tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58352308217407052922024-03-13T00:00:12.452-05:00Sam's MomMusings From a Life Transformed by Unconditional LoveBaba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-87496784169384161342015-05-19T17:46:00.001-05:002015-05-19T17:58:37.672-05:00Global Trach Tube Awareness WeekIt's Global Trach Tube Awareness Week again and I am honored to once again write something for it. Here is the link to their page; <a href="https://www.facebook.com/GlobalTracheostomyTubeAwareness">https://www.facebook.com/GlobalTracheostomyTubeAwareness</a>. <div><br></div><div>And here's what I wrote: </div><div><br></div><div><div>When I lost my son on November 17, 2014, the world stopped spinning. Suddenly there were no alarms, no Darth Vader sighs from machines, no 24/7 schedule of meds, no appointments to make or supplies to order, no good morning grins, no midnight cuddles, no reason to watch Sesame Street.</div><div><br></div><div>How do I start over in the wake of my personal tsunami?</div><div><br></div><div>Well, at first I didn't. First I had a mountain of "now" to consume. This whole grief thing is completely overwhelming and I had to let it overwhelm me for a bit. I let people help me, I let them cook for me and help me think. My brain stopped working for awhile. My best friend came over, made me tea, and helped me make a to do list. Then when someone said "if there's anything I can do,,,," I could whip out the to do list and read it to them. </div><div><br></div><div>They say it takes at least 3 months for the shock to wear off and real grief to start. I waited. After the funeral, my husband and I rented a Hippie Van and camped up and down the West Coast.. It was good to get away and not think. Coming home was pretty terrible, but I was ready to begin to deal with the catastrophic reality my world had become.</div><div><br></div><div>Step One: Sort through the debris</div><div><br></div><div>An unbelievable amount of stuff that had been precious became meaningless the moment he stopped breathing. So far I have mailed about 20 boxes and delivered about 10 carloads of medical supplies and personal things to people who can use them. I have also put out about 30 black trash bags of things no one wants. I'm probably close to 3/4 finished.</div><div><br></div><div>As I sort through the physical things that now have no meaning without him, I am also sorting through my mental and emotional self. The sea change hit my insides as well. We were a symbiotic team. I lost not only my son, but also my identity as his mom and my occupation as his advocate and his aide. Without him, so many things I was proud of are now irrelevant. I am disabled by grief. I feel like a stroke patient learning how to do absolutely everything again and not always sure it's worth the effort. I never know when something will remind me of him and I will feel another wave of grief overwhelm me and leave me gasping for breath.</div><div><br></div><div>Step Two: See what's left to rebuild my new life</div><div><br></div><div>As my house is evolving from ICU through mailroom into cozy ‚"empty nest" for my husband and me, I am discovering gems among the trash; things I had forgotten I owned and things I will keep forever in his memory. I am also rediscovering myself. I am so proud of the life we built together in spite of all the difficulties we faced. My role as his advocate may be over, but I will always know that I handle crisis beautifully. I learned to be so strong and powerful in defense of my son, now I need to be just as strong an advocate for myself. I learned wisdom and gratitude and patience and compassion from living with him. These are gifts I can take away from his funeral. He lived a beautiful life. It was my honor to be his mom. I will never stop loving him, or missing him, but I am learning to appreciate the person I am because he loved me.</div></div><div><br></div>Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-19409038727594546652015-05-10T08:23:00.001-05:002015-05-10T08:23:11.327-05:00Mother's Day 2015<div>This week I realized that I still cling not only to Sam's memory, but to my sense of responsibility for his wellbeing. I suppose that makes sense because being responsible for him was close to 100% of my identity - or anyway 100% of my minutes - every day for year's and years. My NAME was Sam's Mom. </div><div><br></div><div>But, in fact, clinging to that sense of responsibility is killing me because I no longer have any power to care for him. NONE AT ALL. </div><div><br></div><div>And I have not released him to his new life. </div><div><br></div><div>It was hard releasing Ben Forsberg. I can still touch him occasionally and I am so proud of him and I adore his wife and kids. Still I had to let him go. I don't know how he is doing each day, I don't have a part in the big decisions of his life. He is my son, we love each other, but he's a grownup. </div><div><br></div><div>I didn't have a lot of choice about releasing Ben. He would have left no matter what I did. But I did have a lot of choice about how I let him go. I could have made it a lot harder for him. But I think a mom does what is best for her child and I really want what's best for him. And I don't think staying with me was best. He's better off where he is and I love him enough to know that. </div><div><br></div><div>Wow. Same story with Sam! I didn't have a lot of choice about letting him go, I had a lot of choice about how I let him go, I made it as easy for him to leave me as I possibly could. He's better off where he is now, even though I have zero input in his "life" or whatever now. </div><div><br></div><div>And I miss both my boys so much I can hardly breathe. </div><div><br></div><div>"Do the hard thing that is best for your child" has always been my motto. I haven't always lived up to it or been wise enough to know what course of action is best. Too often I have simply reacted and had to think and apologize later. </div><div><br></div><div>This lonely Mother's Day I am thinking of Hannah in the Bible who graciously gave her precious little boy, Samuel, back to God. I'm trying to be gracious, but I just feel old. </div>Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-363733929586389062015-04-08T19:50:00.000-05:002015-04-08T19:50:30.284-05:00Future Planning<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today, Oscar Hammerstein says it all. <a href="http://youtu.be/9PX9SIQdCjs">Confidence?</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What will this day be like? I wonder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What will my future be? I wonder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It could be so exciting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To be out in the world, to be free.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My heart should be wildly rejoicing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh what's the matter with me?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've always longed for adventure, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">to do the things I've never dared.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now here I am facing adventure, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then, WHY am I so scared?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Next week it will be five months. Obviously, that's a tiny, tiny bit of time compared to the almost 33 years we had together. I'm still deeply grieving. I never really thought he would go so soon. I hoped he would die first, but not until I was around 80! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm NOT around 80. By dying so much sooner than I ever expected (or wanted), he gave me a lot of time to do just about anything. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm free.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't know what to do.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have taken many time management seminars. I know the drill. Make a to do list and prioritize it. The trouble is I don't have a central Mission Statement to focus and bring order to my priorities. It was "Keep Sam alive and happy" apparently. Now that job is accomplished, what is my mission?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've got lots of "to dos" and lots of goals (to regain health, get a job I enjoy and pays for bills and trips...) but I need a Mission Statement to bring it all into focus.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Grief is a journey of transformation. I am trying to be mindful and leave plenty of room for my new self to be born. I am standing on the edge of the next great adventure. It's hard to plan when you have no idea where you will be heading.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stay tuned.</span><br />
Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-5269225441528547712015-04-05T04:33:00.001-05:002015-04-05T19:21:55.881-05:00Perfect Storm"And so, girls, we come to the Twelfth Station. In this picture we see Jesus dying on the cross. Standing by him is his Mom. She is so sad but so proud because she knows her son never did anything wrong but he chose to go through this terrible day because he was such a brave man and so full of love for you and me and everyone."<br>
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As I explain, I feel so many emotions. I'm once again proud of my own brave son who never did anything wrong and suffered so much so he could stay with me. I feel not only my own deep sorrow because he is gone, but I feel a connection to Mary who must have felt so much like me but more - more pride, more pain, more horror. After all Jesus died a public and most horrific death. My darling boy died peacefully, surrounded by love. </div>
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And I feel anger because he is gone and my life is so emptied that there is almost nothing left of my life. He was my occupation and obsession every moment. The soldiers divided Jesus' few possessions among them. I'm stuck with a mountainous pile of medical supplies, toys and clothes that must be divided up and I am the one deciding who gets what. So much that was precious became junk in the instant of death. I know much of it is precious to someone else struggling to care for her child. If I could only find that mom! I am angry that I have to deal with this.</div>
