Just Tell Me. How Can This Be Right?

Written late evening March 29, 2011

Note:  I am usually a compliant person.  I have been told to rest my left wrist for a week.  I not only sprained that wrist but injured the soft tissue as well.  But I have taken my wrist brace off and here I am typing.  I simply won’t be able to sleep if I do not write this.  You’ll see what I mean, I hope.  Keep reading. 

I have no idea how to begin this post.  I shouldn’t even be writing, but I must.  I have to.  I need to “get it out”.  By “it” I don’t know if I mean anger, frustration, disillusionment, disgust, sadness, confusion, disbelief, helplessness, or all of the above.  Here’s what’s happened.   

Sunday afternoon I was reaching for something in the garage.  Just about the time I realized how far I was reaching and how stupid it was, it was too late.  In slow motion, just like I’ve heard it happens, I fell.  Three steps down onto the concrete.  As I was falling I was worrying about my head hitting that concrete, so I was trying to prevent that.  Somehow I managed.  But I fell on my left side, landing on my elbow first and then the outside of my left wrist.  At first I was too stunned to get up.  After a few minutes I was able to crawl to the door and get inside the house.  Although my arm was hurting pretty intensely, I took ibuprofen, did the icing routine and wrapped it.  It didn’t appear anything was broken and after a while I could mostly move my wrist.  I knew I was going to be sore.  But, given I had stupidly caused myself to fall; I didn’t think I could complain.  All seemed okay, or mostly okay.

Until this morning.  This morning my wrist was beginning to swell and was quite red.  It felt as if heat were actually being generated from within.  So off to Urgent Care I went.  My doctor’s office does not have an x-ray machine on site.  And no need going to the emergency room.  I would wait longer and, if I understand correctly, it would be more costly for my insurance.  (I always try and imagine that we had no coverage and then decide, would we go to the doctor’s office?  And when we do go, I try to imagine that we would have to write a check for the entire cost.  I think if everyone did that we would all spend the insurance dollars carefully and appreciatively and we would all win.) 

Anyway, back to the wrist.  I’m in the examining room, after a relatively brief wait and completing the necessary paperwork.  The guy isn’t sure if there is a fracture or not.  So an x-ray is in order, of course.  As he is leaving the room to make the arrangements, I am instantly angry and frustrated.  I start to choke up and cry.  Allan’s tries to reassure me.  But, I tell him, “It just can’t be right.  It CAN’T be right!!”  “What? he asks.  “The fact that I can be so distracted thinking about things, so careless as to do something stupid, and have insurance coverage that allows me to get my wrist checked out.  BUT an elderly woman with colitis can’t get the medicine she needs!!” 

Bear with me and I’ll fill you in.  This morning I found an email a friend who is my age sent late last night.  Her elderly mother lives about 4-4 ½ hours away.  This woman has severe colitis.  She had an appointment April 11^th, but has been so sick she finally asked to be taken to the Duke ER.  She arrived at 2:00 PM.  When my friend went to bed at 11:00 last night she still had not received word of the situation.  The medicine her mother needs costs $1,500 a month.  Yes, you read correctly.  $1,500 a month.  (Sorry to say that is not the most expensive I have encountered.  I know a woman whose medication cost $2,500 monthly.  And that was 6 years ago!  What must it cost now??) 

This woman can’t pay the $1,500 a month.  The family, even together, can’t give enough each month to pay for the medicine.  They have tried to get help from drug assistance programs.  All to no avail.  My friend’s brother has written his mother’s Congressman.  (Do I have to capitalize that word?  Based on the response, it seems way, way too respectful.)  No help.   So…her doctor gives her a sulfa-based drug.  That drug has affected her kidney function.  My friend said it is all making her mother deathly ill. 

By the time I leave the medical facility I am angry.  Very angry.  My family will tell you that I am rarely angry.  But I am good and angry!  I tell Allan I hope no one says anything to me about how much s/he is against healthcare any time soon.  I absolutely challenge anyone to say this makes our country great.  An elderly woman, who most likely did not get the educational opportunities my family insisted on for me, so does not have the medical insurance coverage I do, can live in America and NOT get the medicine she needs?  And not only that, but she must be given one that causes a second serious health issue?  That makes us look great?  Especially when we spend so much time bragging about being founded on “Christian” principles?  Really?  (Well, actually, if you read an early post of mine, you will know I don’t see that point of view.  In fact, I am quite sick of hearing it.)

I’ve heard all the “arguments” against healthcare.  Here are just a few.

ü   80% of Americans are covered.  That's pretty good.

