Personal Reality Show - The Prequel

I can’t get some of what I’ve read and learned recently out of my thinking.  I just can’t.  It seems that some initially unrelated things are meant to work together in some way as to give meaning.  If only I knew what that significance were and/or how to put the puzzle pieces together!  Since I don’t, I’m just going to take up where I left off last time.  I’m going to do a “prequel”, if you will, to Personal Reality Show. 

Saturday night we watched the end of the movie Deep Impact.  We had never seen the movie, but it wasn’t difficult to figure out the plot had to do with a meteorite hitting earth.  I can never make it all the way through a movie until 11:00 PM.  Never.  But, of course, I did last night.  Seeing some of earth destroyed by a tsunami of unheard size and strength was awful, truly!  It made me slightly sick on my stomach.  I felt like my breathing was too short and too fast.  I certainly felt anxious.  I had hated seeing the resulting scenes from Japan’s tsunami on television news.  But seeing it in movie form gave me the mental picture of what it had been like for the poor Japanese victims during the tsunami itself.  Yet, at the same time it gave me, what I consider, an apt description of what the knowledge I’ve gained in the last month or so has done to/for me.  It, just like that meteorite colliding with earth, has made a deep impact on my heart to the degree it has, I think and I hope, sharpened my capacity to envision the real-life story line of others. 

I’ll illustrate that, for purposes of this writing, once again in reference to our treatment of Native American Indians. So let me create another personal reality show.  I’ll be the “star” in this one.  And I will imagine it is a reality show from another time, but a reality show nonetheless. 

I am a young woman of Native American Indian descent.  (Did you really think I would say 62 year-old?)  Along with my mother and father, I have been moved to a totally different part of the country.  Our life here is very different from what we’ve known.  We didn’t want to leave.  My older brother is buried near where we made our home.  He was a brave warrior and at first tried to help our nation protect our land.  But there were too many of them.  

That’s not to say there aren’t some compassionate, sympathetic, and generous white people.  There are.  One woman, in particular, has shown concern and love for my family.  She has taught me to speak the English language and to read and write it as well.  Although I very much enjoy reading and writing, it has also been a source of deep sadness, confusion, and more disillusionment.  You ask why.  I’ll try and explain it.  Be patient with me if, in my struggling to do so, it takes a few minutes.  But I will start at the beginning and try. 

Once I had mastered reading, my friend wanted me to begin to read her religious book, the Bible.  She always took me to get-togethers at which she and others celebrate their God.  Now I am expected to faithfully read portions of this Bible and to know much of what it says.  I have learned that God has a son whose name is Jesus.  He is frequently mentioned and held up as the example for the white people to follow while here on earth.  I like this Jesus.  He eats with people who are not considered important.  In fact, He eats with people who are called sinners.  They don’t worship God or live right.  I like a God that would bother with me.  And it would take a special God, because my skin is much darker than any of the whites. And it has a slightly reddish cast.  And from what I understand my people are uncivilized; we are definitely not acceptable as we are, even to the white “friends” we have.  But it sounds like this Jesus is so special a God that He would consider us passable enough to come and share our evening meal with us.  

In addition to this Bible, I have been encouraged to read the documents written by white people when they founded their nation.  They are most proud of those documents.  They are exceedingly proud of what they call liberty.  But when I read their Declaration of Independence, it called our Indian nations savages!!  I learned that means lack of kind or compassionate treatment of an adversary or prisoner; abstaining from causing or allowing harm to another.  And if being called such a vile and unfair thing were not hurtful enough, we were described as “merciless”.  But when my mother pleaded to be able to stay close to where my brother’s spirit resides, they cared not.  Nor have they cared that the elderly of our tribe have found it difficult to adjust to a different climate; to different foods; to their entire lives being so different. They have not fared well.  It seems to me that the white leaders are not allowing harm; they are causing it. 

The first line of this same document declares that they believe ALL men to be created equal, and that they have rights called “unalienable”, meaning they can’t be surrendered or given away.  But my people did NOT surrender our rights.  They were taken away, as were our lands.  This Declaration of Independence really doesn’t say the rights can’t be taken away, I guess. 