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And I am angry because in the four months since he died, we have lost two beloved pets! Why am I surrounded by death? It's not fair, why me? These are questions I thought I had left behind long ago. They are still and always unanswerable but I am asking them. Again. Sigh. I am angry with myself for needing to torture myself with these pointless questions again.</div>
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But my two friends, ages 5 and 7 are looking at me expectantly. I pull myself together and go on. "When we look at this picture, we feel sad because we know that Jesus chose to let this terrible thing happen because he loved us. And we are sorry for all the times we have made him sad. He loves us and wants us to be kind and loving and thoughtful. When we are not, he is sad and we must tell him we are sorry."</div>
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Movement to my right catches my attention and I turn to see an angry face. Old, bent almost in half and furious, a woman clutching her pink plastic rosary is glaring at me like a cartoon witch. Charley moves to speak to her. She gestures furiously and he nods politely and comes back to us. "We need to be more quiet." </div>
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Okay. We were trying to be quiet, but we can try harder. </div>
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I continue in a lower voice. "Next is Station 13. When they were sure Jesus was dead, the Roman guards let Mary and the others take him down from the cross and get him ready for burial. They washed his body and dressed him in clean clothes."</div>
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Suddenly I remember doing the same for Sam. He turned green so quickly once he stopped breathing. Was that because of the infection or does everyone turn green? His body was cold on top, but when we turned him to get his clean clothes on, it was still very hot underneath. We put him in a sweatshirt that said "This is what AWESOME looks like" and tucked his favorite toy in his pocket. </div>
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Did Mary stick something special in with Jesus before they rolled the stone closed? I bet she did. I wonder what it was?</div>
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The angry woman circles around glaring at us again and approaches from my left this time. She is simply furious. "We have finished with the Stations of the Cross! I don't know where you were when we were doing it, but you are too late. People are trying to pray and you must leave!"</div>
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There are so many things wrong with this that I am momentarily stunned. It seems so ridiculous! I wanted to say: </div>
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We were there earlier and did the Stations with the congregation and the girls had a lot of questions. </div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I asked Father if I could take the girls around again to explain it to them and he was delighted. He gave us a special blessing and prayer before he left. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">It's Good Friday, the church is open and people are encouraged to do their own private Stations of the Cross. They have been announcing this all through Lent. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">It's a big church and we are talking quietly and there are at most five other people in the church and they are no where near us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">We are already at Station 13, we won't be much longer. You need to sit down and pray for patience.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Jesus said "Let the children come, for the Kingdom of Heaven is made of such as these."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Instead, I pick one of the worst replies possible. I say "I am sorry you are feeling cranky." That did not go over well, naturally.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">"I'M NOT CRANKY!" She loudly insists, glaring up at me with a twist of her neck that was probably painful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Now I am getting embarrassed. We are becoming a spectacle and this is pretty much exactly NOT what I wanted to teach the girls. I try to placate the angry woman, I try to feel pity, but she keeps interrupting me and talking louder and louder. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Already emotional because of my own personal connection with the death of precious sons, I lose my temper and whisper through gritted teeth "I am TEACHING them to PRAY!" We are now two Harpies staring each other down across a battlefield littered with the scraps of my ruined Spiritual Exercise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">"Well you are teaching them WRONG!" She shouts over her shoulder as she retreats across the altar and out, slamming the door.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Aghast at my lack of self-control, I turn back to my youthful charges, whose eyes and mouths are gaping wide, and pull myself together. "So. Whenever we do something that makes Jesus sad, we should tell him. For example I had no business getting mad at that lady and so I need to tell him right now that I am sorry and ask him to forgive me."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Later, Charley summed up the experience: "It was a God Moment. The whole point of Lent is to be confronted with our sinfulness. You certainly were confronted by yours!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I have no regrets about taking the girls through the Stations a second time. But I do feel very sorry for losing my temper and being disrespectful towards the angry woman. I made her carry the burden of all my anger, although she was most unwilling to do so. She stormed out of the church bearing whatever her own pain is along with the extra burden of my anger. In that horrible moment, before the crucified Christ, she bore my sin. I'm sorry for this. And I'm pretty sure Jesus forgives me, but she probably does not. I'm sorry about that, too.</span></div>
Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-82319720251404574692015-04-02T07:23:00.000-05:002015-04-02T07:23:27.177-05:00Cozy Corner Breakfast<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm entertaining a 7 year old this week. It's a lot of fun but remarkably scare in moments of profound thinking. We have made <span style="background-color: white;">ketchup and yogurt and kombucha and colored the porch and gone "to Japan" (Mitsuwa shopping center) and go for walks every day and and and - but we haven't stopped to think much.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">I'm very grateful for someone to keep me company this week. Last Thursday my parrot died in my arms. The cockatiel died last month at the vet's. And of course, Sam left me on November 17, 2014. On Friday morning after Charley went to work, the house was so silent and devoid of anyone who needed me. It positively echoed with loneliness.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">So I went out to breakfast. Here's a poem I wrote while being amused by the family at the next table. Apologies to anyone who already read this on Facebook:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Cheerful, tuneless singing snags my attention</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Baby singer jerks back in mock alarm and shouts "OH NO" </span>aghast</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then giggles with delight at his own perfect imitation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The cycle repeats.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Parent watch. amused, resigned and helpless</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the soundtrack of their morning </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is replayed on an endless loop.</span>Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-62112421306871905232015-03-25T14:45:00.000-05:002015-03-25T14:45:45.279-05:00HealingI've been thinking about what we mean when we say "I'm praying for you". Is it like saying "How are you?" Is it, in fact, something we say by rote because it is polite and conveys a vague aura of general good will without costing much?<br />
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That would be bad. </div>
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Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-72889604869262303502015-03-25T14:43:00.000-05:002015-03-25T18:28:00.506-05:00Chapter Three <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Sam was young, people regularly gave me a copy of "Welcome to Holland" - an essay by Emily Perl Kingsley on what it is like to give birth to a child with disabilities. It is a wonderful essay and you can find it here:</span><br />