      I would have to research the number for myself.  But, even if it is correct, that is good enough for those of us who call ourselves Christians?  And what if Jesus had thought dying for 80% of us was good enough? How would we feel about that?  Especially if we discovered that someone in our family was NOT in that special 80%?   And what about His second great command to love others as we love ourselves?  He didn’t say love 80% of others as we love ourselves.  At least that’s not what He says in any of my Bibles.

ü    Family should take care of each other and do the best they can.

      And any of us would be okay with being in the situation this family is in?  We’d be okay with not being able to help finance our mother’s medicine, although we desperately wish we could, and therefore having to watch her be made even more ill by an attempt to give her some kind of medicine to help?  Really?  And, as my daughter said, even if this woman had 15 children instead of three, would all 15 be able to provide $100 each month?  That can be a good sum of money each month for some people.  Especially if they have lost their job.  (Another friend of mine just last week missed losing her job, DESPERATELY needed by her family.  The national bank for which she had worked for years decided to close the mortgage facility here in Wilmington.  Two weeks ago one of the guys in our small group needed someone and she left the bank, totally unaware of what was coming.)

ü    Providing healthcare for everyone is too expensive.

           And this lady, who ends up having to go to the Duke ER, can pay for the full cost of that visit?  It won’t cost those of us who are so very special and have medical coverage?  You believe that?

ü     The government can't do a good job of healthcare.  We have the best healthcare in the world.  And that is because we have competition and private industry.

           So medicine with a cost of $1,500 a month per person is “best”?  And there is no way that can be improved?  I question even why ANY medicine, particularly one probably needed by a good number of people, must have that kind of cost.  It seems an obscene figure. 

While I’m venting let me address the related issues. 

§       It is "un-American" to believe in such things as heatlhcare for everyone.  There is that implication that you don't love your country, which I find despicable.

      I spoke up and corrected our daughter’s behavior when she was small out of love for her.  I can speak out against what I see as a wrong in my country and do it because I DO love my country.  The things that truly do make us great, such as child labor laws and equal civil rights laws, etc., came about by people seeing the possibility we could do better.  

§       Many Christian leaders say healthcare reform "won't do anything".  Or they call it Socialism. 

          These leaders need to tell me several things.  Give me specific, monetary assumptions and projections on which you base your statements.  And give me your professional credentials with respect to economic projections, etc.  Encourage me to study the issue for myself as opposed to taking your word for it.  Give me specific Biblical references on which you base your opposition to healthcare for people like my friend’s mother.  

I could go on, but my wrist is starting to bother me.  Although, if I am in discomfort all night, that will be okay with me.  I am able to pay for the expenses I incurred today.  I wish I had the choice to do so but also to have the allowable insurance payments applied to my friend’s mother’s account instead.  I would do that in far, far less than a heartbeat.  How can it be right that I received care today and this elderly lady must spend time at life’s end being sick and without the care she truly requires?  Just tell me, how can that be right?

Note:  I won’t take comments on this one.  But any of you who know my email and want to comment, feel free!

A Navy Seal

I recently had a wonderful and unexpected surprise at the YMCA pool.  Since Trista does not teach on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we swim.  It has obviously been healthy for us, both physically and emotionally.

The Y has a total of three pools, two indoor, having a total of 10 “double” lanes, and one outdoor.  There are always a certain number of lanes left open for lap/free swimming.  But between 2 and 4 PM is a really good time to find a lane without much of a wait, if any.  So that is when we go, of course.  Usually we can get a lane to share.  No problem.

This particular day either we were a little later or more people were swimming that day.  There was no one lane to share, so we had to split up.  On an end lane a young man was taking a momentary rest.  I asked if I could share his lane.   Once in the water I noticed that he had what appeared to me very intricate techniques, such as I had never seen before.  And it seemed he could swim on his side under water for a good little distance.  A young woman was sitting poolside and I noticed that she had spoken with him several times.  So as I was resting and he was not, I mentioned to her that I appreciated sharing the lane, that he was quite impressive.  Or some such thing.   She explained he didn’t mind at all; that he was probably worried about accidentally kicking me.  She went on to say that he and his buddy swim together and if they kick each other, no big deal.  I asked if he were on some type of team.  Because of his age, I knew it could not be high school, so I was curious what it could be.  Come to find out, I was swimming next to a Navy Seal.  Wow!  No wonder I was seeing some type of swimming I had never seen before!  I had previously noticed a banner saying the pool was a Navy Seal Test Site.  But who would have thought?  I was just there for my Tuesday swim!

