Category Archives: Jude and Megan

Health Update: Raymond Goes Into VGH today for Prostate Surgery at VGH

October 31, 2025Food & Health, Jude and Megan, Vancouver, VanRamblingsdr. brad fritz, dr. miles mannis, prostate cancer, radical robotic prostatecomy, surgery, vancouver general hospitalRaymond Tomlin

Fourteen months after being diagnosed with Stage Four prostate cancer — as is the case with former U.S. President Joe Biden — today I was admitted to the Vancouver General Hospital for a three and a half hour radical robotic prostatectomy, after doctors at VGH discovered — following an MRI, a bone scan and a biopsy (more than one actually — that, like Joe Biden I had a Gleason score of 9 …

For the past 9 months, I have been subjected to a number of biopsies and regular injections, and participated in the Gun Study — a multi-centre North American clinical trial headed up by the Vancouver General Hospital’s Dr. Martin Gleave, the head of the Prostate Clinic at VGH.

Early on, it was determined that I must have my prostate removed employing the radical robotic prostatecomy procedure.

Over the past months, I have taken a variety of medications — Apalalutamide, Zytiga and Prednisone — which has effectively removed my sexuality and turned me into a eunuch, which is to say a male who has been chemically castrated, and with the removal of my prostate surgically castrated.

This morning after being transported to Vancouver General Hospital by my friend, Susan Walsh — spouse of my friend, the late Michael Walsh, who for 50 years was the lead film critic at The Province newspaper — who accompanied me to Admitting, after which I was escorted to a bed in a ward in the south tower of the Jim Pattison Pavilion, on floor T6.

As you read this, I will be in surgery, a three and a half hour major surgery where an extensive, complex procedure will see my abdomen “opened up”, which is to say, my surgery involves entering a major body cavity ( in this case the abdomen). My anaesthesiologist told me that, under his supervision, I will be given a general anesthesia that will require an at least initial 72-hour long recovery period, requiring an overnight stay tonight, or if complications arise, an extended hospital stay. In any event, my anesthesiologist told me that, “Raymond, you will be ‘stoned’ for at least 72 hours.” Fun times ahead, I guess.

I will be left with three incisions — a three and a half inch vertical incision at the bottom of the public bone, and two more somewhat lesser incisions, top right and top left. I was told I must not lift anything heavier than 10 pounds post surgery, less the incisions rupture, creating wound dehiscence, which occurs when a surgical incision reopens, where internal organs might protrude through the wound.

Should things to well with the surgery — which my family physician, Dr. Brad Fritz, Dr. Mannas, my surgeon (and other of his colleagues in the Prostate Clinic), and my anesthesiologist believes is most probable — I will be picked up from hospital at 10am on Saturday, by my friend the every beauteous, incredibly bright, politically astute, accomplished and loving Meaghan (and her incredibly great football (British football) loving husband Alasdair, and their two children, Fergus and Elliot, who are the most zen children I’ve ever met — needless to say, I love both children (a reciprocal affection, it would seem), as I do Alasdair and Meaghan.

Count me as one very lucky and grateful individual.

I will spend the weekend in bed at home, attended to by Susan, by my Co-op neighbours — again, count me as the luckiest man in the world that Jason, Heather, Laurie and Kevin, Tatiana, Judi, Jette, Alex, Alexandra and Jordan, and all of my other fellow Broadview Housing Co-op members are possessed of an uncommon humanity, and a dedication to building a better and more loving world.

Post surgery I will have a catheter inserted, for a period of one week — rather than the five plus weeks I had a very painful catheter inserted in March and April. Like ouch. Julia, the registered nurse who has given me regular injections over the past 9 months (“Pants down, Mr. Tomlin. Bend over now.”) will remove the catheter on Friday, November 7th. My friend, and personal health saviour, Kelly Ryan (we provide “co-parenting” of Teague) will travel with me to the Gordon and Leslie Diamond Centre for removal of the catheter, and then ferry me home.