<a href="http://www.our-kids.org/archives/Holland.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Welcome to Holland</span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Someone also gave me a book written about the same time called "Hope for the Families" by Robert Perske and illustrated by Martha Perske. 30 years later, it's still in print and available at Amazon.com. The illustrations are beautiful. One of the very first things he says is "Accept the fact that the 'child of your dreams' never was and never would have been. All parents must acknowledge this sooner or later. Your problem: You must do it sooner."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sam wasn't what I was expecting, but he was pretty terrific. No one gets the child they were expecting, life just doesn't work like that. These two thoughts helped me come to terms with the reality of being Sam's Mom and got me started on our wonderful 33 years together. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Chapter One of my life is the 30 years before Sam was born. Chapter Two is the almost 33 years we spent together. Now, if my mother is anything to judge by, I may have a Chapter Three! She's 86 and beginning to consider slowing down.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My plan, once I got used to the idea of being Sam's Mom, was that he would die before me but close to the end of my life. Then I wouldn't have to wait very long to join him in Heaven.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once again, life has thrown me a curve ball. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is rather a shock. I knew in my head that he was dying, but I really didn't believe it in my heart. In the last couple of years, I did try to look ahead and make a plan for surviving him, but I was too busy taking care of him to really think ahead much and it felt like giving up. And, honestly, I can't imagine a better way to spend my days than being Sam's Mom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Only suddenly, unexpectedly, here I am, Sam-less and healthy. Four months and counting into my new life and I'm ready to look around and figure out what to do with my days until I see my boy again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's not what I was expecting, but it's got some rather intriguing possibilities.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No one gets the life they plan on. Life just doesn't work like that.</span><br />
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<br />Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-44641821063583609452015-03-14T21:52:00.001-05:002015-03-25T14:44:54.080-05:00His Last Act Before Leaving MeHis last act before leaving me<br />
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Our souls were knit together<br />
We were one<br />
He took that for granted<br />
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How could he not?<br />
Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh<br />
Heart of my heart<br />
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Breath of my breath<br />
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Symbiotic<br />
His thoughts linked to mine<br />
Serene<br />
His faith that I would always provide<br />
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My last gift to him was death<br />
He opened his eyes<br />
Grinned<br />
And said<br />
"No love, let your last gift be chai<br />
Now I am ready to go"<br />
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It is finished,<br />
In Beauty<br />
<br />Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-24884828854030604662014-08-17T18:11:00.001-05:002014-08-17T18:13:43.964-05:00Household Saint<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">As Sam dies, he is leaving Charley and me with a legacy of love and gentleness. We are communicating and working together better than we ever have before.</span><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Today is our 40th Wedding Anniversary. Last night my friend (who is a respiratory therapist I got to know during Sam's many hospital visits) stayed with Sam so Charley and I could go out for our anniversary. It was such a blessing! We went to Ravinia and saw Tony Bennet. It was a beautiful evening and we enjoyed ourselves very much. Because we don't know anyone who is qualified to watch Sam, this wasn't a "rare" event. It was unique! And we enjoyed it very much. I'm so glad I married someone who enjoys so many of the same things I do. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Sam perked up and entertained his friend so well. Once again he proved he is a miracle worker. She is going through the most horrible things in her personal life and he gave her peace. They played Concert for George Harrison and shook bells and tambourines along with the music and she sang in her "atrocious" voice. (Her word, not mine). She looked so relaxed and peaceful when we came home. It was actually a startling difference. She kind of glowed. Sam is a wonder. I wish I could get her to come sit with him more often. She needs him! Or maybe it was George...</span></div>Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-3111603172744519462014-08-02T18:37:00.001-05:002014-08-02T20:34:03.778-05:00Porch!<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUNkWTKdXJsOqZJ9_wMi9ItK6QlmzpqjVQQDgLW0HMoAYlnKlRyo5q8X0ttBsYZU5hosBHV6bUAhZ-UE_YX3D2lB_Uvx6nlPTFSOoAQj-hkMjMgPcr1tz66AqzX4OhrF8g707ws4_iUDM/s640/blogger-image-927891617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUNkWTKdXJsOqZJ9_wMi9ItK6QlmzpqjVQQDgLW0HMoAYlnKlRyo5q8X0ttBsYZU5hosBHV6bUAhZ-UE_YX3D2lB_Uvx6nlPTFSOoAQj-hkMjMgPcr1tz66AqzX4OhrF8g707ws4_iUDM/s640/blogger-image-927891617.jpg"></a></div>I wanted this to be a record of my precious Sam and his influence on my life. But the last few years have been so difficult that I really didn't have the heart to record anything. <div><br></div><div>Now he is slowly dying and I am so afraid of life without him. I have always said that it would be better if he died first because there is no place that would take care of him. As he declines, that becomes more and more clear. Even Hospice has concerns about whether or not they can help in our tricky situation!</div><div><br></div><div>His death will mean the end of my life as I know it. I spend every minute of my life, waking or sleeping, centered around him. It is my privilege. It is all I really want to do. But he will leave a pretty huge sink hole in my life. </div><div><br></div><div>Death will be the first place he has ever gone on his own, the first place I haven't checked out first to be sure it is safe. Somehow my faith doesn't help with this. I know I should believe he will be somehow better after death, but honestly, I'm not sure. </div><div><br></div><div>But today is not a good day for dying. Today we managed to get out on the porch and neighbors came to visit and play music. Today he managed to communicate very clearly with me and he smiled a lot. Today was a good day. </div>Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com0Hermosa Chicago41.923671 -87.73412tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-75013715222516327552014-08-02T15:54:00.001-05:002015-03-25T14:45:20.458-05:00Ars MoriendiMy Bright Particular Star is fading<br />
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And when he finally collapses into himself</div>
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I will be trapped forever in stasis </div>
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Around his Black Hole</div>
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Already I feel stretched to infinite thinness </div>
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By the infinity of his dying</div>
Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com3Hermosa Chicago41.923688 -87.734101tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-39293800105674723202014-03-22T01:33:00.001-05:002014-03-22T01:33:59.777-05:00Back in MICUTerror Boredom Confusion<div>Old friends New friends Isolation</div><div>Good food Bad food No appetite</div><div>Questions with no answers</div><div>Anger Ecstasy Hope Depression</div><div>Gratitude</div><div>Rest Sleep deprived Familiar strangeness</div><div>Unknown</div><div>Blood Pain Recovery DNR</div><div>Lost and Found</div><div>Endlessly the same new approach</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFKgZ9nH6TnhUz0bhOK71M-qKQIluQ7utLj1F1oHrsXsU5ZgSoEK_L9Hwr_WHJQ7js_v2Ef10Bd6r4J6HRjHzs0BZELk0iPXA9aR4X7nwAXVph5hknaB76hGHEI6cAkvUgPeqSM26d9Q/s640/blogger-image-498621309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFKgZ9nH6TnhUz0bhOK71M-qKQIluQ7utLj1F1oHrsXsU5ZgSoEK_L9Hwr_WHJQ7js_v2Ef10Bd6r4J6HRjHzs0BZELk0iPXA9aR4X7nwAXVph5hknaB76hGHEI6cAkvUgPeqSM26d9Q/s640/blogger-image-498621309.jpg"></a></div>Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-28999544908498518222014-03-18T14:29:00.000-05:002014-03-22T07:15:07.407-05:00Elephant Bones<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRw_mNA0tTA3SrwxCMm1vAuBhSWug9e8H8FYx-D7NmnePi9nFIpwQwc3uBaLsrAF4T18UiM1a3S8ST7j3yu2RVyYn_j4lKhj51fSyvZxcr36Tly4TO33a1jf0luVJDJxmNpfYdQDR-65Y/s640/blogger-image--90634830.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRw_mNA0tTA3SrwxCMm1vAuBhSWug9e8H8FYx-D7NmnePi9nFIpwQwc3uBaLsrAF4T18UiM1a3S8ST7j3yu2RVyYn_j4lKhj51fSyvZxcr36Tly4TO33a1jf0luVJDJxmNpfYdQDR-65Y/s640/blogger-image--90634830.jpg"></a></div>It was a dark and stormy night when Rep got the call. An elephant had died at the San Francisco Zoo. Could he come investigate? Recent investigations into the death, by shark attack, of a 13 million year old paleoparadoxia (now renamed paleoparadoxia repenningi) had left him unsatisfied regarding the bone structure of the feet of these large mammals, so the elephant case intrigued him. Sure. He'd come.</span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As he drove north through the night in the kind of rain you only get on the sunny California coast, his headlights, wipers and brain were racing. Would he find the answers he was looking for? Or just more questions?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The keeper who met him seemed nervous. The recently deceased elephant's mate had a bullet proof alibi. He had been in the pen at the time of death. But now the bull seemed intent on breaking out. As they walked toward the scene, they could hear him crashing against the bamboo fence that separated him from his deceased mate and bellowing over the sounds rain, wind and surf.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The electricity was out. They had to drive the station wagon into the pen and turn the head lights on the body. As the bull continued to attack the bamboo fence, Rep turned to ask the keeper about tools for the autopsy. He was met by a blank, frightened look. He had no tools. Fortunately, Rep had a few carpentry tools in the back of his "Woody" station wagon. He began his work. The bull became more determined.