At some point we were both on the shallow end taking a breather.  (Well, okay, maybe he was taking a breather and I was gasping for breath, but whatever!)  I asked him his name and we chatted briefly.  It was the day after the Supreme Court decision Snyder vs. Phelps.  I told him how badly I felt about such a thing happening to anyone connected with the military; that I hated to see any family subjected to such disrespect.  He agreed.  I thanked him for what he was going to do.  He seemed to appreciate it.  But honestly, I had gotten a very sick feeling in my stomach when I heard why he was there.   I am naïve, but I do know what types of missions Navy Seals must complete.  As I was leaving the pool I told him I would be praying for him.  And I asked permission to use his first name and write about swimming next to him.  His name is Brennon. 

On my way to the showers I stopped to speak with the young woman again.  As it turned out she was his wife, Ashton.  She explained that he had chosen to come to Wilmington to train; that normally he and his buddy train 4-5 hours a day (just swimming, I think).  Evidently she was a runner and would run with him along the beach, at least as long as she could.  This was another part of his intensive training.  On the 20^th or 21^st of March he would be flying out.  I am sorry to say that I do not remember where.  The next day her mother was coming to pick her up.  Within a short time she would be able to join him again.  His training period?  Three years!!!   Brennon is at the top of his class. 

I got her email so I could send them a copy of what I wrote.  I intend to do that.  But now that I have written it, I am unpleased with just the “accounting” of what happened.  I would rather be able to somehow put into words what an unexpected surprise and fun experience it was to meet them.  I would rather be able to give any reader a sense of how special a couple they seem.  I would rather be able to write something that they would read and feel uplifted and proud of who they are.  I just hope the fact that I liked them enough to try and write anything will encourage them.  I wish I had met them sooner.  And that they were not leaving Wilmington.  I would be inviting them to dinner.  I am already enriched by my brief encounter with them.  Imagine if I could spend a little time with them!

The Beach Ball

The Beach Ball

Note #1:  This might seem extra rambling.  More so than my normal.  But I think the subject matter excuses me, at least somewhat. 

Note # 2:  I have been going to write this for quite a while.  But I hesitated.  Maybe it’s just too much; too disturbing.   Also, I was afraid that because I wanted to write it meant that someone who reads it might need it.  As if there were a causal relationship between my writing it and someone else suffering the death of a child.  I know. I know.  Not rational.  And I am not a superstitious person!  But I’ve found that with extremely emotional issues, rational thought dissipates.  Completely, at times.  And I have learned that realizing something isn’t rational means nothing.  Fear of a certain kind overrides sound thinking.   

Then I thought I would write it only for myself.   Because the writing is helping me.  But then I flip-flopped again and remembered what I’ve said all along; that I hoped this experience wasn’t “all for nothing”.  That if we had to go through it, I wanted it to somehow help someone else on the face of the planet.  Even if only one person.

 And so I write it to post.

In recent days I am back at crying my grief.  No idea why.  Because I’ve been sick?  Maybe.  I doubt that, however.   From what I understand, it is the nature of grief. 

They told us in the hospital that the death of a child is not something people ever “get over”.  Rather, they said, that we must work at assimilating it into our lives.  They assured us that we would learn to live with it.  And the grief counselor herself had lost a child, her Sammy.  It was more reassuring, coming from someone who’s “been there”.  We received a good amount of literature and lists of support groups.  Allan’s and mine were support groups for grandparents.  I might have glanced at it.  But I don’t remember really examining any of it.  I didn’t go and do research on the Internet regarding grief for the loss of a child.  I started a book and never finished it.  I wasn’t ready. 

I remember, instead, thinking I had to survive for my child.  I could grieve later, but she needed me and that was what got me up every morning.  I would put one foot in front of the other.  Consciously and with concentration.  I focused on the fact that I needed to get out of bed and start towards the shower for her sake.  One step at a time.  (That phrase takes on a whole new meaning after something like this.  It is sound advice that is easy to hear and gloss over until it is needed.  Yeah, yeah, I’d think on some unconscious level.  Whatever.)

If there is one person on the face of the earth who is doing what she was meant to do, it is, Snowy, our grief counselor.  There are the “stages” or “steps” of grief that we hear about.  But Snowy’s description and explanation of grief was far more helpful to me.  It was/is something within my experience.  Something I could visualize.  That made it more tangible.  It gave me something I could grab on to and use to try and understand.   Here’s how she presented it. 