I barely verbalize to myself yet another thing about this written avowal of their beliefs I find no way of explaining.  If we had to be called “merciless” and “savages”, would it not have at least been fair to say that these founding fathers, as they are called, while determining the sort of union/nation to form, were influenced by the Iroquois Indians and their system of government?

I must return to the religious book.  There is what they call a passage in this Bible where it speaks of looking intently (I but recently learned this word.  I feel sure its usage is correct here.) into a mirror to really see what we are like.  That passage warns against looking in the mirror, but afterwards walking away and allowing the reality of what was seen about ourselves to be forgotten.  So there is no change in life based on what was seen in the mirror.  That causes me to think of another question I dare not ask, except to myself.  If the white man really looked into that mirror and wanted to see himself, would he not have to conclude that he has acted as a savage to my people?

God’s Son, this Jesus, acts so differently from what I see among those who constantly speak to us about Him.  I have seen Him take nothing away from people.  He only gives.  He gives friendship and acceptance to those considered unworthy.  He gives them freedom to be who they are and enjoys them such as they are without citing a long list of things they must change about their physical way of life.   He gives sight to those with none.  He restores life to his friend.  He takes care of sick people, whether they are Jewish or not.  He even washes the feet of His disciples!  Yet these, His white followers, do not wash the feet of others.  In fact, some have slaves to wash theirs!!  And those that do not, are, for the most part, strangely silent.  Yet their Declaration of Independence says that when abuses and usurpations are prevalent, designed to reduce a people to absolute despotism, it is not only the right of those people, but their duty to throw off such a government.  The white man must not see that right and duty as belonging to anyone of color, neither my people nor the slaves?

This Jesus speaks plainly when telling His followers how to act towards other people.  He says not only to love God, His Father, but also to love your neighbor as you love yourself.  I wonder if any white woman would feel loved if she were made to leave her home, the home near where her dead son lies?  To leave the area in which she has lived since birth?  And I wonder if any elderly whites would feel loved if forced to leave their home where they are comfortable and which has special meaning to them?  I do not tell my friend, but in the lives of her white leaders I see no evidence of this loving others as you love yourself.

Personal Reality Show

Shortly before 5:00 AM and here I am.  But I awakened a few minutes after 4:00 with what I guess I’ll term a “personalized dramatization”.  You see, I recently read how at least some of the land wrestled away from Native American Indians was used.  In order to be allotted to our “citizens”, the lands had to be surveyed and divided up.  This took several years.  Maps of the divided lands were drawn on small cards.  At publicized events these cards, along with some blank ones, were put into a wire cage.  Then people were allowed to draw, in hopes of a card showing the property lines of land that would then be theirs.  One draw was granted to every white male.  Married men and widows with children received two free draws.  And extra chances were given to Revolutionary War veterans who had distinction of some kind.   Sound fair?  Someone comes, and in one way or another, you are moved from your land so it can be given to others?

Well, I must have had that on my mind.  On waking, I immediately began to think about what if that could happen to us, right now in 2011?  The sense of loss would vary from family to family, I think, depending on the family’s stage of life and what events of life have “taken place” in what they call home.  That home, of whatever type, and the property on which that home sits can have emotional attachments you need.  Maybe it will make sense if I share the “personalized dramatization”.

I like the location of our house a lot.  We’re on a cul-de-sac a good ways away from any main road. There are plenty of tall pines.  We have no streetlights, which is actually one of my favorite things.  The night sounds can be heard so easily.  Somehow I find them reassuring.  And there are no obstructions to the night sky.  The back offers relatively complete privacy.  There is a creek and plenty of vegetation that makes for a restful and peaceful spot.  At times a large heron visits and stands in the water’s middle.  We have seen a red fox across the creek taking on nap on a sunny Saturday morning.  Squirrels seem to have a lot of fun playing tag up and down the trees.  There are several different kinds of birds that visit.  And often enough there are butterflies.  When we first moved here a bird kept repeatedly hitting the kitchen window.  We didn’t know if this had been its nesting place before the house was built or exactly why that bird would spend hours trying to fly through the window.  We finally placed a little stuffed rabbit in the window trying to dissuade the bird so it wouldn’t hurt itself. 