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rep asked the keeper if the fence would hold. The keeper replied that he thought it would, but perhaps it would be best if they hurried. He provided Rep with some large plastic bags for the "evidence" and together they loaded two of the feet into the back of the Woody. Then he began his long drive home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rep had met the zookeeper while he was a grad student at the University of California, Berkeley. He was frequently the first to hear about strange deaths at the zoo and often given the chance to take all or parts of the deceased for his research. In the beginning, he borrowed the weber grills from all the houses on the block and cheerfully cooked the meat off the bones. Eventually he acquired a huge cauldron (big enough to cook a missionary) and set it up behind a bamboo fence in the far reaches of his back yard. He decorated the fence with scary African Masks to keep neighborhood children out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The elephant's feet were his biggest specimen yet and too big to fit comfortably in the cauldron. He left them in the plastic bags in the garage for a few days trying to come up with a sensible solution. He didn't find one. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's where I come in. As his oldest child, I found the elephant feet in the garage completely fascinating. A lot more interesting than the pet tarantula and the various snakes, not nearly as interesting as my best friend the raven, about the same as the pet skunk, bobcat and geese. The other neighborhood kids and I snuck into the garage whenever we could to marvel at the ghastly sight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think that's what gave him the idea. He bought a bunch of shovels and told us to "find China". We cheerfully <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhge9x__CEkJl9LlJmyhLP0Ygf5y1_lRPp0OuFsSOugy8fGyBin0hwuufJNd8xBQy7Pg8GQDhndvSX_PKrb2fnspz_BNlQ_Irhyphenhyphen3U5gfhVXmvwjgT8abUxO7zZ3PnxJzNq_p7cYNRdnCks/s640/blogger-image-899530356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhge9x__CEkJl9LlJmyhLP0Ygf5y1_lRPp0OuFsSOugy8fGyBin0hwuufJNd8xBQy7Pg8GQDhndvSX_PKrb2fnspz_BNlQ_Irhyphenhyphen3U5gfhVXmvwjgT8abUxO7zZ3PnxJzNq_p7cYNRdnCks/s640/blogger-image-899530356.jpg"></a></div>excavated in the back yard for several days. We had quite a good hole dug by the time Barbara Burkemper fell in and broke her arm. At this point, the shovels were confiscated. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then the elephant feet were buried and almost forgotten for several years. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I was famous for being the only girl at my high school who had an elephant buried in the back yard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today the one remaining foot of that elephant is in the Paleontology lab of Professor Chris Bell at the University of Texas at Austin where it continues to fascinate people. </span></div>
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Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-7129051524413088322013-05-22T17:43:00.001-05:002015-03-25T14:51:37.375-05:00Global Tracheostomy Tube Awareness Week<br />
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<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1369262172867_2306">This is Global Tracheostomy Tube Awareness Week. Here's something I wrote for them:</span></div>
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Here's a poem I wrote when Sam was 2 years old.</div>
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Born: Like Caesar<br />
Natural child<br />
Torn in unnatural manner<br />
From natural mother<br />
Into cold, unnatural sterility.<br />
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Purple with rage,<br />
You tore needles from your flesh<br />
Until they pinned you down.<br />
In that world of hoses down throats and bright lights<br />
And rock music<br />
YOU<br />
Were a giant.<br />
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"He will never see,<br />
Never walk, never talk,<br />
He fails to thrive.<br />
Profoundly retarded, profoundly disabled<br />
And probably<br />
A Dwarf."<br />
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You laugh.<br />
And seeing me at the far end of the hall,<br />
Cry, "Mama!"<br />
As you slowly inch your way down your own<br />
Olympic course,<br />
And finally,<br />
Reach your goal.<br />
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I lift you up.<br />
With four gold medals glowing in our four eyes<br />
We two alone, are buffeted<br />
By crowds of angels<br />
Cheering.<br />
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"He will never..."<br />
That lies like truth.<br />
Never: 'Till Burnham Wood do come to Dunsinane<br />
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In two short years,<br />
I have seen you do what no Doctor<br />
Born of woman<br />
Believed you could do.<br />
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So lead on MacDuff and Damned be he who first cries<br />
"Hold enough!"<br />
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By Jeanne Forsberg with help from Shakespeare.<br />
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When Sam was born, I was confidently expecting a healthy, normal baby girl. Sam wasn't any of those! What was God thinking?</div>
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That first year my husband lost his job, we lost our apartment, we had to think of our 4 year old son, who was scared and confused, and Sam clung to life by a thread. We took him to countless doctors and had to re-admit him to the hospital several times. As he struggled to live, my faith in God began to erode beneath my feet. I grieved the death of my dreams and the death of my imaginary daughter. </div>
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I lost contact with so many friends and family members who could not understand what I was going through and had their own faith issues to deal with when God continued to not "heal" Sam. I couldn't walk away. I had no choice. I was Sam's mom. I had a job to do. It wasn't a job I wanted, but it turned into a calling.</div>
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Fast forward 31 sleep-deprived, anxiety ridden years. Sam is the delight of my life. Anyone who takes the trouble to know him is transformed by joy. Loving Sam has given me back more than I could ever imagine. His smiles and his hugs give me strength and heal my sorrows and fears. When I think about that mythical baby girl I wonder, what was I thinking? I would rather be Sam's mom than anything I can possibly imagine. This roller coaster ride has been thrilling.</div>
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Sam has Joubert's Syndrome. We didn't have a diagnosis until a couple of years ago. I think 31 years ago this diagnosis didn't exist. It is diagnosed by a particular malformation in his brain called a "Molar Tooth". I remember doctors telling me that he had an abnormality in his brain that looked like a butterfly, but they didn't know what to make of it. So we stopped worrying about a diagnosis and just focused on giving him whatever he needed. The neurologist quoted in my poem was pretty accurate. He doesn't walk or talk or chew. He is profoundly retarded and he is very short. But he certainly thrives! He attended Public School and made lots of friends. At his High School Graduation, the entire student body cheered. It was one of the proudest moments of my life. He has been an active participant in our church and through him, I have found my way back to a newer, deeper faith in God. People often stop us on the street or in restaurants and ask, "Isn't this Sam? I met him at ... He is so wonderful!"</div>
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Sam has only had a tracheostomy a few months. We finally agreed to it because he was hospitalized twice for pneumonia in 2012. It had been over 7 years since his last admission. Having a trach makes it easier for him to breathe and cough up mucus from his lungs. It makes it easier for me to suction out anything he can't quite cough up. It also gives us a way to attach a ventilator at night to control his sleep apnea. </div>
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It is a mixed blessing. He can't make noises anymore and I miss that. It gets clogged fairly frequently which is very scary and could be life-threatening. I have to take a mountain of medical supplies with me whenever we leave the house and I can no longer hire the kid down the street to watch him so I can get some respite and I have to always be with him - which isn't all bad!</div>
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And he loves his trach. He touches it frequently and smiles. He loves breathing through his neck. Thanks to the trach, we get to keep our wonderful, miracle boy longer and that's the best part. </div>
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Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-4894266693938093072012-12-02T12:29:00.001-06:002012-12-02T12:29:40.912-06:00Cultural DifferencesI love Chicago. <br />
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Interesting conversation with a man from Vietnam yesterday. We were discussing various SE Asian atrocities committed by oppressive governments. I offered the obvious cliche about people in this country not understanding or appreciating the freedoms we have. <br />
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His response was that he thinks we have too much freedom and thinks we need a bit of oppression. People under repressive regimes who do not break the rules are usually safer than most Americans. Oppression that you surrender to is not such a bad thing!<br />
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I asked him which freedoms he would take away. He instantly responded: the right to bear arms and the right to slander the sitting president. <br />