Teague the dog, only the most loving dog in the world

There will be a one-year post surgery recovery period during which I will have to wear incontinence underwear. Friends of mine who have had prostate surgery tell me that the worst of the incontinence occurs during the first three or four months.

Now that I’m off the prostate medication, it is likely that my energy and vitality will return, affording me the opportunity to provide more intensive coverage of next year’s Vancouver municipal election.

My support for 46-year-young Vancouver Liberals Mayoral candidate Kareem Allam — Vancouver’s Zohran Mamdani (ssshhh, don’t tell anyone) remains strong, as I hope to write (extensively) in the months to come.

VanRamblings Weighs In On Raymond’s Health. Pt. 3

September 7, 2025fixin to die rag, Food & Health, Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life, Vancouver, VanRamblingsarthritis, atrial fibrillation, bradycardia, failing health, fatigue, hospitalization, kidney stones, neuropathy, type 2 diabetesRaymond Tomlin

To access Part One of my 2025 health update click here.

Part Two of my three-part health update may be found here.

I left you hanging yesterday. Sorry.

March and the early part of April this year proved to be the most painful period I have experienced in my life since October 2016, with my first cancer.

In early March, upon arriving home from a week’s vacation in Halifax visiting her mother, Kelly texted me from the airport to ask how I was doing. I told her I was in a great deal of pain, but I was going to tough it out. Despite having been up since 4:30am that morning, flying across the country, arriving back in Vancouver at 4pm, rather than drive home to be with her children, Kelly drove directly to my home, telling me, “Get in the car. I’m going to take you to UBC Hospital,” which she did.

UBC Hospital Admitting considered my situation to be an emergency, proceeding to immediately wheel me onto an emergency room bed, where I was seen by a doctor, who ordered the first of many CT scans, diagnosing me with a particularly severe case of diverticultis — which had hospitalized me in the autumn of 2023.

Diverticulitis can be, and proved to be in my case, a particularly painful gastrointestinal disorder characterized by inflammation of abnormal pouches — diverticula — that develops in the wall of the large intestine, causing severe lower abdominal pain, and could and would in my case worsen in intensity over the next week.

By the time I was diagnosed — with a distressingly painful catheter now inserted (which would remain in place for 6 weeks), I suggested to Kelly, as she sat by my side, that she must be beat, it was 1:30am Nova Scotia time, over the past 15 hours she’d flown across the country, and spent the last 5 hours by my side.

Given that I was now admitted to hospital, I assured Kelly that I’d be fine, and well cared by the attending physician, nurses, hospital staff and by my family doctor, who would visit me the next morning. As the hospital had provided with me with medication to lessen the pain, now was the time, I suggested to her, she return home to her family, and we’d talk the next morning.

Over the next two weeks, following a series of new CT scans, UBC Hospital changed its diagnosis to nephrolithiasis.

Nephrolithiasis specifically refers to calculi in the kidneys, commonly referred to as kidney stones. Renal calculi and ureteral calculi (ureterolithiasis) are often discussed in conjunction. Ureteral calculi originate in the kidneys, and as they grow can be lodged in the ureter. Genetic, metabolic, and environmental factors can contribute to stone formation. The majority of renal calculi contain calcium. The pain generated by renal colic is primarily caused by dilation, stretching, and spasm because of the acute ureteral obstruction.

I was told I would need surgery to remove a plethora of large kidney stones that were not only lodged in my intestines, but impacted and in my urethra, as well. That surgery occurred on April 9th at the Vancouver General Hospital. The attending surgeon removed a large kidney stone lodged in my uretha. Within the next hour, I passed 20 large kidney stones, and 20 somewhat smaller kidney stones.

Ocean Dental in Cancún, Mexico, providing high-quality dentistry (considered to be the best in North America) at a fraction of the cost, from 50% to 70% lower than in the United States and Canada.

