About ten years ago I saw a young couple throw themselves in front of a subway train at the McGill metro station in downtown Montreal. It was all over in a flash.

All I saw was two people on the opposite platform suddenly rush forward, and then the body of one of them lying like a rag doll under the middle of the train when it came to a full stop.

But the incident haunted me for years. I couldn’t help thinking if only I had been on the other platform, I might have been able to do something to save them.

So I can’t help but note that Saturday was World Suicide Prevention Day. Because suicide is a huge problem in Canada and not enough is being done about it.

Every month about 300 Canadians take their own lives, and many more attempt it. The young and the old are particularly vulnerable, and so are the mentally ill.

In native communities, where suicide rates are many times the rate of non-native Canadians, they call Autumn the suicide season. And what’s happening in one native community is an absolute horror show.

Pikangikum, a fly-in community of 2,400 people in northwestern Ontario, is thought to have the highest suicide rate in the world . . . Of the 16 suicides examined by the coroner, four of the children were 12.

The top recommendation is for Ottawa to build a school in Pikangikum to replace the one that burned down four years ago. Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development Canada has committed to rebuild it, but that has not yet happened.

Our failure to stop this slaughter of our suffering native youth is a gaping wound in the side of this country. Our apparent inability to talk openly about our suicide problem only makes things worse.

The good news, and the point of Suicide Prevention Day, is that we CAN do something about it. We can force governments to do more, we can help more Canadians choose life, and we can help reduce the shattering pain of those who loved them and lost them so suddenly.

We just have to educate ourselves about the problem. We have to be able to recognize the symptoms and the warnings in those we know and love, know what to say and how to help them.

But perhaps the simplest and most effective thing we can do as ordinary people is just say “TALK TO ME.”

Which just happens to be this year’s slogan of The Trevor Project, an organization that helps LGBT kids, who attempt suicide at a rate four times higher than their straight peers.

Here’s Kevin McHale from “Glee” speaking to them . . .

And here’s a flash mob in Los Angeles sending out a message that I’m dedicating to everybody, young and old, gay or straight, who are feeling sad and hopeless tonight . . .

Yup. Talk to me. Three simple words that can save a life.

Knowledge is strength.

And love can work wonders . . .

Updated below

I travelled to a local health food store on Monday and bought some kelp tablets. I was actually after potassium iodide, but they were already sold out.

I am not naturally a health food store habitué — as I write this, I’m finishing up a Teen Burger meal — but my visit fell under the better-safe-than-sorry proviso for dealing with massive disasters such as the Japanese earthquake, tsunami, and subsequent nuclear disaster. I live on the western edge of North America, and the jet stream, she’s a-comin’ this way, Pa, she’s a-comin’.

Of course, my concerns are nothing as compared with those of the people of Japan. Nothing. And, of course, local Experts assure me that I have nothing to worry about: by the time those radiation particles reach me, they will be so widely dispersed as to be no more dangerous than pollen on a Spring day.

 
Thank you, Experts. I suppose I believe you.

However, I am not at all sure it’s a good thing for the BC government to discourage pharmacies from bringing in new quantities of potassium iodide. I understand that too much of the stuff isn’t good, especially if your thyroid’s already messed up, but this might be an instance where government would be best off letting us think we have some control over our well-being, and that of our family.

And besides, their assurances are distinctly equivocal. “I don’t think there is any rationale or reason for stockpiling potassium iodide,” says BC chief medical officer Dr. Perry Kendall, before adding the fine print: “at this point in time.”

Says “intercontinental pollutant transport expert” Ian McKendry: “The risk is relatively low, barring some kind of further disastrous situation occurring with these reactors.” All righty then: we’ll assume there’ll be no more disastrous situations beyond the four or five that have already occurred.

Meantime, Dr. Helen Caldicott is less sanguine. “The second reactor that’s just had an explosion,” she told flashpoints.net on Monday, “for some reason was fueled with MOX fuel, which is mixed oxide fuel, containing plutonium as well as uranium . . . . I don’t know if the containment vessel was breached or not, but if that plutonium gets out into the air, it will circulate from west to east around the globe, the northern hemisphere. Plutonium is so toxic that a million of a gram or less will induce cancer of the lung, or the liver, or the bone, or the blood, or the testicle. It does tend to have a predilection for testicles, and thus it will damage the genes and the sperm for all future generations.”

