This is what all the therapists at my Pulmonary Rehab Class are telling us. There’s more moisture in the air and that makes it heavier, harder to breathe in, harder to push out. The class, made up of roughly a dozen people, most of them twenty years older than myself, are struggling. People sit slumped, breathing hard. Scratchy, hospital towels around their neck, dixie cups full of water in their hands.

The instructor continues to lead us through our paces, but gently. Beside me a woman in a wheelchair has fallen asleep. The intimacy of that. To look over and see the flaked, yellowed skin exposed above her black socks. Her face relaxed to the point of formlessness. Her glasses smudged, fallen. What dreams now forming and dispersing within. And across the room a very elderly man, so old and thin he looks like a fledgling, has fallen asleep, too. Almost fetal in his wheelchair. And the instructor says something with her eyes, perhaps, and we all begin to exercise so gently. Nobody speaks. Everything softer, everything hushed. And as we pretend to jog in our seated places, we’ve become as silent as ninjas. As cats hunting. As clouds touching in the skies above.

When the girls first met Rachelle and I they declared us their “real” parents–probably due to our liberal rules regarding drugs and alcohol and my collection of hats. No matter, since then, they have relegated their actual mom to “birth mother.” They are currently off working as camp counsellors for the summer, and have requested that I write them a letter each week. Here is one:

************************************
My most cherished daughters:

It’s really hot in Toronto right now. So hot your birth mother might even consider putting on the AC. I, as you know, perish in the heat. Humidity is my enemy. I am TOTALLY racist against humidity. Not woke at all in that department.

Fuck the humidity!

I would vote for anybody who proposed building a huge wall between me and the humidity.

I really would.

Anyway, as you should, but probably don’t know, I work-out up to three hours a day.

Fact.

Not fake news!

Part of this routine includes walking ( pretty fast!) on a treadmill for 30 minutes a day. Today, on account of the heat, I took my shirt off to do this. Just as I was finishing and stepping off the treadmill, sweaty and a little bit dizzy, I spotted three young women passing by our front window.

I have to admit, I kind of froze.

Obviously, I wanted to dive out of the way and hide from sight, but startled, I guess, I made eye contact with one of them. Have you ever seen a face collapse? I don’t mean literally, like in a horror movie, but more an unmediated emotional response in the face of calamity.

This woman, the one whom I made eye contact with, had a normal, even confident resting face, but when she saw me standing there shirtless, all conscious control she had over her facial features simply vanished. It was like everything caved in and turned upside down at once—as if she had been seized by a kind of supernatural possession. She gasped and then leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees and stated to gag. One of her friends looked at me and started to desperately wave me away and out of their sight line, which of course, I dutifully did.

Really, really hate sorority girls.

Pretty sure they were from Alpha Gamma Delta.

Don’t you ever join Alpha Gamma Delta. They are the worst. Very stuck-up. And sororities are all about upholding cultural and social hierarchies. Sororities are not woke!

Thankfully, I am a middle-aged white man so the incident did nothing to diminish my mystifying confidence.

Anyhow, that is how my day started.

Soon I will clean the bathroom. Did you know that Rachelle made a chore list, laminated it and has now posted 8 copies of it throughout the apartment?

That’s more copies than there are rooms! It’s true, and you would not believe how unfair the list is!! Do you think I should be cleaning her hockey equipment and the Diaper Genie three times a week??? I swear, Rachelle thinks she’s such a big shot just because she has a job. Let me give you some fatherly advice, daughters, never, ever allow yourself to be defined by paid work. Or becoming a member of a fucking sorority.

We love you very much and ask that you please send photographs of Bigfoot and Mothman,

Your father

It was a pretty busy day, and in almost no time at all I found myself separated from Rachelle and Jones. These are the texts from my wife that followed:

*****************************

Rachelle: Where are you?

Rachelle: The Bat Cave?! That sounds dramatic!!

Rachelle: Really? That’s weird!

Rachelle: I thought it would have something to do with Batman, too. Maybe a tribute to Adam West or something.

Rachelle: Adam West.

Rachelle: He just died.

Rachelle: He was the original Batman.