The next day I got on a plane to fly to Cancún, Mexico for dental surgery, as I had arranged months earlier, that in Canada would cost me between seven and nine thousand dollars, but in Mexico — including air fare, accommodation, dental surgery preparation, X-Rays and examinations, extraction of an infected molar, periodontal surgery to repair infected gums, and the insertion of a state-of-the-art titanium tooth implant, the total came to $2700, while my companion, Nick Ellan and I, enjoyed wonderful four or five star Mexican cuisine each morning and evening. Although not particularly restful, I was grateful for the cost saving.

Note in passing: yes, I know many would consider it near insane for me to get on a plane, fly to another country for invasive dental surgery, following six weeks in bed / in hospital in Canada, and surgery to remove very painful kidney stones, that while still in pain, and very weak, nowhere near recovered, I would travel 6,333 kilometres away from home, from my doctors in Vancouver, and from safety.

I will write about my incredibly wonderful experience in Cancún, and a first rate relationship with Ocean Dental in another post. Suffice to say, I was very pleased.

In the months since mid-April, I have continued hormone treatment for my prostate cancer, with Jonathan Ma, and my uro-oncologist, Dr. Miles Mannas, had another biopsy (I’m still recovering), have worked with my skilled dentist / dental surgeon, Dr. Sandy Ko, who last month built a bone graft to facilitate the placement of another tooth implant this upcoming January — as a 31 year very appreciative patient of Dr. Ko, and given my impecunious circumstance, Dr. Ko is matching the price for the tooth implant charged by the UBC Dental Clinic. Next month, Dr. Ko will place a crown over the tooth implant I received in Mexico. Next June, I will have a crown placed over the tooth implant that will be inserted in January.

In addition to the above, I suffer from debilitating neuropathy, that makes it both difficult to walk, and to keep my balance (I have an almost complete loss of balance, standing in the shower is difficult, I am unsteady … no fun, let me tell you); have arthritis in my hands that makes it difficult to type; my Type 2 diabetes and once high A1C / blood sugar count is now pretty much under control; high blood pressure that is, for the most part, now under control; my two concerning heart conditions; and the ever concerning cancerous state of my prostate, with attendant constant fatigue and woeful lack of energy, intermittent pain — gastrointestinal distress (a near constant upset stomach leading to an utter lack of appetite, a concerning weight loss, a 60 pound weight loss in the past year) — such that I have to force myself to eat in order to remain healthy, headaches, hives, disease (GERD), ever worsening atopic dermatitis, and more.

Let me leave you with two thoughts, one quite bracing, the first one from my daughter Megan, the person who loves me most in this world.

“Any discussion of your health is nothing more than a morbid plea for undeserved sympathy.“

From my friend, Vancouver School Board trustee, Christopher Richardson …

“Raymond, you and I suffer from the same malady. On the surface, both of us look healthy, when that is far from the case. From my COPD — which often makes it hard for me to breathe, or catch my breath, and the lack of energy attendant to my health disorder — and your prostate cancer and heart conditions, the two of us couldn’t look more healthy, when both of us know that is not our reality.

Both of us are high energy men, we’re driven, in our daily lives we set about to accomplish much, to contribute. But we do that because that’s who we are, despite our various debilitating health issues that make our work in the community ever more difficult. Still, how spiritually satisfying it is for the both of us that we can, and feel we must continue in our work to make a difference for the better.”

This year I am seventy-five years of age. At one time that was considered old. But not any more. Dr. Brad Fritz tells me I’ve got another 15 good years in me, that I will make it through my current troubling health circumstances to live a long and productive life, I should not worry, that I am in good hands, receiving the best of care, whether it’s with him, Dr. Miles Mannas or Dr. Sandy Ko. Vivas tempore et bene sit.

Stories of a Life | Redux | Cathy and Raymond’s 1970s European Adventure

September 7, 2024Essay, fixin to die rag, Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life Redux, Thought for the Day, Unbelievable Truth, VanRamblings1974, britrail pass, cathy, danelle, european vacation, eurrail pass, jd salinger, raymond, susan, the laughing manRaymond Tomlin

In the summer of 1974, Cathy and I traveled to Europe for a three-month European summer vacation, BritRail and Eurail passes in hand, this was going to be a summer vacation to keep in our memory for always.