As of this morning, the situation at that reactor, Fukushima Daiichi #3, is unclear, though a spike in radiation levels has forced a temporary evacuation of emergency workers and “the operator fears that there has been damage to the suppression chamber.” That would be the “containment vessel” Caldicott referred to.

So forgive me, Experts, but I think I’ll hang onto my kelp tablets for now. Apparently, I would have to ingest a bottle a day before they’d do any good, and neither they nor potassium iodide will provide any protection at all against plutonium radiation.

Nevertheless, they might make me feel a little better.

Updated March 16, 2011, 9:24 pm

NPR reports that “although plutonium is a long-lived emitter of radiation, it is also quite heavy, so it is not likely to move very far downwind from its source.”

And the Institute for Energy and Environmental Research (an anti-nuclear power group) notes that “radionuclides [such as plutonium] are generally present in much larger quantities in spent fuel pools than in the reactor itself” and that “no mixed oxide (MOX) spent fuel is in the Unit 3 spent fuel pool.”

A “spent fuel pool” is for rods that have been put out to pasture but nevertheless retain the capacity to heat up and melt down, thus emitting radiation. However, the Japanese plant only started using mixed oxide fuel last September. In other words, it hasn’t yet moved MOX rods to storage, where they would be more dangerous.

In other other words, all things considered, the threat to North America remains minimal. The threat to Japan has increased, although not as much as one might have feared.

Surprise, surprise, another diet pill may be pulled from store shelves.

Meridia, manufactured by Illinois-based Abbott Laboratories, is under review by the FDA after a study raised concerns that the pill increases the risk of heart attack and stroke. Yesterday, fully half of the FDA’s advisory panel recommended that it be pulled from the market.

Available only by prescription in the U.S. and Canada, Meridia is intended for patients who need to lose 30+ pounds. Its chief ingredient is sibutramine, which suppresses appetite and can cause an increase in blood pressure and heart rate in some patients. It has a long list of possible negative side effects, including anorexia, which can be devastating to the mental, emotional, and physical health of those taking the drug.

According to the Heart and Stroke Foundation, almost 60% of adult Canadians (about 14.1 million) are overweight or obese, and it’s no surprise that many of them turn to diet pills to shed weight. Manufacturers usually advise that they should be taken in combination with a calorie-reduced diet and exercise. But how often does that happen? “I know a guy who takes HydroxyCut,” a friend told me once. “He eats whatever he wants and doesn’t gain a pound.” That’s the truth about diet pills, really. They become a substitute for healthy eating and exercise.

The drug companies also insist they aren’t habit-forming, but, as a former diet pill addict, I can attest otherwise. My addiction went hand in hand with an eating disorder, but even when I started to eat normally, I struggled to get off the pills. Losing weight is difficult, and given the thin-obsessed society we live in, women remain extremely susceptible to their allure.

I’ve been off them, and maintaining a healthy, comfortable weight, for several years now. In fact, I’m thinner now than I was for much of the time I took diet pills — a feat achieved simply by healthy eating and exercise.

I wasted a lot of money filling the pockets of the diet industry when the real solution was free. Not only in financial terms, but also free of negative side effects. Eating a well-balanced diet and exercising is a guaranteed way to keep your body trim and in shape, and, unlike many diet pills, is good for your overall physical and cardiovascular health. But it’s not a popular choice because it isn’t easy. It takes time and effort, dedication and education, and the results aren’t immediate.

But it’s worth it. This past weekend, I completed my first marathon — that’s 42.2 km of running — and I have never been so proud of my body. There isn’t a diet pill in the world that can make me feel that sort of pride.

Should Meridia be taken off the shelves, I’m sure it won’t be gone for long. It will likely be reformulated and returned, like so many others. Even so, I’d advise everyone, overweight, obese, or not, to keep it and all other diet pills out of your medicine cabinet. I’m glad they’ve been banished from mine.