Rachelle: No, Michael Keaton was not the original batman.

Rachelle: Thought for sure you’d know that.

Rachelle: Well, because you’re seasoned.

Rachelle: That’s not an insult.

Rachelle: Seasoned things are delicious.

Rachelle: Like Ikea meatballs.

Rachelle: I still can’t believe you ate 19 of them that one day .

Rachelle: Yes, it was very impressive, very alpha male.

Rachelle: However, if you’d pushed through to 20 it would have been even more alpha, I think.

Rachelle: Just saying.

Rachelle: Where are we? How nice of you to ask!

Rachelle: We’re in the kid’s play area, right near the tepee.

Rachelle: I have discovered that medieval headgear is really heavy!

Rachelle: What have you learned in the bat cave besides the fact that Michael Keaton was not the original Batman?

Rachelle: And beside the fact that you’re old.

Rachelle: Bats eat mice like you eat meatballs.

Rachelle: Pickle, I am glad that you can still learn new things.

Rachelle: Sorry?

Rachelle: Why don’t you want Jones in the tepee?

Rachelle: Cultural appropriation?

Rachelle: No, I don’t hate my First Nation’s brothers and sisters.

Rachelle: The tepee was just a nice, quiet spot for Jones to sit and colour for a bit, that’s all.

Rachelle: I mean, it is expressly there for the kid’s to use!

Rachelle: You don’t know what the Great Spirit wanted! Perhaps that’s exactly what the Great Spirit wished for!

Rachelle: Lord, you have to spend less time on Twitter.

Rachelle: I swear, people should have to take a test before they get on that thing–like kids having to be a certain height before going on a ride.

Rachelle: I’m sorry Pickle, but you’re just too suggestible.

Rachelle: Last week you were insisting the Russians were cyborgs.

Rachelle: Regardless, it’s not a “cultural appropriation” tepee, but more of a “spirit guide” tepee.

Rachelle: I had a vision when I was in there.

Rachelle: Of Justin Trudeau.

Rachelle: He was dressed in his tepee denims and smelled of pine needles.

Rachelle: Shirt?

Rachelle: No, just the jean jacket.

Rachelle: Yes, unbuttoned.

Rachelle: I know. Yes, you and some other kids beat him up in grade school.

Rachelle: You know, that’s probably something you shouldn’t be so proud of.

Rachelle: No, you couldn’t.

Rachelle: No, you simply could not do a plank– no matter how much you trained or hard you tried.

Rachelle: It’s like the 20th meatball for you, a bridge you shall never cross.

Rachelle: Oh, no!

Rachelle: He didn’t speak at all, he just smiled at me, and when he did I knew that everything was going to be fine. Sunny ways everywhere!

Rachelle: Oh! I think I see you Pickle!

Rachelle: Do you see us?

Rachelle: Look! Jones has a dinosaur he wants to show you! He’s running to you now, our little sunny way is running right to you!

I don’t much like the food here at Pulmonary Rehab.

The hatred of hospital food is pretty much a universal, and so I imagined that all the other residents would share my point of view. But no, I was dead wrong. The people I spoke with liked the food, even the simulated pork thing that had been pressed to make it look like ribs.

The reasons for this are simple enough. Many of the people here– by virtue of their condition– are unable to work and have little money. Many of them are older and live alone, lacking the will, funds or ability to attentively feed themselves, and are thus entirely grateful when a meal is delivered to them three times a day. This food, regardless of its quality and regardless of whether it’s “Instagrammable” or not, is a good thing.

Its presence is a relief, a daily stress crossed-out.

People enter into this program eroded and depressed, little more than shadows of who they once were. On Fridays we’re allowed to go home for the weekend, but not everybody does. Some people are too sick or live too far away, but others stay because they have nothing they want to return to.

One man, heavy with sad eyes, said to me as he settled in before the TV, “Why would I want to go home and just sit there, staring at my four walls? I like it better here.”

Sometimes people forget just how breakingly lonely illness can be.

But soon enough, people are reanimated. Men who wouldn’t make eye contact when they entered are shortly cracking wise, singing along to the oldies while working out, and women who hadn’t played cards in years are laughing together over Euchre.

