What It Means

I put our flag out a short time ago.  Over the weekend I gave thought to my own, private little ceremony.  I determined what the ceremony would signify and what it would most certainly NOT represent.  Part of it I can explain perhaps somewhat coherently.  Other parts, not so much.  These other parts are reflective of where I am in my journey of grief and reevaluating the world around me.  Those I might just have to do the best I can and tell somewhat in story form. 

Let me begin by clarifying in my own mind what putting our flag out does NOT mean to me.

• It, for sure, does NOT indicate a nationalistic point of view.  Although that stance seems to be growing in popularity, I actually abhor the idea that we would promote our own interests to the exclusion of others. 
• It does NOT mean that I think that our country and we Americans are the superlative form of all that is good.  Our history proves otherwise. 
• It does NOT mean I am American before I am anything else.  I am first a part of all people that, according to my belief, were made in the image of God Himself. 
• It does NOT mean I think I love my country any more than anyone who might disagree with me on issues, or who might not be displaying a flag.  As I’ve said before, I find that implication arrogant, judgmental, and offensive, to say the least.

Now let me attempt to verbalize what it does convey for me. 

• It indicates what part of the world I am from, just as simply and straightforwardly as it does during a parade of countries during an Olympic competition. 
• It does mean that I think the ideals symbolized by the flag are worthy.
• It definitely is a way to express my personal appreciation for living in a country where a kid like me, without resources, could get an education.
• It reminds me of what we can be.  We can be generous, unselfish people like my friends Donna and Jonathan, who are right now in Haiti, doing what they can. 
• But it also conveys the necessity for and appropriateness of national self-reflection.
• It does indicate grieving for any families, from any country, who have lost loved ones to war.  And the remembering of those who have died fighting in war.

Now, the hard part; sharing the thoughts I am unable to boil down to a few words.  I can only describe the mental journey and impressions that have come to mind.

Like all parents, I always, always, prayed that nothing would happen to my child.  I would remind God that I simply could not stand that.  Little did I know I would not only have to go through a child’s death and grieve her, but watch my child suffer the worst pain, all while being helpless to relieve any of that suffering.  I was thinking about that the last few days.  I went back to a question I had asked myself frequently once we went to war in Afghanistan in 2001 and especially once we invaded Iraq in 2003.  I would sometimes see a television interview of parents who had just lost a son or daughter in the war.  And I would wonder how they could say their child died for our freedom.  I didn’t feel like my freedom had anything to do with Iraq. 

And I would wonder why aren’t these parents angry, very, very angry?  Why don’t they hate politics and the politicians who sent their child into that war?   I didn’t like to think that I could hate someone, but I felt very sure I would. 

I was convinced that, in addition to hatred, I would be filled with frustration beyond what I could imagine.  I would think that I don’t even know why my child died.  I would want to know why my child was even there? 

Now that we have experienced the death of a child, I REALLY don’t understand.  What must it be like if you are a grandparent and lose a grandchild in these wars?  I, of course, know the grief that person would go through.  And I know the distress of watching your child suffer.  But, I haven’t had to deal with what I consider, for some, at least, would be overwhelming frustration that the person lost died based on “policy”.  Based on decisions made by men who did not even know that grandchild’s name.  How would you not resent that? 

I tried to look up the number of children deaths in both Afghanistan and Iraq this morning.  I didn’t really find an exact number for children alone.  I checked a number of websites.  The best that I could come up with is that in Iraq alone, well over 100,000 non-combatant civilians have been killed by military action.  (Evidently some think this estimate is smaller than the actual number.)  And it is estimated that over one-half of these have been women and children.  

I wanted to know the number but then again, I did not want to know.  So I was probably relieved I was unsuccessful with that research.  The number would be too much for me.  Because yesterday I kept picturing in my mind some little boy in Afghanistan kicking a rock down the road, having a pretty good time.  And a little Iraqi boy of the same age, drawing in the dirt with a stick he just found.  And a little girl who was watching out the window, checking on the world outside.  Her mother was keeping her safely inside; or so she thought.  I can only assume some innocent children have died doing just those kinds of things.  So I was thinking about them and the elderly, and all those so defenseless and utterly without power. 