From the very beginning of the H1N1/Swine Flu drama, I’ve had zero intention of getting a flu shot. Nevertheless, even I am infuriated by the preferential treatment given to the Calgary Flames players and their families.

I don’t blame the Flames’ medical team for requesting special treatment (it doesn’t hurt to ask, right?) and no doubt they have grown accustomed to it (as many sports teams have), but I’m stunned that the request for a private clinic and access to the H1N1 vaccine — while pregnant women, children under six, and others with compromised immune systems or chronic health conditions waited in line for hours, often outside in the cold — was approved.

Approximately 150 people received the top-secret shots, held at Father David Bauer Arena on October 30th. Next day, clinics all across Alberta were temporarily shut down due to a national shortage of the vaccine. But, hey, who matters more in this country: hockey players or children?

When the clinics reopened, Tim Page stood in one of those slower moving lines with his wife and two kids, aged four and two. They arrived at the Olympic Oval vaccine clinic around 5:30 p.m. and “after an hour my kids had enough so I sent them home with my wife to get bathed and ready for bed,” Tim says. When it got close to their turn, Tim called his wife and she returned with the kids. Well past bedtime, they waited another 40 minutes. Standing in line with two small children was not Tim’s idea of a good Thursday night, especially given that his daughter “knew what was at the end of the lineup.”

“I think the Flames should [have] waited like the rest of us,” he says. “They could [use] a lesson in consideration from the Stampeders’ health staff. They were interviewed on Global and said that they were just like anybody else and would wait. Pregnant moms, elders, and young children deserve it more.”

This isn’t to say that the Flames weren’t in need of the vaccine. It’s safe to assume none of them are pregnant, elderly, or below the age of six, but some have children, which places them in the high-risk category to be vaccinated. Still, they should have waited in line with Tim and his family, just like everyone else. Since there is no documented approval for the private clinic, and zero paper trail regarding the 150 inoculations, it’s pretty clear that the health services employees knew they were violating protocol and that the Flames should have stepped to the back of the line. (Two unnamed Alberta Health Services employees have been fired and the investigation closed.)

A Canoe.ca article suggests we cut the Flames some slack because of their contributions to the community over the years. But using charity to justify special treatment goes against the nature of charity . . . it’s not charity if you ask for something in return. While it is generous of the Flames and other athletic teams to give back to the community, the City of Calgary and its taxpayers forked out $100 million in 1983 to construct the Saddledome, so who owes whom here?

Despite the long wait time, Tim had few complaints about his flu shot experience. “The nurse we received was great. She took her time, made sure everybody was comfortable, and was really sympathetic with my daughter when the tears started coming.” By the time they left, it was 10:30 p.m. “Our nurse had been there all day before the lineups opened. She was tired but not once complained to us about the hours she had put in.”

Now that’s the sort of heroic effort we should be celebrating and privileging in this country, rather than the overpaid exploits of hockey players. The real epidemic in Canada is NHLphilia, which causes ordinary people to lose their heads when it comes to our national game. Where’s the shot for that?

Navigating your way through the grocery store requires slightly more skill than usual this time of year. Maneuvering the cart around the mountains of Hallowe’en candy displayed in the entryway and randomly throughout the store becomes an exercise in both agility and self-restraint.

On my routine weekend trip to the Co-Op, I finally gave in. A box of 125 tiny, assorted chocolate bars for $14? Score one for my budget, and another for the kids who would soon be trooping up to my door.

I contemplated the cheaper, less palatable candy, but quickly recalled the childhood disappointment I felt each Hallowe’en when I sat, post-treating, and picked Sun-Maid raisins, Hallowe’en Kisses, and candy corn out of my loot. I opted for the $14 box despite the heads-up from another customer that Wal-Mart offers an identical product for $9.97.

At home, I treated myself to a couple bites, and noticed how much smaller they seemed compared to what I remember from my trick-or-treating days. I know I’m an adult and I know Hallowe’en is for kids, but little by little Hallowe’en is getting less thrilling. But look on the bright side: while the shrinking portions and the bloated price is an obvious strategy to increase profits, it comes with an interesting side effect.