And so it proved to be …

On another day, in another post evoking memories of our cross-continental European sabbatical, I’ll relate more stories of what occurred that summer.

Only 10 days prior to the event I am about to relate, Cathy and I had arrived in Lisbon, Portugal, alighting from a cruise liner we’d boarded in Southampton, England (passage was only 5£s, much cheaper than now).

After a couple of wonderful days in Lisbon, Cathy and I embarked on the first part of our hitchhiking sojourn throughout every portion of Portugal we could get to, finally traveling along the Algarve before arriving in the south of the country, ready to board a train to Spain.

Unfortunately, I developed some intestinal disorder or other, requiring rest and fluids.

Once Cathy could see that I was going to be fine, she left the confines of our little pensão to allow me to recover in peace, returning with stories of her having spent a wonderful day at the beach with an enthusiastic retinue of young Portuguese men, who had paid attention to and flirted with her throughout the day.

Cathy was in paradisiacal heaven; me, not so much.

Still, I was feeling better, almost recovered from my intestinal malady, and the two of us made a decision to be on our way the next morning.

To say that I was in a bad mood when I got onto the train is to understate the matter. On the way to the station, who should we run into but the very group of amorous young men Cathy had spent the previous day with, all of whom were beside themselves that this braless blonde goddess of a woman was leaving their country, as they beseeched her to “Stay, please stay.”

Alas, no luck for them; this was my wife, and we were going to be on our way.

Still suffering from the vestiges of both an irritable case of jealousy and a now worsening intestinal disorder, I was in a foul mood once we got onto the train, and as we pulled away from the station, my very loud and ill-tempered mood related in English, those sitting around us thinking that I must be some homem louco, and not wishing in any manner to engage.

A few minutes into my decorous rant, a young woman walked up to me, and asked in the boldest terms possible …

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

“Huh,” I enquired?

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? That’s the filthiest mouth I’ve ever heard. You’ve got to teach me how to swear!”

At which point, she sat down across from me, her lithe African American dancer companion moving past me to sit next to her. “Susan. My name is Susan. This is my friend, Danelle,” she said, pointing in the direction of Danelle. “We’re from New York. We go to school there. Columbia. I’m in English Lit. Danelle’s taking dance — not hard to tell, huh? You two traveling through Europe, are you?” Susan all but shouted. “I come from a large Jewish family. You? We’re traveling through Europe together.”

And thus began a beautiful friendship.

Turns out that Susan could swear much better than I could; she needed no instruction from me. Turns out, too, that she had my number, and for all the weeks we traveled together through Europe, Susan had not one kind word for me — she set about to make my life hell, and I loved every minute of it. Susan became the sister I wished I’d had, profane, self-confident, phenomenally bright and opinionated, her acute dissection of me done lovingly and with care, to this day one of the best and most loving relationships I’ve ever had.

Little known fact about me: I love being called out by bright, emotionally healthy, socially-skilled and whole women.

The summer of 1974, when Cathy became pregnant with Jude, on the right above.

Without the women in my life, Cathy or Megan, my daughter — when Cathy and I separated — Lori, Justine, Alison, Patricia, Julienne or Melissa, each of whom loved me, love me still, and made me a better person, the best parts of me directly attributable to these lovely women, to whom I am so grateful for caring enough about me to make me a better person.

Now onto the raison d’être of this instalment of Stories of a Life.

Once Susan and I had settled down — there was an immediate connection between Susan and I, which Cathy took as the beginnings of an affair the two of us would have (as if I would sleep with my sister — Danelle, on the other hand, well … perhaps a story for another day, but nothing really happened, other than the two of us becoming close, different from Susan).

J. D. Salinger's Nine Stories, an anthology of short stories published in April 1953

Danelle saw a ragged copy of J.D. Salinger’s Nine Stories peeking out of Cathy’s backpack.