Last July we completed a kitchen remodeling.  It was good therapy for the four of us.  I guess you could say it ended up being like Art Therapy.  We all had input in how to give me more preparation space and provide an area for guests to visit with me while I might be completing dinner preparations.  But I wanted to be able to see outside the kitchen window to the back.  I actually wanted to focus on that “picture”.  My husband and son-in-law did all the work.  Trista, my daughter, and I had final say on the design details, of course.  But it really ended up being a pretty equally shared project.  Not only is the kitchen great and I TOTALLY enjoy it, but it is attached to a family of four trying to handle the death of a child. 

Right now Allan and Ale are building a screened in back porch, which will be on the opposite side of the kitchen from where we now have a small deck.  Once we install a ceiling fan we will be able to spend time outside in the fresh air on days when the heat index is just too high to think about middle of-the-day physical activity.  I can sit outside on the deck and read for a few minutes in the afternoon most of the year.  So I’m looking forward to being able to sit outside and read in the summer months too. 

I like ground cover.  Years ago my Dad gave me what I call myrtle, but I don’t think that is quite accurate.  But, anyway, I have uprooted and moved that myrtle with me for the two moves since he gave it to me.  I explained immediately to the realtor each time that it needed to be clearly understood that the myrtle would be dug up and going with me. 

I tell you all of this to show what all a house can be.  It can represent effort to survive the tragedies life may send.  It can offer comfort and pleasant memories from the past or from a loved one now gone.  It can be a symbol for the family unit.  It can be a refuge. 

Before I leave off the groundwork that I hope gives meaning to my point, let me add an even more powerful illustration.  Let’s switch to Trista and Ale’s home.  First there is Natalia’s room, designed by her Mommy and remodeled by her Daddy.  But also there is “Natalia’s Garden”.  When Natalia died people were calling and asking what they could do.  No, “asking” is the wrong word.  I would say it was more like they were “pleading” with me to tell them what they could do.  The back yard was going to be used for her memorial service.  (Whenever it might be that Trista could get out of bed, focus to plan the memorial, and get to the point where she could be around people, as opposed to not leaving the house except when absolutely necessary, and with the shades pulled or curtains drawn so as to cocoon herself as a way to survive.)  Friends wanted to plant something for Natalia in the backyard.  They did so and it mushroomed from there.  Through these friends others sent monetary contributions specifically for what came to be called “Natalia’s Garden”.  So much was given that a new beautiful new wooden privacy fence was installed, numerous new plants were purchased, stones added to make a path to the gazebo, and to Natalia’s special flowers.  All the work was done by Allan, Ale, and friends who would show up and work all day.  My sister sent a garden stone beautifully engraved with Natalia’s name.  The backyard became the most wonderfully beautiful and peaceful haven.  Since Natalia was cremated, it became the place to which Trista and Ale could retreat and could feel like they were close to her.  And it became a visual representation of the concern and support lovingly offered by so many. 

Okay, now back to the “what if”.  Can you imagine, given what I’ve shared with you, what it would be like if right now a group of people forcibly took either our property and home away from us or Trista and Ale’s away from them?  And sent us somewhere not of our choice?  How could Natalia’s Garden be given to someone else by lottery?  Or to someone else because of their political position of power?  That’s exactly what happened to both our Native American Indians and to those of Jewish descent prior to World War II.

Actually feels different when put it in terms of ourselves and our families, doesn’t it?  Maybe when we fail to experience something from a “what if” or “let me put myself in that position” way, it is like watching TV on an old black and white television.  There’s far more static than picture.  We simply can’t get the rabbit ears adjusted so the picture comes in even partially clear.  It’s too much work and effort.  It’s not worth the time. We give up; go on to whatever attracts our attention.  BUT, when put in terms of a “personalized dramatization”, the static dissipates. 