In an age where kids are inactive and overweight, the less candy they get, the better. I’m almost tempted to defend trick-or-treating because at least the kids aren’t parked in front of the TV eating junk food and are up and moving around. In pursuit of copious amounts of candy, at least they’re putting some miles on their sneakers.

But as for me . . . Every time I walk through the kitchen I grab a mini chocolate (or three) and the guilt is getting heavy. As an adult, and the only person responsible for my health and well-being, I am always aware of the consequences of what I put in my mouth, so I’ve got a few extra sit-ups to do and a few extra kilometers to run. And then I’m going to dole this stuff out to kids?

Clumps and blobs of high-fructose corn syrup, sugar, fat, preservatives, colouring in shiny wrappers — Candy: the kids are coming for it.

It’s not cost-effective to hand out toothbrushes and skipping ropes, but I feel awful contributing to and encouraging over-consumption of unhealthy edibles. At the same time, if I give them something “healthy” to gnaw on, I expect they’ll just pick it out of their bags and give it to their parents, just as I used to.

I wish I hadn’t wasted $14 on the box of Cadbury. I had good intentions and was looking forward to seeing all the costumes at my door on October 31st, but I think this year I’m going to exercise real good intentions and keep my lights off and my door closed.

I just wanted to go to the doctor.

Alberta has been suffering from a physician shortage for several years, but it’s become especially keen lately. With Calgary’s population just over 1,070,000 and growing, an estimated 200,000 Calgarians are currently without a family doctor. It’s a complex issue – fewer doctors are going into family practice and foreign doctors have been shut out for a variety of reasons (that’s a whole separate issue), while the constantly expanding population has placed extraordinary stress on established physicians.

I’ve lived in Lethbrige, Nanaimo, and Victoria and had a doctor in all three cities. In Victoria I simply called a clinic and asked if any doctor was taking new patients and, ta da, I had a doctor.

Not so with my first attempt to acquire a Calgary doctor – which consisted of an afternoon spent getting cozy with the yellow pages, racking up a major cellphone bill, and speaking with staff members who were too busy to answer my questions. Eventually I was referred to the Health Link website.

Managed by Alberta Health Services, Health Link provides a list of doctors taking new patients, plus 1-800 access to nurses who can provide medical information and advice on minor health issues. I checked it out, only to find my chances of securing a female doctor anywhere near my home were slim-to-none. There is currently one female doctor in my area, sort of, who is taking new patients – but “neck and back pain only.” And the other female doctors are maternity specialists. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so picky, but I think we all have a right to be selective when it comes to allowing someone access to our bodies.

Instead of despairing, I decided to accept the reality of the situation and learn to deal. I began to trek down to my friendly neighbourhood medical clinic as necessary . . . and bring a book, of course. Typically the wait is two or three hours, but, given how much I love to read in cramped spaces surrounded by sick people, there’s no problem. Twice I have insisted on seeing a female doctor and taken my chances that I’ll get in to see her before the shift changes and a male doctor takes her place. Twice I have waited all afternoon and then gone home when the male doctor arrived.

But as I say, I accepted the situation. Rather than get upset or rant at the clinic staff (there’s a sign . . . no abuse, raised voices, or profanity may be used toward clinic staff . . . that’ll get you barred), I simply gave up and planned to return the next afternoon. The alternative would be to drive all over the city from walk-in to walk-in, which I’ve heard many people do, but I prefer sitting for a few hours in the clinic waiting room to spending those same few hours in the cockpit of my car.

My last visit to the doctor, however, may have marked the end of my role as the patient patient. There was nothing majorly wrong with me . . . I had an inkling that I might have tendonitis (which would render me unable to work), had some unresolved issues with my ability to breathe properly at night, and had two smaller, more private issues, all of which I planned to address with the attending physician, male or female.

A nurse came into the examination room and asked me what I was seeing the doctor for that day. I explained that I had a number of issues to address. Instead of writing said issues down on my chart and leaving the room, the nurse informed me, “The doctor does not have that kind of time. He can deal with your most pressing concern.”

I’m not known for being a pushover, and so I replied, “All my concerns are pressing.”

