There Is Hope for People With Family Members Suffering From Dementia

I took a family member to the doctor that other day. Sitting in the doctor's office is no fun matter. There is always the waiting game and the long drive to the office. No one likes to go to the doctors. Only sick people go.
When I went, it was to get a check up for my family member who has been diagnosed with dementia. Over a year ago back in 2011, this person was having a hard time and it was troubling to everyone. She  couldn't talk sensibly or seemed to have trouble recognizing people and places.
The doctors gave little hope and one specialist at the hospital looked at me and advised me that since there was no cure for Alzheimers, we should  start planning for the worst and look for a rest home.
Being a person who loves research and finding that living a life without hope is no life at all, I began to conduct an intensive research to see if there were any cures for this dreadful disease.
One website pointed to a woman who treated her husband with coconut oil. She received some remarkable results with this very inexpensive food item.
I quickly sent news articles to all my family members with the news that giving coconut oil may help my relative suffering from dementia.
Now after over a year on coconut oil, along with a variety of other over-the-counter pills including gingko bilova, and vitamins, my relative has made an amazing recovery.
She is able to communicate more, laugh, help fold the laundry, watch movies and more.
To be honest, she is not 100 percent what she was before, but she is a whole lot better after taking coconut oil and a few other vitamins.
So when this doctor told me that my mom seemed to be improved from her last visit, I started clapping in the office.
Yet, since I am not a scientist, I did not conduct a proper test to see if in fact, coconut oil was the main ingredient that helped make my relative improve mentally. Other pills were used, including gingko bilova. I've read that there are now studies being conducted to test the effectiveness of virgin coconut oil on improving people with dementia. Let's hope that they are able to finalize the studies soon. So many people need this information.
The lesson in all this is to never lose hope for yourself or anyone else. Hope, faith, love and the Internet can be used to help solve almost any problem that you have.

The Quest for Perfection is an Imperfect Goal

I think we live in a world that is always seeking perfection, whether it is perfect workers, a perfect vacation, even a perfect mate. I am constantly assaulted by pressures everywhere, in my workplace and else where, to do perfect deeds.

Although I try ultimately to try to make as few mistakes as possible, and seek to overcome my imperfections, always there is a problem, a misstep, an aberration from perfection.

I constantly remind myself that we are not robots, and cannot work like a computer tirelessly and without complaint. Yet, so many companies expect workers to be this way --accept work without complaint, try not to take too many breaks, etc.

The quest for perfection puts an incredible amount of stress on ourselves --our bodies and our minds. We are often too hard on ourselves as we strive towards perfection. The crazy world of advertising would want us to have buff and leaner bodies, attractive faces and great minds. There is too, the quest to have it all --a beautiful home, mate and children. Vacations are also supposed to be perfect. There is no such thing as tropical storms, only azul waters, sumptuous food, and a spacious and smooth flight. We are not supposed to have a vacation that has a cramped room with no view, bland food, and a long walk to the buffet restaurant. If it doesn't look like the pages from some high-class ad, this is not a good vacation, some people believe.

I met a local lady recently who professed a distain for her hotel room. She hated her room so much that she cried, both literally and figuratively. Her complaints went to the ears of a vacation company representative who booked her vacation and she was promptly upgraded, at an extra rate, to another hotel.

I've stayed in rooms that were too small to sleep in comfortably (Paris, France) and dealt with air turbulence. It was not always a pleasant time but vacations are sometimes an area where you are supposed to experience some discomfort.

Life is not always going to be a pleasant journey. If we strive too hard for perfection, we can almost always be disappointed. We should accept life the way it is. Those things that cannot be changed, especially. Like how we talk, look and feel. God made us this way. If we strive to look like a super model, or try to be like someone else, we can only bring stress upon ourselves. 

Life is beautiful --just the way we are.

