Winnipeg – Tammy W. Karatchuk

What Happened to Winnipeg’s Epilepsy Monitoring Unit – One Year Later and the Only Person to Benefit was Premier Stefanson

On May 10th, 2021, Manitoba’s Health and Seniors Care Minister pledged $4 million for a “state of the art,” four-bed “Enhanced Adult Epilepsy Monitoring Unit” at the Health Science Centre in Winnipeg.

That was one year ago.

Heather Stefanson said, “The expansion of the adult epilepsy monitoring unit at HSC Winnipeg is a pivotal step toward reducing the need for patients to leave their support network behind to receive care outside this province and toward decreasing costs for anti-epileptic medications – costs that can then be reinvested into providing care for Manitobans.”

Stefanson made neurological care sound akin to a warm and fluffy feather duvet. But it was a pilled blanket with holes. When it comes to neurological care, $4 million is a start. But an EMU has operating costs. Those state of the art beds need state of the art trained epilepsy nurses. The EEG nodules that map a patient’s brain are thousands of dollars.

There’s little doubt the pledge was made to appease an under count of 23,000 Manitobans living with seizures and epilepsy.

Six months after this pledge, Heather Stefanson was upgraded to premier of Manitoba. During the same time, the current adult EMU was still graded as closed.

Since Stefanson’s announcement, two neurosurgeons have left Manitoba. By the end of the year, two epileptologists are fleeing the province, which leaves Manitoba with two overwhelmed epileptologists responsible for hundreds of patients. Recently, the neurology clinic was moved to a smaller clinic at the Health Science Centre. Fitting, because the department is shrinking faster than Shrinky Dinks®.

After a wave of resignations from neurology in 2020, there are approximately 25 neurologists left Manitoba, a province of 1.3 million people. Besides seizures, neurologists diagnose and monitor patients with multiple scoliosis, brain tumours, lupus, fibromyalgia, and other neurological diseases.

Stefanson’s defence could be, “I wasn’t premier at the time,” throwing her predecessor Brian Pallister under the bus. Or “We’re in a pandemic,” or she’ll pass the concern to current Health Minister, Audrey Gordon. While Gordon is the new minister, Stefanson made the pledge.

When 30 Years Seems Like Yesterday – The Chronicles and Confessions of a Brain Tumour Survivor

“Sept 16, 1991, Monday

Dear Diary

The nerologist, Mr. Young, told me that I have a brain tumor. It’s the size of a nickle. They’re sending me for more tests this week … I’m kind of still in shock. I never expected this. I expected epilepsy or, may be nothing. Jenn took it hard. I did to, eventually. I was so scared at first that I was, or am going to die. Surgery sounds scary!, but the tumor is low grade.”

You can tell my diary didn’t include spellcheck or Grammarly.

Today is the 30th anniversary of my first brain surgery, October 18, 1991.

I was 15 years old. Barely two weeks into grade 10. Looking forward to figure skating and entering my intermediate/pre-novice year. Taking driver’s ed. Getting my driver’s license. However, that changed overnight in mid-September after a seizure and a subsequent brain tumour diagnosis.

My mistake was pretending to be okay after that first diagnosis. Too often a child tries to be strong for their family and friends. We don’t want them to be sad, worried, feel more stress, deal with our pain, and so forth. With me, I felt like a burden because my parents needed someone to milk the cows, look after my four-year-old sister, find somewhere to stay in Winnipeg. The last thing they needed was a child rocking back and forth in a corner and blasting Metallica on their Walkman. I was more of a bubblegum pop girl, but still.

But I chose to pretend I was fine. I chose not to cry in front of my parents and friends. A couple of teachers wanted to start a support group for me. I chose to say no. The only time some of my friends saw me cry was my last day of school. We were on the bus, and one of my best friends was being dropped off. She hugged me and I could see her crying as she left the bus. I broke down. My other friends were saying, “You’ve been so strong, you need to cry,” and “Not many people would be able to handle this like you have.”

If they could’ve read my diary entries, they’d see I was stuffing my emotions.

My diary should’ve been about landing my double loop (alas) and worrying about exam exemptions. Instead it was, “I’m really nerseous inside, but if I act happy, no one knows.” My best speller certificate from grade three probably just burst into flames.

Tim Thurston – A Tribute to My Red River College Counsellor

In 2015, I wrote this post on the 15th anniversary of my Red River College counsellor’s death. Tim Thurston died on October 1, 2000. He was 49 years old. After writing this post, I felt at peace. Finally, I could talk about Tim without breaking down. He made an impact on countless RRC students and staff. And we’re forever grateful for our time with Tim.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There’s a sense of abandonment when a person dies.