Not amused, the nurse reminded me that the doctor did not have time to deal with a laundry list of problems and I would have to pick one for him to examine.

“I just sat in the waiting room for three and a half hours,” I said. “I don’t have time for that.”

She did not budge.

Despite my desire to demand compensation for my prolonged wait (compensation being 15 uninterrupted minutes of the doctor’s undivided attention to deal with what I wanted to deal with), I decided to focus on the tendonitis, as it was causing me the most pain, and hope the remaining issues would rectify themselves in time. (They haven’t.) After three or four minutes with the doctor (or was it two?), he assured me I did not have tendonitis and that I was a smidge paranoid. Probably just overexerted myself. Take some ibuprofen. Everything will be fine.

And away he went. So much for that.

For the sake of curiosity, I called the 1-800 number provided on Health Link. I was connected with a nurse who addressed my concerns – all of them. I appreciated the time she took to listen to me describe my symptoms. She asked me questions and explained in moderate detail how the knee joint works, how the nasal passage functions, and so on. Finally, I was getting somewhere.

And then she delivered her advice. It was simple, yet problematic: in regard to all four of my health concerns, she suggested I go see a doctor.

I’ll go see a doctor, all right. But given the mood Alberta’s sickly health care system has left me in, I’m not so sure that doctor will be happy to see me.

Do you ever find yourself longing for the kind of attention that stars receive?  Do you sometimes feel like an invisible drop in the sea of humanity?

Follow these simple three steps and you’ll be irresistible to those people who currently pass you by:

1) Break your left foot and/or otherwise damage your leg.

I suggest you only pretend to be in pain, as an actual fracture and a ripped ligament can take months to heal.  (At least, that’s my doctor’s prognosis.)

Note: Do not break your right foot or leg as you will be unable to drive.  However, if you prefer to use others’ gasoline and have them taxi you about, then break the right one.

2) Get crutches.

Borrow crutches whenever possible.  Summer camps are prime locations to ask about the use of crutches as the staff appear to have several on hand during camp season, but you may have to actually appear damaged to remove the crutches legally from the premises.

Note: It’s considered in bad form to be seen running from a camp with crutches clutched under your arm.

3) Leave your home and enter the world of the mobile.

Wherever you go, people will approach you, so be prepared.  Wear your deodorant, carry breath mints, and be ready for the hordes to find you.

Note: Consider having a variety of stories on hand for what happened to your foot/ankle/leg, dependent on how quickly you wish to prolong the conversation.  For instance, for a quick limp-away, consider the “I broke it while walking” response.  For a longer tete-a-tete, use such responses as “I broke it as I lunged into the street to push a dog from an oncoming car” or “it happened in the plane crash.”

I discovered this method of stranger magnetism when I broke my foot this past summer. My two children and I had just spent five relaxing days at a family camp (think summer camp but for families), basking in the glory of swimming, walks, woodcarving classes, and prepared meals and snacks.  The day before departure, it happened.  As my son happily sank arrows into a target in archery class, my daughter and I headed for the slip-n-slide.  Not the usual, tiny, no-more-than-100 lbs. slip-n-slide, mind you.  This was the gigantic sea of plastic down the side of a hillside slip-n-slide, complete with buckets of soap, teens sitting with a hose spraying the plastic, and giggling kids.  This was to be the culmination of our camp experience, the pinnacle of campdom.  My daughter careened down without incident.  It was my turn.  No problem, but a little slow.  The next time my daughter sped faster.  I propelled my body forward as I headed down, down, and stopped.  Actually, my left foot stopped while the rest of me continued its downward descent.  There was a hole in the plastic and my foot stayed in it awhile before joining the rest of me.  The walk back to the camp dining hall was excruciating.

Suddenly the kids and I went from just another family  to the family of the “mom from the slip-n-slide.”  “They’re gossiping about you,” was my daughter’s slightly giddy observation.  “Everyone knows about it.”  People who had never noticed me at their dinner table suddenly approached.  “I hurt my finger one summer on that thing,” said one mom.  “My fingers didn’t heal for months.”  Children pointed and stared.  Ice packs appeared along with Tylenol 3 and Ibuprofen.  A woman kindly adjusted a pair of the camp crutches several centimeters less than I actually am (I suppose I look shorter when doubled over in pain), while a man sat by my side for hours and we chatted about illnesses and injuries.  I chatted after the painkillers kicked in.

