coins at them or mutter "get a job" under our breath.

Or we say what a shame, what a waste of a life.

He threw it all away for drugs.

Let's use Mr. Hoffman's fame to start talking about the way we see addiction.

Let's use Corey Monteith's fame to generate discussion about why we stigmatize drug use.

Why did it need to be reported that he was found with a needle still in his arm?

Or with 70 bags of heroin around him?

Does that help paint the picture for his friends, family, and fans that he was just another selfish addict who threw his life away to dirty, shameful drugs?

I understand the argument for criminalizing drug use.

I know that to legalize all or aspects of it is an ethical slippery slope.

Personally, I'm an advocate for harm reduction. If I ask a client if they plan to use and they say yes my response is, "do you have clean supplies? Do you know how to use them safely?" 

I don't expect everyone to share this view because I understand that not everyone sees drug use the way I do.

Not everyone is going to sign petitions for a safe injection site in the city.

I get it. 
I do. 
It's not a black and white issue. 

Whether providing a safe location for supervised drug use is a way to decrease rates of HIV, Hep C, overdoses, and drug related violence or whether it is merely sanctioning and promoting dangerous habits - this is a great debate and I encourage people to learn more and talk about it.

But let's not allow our personal beliefs to influence how we support someone with addiction.

I would personally never touch most drugs but does that mean I'm going to judge someone who does?

Not a chance.

I've seen people try to get clean. 

I've seen successes and relapses.

I'll tell you this: it's not easy.

These people aren't just giving up a hobby or a fun weekend. They often have to leave where they live, and cut entire groups of friends and acquaintances out of their lives. 

Then what are they left with?

Where is their support network?

That's why we need more programs and more resources and more education.

We need to stop seeing drug users as criminals, bad people, degenerates.

They are just as deserving of care and compassion, whether they are ready to seek help or not.

"Just another junkie" ?

He was a human being who wasn't perfect, just like everyone else on the planet.

How dare you.

If you or anyone you know has addiction issues or you'd like more information, please visit any of these links:

The Centre for Addiction & Mental Health website

The Canadian Centre on Substance Abuse website

The Addiction Canada website

And Now For Something Completely Different...

This post is a little different from the standard fare of recipes & food, crafts, events, etc but it's something I'd like to share.

This week at work was particularly tough - physically and emotionally.

Death is nothing new to me. In my few years as a student and as a nurse I've seen, prepared, and often shrouded roughly 50 people. It does get easier the more times you do it but it hasn't become so easy that I ever feel completely comfortable doing it.

It's weird knowing that someone who was just there with you isn't there anymore.

The death of a patient (thankfully in my case all my patient deaths have been expected or at least not a complete surprise) becomes even less comfortable when the family are there. It's more emotional and I know nothing I can say or do will make things any easier.

I think I wanted to write this as a way of saying that while it is (usually) always way more emotional for the friends and family of the dying person, there is also a team of health care professionals who are emotionally involved as well.

Unfortunately it isn't always the case, but in a lot of circumstances it is and if people reading this can take away only one message from this post I hope it is this:

Your loved one, in their final moments, even if you're not there, is not alone.

This past week I had a patient who had been admitted for palliative care about 2 months prior. Generally a 'palliative' diagnosis means 3 months or less. I've seen people pass away quicker and I've seen people fight a lot longer. This gentleman seemed like he might be one of the ones who fought for longer than 3 months. He was weak and quite sick but got up to the bathroom independently and would go out for smoke breaks occasionally or out to picnics and other events with friends.

He also had some of the most intense wounds I have ever cared for. I obviously can't reveal too much for fear of somehow breaking confidentiality but this involved a stage 4 sacral ulcer (google it if you're not too queasy), an incredibly deep rectal cavity wound (which required frequent cleaning from bowel movements and then packing with antibiotic-impregnated gauze or packing tape) as well as wounds on the penis, through which the patient's bowel movements eventually began to exude thanks to a fistula. Wound care was not a quick endeavour. And worse, you can probably imagine how painful it was for the patient.

Pain.

We do our best to manage it but sometimes it's hard. Sometimes it's frustratingly hard. This particular patient went through trial after trial on a number of medications, none of which seemed to adequately manage his pain. Especially once he really began to deteriorate. Over the weekend he really began to take a turn for the worse, refusing to eat and barely taking in any fluids. Doing his wound care was absolute agony for him and we all kind of weighed which was the lesser of two evils: making him suffer through an incredibly painful half hour or leaving him to sit in a dirty incontinence brief. When I came back after a day off he had become mostly unresponsive, meaning verbal stimuli and even tactile stimuli wouldn't bring him into a more alert state. But he spent the entire day in undeniable pain despite regularly scheduled medication, breakthrough pain medications, and new orders for other pain meds on top of that. Nothing was working and as the person who was directly responsible for his care that day, I felt awful. Knowing that someone is suffering and you are supposed to be there to ease that suffering is incredibly hard to stomach. Not for the first time and I'm sure not for the last, I silently wished for my patient to just slip away as soon and as peacefully as possible.

