What is a ruin? Or when is something 'ruined'? And why do some cultures embrace and learn from them while others hide, tear them down, and replace them as quickly as possible? Architectural ruins come first to mind. Ruins -- "a human construction abandoned to nature." It reverts back to wilderness, and we find that alluring-- the unknown, the unexpected, the promise of hidden things, someplace 'lost' and filled with elements that will lead us to better understanding.
Many believe that our lives are best lived when they are in ruins. The good times take us nowhere, make us complacent. The 'bad' times ruin our happy lives and take us on dark journeys where we often discover our strengths and weaknesses and new lives.
The treatment of cancer appears to be the effort to leave one's body in ruins -- kill the cancer cells, but also the healthy cells as well. Strip away all hiding places for the tumors and disease, leaving immune systems in tatters and lives teetering on the brink of complete and utter -- ruin. Death and ruin seem to skip along hand in hand, but there is that moment when one lets go of death and returns to life if it is properly timed and all works together as hoped. At this time the ruins are transformed. Not rebuilt as they were before, but made into something different, drawing on the lessons learned, the revelations discovered, and the fears faced. A new landscape opens up in our bodies, minds, emotions, relationships, and life's path. We have taken a turn, traveled through the shadow of disease and death, and find that we are actually better for it.
Not that I advocate getting sick, just that facing the 'ruins' of one's life may be a gateway into an even more fulfilling life and better understanding of self.
I'm only beginning to examine this way of thinking. I was raised to seek happiness, have a happy life, face troubles with strength and get through them -- but not necessarily learn from them.... I'm learning. And one thing I know with certainty -- there's no 'extra time' for one to adjust. Time has a meter that it beats out without pause and we must keep up.
The book: A Field Guide to Getting Lost by Rebecca Solnit gives me much to consider as I move through an alien landscape of death, loss, disease and rebirth....
Along this journey I learn a few details that might be of use to others along this path. 1. Speak up and make sure you are heard. 2. Follow your gut -- which is much different than giving in to your fears. 3. The healthcare community may think they know cancer -- but it is a surety that they don't know you as well as you know yourself. Make known your needs, wants and dislikes. 4. It is your path and no one else's -- take what works for you and leave the rest.
Oh and drink plenty of water, exercise when you can, avoid constipation and sick people. And find someone you really REALLY trust to walk with down this path.
Friday, March 13, 2015
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Inequality of Disease
Who would ever think it makes sense to feel 'lucky' to have cancer.
And yet, as diseases go, what other disease do you know that has more fundraisers, more marketing, more research, more medical hours devoted to the treatment and cure. Not to mention the amount of wealth garnered from this disease. How many businesses are devoted to cancer? How many college courses or majors or specialties? Oncology just sparkles with $$$$$.
But that sounds crass when one receives the diagnosis and then all of that excess or should I say devotion to this disease becomes relevant and much appreciated. I am one of those who ignored the symptoms and am now facing the diagnosis and treatment for endometrial cancer. I mention this diagnosis and suddenly I'm surrounded by a sisterhood of cancer survivors and those who are battling the disease. Win or lose, the cancer conglomerate coffers seem to overflow.
Cancer was off of my radar. You see for the past ten years my focus was on another disease and the man I married 40-some years ago. He was diagnosed in 2005 with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) -- it even has a nickname 'Lou Gehrig's Disease.' The disease has been haunting his family for much longer. His family has lost more than a dozen aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers... My sons lost their father in November, 2014, and my sons have a 50-50 chance of inheriting this disease. The next generation -- will it be fodder for this disease? Our kids? Our grandkids? Our great grands?
The comparison between the care of ALS sufferers and cancer victims is like comparing back alleys to Wall Street. No treatment, no cure. The diagnosis for ALS is a death sentence. Doctors hesitate to give the diagnosis. And yet the longer they delay the more catch up or the more wasted life. For someone with ALS, the only treatment is to maintain quality of life in whatever ways possible. Where there are no medicines or ways to slow the progression of the disease, doctors, technicians, medical suppliers find durable goods to take the place of the wasted muscles, the dead neurons.
But often the disease races through the body faster than insurance companies and medical suppliers and specialists and the VA or any other funding source can react. By the time the funds or the equipment is available to the ALS patient, the disease has surpassed it and once again the family must play catch up to meet the needs of daily living.
Anything from $10 spoons that grasp the hands that have lost their grip to $30,000 power chairs that are made to grow with needs -- elevating seats when the strength to stand weakens, braces and straps and padding to hold limbs and body in place when muscles are gone. Head rest that will keep the head from lolling or falling in such a way as to damage the neck. Neck support when it is too weak to hold the head's weight. Places included in the design on the chair to insert poles and racks to hold the breathing equipment when the disease weakens the intercostal muscles which include the diaphragm which controls breathing. Equipment that acts as his voice will hang on one of those racks with another electronic, battery powered machine that will suck mucous and saliva when he can no longer swallow.
The body continues to worsen and weaken, there is no stabilization. And when the power chair becomes necessary, one must transport it. A van becomes a necessity and no insurance company considers that a health expense. That's another $30,000 or more -- out of pocket, not to mention the additional $30,000 to trick out the van with lift and special adaptive equipment. And at night -- a hospital bed and a lift of some kind to move from bed to chair. Cha-ching. An overhead tract system is another $30,000 or a Hoyer lift that is much less expensive and more work for caregivers. One wife has the interesting dilemma of trying to maneuver her six foot-eight inch 300 pound husband while he dangles from a sling from a Hoyer lift. And if he falls -- how does she get him up. She like me, has realized how many burly firemen can fit in bedroom or bathroom.
Eventually a machine, if nothing else has caused death to this point, takes over the breathing and he is hooked up 24/7 to a machine connected to a hole in his throat. Something I hadn't thought about when considering a tracheotomy for my husband -- no air would pass through his mouth. Dry petri dish. And then the throat muscles lose the ability to swallow and a peg or feeding tube is inserted into the stomach and hanging outside of the body with a plug in it. Food becomes tasteless liquid protein-vitamin mixtures. The mouth has become obsolete, even speech has ended.
Thousands and thousands of dollars and not a single dollar has gone toward treatment or cure of the disease. ALS freely runs rampant through the body, killing at will. Killing muscles and cells and lives. It targets the most healthy all around the world. Men and women, every age. Even kids. Derrol's brother was ten when he was diagnosed -- misdiagnosed -- but it didn't matter, they just treat the symptoms until they morph into something worse. That was in the 1970s -- very little has changed in treatment since he died at age 18....
While I helped my husband maintain his profession, his dignity, his life, I put mine on hold. Nothing was more important than holding onto him --this man. I loved and respected and adored him for 40 plus years. We laughed, we cried, we joked, we quoted movies, we finished each other's sentences and we filled in the blanks in our memories and our thoughts. We were one and then the disease took him. We never got a chance to fight the disease -- really fight it. During the disease's rampage through my husband's body, we fought just about everyone else. Hospital and emergency protocols were killers for him. Most health personnel don't know the first thing about treating ALS unless the person is there to die -- they assume death is the outcome and set protocols to ease them into death. We fought 'assisted suicide by protocol' for twelve days during one hospital stay before we finally convinced the doctors that we meant to live.
But now that I have a cancer diagnosis, in less than a month I've had extensive surgery to remove the tumor and anything that even looks like reproductive organs, I've had several appointments with doctors, several lab tests, several prescriptions, and a schedule for chemo which will start in a few days. Although the only thing the doctor guarantees is that I will lose my hair, he seems quite sure with surgery, poisoning my entire system, and radiating me until I nearly glow, I will be cancer free. My insurance provider is almost giddy about covering this 'catastrophic' illness -- 'that's what they are there for.'
It is comforting to know I am so well cared for by such experts and their staffs and the entire cancer industry. And yet, it is bittersweet -- why couldn't some of this help been available to my husband. Why not at least one weapon, one tool, to fight ALS? Why must there be such an inequality in the disease fighting industry? Diabetes -- nothing has happened toward a cure in 30 or more years. We hear about new ways to 'manage' it, but no cure. NO CURE!
Cynics say there is no money in finding cures. Do we really live in a world where it is better to keep disease alive and growing so the economy stays strong. I pray that isn't true. And yet, in the first quarter of this year expenses to treat this cancer exceeded what we and insurance expended on ALS -- not because we couldn't or wouldn't -- but there were no treatments or cures to invest in. Bittersweet this diagnosis of mine. In three months I have received better care, more care, more options than my husband had in his entire life.
It doesn't seem fair....
And yet, as diseases go, what other disease do you know that has more fundraisers, more marketing, more research, more medical hours devoted to the treatment and cure. Not to mention the amount of wealth garnered from this disease. How many businesses are devoted to cancer? How many college courses or majors or specialties? Oncology just sparkles with $$$$$.
But that sounds crass when one receives the diagnosis and then all of that excess or should I say devotion to this disease becomes relevant and much appreciated. I am one of those who ignored the symptoms and am now facing the diagnosis and treatment for endometrial cancer. I mention this diagnosis and suddenly I'm surrounded by a sisterhood of cancer survivors and those who are battling the disease. Win or lose, the cancer conglomerate coffers seem to overflow.
Cancer was off of my radar. You see for the past ten years my focus was on another disease and the man I married 40-some years ago. He was diagnosed in 2005 with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) -- it even has a nickname 'Lou Gehrig's Disease.' The disease has been haunting his family for much longer. His family has lost more than a dozen aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers... My sons lost their father in November, 2014, and my sons have a 50-50 chance of inheriting this disease. The next generation -- will it be fodder for this disease? Our kids? Our grandkids? Our great grands?