When I put our flag out, I was remembering any who have died in our country, as well as those whose lives have been taken from them in other countries.  And I thought about all the families across the globe.  I thought about that grandparent whose child saw his/her own child die because of war and is now watching the resulting suffering.  Their nationality didn’t come to mind.  It was unimportant.  I had a bond with them, a bond international in breadth.  We could meet and each have his/her country’s flag.  But those flags would be completely irrelevant to us. Our shared human experience and condition would be what mattered.  Or it should be, unless some grieving parent and/or grandparent blamed my country for a child’s death.  And what could I possibly say in defense?

Now Tell Me Again. How Can This Be Right?

If this title sounds familiar, it is.  It is almost the exact title of a post I did a while back.  I had actually intended to write an update.  Eventually.  But the topic has now moved to the top of my list. 

I am just so frustrated.  So let me get started with my therapy session.

First I’ll give an update about my friend’s mother; the one I wrote about in that post.  She ended up in the local hospital, very weak and very sick.  Fluid around the heart, as I understand it.  Her cardiologist, who has treated her for a number of years, insists that she got in such bad shape because she did not have the medicine she needed.  But just take a guess at what medicine she was given while in the hospital.  Easy question, I know.  Because, of course, she received the correct medicine.  Surely you remember?  The one that cost $1,500 a month.  She is home now but is very weak.  My friend says her mother is really declining quickly. 

Now, admittedly, elderly people can be fine one day and quite ill the next.  However, I still have to ask myself several questions.   First, why can she receive the medicine only while in the hospital?  Is that because it is truly the medicine that is best for her AND will get her well enough to go home as soon as possible?  Second question.  Hasn’t the insurance company added an expense for a hospital stay?  And isn’t it at least somewhat logical to assume there will be another if she has inadequate medicine and can’t get better?  I could go on and on.  But let me instead give several other new examples. 

Last week I talked to a man I’ve known for 17 years.  He is a diabetic.  But he didn’t have any problems until shortly before turning 70.  He was put on medication; attempts to be compliant (As if his wife would let him be otherwise!), and was doing well.  Recently his insurance company insisted his medicine be changed.  The $900 a month price was just too high.  So, a second medicine was prescribed.  But he isn’t making out too much better than my friend’s mother.  They have been unable to regulate his blood sugar properly.  He looks like he has been beaten.  The day I talked to him he had an appointment with his doctor.  It was his hope that the doctor could persuade the insurance company to pay for the medicine that works for him. 

Today I talked to someone younger, much younger, who needed to add a new spouse to the employer’s health insurance plan.  The cost?  Anywhere from $487 to $547 a month, depending on responses to health questions.  If this couple has a child, the cost will be an additional $180 a month.  Think they are going to bother completing the application for now? 

It is my understanding that the large health insurance companies have made record profits for a third year.  Now I have not researched that to the degree I normally do.  But, I have to tell you, based on what people I know personally are experiencing, I find it easy to assume that research will verify my understanding.  And, of course, it is also true, I believe, for the pharmaceutical companies.  I don’t know if there have been records, or if so, for how many years.  But, as I said my diabetic friend, just how many people in this country have to take that medicine that costs $900 a month?  In January 2011 statistics indicated that over 25 million American children and adults have diabetes.   And how many are not yet diagnosed?  If even a number of those people take medication costing half as much as my friend’s $900 a month medicine, that sounds like a “viable” business, with potential for pretty substantial profit, does it not?    

Here’s verbatim what I said to this diabetic friend.  We claim to be the greatest country in the world.  (Shame on us for thinking we’re always the best.)   How is it that ANY medicine should cost $900 a month?  He didn’t have an answer.  Neither do I.  

Within a two month period, I have heard about two people in their 70’s who have been made more sick because the cost of the necessary medicine is too high and an alternate had to be prescribed.  How can that be?  And how is it that we expect young people to graduate from college with a good amount of student loans to repay AND pay health insurance premiums that could equal some mortgages?  Oh, and did I mention what the deductibles are on this health insurance plan?  The trip I had to make to Urgent Care for my wrist would have cost this younger couple a minimum of $75.  So, if one of them had been injured and visited Urgent Care, the total for that month’s medical insurance and expenses would be a minimum of $562. 

Come to think of it, this IS the greatest country in the world.  IF you are health insurance or pharmaceutical executives, isn’t it? 

Note:  I won’t open this one up for comments.  Send me an email if you know my address.  But I simply can’t take the chance of hearing someone defend such practices.  I have very low blood pressure.  I want to keep it that way.  Who knows what high blood pressure would cost us?