“Okay,” she said. “In rounds, let’s each one of us give the title of one of the Salinger short stories,” which we proceeded to do. Cathy was just now reading Salinger, while I’d read the book while we were still in England, about three weeks earlier.

Cathy started first, For Esmé — with Love and Squalor. Danelle, Teddy. Susan, showing off, came up with A Perfect Day for Bananafish, telling us all, “That story was first published in the January 31, 1948 edition of The New Yorker.” Show off! I was up next, and came up with Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut. Phew — just barely came up with that one! Thank goodness.

Onto the second round: Cathy, Down at the Dinghy; Danelle, Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes; Susan, showing off again, De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period, “turned down by The New Yorker in late 1951, and published by the British Information World Review, early in 1952.” Me? Struggling yet again, but subject to a momentary epiphany, I blurted out, Just Before the War with the Eskimos. There we were, eight stories down and one to go.

But do you think any one of us could come up with the title to the 9th tale in Salinger’s 1953 anthology of short stories? Nope.

We thought about it, and thought about it — and nothing, nada, zero, zilch. We racked our brains, and we simply couldn’t come up with the title of the 9th short story.

We sat there, hushed. For the first time in about half an hour, there was silence between us, only the voices of children on the train, and the clickety-clack of the tracks as the train relentlessly headed towards Madrid.

We couldn’t look at one another. We were, as a group, downcast, looking up occasionally at the passing scenery, only furtively glancing at one another, only periodically and with reservation, as Cathy held onto my arm, putting hers in mine, Danelle looking up, she too wishing for human contact.

Finally, Susan looked up at me, looked directly at me, her eyes steely and hard yet … how do I say it? … full of love and confidence in me, that I somehow would be the one to rescue us from the irresolvable dilemma in which we found ourselves.

Beseechingly, Susan’s stare did not abate …

“The Laughing Man,” I said, “The Laughing Man! The 9th story in Salinger’s anthology is …” and before I could say the words, I was smothered in kisses, Cathy to my left, Susan having placed herself in my lap, kissing my cheeks, my lips, my forehead, and when she found herself unable to catch her breath, Danelle carrying on where Susan had left off, more tender than Susan, loving and appreciative, Cathy now holding me tight, love all around us.

A moment that will live in me always, a gift of the landscape of my life.

Stories of a Life | Redux | Chief Cook & Bottle Washer

August 31, 2024Essay, fixin to die rag, Food & Health, Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life Redux, VanRamblingsjude, megan, simon fraser universityRaymond Tomlin

1978. Jude, at age 3½, and Megan at near 2 years of age. At the kitchen table for breakfast.

A couple of weeks ago, when I was extolling the virtues of my Instant Pot to a friend, in a lull in the conversation, she turned to me and said, “You like to cook, don’t you?”

The short answer: I derive pleasure from both cooking and baking.

Here’s the story behind my love for the culinary powers of the kitchen.

1616 Semlin Drive, at E. 1st Ave. in Vancouver. One of the homes I lived in growing up.

From my earliest days, I fended for myself.

My mother worked three jobs, and my father worked the afternoon shift at the Post Office. When I arrived home from school, although my father often left a stew bubbling away in the slow cooker, from age seven on, for the most part if I wanted to eat, I’d have to make breakfast, lunch and dinner for myself, and for my sister.

So, being somewhat industrious, I learned to cook — well, make sandwiches and, for dessert, Jello, at least for the first few years.

I loved turkey growing up (all that triptiphan), so with the help of my mother, I learned to make her delicious turkey, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes and vegetables. For the most part, though, my cooking skills were rudimentary — but I didn’t starve, and more often than not there was food in my belly.

When in 1970, Cathy and I moved in together, marrying soon after, I was responsible for most of the cooking. Cathy’s mom sent her out $1000 a month (she didn’t know we were living together), visiting every three months, taking us to the local Woodward’s grocery floor, where she dropped in excess of $300 at each visit.

With Cathy’s mother money, we ate a fairly staple diet of generously thick T-bone steaks and baked potatoes.