The comparison between the care of ALS sufferers and cancer victims is like comparing back alleys to Wall Street. No treatment, no cure. The diagnosis for ALS is a death sentence. Doctors hesitate to give the diagnosis. And yet the longer they delay the more catch up or the more wasted life. For someone with ALS, the only treatment is to maintain quality of life in whatever ways possible. Where there are no medicines or ways to slow the progression of the disease, doctors, technicians, medical suppliers find durable goods to take the place of the wasted muscles, the dead neurons.
But often the disease races through the body faster than insurance companies and medical suppliers and specialists and the VA or any other funding source can react. By the time the funds or the equipment is available to the ALS patient, the disease has surpassed it and once again the family must play catch up to meet the needs of daily living.
Anything from $10 spoons that grasp the hands that have lost their grip to $30,000 power chairs that are made to grow with needs -- elevating seats when the strength to stand weakens, braces and straps and padding to hold limbs and body in place when muscles are gone. Head rest that will keep the head from lolling or falling in such a way as to damage the neck. Neck support when it is too weak to hold the head's weight. Places included in the design on the chair to insert poles and racks to hold the breathing equipment when the disease weakens the intercostal muscles which include the diaphragm which controls breathing. Equipment that acts as his voice will hang on one of those racks with another electronic, battery powered machine that will suck mucous and saliva when he can no longer swallow.
The body continues to worsen and weaken, there is no stabilization. And when the power chair becomes necessary, one must transport it. A van becomes a necessity and no insurance company considers that a health expense. That's another $30,000 or more -- out of pocket, not to mention the additional $30,000 to trick out the van with lift and special adaptive equipment. And at night -- a hospital bed and a lift of some kind to move from bed to chair. Cha-ching. An overhead tract system is another $30,000 or a Hoyer lift that is much less expensive and more work for caregivers. One wife has the interesting dilemma of trying to maneuver her six foot-eight inch 300 pound husband while he dangles from a sling from a Hoyer lift. And if he falls -- how does she get him up. She like me, has realized how many burly firemen can fit in bedroom or bathroom.
Eventually a machine, if nothing else has caused death to this point, takes over the breathing and he is hooked up 24/7 to a machine connected to a hole in his throat. Something I hadn't thought about when considering a tracheotomy for my husband -- no air would pass through his mouth. Dry petri dish. And then the throat muscles lose the ability to swallow and a peg or feeding tube is inserted into the stomach and hanging outside of the body with a plug in it. Food becomes tasteless liquid protein-vitamin mixtures. The mouth has become obsolete, even speech has ended.
Thousands and thousands of dollars and not a single dollar has gone toward treatment or cure of the disease. ALS freely runs rampant through the body, killing at will. Killing muscles and cells and lives. It targets the most healthy all around the world. Men and women, every age. Even kids. Derrol's brother was ten when he was diagnosed -- misdiagnosed -- but it didn't matter, they just treat the symptoms until they morph into something worse. That was in the 1970s -- very little has changed in treatment since he died at age 18....
While I helped my husband maintain his profession, his dignity, his life, I put mine on hold. Nothing was more important than holding onto him --this man. I loved and respected and adored him for 40 plus years. We laughed, we cried, we joked, we quoted movies, we finished each other's sentences and we filled in the blanks in our memories and our thoughts. We were one and then the disease took him. We never got a chance to fight the disease -- really fight it. During the disease's rampage through my husband's body, we fought just about everyone else. Hospital and emergency protocols were killers for him. Most health personnel don't know the first thing about treating ALS unless the person is there to die -- they assume death is the outcome and set protocols to ease them into death. We fought 'assisted suicide by protocol' for twelve days during one hospital stay before we finally convinced the doctors that we meant to live.
But now that I have a cancer diagnosis, in less than a month I've had extensive surgery to remove the tumor and anything that even looks like reproductive organs, I've had several appointments with doctors, several lab tests, several prescriptions, and a schedule for chemo which will start in a few days. Although the only thing the doctor guarantees is that I will lose my hair, he seems quite sure with surgery, poisoning my entire system, and radiating me until I nearly glow, I will be cancer free. My insurance provider is almost giddy about covering this 'catastrophic' illness -- 'that's what they are there for.'
It is comforting to know I am so well cared for by such experts and their staffs and the entire cancer industry. And yet, it is bittersweet -- why couldn't some of this help been available to my husband. Why not at least one weapon, one tool, to fight ALS? Why must there be such an inequality in the disease fighting industry? Diabetes -- nothing has happened toward a cure in 30 or more years. We hear about new ways to 'manage' it, but no cure. NO CURE!
Cynics say there is no money in finding cures. Do we really live in a world where it is better to keep disease alive and growing so the economy stays strong. I pray that isn't true. And yet, in the first quarter of this year expenses to treat this cancer exceeded what we and insurance expended on ALS -- not because we couldn't or wouldn't -- but there were no treatments or cures to invest in. Bittersweet this diagnosis of mine. In three months I have received better care, more care, more options than my husband had in his entire life.
It doesn't seem fair....
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Searching for Reality
I read somewhere, probably on Facebook, that we are born in a day, die in a day, and we can change in a day. Let me tell you that death --of one's mate, lover, soul, conscience, and best friend for more than four decades -- causes major changes. Changes so huge that the brain cannot fathom it. He is gone. The words mean nothing.
He is dead.
No response.
I watch for his face in crowds. I wait to hear his voice -- always. I listen for the sound of him, breathe in hoping to catch his scent. My brain is sure that he will soon be home from work.... He will fix the window, the faucet, the stove. He will pay the bills and discuss investments with me and do the taxes. I wait.
Nearly three months later, my brain continues to disconnect from 'reality' and question just what is real? I can't truly be living in a world without my Derrol. He cannot have left me. We were two halves of a whole and wherever he went, I went. Wherever I went, he went. How could he leave and not take me with him?
Then the brain begins to question memories. Was he really part of my life? Am I only fantasizing about the years we spent together? The sons are real. A living testament to the man who helped mold them into the young men they are today. And yet, there are gaps in the memory. Most of the experiences are frozen somewhere and I am unable to thaw them enough to bring them to life. They reside in that same 'as told to' realm as baby pictures. I look at my mother holding this baby that is supposed to be me and I accept that it is part of my life, but I have no real connection to it.
This unreality is punctuated by sudden outbursts of sobbing that seem to have been squeezed right out of my soul. Loud, sloppy crying that scares the cat. That scares me by the intensity. I cry until my whole body is heaving, until I curl up around myself and let the seizure take me. I cry until my hands are dry and I'm dehydrated.... I don't know why I am crying. Nothing in particular started it. Perhaps a tone of voice, a bit of sympathy might lead me down that path. At first I couldn't listen to oldies music -- the Beatles, Queen, all of the songs of our years of love and companionship and friendship. Sunday -- the day he died -- is hopeless. The usual rituals are to be avoided. I wander around from room to room, searching for him. The cat watches.
Often the cat abruptly raises his head, ears alert. He stares into nothingness. Stares at the place where my Derrol was last alive. And I look, but see nothing. Hope stays alive and I speak his name. "I miss you," I add. "Please come back...." And then I feel guilty because he has moved from pain, disease, suffering and despair to a better place. My Protestant training says he is in a better place. I don't believe 'he' resides in that box of ashes on the book shelf.
Those warriors who have gone before me through this valley of death tell me that grief is like waves of the ocean, like a roller coaster, unpredictable and surprising, always striking when you least expect it. Washing over me and then leaving me adrift in a tidal pool of tears and aloneness. It is easier when I am alone. I can just let it run its course. I can let the grief toss and beat me up and then go away. There is no need to be strong, deny it, put on a happy face, feel compassion for others, worry about their feelings. I can just deal with the grief one-on-one. Some days I come out the victor, feeling strong and able to put it in its place. Weekends are the worst and usually grief rolls over me like a steam roller. Weekends were our together time. Or I seem to remember it that way.
Essays I have written about him, about us, help me to remember that there was an us. A Derrol. My written words seem to create a memory that seems familiar. I can hear him as he reads it saying, "Is that part what you call literary license?" And my response, a bit defensive, saying, "That's how I remember it...."
Are those memories simply me concocting happier times?
I fear the day when my brain reconciles with reality. When it hits me that he is truly gone. It hits me like a slap on the face when I see my status listed as 'widow.' I wear the gold ring. I am married. I repeat that mantra in an effort to believe it. I do believe it, I just don't feel it.
Married until death do you part. No, it doesn't work that way. Married until all of your senses, your heart, your brain, your being comes to terms with this crack in the universe, this shift that has left you on one side and him on another of a divide that can't be traversed.
Until that time when reality rights itself, I live in a fog, a half-life. I keep living until I am actually alive again. Perhaps this is the essence of purgatory -- that tweener stage between life and death, between heaven and hell.
I continue to breathe. Forget to eat and then eat as if I am famished. Feed the cat. Brew the coffee. Wash the laundry, dishes, floors.... A robot going through the motions. My computer brain runs the show, the human brain is frozen in 'search mode.'
I cling to living until I am alive again. And, silly as it sounds, even to me, I cling to the hope that he hasn't gone, that he's only around the next corner and if I walk a little faster, I will catch up to him, feel his strong arms around me, his whiskery face rubbing my cheek, his lips on mine. His scent filling my nostrils and his love enveloping me.... I wait for that day. It only takes a day, a moment. I was born in a day, married in a day, fell in love in a day, gave birth in a day, and yet each day I do so miss that man of mine.