You feel lost. Alone. Despondent. Shattered. Broken. Unable to continue.

October 1st, 2015 marks 15 years since my Red River College counsellor, Tim Thurston, died of a heart attack. He was 49.

On the first anniversary of Tim’s death, I wrote him a letter and poured out my feelings. How I was angry with him for dying. Mad he left me. Mad he was gone. Mad he wasn’t at my wedding.

Yeah, I was mad.

On the 15th anniversary, I’m paying tribute to Tim in another letter.

This is the reason I broke down in journalism as we discussed announcing deaths on social media. The reason “Fly and be Free” were in the credits of my Creative Communications documentary. And the reason I’m into boats and nautical themes. I even have a similar (though much smaller) boat in a bottle as Tim had his office.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Tim,

I’m no longer mad, but it’s still hard to believe you’re gone.

As time goes on though, I realize people don’t say “goodbye.” They just leave. They die. But maybe the words we need to hear aren’t “goodbye.”

Tim Thurston, undated photo. Credit, Winnipeg Tribune: Jon Thordarson

It hurt how I found out about your death. If we had Facebook or Twitter back then, maybe someone would’ve contacted me, and I won’t have missed your service. But we didn’t have Facebook or Twitter.

In 2000 – a poster on a bulletin board was our Twitter.

When I saw that poster – 11 days after your death – I bolted into Student Services and almost passed out. Your office was empty – and your boat in a bottle was gone.

“Sail your own ship, Tammy,” as you’d mildly nudge towards the bottle. “Ships aren’t meant to be anchored down.”

You reminded me of a slightly toned-down version of Sean Maguire – Robin Williams’ character from Good Will Hunting. You never held anything back. If you felt I needed to hear it – I was going to hear it. You were honest with me. That’s what I miss most – your blunt honesty.

When Robin Williams died – on my wedding anniversary in 2014 – I felt like I lost you again.

But you weren’t Sean Maguire. Or Robin Williams.

You were Tim Thurston. You liked George Carlin and the Blue Bombers. You used to play football, and turned to coaching.

You were my confidant, and we had serious conversations about world issues and politics. And some not so serious conversation about my silly crushes. You encouraged me. You cheered for me. You prepared me for my Creative Communications interview. You consoled me when I wasn’t accepted, but you weren’t one for pity-parties.

“Put this behind you and move on,” you said. “You can try again next year. Focus on what you can do now.”

Tim, you helped people see beyond their potential. You were human in a world where the majority of us are faking it. You entered my life on October 23, 1998 – when I felt lost, alone and invisible at Red River College. And you saw me laugh; saw me cry; made me laugh; and made me cry.

In my previous letter written on October 1, 2001, I was mad at you because you left me without saying goodbye.

Years later, I realize it’s not the goodbye that’s important.

You and I agreed to talk after fall exams. It was the end of September, and exams ran until mid-October. On September 28, 2000, I learned my math result, I raced to your office and through your door.

“Tim! I got my math mark.”

By the look on your face, and the expression on my face, you knew … this was good.

“And?”

“B plus!”

“Yes,” you said, and you pumped both arms in the air, which caught me off guard. You were ecstatic and asked if I had time to talk. I plunked into the chair at the round table – where I sat after I learned about your death.

Our conversation began to wind down, and when I left your last words to me were: “Fly and be free.”

It took awhile, but I realized your final words meant more than goodbye.

Sometimes it’s not goodbye we need to hear, but it’s the person’s last words we should remember.

Anchors aweigh, Tim.

Always,
Tammy

The Misunderstood Frosted Mini-Wheat: A Journey of Self-Discovery

I’m fun.

But few people know about my Frosted Mini-Wheats side. They think I’m a plain dry Shredded Wheat. The large type you need almond milk in order to add flavour.

Few people understand me. I’m a serious person, and when I make a joke it causes confusion and uncomfortable nods. My humour isn’t offensive. It’s sarcastic. Blunt. Dry. Awkward.

In 1998, I met a counsellor at Red River College. Within one visit, he understood me. Our visits focused less on my marks and more on who I was and what I wanted out of life. Everyone deserves to have an experience like meeting a Tim Thurston. When I look back on our visits, they remind me of tapered down appointments between Sean Maguire and Will Hunting from “Good Will Hunting.”

*Language warning

He was that awesome. Our visits were sometimes two hours long. Tim didn’t think I was a plain Mini-Wheat. He knew the real me. Who wanted to be a writer, broadcaster, and a model. Who loathed business administration. Who had a crush on a DJ.

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