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Interesting viewpoint. If course, we were having this conversation in Chicago, not Saigon. Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-87153511074518786812012-11-01T16:18:00.001-05:002012-11-01T16:20:11.160-05:00BrianI notice and appreciate guys like Brian. Every day Brian goes to work keeping the cafeteria dining room clean at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. That's what he's paid to do. He's very good at it. Tables and floors always clean. <br />
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Cleaning may be his job, but it's not his calling. He Is a warm, friendly guy. He remembers Sam and what he likes to eat. Last spring when Sam was an inpatient, Brian brought him chocolate pudding. <br />
<br />
I'm taking a break right now while Sam watches a movie. As I expected, Brian came over to ask about Sam. But as I sat here longer, I noticed he stopped at other tables as well. He knows all the regulars at this hospital! He asks one person about a book they both are reading. He asks after family members who aren't present. He knows the conditions various people are battling. <br />
<br />
If Brian knew I was writing this he'd probably laugh. He's not doing anything special. He doesn't think he's extraordinary. But in my book, he's a holy man. How many people's lives has he healed just by noticing and remembering they exist? <br />
<br />
Only God knows and I bet God is smiling. Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-50300662993254774082012-10-01T11:54:00.000-05:002012-10-01T11:54:44.473-05:00Bill Leslie in Me<span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> For many years we attended LaSalle Street Church and for most if those years we both worked for LaSalle in one capacity or another. I was Bill's secretary for awhile. Bill was founder and senior pastor. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> I forget the exact number, but I think it was 480. He used to say "There are over 480 verses in the Bible that speak of God's identification with the poor but only two that speak of the virgin birth. One of those actually says a<u> young girl</u> shall conceive." The point being that our priorities need to be adjusted. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Social Justice starts in the Old Testament and runs through the New Testament like fire. But as you read the verses you will see that God is not calling for "bleeding heart liberalism" or throwing money at the problems of the disenfranchised - although I remain a democrat - but a sacrificial communion with that population. Meeting them as equals and receiving as well as giving. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> That kind of equality is terribly difficult for those of us who grew up entitled. I am not sure most of us at LaSalle ever truly achieved it. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I have been the mother of a son with profound disabilities for 30 years and the wife, for close to 40 years, of a man who has been a minister, a public school teacher, a janitor and unemployed. He is currently a school bus driver. We are now impoverished ourselves and live in a community that would have terrified me 40 years ago. Yet I am still conscious that my education, my accent, my skin color, my posture and my assumptions all still communicate authority wherever I am. I am still treated with more respect in stores, restaurants and laundromats than my neighbors. When I take a friend to a hospital or doctor visit, for example, the doctors and nurses invariably speak to me as though I am the guardian or person in charge of the friend (black, Latino or disabled) who is the patient, after all. The friend will be ignored as if invisible unless I direct the doctor to speak to the friend. What is even more disturbing to me is how often the friend is not just okay with this but seems to welcome it and readily defers to me, clearly thinking they will get better care that way. And they are probably correct. This is one way I can be of service to my friend: to make limited use of my power as an over educated white woman without ever mistaking that power for superiority. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">In our neighborhood, we are the "go to" people whenever a neighbor has to interact with public officials. We spend a lot of time reading and filling out complicated forms and advising people regarding confusing notices they receive. It seems to me that the complication of arcane paperwork has an inverse ratio to the educational level of the recipient. It is amazing how many intrusive and ridiculous yet terrifying forms poor people must fill out! Although it is time consuming and seems thankless, our front lawn magically never seems to need mowing and the winter Charley had surgery I never had to shovel our front walk. Of course, Sam Care comes first and it is sometimes important to say no, but helping is what friends do for each other and we try to do what we can. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> We will never be like our friends. We can only be ourselves as honestly and faithfully as we possibly can. We do not "bear witness to Christ" in the way most Evangelicals mean it. We simply live our difficult life along side our friends who are leading equally difficult lives and by that witness we are all transformed. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" />Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-9868440282095211862012-08-21T09:57:00.000-05:002012-08-21T09:57:33.394-05:00Dark Days<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the beginning (30+ Years ago), life was a continuous nightmare. I was in denial - or still had hope - it's hard to tell the difference even now. I thought Sam was just off to a bad start and some doctor would fix him. Soon. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cynthia Stack, brilliant clinician with absolutely no compassion, put an end to that phase. She examined him for a couple of minutes and pronounced, "Profoundly retarded, profoundly disabled and probably a dwarf," and walked out of the room. Technically, he's a midget not a dwarf.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Another doctor said, "I believe we should do everything we can for children like this until they are 3 years old. And then, for the sake of the family, if they aren't any better, we put them in an institution." At the time I thought, "No way." And we didn't, but looking back I see his point. I don't think I agree with it, but I understand what he meant. Making the decision to keep Sam didn't feel very important at the time, it just seemed like the obvious choice. But it was one of those Doctor Who universe-splitting moments that change the future forever. We surrendered all hope of being "normal". It transformed our family, it made the three of us (Charley, Ben and me) into who we are today. I don't know if that's good or bad, it's just true.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That decision was the end of a long process of acceptance. He wasn't going to get better. He wasn't going to grow up. He wasn't the little girl I thought I was carrying when I was pregnant, he was Sam.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fast forward 30 mostly wonderful years.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">30 years in which I have passionately fought for quality of life for my baby.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">30 years in which I have been slowly transformed by the combination of intense joy and overwhelming sadness that being Sam's Mom involves.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">30 years of sleep deprivation, worry and learning words like bilateral choroidial coloboma and ataxic cerebral palsy and central sleep apnea and cystic fibrosis-like bronchiecstasis and compensated acidosis.</span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sam is the author of my world view, my faith, my politics, my personality. When people comment on my wisdom or creativity and wonder where it comes from, I point to Sam. Maybe these things were latent within me and Sam brought them out. Every mother of a child with disabilities is different, every child with disabilities is different. But the combination of Sam and me has been profound and deep. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And now it's drawing to a close. We're losing him. I've always said that I hope I live longer than him because he would be so lost and helpless without me. Now I am facing the fact that he is declining and will almost certainly die before me and I will be so lost and helpless without him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm still fighting for his life, but I am coming to a new awareness of my imminent defeat. No one knows how much longer we have together, but it's getting worse and I'm scared.</span><br />
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Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-2204710768046603592012-06-02T11:04:00.001-05:002012-08-23T20:49:59.417-05:00Friends are like flowersThere's a children's song that goes "friends are like flowers in the garden of life". The bridge is: Are you a daisy? Are you a rose? Are you a dandelion? <br />
<br />
Hmm. <br />
<br />
I may be getting old and curmudgeon-ish. My recent trials have left me with the distinct impression that friends are indeed like flowers. Some are just plain beautiful (like my Spred friends who helped me garden!). They need to be cultivated and appreciated. They are beautiful flowers or even healthy, nourishing fruits and vegetables!<br />
<br />
Some are very clearly weeds and need to be dug out and composted. I am reluctant to do this with real weeds, let alone people who are destructive in my life. But it has to be done sometimes. For example, if one is a recovering alcoholic that person might need to "weed out" old drinking buddies. In my case, I am discovering that people who do not understand my situation and think I should be doing more for them than I can, are destructive to me. I like to be of use to others - but in my spare time! Not as a full time occupation or on demand. I don't actually HAVE a lot of spare time. I am very reluctant to "weed" these people out. But I have noticed that the ones that need the most help are often the ones who have very little trouble finding a new savior. I may be very expendable and not particularly important to them. <br />