The tears are gathering. I must stop and wait them out.... They seem to wash away some of the pain and allow me to go on a bit longer, a bit stronger.
He is dead.
No response.
I watch for his face in crowds. I wait to hear his voice -- always. I listen for the sound of him, breathe in hoping to catch his scent. My brain is sure that he will soon be home from work.... He will fix the window, the faucet, the stove. He will pay the bills and discuss investments with me and do the taxes. I wait.
Nearly three months later, my brain continues to disconnect from 'reality' and question just what is real? I can't truly be living in a world without my Derrol. He cannot have left me. We were two halves of a whole and wherever he went, I went. Wherever I went, he went. How could he leave and not take me with him?
Then the brain begins to question memories. Was he really part of my life? Am I only fantasizing about the years we spent together? The sons are real. A living testament to the man who helped mold them into the young men they are today. And yet, there are gaps in the memory. Most of the experiences are frozen somewhere and I am unable to thaw them enough to bring them to life. They reside in that same 'as told to' realm as baby pictures. I look at my mother holding this baby that is supposed to be me and I accept that it is part of my life, but I have no real connection to it.
This unreality is punctuated by sudden outbursts of sobbing that seem to have been squeezed right out of my soul. Loud, sloppy crying that scares the cat. That scares me by the intensity. I cry until my whole body is heaving, until I curl up around myself and let the seizure take me. I cry until my hands are dry and I'm dehydrated.... I don't know why I am crying. Nothing in particular started it. Perhaps a tone of voice, a bit of sympathy might lead me down that path. At first I couldn't listen to oldies music -- the Beatles, Queen, all of the songs of our years of love and companionship and friendship. Sunday -- the day he died -- is hopeless. The usual rituals are to be avoided. I wander around from room to room, searching for him. The cat watches.
Often the cat abruptly raises his head, ears alert. He stares into nothingness. Stares at the place where my Derrol was last alive. And I look, but see nothing. Hope stays alive and I speak his name. "I miss you," I add. "Please come back...." And then I feel guilty because he has moved from pain, disease, suffering and despair to a better place. My Protestant training says he is in a better place. I don't believe 'he' resides in that box of ashes on the book shelf.
Those warriors who have gone before me through this valley of death tell me that grief is like waves of the ocean, like a roller coaster, unpredictable and surprising, always striking when you least expect it. Washing over me and then leaving me adrift in a tidal pool of tears and aloneness. It is easier when I am alone. I can just let it run its course. I can let the grief toss and beat me up and then go away. There is no need to be strong, deny it, put on a happy face, feel compassion for others, worry about their feelings. I can just deal with the grief one-on-one. Some days I come out the victor, feeling strong and able to put it in its place. Weekends are the worst and usually grief rolls over me like a steam roller. Weekends were our together time. Or I seem to remember it that way.
Essays I have written about him, about us, help me to remember that there was an us. A Derrol. My written words seem to create a memory that seems familiar. I can hear him as he reads it saying, "Is that part what you call literary license?" And my response, a bit defensive, saying, "That's how I remember it...."
Are those memories simply me concocting happier times?
I fear the day when my brain reconciles with reality. When it hits me that he is truly gone. It hits me like a slap on the face when I see my status listed as 'widow.' I wear the gold ring. I am married. I repeat that mantra in an effort to believe it. I do believe it, I just don't feel it.
Married until death do you part. No, it doesn't work that way. Married until all of your senses, your heart, your brain, your being comes to terms with this crack in the universe, this shift that has left you on one side and him on another of a divide that can't be traversed.
Until that time when reality rights itself, I live in a fog, a half-life. I keep living until I am actually alive again. Perhaps this is the essence of purgatory -- that tweener stage between life and death, between heaven and hell.
I continue to breathe. Forget to eat and then eat as if I am famished. Feed the cat. Brew the coffee. Wash the laundry, dishes, floors.... A robot going through the motions. My computer brain runs the show, the human brain is frozen in 'search mode.'
I cling to living until I am alive again. And, silly as it sounds, even to me, I cling to the hope that he hasn't gone, that he's only around the next corner and if I walk a little faster, I will catch up to him, feel his strong arms around me, his whiskery face rubbing my cheek, his lips on mine. His scent filling my nostrils and his love enveloping me.... I wait for that day. It only takes a day, a moment. I was born in a day, married in a day, fell in love in a day, gave birth in a day, and yet each day I do so miss that man of mine.
The tears are gathering. I must stop and wait them out.... They seem to wash away some of the pain and allow me to go on a bit longer, a bit stronger.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Touch Someone Today! Hugs Could Heal the World!
Since moving to Florida I haven't entered into the community on a one-on-one relationship. I skim along the surface without getting involved with anything but my day to day life. I float through a sea of faces and no longer look to search for someone I know -- there is no one. They all live in another place, it seems like they live in another time as well. Detached, I think I'm unemcumbered by others' expectations and demands. It is a kind of freedom. I tell myself this over and over, and then that thought creeps in "No man is an island."
After a half-decade I now see familiar faces behind the counters at the local grocery. I don't know their names, except for one woman, about my own age, who works there carrying out groceries. We exchanged first names. Connie.
Last year, about this time, she helped me get groceries to the car and she asked the usual polite questions. It just so happens that at that moment I didn't know if my husband would live or die and her kind inquiries loosened my grip on a flood of tears. Without hesitation she pulled me into a hug. I could smell her perfume on my shirt for the rest of the day. It reminded me that we don't really need to know each other to care. And it amazed me at how deeply her simple act of kindness touched me.
Yesterday Connie, who I hadn't seen for awhile, helped me with my groceries. We both were having a better time of it. Her husband had had successful surgery and mine was doing great. We shared a hug and much to my surprise the tears sprang to my eyes. I may be free and unfettered as I skim through the community, but I'm also giving up hugs, smiles, handshakes, and encouraging and caring gestures. Just being touched brought such a deeply emotional reaction, that I was shaken even after arriving home. Even after putting the groceries away. Even now, a day later.
I wonder about people who live alone, or are in nursing homes or haven't been touched for years. What would happen if someone hugged them? We watch animals and see that they require contact with their fellow pack mates. Our cats snuggle, pat each other, wash each other. They know the need for touch. This website can tell you more about hugs.
That touch or my reaction to it, showed me just how I spend my days. Most of the time I hide behind shields or have my armor in place. I'm courteous, thoughtful, polite, but distant. Most of us, sadly, are comfortable with this kind of public behavior.
Recently while watching the events unfold in Egypt, I was drawn to the way the people touched each other. A hand on a shoulder, a hug, a slap on the back. Some carried the wounded or hurt in their arms. It didn't seem to matter if they knew each other or not. Their humanity connected them.
They also worked together, set up areas of need -- clinic, food, latrine, and 'safe zones' where people could go to rest and rejuvenate. Whoever organized these rallies of hundreds of thousands of people took into consideration the human needs. We often forget that we have such needs.
That hug yesterday was a most welcome act of kindness. I wish I were a hugger, but it isn't 'natural' to me, except with my closest family members. My kids tease me that I'm a tree hugger. Well, maybe it is time to expand my range of hugs to include some others, like me, who need to be reminded that someone still cares. Still sees them. Heaven knows we need some more positive things, need to see our leaders being better people, more compassionate, more responsible, more involved in elevating all mankind, not just those who can reward them. Maybe you and I must set the example for them.
Charles Kuralt, known for his years with the TV program "On the Road with Charles Kuralt" believes that "The everyday kindness of the back roads more than makes up for the acts of greed in the headlines." I want to believe that he is right.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Mother Goes to Jail, Kids Go to Inferior School
I have some confusion. I thought it was the father, but others have said the grandfather resides in the suburbs. The school district in his area has a 98 percent graduation rate. It meets 26 of the 26 standards. Needless to say the Akron District school that served the mother's area was primarily serving a black demographic. The Copely-Fairlawn School district that provided education for her husband's area boasted a student body that was 75 percent white students.
The mother was sentenced to five years in prison with all suspended except for 10 days. She must serve 80 hours of community service and is on probation for three years. She had been working as a teacher's aide at the high school in Akron and was 12 credits shy of earning her teaching degree at the University of Akron. Now, because of this felony conviction the mother will not be allowed to teach school in Ohio.
The father or grandfather is not touched by all of this, yet he was just as involved as the mother. And they both thought that since the children lived at least part time at the suburban address that they were not doing anything illegal. In fact alot of people do this and get away with it. In fact this mother Ms. Williams-Bolar is the only one prosecuted for this 'crime.'
I understand the schools must maintain order. Must have limitations and laws governing enrollment. Yet they just put a woman in jail, ruined her chance for a better life and to practice the profession for which she is training because she tried to get a reasonable education for her children.
She was fighting for her children.
The school was fighting to enforce a very un-American bureauecratic administration. America is founded on trying to have a better life for our kids. We all know education is the bedrock of such a move out of poverty and violence and yet the very institution that says it is sworn to education our children filed charges against the mother and blocked her children's access to a better education.
Does the school system work to make all educational institutions equal? Apparently not or not effectively and NOT in time to help Ms. Williams-Bolar's children.
