This evening when I had my cell phone in my hand, running down my contacts list to "suicide" for a hot line, I had this thought, "You're not going to waste their valuable time talking to them are you?" I always think there might be some really suicidal person who won't be able to get through because I was on the line. Then a new line of thinking popped into my head, "You have ice cream don't you? Yes. Make a milkshake first! You could get on the computer and look at that suicide website while you drink it." What is it about a vanilla milk shake that makes me feel like I'm three years old, curled up with my blankie and my thumb in my mouth, safe from the chaos and meanness around me?
Well, when I discovered that there was no where on the suicide prevention web site to spread the word about another way to possibly prevent a suicide, I decided to pull up my all but abandoned blog here and testify that, two milkshakes later, I think I dodged this bullet. Suicide humor, hah!
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Friday, December 28, 2007
A Thunderbolt To the Liar
*"When you are drowning and you reach out for help, what you grab onto, usually, is another drowning person." - Melanie Waters Bigelow
*"This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievences complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy." -George Bernard Shaw
*"Be mild with the mild, shrewd with the crafty, confiding to the honest, rough to the ruffian, and a thunderbolt to the liar. But in all this, never be unmindful of your own dignity."
- John Brown
*"Even if you're on the right track, you'll get run over if you just sit there." -Will Rogers
*"Not all who wander are lost." - J. R. R. Tolkien
*"My whole life has been Go. I want to know what Stay feels like."- Me again
*"You have not lived until you have done something for someone who can never repay you."- John Bunyan
*"The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them."- Ernest Hemingway
*"This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievences complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy." -George Bernard Shaw
*"Be mild with the mild, shrewd with the crafty, confiding to the honest, rough to the ruffian, and a thunderbolt to the liar. But in all this, never be unmindful of your own dignity."
- John Brown
*"Even if you're on the right track, you'll get run over if you just sit there." -Will Rogers
*"Not all who wander are lost." - J. R. R. Tolkien
*"My whole life has been Go. I want to know what Stay feels like."- Me again
*"You have not lived until you have done something for someone who can never repay you."- John Bunyan
*"The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them."- Ernest Hemingway
Saturday, September 08, 2007
I've Missed You
I put all of my blog entries into storage, as saved drafts, when I had an inexplicable and overwhelming urge to be quiet.
Then my brother died. I miss him so much. And I miss his blog entries at The Mandarin.
I want to keep writing email to him. I asked Savant if that would be weird, and he said that it is actually recommended as a part of dealing with loss, to write letters to the person who had died. Still, there won't be replies.
I have spent some time working on another blog: OBSERVING SCHIZOPHRENIA IN AMERICA An introduction to the "Tag The Loony, Collect A Check" branch of American psychiatry. Schizophrenia from a parent's point of view.
I'm probably going to put the posts that pertain to that subject over there.
Savant found a new psychiatrist and a new medication early this year and a miracle has happened in regards to his level of sanity. It has been nothing short of awesome to see the change in him. While this wonderful thing has happened, I have great deal of anger toward the doctors that "treated" him previously. Why were they satisfied to leave him in Hell? Anyway, that is what the other blog is for.
Then my brother died. I miss him so much. And I miss his blog entries at The Mandarin.
I want to keep writing email to him. I asked Savant if that would be weird, and he said that it is actually recommended as a part of dealing with loss, to write letters to the person who had died. Still, there won't be replies.
I have spent some time working on another blog: OBSERVING SCHIZOPHRENIA IN AMERICA An introduction to the "Tag The Loony, Collect A Check" branch of American psychiatry. Schizophrenia from a parent's point of view.
I'm probably going to put the posts that pertain to that subject over there.
Savant found a new psychiatrist and a new medication early this year and a miracle has happened in regards to his level of sanity. It has been nothing short of awesome to see the change in him. While this wonderful thing has happened, I have great deal of anger toward the doctors that "treated" him previously. Why were they satisfied to leave him in Hell? Anyway, that is what the other blog is for.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Shannon Dances
Tennessee log cabin. Huge walnut trees and a creek nearby, large flat stones in its bed for all to sit on. A guitar or two, friendly conversation, always laughing. Everyone beautiful. 1968. Dry county, no clubs, nowhere to go but a to a field or the woods. We go to Cabinwood. In all my life I've never since been in the company of so many people that I loved.
There is a hammock on the stone front porch that runs the length of the house. The large trees shade, and a breeze cools us. Three pairs of doors line the porch. They are open and music is on, something new, Cheap Thrills, Joplin singing something sultry and I watch Shannon dance. Every move matches the song as though she gives no thought to moving. Her body knows and she just enjoys it.
I didn't know then that this memory would stay with me. I'm a watcher not a dancer. In private with music on, I sometimes think of how easily Shannon moved to the music and I try to release my mind from my body and let the music make it move, sensual sound as my partner. It's as hard as meditation.
There is a hammock on the stone front porch that runs the length of the house. The large trees shade, and a breeze cools us. Three pairs of doors line the porch. They are open and music is on, something new, Cheap Thrills, Joplin singing something sultry and I watch Shannon dance. Every move matches the song as though she gives no thought to moving. Her body knows and she just enjoys it.
I didn't know then that this memory would stay with me. I'm a watcher not a dancer. In private with music on, I sometimes think of how easily Shannon moved to the music and I try to release my mind from my body and let the music make it move, sensual sound as my partner. It's as hard as meditation.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Two Scoops Coming Right Up
from Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Someone once said that it is a shame that young people don't realise that their youth is their beauty. I know that's true, now that I can no longer be called a youth. My once slim figure is now quite pillowy. You sink into my hugs now. Try it you'll like it! Once, when one of my husband's aunts visited, I kept hunting her down and hugging her, because I loved the pillowy way she felt.