She gave me a sheet of paper on which a circle had been drawn.  Within that circle were drawn different “pieces” of varying sizes and shapes, resembling pieces of a puzzle.  The pieces of this puzzle were labeled with various emotions related to grief.  They included being: sad, scared, worried, shocked, confused, unprepared, angry, exhausted, anxious, empty, helpless.  Or feeling: panic, resentment, and irritation; like the world is unreal.  Feeling like you’ve been cheated.  And in some situations, relief and guilt.  I tried to count all the pieces.  I counted at least forty.  I remember being surprised there could be so many emotions!

Snowy suggested I think of the circle as a beach ball.  In the same way a beach ball is easily blown around by even a slight breeze, so go our emotions during the grief process.  (I hesitate to use the word “process” in this case.  Because I now believe what we were told in the hospital.   Grieving a child isn’t a process.  To say process indicates an end to the process; a result, arriving at some intended/hoped for point.  Rather than a process, this grief is an agent.  An agent that changes the structure of life.  And having changed life, it stays.  It stays and becomes part of everyday life.  The fabric, the weave, the texture, the color, the design, the pattern of life, all of it, is now completely altered by the presence of this new thing.  And, for me, there is a need to figure out what to do with this new, altered life.)  The beach ball can roll forward, sideways, back, in circles, every which way, and then be blown back to exactly where it was when the breeze first caused it to blow around.  And the movement can start all over again.  I don’t know, but that seems so much more descriptive and explanatory than “stages” of grief.   With stages I would want to know which stage I was at and when would I get through all those stages?  How soon?  And it would basically be over, right?

Here’s how I’ve come to use the beach ball analogy.  Imagine a windy day on a beach; waves are hitting the shore so strongly it appears to be an attack.  An attack much like I envision I would see if I were in battle.  The enemy is rushing towards me, yelling their anger and determination to overtake me.  I know I’m in trouble because I don’t have a whole lot of people in the foxhole with me, seeing the same wave of enemy and fighting the same battle.  “Battle” is wrong.  It’s a War.  With a capital “W”.  Probably one like the Vietnam War.  I won’t win.  I’ll just have to learn to live with the reality of that war. 

Anyway, leave the foxhole, and return to the beach.  The shore can’t defend itself either.  Its sands are being washed away to who knows where.  I can’t hear anything because the waves are as loud as any horrible thunderstorm.  In the same way I can’t hear, my cry for help can’t be heard.  The beach ball is being whipped around, not only from one direction to another, but the onslaught of the waves lift it up and slam it back to the ground.  Different parts of the ball hit the ground each time it lands.  And the force with which it hits the ground varies.  So goes the emotional attack. 

Now imagine a second day on the beach.  It is calm and beautiful.  There is no discernible breeze.  Anywhere.  There is a deserted beach ball a little ways down from you.  You see it roll from time to time.  You simply cannot figure out what is making that ball move back and forth.  THERE IS NO BREEZE!!   Sometimes the grief beach ball is like that.  It just moves back and forth.  I can’t see any specific cause. 

As much as the beach ball works for me, I would add several other descriptions of this grief.   From my perspective, one descriptive narrative can’t portray the very elusive and very individual nature of grieving for a child. 

Another illustration from life that works for me is a partially sunny day.  You know, the kind of day when the weather is pleasant enough when the sun is shining and you’re sitting there soaking it up, enjoying its uplifting quality and its warmth.  Then the clouds sneak in front of that life-giving sunshine.  And you don’t like the shadow.  You miss the warmth.  It’s chilly in that shadow.   So you move to the patch of grass or sand, to wherever the sunshine fled.  But as soon as you do, the clouds sneak up again and blot out your sunshine.  That happens repeatedly.  You can’t stay in the sunshine, no matter how hard you try.  

That’s what happens some days.  I want to be in the sunshine.  I search for it.  I want to be warmed by it and all that it represents.  But those clouds of grief and confusion will not let me be.  It’s as if they have a determination to keep me chilled and in the shadows.  So I doggedly fight all day to be where the sun will shine on my face.  I do that not only for myself, but so I can be energized to help my daughter.  At night I am exhausted from the struggle and wonder if the clouds didn’t win after all. 

A second illustration I would use to define this grief is less representational.  But it describes a different type of day.  I have a jack-in-the-box.   Not one that provides me with moments of laughter and fun when I turn the handle and Jack pops out at me.  That’s because my jack-in-the-box would better be called grief-in-the-box. 

