A dear friend pointed me in the direction of a fascinating article in The Washington Post online that posits how food insecurity in childhood due to poverty affects your eating patterns in adulthood, whether or not you are poor later in life. Here's the article:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/02/12/the-crippling-thing-about-growing-up-poor-that-stays-with-you-forever/?postshare=7251455375433309&tid=ss_fb-bottom
Much of this article rang true for me. When I was a child, we would probably have been classified as lower middle class. There were presents on holidays and new school clothes at the start of the year. If our father hadn't drunk half his paycheck away with some frequency, we would have been better off. Mom tried to strictly manage bills, balance our needs and not piss him off. She worked odd jobs and had a newspaper route to be able to pay for extras. Everything changed when he left.
We didn't have to worry about him beating her anymore or demoralizing us, which was an immense positive, but we also lost his semi-regular paycheck. She always had a full-time job, but they never paid enough. My father got away with paying $200 a month in child support for three children in the divorce decree - something the pro bono lawyer from the women's shelter helped secure in exchange for him giving up custody. A necessary evil, as he moved back to Ohio and threatened her with mandatory summer visits where he might just "forget" to let us come back to her. Bills were frequently late or overdue, and she would sometimes have to turn to our Grandfather for help. She tried welfare and food stamps for a couple months, but they told her to turn over the child support check for roughly the same amount in stamps, so she opted to stop them and the humiliation of going to get them. Every once in a while someone from the church would drop off a box of food, but otherwise it was slim pickings for the four of us. I remember being hungry all the time. Breakfast would be a bowl of cereal with milk. She would buy a gallon of real milk and then cut it over the next two weeks with powdered milk. She would drink a cup of instant coffee and eat a piece of bread. Lunch was at school, which I remember being cheaper than buying the individual parts to make up a lunch box. Before the divorce, she packed it every day for us, and we always had fruit. Dinner might be a package of hot dogs, a can of vegetables and four servings of rice or instant potatoes.
Mom wasn't a very good cook, and she wasn't ashamed to tell you that. She used to say that it was because she could operate a can opener or open a box that she could keep us alive. She ate very little, in order to save more for us. Soda was for special occasions, dessert was rare - that's why a birthday cake and ice cream is such a big deal to me to this day. There was rarely fresh fruits, vegetables or juice and usually white bread was a filler. Fried bologna balloons up in the pan, unless you cut an X in the middle.
After I moved out, these lessons stayed with me. In college, I put 15 pounds on when I suddenly had access to the cafeteria and repeat trips to the buffet line. Honestly, I probably ended up closer to the weight I should have been. When my husband and I started a life together, we were quite poor. It was back to infrequent fruits and vegetables in the house, lots of pasta and processed food. It's cheaper than eating healthy. I learned how to cook, quite well if I can take a moment to brag, because I had to figure out how to reuse any left-overs and work with very little. Even now, years later and doing much better financially, I've got food stocked all over the house in case we run into a problem, backups on backups. The idea of the children being hungry bothers me deeply.
If I go to a meeting and there are snacks on the table, I almost always help myself even if I'm not hungry. It's free, I rationalize and what if you don't have access to food later. The kids have never had to worry about food the same way, so they don't react the way I do. I do take umbrage with one of the theories in the article, that poorer households are often less educated and therefore less aware of their body needs. My mother was quite aware that we needed fresh fruits and vegetables; she just couldn't afford them. She was aware that Hamburger Helper was filled with salt and gave her terrible migraines, but it stretched a pound of ground beef out to feed three teenagers. She was very aware that she was starving herself. Thank God I don't have to.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Milo
There's been so much loss this week ...poet C.D. Wright, David Bowie, actors Alan Rickman, David Margulies, Brian Bedford, Dan Haggerty and Noreen Corcoran. The list is enormous. In fact, I thought I would do a little research and found this wikipedia page created just for January 2016:
I'm saddened by each loss, but Alan Rickman touched me the most. To watch him was to respect his sincerity and his dedication. You'd think, it must be lovely to work with him, to get to play together.
Yesterday, I learned of another death this week. Our client Roger came in to run a couple questions by me, and he didn't seem quite like himself. In his late 60's, you'd never know it from looking at him. He's trim, full of energy and quick with a sly smile. We met several months ago when he needed a little help, and through the course of a visit or two he talked about his life, his late partner Jane and his beloved Cockapoo, Milo. He and Jane had been together for almost 25 years. She died unexpectedly seven years ago and the loneliness was unbearable. A friend of Roger's introduced him to a rescued tawny Cockapoo named Milo, and they saved each other.