What Kind of World We Live in If a Movie House Cannot be a Movie House

I love movies and looked forward to the new Batman movie, The Dark Knight Rises,  with anticipation. Knowing that one of my favorite actors would be in it was appealing too. So it was to my horror and disappointment that I read of a terrible tragedy that took place in Colorado. A crazed gunman had opened fire on innocent people in the first part of the new Batman movie. At least 12 people had died and 58 were injured, and all they wanted to do was to watch a movie.
Movies are places to fantasize about a life that we aspire to. We can pretend to be a glamorous person living a glamorous lifestyle. We can pretend to be with Batman as he fights his latest foe.
Yet on that horrible midnight hour, someone had decided to play the heavy --shooting people at random with little regard to their hopes and dreams.
What kind of world do we live in? It is a crazy world, at times, one where we often read about evil face to face. Just knowing that someone so normal looking could lose it --and kill people is horrifying and terrifying at the same time.
The question however arises whether we should live in fear and stay hidden away at home, so as to be safe from the enemy.
If doing so is safer, then it may be best not to do anything. Like drive a car, eat in a restaurant, or go to the bank.
Yet, living in fear is like being in a kind of mental prison. I felt so fearful that night as I sat in the movie house watching the new Batman movie. I looked at other people suspiciously, wondering if someone would pull a copycat act and start shooting innocent people. That same night, I also noticed other spectators openly looking at other movie patrons with suspicion.
A scruffy-looking man with the smell of alcohol chose a seat nearby us. He left briefly to get something. I glanced to see if he had a backpack. None. I remembered a security guard downstairs watching theatre-goers but I silently wondered why there was no ban on backpacks.
As I sat in the dark in the packed movie house, I relaxed a little as we neared the end of the movie. When the movie finally ended after more than two hours, I finally could relax, knowing that everyone there was present to watch a movie. That's what going to a movie should be all about.
When the show ended, it should be noted that some people applauded and liked the "Happy Ever After" conclusion. But the greater applause should be with the audience, who decided to live with courage and not hide away in their homes because of one monster bent on inflicting evil.
It is the ordinary people who live each day not in fear but with hope for the future that makes living in a city what it is supposed to be like. At the same time, we should never forget what happened in Colorado not too long ago.
God bless the victims and their families in the Colorado shooting. And may we never have to have this happen again.

Rocket Man is Ok -But Candy is Better

When the world was younger and I was much younger now, eyes all over the world was enthralled by Man going to the moon in 1969. It was a big thing then. A new concept and a monumental moment in history.
Where we lived and worked, my family sat around a small black and white television set glued to the screen. I recall a man in a grey bulging suit walking around somewhat carefully. Neil Armstrong may have been on the moon, but to my childish mind, it was not that much fun.
I just needed that candy. Despite the fact that we lived in a grocery story that was filled with sweets of all kinds, nothing was that interesting. I must have tried them all and wanted a change.
I looked at the TV set and drew a blank. I asked my parents if I could go to Wong's store, just half a block from our store. Despite the fact that they were our mortal enemy and competition, I didn't much care. Even despite the fact that a little Chinese girl in my life despised me and never said one word to me, starting from Grade one on, didn't deter me one bit. I had to get to Wong's.
It was hot that day and I walked to the store by myself with no coat. In a little while, I entered the little shop and admired its many prizes. We didn't have all these small, cute looking candies in a plastic counter, or even the sweet powdery sugar substance that could be sucked lovingly from a straw. It was incredible and I armed myself with some goodies to take home.
When I came back, Walter Cronkite, a news commentator, gave a play-by-play of the Man on the Moon news story, and my family took it all in.
Except me. I was vaguely aware of its significance. But mostly on the mind was the troubling question of why we never had the same kinds of candies that Wong's carried.
It also occurred to me that the little girl Katie who had an ongoing hatred for us Chan's, may have thought me to be a spy. Katie and I were both the same age in the same school and in my class. But for some odd reason, we never got it on.
It may have started in Grade 1 when Katie and her friend, Parminder looked at me with distaste, Parminder looked at my shiny shoes and proceeded to step on them. As we moved through the grades, my sisters and I never spoke to the Wong children, nor did I take to talking to Parminder who was the lone East Indian girl in the school it seems. She wore her hair long and shiny and as she passed, her hair smelled of some kind of cosmetic ethnic ingredient.
When I went to Wong's that day in 1969, I knew that Katie lived upstairs in the shop, too. But I never asked to talk to her. Her mother took my money and I guess Katie was upstairs watching the story about the Man on the Moon, too.