In the same way we leave behind our childhood toys, and actually forget them, I can have some days where my grief and confusion are forgotten.  Or so I think.  I can have done the right things.  I’ve made myself get to work.  Or I’ve pushed myself to be with people.  Or I’m trying a new recipe for Allan, Ale, and Trista.  Or I’m reading.  I’m actually enjoying it.  Then without any warning, my grief-in-a-box jumps out and startles me.  Takes me completely by surprise.  Unlike the toy jack-in-a-box, I cannot, on days like this, control “Jack”.  I don’t even know what mechanism has released him.  There is no handle I can refuse to turn.  He would be well suited for a Stephen King novel.  And as badly as I want to keep on enjoying the day, I either can’t get Jack back in the box and contained.  Or, if I do, he keeps popping back out, insistent on disrupting my day and destroying any peace I might have been feeling. 

I hate Jack.  He’s a master at surprise attacks.  He’s sly.  And he’s sneaky.  He lies in wait.  He’s a thief.  He taunts me.  He absolutely sneers at my confusion and feeling of being lost.  He wants me off balance.   But I keep trying to regain that balance.  Maybe some day he will get tired of aggravating me and leave me alone.  At the very least I hope his periods of harassment become less frequent AND that the intensity of his attacks lessens over time.  I hope this not only for us, but for anyone else living a grief-in-the-box experience. 

Touching Dreams

I dreamed of Natalia and of my mom recently, on two separate nights.  They were touching dreams.

I do not recall any specifics about my Natalia dream.  But I do remember two things.  I can still see her sweet little face looking up at me and smiling.  You know, that innocent, “I’m in the moment” smile of children.  They smile it often, but it is especially moving when you know they are looking up and sharing an experience with you.  I only wish I knew what it was she was sharing with me.   The second thing I remember, vividly, are her little black curls bouncing.  Even as they bounced, they framed that beautiful face with the artistic touch I personally think only God Himself has. 

I was asked if the dream comforted me.  I don’t know.  I didn’t think of it in those terms.  But I must have wanted it to be reassuring because I looked for meaning.  Complete silence, of course, when I questioned myself about that meaning.  No answers then or now.  All I am certain of is that I hope to dream of her again.

For whatever reason, I do remember in detail the dream with my mom.  I was in some sort of building.  It appeared to be like a school.  I say that because of the long hall and the layout of the rooms themselves.  I seemed to be going from one room to another to talk to people.  I found people who wanted me to help them.  And I wanted to help.  But about the time I was trying to figure out how to help them all, I heard soft crying.  As the crying changed and took on more distress, I found myself anxious to go and search for the person doing the crying.  The urgency I felt to find out who it was caused me to quickly give out my cell phone number.  As I was trying to get through the crowds in different rooms, I realized what I had done.  I had shared my cell number!  I never give my number to anyone but family and close friends.  I began to worry that the people would call me constantly until I could help them.  And I already felt pressured!

As I was chastising myself, the crying changed again, becoming deep sobs.  The kind that cause your body to shake involuntarily and has you gasping for breath.  The kind that are so descriptive no words are necessary.  A person coming on the scene would know some tragedy had taken place.  It was then I saw a bedroom across the hall.  Why was there was a bedroom in such a building?  I kept pushing towards the door so I could get to the bedroom.  Then I saw my mom.  She was sitting on the edge of the bed holding Trista.  She wasn’t trying to say anything to get Trista calmed down.  She was just holding her and gently rocking her as she sobbed.  I remember stopping and making the conscious decision that I would wait before entering the room.  Somehow I felt they should get that time; that it was important to both of them.  I woke up before getting to be with them.  But I actually felt that was the way the dream was supposed to end. 

I did tell Trista about both dreams.  I was unsure, of course.  But I was glad I did.  Because she liked them and was comforted by them both.  I need no other meaning beyond knowing that.

Pink With Purple Polka Dots All Over and Green Feathers Protruding From The Ears

Note:  I wrote the post several days ago.  It is only today that I have had time to read it over in preparation for posting.  I use the word “tsunami” in the second paragraph.   I will leave it.  It still seems to best describe my view of hate.  Please remember that this was written two days before the horrific tragedy in Japan.  I do not use the word in any disrespectful way. 

For a long time now I have described myself as an idealist who has had to become a realist.  I’m thinking I was totally clueless.  And I’m still an idealist.  And maybe even more so than before! 

I have found that a side effect of grief is the intensification of distress for others.  So you can well imagine how distressing I find this tsunami of hate that seems to have hit us.  I simply can’t understand it.  If you read my post “18 Months Ago” you’ll remember my description of little granddaughters all across the world in the kitchen cooking with Grandma.  I referred to the book, “Same Kind Of Different As Me”.  It was my attempt to see how much alike we are as opposed to how different we are. 

