Category Archives: Broadview Co-op

VanRamblings | 2026 | Raymond’s Health Update

July 23, 2026Broadview Co-op, fixin to die rag, Food & Health, Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life, Vancouver, VanRamblingshealth, prostate cancer, raymondRaymond Tomlin

After 265 arduous and often painful days of my recovery from prostate cancer surgery at Vancouver General Hospital, I can report to VanRamblings’ readers today that I am well on the way to a full recovery and that, at present, there are no hurdles in respect of my once upon a time prostate cancer that is of concern to me.

The front entrance to Broadview Housing Co-operative, in the heart of the Kitsilano neighbourhood

Today, then, allow me to provide you with some insight into my eight-plus month recovery journey, commencing in early November 2025, when I was bedridden and in immense pain, cared for by friends and neighbours — in particular regarding the latter group, my Broadview Housing Co-operative comrades and in-house health saviours / providers: Heather Redfern and Kevin Stewart, in particular, but also Judi Burley, Laurie Reid, Max Burley, Jordan Patrich, Bobby Asgari, Laurette Yelle, and Libbi Dowd — without whose caring, able assistance and dedication to working with me towards my recovery, I might very well not be here today.

Meaghan, pictured above, was also a core saviour, the light in my life, during my recovery

Meaghan Brister also played a significant — dare I say, pivotal — role before and in the many months after my prostate cancer surgery. I’ve previously published a photo of Meaghan and her husband Alasdair’s 2-year-old daughter, Elliott, sitting at the bottom, on the left hand side, of my bed, an ever present Teague the dog nearby. The whole family have long been very close friends of mine (lucky me!).

Perhaps most important of all over the past 16 months, my personal health saviour, Kelly Ryan

In the time to come, I will dedicate a whole column to Kelly, as I will to Heather — these two angels from heaven, more than any of my other deeply devoted caregivers and friends — were the difference makers in my life these past eight-plus months, who ensured I was eating enough to keep me alive (I had no appetite for months, my weight dropping to 135 pounds from 175 pounds a month prior to my October 31, 2025 prostate cancer surgery, and from an initial 225 pounds when I was first diagnosed with Stage 4 prostate cancer on September 5, 2024).

The one, the only, the exceedingly lovely and achingly bright Nicholas (Nick) John Ellan

And let me not forget Nick (Nicholas John) Ellan, member of COPE extraordinaire, dedicated socialist, the most well-read and avid consumer of contemporary “literature” (Nick reads widely each day, across the Internet, sharing with me what he’s run across), the brightest person of my acquaintance — and lemme tell ya, I know some achingly bright people who inform and give value to my life — the Nick Ellan who has heard every gory detail of my recovery each and every day for the past 265 days, often multiple times a day, who has put up with my mood swings (no mean feat that, Nick!), and yet through it all has stayed by my side, kept my mind active, challenged me (for which I often get pissed off … let Nick tell you about that), a true friend, a comrade, the best person in the world to travel with — we’re looking at going to Puerto Vallarta next spring — a great cook, a great consumer of pop culture, someone who knows more about the culinary scene in Vancouver than any person I know. Well, what can I say, but … I love you, Nick!

Raymond and Fergus when I weighed 225 pounds, when Fergus was 3 years (he’s 7 years old now)

Each month of my recovery brought some new variation and often uncomfortable transformation, very rarely pleasant, more often troubling and painful in the month of November 2025, requiring that I be hospitalized three times that month, carried out on a stretcher, and rushed to Vancouver General Hospital.

In the month of November, I suffered three hematomas, my bed and my apartment covered in blood prior to my being taken to hospital in an ambulance, Heather, Kelly and Kevin standing by to provide whatever assistance to the paramedics that was deemed necessary.

A hematoma is a sac of pooling blood — composed of red and white blood cells, platelets and fibrin and plasma — that accumulates when a blood vessel becomes damaged and then ruptures, causing blood to rush outside the body from deep within tissues, internal organs and various other body spaces, kind of like a burst blood clot, but messier and more concerning, not necessarily dangerous but should the deep bleeding emanate from inside the abdomen — which is where my invasive prostate surgery took place — can cause severe internal blood loss, leading to life-threatening shock.

Each of my hematomas, once burst, poured blood from my body’s right side for hour upon hour, such that I woke up covered in blood, my bed soaked — like the scene from The Godfather, when the movie producer wakes up covered in blood — and as I attempted to get up, blood tracked throughout my apartment.