<br />
Then there is the bamboo. You can't get rid of it really. In our case, we inherited it from previous owners. I think we all have some bamboo people in our lives. These are people who, for one reason or another, you cannot get rid of, who are naturally beautiful, but who can be incredibly invasive if not contained. Building boundaries around bamboo is the hardest task facing this gardener both physically and metaphorically!Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-58250160773239258962012-05-18T12:31:00.000-05:002012-05-18T12:31:30.984-05:00MarriageMe (with a sad sigh): I don't know what's happened. There was a day, not so long ago, when I had a routine. I did laundry everyday and put it away before it got wrinkled. Your sock, t-shirt and underwear drawers were neat and organized.<br />
<br />
Him: Is this some kind of weird woman thing where your self esteem is tied to MY underwear drawer?<br />
<br />
Me: Well, when you put it THAT way it sounds kind of silly, but yes.<br />
<br />
Him: Well, put your energy into something else. I am perfectly content to have MY underwear drawer in chaos.<br />
<br />
Me: Blank look of shock.<br />
<br />
It IS his underwear drawer. Even after 37 years of marriage, it's still HIS underwear drawer. My value as a person really shouldn't be based on whether or not his jocks are folded. Should it? His mother IRONED not only boxers but briefs. But I'm not his mother. I'm his partner. <br />
<br />
I've known him since I was 15 years old. But lately I've noticed that he's changing rapidly. In fact, I think he's aging quite well. When I listen to what he is saying, I'm always amazed. The last 60 years of experience is suddenly coalescing into brilliance and wisdom. <br />
<br />
For our 15th wedding anniversary, we took a bunch of couples out to a park that was formerly owned by a married couple who were famous for, among other things, their happiness together. We had everyone make plaster masks of each other and then we sat in a circle and talked about the masks we put on those to whom we are closest. It is a sort of short hand caricature of who that person is, or was the last time we looked. For a relationship to grow, we each have to be willing to release our partner from the stiff, plaster masks we create for them, and see them for who they are this minute. Then we took of each other's masks and promised to see the real beloved.<br />
<br />
Lately, he's busting out of his white plaster cast in strength and beauty. I really like him in living color! I was giddy in love with him long ago. I'm not so giddy now. I love him with a more, um, dignified passion. But I think I love him a lot more today than I did on our wedding day.Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-24502172821704102082012-05-16T20:36:00.000-05:002012-05-16T20:49:00.404-05:00PTSD LandIt's the decisions that haunt me. After 4 months (or 30 years) of holding Sam's life in the palm of my hand, I'm worn out. Today is the third day in a row that he didn't need oxygen during the day. Progress or blip? Ask me tomorrow.<br />
<br />
Today I can't make up my mind about anything. Brush my teeth, get dressed, take pills, make tea? What should I do first? Every decision seems like a life and death decision and I'm tired of making life and death decisions. Sam woke up and then I knew what to do, feed him, give him meds, dress him, change him, give him treatments, entertain him. <br />
<br />
But I when I went to the kitchen to get another Ensure, I found myself doubled over and crying. Whenever I wasn't needed to take care of Sam today, I'd put on Sesame Street and go to the bedroom and cry. I still couldn't decide anything. So by the time Charley came home I was wearing underwear, a tee-shirt and pajama bottoms. I had made tea, but had only eaten stuff around the house that didn't need cooking. (string cheese, cuties, tea and cookies)<br />
<br />
I turned Sam over to him and went back to bed for more sobbing.<br />
<br />
I often fall apart once the crisis is over. Maybe that's what this is. How do I tell? Charley suggested I go for a walk, but that means deciding where I want to go. I can't deal with that either. I went to the basement and found a pair of pants.<br />
<br />
"Clinical depression or recovery?" Charley asks when I come upstairs. I don't know the answer. "Go outside," he commands. <br />
<br />
It feels better outside in the sunshine. It really does. I see neighbors, I see green. The sun is setting in my eyes. I form a plan. I will go someplace, drink tea and knit. I pass several restaurants because it doesn't feel like I've walked far enough.<br />
<br />
A new nail salon has opened up since the last time I left the house. 15% off Grand Opening Special. Ok. Manicure and pedicure. Still a lot of decisions, but I make them without too much difficulty.<br />
Color?<br />
Round or square?<br />
Toe nails bare or colored?<br />
<br />
I make the decisions. I sit in the chair and it massages my back. The man cleans my feet, and massages my legs. I go for bare toenails. I knit while he works on my feet. It gets easier.<br />
<br />
Then I went into Mr. Gee's for a salad. More tough decisions. With chicken or plain? For here or to go? The place is filled with police officers. This is reassuring. Probably no one will die if I make the wrong choice - that's what police are for, right? Large Greek Salad WITH chicken to go. AND an iced tea. Large. Heh. I can do this.<br />
<br />
A day of sobbing, and an hour outside with a manicure and some progress on my knitting. I make a decision: This is Recovery. I need to collapse for a bit before I can go on. But I will go on.<br />
<br />Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-90652349333929638302012-05-03T09:37:00.000-05:002012-05-03T12:53:51.183-05:00Confidence Booster<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I was a bit alarmed when they sent us home from the hospital after only 8 days. They were talking about 3 weeks. But they said that I can do the same or better for him at home. Are they right????</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Well, I can "check his vitals" just like they can. No big deal. I know better than they do what normal for him is. I can give him meds and oxygen just like they can now that he's off IV antibiotics. I can feed him. The biggest difference is: I'm one, they are many. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And the hospital bed. That thing requires a college level course in mechanics to operate, but it's way cool. It can go into just about any possible position. It's better than a carnival ride! And it puts Sam in the perfect position for CPT (Chest Physical Therapy). He needs to be in the right position so that gravity helps his weak muscles get the stuff out. And you can raise it or lower it to save the Respiratory Therapist's back. Cool. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At home, we have an Ikea bed. VERY low to the floor so Sam can get in and out without falling. (Hospital bed also has crib rails) But this morning, I discovered that all you really need for proper drainage is a portable DVD player. You put Curious George on the floor, press play and Sam scampers over to the edge of the bed, hangs his head over and thrusts his butt in the air and voila! he's in the perfect position for postural drainage. I pull up a chair and start whacking him on the back. He giggles. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Maybe we are better off at home. I can sleep without fear that six doctors in white coats will hear me snore and watch me drool. That's gotta be good.</span>Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-67979031168112110532012-03-23T09:10:00.000-05:002012-03-23T09:24:48.866-05:00PneumoniaWaking in a strange place, groggy from too little sleep, I can't remember where I put my glasses. So bleary, groggy and frustrated, I begin to pat around; hoping I can find them with my hands rather than my feet. Disoriented, I am not sure where I am, but I know where Sam is. I don't need to see to find his beloved head and check that he is breathing and the tube is still in his nose. <br />
<br />
He is okay. The world shifts into place. I remember that I carefully placed my glasses under the couch so I wouldn't step on them. Now I can see well enough to attach the monitor to his finger and check his heart rate and oxygen level. Yeah. He's okay.<br />
<br />
I slept on a mat on the floor by the couch. Sam's sleeping on the couch, the oxygen tube still in his nose. I'm in my own living room. I remember Charley carefully not stepping on me as he went to work. <br />
<br />
Time for tea and then I'll start his nebulizer treatments again. I have to give the first one before he wakes up in order to get enough in each day. He's not eating, I have to try to get him to eat something before 2. He takes his next pill at 4 and he can't have any milk products between 2 and 6. I never realized how large a percentage of the things he will eat are milk based - even Ensure!<br />
<br />
Got a fabulous new cookbook called "I Can't Chew." It's full of nutrition advice and recipes for people with chewing and swallowing problems. But I'm too tired to read it. I'm too afraid I'll lose Sam before I have a chance to try all the recipes. I look at the cover and go back to the trashy novel. Or knit. I thank God for yarn and trashy novels and tea when Sam is sick. <br />
<br />
Two nights ago, I was sure he was sick enough to be admitted. But, since I've been through this so often, I knew it was better to wait for the doctor's office to open than to call or visit the ER in the middle of the night. You wait in the comfort of your own home instead of in a cold, hard waiting room chair. But I couldn't sleep because I was so worried. So I started packing my overnight bag. At 8:45 I called the office, at 10 the doctor called me back. After listening to my experienced, coherent report, she said, "Well, it sounds like you have everything under control. I'll call in a prescription and, if he doesn't turn around in a few days, you should bring him in." <br />