I collect quotes.  There are people who have such natural wisdom.  And they have the ability to verbalize that wisdom in a modicum of words.  I believe the mustard seed is the smallest of seeds.  So I think of these quotes as “mustard seeds of wisdom”. 

Anyway, years ago I learned of Will Rogers saying he had never met a man he didn’t like.  That really intrigued me!  How was that possible?  I like pretty much everyone I meet, but really!   Never to have met anyone he didn’t like?  I wondered if I could get down the road several years, look back at that point in time and say the same thing?  That I had not, in x years, met anyone I did not like?  I wanted to try.

But how to do that?  I decided that a good starting point would probably be to assume I was going to like those I might meet. Seemed logical.  

Also, I thought about the fact that I had always had the opportunity (and been enriched) to be around people so different, in lots of ways:  nationality, religion, ethnicity, native language, race, talents, educational level, etc.  I wanted to express that concept of being inclusive.  So I came up with my own little saying.  My own little mental guideline.  I decided that if I were to meet someone who was pink with purple polka dots all over AND green feathers coming out of his/her ears, someone far different from anyone I had yet met, it should not matter in the least.  I should notice the polka dots and feathers only in the same casual way I would notice that great purse some woman on the elevator has.  (Sorry guys!  I couldn’t think of something you might relate to.  So just go with this.  You’re smart.)  It should only matter, like always, what that person was as a human being.  I liked that.  That would work. 

I can’t say that I have liked everyone I’ve met.  I only wish I could.  (There does seem to be a few people who work hard at being as abrasive as they can.)  BUT, I do think this idea, this concept, inspired by someone else’s wisdom has served me well.  I have tried to train myself to look for the things that matter.  I have tried to see people as being just like me.  A regular person who works, takes care of his/her family, has good qualities as well as faults, is talented in some unique way or has an interesting and unusual blend of talents.  That person has good days and bad days.  That person does dumb things and then asks, “What was I thinking?”  That person has suffered some pain common to us all.  Etc, etc.

I know I am naïve.  And now I realize, as I said at the beginning, that I never ceased being an idealist.  But, guess what?  I don’t want to change.  In this one area, I don’t.  It allows me to enjoy most everyone I meet.  (But I do try to learn something from anyone I don’t enjoy or like so much.  That works well, too.)  It allows me to live without fear of others.  It helps keep me, for the most part, I think, from making sweeping, ridiculous and inappropriate generalizations.  At the very least, it keeps me aware of the debilitating nature of those generalizations. 

Let me end with another quote.  It is going to seem political because it originated in a political atmosphere.  But I assure you, for me, it is not.  It is just a good tool for everyday life.  FDR said, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.”   Come to think of it, that sounds like an antidote for hate to me! 

Scathing

“Scathing.  Can I do scathing?  I don’t know.  But I sure WANT to do scathing.”

That was going to be how I started this blog post.  But before I had the opportunity to write, I reminded myself to take my own advice.  And of course, had to completely change direction.  Let me explain.

I have certain work “rules” I follow.  One is that I do not check or write email, read news articles, or do anything of a personal nature during work hours.  In a lot of years I can tell you that exactly 14 times I have broken that rule.  I did so last Wednesday, March 2^nd.  I saw the headline about the Supreme Court decision regarding Snyder vs. Phelps.  You know, the church members who picket at military funerals.  Why did I do that?  I ended up incensed, frustrated, hurt, any number of emotions all within a short few minutes.  I could not imagine that this could be right!  Why would we let actions such as those of the Westboro Baptist congregation compound the hurt and grief of parents at the absolute worst time in their lives?  Where are the rights of parents to bury a child without the intrusion of hate-filled strangers?  I knew how we would have felt if we had been subjected to that, even though the age and circumstances of a military death and Natalia’s death are so different.  But once again, that concept of “the same kind of different” works well.  Details matter less than the shared experience of loss. 

It was early afternoon, so I had to get myself calmed back down and complete the workday.  Somehow I managed.  Trista and I go to Pilates class on Wednesday nights.   Want to guess how well I did at class?  Let’s just put it this way.  Our instructor, Ellen, whom I like immensely, started laughing during instruction!  I’ve never seen her do that.  And I’m sure she was looking at me! 

But, I’m sure I was comical. I was totally distracted, composing words in my head the entire hour of class.  I could not wait to get home and start writing.  Once here however, I realized I had not done what I always do.  What I believe in.  What I say should always be done.  I did not go to the source.  So I did several things. 