Finally, towards the end of November, upon my third hospitalization, urologic oncologist Dr. Amy Sherman came to visit me in my hospital bed, harrumphed and said, “Enough of this!”

Dr. Sherman then proceeded to “sew” up my wound subcutaneously, which served to permanently stop the blood flowing from my body.

I asked her, “Why are you the first doctor to come up with a subcuteneous resolution to my hematomas,” to which she replied (with a twinkle in her eye), “Because they are not as good, as skilled and knowledgeable a doctor as I am.”

Throughout November and December, I received daily care at home from a home care assistant — mainly responsible for cleaning me up, and bathing me in bed, while exploring the potential for a problem that required medical intervention.

In addition, a registered wound care nurse — who, as a group, are very well respected for the work they do — who visited weekly.

Just to wrap this up, and get to the “end”, if November was the month of hematomas, December was the month of fecal incontinence (don’t ask, it was messy), and January (for me, the worst month) a month of constipation that was painful and unrelenting.

February, as Heather visited her sister in Grand Forks for the first two weeks of the month, celebrating her birthday over on Vancouver Island during the latter two weeks of February — something she and her husband, Jason, have done for years — I was pretty much on my own, and left to my own devices.

Truth to tell, my appetite began to return (my neighbour Libbi, who herself was being treated for cancer, told me, “Raymond, the secret to recovering your appetite: the Filet O’ Fish at McDonald’s … and so it proved to be).

In February I was up and walking Teague the dog, slowly and fitfully, but walking throughout my Kitsilano neighbourhood nonetheless, initially with a walker and then with a cane, and eventually — much to my family physician Brad Fritz’s chagrin — I was walking, if a little unsteadily, sans cane or other mobility devices.

Three more notes of interest before I bring today’s Health Update post to a close …

- In early December, on my way to the washroom I passed out, falling to the floor. For six hours, I “slept” on the cold laminate flooring in my home. At the time, my apartment door was always open. At 7am, after my neighbour Jordan had been up all night wrestling with 2-year-old Wynn and 4-year-old Orlo to get them to sleep, he decided to look in on me. Seeing me sprawled out on the floor, Jordan — a husky, fit guy in his early 40s, and the only Broadview member strong enough to perform strength-requiring physicality — gently lifted me off the floor and into his arms, carrying me to my bed, whereupon he covered me up, as I fell back to sleep. Heather arrived precisely at 9am — as she did every day, 7 days a week, for three solid months — to feed me, do the dishes, clean the floors and put in a wash, emptying the garbage and doing the recycling, as well, finally leaving exhausted for her home on the third floor — having been informed by Jordan of my overnight “event;”
- Incontinence. Yep, one loses control of their bladder in the months, up to a year and a half after prostate cancer surgery (which, by the way, turns one into a eunuch which, truth to tell at near 76 years of age, has come as a welcome relief in my dotage). Recently, at Khatsalano Day making my way up West 4th Avenue from Macdonald Street, where I visited each of the political booths that had been set up, I was alarmed to discover the my entire front was soaked (in urine, both Donald Trump and I, alas). I took an EVO home, took a shower, and changed into clean clothing. I have come up with a resolution to the incontinence “leaking” — I wear a diaper, of course, but I place bamboo / cotton boxer protective underwear over top of the diaper, and voilà, no more embarrassing and compromising “leakage”;

Alasdair and Fergus, ‘football’ and rugby stars both

Saving the best for last. When I left hospital November 1 2025 — Alasdair and Fergus picking me up from the fourth floor urology recovery floor (a story all in itself) — to bring me home, as we were leaving, I was told that come the autumn of 2026, as my surgical team had not caught all the cancer, I would be subject to five weeks of, five-day-a-week radiation therapy at the B.C. Cancer Agency.

This past Monday, expecting a call from Dr. Miles Mannas, my skilled prostate cancer surgeon, my expectation was that I would be negotiating a date after the upcoming October 17 municipal election for my radiation therapy, which both Dr. Brad Fritz and my friend Roni Jones suggested should occur in the afternoon, because I would be beat in the morning, and barely able to get out of bed …

Roni, in response to my question, “How am I going to get to and from my apartment five days a week to arrive at the B.C. Cancer Agency, and then be ferried home more than a little worse for wear — both Roni and Brad told me that the latter three weeks I would be bedridden (gosh, just like last November). Roni came up with the suggestion of HandyDART for transportation!