Collected from disparate lives and thrown together in common cause, we get to know one another gradually, through the honesty of proximity rather than the spin of words. You see the pain first, because you know the pain, too. But gradually, that’s chipped away to reveal the person lost inside, the person capable of joy and wonder. It’s a gift, this, and all of us here gathered beneath the mortal cloud of our illness become family, and will linger as family long after each one of us has stepped out the door and receded back into the mysterious worlds from which we came.

And so I did.

The place, stripped to a skeleton staff and now loosely populated by the permanent residents– most of whom were confined to wheelchairs of varying complication– was pretty empty. The days, now shapeless and free of plot, offered little and so I wandered hallway after hallway. Seeming more memory than music, the theme song to MASH drifted from one room I passed,

while another was antiseptic and empty but for Trump/Pence banners taped defiantly to the wall, and then through a doorway, I caught a glimpse of a nurse changing a patient’s tracheotomy tube– so intimate and tender as to be virtually erotic. Downstairs, scattered like islands, I came upon people who sat anchored and voiceless in wheelchairs, each one stationed near a window, watching.

There was a church service later in the morning that took place in the same space that hosted Bingo, Pub Night and all our other events. It was Catholic, which occasioned a few religious props being removed from a box and placed on a cafeteria table, and somehow this act was achingly beautiful.

A strong, elderly woman dressed all in black walked in, made the sign of the cross, and then nodded warmly to all who made eye contact. She went directly to a middle-aged woman who was frozen and strapped into a wheelchair, and touched her with a tenderness that exceeded language. Gently, she pulled a favourite sweater over her head, and then smiling,  began to brush her hair—a mother’s imperishable, radiant love, holier than a saint.

An impossibly old woman was reclined, almost prone, in a wheelchair. Blankets and knitted things covered virtually every inch of her body, and her skin was so very thin, her body so frail, that it seemed as if a soft gust might be enough to push her through the veil. A couple of hospital staff tended to her, telling her that her brother would be there any moment now. Her eyes flickered open at his mention, and as if surfacing through water she said, “Oh, I hope so,” and then she fell back down and in to sleep.

Ten minutes later a tall, elderly man, clearly ill himself, entered and sat stoically beside her. With a bible open on his lap he mumble-prayed along with the priest. He never touched her, nor did he say anything to her while she slept through the service, but it was clear that he was her brother. He was her tie to this world, the one now disintegrating around her into a living mist. Drifting in and out, all of time swirling around her, what version of her brother might she have hoped to summon, what memory returning in dream, what ghost to see her home?

As of this writing, I am on day 7 of a 6 week stint at a pulmonary rehabilitation facility.

Last night was an event known as “Coffee House.” It took place in a generic, over-lit cafeteria style room that was made all the more depressing by the tiny gestures of decorative cheer added by the well-intentioned staff.

An inspirational message taped to the wall.

A balloon tied to a folding chair.

Somewhere a Dollar Store streamer that wouldn’t stay in place, hanging limp as if injured.

All of us gathered there were quiet, standing around as awkward and vulnerable as children at a school dance. Those who were most profoundly ill, those for whom recovery was out of reach and who lived permanently in the residence, had been pushed up near a three-piece band that was getting ready to perform. These people sat in complicated, tongue-controlled wheelchairs, and at a casual glance appeared fused into the metal of their containers– their mouths open, faces rigid and untranslatable. The rest of us, those attached to oxygen tanks and those not, just looked lost and a little sad, like we’d long given up hope of being asked to dance. You felt what was missing rather than what was there—and it seemed as if in each breath we exhaled a shallow puff of loss, all then gathering together like a weather system to form a heavy, oppressive cloud that enveloped us.

It was heartbreaking.

The band, a kind of folk outfit that was comprised of a woman who looked like a community organizer on tambourine, a bongo player in a Toronto Blue Jays cap, and an electric keyboardist who tried to project energy by wearing a Hawaiian shirt, began to play. At first the music seemed like it was designed to be little more than sound, just a “something” to help fill the emptiness of the situation, but then the woman began to sing I’ll Fly Away. Her voice was beautiful and true, and everybody in the coffee house fell into it.