<br />
Under control? I wouldn't describe it that way. But it's a new day. I found my glasses without the aid of my sight. The tube which feeds air into Sam's lungs didn't get wrapped around his neck and strangle him in the night. I don't have to think about what to wear, I'll just grab something from the overnight bag still sitting on the chair. Himmat taught me how to make good strong Indian Chai recently. On the whole, it's going to be a good day.<br />
<br />
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<br />Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-91579531062975057022012-03-19T19:25:00.002-05:002012-03-19T19:27:13.831-05:00All's Well<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Y'know there's lot of people who think Shakespeare was more than one person because his plays are so inconsistent. Some are incredibly great and some are obscure for a very good reason. I'd think this was a good argument if I wasn't so aware of my own track record on the issue of consistency. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Still, there are some pretty dumb plays. One that really bugs me is "All's Well that End's Well". Helena is this really amazing woman who dares to become a physician and stand up to the King and his male doctors with really intelligent arguments. And she heals the King when no one else can. Her fee is to be married to this guy, Bertram, who is a liar and a womanizer and a braggart and a spoiled rich kid. The story revolves around all the incredible things she does for his sake and, in the end, this sleaze ball says "Oh! Okay. I'll be married to you." </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At which point I want to shake Helena into the 21st century.</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> How many minutes after the play ends does Bertram wander off with someone new?</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Still</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">... "All's Well That Ends Well" which title may indeed Shakespeare throwing up his hands and saying, "The play is lousy but the rent is due."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">ANYWAY. As a writing exercise, I've been trying to write an outline of a book that follows the basic story line but makes it plausible for Helena to wind up with Bertram. Here's a rough outline. It takes place in the Vietnam Era, I think.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Add your comments below. Maybe we'll write a best seller together!</span> <br />
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<span style="color: #353535;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Helen
didn't remember her real mom. When she imagined her, she always
looked like Connie; her foster mom since her dad died. She remembered
her dad alright. He was a brilliant doctor who couldn't cure himself.
A loving dad who never the less left her all alone in the world. How
lucky she was to have landed on Connie's doorstep after she became an
orphan at age 12. Connie was a great foster mom. She always had
several foster kids living with her. Some just stayed for a week or
two and some stayed longer. None of them stated as long as Helen had.
That was partly because there was no place else for her to go and no
one else who wanted her. But Connie and her son, Bert, took her
in and put up with her grief and anger at the unfairness of the world
and all her growing pains. They were great. By the time Helen was a
junior at the local high school Connie and Bert were her family and
she was helping the other foster kids settle in and transition out.
She also had developed a major crush on Bert. He treated her like his
little sister - sometimes great and sometimes rotten - but she never
wavered from her belief that he represented the ideal and he featured
prominently in her young fantasies. </span></span></span>
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<span style="color: #353535;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bert
was very popular. Captain of the basketball team and student body
president with grades just good enough to get him in a local college.
Helen had a strong math/science aptitude and was the kind of girl
that teachers and parents adored but peers tended to forget existed.
Connie helped her apply for scholarships and she went off to
university where she majored in pre-med and eventually graduated at
the top of her class in med school with offers from all kinds of
great hospitals. Even though she stopped being a ward of the state at
18 she still made a point of spending every holiday with Connie, who
was getting older and taking in fewer foster kids. Helen
planned to start sending her money once she decided which position to
take. Bert, in the meantime, was still enjoying life and not exactly
setting the world on fire. Actually, he put out fires for a living.
It made enough for him to live on and he liked the opportunity to
stay in shape. The hours were another plus. He could easily work in
long leisurely weekends with beautiful women but had a very
convenient explanation for why he couldn't commit to a long term
relationship. Helen still found him irresistible and he still thought
of her as a scrawny kid. She eventually accepted an offer from a
large hospital in the city near the town where Connie lived. It
wasn't the most prestigious offer she received but the pay was enough
to cover her expenses and still have plenty to send to Connie. Plus
there was always the chance that she might meet Bert when she went to
visit Connie. </span></span></span>
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #353535;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In her first month at the hospital, Helen cures Rich Guy that no one else thought could be cured. He gives her an antique cross which is the twin of one he
gave his own daughter and sets her up in lucrative private practice. Then he
asks Bert to escort her to big society function that he was angling
for invitation from Rich Guy's Daughter for. He goes hoping for
chance to flirt with RG'sD but gets there to find everyone
assumes he and Helen are a couple. Rich Guy pressures him to marry
Helen and he agrees to set a date rather than jeopardize
his entre into Rich Guy's circle. He fully expects Helen to go along with the ruse and has no idea she thinks it's for real. But when Helen assumes he is in love
with her he is brutally frank with her re: his "eww"
reaction. She's a foster kid, no social status, cute enough but actually he
secretly resents that his own mother likes her more than him. He has
always had to share his mom with lots of "tramp kids" and
Helen represents all if them in his mind because she stayed longest
and his mom loves her. Rich Guy and daughter overhear the conversation and repudiate him for his
lack of sensitivity toward H. They ask him to leave. He storms out
and, finding his reputation shot, enlists in the marines saying
"fine. You won. You get mom and the whole damn town" </span></span></span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #353535;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Helen
is shocked. She never knew he felt like that. She thinks if he dies
it will be her fault. She resigns from her practice and joins Doctors Without Borders. She writes Connie and apologizes for usurping Bert's
place in Connie's heart and says she hopes to dedicate her life to
doing good to expiate the wrongs she has unwittingly done and hopes,
if death is hovering over Connie's family, it will be her instead of
Bert who is killed. </span></span></span>
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<span style="color: #353535;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">RG'sD
inspired by H gets a job as a nurse and goes overseas. </span></span></span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #353535;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In Doctors Without Borders she runs across L who was a foster kid at
Connie's for a time but they lost track of him. L&H work side by
side and become friends. In the meantime, B finds several cronies in his unit
who were at one time or another foster kids. They form a tight bond
of brothers who regularly save each others' lives and B learns how
much he and his mom meant to these guys. He begins to appreciate his
life in new ways and to wish he hadn't been so hard on Helen. (insert adventures with Parolles and Clown here?)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #353535;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">While
out on maneuvers, B's squad is cut off from the unit and they
take refuge in an abandoned house which explodes. Several of the guys
are wounded and insurgents surround them. B defends them while medic
tries to get the wounded ready for transport. (Use portions of my Dad's story here). B is
wounded but keeps fighting. They are finally rescued and B is
invalided back to Tokyo. He has 6 mos left in his tour of duty but
because of the leg wound he assigned a desk job in Tokyo. A letter
from Connie reaches him there which leads him to believe H has been
killed while working with Doctors Without Borders. In the
meantime Helen and L have to go to Tokyo to get their visas renewed.
They run across B in a bar. He is very drunk and the not quite healed
leg wound has broken open again. He hasn't told anyone because he
doesn't care. He recognizes L but not H since he thinks she is dead.
He finally agrees to let them take him home. There he collapses but H
and L think he's just drunk. L leaves and H makes coffee. B is really
feverish from festered wound. He imagines H is a hallucinatory vision
and tells her how sorry he is and how much he has come to love her. H
still doesn't realize that he is sick and thinks "in vino
veritas" and this is her one chance to make love with the man
she has always loved.