At any rate, at 11:45am on Monday morning an ebullient Dr. Miles Mannas called me, cheerful, friendly, voluble and warm of spirit and cadence to say, as I began my radiation therapy negotiation, Dr. Mannas kindly interrupting me …

“Raymond, I don’t know who told you you’d be going in for radiation therapy in the fall, that we hadn’t caught all the cancer during your surgery last autumn. All of your current tests indicate you are cancer free, we caught it all. There is no necessity for you to subject yourself to radiation therapy, it’s simply not necessary.”

We spoke for awhile more, Dr. Mannas asking …

“So, how many diapers are you going through a day? ‘One’, I told him. “Only one,” he asked, a tone of surprise in his voice. “Yep,” I replied. “And how are you feeling these days, “Pretty darn good,” I replied. “I’m writing again, walking up to and beyond five kilometres a day with my dog, socializing with friends, and all and all, I feel as good as I did before I was diagnosed with prostate cancer almost two years ago.”

“And what about your pain medication, the hydromorphone? Have you found your way to clear to reducing your pain medication intake?” I replied that I had not taken a hydromorphone tablet in over two months, and prior to that I had reduced my intake to a 1mg tablet most, and then, some days, that I was good.

We spoke for awhile more, as I said to him …

“As you may be aware, prior to my surgery last year, each of the four nurses, two of the anaesthesiologists, three of the surgeons who would be assisting you, and a number of other medical professionals who would be present in the operating theatre during my surgery, told me of how skilled you are, and how fortunate I was to have you as my surgeon. But they said more …

Each individual who visited me prior to my surgery told me how much they loved you, of your wry and boisterous sense of humour, how you always remembered their birthdays, how collegial and supportive you have been in regards to their careers, and their deep and abiding affection for you. We don’t always know what people are saying about us when we’re not around, not in the room. I thought it right to let you in how much your colleagues respect and admire you, and how much you have added to the quality of their lives, and their work experience at VGH.”

There was a momentary pause, after which Dr. Mannas said …

“Thank you, Raymond. Your words mean a great deal to me. Really, I had no idea. Thank you for your kindness in letting me know. You’ve made my day!”

I thanked him for his skill and all the work he had put in, all of the tests and interventions in which he had engaged on my behalf over the past eighteen months, since he first began treating me in early January of 2025.

And with that, our call came to an end.

And now, all these months later, I am over the moon!

Stories of a Life | 1988 | The Love of My Life | VCC | Pt. 2

May 11, 2019Broadview Co-op, fixin to die rag, Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life, VanRamblingsRaymond Tomlin

The woman you see pictured above is the love of my life.

In the summer of 1988, Lori and her son Darren, and my two children, 11-year-old Megan and 13-year-old Jude, travelled over to the west coast of Vancouver Island, where we rented a cabin near Tofino, and where we enjoyed the time of our lives, a memory that resides deep in me still.

This will not be the last time I write about Lori — today’s Stories of a Life will focus only on the first four days of our acquaintanceship.

Photo of Megan Tomlin, taken at the cabin near Tofino where we stayed in August 1988

As the children were growing up, given that (for the most part) during the first few years of their lives I was the sole custodial parent, sharing custody with Cathy as the children grew older, my relationship with my children was close. We talked about everything, and as far as was possible I answered every question put by them to me, as honestly and as fully as I could.

While Jude was an energetic boy of the world, making friends with anyone and everyone, full of joy and laughter, out and about in the neighbourhood and across the city (and in the mountains), skateboarding and skiing and as athletic as he could possibly be, Megan was a much quieter child, no more reflective than Jude, just more prone to staying close to me, and wanting always to converse on the broadest range of topics, and anxious to learn as much about the world (and all its complexities) as she could.

Megan was curious about the state and nature of the world, about politics and political structures, about the nature of governmental decision-making, both children attending the peace marches with me each year, as well as meetings of the progressive, left-of-centre Coalition of Progressive Electors Vancouver civic party, and various of the NDP meetings, and otherwise as engaged as she could be as a budding young feminist & community activist.

Megan, as with my mother, was also possessed of a preternatural ability.

Photo, Broadway campus, Vancouver Community College, taken from Chinacreek Park

Over the years, as we shared our lives with one another, both Jude and Megan were always curious about my “work”, what I was up to when I wasn’t with them. Arising from that interest on their part, I always sought to make them a part of my work life, taking them to the places of each of my employments, to my office in SFU’s Faculty of Education when I was working on my Masters, to attend in the elementary school classes where I taught (when they were on a ProD day), at Vancouver Community College, and later in my work at Pacific Press (which paid phenomenally well for very little work, allowing me to continue work as an arts and entertainment editor, and later, Director of Special Projects at Vancouver Magazine).