Recently several of us have gotten together on my facebook page and discussed abortion rights, pro-choice, pro-life, etc. And the one thing some of us keep bumping up against is the quality of the life of the child. Whether pro-life or pro-choice, we agree that we ignore the child after it is born. If people are against a mother's choice and they want to save the baby at all costs -- then why do they abandon it after it is born? Why isn't there a system to care for and nurture and love that child after it is born? I suppose this question is more strongly in my thoughts after a recent news story about a mother who left her 7 month old son with a babysitter for several days. Evidently something she has done quite often. The babysitter said she took a nap. Awoke and couldn't find the baby. It was found in a picnic cooler which was placed outside of the home. The baby was dead. I don't want to let my imagination dwell on what that baby went through in those seven months. Seven months of torture or a quick abortion?
I worked for a short time at a children's services agency that took care of among other things abused and neglected children. A county agency. I worked in the office and when they picked up a child it sometimes fell to me to keep an eye on the children while paperwork was being filed and caseworkers were dealing with tearful and angry parents. That was more than 30 years ago and I can still see this beauiful little four-year-old boy. He had such blue eyes, coffee latte skin and such sorrow and confusion. He also had lacerations and abrasions where he'd been tied up. Around his neck, his wrists and his ankles. He had cigarette burns on his face, on his scalp, his neck, his shoulders, his belly, his back, his buttocks, his genitals, his inner thighs, behind his knees and inner elbows, on the bottoms of his feet.... I grieve for that child who stood silent in my office. His eyes so full of pain I couldn't bear it.
Here we have a responsible mother who is working hard to better herself, get out of the housing development she was cast into after her divorce and at the same get her children the best education she can. Now I know doubts creep in. Maybe this woman was not Mother Teresa. Maybe she has dark secrets and maybe she isn't a great person. And you can wonder why she is divorced. But is that really important? And who are we to judge?
She didn't lie. Her children do live with their grandfather or father and they live with her. Someone ventured the opinion that she was probably taken to court because she fought the administration so hard....
What would you do if you could get your children into a clean, violence free suburban school or keep them in a dirty, below par -- WAY below expectations -- school plagued with all of the inner city drugs, violence, and risks?
Why aren't we stepping up to stand beside Ms. Williams-Bolar of Akron, Ohio? Is it because she is black? Is it because she is an example and we support the school red tape rather than a quality education for her children? Is she not beautiful enough? White enough? Educated enough? Rich enough for us to care about what happens to her and her family?
If she was trying to abort her babies there would have been marching and picketing and pamphlets sent and hate mail. Some feminist women might have rallied around her to protect her right to end the life of her baby. But she wasn't doing any of that. Ms. Williams-Bolar was stepping up and fighting for an education for her children. She wasn't just making do. She was attempting to make her life better. It is after all what the Conservative Right say she should do. It is what the Liberal Left encouarge her to do.
Yet there is an outcry against supporting those who live in poverty. Somehow it is their fault that they are not rich, powerful, beautiful, successful, healthy and contributing to the community. There is a movement to stop supporting people like Ms. Williams-Bolar in her time of need. Some do not want to give her hand outs. They say she should make her own way. And that's exactly what she's been doing. She isn't alot different than a popular author -- Rowlings is her name I believe. Might have heard of her little series of Harry Potter books....
A felony? Really?
What a shame if all of the people in Akron enrolled their children in a better school system instead of allowing their government to keep them prisoner in an underfunctioning sham of a school.
Is this really what America is all about? The more I think about this situation and the way we uphold institutions that ravish our powerless population, I am ashamed and enraged. And I want to know what I can do to eliminate the ineffective 'welfare' system. The ridiculous excuse for public education. The employment/unemployment training for new jobs (McDonald's here I come).... How ridiculous!
How long do we look the other way and wonder why so many gangs are forming and people are carrying guns and violence is up? How long do you think the anger can continue to build before it bursts out in carnage and distruction? How long can we imprison mothers who fight the rules and regulations and institutions that destroy their children why proclaiming that they are helping them....
For want of a 'proper' residency form according to the school's very narrow definition, this woman goes to jail and her children are confined to a school that WILL DO THEM HARM.
I know what I would do for my children. What will we do for Ms. Williams-Bolars? And all of the others who are working hard to make a better life for their children? You realize that we are all one job loss, one catastropic illness, one divorce away from being in her shoes....
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Tucson Inevitable in an Atmosphere of Hate
First let me say that I do not see Sarah Palin as a direct cause of the shooter's actions. Yet, it was her name that immediately sprang to mind when I heard of the event. I think her responsibility for such actions is much broader and far reaching than this one young man.
A writing friend finds it ludicrous that I would think that there is any connection whatsoever between Palin and Tucson. But she seems to consider only one way that Palin and the shooter could be connected and that would be if he was a student of her politics or follower or was aware of her map that targeted the Congresswoman with a gun crosshairs symbol.
I know the connection is not that direct.
When I heard that a young man had walked up to Congresswoman Giffords, raised a gun and shot her from about a foot away from her head. Shot her in the head. I thought of Sarah Palin and that candidate Angle who suggested second amendment remedies for those who opposed her. Not that I thought the man had any affiliation to these women or was directly influenced by them. But the relationship was as clear to me as the smile on my child's face. Palin had placed the target on this woman. Palin had gone out of her way to use volatile rhetoric, words like kill, death, 'don't retreat, reload.' She encouraged that kind of discourse and coarseness in the public political debate. And others took that as a signal that they could do the same.
I don't understand how Palin or anyone can spout those kinds of hate based words and then turn around and say what a strong Christian she is. In my brain the two just don't go together. I was raised by a gentle but strong woman. She was pure steel when it came to the way one talked about another. You NEVER wished anyone dead. You never wished them ill. Even if you were mistreated, you turned the other cheek -- again and again. She taught us to pray for our enemies and not to pray that they would be caught in the crosshairs. So the form of Christianity I was taught seems so at odds with the entire persona of Sarah Palin.
Don't misunderstand me. I am not against anyone, including Palin, who live lives that include guns or who hunt, fish and live off the land. I do object to anyone who abuses the land, the animals, and kills for sport. I respect responsible lives. Responsible and appropriate regard for guns.
Guns were a part of our life. We just took for granted that there were rifles and shotguns in the closet. Unloaded of course. Taken apart so that no child could hurt him or herself. But guns were just there. I guess we understood that they were for necessities. Tools. We could hunt for meat if necessary and on a more unconscious level we thought of them as protection if we were ever attacked. Of course I grew up in the post WWII and Korea era. It was a reality for an enemy to overwhelm a person's home, community and cause them to defend themselves as best they could. We revered stories about the French Resistance. Guns were part of that story. The guns were not glorified. They were tools to defend freedom and provide for one's family.
The only gun I personally objected to was my brother's BB gun. He didn't have the respect, nor the understanding of how to properly use the gun. He stood under the big locust tree in our back yard and shot birds just to see if he could hit them. Thankfully he wasn't a very good shot. But I still see the robin that fell at my feet. And I must admit that my adoration for an older brother slipped a notch or two. But then again children don't understand death or the finality of it. And there was a part of me that itched to see if I could shoot straight. Hit the target. I think the day, with a little help from me and a friend, he accidently shot himself in the hand, we both learned that there is a side to guns and shooting that is quite painful and deserves more respect.
But when guns are used even in metaphor against a political opponent -- that makes no sense. It is pure abuse.
Politicians use words. Are adept with their use. They are tools and too often weapons. So when a politician chooses a gun metaphor or wishes his opponent dead or calls him or her an 'enemy.' What can anyone hearing that think but that they meant to convey a feeling and a thought that had only been used in war?
The words coming from our leaders, our media, the pundits, the cable opinion mongers, are as lethal as bullets. We no longer debate. We attack. It seems to be a take-no-prisoner mentality when it is not about killing your enemy, but about supporting your political party and their beliefs. It is not a life and death fight. Or am I missing something?
Do I think the young man who shot and killed so many members of a community was ill? Yes. Do I think he alone was responsible for his actions? Yes. Do I think that the vitriolic rhetoric set a tone in this nation that fostered, even nourished his behavior? Definitely. Yes!
Every leader has a responsibility. Everyone with a platform is charged with the responsibility to use it appropriately and responsibly. When did that get shoved to the side? When did it become whatever does the most damage is fine? I am so ashamed of the rhetoric in this country. So very ashamed that a Christian voices such nasty, hateful words and then sluffs them off with an even more despicable excuse, trying to say that there is a blood libel against her....
I am unable to listen to Rush Limbaugh or Mr. Beck. I cringe and find it painful to listen to them attack their fellow man. Do they not know that everyone is a child of God? We are not enemies; we are fellow citizens traveling the same roads.
It is troubling that we are so divided. Another friend, who is bound to me by our love of fabric art, said that perhaps I would see it differently when things were reversed. If she meant that when the people representing my beliefs began shouting death, they should die, target and wipe 'em out and other such violent epithets, that I would see the reason in them. But, you see my friend, anyone who believes as I believe would never consider that kind of attack. I believe that we all are equal. All are human. All deserve a good life, equal rights, safe lives, and secure homes. I don't think anyone should be hungry or in poverty. I don't believe anyone is better than another. And when it comes to wealth -- it is not for personal gain, but is actually a responsibility, a call to help those less fortunate. The same with power. It should be used to edify one's fellow man. So if one of the leaders who represent the party to which I belong begins spouting hate statements, I would reject him. He would not be sharing my beliefs and I could not condone such actions.
Again I wonder how a Christian can accept such violent hate-filled discourse.
So, maybe I have not unraveled anything with this blog. Maybe it is only more confusing. I know it saddens me to spend time thinking about the chasm that divides me from so many people who are my dearest friends and even relatives. But most of all it frightens me that I cannot understand how anyone can condone this violent advocating rhetoric.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Blank Slate: 2011
At this point, 6:30 a.m. on the morning of the first day of 2011, it has so much potential -- odd or otherwise. I can also see that the year will be shrouded in mystery if the morning is any portent of things to come.