First, I checked two different reports.  For the first time ever I read readers’ comments, about 38 total.  I was surprised.  Only one thought the Supreme Court “got it wrong”.  However, I was comforted by the fact that all thought the Westboro Baptist church members’ actions reprehensible and despicable.  One person even felt sorry for them, saying that to live with that kind of hate is, in truth, very sad and a waste of living time.  I wish I could say my eyes were opened by that sentiment.  They weren’t.  I was not so generous.  

Having read the commentary, I sat for a few minutes, trying to think through why so many were in agreement that the decision was right?  Those few minutes were exactly what I needed.  I began to wonder how the vote could be 8 to 1???   I had been on the Supreme Court site before and read a decision.  Why had I not gone to the site immediately and read the decision before getting all upset?   Why had I not thought all this through on my own?  Because, as I’ve said a good number of times, when it is a personally emotional issue, all thought, logic, and normal pattern of behavior are tossed aside. 

So, to the Supreme Court site I went to read the actual written decision for myself.  I read 10 of the 36 pages.  But that was enough.  I have to say that I learned a lot about not only this particular case, but also about how the Court analyzed the case.  The case, as I understood it, essentially depended on whether or not the speech was regarding a private or public concern.  The controversial or inappropriate nature of the speech was irrelevant.  The Court examined content, form, and context of the speech.    As best I can summarize, here’s my understanding of what I read: 

• This Westboro Baptist group has been picketing military funerals for 20 years.
• They notified authorities of their intent to picket in advance of the protest.
• They protested on public land. 
• That land was approximately 1,000 feet from the church where the funeral was held. 
• There were several buildings separating the protest site from the church.
• None of the picketers entered church property or went to the cemetery.
• They acted in accordance with guidance from local law enforcement. 
• They picketed and displayed their signs in a peaceful manner.
• They did not yell or use profanity.
• There was no violence associated with their picketing.
•  

The action filed against this group by the marine’s father alleged claims of: 

• Defamation.
• Publicity given to private life.
• Intentional emotional distress.
• Intrusion upon seclusion.
• Civil conspiracy.  

A District Court concluded that Mr. Snyder could not prove the necessary elements for defamation and publicity given to private life.  However, the remaining claims went to trial. As described in the decision, Mr. Snyder, at trial, “described the severity of his emotional injuries. He testified that he is unable to separate the thought of his dead son from his thoughts of Westboro’s picketing, and that he often becomes tearful, angry, and physically ill when he thinks about it.”  Experts evidently testified that the anguish resulted in Mr. Snyder experiencing severe depression, and also that pre-existing health conditions had been exacerbated.   (You can well imagine how much I understand and hurt for this father.) 

Of course, the jury decided for Mr. Snyder and awarded damages.  Thus the Westboro defendant/s filed motions; the Court of Appeals heard the case and agreed that the First Amendment rights protected Westboro’s speech.  How?  The Supreme Court decision explained, saying, “The court reviewed the picket signs and concluded that Westboro’s statements were entitled to First Amendment protection because those statements were on matters of public concern, were not provably false, and were expressed solely through hyperbolic rhetoric.”

I won’t continue to summarize.  You get the point and I think this is adequate to show what and how much I learned.    First, I was reminded, again, that I believe in going “to the source” for several reasons.  It is wise to study and think for myself, as opposed to determining my conviction/s based on someone else’s insight.  And, equally important, there might be a perspective, a rationale that I need to understand.  That perspective just might change my mind on an issue.  Even if I don’t want it to!

Secondly, I was reminded of how relatively easy it is to “go to the source” in this age of the Internet.  Not a bad thing!  So, I have no excuse, do I? 

Thirdly, I was reminded of how important it is to “proceed with caution” when an issue has emotional implications.  It’s human, I know.  But it helps us all if we try not to draw conclusions from that perspective only. 

Fourthly, I was reminded of the importance of approaching an issue with an open mind.  I need to be willing to completely change my point of view.

Do I still abhor what people like those who protest at military funerals do?  How could I not?  We have lived and experienced the opposite of that kind of hate.  We received love and compassion and empathy, the very gifts that these kind of people will most likely never experience, not being willing to give it themselves.  Maybe I’ll get to the point where I feel sorry for them.  Right now my disgust eliminates any possibility of sorrow on their behalf.  Maybe that is very much to my shame.  I’ll have to think about that. 

Fairly Legal

A few weeks ago, on one of those nights I could not sleep, I came across a new television show, “Fairly Legal”.  It was a late night re-run of that week’s show.  I watched.   I can’t say I liked it tremendously.  I can’t say I thought it was particularly well done.  I can’t say there weren’t elements unnecessary and actually detracting from the basic premise.  But it was the show’s premise that drew me in. 