Early in the 1988 summer semester at Vancouver Community College (which I wrote about last week), Megan attended my first Monday class, sitting quietly near the back, erudite and well-read as always (better read than me, true then, true still), interjecting only occasionally to clarify some bit of information, for me or for one of the students in my English Literature class, unassuming and friendly, but clearly informed.

Midway through the three-hour class, we took a 15-minute break, most of the students leaving the classroom, with Megan standing with me outside my office, opposite the classroom, when the following occurred …

“Daddy,” said Megan, “do you see that woman standing just on the other side of the glass doors, the blonde-haired woman leaning on the railing?” Then a pause & the proffering of a question, “What day of the week is it?”

“Monday,” I replied.

“Hmmm,” she said, looking somewhat quizzical. “Monday, huh?” At which point, she seemed to find herself lost in thought for a moment, then turned to me to say, “By Thursday, the two of you will be living together.”

“Megan,” I protested, “I don’t even know who that woman is. And besides, she seems much younger than me.”

And at that, we dropped the subject, shortly after returning to the classroom, where she set about to correct me on aspects of my teaching presentation style, and information that I had imparted that she felt was not clear enough, and should have been better clarified by me, adding …

“Given who these students are, you seem not to be taking into consideration that they’ve been out of school for awhile. Your use of language, the words you choose could be better chosen to impart your message. And, oh yeah, you were telling the students that they would be expected to write papers during the semester. I want to be present when you’re grading those papers, and I want to read the papers you’re unsure as to what grade you will give. Overall, I trust your judgement — I’m just not sure I feel all that confident that your command of what constitutes good essay writing is as well-developed as it could be.”

The class was over at 9pm, I met with a handful of my students, some in the classroom, others in the hallway, and a couple in my office (with Megan waiting outside in the hallway, engaging with some of my students).

When the class had come to an end, I reminded the students Tuesday’s class would take place downtown, at a venue where a play I’d be teaching was currently being performed; student attendance was mandatory.

Megan and I left the campus around 9:30pm, stopping off at Mike and Edith’s (friends of ours) Cheesecake, Etc. on Granville Street, near the south end of the Granville Street bridge, where Megan enjoyed a piece of cheesecake topped with fresh, organic strawberries, and I had my usual fresh-baked, and toasted, baguette with butter and jam.

Both VCC Broadway campus English Literature classes attended the performance of the play, which took place upstairs from what is now part of the Vancouver Film School. My class sat close by me, while students who were taking my colleague Peter’s English Lit class sat nearby him, except …

When the lights went down, and the play began, I felt a warm hand move over my right hand, and looked over to see an absolutely radiant, beautiful young blonde woman, with her arm rubbing up against mine. I thought to myself, as I am wont to do in similar situations (which always come as a surprise me, having occurred quite frequently throughout my life) …

“Raymond, it’s a figment of your imagination. There’s no one sitting next to you, and most certainly, no one has their hand on top of yours.”

I didn’t give it another thought, returning my attention to the play.
On the Wednesday, I taught my Writing class (grammar! … I am the last person you would want to have teach you grammar … I am capable of doing it … grammar just seems so restrictive to me … but I suppose you need to know the rules, before you can break them).

Thursday I returned to teach my English Literature class.

After classes were over, and after meeting with a few of my students, a blonde-haired woman walked up to me — who I may, or may not, have been made aware of earlier in the week — saying to me …

“I’m working on a paper on apartheid, and have been told you might be of assistance in helping point me in the right direction to research the paper, and provide me as well with how I might best formulate my argument.

I’ve heard that you like to walk, particularly along the stretch of beach over by Spanish Banks. I was wondering if we might walk and talk, which would afford you an opportunity for some fresh air after three hours in a stuffy classroom? It is, after all, a lovely full moon night, don’t you think?”

I thought the idea of the walk was a good idea, and (as anyone who knows me soon realizes, I am more than voluble about conversing on issues of interest to me). I grabbed my coat out of my instructor’s office, and the two of us headed off in the direction of my car.

But I was famished.