A mixture of the familiar and the mysterious. My husband's regular breathing. The cats, unrelenting, disregarding a new beginning continue their old habit of waking me, making me comform to their schedule. Familiar.
I take my cue and follow their tails raised straight and rigid as if they carry their banner proudly into the fray. Today we parade to the kitchen where I meekly offer these little feline gods what they want. They are willing to walk all over my prone body, shove their furry paw in my face, sit on my head, and knock one by one everything they can reach off of dresser and counter tops until I leap from bed. That is the familiar.
When my three nemesis are contentedly grazing over their food bowls, I look out of the window expecting to see a familiar landscape. But it has changed.
Mists lie heavy turning the yellowed grass and neighbors' houses and trees into something alien and yes, mysterious. It is a Holmsian street scene for all I can tell. The street lights have a golden aura about them as if their light is trapped and unable to move past the white swirling mass that surrounds it. I cannot see the neighbor's house across the street, only the house's fixtures glow on either side of the garage door. Their light also held captive.
I pad on bare feet to the back of the house. I can't see any further than the neighbor's fence. All details are distorted or totally covered in a white veil. My sight cannot penetrate it. The practice ring where the owners train their horses stands empty. It is where they teach each horse to make every move on cue and not to do anything unless told. Through the years I have sat silently watching from my back porch as the rider leads the horse through its routine. Dressage, I believe is the name of the competitions they prepare for. Forward, backward, sideways, now fast, now slow, now pick up your feet, dainty, proper, control. Control. The check rein makes the horse curve its neck like a swan.
I think of Black Beauty, the first 'adult' book I read as a child. The first book I purchased. It was an offer on a cereal box. With box tops, I bought a world bound in an inexpensive cover. But when I opened the book, began reading the words, my little safe childish world expanded to include a horse and people who by turns loved and abused him throughout his life. I was never quite the same. Perhaps once again horses will lead me into another world, expand my own limited space. But I suspect that as with every day of my life since opening that book, it will be the words and the pages, the stories and the characters who will lead me.
As I look at the little farm, I realize that the new year begins with a bleakness over their little enterprise. I hope the recession has not caused this little farm to shut its doors. We don't need more housing developments to swallow up the land. But we do need a family farm. We need people who follow the seasons, are close to nature. We need those who feed and train horses and take responsibility for their own livelihood and who follow their bliss. I need to see a rural setting in this bedroom community I now call home. Otherwise its paved streets and manicured lawns become a stepford landscape and we are all robots programmed to exist from paycheck to paycheck.
I seek inspiration in words and find Aisha Elderwyn's challenge: "Every new year people make resolutions to change aspects of themselves they believe are negative. A majority of people revert back to how they were before and feel like failures. This year I challenge you to a new resolution. I challenge you to just be yourself."
Just be yourself. I have forgotten who that is. Through a confetti of memories I try to piece together the girl, the young woman, that I was. She had passion. She had fight. She had dreams. She had goals. She had a list of things she would never do. My lips curl in a smile laced with irony. And that girl has done just about everything on that list. Meekly I've turned my life over to others. Followed what I believed to be the 'right' thing to do. Bent to the will of the times, the culture, the boss. Will 2011 be more of the same or is it the year when I find that young woman's spirit again? Will I remember what I wanted to accomplish with my life? Will I live the life I had imagined? Will I follow Thoreau to Walden Pond? Or am I doomed to live a half life?
Will I be at the mercy of this year or will I take charge? Make changes? Become bold and strong and live the life I've imagined? Or will I bend to its will. Its inertia. Will the time pass holding me captive like a bug in amber? Am I just waiting? Or is this the time? Is it balanced? Eleven is such a well balanced number comprised of two ones. Two beginnings. Two firsts. Will this be a year of firsts? Balance? Numerology seems to think it is a fine number.
Mom told me that Grandma had a tradition. Every New Year's Day she made new pillow cases. Mom did it once or twice, but it was much easier to just wait for the white sales around President's Day and buy them. It seemed a very utilitarian tradition and I didn't pick up on it until a quilting friend told me the rest of the story. Utilitarian perhaps, but the pillow cases were made to hold the hopes and dreams for the coming year.
It is hard for me to imagine my mother and grandmother following such a fanciful tradition. But maybe there was a time when they were both young women, girls, who remembered why they were here. Maybe they had their own hopes and goals and the feeling that anything is possible. Sadly, by the time I met both women, life had beaten them down and it seemed like it took all of their strength just to get through each day. They survived. They worked hard. They took what life dealt them and slogged on.
I've been slogging along. I miss the joy and passion and thrill of embracing life, challenging it, risking a bit, moving past the mists that hold my light captive. In only an hour the mists are all but gone. The sun highlights the rosemary bush growing lush and free, more alive since the cold snap.
The horses gallop around the pastures free to follow their urge for speed, for fun, for a roll in the grass. I stare from inside of my house. I have a finite space on this earth, I have set my boundaries of where I am most comfortable and am usually content to stay. But, I realize that while I sit in my office, my thoughts are free to venture anywhere they want. The world in my head is ever expanding. Is 2011 the year that I give myself permission to also move around this earth, put aside boundaries and get better acquainted with the landscape?
The sun now shines brightly and I see more clearly. This is definitely an odd year already.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Book Review for the Mystery Lovers
A Luanne Fogarty Mystery
By Glynn Marsh Alam
This author’s mysteries are listed as the Luanne Fogarty Mystery series – but don’t be deceived, the main character as in all eight of her books is the Florida swamp. I came to this series when the first book was fresh off the presses. I have enjoyed every book since.
Perhaps I’m most engaged when the author sends Luanne into the caves and hidden spaces beneath the Palmetto River and ‘totally immerses’ her in the swamp. At those times you can see the ghostly Spanish moss swaying from skeletal trees, hear the insects’ songs, and feel the heavy humid air pressing against you like the spirit of the swamp looking over your shoulder. And the water, always the water, moving on never stopping, lazily accepting everyone and everything that falls into it.
Tide Water Talisman gains relevance in today’s world of post-Katrina recovery. Refugees from that devastated area have set up a small enclave of businesses and trailer homes near Luanne’s swampy home. But they start turning up dead.
Luanne and the Sheriff’s department for which she works part time as a ‘civilian’ when not teaching linguistics at the nearby college, rely on Pasquin. This eighty something neighbor is part of the local grapevine and knows all of the stories, all of the people, and most of the swamp’s secrets. The secondary characters are so colorful in this series that often Luanne seems to blend into the background and they take over. But it is her voice that narrates the novel, so she is never far from the reader’s thoughts.
There are many ways to die, as we learn from this book, yet all come as a surprise. Put death in a swampy Florida river and you’ve got a mystery with atmosphere so real you’ll smell the earthy lagoons, and hear the buzz of mosquitoes as you turn the pages.
The read is all too brief. I always wish her books were longer. LONGER! Hear me Glynn???
Monday, August 23, 2010
Media for Women doesn't help me fix my AC
What exactly does that mean?
It appears that women's lit defines novels for women as dealing with feelings, love, romance, body image, hormones, fight against aging, and internal angst. If the media defines 'women's media' that way, I will be forced to join the good old boys club. I haven't read a 'women's magazine in years. They are so bland and are saying the same things they said 50 years ago. Some may actually use vagina and penis these days as opposed to skirting the issue as in the 50s and even 60s, but it is the same old same old! Does Good Housekeeping discuss water sports? No. Not even the water skiing kind of water sports. Do they actually tell a woman what HAPPENS to her during menopause or simply make a joke about the hot flashes and mood swings that accompany it? Same with adolescence. Do we really know what is happening to make our bodies morph into strange beings?
Do I really care whether my tablescape is inviting or I'm up to date on the latest recipes or foodie indulgence? I like beauty and I love to eat, but when I read a magazine I'd really like to come away with information that makes me feel wiser, educated, better able to make a reasoned and reasonable decision.
Do I want to read a comparison of products? Yes. Do I want to know what the latest products are? Not really, unless they are so unusual, much improved, new technology, and actually are what they say they are. I'm so sick of hype and exaggeration and manipulation that I don't pay much attention to any advertising other than to ask, "What are they not telling me? What is the truth? Can I even find the truth in their advertisement?"
What, for heaven sakes is the point of 'Zoom, zoom.' Does it tell me about the quality of the car? The facts I need to know to make a major investment? Would I purchase stock in their company with so little information? Can you imagine stock market advertisements "Invest in utilities -- Zoom, zoom." So Mazda supports racing, embraces speed. But can they stop? Do the brakes work? That would have been good to know when buying a Toyota.
What would I enjoy in women's media, if there must be a separation, what are the best articles I've read lately? It wouldn't be found in any of the seven sisters -- or is it six or five? How many of those women's magazines are left? Right now I would like to read about how to fix my central air/furnace. The company who installed it has decided that it is lack of maintenance that caused the problem. We have had service men coming out to work on this almost every two to three months -- how much maintenance does it need?
I want to know how to deal with a company that sells you a lemon and doesn't want to make it right.
I want to know how to get satisfaction and good service and how to get past their CYA and lip service and get someone who actually knows how to fix the product.
I'd also like to trust what I read somewhere! I'm so tired of spin and hype and half truths or total lies. I want to know the ingredients in the make up I smear on my face and what animals or plants or ecosystem was harmed in the making of the product.