The main character is a young female attorney who prefers to do mediation.  She listens to both sides of an issue, or perhaps multiple sides of an issue, and comes up with solutions.  She creates win-win scenarios.  This young woman doesn’t say she is going to figure it out.  She goes way beyond a simple declarative.  She asserts, promises if she thinks it necessary, that she WILL find a solution.  She makes me believe it.  She makes me believe that she, in fact, knows there is always a win-win to be had, if only for the sincere, objective looking for it. 

Do I see that so much in real life?  I don’t think so.  But, boy, how I like the idea!  I like the idea that whether individually, or corporately, we approach problems with the absolute conviction there is a solution that will be agreeable to all involved.  Seems to me there would be some wonderful outcomes.  Obviously, life would have a lot less frustration, friction, animosity, and stress.  What’s not to like about that?  Who doesn’t want that?  It seems equally obvious, a lot more problems would be brought to resolution.  

You know what else I strongly suspect might happen?  I think problems would eventually be solved more quickly and efficiently.  You know why I say that?  Because I believe attitude is far more important than intellect, talent, whatever.  I look at our attitude/s as the teacher/coach.  Our mind is the student/athlete.  It does the hard work for us.  BUT, just as a good teacher or a good coach can motivate and bring out the best in students or athletes, so our attitude/s can guide and train the mind to be open to other possibilities; to be creative.  By contrast, I believe “all or nothing” thinking in effect constrains the mind. That overriding attitude gives the mind no permission to do what it does best, think and problem-solve. 

Remember the 1995 movie Apollo 13 with Tom Hanks?  You know, “Houston, we’ve got a problem.”  I do not know to what extent the movie depicted the actual issues encountered by the Apollo 13 mission.  What we have come to understand is the severity and critical nature of the problem/s the crew faced.  And we also know the very limited resources available with which to solve the problem and affect a safe return to earth.  But they had to work together.  They had to set their minds to cooperative problem solving mode.  Survival was at stake. 

I just wonder if we set our minds in the same way, with the same motivation, to find a solution, where might our lives be, individually and therefore in our togetherness?  NASA, in fact, termed the Apollo 13 mission a “successful failure”.  A “successful failure”.  Sounds awfully good to me!  Sounds like a lot of wisdom in two words.  I should be so concise…

In The Middle

In The Middle

Trista and I spent the afternoon together today.  It was not a particularly good day.  We discussed our need to know that this “thing” might end up helping someone.  Otherwise what is the purpose?  If we have to go through this kind of pain, why can’t we at least see some good?  We ask these questions with the knowledge and unspoken agreement that we may never have the answers. 

And yet, I sense something.  I see it, or think I see it, as if through extremely heavy fog.  Frightening, depressing fog like that I remember our family encountered late at night on the Ohio River while traveling due to the expected death of my paternal grandmother.  Or do I just want to see this “something” so badly?  The human heart needs hope.  I am beginning to believe that sometimes, at life’s worst moments, our need for it is equal to our need to breathe.  Without either we die.  The only difference is whether it is actual physical death.

Last night I said that, at any given time, I am reading both fiction and non-fiction.  I dog-ear pages and later review those pages to make notes.  (Yes, I DO fix the pages before returning said books to the library.)  Today, I ate lunch, fiction book in hand.  There was a reference to being in the middle of where we are needed.   I immediately dog-eared the page. 

I share that reference with Trista.  I explain that I am wondering if we are in the middle of where we are needed.  I rush on to remind her that maybe I am just desperate in my search.  Emotionally we are at the coldest, driest, windiest place on earth.   We are in Antarctica. And we are there during the long period of constant darkness.  And yet, we watch the sky for our rescue plane!  Illogical, we know.  But as I’ve said before, some emotions and the rational mind cannot co-exist.  Logic and the thought process can so easily be discarded if you hurt enough.  So we have to maintain the hope that the plane will arrive.  Or we will give up.   

But suppose we WANT all this to do SOMETHING FOR SOMEBODY because we are in the middle of where we are needed?  Wouldn’t that question, just the possibility that there is a need and it will be addressed, give us hope?  We want some “what” and “why” answers.  But maybe focusing on the “where” question is the source of our hope and comfort.  Maybe that focal point will lead us out of the worst of the heavy fog.  It might all of a sudden be clear, in the same way we can drive out of areas of fog, at least temporarily.  Or maybe it even represents our rescue plane.  I hope so.