Letter to Mr. Slim : Good Riddance to You and All Your Lessons

I never was much of a student in High School. Prone to day dreaming of my future as a writer, I suppose, I couldn't stand my History class, especially when it was taught by Mr. Slim.
Back when I went to school in the seventies, teachers followed a curriculum designed to boor students to tears, and make history confined to the corridors of dates, names and incidences. Mr Slim was no exception, and he conducted his class like a robot, and carefully pulled out a pile of notes from his briefcase and started to recite.
He pulled out dates and World War II incidences as though it happened centuries ago, rather than mere decades ago and I could care less whether some leader of the Allies forced his way through the German barriers, or even what was the significance of Vimy Ridge. There was no History Channel back then, and it must have been too novel at the time to bring retired members of the Canadian Army to class to conduct lectures outlining the realities of war.
Nothing stuck on me and it showed, especially in the results of my exam where my marks failed to both excite me and my History teacher. Nor did Mr. Slim appear that he cared.
He came to class each day, well dressed, and carefully opened his well cared for notes, which he proceed to recite from as though it was as significant as Mozart's music. Of course, now I realize the price that men and women paid for in the great Wars, and take away so much information from shows such as the History Channel, etc on television.
Although I must have been close to seventeen, and still undecided about my job ambitions, at one point, I did ponder to be a teacher. But after observing Mr. Slim, who must have been in his late fifties conduct his lectures in such a boring, distant manner, I clearly decided in my mind's eye not to be a teacher. He clearly seemed to be doing his job for the money, than for the real pleasure of encouraging young minds.
I like movies and whenever an opportunity came to see one, especially in school, my eyes immediately perked up. On this one afternoon, Mr. Slim put on a World War II film that showed a celebration of soldiers and women. It may have been a victory moment, and as the film neared its end, the black and white reel displaced young and happy men frolicking with young and willing women, who were of Japanese descent.
Mr. Slim suddenly interjected a remark to the effect that this display of white men and yellow women frolicking together was deemed to be disgusting, forbidden and downright madness. He spoke his mind that white men and yellow women should never get together for romantic reasons and each ethnic group deserves to socialize romantically among themselves. Although the exact wording of Mr. Slim may be off somewhat due to time, the general gist of what he had to say is exact.
It was then that I realized who he really was. Mr Slim: a racist.
At that time, this obedient, poor student wanted to walk out when my teacher waxed into his ugly discourse, but I said nothing. I remarked about Mr. Slim's outburst to my siblings, who also agreed that he was a racist, but nothing came of it. Until now.
So Mr. Slim, after all these years, you are finally outed.
And yes, Mr. Slim, you should have been replaced years ago by someone like Mr. Sidney Poitier.
It's too bad that for too long, years of young minds have been twisted by Mr. Slim's racist ideas.
And when I stepped out into the sunshine of the streets after finishing his class, it was no surprise that I encountered name-calling from young groups of racists, who probably had Mr. Slim as a History teacher.