Years ago, I used to live on the border between Wellesley and Newton, Massachusetts. The Library in Wellesley was quite close, so I took the kids there often. A few doors down from the library was the White Mountain Creamery. They had wonderful hand-cranked style ice cream.
One day, at the library, I entered the ladies room and detected the lovely smell of fresh ice cream. At the sinks were two girls washing up before they left. I suspected that their visit to the library had been preceded by a visit to the White Mountain Creamery, and the ice cream was now swirling into the pipes below the toilets.
I had heard of Bulimia, the vomiting of food to maintain a slim figure. I pondered this, and decided it was a wonderful idea! My first try was the day after Valentines Day. I bought a big red heart box of candy at a discount price, because the hearts needed to go to make room for the stock the Easter candy. I mean, if you are planning to barf it up, why buy it at full price?
OK, I am in chocolate heaven while I eat a very unladylike quantity of the candy. I find a bathroom, enter a stall and stick my finger down my throat. Nothing happens! I try and try and I don't even come close to vomiting!
That was my first and last try at Bulimia. I'm what a failed Bulimic wannabe looks like. I hope I'm closer to "pleasingly plump" than "How the hell does a person get that FAT?". By the way I never gorged on candy again either. It is my proudest failure.
I have a theory that I must have gained an extraordinary control of my gag reflex from the times I spent having 24 hour "morning sickness" for four months with each of my pregnancies.
I also want to recommend The White Mountain Creamery's excellent ice cream. What you do with it once you leave the store is beyond their control.
Someone once said that it is a shame that young people don't realise that their youth is their beauty. I know that's true, now that I can no longer be called a youth. My once slim figure is now quite pillowy. You sink into my hugs now. Try it you'll like it! Once, when one of my husband's aunts visited, I kept hunting her down and hugging her, because I loved the pillowy way she felt.
Years ago, I used to live on the border between Wellesley and Newton, Massachusetts. The Library in Wellesley was quite close, so I took the kids there often. A few doors down from the library was the White Mountain Creamery. They had wonderful hand-cranked style ice cream.
One day, at the library, I entered the ladies room and detected the lovely smell of fresh ice cream. At the sinks were two girls washing up before they left. I suspected that their visit to the library had been preceded by a visit to the White Mountain Creamery, and the ice cream was now swirling into the pipes below the toilets.
I had heard of Bulimia, the vomiting of food to maintain a slim figure. I pondered this, and decided it was a wonderful idea! My first try was the day after Valentines Day. I bought a big red heart box of candy at a discount price, because the hearts needed to go to make room for the stock the Easter candy. I mean, if you are planning to barf it up, why buy it at full price?
OK, I am in chocolate heaven while I eat a very unladylike quantity of the candy. I find a bathroom, enter a stall and stick my finger down my throat. Nothing happens! I try and try and I don't even come close to vomiting!
That was my first and last try at Bulimia. I'm what a failed Bulimic wannabe looks like. I hope I'm closer to "pleasingly plump" than "How the hell does a person get that FAT?". By the way I never gorged on candy again either. It is my proudest failure.
I have a theory that I must have gained an extraordinary control of my gag reflex from the times I spent having 24 hour "morning sickness" for four months with each of my pregnancies.
I also want to recommend The White Mountain Creamery's excellent ice cream. What you do with it once you leave the store is beyond their control.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Savant - Pain Exceeded Maximum Capacity
Savant's mental pain has exceeded maximum capacity. A few days ago, on Sunday, he attempted to be permanently pain free. We had no idea. He didn't tell us until Monday evening that he wasn't sure if he was dead or not, because he overdosed on medication the night before.
Though I write about some little insights he has shared with me or that I have observed, and may delude myself into thinking that I know whether he is doing well or poorly, I have no idea. No idea what is going on in that handsome head.
Monday, if seen on a movie screen, would be surreal. Picture a kitchen at night with the father sitting at the table wearing protective goggles because he had Lasik eye surgery that morning. The 22 year old son is very confused about reality and he and his father have spent the previous half hour in his bedroom in private conversation. The son, Savant, has left the kitchen to check some medical information on the internet. He re-enters the room just before his mother enters the kitchen from a different door.
Father: What did you decide?
Son: I might be in a coma.
Father: This is quite a coma.
Mother: Thank you for letting us be in your coma.
He was actually more inclined to believe that he was dead. He asked me earlier if he was a ghost and I said no, that he was not dead. I didn't convince him.
Also earlier, just after they left Savant's room:
Savant: Did I hurt your eyes by making you cry?
Father: No. (followed by many assurances, meant to be comforting, that he had not hurt his eyes.)
-I was too upset to remember the many questions and answers we spoke. It is difficult enough to recall a regular conversation, but one with a person who is irrational and suffering and trying his hardest to make rational sense out of the faulty information his brain provides to him, can only be remembered in bits and pieces. Most of it is lost from memory because your own emotional overload of heartbreak and helplessness and fear for this lost boy, is so profoundly strong.
I did not sleep that night. My job is to keep the *elephants away. I would not be able to forgive myself if one got through. Savant did not sleep either. I crawled into bed at about 5:00 AM and his father got up soon after that. Savant took a shower; something we had not been able to do for a week. Our water heater was on the fritz and it happens to be one that has to have parts specially ordered. Due to a snafu, the parts were delayed in arriving. Husband and I heated water on the stove for bathing, but Savant turned down that method of getting clean.
So this is how Tuesday was spent. Savant's father left to see the eye doctor and then on to work. I spent the day trying to answer unanswerable questions as best I could. I telephoned his doctor's office from my closet so Savant wouldn't hear me. He would not have believed that I was making a harmless call. He is terrified of police, and fears they want him to spend his life behind bars. No amount of reassurance from us calms this fear. His doctor is on vacation for the next three weeks and I hoped to speak to whomever was on call for her. The secretary said that I was correct to think that an attempt at suicide was a huge justification for hospitalization and to check him in there, as soon as possible. Easier said than done.