Mother's Day

In church on Mother’s Day they took several minutes to allow people to speak about their mothers.  They asked for volunteers to share how their mothers had helped shape them into who they are.  I didn’t volunteer.  But I’ll share it here. 

I am a reader today and have learned numerous things because I learned to read well. I’ve learned practical, helpful things.  I learned to bake bread by reading and studying Homemade Bread by the editors of Farm Journal.  I learned to can tomatoes and peaches the same way.  I learned to sew, in large part, because I could read.  That allowed me to make beautiful curtains and window treatments (Well, I thought so, anyway.) when we had just bought our first home.  (It was what our friend and real estate agent, Rosemary, termed a “fixer-upper”.) 

From my earliest memories, reading has been a source of fun and relaxation.  And what have I not learned or at least learned better without the ability to read and comprehend?  At this particular moment I can’t think of anything.  There must be something, of course.  But I would have to give it some thought to give a better answer.  My mom gets the credit.  My mom who didn’t graduate from high school. 

It might be more accurate to say she was not allowed to.  She was told in the 10^th grade that she might as well quit school, simply because she was never there.  Period.  She was the oldest of four and was expected to clean house, be a babysitter, or whatever on any given day.  School was not even remotely important. 

So how did my mom do it?  How did she raise kids who loved to read and learn?  I can’t speak for my brother and sister.  But I can tell you how she motivated me.

If I were home sick from school and getting better, she would see to it that I at least was reading a book.  I remember the time she came home from running errands.  She had stopped at the drug store and purchased a Donna Parker book for $0.59.  It might be a reasonable assumption that the 59 cents had to come from the grocery money.  She once commented to someone that she didn’t care if we were reading trash, as long as we were reading.  (Now you’d have to know my mom to get any idea of the shock that statement gave me.  June Cleaver could have said it to Wally and Beaver and that would have made more sense.  But MY mom saying it?  The fact that I did not fall right out of my chair must say that I have some coordination and undeveloped athletic ability.  Because I really thought the apocalypse was upon us!)  I remember liking the fact that she felt that way.  A lot. 

At some point in my own sophomore year, I think, she told me she wanted me to learn English “good”.  (She didn’t know that was incorrect.)  She said she had always wished she could have had the opportunity to know English and “how to speak better”.  I sincerely paid more attention in Mrs. Freeze’s English class and even got into verb tenses and diagramming sentences!  I found it fun, even; a challenge!  (I was not previously a nerd, in any way, shape, or form.  I assure you.)

My mom valued education.  She thought it was worth working for.  I heard that many, many times over the years.  When I started wanting to learn to count to 100, she listened, repeatedly and repeatedly, I’m sure.  She told me I could do it.   When I wanted to read my first grade reader, she would let me read it as many times as I wanted.  When I needed to learn the pledge of allegiance, she listened.  Even at night when I should have been falling asleep, I remember her listening “one more time”.   When I wanted to write a letter to my grandmother when only in second grade, she put me at the kitchen table and helped me while she prepared dinner.  

I could keep going and tell lots of other touching things.  But I’ll save some for another time.  Maybe another Mother’s Day.  I’ll only add here that she always, always said I could only do my best.  In fact, the very last thing she ever really said to me when I was sure she was completely cognizant and totally functioning, was to tell me I should go and just do my best.  She reminded me that it was really all I could do.  I consider that a real gift.  In fact, not too long ago I needed that same encouragement.  I said to Allan and Snowy, “I need my mom.  I’m 61 years old (at the time), but I need my mom.”  What else needs to be said? 

1 Hour 20 Minutes and 40,000 Meals

Note #1:  This might be one of the first things I have been going to write about that has led me to wonder about that thread I spoke about in the last blog. 

Note #2:  I separated this blog into two sections.  The second section, “Operational Details” is just in case anyone is interested in more detail about the meals and/or how this was accomplished. 

Okay, you’re going to have to envision this:  a gymnasium crowded with anywhere from 200 to 300 people, adults and children; 4 generations, in fact, all wired and ready to go, for whatever the event.

Now imagine yourself as the radio announcer for a basketball game and you are in your special broadcasting booth, center court, and above the action.  As you look down on the excited bunch the dress code becomes obvious.  No one is without headwear.  There are baseball caps, all sizes and colors, some worn with the brim in the front and many with the brim to the back.  There are a few women with scarves tied around their heads.  Those without hat or scarf are wearing far less than attractive blue-colored hairnets.  And, most noticeable, would be all the red.  Almost to a person, all are wearing something of red, representing the color of the traffic sign “STOP”.