Simon Fraser University’s Louis Riel House, SFU’S student family 1 + 2 bedroom residence.

Soon after moving into the Louis Riel Student Residence at Simon Fraser University in 1971, Cathy joined a women’s group, who met every Wednesday evening. Among the decisions that were taken by the women’s group was this: men shall participate in all household chores, and share in all food preparation.

As we often ate together with other of the students in the residence, my specialty became salads — all different kinds of healthy, nutritious salads, chock full of vegetables, nuts, sunflower seeds, and more.

At this point, Cathy still hated to cook — there was immense pressure placed on Cathy by her peers to develop culinary skills, but she refused. All that changed in the summer of 1973, which is a story for another day.

2182 East 2nd Avenue, in the Grandview Woodland neighbourhood of Vancouver.

When Cathy and I separated in 1978 — Jude and I lived in the home above, before Jude, Megan and I moved to Simon Fraser University and Louis Riel House, when I began work on my Masters degree — the thought occurred to me one morning when making breakfast that I was now the lone parent, and the sole person responsible for ensuring the children ate nutritious foods at each meal in order that they might grow up into healthy adults.

I took on the task of learning the art of cooking (and baking), in earnest.

There was, however, a quid pro quo involved.

After returning from a day of larnin’ and T.A.’ing at SFU, after picking up the children at daycare at 4:30pm, and walking the relatively short distance to our two-bedroom apartment at Louis Riel House, while the children played with their friends on the lawn in front of our apartment, I prepared dinner, calling them in about 45 minutes after dinner preparation had begun.

The kids were famished, and so was I.

Here’s where the quid pro quo came in: at the end of each meal, each of the children had to turn and say to me some version of, “Daddy that was a good dinner. It was mmmm, delicious. Thank you for making dinner for all of us, and all the work you put in to feeding us healthy and nutritious breakfasts, lunches and dinners, and all those wonderful desserts we love!”

I needed the incentive provided to me by both children, and their gratitude — which, in time, they came to acknowledge as their own. The kids felt good about encouraging me, as I encouraged them in all of their endeavours.

We were a happy family, and all was well with the world for the three of us.

Now, I was an adventuresome cook, and not everything I made turned out to the liking of all of us, or each one of us.

Being a dedicated democrat, Jude, Megan and I made a deal with one another in respect of dinner. Both children had to eat at least two bites of each food item I prepared: after all the work I put into preparing a dish, the least they could do was try out the dish to see whether they might like it.

Most of the time they did, but sometimes not.

One night, I made cream of escargot soup. Honestly, it wasn’t bad. But at the end of the soup entrée, I turned to the children and asked them what they thought, to which they replied almost in unison, “It was all right, tasty enough I suppose, but I’m not sure if I’d ever want to have it again.”

I agreed with them. We never ate cream of escargot soup ever again.

Each of us were allowed to have three foods on a list of our creation, foods we did not have to eat, no matter what.

Megan had three foods, Jude had three foods, and I had three foods — those foods changed over a period of time.

In order to add a food to our individual “nah, I don’t want to eat that food” list, some food on each of our lists had to come off. Took some thought on the part of the children as to whether they wanted to remove a food.

Megan, for a great long while didn’t like avocados — but one day, while placing a new food she didn’t like onto her “don’t eat” list, she took avocados off her list, eventually coming to love avocados, as she does to this day.

Watching me prepare meals all the time he was growing up caused Jude to want to become a chef — he worked in the food industry throughout his late teens and twenties, before getting into teaching, which paid better, and was overall less stressful, with “more honourable people”, he’d say to me.

In her teens, Megan became a vegan — there’s a story there, too, which I’ll leave for another day — and, for the most part, took on the preparation of her own meals, as did Jude over a period of time.

After the summer of 1973, Cathy became a great cook — there’s not much I miss about that tumultuous marriage, but I sure miss Cathy’s avant-garde cooking, her culinary craftsmanship, spicing and phenomenally delicious cooking.

Ah well.