An involuntary committal involves police, handcuffing the terrified Savant and being his escorts until he is admitted into the hospital. This process can sometimes take an entire day. I was not going to do that this time. So I spent the day trying to get him into the truck. To agree to go to the hospital. We made it into the truck once and sat there with the heater on, the engine going, Savant so frightened. Then back into the house... I think it was 4:00 PM when we finally left the house, with his consent. I had not realized, until he told me, that he was just as afraid of staying home as he was of going to the hospital. What did not sink in until he said that, was that he needed me to take control of the situation, be the parent, and say that he was going to the hospital and that was final. I'm not comfortable being bossy, so I had assumed that he would react badly if I made an ultimatum that he go with me to the hospital and the result would be that I'd never get him into the truck again. His paranoia makes him believe that he can't trust anyone. Everyone's motives for everything they say or do, are suspect in his eyes. Where would I really be taking him? What bad intent might really be motivating me to be so determined to take him somewhere in the truck?
So today, Wednesday, I hope the hospital and the staff can work some magic and take away his pain and fear and confusion. Help him find, in himself, a reason to stay alive. He says there is no hope for him, no need for him to go on living; he has become obsessed with the idea of his own death. It would break our hearts forever. I don't want it to happen. I'm too exhausted to write this out, any more, for now.
I just got a call from Savant. He didn't have anything to say, but it was good to hear his voice. (For those of you who do not know, Savant developed schizophrenia when he turned 18; and the name, Savant, came from his suggestion that his pseudonym for my blog could be: Idiot Like a Savant.)
* this is a reference to an old joke that goes somewhat as follows:
Person 1: What are you doing?
Person 2: Keeping the elephants away.
Person 1: That's crazy! There aren't any elephants around here!
Person 2: Then I'm doing a good job.
Though I write about some little insights he has shared with me or that I have observed, and may delude myself into thinking that I know whether he is doing well or poorly, I have no idea. No idea what is going on in that handsome head.
Monday, if seen on a movie screen, would be surreal. Picture a kitchen at night with the father sitting at the table wearing protective goggles because he had Lasik eye surgery that morning. The 22 year old son is very confused about reality and he and his father have spent the previous half hour in his bedroom in private conversation. The son, Savant, has left the kitchen to check some medical information on the internet. He re-enters the room just before his mother enters the kitchen from a different door.
Father: What did you decide?
Son: I might be in a coma.
Father: This is quite a coma.
Mother: Thank you for letting us be in your coma.
He was actually more inclined to believe that he was dead. He asked me earlier if he was a ghost and I said no, that he was not dead. I didn't convince him.
Also earlier, just after they left Savant's room:
Savant: Did I hurt your eyes by making you cry?
Father: No. (followed by many assurances, meant to be comforting, that he had not hurt his eyes.)
-I was too upset to remember the many questions and answers we spoke. It is difficult enough to recall a regular conversation, but one with a person who is irrational and suffering and trying his hardest to make rational sense out of the faulty information his brain provides to him, can only be remembered in bits and pieces. Most of it is lost from memory because your own emotional overload of heartbreak and helplessness and fear for this lost boy, is so profoundly strong.
I did not sleep that night. My job is to keep the *elephants away. I would not be able to forgive myself if one got through. Savant did not sleep either. I crawled into bed at about 5:00 AM and his father got up soon after that. Savant took a shower; something we had not been able to do for a week. Our water heater was on the fritz and it happens to be one that has to have parts specially ordered. Due to a snafu, the parts were delayed in arriving. Husband and I heated water on the stove for bathing, but Savant turned down that method of getting clean.
So this is how Tuesday was spent. Savant's father left to see the eye doctor and then on to work. I spent the day trying to answer unanswerable questions as best I could. I telephoned his doctor's office from my closet so Savant wouldn't hear me. He would not have believed that I was making a harmless call. He is terrified of police, and fears they want him to spend his life behind bars. No amount of reassurance from us calms this fear. His doctor is on vacation for the next three weeks and I hoped to speak to whomever was on call for her. The secretary said that I was correct to think that an attempt at suicide was a huge justification for hospitalization and to check him in there, as soon as possible. Easier said than done.
An involuntary committal involves police, handcuffing the terrified Savant and being his escorts until he is admitted into the hospital. This process can sometimes take an entire day. I was not going to do that this time. So I spent the day trying to get him into the truck. To agree to go to the hospital. We made it into the truck once and sat there with the heater on, the engine going, Savant so frightened. Then back into the house... I think it was 4:00 PM when we finally left the house, with his consent. I had not realized, until he told me, that he was just as afraid of staying home as he was of going to the hospital. What did not sink in until he said that, was that he needed me to take control of the situation, be the parent, and say that he was going to the hospital and that was final. I'm not comfortable being bossy, so I had assumed that he would react badly if I made an ultimatum that he go with me to the hospital and the result would be that I'd never get him into the truck again. His paranoia makes him believe that he can't trust anyone. Everyone's motives for everything they say or do, are suspect in his eyes. Where would I really be taking him? What bad intent might really be motivating me to be so determined to take him somewhere in the truck?
So today, Wednesday, I hope the hospital and the staff can work some magic and take away his pain and fear and confusion. Help him find, in himself, a reason to stay alive. He says there is no hope for him, no need for him to go on living; he has become obsessed with the idea of his own death. It would break our hearts forever. I don't want it to happen. I'm too exhausted to write this out, any more, for now.
I just got a call from Savant. He didn't have anything to say, but it was good to hear his voice. (For those of you who do not know, Savant developed schizophrenia when he turned 18; and the name, Savant, came from his suggestion that his pseudonym for my blog could be: Idiot Like a Savant.)