Fast forward to yesterday. While we were talking, Roger asked me if I had any animals, and I told him about our cats, our boys Rhett, Murry and Bagheera. Then he told me that he had had to put Milo to sleep on Sunday. I was shocked and asked what happened. He said on Friday when he came home from work, the neighbor woman who watched Milo during the day told him that he wasn't acting normally. He was lethargic and wouldn't eat. When she walked him, she noticed his urine was cloudy. Roger got him to eat a little that night, but on Saturday it was more of the same. When Sunday morning came, Milo wouldn't or couldn't get up. Roger rushed him to a local animal hospital that is extremely helpful and kind, having used their services myself. Roger told me that after blood work and an exam, the vet gave him the news. Milo had a heart murmur and autoimmune hemolytic anemia. The vet said that he could treat Milo, and it would be very expensive, but more than that there would be no guarantee it would work for very long, if at all. He said Milo would have no quality of life when he got him home - vomiting, urinating on himself, possible seizures. He said, Roger, if you love your dog, you'll put him to sleep.
Deciding that he didn't want Milo to suffer, he took the vet's advice. He said that there was a couch in the room where they had been waiting. Milo was laying across his lap, and Roger laid a hand on his back to keep him still. The vet had two syringes, and Milo didn't stir through either shot, didn't make a sound and within a few moments he was gone. Roger didn't look at me throughout the story, just stared down into his hands. At this point, he looked up and said, Heather, I wish the vet had taken what was left in those syringes and given it to me. We looked at each other, and I told him that Jane and Milo wouldn't have wanted that for him, how sorry I was for his loss. We chatted briefly after that, then said our goodbyes. We hugged, and as he left he told me to keep an eye on my boys.
Friday, January 8, 2016
Broken
Number one child and I were having a conversation last night about life and change. I was explaining to her that I wasn't the same person before children as I am now, specifically referencing her as she is the aforementioned number one child. She immediately got upset, thinking that she had somehow negatively impacted my being. She is a tender and anxious child who wants to take care of everybody's feelings. So, I tried to explain my philosophy that after many events in a person's life you become someone new - sometimes it's good and sometimes it's not. I believe that once it happens, you can't ever go back. Think of when you found out about where babies come from ... there's no coming back to childhood once you get that little nugget of knowledge. I remember the day my Mom sat me down to explain the mechanics involved. First I laughed, thinking that she was pulling my leg, then I was thoroughly disgusted - you have got to be kidding me, I told her. Why on God's green earth would you let one of those things (i.e. a penis) near your sacred private parts (i.e. the holy grotto). Trust me, she said, it's messy and not any fun anyway. That's a mother supplied nugget of information that changes you forever, too.
The big things do it - births, deaths, buying a house, moving, school, a new job, new people in your life. The little things do it, too - the first time you taste pork cooked the right way, a marvelous book, a new song by your favorite artist, the first kiss, a perfect cup of tea. There's no going back to the person you were before those experiences. Problems come when you think you're the same after the event, like those people who have a child and want to live without fully embracing the change and the responsibility that comes with your new roommate. In this example, I'm not saying you're supposed to stop having fun, but you have to put their needs first and figure out how to work yours into the equation. Otherwise, you're making a future ax murderer or at the very least someone who will ship you off to the old person's home when you slow down. Think "Cat's in the Cradle," my friends, and you'll know where my mind is going.
As I mentioned, sometimes these events will not change you for the good. For me, most obviously to you gentle reader and the people I live with, my Mom's death was a major diversion through the yellow wood. My sister and I have discussed this ad nauseum. We're broken, rent. Time most certainly does not heal all wounds, and I don't know if it's supposed to. The passage of time might make it easier to provide the illusion of distance and repair, but only if you think of time as linear - onward and upward. Good on you, if you have that skill set. It's not one of mine. I feel like I'm corkscrewing back and forth through a sine and cosine wave. And maybe that's what a traumatic change does to a human. I'm sure therapy helps some people, and medication helps others. And if I couldn't get up and go to work, or pay the bills, ensure the trains are running on time, then maybe I would and should exhaust those options. My doctor, who refuses to provide pain medication for relief from my consistent back pain, is more than happy to write me a prescription for an anti-depressant. Will it make the world colorful again, less gray, I asked? No, she said, it'll help you deal with the sadness. I declined. Maybe I'm supposed to experience the sadness, find out who I am after I get to the other side. Maybe it's an ocean away.
The big things do it - births, deaths, buying a house, moving, school, a new job, new people in your life. The little things do it, too - the first time you taste pork cooked the right way, a marvelous book, a new song by your favorite artist, the first kiss, a perfect cup of tea. There's no going back to the person you were before those experiences. Problems come when you think you're the same after the event, like those people who have a child and want to live without fully embracing the change and the responsibility that comes with your new roommate. In this example, I'm not saying you're supposed to stop having fun, but you have to put their needs first and figure out how to work yours into the equation. Otherwise, you're making a future ax murderer or at the very least someone who will ship you off to the old person's home when you slow down. Think "Cat's in the Cradle," my friends, and you'll know where my mind is going.