Once a staff member and the camp directors’ son drove us home the next day, I thought things would settle down.   I was about to re-enter the world of the unnoticed.

Wrong.

I was changed.  Suddenly I existed in a sea of people on scooters, people adorned in casts and tensor bandages, people limping.  I’d never noticed before.  As we wounded ones  passed one another, we’d nod and sometimes smile a sad, knowing smile.  It reminded me of motorcycle riding days and the wave or sign I’d share as I passed another motorcyclist.

Thanks to crutches and my damaged appendage, I was suddenly the focal point of public attention.  I acquired nicknames. I became “Hop-Along” to the receptionist at my doctor’s office, where I discovered I had suffered an ablution, a torn ligament, and a bone fragment that now was floating around in my foot, hopefully not to settle in a joint.  My first broken bone and it was a doozy, apparently.

“Dear,” said many an old-aged pensioner, “Whatever did you do to your foot?”  One older fellow hurried across the road, bee-lining for me.  After I tried to explain a slip-n-slide to him, he nodded sagely, then exclaimed proudly, “I’ve never broken a bone and I’m 84,” and then continued on his way, leaving me in his dust.

As my children and I entered a store in a mall, the door slammed before I could get fully through with my crutches.  I was pinned.  Two middle-aged ladies were behind us, and one kindly opened the door and held it.  As I puffed my thanks, she said, “Those two aren’t yours, are they?” referring to my two children who had forgotten me in their wake.

“Not any more,” I replied, grinning evilly.  We shared a chuckle and then I rushed to catch up to my spawn.

My hospital visit for a second set of x-rays was tiring.  I decided to park on the street rather than pay the parking price, but was thinking how foolish that was as I finally reached the hospital doors. To my left a man in a wheelchair was puffing on a smoke, and he smiled.  “Your foot looks awful,” he said, nodding at my still-blue and puffy foot protruding from the tensure bandage. “That must really hurt.”  I simply nodded. I didn’t have enough breath left to say anything about the “dragon-colours” (my daughter’s apt description) that I was exhibiting.

Strangers felt they could say anything. One person stopped me in a mall and after hearing what had happened, said, “Trying to act like a kid, are ya?” Another, greeting me on a sidewalk, quipped, “It’s not called a ‘slip-n-break’, you know.  You’re supposed to slide.”  This was accompanied by an exaggerated hand-sliding motion. A teller at a bank actually started laughing so hard he almost had to dry tears as I told him I’d injured my foot on a slip-n-slide. I was tempted to hit him with one of the crutches but I would’ve fallen.  A cashier at Chapters and I talked at great length about her own disastrous foot injury from last summer, and how it took months for her to heal.  Eventually the store closed and they locked me in, so joyous was she to commiserate with a fellow sufferer.

After summer holidays were over, I took my children to their first shortened day of school and balanced awhile outside their classrooms to wait for them.  A parent in the hallway asked what I’d done to my foot and listened as I told my sad tale.  Then, nodding conspiratorially, she whispered, “You know you shouldn’t mix alcohol and a slip-n-slide.” Ha ha.

Happily, my foot has returned to its normal size and colour, I now take joy in wearing actual shoes, and I’ve hung up the camp’s crutches, hopefully for good.  But if I ever feel invisible as I limp slightly down the sidewalk, I may just take out those crutches for another spin.  That is, if my kids aren’t playing with them.

According to this perky little item, lipstick sales are up 40% since the start of the recession. Apparently the same thing happened after the 9/11 attacks, leading the chairmain of Esteé Lauder to coin the term “lipstick index,” to account for the phenomenon of glossy sales during bad times.

Women would be well-advised to keep an eye on another lipstick index, though — the amount of lead contained in their favourite brand.

According to a 2007 report from the Campaign for Safe Cosmetics (CSC), “More than half of 33 brand-name lipsticks tested (61 percent) contained detectable levels of lead, with levels ranging from 0.03 to 0.65 parts per million (ppm). None of these lipsticks listed lead as an ingredient.”