* this is a reference to an old joke that goes somewhat as follows:
Person 1: What are you doing?
Person 2: Keeping the elephants away.
Person 1: That's crazy! There aren't any elephants around here!
Person 2: Then I'm doing a good job.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Let Past Pain Go and Thanks For Not Raping Me
from Sunday, May 01, 2005
You can't tell from my entries, but I'm trying to let the past go. This is my dumping ground. I've got to set this load down before it does any more damage to me. Have you heard the expression, "hurt in a moment, healed with time, scarred for life"? That is true for both body and mind.
They seem so petty, some of the things that I'm letting go of. (I can feel the "Proper English Police" writing me a ticket.)
When I was little, I tried to make sense out of things I didn't understand. Some of the answers didn't fall into place until I grew up; some are still a mystery.
Why did the Doberman always growl at us, we were just little kids looking for approval and love? Sure we played and got loud and rambunctious sometimes; WE WERE KIDS! He drank too much, still fond of the booze. The more he drank, the more annoying our presence became to him. I still become four years old if someone gets mad at me, when I haven't done anything wrong. I felt like I must have been a source of torment to the Doberman, just by the fact that I existed. If you saw his ears and scalp pull back you knew an attack was on it's way.
My siblings had the sense to keep out of his way and be quiet when he snarled. I, on the other hand, would sometimes try to return the growls. I figured if he was going to rip me to shreds, lets get it over with, now! I could hear my siblings yelling at me to shut up, I was just making him madder! He always won the growling matches.
He's an old dog now, but last time I saw him, after libations, he growled that we were all assholes. Wow! I had internalized that a long time ago; I believed it and knew it wasn't true, at the same time. Incongruity; try and figure out who you are in that kind of atmosphere.
I have had migraine headaches my whole life. Cigarette smoke, buss fumes, perfume, crying, stress.. trigger them. Our home and car were always filled with some of the above. Try to calm a baby like me with a cigarette in your mouth, it won't happen. I would feel so sick. I would beg to have a window opened and I would vomit, particularly on car and airplane rides, smoking was still allowed on planes back then and the windows on them don't open. My parents decided I had "motion sickness". I was told that I was a hypochondriac. My very real pain was dismissed as trying to get attention. My first therapist said, "What's wrong with giving a child attention? Isn't that what parents are supposed to be doing?" I'd really never thought of it that way, even though I tried to be compassionate with my own children, so they would grow up feeling that they had been heard, loved, and any invisible pain was taken seriously.
I gave birth naturally, meaning, without pain medication, to three children; so I can say for a fact that the cramps I had as a teenager, with my period, were worse. The cramps were like one horrible contraction that did not stop all day and into the night. This was pain that aspirin had no power to weaken. I guess it was another of those "character building experiences" to be made to go to school when I was in this condition. If I went to the school Nurse, my mother would not let her send me home. Give her some aspirin and send her back to class! I was never taken to a doctor for my cramps or migraines. I also had another invisible illness, Depression. I knew that something was wrong from an early age. I just felt awful so much of the time. Everyone else seemed happy more of the time than I did. At home a swift kick in the pants was suggested, but not delivered in that fashion. One parent said, "You think I don't feel like shit sometimes? You just do what you have to do, you can't curl up in a ball and feel sorry for yourself!"
When I was old enough to see a Doctor on my own, I got the "life's rough, Honey, get used to it!" speech. My next try to get help (I was fairly pretty back then and extra stupid) was met with the, "Yeah, I'd like to have your problems." speech. Then there was the doctor who decided that fondling my breasts and crotch must be done, by him, immediately. He was shaking and breathing funny during the exam - I was there to get a mole removed.
My broken "People Radar", was my faithful companion. I was nearly raped in Chapel Hill, NC. I was on campus, very "flower childy", peace, love your fellow travelers on this plane of existence, etc...I was on The University campus there, not as a student, just enjoying it's beauty and marveling at their lovely collection of trees.
A nicely dressed, polite, young man sitting on a bench says Hi, and we start up a conversation. He said he was a graduate student and teaching assistant and these responsibilities were causing lots of stress for him. I asked him if he had tried Yogic breathing; it has a relaxing effect. He said No, but , could I show him how to do it? Behind the bench were trees and shrubs, he suggested that I teach it to him, there. Sure. So I show him how to sit in the Lotus position, close his eyes, and begin to talk him through a relaxing technique. Before I knew what was happening, he was on top of me, one hand down my pants and the other grabbing my breasts! I freaked! I did NOT see that coming! I struggled to get away. I kept saying, over and over, "You do not want to do this! You don't want to do this!"
I got to a semi-standing position and he was still hanging onto one of my legs, but I was beginning to drag him out into the open away from the trees, and he let go. I RAN! When I got to a place of safety, I was having trouble wrapping my mind around what had just happened. He had seemed so nice before.
I thought about reporting it to the Police. I pondered that and decided that what they would do to a black man in the South, in the early 1970's, would be much worse than what he had done to me. It never occurred to me, then, that I may not have been his first or last try. I've always hoped he became a good person, as frightened by the incident as I was.
Any ability to trust people, that I had built for myself, suffered a huge blow that day.
You can't tell from my entries, but I'm trying to let the past go. This is my dumping ground. I've got to set this load down before it does any more damage to me. Have you heard the expression, "hurt in a moment, healed with time, scarred for life"? That is true for both body and mind.
They seem so petty, some of the things that I'm letting go of. (I can feel the "Proper English Police" writing me a ticket.)
When I was little, I tried to make sense out of things I didn't understand. Some of the answers didn't fall into place until I grew up; some are still a mystery.