Want to know what you are envisioning?  A whole group of people brought together by our small group at church, approximately 24 of us, with the purpose of preparing 40,000 meals, to be sent to Haiti by the charitable organization, Stop Hunger Now.  We raised some money simply by explaining to people what we wanted to do and asking if they had even a small amount they would contribute for us to buy the food for those meals.  Now, here’s the thing.    We had a goal of buying food to prepare 10,000 Soy Fortified Meals.  But after totaling what we ourselves had contributed and what we had collected, we had enough for 40,000 meals!!!  Yes, you did read it correctly, 40,000 meals, 4 times our goal!  Not bad, I’d say.  Once that number sunk in, we wondered how in the world we were going to be able to package all those meals?  So we announced to the entire church body, friends, relatives, anyone we thought of, that if anyone wanted to join us, we’d appreciate the help.  The low estimate was that 250 people were in the gymnasium the day we needed them.  The high estimate was 300.  Remember, there are only about 24 of us who wanted to do this!  The desire for people to help was amazing, profoundly so!

But you know what made it particularly touching and fulfilling for me?  First, it was simply the fact that we could do something for Haiti, especially for the children.   The food would be part of a school-feeding program.  By distributing the food at school, the children would come and they could continue to be taught.  (This was particularly a thrill for me since I had spoken to way too many people who did not want to send aid to Haiti.  Some did not even want doctors to go there!)  Of course it was also very uplifting and encouraging thinking what 24 people had inspired and accomplished.  But, in addition to these things to appreciate, was WHO made up our volunteers. 

As I said before, there were 4 generations all working together.  Allan was responsible for replenishing ingredients for the bagged meals.  I was supposed to be one of the “runners”, a volunteer who carried meals, once packaged, to other volunteers who were filling boxes.   Somehow, to my great pleasure, I ended up with two helpers.  I had Alexi, who is 10 or 11 years old and is the oldest of three sons of our Russian friends, Igor and Luda.  Then I also had Paige, the 7-year-old daughter of our friends Erica and Nick.  They both evidently thought they made better runners than I.  After only a few minutes I was relegated to piling the bags into their arms, stabilizing those bags and sending them off.  

In addition to my two helpers, I had Trista in front of me, sealing bags, totally engaged in the process and the people working along side her.  That was so good to see, naturally.  To Trista’s left was a really nice woman, Jesse.  Her friend, from another church, and with whom she had had lunch, was with her.  Once Jesse had told her what she was doing after lunch, the friend asked to come help!  To my left was a nice-looking young Black man.  To my right was an attractive woman from China.  Across the table was an Hispanic family.  At the table behind me was our friend Igor.  Everywhere I looked I saw people, not technically “alike”, but very much alike, nonetheless.  For that afternoon my heart was honestly a little lighter and warmer.  For me, it was a much needed and effective medicine.

Operational Details

Here’s a brief explanation of how the operation went, to the best of my ability to describe it. 

There are 2 lines of tables going the length of the basketball court; one down the left side of the court as you enter, and the other slightly beyond the middle point. Along the court’s right side are perhaps 4 round tables, strategically placed. 

At the line of tables on the left of the gym volunteers filled different pitchers (provided by the program) with 4 ingredients for the Fortified Soy Meals: rice, soy, dehydrated vegetables, and flavoring mix.  Those ingredients would ultimately become a high protein, nutritious meal, with more than 20 vitamins and minerals and a shelf life of 5 years. 

The “in between” volunteers, those moving between the 2 lengths of tables, would measure the required amount of whatever ingredient s/he had into open plastic bags, held by seated volunteers at the second table.  Those volunteers were then responsible for making sure that his/her bag contained all 4 ingredients, in the exact proportion specified by the program, and then further ensuring accuracy by weighing the bag. 

A filled bag was handed across to the other side of the table where volunteers had special sealing instruments.  The instrument itself looked similar to a stapler and functioned exactly the same.  The bag was placed beneath the top “handle”.  Pressure was applied and the bag was heat-sealed. 

Next to the last step in this assembly process was completed by “runners”.  Those volunteers would gather an armful of bags and deliver them to the round tables on the gym’s opposite side.  At the round tables the meals were placed into piles of 2, then counted into groups of 20, I believe, which filled a box.  Once filled, boxes were carried out and loaded into a truck parked as close as allowable to an outside exit.  And that exit was on the same side of the gym as the round tables, of course.  After only 1 hour and 20 minutes we were done! 