While the FDA has not set a limit for lead content in lipstick, it has done so for candy: 0.1 ppm. The FDA acknowledges the potential danger of children directly ingesting lead via candy, but doesn’t seem overly concerned about the millions of women and teenage girls who are ingesting lead via lipstick. One lick of lipstick may not seem harmful, but lead accumulates in the body over time, so small, repeated exposures can result in an unsafe presence in the body.

The dangers of lead are concisely addressed in the CSC’s press release: “Lead is a proven neurotoxin that can cause learning, language and behavioral problems such as lowered IQ, reduced school performance and increased aggression. Pregnant women and young children are particularly vulnerable to lead exposure. Lead easily crosses the placenta and enters the fetal brain where it can interfere with normal development. Lead has also been linked to infertility and miscarriage.”

Lead-laced lips are a far cry from the advertised kissable lips we see sparkling in magazine pages or blowing kisses and smooching at us on TV.

Thirty-nine percent of the lipsticks tested by the CSC contained no lead, so you don’t need to swear off lipstick just yet. The FDA may not regulate the cosmetic industry, but the CSC and other organizations, including the World Health Organization (WHO) and the Environmental Working Group (EWG), have ample information to help consumers make informed, safe choices.

Skin Deep is a cosmetics safety database created by the EWG that “pairs ingredients in more than 42,000 products against 50 definitive toxicity and regulatory databases, making it the largest integrated data resource of its kind.”

You can search cosmetics and other products by product, ingredient, or company, and have instant access to information on ingredients, potential hazards and concerns, as well as a hazard rating from one to 10, in order of increasing hazard.

Cosmetic companies themselves are obviously not willing to admit their products are anything less than safe, offering virtually no information about the ingredients. They will, though, run the “not tested on animals” logo. Hm. Besides the fact that this doesn’t guarantee the product is low in toxins or toxin-free, it ought to make you wonder: what is it they’re putting in there that is potentially harmful to animals — and why they don’t care if it’s harmful to human beings?

Now here’s a thought: According to the crown prosecutor in the case of Christopher Pauchay, the father of two children who froze to death while in his care, it’s important that people care for the children they have. Marylynne Beaton says the three-year sentence handed down on Friday, March 6th, sends an important message to parents. “It’s really important for people to realize, especially parents, [that if] you have children you have to take responsibility for them,” she notes, “and you can’t put yourself in a situation where they’re going to be at risk.”

We’ve actually reached the point where somebody needs to say this? Maybe as a society we all need to be sent to parenting classes.

Take the ongoing response to the “Octomom.” Nadya Suleman bore eight children via in vitro fertilization, on top of the six she already had. Outrage followed. In response, legislators in Missouri and Georgia are now seeking to limit the number of embryos that may be implanted by IVF, to no more than two in a woman under 40, and no more than three in a woman over 40 (the latter to account for “increased difficulty” in bringing the birth to term). In response to the response, legal experts say “limiting a woman’s right to procreate raises constitutional concerns.”

Constitutional concerns? What about the children’s rights to grow up in a home where they’re properly cared for? The kids almost seem to be an afterthought in all this; even the politicians say their chief concern is saving taxpayers’ money.

Here’s another well-known example: Chantelle Stedman, of Eastbourne, East Sussex, Britain, became journalistic fodder in February for having a child — not because she’s just 15-years old (that’s not news), but because a baby-faced 13-year old named Alfie Patten claimed to be the father. (For the tabloids, that’s news.) Another eight boys have now come forward, also claiming to be the dad.

Predictably, but pathetically, our focus has been on the teenage mom and boy-father involved, rather than on the most important person of all: their infant, Maisie. How will she respond one day to having been the video du jour on You-Tube? How will she feel about being an involuntary celebrity due to her possibly 13-year old dad? What a lovely contribution all those news clippings will make to her baby album. Maisie will now grow up in a home with her grandma, her out-of-work granddad, her five uncles, and her teenaged mum. Instead of worrying about paternity tests, how about asking if Britain’s social system is up to the task of making sure she’s well cared for?