The next day he was less responsive and all signs pointed to the end of his suffering coming soon. I gave him as many pain medications as I could even though he didn't look as uncomfortable as he had the day before. I gave him any medication that I thought would help. Something to relax his stiff muscles, something to try to dry up the chest secretions that cause the death rattle.

And I sat with him.

I sat with him for most of the morning, getting up every now and then to check on my other patients. I held his hand and I rubbed his arms and I talked to him. As we tell an unresponsive patient's family and friends, hearing is often the last sense to go.

Eventually his breathing slowed significantly. The health care aide who had come in to sit with me noticed it and we both looked at each other, knowing. We held his hands, told him he had fought bravely and that he could go home for a well deserved rest. Within minutes his chest stopped rising and he had gone. There was no dramatic last breath, no dramatic anything. Just peace.

I think it's been on my mind because of the 50 or so people I've seen die, this was only the second death that I had been physically present for. And it made me think of my own grandfather who passed away in an ICU several years ago. He was lucky to be surrounded by his family, although I wasn't there.

I'm not sharing this to have people say "oh you're so wonderful, how caring of you to be with him in those final moments." That's my job. I'm sharing this because I've seen this many times with other nurses, social workers, doctors, health care aides, and others being there in the final moments.

I'm sharing this to try and make the dying process a little easier for those of you who have or who have had someone they love pass away in the hospital.

I have had a few patients pass away alone, in the early hours of the morning, often when we thought they had more time. I've had patient's go when I was helping another patient. I've had it happen in the time it took me to leave the patient's side to call the family to tell them they should come in. There is no way to say accurately how much time a person has left, and it is similarly impossible to predict exactly when a person who is dying will take their last breath.

But these patients, these mothers/fathers/brothers/sisters/aunts/uncles/children/friends never die alone. They are so many wonderful health care providers who do their best to manage pain but also to manage fear and anxiety and make the unknown a little less scary.

This may sound like a weird thing to say, but death is inevitable and I know in my line of work I'm going to see a lot more of it before I retire. So I'll say it.

I hope I get to hold the hands of many, many more people in their final moments.

Feel Good Friday: a confession I've wanted to get off of my chest for awhile

 

If you love alliteration as much as I do then you might appreciate this new series I want to start.

Feel Good Fridays.

Dedicated to health & wellness, beauty inside and out.

 

I thought for the first ever Feel Good post that I would share something with you that I've wanted to talk about for a long time.

I've written posts before but they always ended up saved in my drafts, too terrifying to publish publicly.

It's strange and honestly very frightening to lay it all out on the table but sometimes it's the best way to really heal.

Plus this is like my diary so if you're not in for a heavier post then turn back now.

 

 

For the past (almost) 10 years I've dealt with an eating disorder.

Webster's Dictionary defines it as:
"any of several psychological disorders (as anorexia nervosa or bulimia) characterized by serious disturbances of eating behavior"

That was my attempt at lightening the mood. We are all aware that every good speech starts with a dictionary definition.
I won't go into detail but I can assure you that pretty much any mental image you're conjuring in your head right now I've likely experienced.

This may (or may not) come as a shock to some people, but my close friends and family are well aware that I've had this problem for a long time.
It ebbs and flows - both my weight and my state of mine - but I've found that the times that it gets out of control are when I'm under a lot of stress.

It started the summer between the end of high school and the beginning of University.
I can't pinpoint when it stopped being a healthy lifestyle and moved into more dangerous territory but I can remember going for a long run one day because I felt guilty about eating several cookies.

Then I had a hard time adjusting to being at a new school where I didn't know anyone and most of my friends had gone away for University so I was suddenly alone in my own city too.

In between classes I started going to the gym because it meant I didn't have to sit alone in the cafeteria. I had been eating healthier during that summer and then I was cutting out high calorie foods and then I was trying not to eat more than I had burned off that day.
It became a fixation and it took my mind off of missing my friends and the challenges of university.

I won't post my weights but by Christmas I had dropped somewhere between 10 and 15 pounds and on a 5'3 body that is a lot.
I can remember my mom rubbing my back one day then confessing how worried she was because my spine was so prominent.
(To be fair even when I'm rocking some extra weight my spine still sticks out. I lovingly refer to it as my stego-spine because it might as well be stegosaurus plates).
She also made me get on a scale in front of her to prove I weighed what I said I did.

But then I started to make friends and my friends came home and I was going out more and eating again.
And I gained all of the weight back that I had lost, as well as an additional 10-15 lbs.
My metabolism had essentially shut down, convinced it needed to save every calorie I put into my body. Which only meant that I felt very uncomfortable in my new body and which led to other complications.