B gives H his purple heart medal. H gives him the cross RG gave her
after she took care of him. But after they make love B falls
into a deep sleep and H realizes he is feverish. She finally figures
out it's more than drunk. He needs medical attention. She calls the
military hospital ambulance. Then she frantically calls L
They are not allowed on base and are forced to return to D w/B
without knowing how B makes out. B wakes up in the hospital and only vaguely remembers what happened. RG's daughter is his nurse and is very
kind to him and as he recovers he begins to connect the mystery cross
around his neck with her. Back at the field hospital H
discovers she is pregnant. L convinces her it is better to return
home than to bear and raise a child under the extreme conditions at
the field hospital. L writes Connie without telling H and C sends
joyful invitation to H to come home. Now 6 mos pregnant, H and L come
back to Connie. Everyone assumes L is the father. L suspects B is the
father but H wont confirm it. She is embarrassed that she "took
advantage" of B because she thought he was just drunk when he was in fact delirious. Since they don't know whether B is alive
, L convinces H to let people keep thinking that he is the father.
They get jobs at the local hospital and they move in with Connie who
is thrilled to have them. But they keep separate bedrooms and L
starts working on some charity project with Rich Guy's daughter, who has finished her stint as an Army nurse and is back in town. They
become close but there is always a wall between them because she
can't understand his relationship with H. B returns home to much
fanfare but seems as surly as ever. H wonders which was real -the
delirious guy in Tokyo who loved her or the PTSD angry guy who now
will hardly speak to her. </span></span></span>
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #353535;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">H
discovers that L has fallen for Rich Guy's daughter and can't keep
pretending L is the father. She still doesn't know what to make of
B's attitude, but she resolves to tell RG'sD that L is not the baby's
father. RG'SD doesn't know what to believe and confronts L who
admits he isn't the father and almost admits he is in love with RG'SD
but says he committed to stand by H and her baby and he can't abandon
her. His father abandoned his mother and him when he was a small boy
and she had to give him up to foster care because she couldn't take care of him. He
doesn't want that to happen to H and her baby. Meanwhile C sees how
unhappy everyone is and confronts H. She learns that L is not the
father and that H has a memento of the real father that she is saving
for the baby but H, confused by B's attitude refuses to name the
father. RG'Sd goes for a walk with B and he explains that he is
in love with H but angry at her for bearing L's child and also hoping
she will be happy and also thinking he is wounded in mind and body
and no longer good husband material and he missed his chance with her
long ago anyway because he was too stupid to see her as she really
was. (whew) RG overhears and decides to intervene. (Too much eavesdropping? Well, it's soooo Shakespeare) He hosts another
fundraising gala and announces that he and C have long been in love
and are going to get married. Everyone congratulates them and B
comes face to face with RG for the first time since he was asked to
leave the party long ago. They confront each other and forgive each
other. RG sees the cross he wears and asks about it. B says it was
given to him by a nurse when he was really sick and he wears it to
remind himself that there is always hope. RG doesn't know what to
make of this. The cross is unmistakable. It is either the
one he gave H or the twin he gave his daughter, but which? He
and C make a speech about the importance of finding love and honesty
. He calls H and L up and says he wants them to be happy so if they
are truly in love he will host their wedding. They don't know
what to say. Then he calls B and daughter up and makes the same
offer. They admit that they are not in love and RG insists they
are citing the cross as proof. But RG'SD shows that she is
still in possession if her cross. C intervenes and begs H to
name the real father. H brings out the purple heart and says she
fears that the father of her child no longer exists. They were very
much in love and exchanged promises but he was wounded and hasn't
returned to her yet. She says she gave him her cross before they
parted. B realizes that he wasn't dreaming and he is the father. And
they all live happily ever after. </span></span></span>
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Tada</div>
<br />Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5835230821740705292.post-56997199514836737902012-03-14T15:16:00.000-05:002012-03-14T15:24:40.550-05:00Holocaust<br />
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I have received one of those chain letters that drive me crazy. Usually I just delete them, but this one got to me. It starts out praising Eisenhower for ordering photos of Holocaust survivors and then it claims that England is about to take the Holocaust out of it's school curriculum to avoid offending Muslims. </div>
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I agree that the holocaust should never be forgotten. This misleading mass chain letter, however, is full of inaccuracies. Here's one of many links I found de-bunking it.</div>
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<a href="http://www.hoax-slayer.com/uk-holocaust-removal.shtml" style="color: #234786; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1331755620_0">http://www.hoax-slayer.com/uk-holocaust-removal.shtml</span></a></div>
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But I suspected it was nuts before I started checking into it.</div>
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First of all, the British people themselves suffered deeply during WWII and remain extremely proud of their resistance to Hitler. They are not going to forget it any time soon. Additionally, they are still dealing with the emotional scars that resistance caused. We are more likely to forget it than they are. </div>
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Secondly, this letter conveniently leaves out the millions of powerless people: homosexuals and people with disabilities and other "non-Aryan" qualities, who were also victims of the holocaust. This makes me suspicious that there is an unexpressed agenda here. Was it okay for Hitler to experiment on them? Or is it still okay to hate them? </div>
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Thirdly, why would Muslims find Hitler's regime offensive? The extremist Muslims we are worried about hate Jews more than Hitler did and have more justification. (I do not advocate jihad, pogrom, holocaust or other forms of feuding. I'm just saying that the on-going conflict between Israel and the Muslim world is not creating mutual understanding and respect.) I personally think the whole point of this letter is in the last line where it warns that 9/11 will soon be forgotten because Muslims find it offensive. Which makes this a not very subtle attack on Muslims. Is it okay to experiment on Muslims and put them in camps? If the people in those initial photos were wearing burkas would those photos be just as offensive? </div>
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There is so much anti-muslim propaganda in our world today that it is very difficult to listen to reason. We only hear about the crazy people. Who wants to be judged by the crazy people? As a Catholic, I certainly don't want to be judged by the Inquisition or the tiny number of sick priests. Religion is a very tricky thing. </div>
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Finally, Ike is famous for many things, not least of which was his warning about the dangers of the "Military Industrial (Congressional) Complex" in his farewell address. (His original draft said "Military Industrial Congressional Complex" but he struck Congressional out. His daughter has said it was because he thought it was counter productive to offend Congress.) Fear and inaccuracies only give that dangerous alliance more power. The relevant portion of his speech is found here: </div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8y06NSBBRtY" style="color: #234786; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1331755620_1">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8y06NSBBRtY</span></a></div>
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"Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals so that security and liberty may prosper together."</div>
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Alert and knowledgeable. I would add compassionate. This letter fuels fear of Muslims and supports the Military Industrial Congressional wars against people who do not even have indoor plumbing. I am in favor of security AND liberty for everyone. Unfortunately, there is a balance. Ultimate security can only be found by giving up liberty. Give up too much liberty and you once again start to lose even security. I worry that in this country we are letting our fears talk us into surrendering liberty for a false sense of security. To a large degree, we have surrendered our ability to think rationally to our fears. We have given our power to the Military Industrial Congressional Complex just as Ike worried we would. He was a very thoughtful man and I suspect he would be very unhappy to have his reputation attached to this letter. By fueling our fears of Muslims, this letter empowers the very people Ike warned us about.</div>
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Too often these mass mailings I receive do not seem knowledgeable, compassionate or even alert - they just seem ill-informed and scared. They remind me of Beatrice in "Much Ado About Nothing": "He is now as valiant as Hercules who only tells a lie and swears by it." </div>
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Daughter of a scientist here. My motto is "Check it out." I will not forward anything on until I have checked it out. If I do not have time to check something out or if I am not particularly interested in the subject, I just delete it. This particular one, since it deals with and encourages hate and fear, upset me more than most. So I decided to respond.</div>
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<br /></div>Baba Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14684203547360099010noreply@blogger.com1