Thank heavens at least some people act responsibly in this over-populated world, and choose not to have kids (though they tend to need groups like this one, No Kidding, to find support for their decision). Others seek out children who need help, whether through organizations like World Vision or by fostering or adopting a child.

Speaking as a parent of two, I would argue most parents, while not perfect, are doing their best to raise their children responsibly. Granted, awful things happen. Log onto “Parents Behaving Badly” for a collection of the horrific tales. Sometimes we make silly choices that our children manage to survive, as in the case of the mother in Kettering, Ohio, who was spotted chatting on her cell phone and breastfeeding her baby while driving. While I applaud 39-year old Genine Compton’s obvious multi-tasking skills, I wouldn’t recommend her choices. Fortunately, a fellow motorist reported her in time, so that she, baby, and those around them remained safe.

To get her licence, Compton had to pass a driving test. But as has been often remarked, there’s no course of study, no exam to pass, no degree granted, before one can become a parent. Until there is, it’s up to all of us to act responsibly, quit focussing on the lurid news, and start paying attention to the little ones behind it.

The next time you book your annual check-up with your dentist, consider getting rid of a few wrinkles or puffing up your lips with a botox treatment at the same time. British Columbia is the first province in Canada to permit dentists to shoot botox into their patients’ wrinkles and lips, joining the ranks of dentists in the US and Europe.

Naturally, cosmetic dermasurgeons aren’t happy. Citing dentists’ inexperience, they encourage wrinkle-worn clients to consider that quickie botox courses don’t measure up to years of experience and extensive training. I’m inclined to agree; I’d rather my dentist was focused on what’s happening inside the mouth, not the lips and face that surround it. Even given the one-stop convenience of a check-up and facial treatment — similar to buying one’s groceries and clothes at a monster Wal-Mart — does anyone really want their dentist to expand services to include Bratz doll-worthy, mountain-sized lips or flawless faces?

Whether they’re under a pillow or sitting on the bedside table, teeth are an important part of our lives, and they deserve our dentist’s full focus. They mark a rite of passage, from baby’s first tooth, the first tooth left for the tooth fairy, the first lost molar, swollen and bruised cheeks courtesy of wisdom teeth extraction, through to teeth requiring root canals and caps, and partial or full extraction.

Admittedly, teeth are also important cosmetically. I’ve seen enough friends whiten their teeth, and enough TV commercials on whitening products, to know that society is obsessed with sparkling chompers lately. I’ve also watched enough “Style By Jury” episodes, thanks to my children’s latest TV viewing preferences, to know straight, white teeth make a colossal difference in appearance, while poor teeth are apparently mandatory to being accepted for a TV makeover. Veneers make all the difference between a closed-mouth smile and a dazzling Arctic-white smile.

Which makes me only happier that my dentist is focused on everything teeth, rather than botox-generated beauty. I find myself particularly grateful for his focus on my teeth rather than my laugh lines as I face my first potential root canal. Expecting a typical cleaning and fluoride treatment this past appointment, I was unhappy to have the dentist inform me that the pain I’m desperately trying to ignore is actually the result of a cracked molar. I can’t ignore it any longer. I’m encouraged by friends who describe the root canal procedure as “relatively unpainful,” and am buoyed by the fact that I am joining a large group of fellow teeth-owners who’ve survived the experience. And, in my attempt to block from my mind the expression “as enjoyable as a root canal” — which I’m hoping is a vast exaggeration of the pain of the procedure — I’m focusing on my dentist’s years of experience. I rest secure in the knowledge that his training and experience, specialized on the inside of the mouth, will assure me of that “relatively unpainful” experience.

You may have to start examining your friends and relatives more carefully. The next time you notice a hard-to-pinpoint improvement, don’t just say, “You’re looking good — did you have a haircut?” Add: “Or perhaps you went to the dentist?” However, if you decide to get something facial smoothed out or puffed up yourself, I suggest you find a proper dermasurgeon. Dentists may clamour to carry out potential corrections to our face and lips, but they have enough to focus on already: 20 primary teeth in our children’s heads, and 32 permanent teeth in ours.