Why did the Doberman always growl at us, we were just little kids looking for approval and love? Sure we played and got loud and rambunctious sometimes; WE WERE KIDS! He drank too much, still fond of the booze. The more he drank, the more annoying our presence became to him. I still become four years old if someone gets mad at me, when I haven't done anything wrong. I felt like I must have been a source of torment to the Doberman, just by the fact that I existed. If you saw his ears and scalp pull back you knew an attack was on it's way.
My siblings had the sense to keep out of his way and be quiet when he snarled. I, on the other hand, would sometimes try to return the growls. I figured if he was going to rip me to shreds, lets get it over with, now! I could hear my siblings yelling at me to shut up, I was just making him madder! He always won the growling matches.
He's an old dog now, but last time I saw him, after libations, he growled that we were all assholes. Wow! I had internalized that a long time ago; I believed it and knew it wasn't true, at the same time. Incongruity; try and figure out who you are in that kind of atmosphere.
I have had migraine headaches my whole life. Cigarette smoke, buss fumes, perfume, crying, stress.. trigger them. Our home and car were always filled with some of the above. Try to calm a baby like me with a cigarette in your mouth, it won't happen. I would feel so sick. I would beg to have a window opened and I would vomit, particularly on car and airplane rides, smoking was still allowed on planes back then and the windows on them don't open. My parents decided I had "motion sickness". I was told that I was a hypochondriac. My very real pain was dismissed as trying to get attention. My first therapist said, "What's wrong with giving a child attention? Isn't that what parents are supposed to be doing?" I'd really never thought of it that way, even though I tried to be compassionate with my own children, so they would grow up feeling that they had been heard, loved, and any invisible pain was taken seriously.
I gave birth naturally, meaning, without pain medication, to three children; so I can say for a fact that the cramps I had as a teenager, with my period, were worse. The cramps were like one horrible contraction that did not stop all day and into the night. This was pain that aspirin had no power to weaken. I guess it was another of those "character building experiences" to be made to go to school when I was in this condition. If I went to the school Nurse, my mother would not let her send me home. Give her some aspirin and send her back to class! I was never taken to a doctor for my cramps or migraines. I also had another invisible illness, Depression. I knew that something was wrong from an early age. I just felt awful so much of the time. Everyone else seemed happy more of the time than I did. At home a swift kick in the pants was suggested, but not delivered in that fashion. One parent said, "You think I don't feel like shit sometimes? You just do what you have to do, you can't curl up in a ball and feel sorry for yourself!"
When I was old enough to see a Doctor on my own, I got the "life's rough, Honey, get used to it!" speech. My next try to get help (I was fairly pretty back then and extra stupid) was met with the, "Yeah, I'd like to have your problems." speech. Then there was the doctor who decided that fondling my breasts and crotch must be done, by him, immediately. He was shaking and breathing funny during the exam - I was there to get a mole removed.
My broken "People Radar", was my faithful companion. I was nearly raped in Chapel Hill, NC. I was on campus, very "flower childy", peace, love your fellow travelers on this plane of existence, etc...I was on The University campus there, not as a student, just enjoying it's beauty and marveling at their lovely collection of trees.
A nicely dressed, polite, young man sitting on a bench says Hi, and we start up a conversation. He said he was a graduate student and teaching assistant and these responsibilities were causing lots of stress for him. I asked him if he had tried Yogic breathing; it has a relaxing effect. He said No, but , could I show him how to do it? Behind the bench were trees and shrubs, he suggested that I teach it to him, there. Sure. So I show him how to sit in the Lotus position, close his eyes, and begin to talk him through a relaxing technique. Before I knew what was happening, he was on top of me, one hand down my pants and the other grabbing my breasts! I freaked! I did NOT see that coming! I struggled to get away. I kept saying, over and over, "You do not want to do this! You don't want to do this!"
I got to a semi-standing position and he was still hanging onto one of my legs, but I was beginning to drag him out into the open away from the trees, and he let go. I RAN! When I got to a place of safety, I was having trouble wrapping my mind around what had just happened. He had seemed so nice before.
I thought about reporting it to the Police. I pondered that and decided that what they would do to a black man in the South, in the early 1970's, would be much worse than what he had done to me. It never occurred to me, then, that I may not have been his first or last try. I've always hoped he became a good person, as frightened by the incident as I was.
Any ability to trust people, that I had built for myself, suffered a huge blow that day.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Health and That Other Thing
Back at the end of November, I wasn't sure that December would be any easier to get through, but December wasn't as bad. Even if I did have to spend part of it in the hospital with a kidney and bladder infection. Four days in the hospital and a week or so of bed rest at home. I'm kind of surprised by how weak I am, even now.
So I spent the holidays in bed. The family decorated the tree, bought the gifts, prepared the meals, etc., which was nice and made me feel like a little kid. Other than being sick, I really loved having the house full of family and happiness.
I have always known that pain medication doesn't work on me the way it does for other people, but I haven't ever been able to get doctors or hospital staff to believe me. I would be asking for more morphine or what ever they were giving me, not because it felt so good, but because it wasn't killing any pain and I thought maybe the dose was too low. This kind of behavior gets you nowhere with the staff. I was once told that I was not there for a pill party! Party!? I was in serious pain.
In the emergency room, when the doctor was telling us that I would be staying, he said they would give me some morphine to make me more comfortable. I said, "Good luck with that." And got those familiar, skeptical looks from everyone when I said that morphine doesn't work on me. Over the next four days they tried all the big guns on me and none of them killed pain. At all.
They tried the morphine first, even though I'd told them not to bother. No pain was killed. I already know that I am allergic to codeine so they skipped that one, and tried demerol next. The nurse, I had most often, was great. She was blown away after she gave me the demerol and we kept chatting as if she'd given me nothing. I felt warmth spread out over my body and my muscles relaxed slightly, but that was it. No pain relief. She said she would have been unconscious with a third of the dose. I was really happy to have someone witness that I'm not making this up.