I'd like to understand where my recycled items go, how they are used, and who benefits or not. Where is my garbage dumped? Is my trash sold to another country?
I want to know what no one is talking about. I want to know the story behind the story. I want to know why decisions are made, not just the decision and what they were wearing the day they announced their decision.
I want to know the truth about birds and wind turbines.
I want to know why the words "I'm sorry" have been added to the 'do not say' list for fear they will mean an admission of responsibility and lead to a lawsuit.
After talking with the department head of the air and heat company servicing my machine, I felt like I needed to take a shower and get the filth off. He spouted party line without any ounce of regret for leaving us with a $5000 investment in their product which does not work! Why do I always think there is a human behind the voice, someone with a heart, with a conscience, and who is driven by something other than profit. Why do I constantly forget that the company cares less about my satisfaction and more about my pocketbook. I go into a business to produce a product I'm proud of -- I forget that too many companies do NOT! They go into business to make money. There is a reason that old Biblical verse about 'love of money is the root of all evil' continues to be true today. Some things never change. Why do I forget that?
I want to know what happened to customer service?
I want my women's media to help me deal with these sleazy corporate heartless types and help me find the right words to get the kind of customer service I can live with. Perhaps all I really want is a lawyer right now and a victory over the company who was my friend until they took my money and have been an adversary ever since.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Noble: a word or a way of life?
Seems like I live my life in a defensive posture. Crouched and ready to lunge like some lineman in a football game waiting for the ball to be snapped. The tension is intense. Always on guard.On guard for the next blow, the next cruel attack. I could lay blame for the life lessons that brought me to this position. But I'm struggling to rise above that blame game.
Recently I reviewed a book written by an author who most evidently lived in a similar posture. I didn't like what I read. It was negative and bent on laying blame for his misfortunes and missed opportunities and failures on the people, institutions, and situations around him.
As we grow, one of the major signals of maturity is the end to the blame game and the acceptance that it is our lives to make or break as we choose. Even in the most dire of situations we have the power to choose how we will perceive, react, use, and grow. Too often I'm crouched, ready to spring on whatever assails me. I'm more surprised when someone does something nice, than if they do something hurtful. I expect the worst and suspect everything else.
I recently read a quote from John H. Dietrich. John is NOT the political writer. He was a minister who lived from 1878-1957 and thought and taught, according to his online bio, that "humanist thinking was the true foundation of religious liberalism."
Truthfully, I'm not quite sure I understand what that means. But towards the end of his life he said, "[My] philosophy and religion have undergone considerable, if not drastic revision. I realize now how my utter reliance upon science and reason and my contempt for any intuitive insights and intangible values which are the very essence of art and religion, was a great mistake; and the way in which I cut mankind off from all cosmic relationship was very short-sighted and arrogant."
I read that to mean that he finally found a greater being, God if you will, to be relevent. As one who loves words and fiber art and the beauty and symbolism of both, I had to smile. Apparently he finds God is the essence, not only of religion, but also of art. Yes, I can see that. Most artists marvel at what they create. Some even wonder 'where did THAT come from?" Now we know, as Mr. D states it -- their 'cosmic relationship.'
Even if Mr D had been misguided during his search for truth earlier in his life, he was right about another thing he said. "The highest and best thing that people can conceive is a human life nobly and beautifully lived."
I mentioned on my Subversive Stitchers: Women Armed with Needles facebook page that I stood up to defend my husband by calling a driver an asshole. The studly man was sitting in his bright yellow sports car basically toying with my wheelchair bound husband as he rolled along the crosswalk in front of this man. The driver revved his engine and started rolling forward, grinning, as my husband rolled directly in front of the car. All of the fury that I harbor against the unfair disease and situation that assails my husband erupted from my mouth in that one word. I think I have scarred for life the poor bag boy helping us with our purchases. The anger was almost tangible and the driver quickly stopped grinning and looked at me in surprise.
I heard my husband chuckle. I think he enjoys my Mama Bear mode.
But it is taking a toll on me that I really didn't appreciate until I read Mr. D's words. I hadn't realized that I had gotten off the main journey I was intended to travel. I should be living a "life nobly and beautifully lived." Calling a stranger in a souped up car an asshole somehow doesn't sound very noble.
Of course, noble does not mean silent and long suffering either. So maybe there was a tinge of nobility for at least speaking up, pointing out an injustice, an inhumane behavior. We should live to edify not just ourselves, but to help others which is perhaps the best part of Mr. Dietrich's quote:
"The highest and best thing that people can conceive is a human life nobly and beautifully lived — therefore their loyalties and energies should be devoted to the arrangement of conditions which make this possible. The sole issue is how to make this world a place conducive to the living of a noble human life, and then to help people in every possible way to live such lives."
I think of all of the leaders who make decisions controlling lives and wonder just how nobly they are living. Perhaps the question we should ask our politicians is: "are you living a noble life?"
If one must find a way to 'justify' one's actions, then perhaps there is a bit of nobility lacking. Perhaps if it only benefits the one rather than the many it isn't noble. Or if it hurts others in the process of gathering something you want -- it isn't noble.
We all know noble when we see it. It doesn't require an explanation. Noble doesn't need to wear a white hat or a wimple or a cross, or even a military insignia. Those symbols do not make a person noble. Nobility comes from within. "Noble implies a loftiness of character or spirit that scorns the petty, mean, base, or dishonorable: a noble deed."
If ever I were going to tattoo something on my body -- I think it would be a reminder. "Noble." A one-word nudge to not just live, but to live so that someday someone might come to associate the word 'noble' with my name. It is a word that loses its meaning when describing oneself as noble.
Noble should be spelled with an 'i' in it for a major component, I think, of the term is 'integrity.' But 'ethics' works well, too. The dictionary has such a lovely list of synonyms I just had to list them here:
august, beneficent, benevolent, benign, bounteous, brilliant, charitable, courtly, cultivated, dignified, distinguished, elevated, eminent, extraordinary, first-rate, generous, gracious, grand, great-hearted, high-minded, honorable, humane, imposing, impressive, liberal, lofty, magnanimous, magnificent, meritorious, preeminent, refined, remarkable, reputable, splendid, stately, sublime, supreme, sympathetic, tolerant, upright, virtuous, worthy....
People remark "oh if there was only someone who would ...." or 'if only there were more good people in the world who do....." "We need visionaries; leaders; right-minded thinkers...."
Maybe the lack of doers, thinkers, good people and visionaries is because we have lost our way and we are playing defense, rather than offense in this game of life....
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
First Lines: It was the best of 'lines,' it was the worst of 'lines'.
Sure the first words are usually, "Hi!" or "Hello" or if it is customer service, "May I help you?" Although I find less and less that customer service has anything to do with helping me and more about helping the service they represent, but that's another story.
Driving home today along our quiet little residential street, I 'encountered' a man on a bicycle. What did he tell me? Without an opportunity for conversation -- me in my van, he on his bicycle -- he told me quite a bit. I recognized him as a neighbor who seemed to have few boundaries. This was the man who decided to comandeer my garbarge bin, fill it with his own assorted cans of paint and other disallowed hazardous materials and set it out to the curb in front of MY house. Luckily we caught his duplicity and unloaded the contraband near his own trash can. My tight smile as greeting today probably told him that I hadn't forgotten the incident. The fact that I waved (half heartedly) and he acknowledged it and me with a nod, tells me that we are not enemies -- yet.
His shiny silver metalic sweat suit told me that he was attempting (again) to lose weight and his dark locks (not a gray hair in sight) gave me the idea that perhaps there was a new 'love' in his life or someone he wished to 'love.' His ear buds and the dangling wires told that he was not in the mood for conversation with anyone.
The opening line of a book should be as informative as a brief encounter. It should invite you to want to know more, unlike my neighbor. Often the first line introduces something you have in common, or a common event. People you meet at an accident often establish a bond immediately. Or standing in a checkout line and you overhear a conversation that has you itching to join in. Or you see a couple in a doctor's office and read by their body language just how serious the visit is and you feel their pain.
At the least, the novel's opening should prepare the reader for what is to come.
Finding the right opening line is alot like Goldilocks and the Three Bears. One may be too big, too small, or just right. In the book "Tom Sawyer in Hell" by Peter Black he writes: "I had it made."
Too short. Do you really care why he thinks he had it made? After the second sentence do you feel invited in or are you already tossing the book aside? "I graduated from a competitve science/math high school, aced the PSATs, SATs, and had an A- cumulative average." What may possibly make you read further is the strange title of "Tom Sawyer in Hell." Yet that opening does not sound like any Tom Sawyer Mark Twain ever knew.
But then, you might argue, short can work. The shortest line of scripture springs to mind: "Jesus wept." Yeah, even if it is Jessica or Morris or Satan who wept, I want to know why, what caused the tears, what's the story?
In Roslyn Paterson's novel "Overtures" she writes: "Fiona walked out of the bustling train station in West Berlin and scanned around her for the signs directing her to Checkpoint Charlie, the portal into another world, and another time, which was Communist East Germany."
Too long. She gives us information. Who, what, where, and maybe a little glimpse of 'time travel.' But does it invite you in? She also demonstrated that she could use another edit for tighter writing. The setting is somewhat intriguing. The second line tells a rather mundane description of her holding her passport and standing in line. I'm not curious, are you? And yes, yes, too long can work. So why isn't this one working?
What about: "I am old now and have not much to fear from the anger of gods."
Ahhhhh. Just right. I want to read the next line. It is a negative. Writing instructors include in their long lists of dos and don'ts that one should not write in the negative. It is harder to understand. The author must have missed class that day.