For each 1,000 meals boxed the program manager would strike a gong.  As we started out there was a lapse of time between each gong strike, of course.  But before long, there was basically no time between the strikes.  It was amazingly noisy, which made it that much more awe-inspiring!!! 

There just can’t be too many better uses of such a short period of time, can there?  Truly, there just can’t be. 

The Thread

Ever see a person sewing by hand?  Someone really experienced?  I remember watching my mom do what she called a “running” stitch (if I remember correctly).  She would run the needle through the fabric a number of times before she pulled the thread taut to secure those stitches into the fabric.   It almost feels like that is what is happening in my life lately.  Several topics, first hope, then our interconnectedness, keep coming up in completely unrelated ways: books I’ve been reading, books being recommended to me, movies I’m watching, events I’ve attended, conversations with people, etc.  Now, you just know I’m totally trying to figure out what it means, don’t you?  

I’ll give you a “for example”.  Today at church, during the time we were to be greeting each other, my friend Lynnette, who was sitting with me told Jena, sitting across the aisle, to give me the book she had just returned.  So over the aisle comes the book, Cane River by Lalita Tademy.   The book evidently relates the stories of 4 women from 4 different generations and their stories, beginning in our shameful era of slavery.  The author says the book is fiction, but it is also rooted in research, historical fact, and details handed down through the family. 

Because I don’t sing in the choir, I always get to the car before Allan does.  And today he was even a little longer in coming, just busy talking to people.  So I open the book, of course.  Can’t wait.  Had to look through it.  I find pictures of actual people as well as copies of documents, such as a plantation bill of sale on page 121 (paperback version).    The bill of sale includes the name of each slave to be sold, his/her age, whether or not s/he was guaranteed, to whom each was sold and the price paid.   I get somewhat nauseous.  But I study it anyway.  Want to or not, I have to face up to the ugliness I see there:

ü     Slave, (Name), Negro man age 60, not guaranteed…$105

ü     Slave, (Name), Negro man age 50, fully guaranteed…$510

ü     Slave, (Name), mulatto age 43, fully guaranteed…$1,005

ü     Slave, (Name), Negro age 40, not guaranteed…$1,025

ü     Slave, (Name), Negro age 25, fully guaranteed…$1,565

ü     Slave, (Name), Negress age 55, not guaranteed…$605

ü     Slave, (Name), Negress age 25, fully guaranteed…$1,190

ü     Slave, (Name), Negress age 27 and son (Name), age 10…$1,615

ü     Slave, (Name), Negress age 26 & child (Name), mulatto age 9…$1,400

ü     Slave, (Name), age 11, fully guaranteed…$900

ü     Slave, (Name), Negress, deaf and dumb, age 30, not guaranteed…$950

I don’t yet know what the guarantee is exactly, but I can certainly make some assumptions.  I’ll find out when I finish reading the other 3 books I have going and get to this one. 

So, anyway, I have this book I’ve now glanced through ever so briefly and yet was able to quickly find evil, meticulously documented.  Later this afternoon we planned to watch the next movie from our Netflix queue that arrived several days ago.  I rarely look at our list of choices, preferring instead to tell Allan what I might enjoy and letting him place it wherever he might want on that list.  Today’s feature?  To Kill A Mockingbird with Gregory Peck.  I had never seen the movie that I could recall.  Before long I was on the edge of the couch, trying to breathe deeply, and doing what I could to get my heart to stop pounding.  I knew Tom Robinson’s fate, of course.  But knowing it didn’t translate into being able to see it “in person” without significant stress.  And I do mean significant. 

Thus, here I am, wanting the writing process to not only calm my spirit but also maybe give me some insight.  There are a good number of recent experiences about which I’ve wanted to write but time has not allowed.  I’ll need to go back and complete that writing.  Perhaps viewing them together will help me see if, in fact, they represent “running stitches”; stitches being sewn on this portion of life’s fabric.  If so, I want to know how to pull the stitches together in such a way as to make that fabric not only stronger but so as to also make it more usable to others and maybe even add to its overall beauty.

Destination of Choice

Years ago Allan’s two aunts, Auntie Ang and Aunt Jess (Angeline and Josephine, although I never heard them called by those names.) would entertain us all at family get togethers with their stories of senior citizen mystery trips.  It was wonderful!  Three generations sitting around laughing hard at the stories related by these two.  They could have been a comedy duo.  You’ll just have to take my word on that. 