Over the next few days they tried something called toradol -nothing, again. Then the doctor said they would try something else, fentanyl or dilaudid or something, I don't remember anymore, but I told him I didn't think I'd bother with taking it if it came from the same poppy the other stuff came from. He said he hoped I would take it to see if it worked as a pain killer for me, so I did. It made me feel sleepier, but not only did it not kill the pain, it made me itch like mad, the way codeine does.
The only good thing that the narcotics did was slow my always busy mind down to one thought at a time! My thoughts always happen in a barrage formation, all interrupting each other. It was so different to have them so well behaved. Well, now I'm back to "normal" with a brain that functions like a rowdy preschool class. I'd much rather have my thoughts stand in line until I finished with one, and wait for me to say, "Next".
If someone, somewhere, is studying people who think pain killers are misnamed, I'd like to know what does work for a person like me, because if I ever get cancer or any other painful condition, I'm screwed. A morphine pump won't make any difference to me. Once in the past, after I had surgery below the waist, they used a spinal block to control the pain, and that worked until the needle fell out and they wouldn't put it back in. I'm really kind of frightened, to finally know for sure, that I will always continue to experience life "cold turkey".
Hoosier Student Nurse and Too Fat For Ponies crossed my mind when I was in the hospital. I was sure they would be great nurses.
So I spent the holidays in bed. The family decorated the tree, bought the gifts, prepared the meals, etc., which was nice and made me feel like a little kid. Other than being sick, I really loved having the house full of family and happiness.
I have always known that pain medication doesn't work on me the way it does for other people, but I haven't ever been able to get doctors or hospital staff to believe me. I would be asking for more morphine or what ever they were giving me, not because it felt so good, but because it wasn't killing any pain and I thought maybe the dose was too low. This kind of behavior gets you nowhere with the staff. I was once told that I was not there for a pill party! Party!? I was in serious pain.
In the emergency room, when the doctor was telling us that I would be staying, he said they would give me some morphine to make me more comfortable. I said, "Good luck with that." And got those familiar, skeptical looks from everyone when I said that morphine doesn't work on me. Over the next four days they tried all the big guns on me and none of them killed pain. At all.
They tried the morphine first, even though I'd told them not to bother. No pain was killed. I already know that I am allergic to codeine so they skipped that one, and tried demerol next. The nurse, I had most often, was great. She was blown away after she gave me the demerol and we kept chatting as if she'd given me nothing. I felt warmth spread out over my body and my muscles relaxed slightly, but that was it. No pain relief. She said she would have been unconscious with a third of the dose. I was really happy to have someone witness that I'm not making this up.
Over the next few days they tried something called toradol -nothing, again. Then the doctor said they would try something else, fentanyl or dilaudid or something, I don't remember anymore, but I told him I didn't think I'd bother with taking it if it came from the same poppy the other stuff came from. He said he hoped I would take it to see if it worked as a pain killer for me, so I did. It made me feel sleepier, but not only did it not kill the pain, it made me itch like mad, the way codeine does.
The only good thing that the narcotics did was slow my always busy mind down to one thought at a time! My thoughts always happen in a barrage formation, all interrupting each other. It was so different to have them so well behaved. Well, now I'm back to "normal" with a brain that functions like a rowdy preschool class. I'd much rather have my thoughts stand in line until I finished with one, and wait for me to say, "Next".
If someone, somewhere, is studying people who think pain killers are misnamed, I'd like to know what does work for a person like me, because if I ever get cancer or any other painful condition, I'm screwed. A morphine pump won't make any difference to me. Once in the past, after I had surgery below the waist, they used a spinal block to control the pain, and that worked until the needle fell out and they wouldn't put it back in. I'm really kind of frightened, to finally know for sure, that I will always continue to experience life "cold turkey".
Hoosier Student Nurse and Too Fat For Ponies crossed my mind when I was in the hospital. I was sure they would be great nurses.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Stalag 17-B WWII POW - Notes Written In a Little Bible
My Father-in-law passed away about a decade ago from ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis) aka "Lou Gehrig's disease". When he was 19 or 20 years old, he was captured by the Nazis when the bomber he was a gunner on was shot down over Germany during WWII. He was in Stalag 17-B. This Christmas my mother-in-law gave us a little Bible that my husband's father carried on a long march they were forced to make at the end of the war. He had written his vital information inside the front cover and notes in the back that gave a small picture into the last few weeks before they were liberated by U.S. forces. Needless to say, I was in tears when I realized what I was holding.
My husband said that his father never talked about the war or his time as a POW, but near the end of his life he reconnected with the POW survivors groups and attended several of their gatherings. It was wonderful for him to see men that he had not seen since they were liberated. It was also a catalyst for his opening up to us about, at least, his capture. He said that when the plane became disabled, most of them parachuted out and came down in a field. The plane disappeared out of view as it got lower to the ground, with part of the crew still on board. He said that they saw a farmer running across the field toward them, and his first thought was that the farmer would hide them in his barn. That hope was soon gone when he saw that the farmer was leading a group of Nazi soldiers to their location. He said that at the first POW reunion he went to, he discovered that the men he thought had perished when the plane crashed, had survived but had exited the plane so late that they ended up in a different POW camp. He was happy that they had not died in the crash.
The internet makes it so easy to find pictures, information and stories from his POW Camp, and the bit of information in his small New Testament matches perfectly. These little Bibles may have been in the Red Cross packages that were passed out to the prisoners at the beginning of their march from the camp. Not sure, but there was a sticker in the front that said it was from the War Prisoners Aid, YMCA, and the Commission on Chaplaincy Aid for Prisoners of War. Stalag 17-B was a former concentration camp located one hundred meters northwest of the Village of Gneixendorf, six kilometers northwest of Krems-on-the Danube, 85 kilometers West by North of Vienna, Austria.