I asked her if we might stop in for a brief moment at Cheesecake, Etc. on the way to the beach — we could discuss her paper over a bite to eat. When we arrived at Cheesecake, Etc., after consulting with her, when Mike came up to take our order, I requested two orders of the toasted baguette with jam. “Oh, you mean the usual,” said Mike. Both Mike and Edith flitted around this woman and I for the half hour of so we were in the restaurant, with Mike taking a break to begin singing at his piano, his songs seemingly directed at this young woman and I.

Just before 10pm, this young woman and I left the restaurant, climbed back into my car, and headed towards the beach, traveling down West Broadway, during which glide along the street, she turned to me to say, “You live near here, don’t you? I noticed it’s getting kind of chilly. I was wondering if you might have a sweater I could wear?” Within a couple of minutes, I pulled up in front of my housing co-op, turning to her saying, “I’ll grab you a sweater and be right down,” with her responding, “I’ll come up with you, if that’s alright, to find the sweater best to my liking.”

Upon entering my apartment, while she stood in my living room, I entered my bedroom to look on the shelving where I kept my two dozen sweaters (what can I say, I’m a sweater person). Upon returning to the living room, holding up a warm sweater I thought she would like, standing opposite her she approached me, and standing on her tippy-toes, she kissed me.

Once again, I thought to myself, “Raymond, she didn’t kiss you. That’s just a false projection. You just better give her the sweater, and head off to the beach.”

While I was having this inner dialogue with myself, she once again stood on her tippy toes, pulling my face closer to hers, and kissed me again, a long, luxurious kiss, a kiss unlike any other I’d ever experienced.

Lori and I moved into together that night.

2019: The Year of Living Ferociously | Fight Back!

January 22, 2019#VanPoli Civic Politics, BC Politics, Broadview Co-op, Canada, Politics, Vancouver, VanRamblingsRaymond Tomlin

ferocious
Definition: a raging of the soul, living with fierceness, determination, gravity, deliberate intention and intensity.

And so it will be in 2019, a year of progressive change unlike any other in a generation, across Canada, in British Columbia, in our little burgh by the sea, in the United States, across Europe and across the globe.
Make no mistake, though, necessary progressive change for the better will not come should we fail to band together to fight the forces of regression.

Justin Trudeau has said that the 2019 federal election will be the ugliest in Canadian history. Make no mistake, Conservative Party leader Andrew Scheer will make it so — aided by Maxime Bernier, the leader of the so-called People’s Party of Canada, who will force the Conservatives further to the right — focusing as former Prime Minister Stephen Harper did on “fear of the other”, as Trump has done in the United States, demonizing the Muslim population and “illegal immigrants”. According to a recent Angus Reid poll, two-thirds of Canadians believe the influx of asylum seekers into Canada is a “crisis”, with 84% of Canadians who voted for the Conservative Party of Canada of the belief that “there are too many people claiming asylum and that Canada is ‘too generous’ toward them;”
In British Columbia, voting in the Nanaimo by-election to replace former BC NDP MLA Leonard Krog (who was elected Mayor of Nanaimo this past November) starts today. In late January, it’s a neck-and-neck race, with B.C Liberal candidate Tony Harris focusing on the botched roll-out of the government’s Speculation and Vacancy Tax, which forces every British Columbia homeowner to register their home with the government — failure to do so could result in a payout of thousands of dollars for unsuspecting, unregistered homeowners. If Harris wins, we’re looking at a late winter / early spring B.C. election, which bodes ill for any progressively-minded British Columbian & a return to the bad old days;
In Vancouver, we’re sitting pretty, with a largely progressive City Council (notice the number of unanimous or near-unanimous progressive votes — on transit, affordable housing, 58 West Hastings, a renter’s office, our current climate emergency, and much, much more). The success of our City Council, though, is almost wholly dependent on a federal Liberal government, complemented by a provincial NDP government — which, for instance, have set aside $52 billion dollars on the affordable housing file alone, monies which would most assuredly be withdrawn by a right-of-centre / “the market is always right” do-nothing Conservative government, and their B.C. kin, Andrew Wilkinson and the B.C. Liberals.

Closer to home for me will be the fight in which I engage throughout 2019 against the forces of repression, intolerance, despotism, racism, homo-and-transphobia and hatred of “the other” that has defined that portion of my life, resident in the housing co-operative where I have dwelled for 35 years.
2019 is the year to fight back, to demand better, to organize, to recognize that — as is evident in the time of Trump across the United States, and across Europe — that in 2019 all of us are in for the fight of our lives.