"I have no husband nor child, nor hardly a friend, through whom they can hurt me."
I am not one who chooses to read about gods, myths, sorry old women, yet I am almost unwillingly reading on. There's a mystery in these few lines. There is a person who draws me in to hear her story. Have you ever seen a face and immediately thought, "What a life they must have had!" This old woman is giving me that kind of thought. Just let me read another line or two.... But this author is a pretty crafty fisherman. He's setting the hook deeper and deeper. By the second paragraph, I'm hooked and he's reeled me in. "Being, for all these reasons, free from fear, I will write in this book what no one who has happiness would dare to write."
I picked the books at random. The third book is a novel by C.S. Lewis. "Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold." It is first person, so maybe that makes the opening stronger than Paterson's novel which is third person or omniscent. Yet, Black's book is first person. So point of view doesn't seem to be the point of strength for C.S. Lewis's opening. He's painting a character we may recognize, even relate to, but yet, out of the norm. She has a story I want to hear or at least I think I want to hear more.
What if the first line doesn't introduce a person? What if it goes on for a couple pages, several pages, and doesn't formerly introduce the character. Would you read it? Would it work? Why? Perhaps the place is a character?
First line: "Jail is not as bad as you might imagine."
Do you want to read the second sentence?
I do.
"When I say jail, I don't mean prison."
When writing for a daily deadline at a newspaper, I found that the part that took the longest was the opening hook. Often we'd write the rest of the article and realize that the last line was actually the first line -- the words that would draw the reader in and cause them to continue reading.
Let me return to Mr. Black's book. Remember the short first sentence he wrote: "I had it made." I flip to the last page (before the Epilogue) and read the last line. "Looking at the river is peaceful, and the reflections on the water are like the reflections on my life." Ehhh well, a little melodramatic and perhaps you've seen that before in some navel gazing overwritten book.
I look over the paragraph and find his opening. This would draw me in. "Nobody wants to help you unless there is someting in it for them."
I want to know how this person came to such a negative outlook and at the same time I realize that I have that same thought surfacing in my own brain now and then. I can identify with the thought and at the same time I am curious as to who this person is. And I really want to hear the story that involves this attitude.
Not only do opening sentences draw in the reader. They set the tone of the book -- not only for the reader, but for the writer. If that first sentence doesn't work, the writer has not found his or her story, yet. Often it takes alot of prewriting, rewriting, screaming and crying, and desperate days to find that first sentence.
Here are a few more firsts for you to decide for yourself whether they work or not:
1. "Forgive me my denomination and my town; I am a Christian minister, and an American."
[A Month of Sundays, by John Updike] How often do you see a novel begin with an apology?
2. "Shoot, birthdays, they ain't no big deal."
[Lyin Like a Dog, by R. Harper Mason]
3. "It happened every year, was almost a ritual."
[The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, by Stieg Larsson]
4. "The housekeeper is ironing and I am lying on the floor beside her, trying to secretly look up her dress."
[Joy School, by Elizabeth Berg]
Each opening sentence has just enough there to grab you and just enough missing to keep hold of you. And that, I think, is the secret of novel writing -- well, at least writing the first sentence. But remember, by the time you find that perfect first sentence -- you have probably already written the book at least once to find it. Once you've found it, now you can 'rewrite' the book, making it what you were meant to write all along!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Fearful isn't Living
Before I put the book on the shelf, I managed to de-clutter my office. That is to say, I moved the containers of papers that need to be looked at and properly filed. I moved them into the guest room.
I like a room without clutter which is why eventually the guest room will get cleaned as well and the filing done. Oh and I actually threw away quite a few items that had just been sitting around gathering dust.
This concern with things seems to stem from fear. Norman Vincent Peale said, "Fear can infect us early in life until eventually it cuts a deep groove of apprehension in all our thinking. To counteract it, let faith, hope and courage enter your thinking. Fear is strong, but faith is stronger yet."
He's right you know. Fears we learn as children or adolescents can color our world for a lifetime. My parents are good examples of the work of fear. They came of age during The Great Depression and experienced the loss of any and all security. My father's family were impoverished to begin with. His father worked building oil rigs. He was a master carpenter, but then someone invented metal derricks and he was out of a job. The boys started working as mere toddlers. Dad was shining shoes at the age of four with his older brothers. As he grew the jobs changed. He sold newspapers on street corners and biked around town delivering telegrams in all kinds of weather. He understood how precious everything was. His Christmas -- if it was a good year -- was an orange and new underwear or socks or maybe gloves. I hadn't realized that poverty had left a mark on him until after I had left home and happened upon an article about the effects of malnutrition.
Dad's front teeth looked strong enough, but there was a groove that ran horizontally across them. It is the result of malnourishment when he was a child. Dad would never have told us that and maybe like most children, he just thought that the way he lived was the way every one lived. But Dad would always dislike Christmas and the pile of presents under the tree. He also never wanted to amass things; but rather invest in a secure life and independence.
Mom lived on a farm so they grew their own food. They were not malnourished, but they couldn't buy anything. No new clothes or shoes. She'd find a dime now and then and go with friends to the movies -- an escape for sure. Compared to Dad she had an easy time during the Great Depression. At least until her father lost his farm to the Insurance Company/Bank/Mortgage lender. It was the beginning of the end for her father. He was a broken and angry man after that. So, fear formed my parents, Mom more than Dad. He learned to survive and he had brothers and sisters to share the situation. They were all in it together. Mom was alone with her parents in a position where she was powerless to do anything other than domestic chores.
She raised her children with this fear of loss. The fear to try something. Her father had placed a mortgage on their farm in good times so he could fix it up, make their home more beautiful and comfortable. He lost everything.
There are other fears that may seem harmless, but will leave lasting scars. Children can do such harm --playmates, siblings. Behaviors can be shrugged off as 'child's play' or 'boys will be boys' or 'sticks and stones.' Recently a conversation turned from soccer matches to sports related traumas. One woman pointed out that the kids quickly learned that she was an easy target in dodge ball. She still remembered the humiliation. Another remembered a track experience. Jumping hurdles, falling, getting up, falling, falling, falling. Public humiliation at its finest.
Sometimes siblings are the worst. You love even adore them and they take advantage of that love. One woman recalls how her brother took advantage of her trust. It seems that every woman has a story of sexual assault by someone she knew or trusted. Some learn to deal with it. Some never do. But they all remember the incident. It colors their lives.
Fears guide our decisiona and choices. Ever wonder what you would do if you were fearless? The question was posed to a group of fabric artists. Some said 'sky diving' and 'rock climbing.' Others mentioned travel. This woman who had been sexually abused as a child added, "Love unconditionally."
Looking back on one's life quickly points out how short our lives truly are. Letting fear rob us of what little time we have seems like an unspeakable crime. We can't always protect that little vulnerable self that sits at the center of our being and shivers in fear. There comes a time when we must nudge her out into the light and encourage her to take those first steps toward growth and actualization. Who is the real you? Shrug off that cloak of fear and see who you were created to be. No fear.
What would I do if I had no fear? I have this fear of failure and this fear of success....without those, I'd jettison that self censor and write my book. Write my books! I listen to authors who have actually written a novel. They have found their voices. Fear no longer silences or stifles them.
What about you?
NO FEAR!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Stuff...I AM NOT A COMPULSIVE HOARDER!
It is a difficult book for me to read. I can't read it in the family room because my eyes keep wandering. I will read a sentence such as "possessions become part of an individual's sense of self...." Next thing I know I'm staring at the overstuffed bookshelves lining the wall of my family room and my thoughts turn to the boxes full of books that can't be displayed because I have no more shelves. Do I think to get rid of the books? God no!
I try to figure out how to slip the cost of more bookshelves into the family budget.
I definitely can't read this book in the craft room, affectionally called the 'crap' room. [Note: photo above of just one tiny portion of the room. Everything stays, except the cat can come and go at will.]
I'd never get through the book's descriptions of 'stacks of boxes' or 'amazing junk.' Anyone who accumulates odds and ends to use in their multi-media or mixed media or eco-friendly art or craft will feel the pinch as I did when I read "Irene put pieces of broken toys, packing material, and the like in a box she labeled AMAZING JUNK." The difference between my multi-media artist friends and me -- they actually make something out of the 'junk' -- I am still in the accumulation phase.
If I read this book in the kitchen, I am reminded that I really should clean out the cupboards. The bathrooms -- I can read there. But then I realize it has been too long since I gave it a thorough cleaning. Reading in the dining room makes me aware of another problem I have: nibbling. Reading and nibbling go together like Abbot and Costello. Can't have one without the other, especially in the dining room. I'm running out of rooms. The bedrooms are adjacent to closets -- also in need of good cleanings -- and full of who knows what stuff. Weren't closets designed to hold 'stuff' that you don't want anyone to see? The clutter you pick up when preparing for guests?
I may not meet deadline for this review.
Who knew it would be so difficult to read about stuff and compulsive accumulation and shopping.... did I mention that the Discover card bill arrived in the mail yesterday? But really now. I haven't purchased new clothes in years and it has been even longer since I fed my fabric stash. So those were all necessary purchases.... I still need new shoes. Imeda Marcos (who apparently had the compulsive buying aspect of the compulsive hoarding disease) I am not! One pair of dress shoes (at least 10 years old) and one pair of sneakers at least 2 years old does not make for a hoard. Thankfully there is something I show control over. Anyway, fabric is NOT 'stuff' it is art, beauty, -- potential.
But, just in case, I'm backing away from online shopping....