________________
This was in the front:
Property of S/Sgt. George -------
A.S.N #--------
Home Address
77 Canal St.
Brattelboro, VT.
P.O.W. #105202
Chaplain
Father Kane
Stalag 17-B
This is what is written in the back:
23
17
23
17
29
____
109 kilo April 14th
April 28th 1945.
Completed march of 250 miles
Living in wooded area just 10 miles from Braunau. General Patton's forces only a few kilo from here.
May 2nd Liberated by the 13th Armored Division of 3rd Army, at 6:45 P.M.
May 3rd - 4 yank jeeps came in & took command of camp. Germans are showing true colors today. Our Stalag Officers were asking the Amer. Officers for mercy. No luck! The Lt. Col. in charge of recapture unit is a real Army man. Expect to be moved back to our lines tonite or tomorrow. Many skirmishes around here today. Tanks are still rolling in around the Braunau area.
* * * * * *
From the internet, I got the following first person account of the march. A woman tape-recorded her father, Paul Spodar, who was also in stalag 17-B, as she asked him about the war.
The March
"In the final days of the war the Germans started to dismantle the prison camps. In the beginning of April 1945 the Germans led thousands of POWs from Stalag 17B on a 300 mile march to a "new" camp in Braunau Austria. Hundreds of men were left behind in hospitals too ill to make the march. Unfortunately for the POWs on the march there was no new camp their final destination ended up being in the Weilhardt Forest. The move by the Germans was made so that the approaching Russian troops would not liberate the prisoners.
For almost 3 weeks the POWs covered approximately 15 miles a day in marching columns of 500 men. They were herded along by the guards and their dogs. Paul and crewmates, Jake, Rube, and Beck managed to stay together. At the beginning of the march the men were given a Red Cross parcel it was suppose to have enough food for seven days, the food quickly ran out. During the days of the march they would occasionally pass by working slave laborers consisting of Poles, Ukrainians and other Slavic people. It was at these times that Paul would speak in Ukrainian and beg for any food as they passed the workers. Sometimes Paul got lucky and one would throw a potato or other vegetable without the guards noticing. That little gift of food would be shared between the 4 men.
Through rain and snow the men marched. When someone fell from exhaustion or illness the other POWs would quickly pick them up and drag them along for as long as they could. If a man could go no further he was left by the side of the road where death would take him on his final journey.
During their march they were coming near the Mauthausen Concentration Camp. A column of people were coming towards the POWs at a very slow pace. The POW guards pulled the POWs off to the side of the road. The guards instructed the prisoners in no uncertain terms that if they to tried to talk or pass anything to the people that were going to pass by they would be shot! This was not what usually happened. Before when they passed a group of people the men would try to talk to them with only a stern warning or a cuff with a rifle butt for their discretion. This time the guards meant business don't talk or do anything to the people who were going to pass by. As the column slowly approached they got their answer of why they were not to have anything to do with the people.
First the POWs saw the infamous and brutal SS troops followed by the most pitiful sight. They were Jewish prisoners. You could tell they were Jewish by the big yellow Star of David attached to the rags that they had for clothes. These living skeletons of men were trying to hold each other up as they plodded along. Many did not have shoes, hats or anything on that would protect them from the harsh cold of winter. The POWs just stood there with their hearts going out to these wretched poor souls as they passed by. It sicken the POWs that they could not do anything to help these ill-fated prisoners.
As the POWs resumed their march they saw strewn along the side of the road the bodies of the Jews who could not go on. The POWs said a prayer not for the dead along the road (as they had been released from their mortal misery) but for the others who still had to endure the suffering agony of torture from the SS troops. What little the Jewish prisoners had in the way of covering from the elements, they gave up to respect and cover their dead."
*Links:
This is a great site, Paul's Sentimental Journey, where I got the details of the march.
This link has pictures as well as lots of information.
This is one of the websites that filled in some of the gaps.
My husband said that his father never talked about the war or his time as a POW, but near the end of his life he reconnected with the POW survivors groups and attended several of their gatherings. It was wonderful for him to see men that he had not seen since they were liberated. It was also a catalyst for his opening up to us about, at least, his capture. He said that when the plane became disabled, most of them parachuted out and came down in a field. The plane disappeared out of view as it got lower to the ground, with part of the crew still on board. He said that they saw a farmer running across the field toward them, and his first thought was that the farmer would hide them in his barn. That hope was soon gone when he saw that the farmer was leading a group of Nazi soldiers to their location. He said that at the first POW reunion he went to, he discovered that the men he thought had perished when the plane crashed, had survived but had exited the plane so late that they ended up in a different POW camp. He was happy that they had not died in the crash.
The internet makes it so easy to find pictures, information and stories from his POW Camp, and the bit of information in his small New Testament matches perfectly. These little Bibles may have been in the Red Cross packages that were passed out to the prisoners at the beginning of their march from the camp. Not sure, but there was a sticker in the front that said it was from the War Prisoners Aid, YMCA, and the Commission on Chaplaincy Aid for Prisoners of War. Stalag 17-B was a former concentration camp located one hundred meters northwest of the Village of Gneixendorf, six kilometers northwest of Krems-on-the Danube, 85 kilometers West by North of Vienna, Austria.
________________
This was in the front:
Property of S/Sgt. George -------
A.S.N #--------
Home Address
77 Canal St.
Brattelboro, VT.
P.O.W. #105202
Chaplain
Father Kane
Stalag 17-B
This is what is written in the back:
23
17
23
17
29
____
109 kilo April 14th
April 28th 1945.
Completed march of 250 miles
Living in wooded area just 10 miles from Braunau. General Patton's forces only a few kilo from here.
May 2nd Liberated by the 13th Armored Division of 3rd Army, at 6:45 P.M.