When the shadows of this life have gone

I’ll fly away

Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly

I’ll fly away

And that voice, that song, it seemed to come out of us, too. And for a few moments we were all living beyond our mortal cages, we were all soaring– everything effortless, everything weightless, everything beautiful.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MNM0OO_iVI

I’ve only met him once, and that was over twenty years ago when he was just six, but I always felt like I made a pretty strong impression on him. As such, I’ve tried to stay in contact with him over the years, hoping to provide the leadership, guidance and confidence, that a young, ambitious and talented member of my family might benefit from.

I have to say, he has proven a very disappointing correspondent.

No matter, the fact that he’s never bothered to respond to any of my email hasn’t stopped me from writing, and when I heard that there were very serious allegations of match fixing at the highest levels of professional tennis, I wrote my young protege these supportive emails.

Andy:

Hey!

It’s your cool cousin, Michael here!

You know, the one who taught you how to serve and properly identify a crop circle back in the summer of ’94! I got a bad bloody nose for some reason that day. No idea why. So weird. Might have had something do with magnetic resonance from the crop circles.

Anyway, I know that you’re involved in the match fixing that’s now being investigated by the authorities.

You’re a Murray.

We come from a long line of sheep thieves and have a known a history of committing cowardly acts in the face of pressure. It’s in the blood. Hell, in grade seven I threw a spelling bee because another kid promised me a sexy photograph of Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci.

I pretended I didn’t know how to spell “Psychotic” during the competition. Acted like I thought it started with an “S!”

As if.

I was born knowing how to spell psychotic.

I just want you to know that I think fixing matches is cool. It’s easy money. And don’t worry, your secret is safe with me!

Confidentially,

Michael Murray

PS: I know your character even if the public doesn’t.
Andy:

I owe my bookie Goran in excess of $7,000, due in large part to betting (unsuccessfully!!) on you.

You gotta back family, man!

Michael Murray

Andy:

As you might have heard, I now have a baby boy. Jones.

He’s the apple of our eye. Sure is expensive, though. Hungry, little money machine. Clothes horse, too. And as I am now the respected head of a family I really need to boost my earning potential. Not sure what to do. I have a real gift for predicting the outcome of sporting events. Do you have any suggestions of what I might do?

Michael Murray

Andy:

Was looking at some pictures of your wife the other day.

A real beauty. Guess money buys a lot of nice things. Has anybody started a fake Twitter account for her where she says you’re a domestic abuser and have all sorts of terrible and embarrassing sexual kinks? For an angry and desperate person with lots of time on his hands, that sort of account would sure be easy to create.

It would be a real shame if anything happened to her pretty face or hot body.

Michael Murray

Andy:

I am going to take your silence as agreement with everything I have written. If this is the case and you are onboard with fixing a match on behalf of your family and saving yourself from Twitter humiliation, please wear white during your next tennis match.

Michael Murray

Andy:

Excellent.

In the second round of the Australian Open, just pretend, as you typically do, to have lost your temper and concentration,

or perhaps twisted an ankle, and then limp off the court in furious defeat. You know the drill. With this one meaningless loss, which will give you a glorious two week vacation in beautiful Australia with your stunning and as yet undamaged wife, I will have been able to clear my debt with Goran, make a nice profit so I can take that nude life drawing class

I have always dreamed about, and you will have given Jones, the latest Murray, a great start in life.

As our family crest says: “Furth fortune and fill the fetters!”

Michael Murray

PS: We make a great team!

She had a shitty day and was tired, and right before her she saw a man who had his knapsack on the seat directly beside him. Politely, the woman asked if he might move the bag so that she could sit down. The man called her an airhead and told her to get the fuck away from him, before eventually stomping on her foot and pushing her away. Much of this was caught on camera and posted online. It became a huge story, with the now widely despised man in question being dubbed the TTC Leprechaun. All sorts of vigilante investigations have been launched, one of which turned up the Leprechaun’s Diary:

Monday, September 22, 2014

Put on bright red shirt and piano key tie, accessorized by a black beret. Didn’t feel right. Changed piano key tie for a bolo tie and knew I was rocking it. Took a new picture for my Tinder account. Still nothing. Got on bus. Nobody challenged me so I spit on my hand and then rubbed it on that stripper pole thing that everybody with poor balance holds onto.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Today it was a sleeveless t-shirt and a do-rag. I don’t care if it’s only 9 degrees out, a man sometimes has to show his dominance and make a display. Waxed my beard and loaded up my iPod with the underrated Tom Cochrane.