Aunt Ang died last July 2, the day before her 89^th birthday.  Thinking about her the other day made me recall the mystery trips.  I always found that so funny, that people would get on a bus and have absolutely no idea whatsoever where they were going!  Later in life I understood, of course, that those seniors didn’t care where the bus was headed for the day.  It was about being with others and expecting a fun time. 

Anyway, thinking about those trips led me to consider a comparison with life in general.  I’ll try to explain.  Here are some of the similarities and differences, as I see them:

ü     Aunt Ang and Aunt Jess knew, at least, to expect a mystery trip on a given day.  AND they expected not only an interesting destination, but also a fun and satisfying trip.

ü     They knew two other things, as well:

1.   Times of departure and return.

2.   Place of departure and return were exactly the same.

ü     We don’t know when, or even if, we will have to embark on certain of life’s trips.  So we certainly don’t awaken with the expectation of a day other than the one we planned.

ü     Auntie Ang and Aunt Jess signed up for their trips.  But, unlike them, we don’t get to sign up for some of life’s journeys, good or bad.  And for the bad ones, we would NEVER willingly sign up.  No one would.  

ü     As much as we might want to know the length of time designated for the trip on which life sends us, we have no idea when it will end.

ü     Once on some life journeys, we realize very quickly that we will NOT be returning to the same place from which we departed.  We will NEVER again be at that same place.  Not even close. 

BUT (and here is the whole point) I have come to the conclusion that we do, most definitely, get to choose an alternate “place”.  We can choose our emotional, mental, attitudinal place from which to proceed through the remainder of life.  We get to choose our mindset.  I say that, not only from personal experience, but also from past observations.

I’ve observed that some people choose complete and never-ending self-pity.  This is a choice that allows nothing productive to come from whatever life is still to be lived.  Not only is it not productive, but it also steals from the person making this choice some of the good things that remain after whatever disappointment or difficult experience encountered.  True friends eventually fall away because they never again find any reciprocity in the relationship.  We don’t want relationships that only drain us, never building us up or energizing us.  Sympathy dissipates at some point, much to the person’s chagrin.  S/he simply does not understand, or does not want to understand, that we humans don’t like expectations of how we should feel.  We want to freely give sympathy, not have it demanded, no matter how subtle the demand might be.  Ironically, this choice DOES end in pity for the person; just not the kind desired.  People pity this person for his/her choice and the result of that choice; certainly not for whatever situation caused him/her to choose a life of self-pity.  Although I have several excellent examples of this type of person, I doubt I need share them.  We’ve all been exposed to them, to one degree or another. 

Bitterness is a second choice I’ve seen some make.  This person ends up walking through life’s remainder with anger and nastiness; perhaps even meanness and/or cruelty.  Others don’t consider this person a “drainer” because they don’t even get the option of trying to interact with one so bitter.  Everyone is looked on with condescension.  People don’t stick around for that kind of treatment very long, even if they want to express support and encouragement.

I have a very sad example of this choice that I do want to share.  I worked with a man years ago, who, although not the friendliest guy around, could have some good moments with people and give them some consideration.  When he did not get a desired promotion he soured on everything and everyone.  He became more driven.  He manipulated people.  He looked for things to fault.  He ended up losing two of his closest friends, as well as just about everyone who might have stood by him and who would have made the rest of his career enjoyable.  His very closest friend, when dying, gave his wife instructions NOT to let this man in the house should he break down and come.  The man did come.  And the wife turned him away.  The second friend would not enter any place if he knew the man to be there.  He would not enter even a large building if he had any indication said man was there.  Last I knew this totally embittered man retired without anyone suggesting a “wish you well” party.  He had exactly one friend who remained, one who himself had begun to turn his back on long-time friends, particularly if they did not share the same opinion as he on every possible issue. 

Shortly after Natalia’s death I said to my sister that I did not want us to get sensitive and assume/see hurt where it was simply not intended.  And actually, I wanted to overlook it if it did come.  (It did not.  And as I’ve said since starting this blog, I want to see more of the good that we experienced.)  I wanted us to be very careful about choices made as a result of one of life’s horrible journeys I wish we had never had to take.  If nothing else, I saw that as in our best interest.  I continue to want us to be very careful and deliberate about our destination from here.  We do have a choice.