Another aspect of this hoarding compulsion seems to stem from low self esteem and perfectionism. And that may explain why I have the parts, pieces, tools and books that tell me how to make something out of all of the accumulated fabrics and embellishments. And why I never seem to get around to making or finishing the projects. I feel the need of a psychiatrist or therapist to get me straightened out. But the expense of the treatment....
Perhaps the cure is to simply stop reading this damn book! I think I feel better already. Of course, I won't throw it away or give it away. I will find a tight little space on my overstuffed bookshelves and cram it in with the rest of the books I should read.....
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
June and all of its baggage
He had a love-hate relationship with dandelions. Everyday since he retired he would be out in the yard with a tool he made from an old hoe. He had shaped the end to fit around a dandelion plant so that when he thrust it into the ground it would wedge the root between the prongs and he could flip the dandelion out of the ground. It would most of the time just break off the tap root, so the dandelion would simply grow a new top, but Dad took great satisfaction in the pile of plants and leaves he threw on the compost pile at the end of each day. He would mow, hoping to clip off the flowers before they went to seed. Sometimes he mowed every other day. Some might think he was obsessed. I will always see him grinning up at me from the middle of his lawn, holding aloft a particularly healthy specimen. He fashioned similar but smaller tools for my two sons who took pleasure in helping Grandpa fight the flowers.
June 1 is the day Dad officially stopped breathing and was 'declared' dead. But the man who was my father had begun to disappear more than a decade before that final June day.
He was diagnosed with dementia or Alzheimer's Disease. They couldn't say definately which, but he followed the same path of far too many of our loved ones. One day he was driving his car, taking Mom and I out to lunch -- something he adored doing since his retirement. He stopped at an intersection and turned to Mom. "I don't know which way to go."
Today I want to shout "Don't go that way!" It was as if he had reached a point where he must shift directions from the strong, take charge, angry man who made me feel totally secure and protected to someone lost in a fog and totally dependent upon strangers.
Mom put the gear shift into park and she and Dad did one of those Chinese fire drills. I looked on in silence. We went out to lunch and he seemed subdued but okay. Mom drove home. He never drove the car again. His world soon shrank to the inside of their home. He would sit in the front room watching TV, think of something he needed in the kitchen at the back of the house. By the time he walked to the half-way point, he had forgotten what it was he needed or where he was going. We tried to laugh things off. He would answer the telephone when it rang, talk to the person calling, chatting away in the inane way people do. The moment he hung up, it was as if it never happened. Mom would ask, "Who called?" He would turn those confused eyes in her direction and ask, "Called?"
My young sons who had worshipped their grandpa were the most confused and frightened. We tried to help them understand that it was a disease, but they wanted their grandpa back. I wanted me father. Mom wanted a husband who didn't think she was his mother or worse yet, think she was keeping him from the people he loved.
But it has been a couple decades since that June day. I try to see instead the burly man who worked in the anealer room at the local steel mill. The man who loved Phil Silvers television show and dreaded Christmas. The man who had beamed with pride whenever he saw me and my two sons and who quickly accepted my husband as another son. I wonder at times how our lives might have been different if he had not wandered off down that dark and foggy path to dementia. Would my sons have learned important man lessons from him? Would he have taken pleasure in his retirement with my mother? What I do know is that even when he was suffering and in pain with the cancer that sneaked in when he wasn't looking, he was there when I needed him most.
He was in the hospital. Asleep I thought. I cried silently by his bed. He had not been my father for several years and didn't know who I was only that he thought I was a nice person. He looked over at me and said, "Don't worry, it will be alright." For that lucid moment he was Dad. I told him that I missed him so much. I wanted him back. He held my hand and smiled a tired smile. As he patted my hand, he disappeared back into his fog. It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. But it would have to do. He was still in there somewhere and on rare occasions he would find a way to peek out at us. I'd see a flash of him peering out of his eyes and he'd start to say something, but it would pass too quickly for words.
So, June first is a bittersweet day for me. Perhaps as you work in your lawn, eradicating a few dandelions, you'll think of my dad.
Benjamin Franklin Stump.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Monday is a good deed day
A fellow quilter mentioned that she saw some children sitting on a little ride at the mall. It wasn't running and they didn't have the money to make it operate. She drew a couple dollars from her purse, walked over to the ride and inserted the money. Then she stood back and enjoyed their smiles and laughter for a few minutes before continuing her day. She explain her action away with "its because I don't have any grandchildren...."
What did her two dollars buy her? Smiles and laughter. A moment of childish delight. A feeling of stepping outside her day and doing something sponateous. And perhaps the priceless gift of passing on an act of generosity that the children will emulate. She has no idea how far this little act of kindness will travel.
Another quilter mentioned "change your thoughts; you change the world." Not just that 'I think I can' attitude, but also the way one looks at the same thing day after day. Instead of looking at the top of the table, get down and look at the underside. Instead of seeing the frown on your neighbor's face, notice his hands -- what do they tell you about him? And what does that motivate you to do?
Make a vow to do something unexpectedly nice today. It can be as simple as a smile or wishing a service provider a good day or simply looking them in the eye and saying a 'from the heart' thank you.
Maybe send a card or letter or email to someone you think about but don't often reach out to.
Maybe cook a special food for your family. Fix Sunday dinner on Monday and gather everyone together for the meal. Or maybe have a carpet picnic.
Donate to a worthy cause.
Visit your neighbor.
Say positive reinforcing things to coworkers.
It doesn't take a Pollyanna attitude to change the world. It could also be something like speaking up against a wrong.
Each good deed brings good back to you. We are all connected in this universe, so send out a few good vibrations into the stratosphere and enjoy the rain! It washes away, renews, stimulates growth, and makes the sunshine even brighter.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Entitlement or Simply Blind
"I did not see any people," the man replied. "I saw only gold." -- Louis Binstock
Do you ever think that this is a tale of the corporate world? I have been traveling daily back and forth from a center where businesses seem to have congregated and formed a little citadel of commerce. Everytime my vehicle gets close to the area, I feel like I have entered an 'entitlement' zone. As if rules that apply to the normal citizen no longer need to be heeded there. The first clue is the way people drive.
I've been driving for a number of years, okay a number of decades, and I can't recall (no it isn't Alzheimers) ever being cut off so often, people changing lanes willy nilly, someone speeding at twice the legal limit weaving in and out of traffic. Speed signs being used as 'only a suggestion.'
And never have I seen so many people stop at stoplights and then just sit there after it turned green. Of course they are chatting on cell phones or doing their makeup or eating their breakfast or reading the newspaper or texting someone, but you'd think they'd notice the traffic moving around them. Get into the parking lots and it is worse. Just trying to make a turn into a parking lot can be life threatening.
Yesterday I wheeled my husband's big green van into a wide turn in order to fit it into the handicap slot that has been assigned him by the front door. No one behind. No one in front. I began my turn and my husband yelled. A red car had turned off of the main road and at killer speed zipped right past me as I'm turning across her path. I slammed on the brakes. My husband was jettisoned out of his wheelchair and landed on his knees between the two front seats. As he knelt there he was the poster child for seat belts.
He had been preparing to get out of the van, who knew someone would feel the need to 'slip past' while I'm parking. We thought the risk was on the road to this little oasis. He was hurt and a bit humiliated and stunned as three volunteers maneuvered him back into his wheelchair. I was angry that such a 'me first' attitude, disregard for others, not to mention stupid unsafe behavior, had caused him such pain.
It seems like just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to entitlement based upon an overwhelming need to get ahead, get more money, get promoted, or simply get away with something.
I recently posted a little saying that seems to take on new meaning every time I venture out into the world.
LOVE PEOPLE AND USE THINGS.
NOT LOVE THINGS AND USE PEOPLE.
I do so miss courtesy, consideration, love of fellow man.... Perhaps that is what was so poignant about the three men who came to rescue my husband. One was head of security, one was a dear friend, and one a stranger with a cast on his foot. They didn't hesitate to assess the situation, show a little sympathy, and then set to work to right the wrong. They all cared about giving comfort, making sure no one was harmed, wounded, or uncomfortable. All three wanted nothing more than to help. The help continued as we found a first aid kit and I bandaged the gash on my husband's leg. And people were considerate of him and his feelings, letting him regain his composure and get on with his day.
I still wonder about that woman who found her path so much more important that she put us all in harms way. She even had a choice to not come down that aisle. She could have seen us blocking her path and turned. Instead she made the choice to push her way through. Thoughtless? Clueless? Stupid? Unthinking? I don't know what to attribute her actions to. She may think nothing happened, no big deal. Maybe she went on with her day feeling entitled to what she had done. She got away with it. She wasn't held responsible. Forced to face the consequences of her actions....
But the action I took to avoid collision with her, since I was clearly the only one who could avoid the collision, caused me to harm my husband. Caused me to put on the brakes and throw him to the floor. Caused him to bleed.
I drive a big BIG green van and on the way home I envisioned that scene from the movie Fried Green Tomatoes where the Kathy Bates character rams the hell out of the two sweet young things in a VW with her bigger heavier car. All I could think was how satisfying it would be to be empowered and take matters into my own hands and stop following laws and being courteous and caring about others. It is such an inviting thought.
But then I realized -- I would be just like that woman in the red car. That is NOT someone I ever want to be.
For more about wheelchair safety visit http://thetravelingwheelchair.com/bus-seat-belt-laws-mostly-exclude-wheelchairs-by-john-seewer-ap/ and http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/05/10/AR2010051002834.html or go to my blog list and click on The Traveling Wheelchair blog and then scroll down to the appropriate story on his site.
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