He’s just as fucking good as Tom Petty, I don’t care what the loser critics say. Got on bus. Rubbed up against a teenager. She didn’t know what to do. Made my point.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Put some poison out on the fire escape for Ms. K, the neighbour’s shit-festival of a cat and then checked my Tinder account. Nothing. Checked Grinder. Nothing. Watched a few beheading videos. Took some selfies and then bought some really cool dude jewelry on Etsy. Wore my sleeveless t-shirt again today and also put on some Axe body spray and a bowler hat. Made a sandwich. Got on bus. Coughed in the face of a woman and then said, “sorry,” with really heavy sarcasm. It was pretty funny. Later, I called the cashier at Tim Horton’s a Fuck Bucket when she screwed up my order.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Refilled fire escape poison. New frames arrived in the mail. Very excited. Put on lucky, bright green shirt and bowler hat. Got on bus. Confused an old woman looking for directions, making her get off at the wrong stop, and then flirt-shoved a woman that wanted to sit beside me. We had good, playful banter and I think we had some real chemistry as I saw her sneaking a photo of me.

It’s long been a dream of mine to play professional hockey, and this is a goal I’ve worked very hard to achieve. Unfortunately, I’ve never been quite good enough to make the grade, and as the years pass by my chances of making the NHL are rapidly diminishing. In an effort to remind the NHL GM’s and coaches who might still be looking for a character guy in the locker room, of just how committed I am to this dream, I am providing a short list of some of the things I’m willing to do to fulfill my dream of playing in the NHL.

I am perfectly willing to serve as a shutdown, 4^th line centre, instead of the natural, 1^st line scorer I am, if it gets me into the NHL faster.

I will continue with my figure skating lessons, trying to improve my balance and explosiveness on the ice in order to make me a better team player.

I would not hesitate to drop the gloves.

I will cut back on my shifts at David’s Tea in order to train more.

I would consent to wearing a suit and tie to and from the rink for every game.

I would kill a bird with a rock.

I would be willing to relocate.

If necessary, I would subordinate my natural leadership skills in order to better serve the team.

I will say no to hanging out with friends and going out to parties because I know I have to be up early the next morning to train.

I would have sex with Tom Hardy– even though I’m not gay or even remotely curious about what being gay might feel like– in order to prove how serious I am about playing in the NHL.

I would also have sex with Tom Hardy and Daniel Craig– even though I’m not gay or even remotely curious to know what it might feel like to be gay with two other stunning and sexy men– in order to prove how serious I am about playing in the NHL.

I would give up my participation in fantasy hockey in order to protect the integrity of the NHL and the great game of hockey.

I would take up hunting in order to better fit in with my peers.

I would consider giving up gluten.

I would also consider giving up Choir! Choir! Choir! in order to more fully dedicate myself to my dream of playing in the NHL.

The girl working the cash was young and seemed excited by her job, exuding a manner that suggested she brought a great rush of enthusiasm and competence to everything she did. Cheery, even encouraging, she practically told me the story of each item I was buying, health and optimism radiating from her like sunlight.

On Dupont, a lovely, young Indian woman in Lycra yoga gear was doing some modest stretches against the steps near a restaurant. It wasn’t accidentally beautiful, there was some intent to her actions, but it was close. However, every time a man walked down the sidewalk she tensed up and became anxious, just waiting for something unpleasant to happen, for some guy to say something that was going to ruin her fragile day.

And as she did some calf stretches, a young woman proudly walked past her. She was swinging her arms and there was a spring in her step. She was feeling good, like a world-beater, and she was wearing a vivid, bright red t-shirt that said, “This is my Jesus year,” animated by her faith, an unknowable courage seemed to be guiding her through the day.