When Clint Eastwood was King and Punks were Just Punks

My mother took us to movies whenever she had a chance. While my Dad tended the customers for a few hours, we caught a movie in downtown New Westminster, which in the seventies, featured a few theatres showing the latest movies. Nearby, we ate at Woolworths, a now defunct store, which featured a variety of discount items as well as a counter restaurant which offered light meals.
Clint Eastwood, then, was featured in a new movie called Magnum Force and despite the violence, we enjoyed Eastwood's charisma, and especially how he dealt with criminals, occasionally calling them "punk."
Clint was "The Man" back then, and often we would laugh at his witty dealings with the bad guys, squinting at them and joking about whether they just got out of San Quentin prison.
As I was young then, perhaps, ten or twelve, me and my other sister were accompanied by my mother who often used her hands to shield us from a naked scene or some violent moment.
Although I enjoyed the latest Disney movies, somehow watching an Eastwood movie was both exhilarating and fun at the same time. It was a few hours where we could escape from a world that was not always so nice.
My mother recalls that she was just gassing up her car with my sister when some lone male yelled out a racial slur. She proceeded to berate the man, occasionally using "punk" and asking to his bewilderment, what he has done for his country. "Has he ever fought in the war? There are so many young men who have died, and you're standing there being an ignorant bum." Of course, her words were much more liberal and colorful than mine, but due to brevity, I can only write down the general gist of her diatribes.
There were dozens of incidents like that during the space of my years growing up, from the late sixties to seventies where I recall my Mom telling off the "punks" with all her vocal might.
Still, despite her efforts and mine, too, me and my sisters encountered our share of young people hurling out racial names as though it was something that was part of their extracurricular activity.
We did our best to stake our case, sometimes throwing out a bit of their own medicine, using "honky" and some other negative name that befit their Caucasian background.
I never used the word "punk" myself to defend myself, but looking back, it seems being hurled the word "punk" hit its mark: like throwing a rotten egg on their window.
Clearly, my Mom acted like the female equivalent of Clint Eastwood. Although she carried no magnum gun in her purse, her words shook the air and thundered, and punks froze in their shoes, never expecting that that this slight woman, wearing a conservative mid-length skirt could rise up like a phoenix and bite back with such force.
My mother also said to hit it in the bud, meaning that punks deserved to be treated with their own medicine now, rather than the next life.

On Being a Chinese Grocer

Back when I was a child, all of my family worked. We all lived and worked in the same building since my Mom and Dad owned a grocery store. Week days were spend holed up in the public school system during the day time, and afternoons, me and my sisters trudged home-ward bound to relieve my parents, especially when we got older.
When I was young, I handled the cash and tried to help bag groceries, even though I could not reach the counter top. I loved helping out, even though in one case I was barely was able to lift the bag from the ground, spilling all its contents. Every day, our parents worked, never skipping a Sunday, and our store got its share of memorable customers.
Sometimes a young man brought his monkey to the store, bringing about lots of good conversation and curiosity. During Halloween, young men came in the store to buy food coloring for their hair due to fact that Halloween costumes were home-made rather than manufactured. The bulk of our customers were primariy white and all was not always well.
In the late sixties, my mom and I drove around in a chevy and sometimes encountered a racial slur from a young white male. It didn't matter that I was a young child or that I was with my mother, racism raised its ugly head. My mother also shot back a response, not matter who it was. "Shut up, you igorant bum," she should sneer.
Kids too would yell at us, "Go back home, Chinamen," they would yell.
My sister thought she was smart and shouted, "Shut up, you war,!" Actually, she meant, "whore." but who knew the word.
Myself, I was more shy, and listened to my siblings and mother tell off the racists. Sometimes, I would yell out and sometimes, on a bad day, I wished I was white.
I didn't know about the civil rights movement too much or about Dr. Martin Luther King. In high school, we learned about ABC's and never about learning to live together.
As a young girl, I played with dolls that were Caucasion and watched TV in black and white.
Things really were black and white back then.
With the arrival of color TV, I started to notice a more, relaxed mood. Then Bruce Lee came to the big screen around the seventies, and I started to appreciate my skin color.
Even though I experienced the occasional racial incident, inside and outside the store, I raised my head a little higher each day, knowing that no matter what some people said, they couldn't take the fight out of us.
And besides, since most of the stores were closed on Sundays, (Back then, the majority of stores were closed on Sundays), ours was a business that accepted all customers, regardless of their ignorance.