Wait a minute!  A preferable term might be “Personal Reality Show”.  That might relate better.  And I do want the picture to be seen as if on a large, high-definition screen.  So, make yourself and your family the reality show “stars”.  Imagine that although you were hesitant to do the show, they made it worth your while, so you came to see it as a profitable way to spend some of your time. I think you’ll find it one reality show truly worth watching. 

All Of The Above

I have a knack for catching just a few minutes of something on TV that I find disturbing and which sends me off to investigate.  Darn!  I like the idea that ignorance is bliss.  I do.  I don’t really want to be distressed any more than I have to!

A few weeks ago I turned on the weather channel to see our “Local on the 8’s”.  But, of course, at that very moment a reporter for the channel was interviewing a woman, of at least middle age, whose Cordova, Alabama home had been knocked off its foundation in the tornado that had hit her town of 2,000 on April 27^th.   She had evidently applied and qualified for a single-wide mobile home provided by the Federal Emergency Management Agency.  However, within a short distance of where her very damaged house was located those delivering that FEMA home were stopped.  They were told to turn around; there would be no delivery because a city ordinance bans that type of mobile home in residential areas.  If I remember correctly, the woman said she had been living in a motel but financially could not continue to do so.  She did not know what she was going to do. 

Now, here’s the kicker.  Some of the city’s official buildings were temporarily housed in that same type of FEMA trailers!!  So the report also included a clip of the reporter asking a city official, as well as the mayor, about the obvious discrepancy.  The first official explained that the ban did not apply to businesses.  The mayor said the city ordinance would remain.  In other words, there would be no temporary waiver, as some other cities also destroyed by a tornado, were doing. 

I didn’t know what to feel.  I couldn’t decide which emotion was most prevalent at the moment.  I was totally conflicted.  Disbelief, disgust, distress, discouragement, and depression were all there.   Instantaneously.  All I know is that during the rest of the day I felt so sad for that woman.  On top of probable feelings of loss, confusion, fear, uncertainty about her future, and any other emotion you might think of, she got rejection.  She, in essence, was being told that her life was of no matter.  An ordinance was valued more than she.  That’s exactly how I see it.  And I’ve said it before.  I would very much like to think that everyone facing any of life’s disastrous events would receive the same kind of care and concern that we did.  And to the same degree.  No one can change the outcome of a tragedy.  But the response makes the outcome more bearable.  It helps to stabilize you at a time when you’re completely undone.  It offers some comfort. 

Several weeks later I had not heard any update about the matter, so I did a little research.  Now, in fairness, I have not checked since then.  So if things have changed that would be great.  But, even if the city council has since temporarily waived the ordinance, the damage is already done.  A waiver after the fact cannot take away the initial discouraging and hurtful response.   

Here’s what I found from my research:

• One man, also made homeless by the tornado, thought he was finally getting help when a truck came to his property with his FEMA mobile home.  He received a call that the home was illegal in the city.

• The mayor said that new single-wides aren’t allowed and a tornado isn’t any reason to change the law, even temporarily.

• One councilman with 30 years of service believes the ordinance should be rescinded for a period of 18 months.  That period of time would coincide with the time frame for which FEMA trailers are intended.

• He has reported that no one else supports this proposal.

• On Wednesday June 8^th there was a joint press conference with local, state and federal emergency management officials. 

• The lone councilman mentioned above said he was disturbed that more Cordova residents were not notified of the conference. 

At that press conference the mayor further clarified his position:

ü  He believes the solution for the Cordova residents made homeless by the tornado, among other things, is to rely on church organized programs that fix existing homes for rent or for purchase.  (Does that mean there were so many empty houses prior to the tornado that churches bought them as investments?  Or does that mean you would give your house to the church and you could either rent it or buy it back once it was repaired?  I hope someone asked for further explanation of that point.  Again, in fairness, I am writing what I found on several different sites.  It may be that the reporting is weak and that it was clear at the conference.)

ü  He said ONE home has already been dedicated for use by victims free of charge and 12 more are lined up for POSSIBLE use.  (Emphasis entirely mine.  But that emphasis seems fair and appropriate.  This was reported as being said at the press conference on June 8^th.  The tornado devastated the town on April 27^th.)