May 3rd - 4 yank jeeps came in & took command of camp. Germans are showing true colors today. Our Stalag Officers were asking the Amer. Officers for mercy. No luck! The Lt. Col. in charge of recapture unit is a real Army man. Expect to be moved back to our lines tonite or tomorrow. Many skirmishes around here today. Tanks are still rolling in around the Braunau area.
* * * * * *
From the internet, I got the following first person account of the march. A woman tape-recorded her father, Paul Spodar, who was also in stalag 17-B, as she asked him about the war.
The March
"In the final days of the war the Germans started to dismantle the prison camps. In the beginning of April 1945 the Germans led thousands of POWs from Stalag 17B on a 300 mile march to a "new" camp in Braunau Austria. Hundreds of men were left behind in hospitals too ill to make the march. Unfortunately for the POWs on the march there was no new camp their final destination ended up being in the Weilhardt Forest. The move by the Germans was made so that the approaching Russian troops would not liberate the prisoners.
For almost 3 weeks the POWs covered approximately 15 miles a day in marching columns of 500 men. They were herded along by the guards and their dogs. Paul and crewmates, Jake, Rube, and Beck managed to stay together. At the beginning of the march the men were given a Red Cross parcel it was suppose to have enough food for seven days, the food quickly ran out. During the days of the march they would occasionally pass by working slave laborers consisting of Poles, Ukrainians and other Slavic people. It was at these times that Paul would speak in Ukrainian and beg for any food as they passed the workers. Sometimes Paul got lucky and one would throw a potato or other vegetable without the guards noticing. That little gift of food would be shared between the 4 men.
Through rain and snow the men marched. When someone fell from exhaustion or illness the other POWs would quickly pick them up and drag them along for as long as they could. If a man could go no further he was left by the side of the road where death would take him on his final journey.
During their march they were coming near the Mauthausen Concentration Camp. A column of people were coming towards the POWs at a very slow pace. The POW guards pulled the POWs off to the side of the road. The guards instructed the prisoners in no uncertain terms that if they to tried to talk or pass anything to the people that were going to pass by they would be shot! This was not what usually happened. Before when they passed a group of people the men would try to talk to them with only a stern warning or a cuff with a rifle butt for their discretion. This time the guards meant business don't talk or do anything to the people who were going to pass by. As the column slowly approached they got their answer of why they were not to have anything to do with the people.
First the POWs saw the infamous and brutal SS troops followed by the most pitiful sight. They were Jewish prisoners. You could tell they were Jewish by the big yellow Star of David attached to the rags that they had for clothes. These living skeletons of men were trying to hold each other up as they plodded along. Many did not have shoes, hats or anything on that would protect them from the harsh cold of winter. The POWs just stood there with their hearts going out to these wretched poor souls as they passed by. It sicken the POWs that they could not do anything to help these ill-fated prisoners.
As the POWs resumed their march they saw strewn along the side of the road the bodies of the Jews who could not go on. The POWs said a prayer not for the dead along the road (as they had been released from their mortal misery) but for the others who still had to endure the suffering agony of torture from the SS troops. What little the Jewish prisoners had in the way of covering from the elements, they gave up to respect and cover their dead."
*Links:
This is a great site, Paul's Sentimental Journey, where I got the details of the march.
This link has pictures as well as lots of information.
This is one of the websites that filled in some of the gaps.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Mr. Chomsky, Please Excuse the Delay
In October, I wrote to Noam Chomsky because few years ago when Savant was 16 or 17 he did a picture that featured a quote by him. After Savant became sick I sold prints of some of his art work on eBay, including that one. Being the opportunistic capitalist / devoted mother that I am, I put the prints back on eBay for sale recently and I wanted to set my son's mind at ease about violating Mr. Chomsky's copyright. We received a positive reply from one of his representatives, giving permission and a request for one of the prints for Mr. Chomsky's archives.
Yesterday, I finally got Savant to sign some of the prints, a limited edition of fifty prints, though we were given permission for an edition of up to 100. Today, about two months later, I'm going to finally get it mailed. I hope. I think I may send a couple of extras. Maybe Mr. Chomsky will sign one and send it back to Savant.
I'm kind of embarrassed that it's taken so long, but if your artist is not himself for a while, it's a slow process just to get him to sign some. Also, my computer that fried, had the good pictures of it, and the digital camera only interfaced with the old computer, so I had to wait for Savant to provide better examples for me to use on eBay so you can tell what the print looks like. But I'm not going to do that today.
I have a question for the art savvy. I understand the reasoning, in the past, for numbering each print. The litho stone image or the image etched into a metal plate, becomes deteriorated by the printing process. The first prints have the best image quality. If you are not using an intaglio or stone litho process, each image should be as good as the first, right? Negating the need to number. We number them anyway, because it is traditional and they are nicely done, acid free paper stock, etc., but I wonder with the new media available today, if numbering prints will become a thing of the past?
Yesterday, I finally got Savant to sign some of the prints, a limited edition of fifty prints, though we were given permission for an edition of up to 100. Today, about two months later, I'm going to finally get it mailed. I hope. I think I may send a couple of extras. Maybe Mr. Chomsky will sign one and send it back to Savant.
I'm kind of embarrassed that it's taken so long, but if your artist is not himself for a while, it's a slow process just to get him to sign some. Also, my computer that fried, had the good pictures of it, and the digital camera only interfaced with the old computer, so I had to wait for Savant to provide better examples for me to use on eBay so you can tell what the print looks like. But I'm not going to do that today.
I have a question for the art savvy. I understand the reasoning, in the past, for numbering each print. The litho stone image or the image etched into a metal plate, becomes deteriorated by the printing process. The first prints have the best image quality. If you are not using an intaglio or stone litho process, each image should be as good as the first, right? Negating the need to number. We number them anyway, because it is traditional and they are nicely done, acid free paper stock, etc., but I wonder with the new media available today, if numbering prints will become a thing of the past?
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