Things sort of stayed stagnant, I'd have good days and bad days, until eventually, about a year later, I was back down to my regular weight.

I started going to a support group a few years later when I confessed everything to John.
He was so supportive. He listened, never once judged me, and started researching it and keeping notebook. He looked up every way to support me and it's something I've never forgotten.
I went to a once weekly group at Sheena's Place for a few months but eventually stopped going. I found a lot of the stories to be inspirational but many also made me feel only like I was a failed anorexic.
So to stop myself from falling back down that rabbit hole I decided to focus on myself and try just leading a normal life.

And it worked!

Until my final year of university.
That summer (our first anniversary) John woked on a dig in Jordan (the middle east, not Jordan Ontario) and I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. At one point I went 4 days without eating.
I dropped a bit of weight but not nearly as much as the first time and I was able to gain what I had lost back thanks to a romantic reunion and an insane amount of delicious food in Europe.

I went a full year without harming my body but old habits have a tendency to die hard. Things didn't change and, again, I'd have good days and bad days.

I'd have days where I felt good and days where I hated what I saw in the mirror.

I'd have days when I laughed and days when I cried.

Days when I enjoyed myself and days when I cringed thinking about how much I had eaten.

 

But even though I wasn't healthy, I believed I had things under control.

 

Until the latest relapse last summer.

Again, more stressors. Graduation. Trying to find a job. Planning a wedding.

I started my training for the sporting life 10 k earlier than usual and kept it up.

That turned into almost daily runs, none shorter than 45 minutes.

 

I was going for 10 mile runs and eating almost exclusively vegetables.

By July I had dropped to the weight I had been at my worst. And then I lost a few more pounds.

 

My best friend invited me to grab a coffee then tearfully confessed how worried she was about me.

My mom continually asked was I okay? Was I eating? Had I fallen into my old habits? Even my dad asked and he notoriously avoids those kinds of situations.

Another friend who I had confessed to years ago called to offer support because he had seen pictures from my bachelorette and was worried.

John begged me not to lose any more weight.

Even my boss at the time told me I was not allowed to lose any more.

 

The sad truth is that while the scale confirmed I was in fact losing weight, I didn't see it in the mirror.

Looking back now I see it.

 



 

Once I realized how concerned everyone was, I started cutting back on my running and started eating more. And I gained the weight back, to the point where I no longer fit into my bridesmaid dress for my best friend's wedding! I had to have it let out in the hips and even then it was still tight but I was too embarassed to ask for them to let it out more.

 

I could tell you that right now I'm not starving myself and that I'm perfectly healthy and cured but that wouldn't be true.

The nasty thoughts and sick mentality aren't something you can just turn off, especially when they've been a part of your life for a decade.

 

I know I have a tendency to overdo physical activity. 'Anorexia athletica' I've seen it refered to. Add it to the other titles I identify with.

I still binge eat sometimes and sometimes eat only tomatoes.

I have good days and bad days and I suspect I always will but I've said it many times before - I'm sick of being unhappy when I look at myself.

Why? Our value is not determined by a pant size or a number on a scale.

I don't want to deal with stress anymore by counting calories instead.

 

So here is my promise to myself.

 

I will be happy with who I am because I have people who love me, really love me, and it doesn't seem right that they have no problem loving me regardless of my weight when I don't.

 

Today 'I'm going to eat better' stops being code for 'I'm going to severely cut calories'.

Today 'I need to go to the gym more' stops meaning 'I need to burn at least 500 calories every trip'.

Today 'I'm fine' stops meaning 'I'm struggling'.

 

So often I want to jump on the "eating disorders are just people being selfish and self-absorbed and wanting attention" train because I know so many people suffering from illnesses that they don't inflict upon themselves. And let's be serious here, I feel stupid admitting that I struggle with something that I do essentially inflict upon myself.

 

But mental health issues are like that image of an iceburg that I hate.

So much of it is below the surface.

I wish I could shut off the voice that screams in my head when I overindulge and I wish my heart didn't sink when the scale says something higher than what I wanted to see.

I wish I didn't automatically turn to dieting and over exercising when I get stressed.

 

It's my coping mechanism and even though I'm well aware that it's a bad strategy, it's strangely comforting at times.

Which is sick, I know.

 

All I ask is that you don't judge me, and just read this as a long overdue confession that I needed to make in order to start healing my mind and my body.

 

I know I'll never look like this (Chicken Tuna, my instagram creep crush) :

 

mainly because as much as I may over do it, I'm wayyyyy too lazy to commit to the kind of gym time and diet that this body requires.

 

But I do want to get strong instead of skinny.

 

I want to be healthy - body, mind, and spirit.

 

And honestly I think that's the first step in this new, right direction.