ü  Single-wide mobile homes would slow down the recovery process.  The alternative is permanent housing.  (I wonder if any reporter asked him why permanent housing of city buildings was not readily available.)

ü  The city is going to be better and stronger.

ü  They might be a little smaller, but they are going to be better.

ü  The city has to look at the long-range plan.

ü  Officials at the press conference could not say how many Cordova residents are still without adequate housing.   (Will this hurt re-election campaigns for any of those elected to their positions, I wonder?)

ü  “Cordova’s record stands for stubbornness.  We don’t mind a good fight and never back down from anything.”

Wow!  Where to start?  How about the church thing?  I assume the mayor’s contention that churches are the answer means he believes in them?  Maybe even attends one?  Doesn’t seem unreasonable, does it?  Let me start there, but I will also assume he does not attend and explore that possibility in just a minute.  Just to be fair. 

§    What kind of church does he personally attend?  If it is one of the Christian faith, I wonder what he does with the example of the Good Samaritan?  Or the example of the friends of the paraplegic wanting to help so badly that they lowered the man down through a roof? 

§    Do his Sunday beliefs not apply any other day of the week?  Do they not apply at his work place?  Do they not apply to his “neighbors” that Jesus spoke about?  Nor to “the least of these”?

§    Can he cite any example where Jesus thought law was more important than human needs and hurts?  I doubt it.  Jesus even disobeyed the law against healing on Sundays! 

And what about if this mayor does not personally attend church or have any personal religious beliefs?  He still obviously thinks churches have a place in society, does he not?  So, assuming this to be the case, I would ask:

§    Have the churches in his area organized themselves in such a way that they are ready at all times to provide major services in the event of a natural catastrophe? 

§    Do they, especially in this economy, have the resources to continue to provide such services, even if they are organized to do so?  Or, have they, like other charitable organizations been hurt financially?

I guess that’s enough about his church comment.  How about his ready knowledge of relevant numbers?  The terms “one” and “12 possible” don’t give me any confidence the churches are on top of the situation.  But Mr. Mayor seems impressed.  And what about the fact that not one local, state, or federal official could decisively say at the press conference just how many residents were still homeless?  I’m being too hard on them, I know.  There are, after all, a total of 2,000 residents.  And don’t forget they only had 42 days to figure that out since the tornado struck.  Maybe they should have asked for help from those church organizers. 

While I’m talking about emergency services being provided, I can’t help but ask.  How do you focus on  “long-range plans” in the first days after devastation?  Doesn’t the fact that you have emergency management agencies helping with city businesses indicate “immediate” and “urgent”?  How do you skip over the immediacy and urgency of need for residents?  Oh, sorry, I forgot.  The churches have that one house ready and 12 possible others.  That meets immediate and urgent need, I guess. 

And, what about the mayor’s words:  smaller, better, stubbornness, and never?  (As in “We might be a little bit smaller, but we’re gonna be better.”  And “Cordova’s record stands for stubbornness.  We don’t mind a good fight and never back down from anything.”)  I see them as flashing neon lights.  “Smaller” is kind of faded and the light blinks on and off behind the word.  So it could easily be missed.  But, “better” is part of the same sign, and its bulb is burning steadily.  So it makes the “smaller” easier to see too, as long as you read them together. 

The “stubbornness” sign is meant to be impressive.  But the lights around it are overly bright and right down gaudy.  Next to a sign advertising “compassion”, for example, it would look like the cheap sign it really is.  Along with its sister sign, “never”, the two remind me of a group of tacky lights on the strip of Las Vegas, flashy but promoting nothing of value or substance.  A lighted sign reading “compromise” put next to the “never” sign would look like the Eiffel Tower lighted at night next to the half lit and broken neon sign of a roadside dive; one a beautiful monument to human work and interaction, the other signifying an isolated, uglier side of humankind. 

I don’t know.  My brain can’t grasp this particular situation.  It just can’t.  But I have figured out which emotions from my list of choices that I feel now.  All of the above.

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.