As I mentioned, sometimes these events will not change you for the good. For me, most obviously to you gentle reader and the people I live with, my Mom's death was a major diversion through the yellow wood. My sister and I have discussed this ad nauseum. We're broken, rent. Time most certainly does not heal all wounds, and I don't know if it's supposed to. The passage of time might make it easier to provide the illusion of distance and repair, but only if you think of time as linear - onward and upward. Good on you, if you have that skill set. It's not one of mine. I feel like I'm corkscrewing back and forth through a sine and cosine wave. And maybe that's what a traumatic change does to a human. I'm sure therapy helps some people, and medication helps others. And if I couldn't get up and go to work, or pay the bills, ensure the trains are running on time, then maybe I would and should exhaust those options. My doctor, who refuses to provide pain medication for relief from my consistent back pain, is more than happy to write me a prescription for an anti-depressant. Will it make the world colorful again, less gray, I asked? No, she said, it'll help you deal with the sadness. I declined. Maybe I'm supposed to experience the sadness, find out who I am after I get to the other side. Maybe it's an ocean away.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Yule
There have been so many profound stories to share from the last several weeks at work. It has been very tiring as the holidays have approached, as well. There is so much beauty in this world - wonderful children, good poetry, dear friends, rock music and the sweet anger release of a well strung together litany of curse words. Even with all this though, it's a tough time of the year. From my birthday in October through New Year's day, the progression of special days that trumpet ever more loudly my mother's absence in my ears. We all have something, right.
There's Edith, who at 83 lost her youngest son, husband and home in the last year. Her son died unexpectedly, meanwhile her husband who she was the primary caretaker for, took a turn for the worse and died six months later. Edith and her husband had the first floor in her two family, and her son and daughter-in-law had the second floor. With both men gone, the decision was made by the remaining children that it would be for the best to sell the house - after all, it was too much house for two older women. Edith lives in a three room apartment now in a nice part of town, but she doesn't know any of her neighbors. They're all so busy. We sat for a while and talked about her husband, her son, her grandchildren, how hard it is to cook for one person, what life was like when she was a nurse and in charge of the medical unit at the airport. She talked about how hard it is at the grocery store, and I suggested that they could deliver for her - or maybe one of those children or grandchildren could go with her, walk arm in arm and listen to her wonderful stories while they carried her milk. She patted my hair when she left.
There's Russell, not my Russell, but I told him he had the same name as my husband, and he got a kick out of that. Three months ago he came into my office and was unsteady on his pins. He almost fell over, but somehow I kept him off the floor and we've been friends since then. He came in recently to find out how fast I could make a very large check clear. It turns out he doesn't have much time left here on this planet, and he wants to make sure he can give it to his girlfriend. I was like, Russell, you didn't tell me you were that sick? How well do you know this woman? He laughed me off and said they'd been together for 25 years. This check was the least he could do for her considering all the shit he puts her through. He said goodbye and shook my hand like it was the last time we would see each other.
There's Gary who stopped by to go over some recent transactions. Then he asked me if I had my holiday shopping done, and when I said not quite yet, produced six watch and pen sets from a bag he had at his feet. They were $45 a piece, but I could have two for $80 or three for $90 and how many sets would I like. That was fun to delicately extricate myself from. There's Georgia that wants to adopt me, and/or introduce me to nice young man she knows. I'm happily married Georgia, I always say. He's got a really good job, she says with a smile. Oh Georgia, I say - you are too much. Then we laugh, and I smile until I can get her the fuck out of my office. There's so many stories and so little time to give them all the justice they deserve.
Tonight, we'll sit in our living room and read the story of Jesus' birth to the children, just as my mother did every single Christmas Eve when we were children. My sister is with us for the first time in a very long time. She's making block towers with the baby while I write this. We'll keep trying to get the 18 year old cat to stop eating the artificial tree. We'll hang our stockings later after everyone showers and puts on beddy-bye clothes. And after I kiss them goodnight, after my sister goes to bed and my husband goes to sleep, I will touch my mother's tiny urn on my dresser and wish her a Merry Christmas.
There's Edith, who at 83 lost her youngest son, husband and home in the last year. Her son died unexpectedly, meanwhile her husband who she was the primary caretaker for, took a turn for the worse and died six months later. Edith and her husband had the first floor in her two family, and her son and daughter-in-law had the second floor. With both men gone, the decision was made by the remaining children that it would be for the best to sell the house - after all, it was too much house for two older women. Edith lives in a three room apartment now in a nice part of town, but she doesn't know any of her neighbors. They're all so busy. We sat for a while and talked about her husband, her son, her grandchildren, how hard it is to cook for one person, what life was like when she was a nurse and in charge of the medical unit at the airport. She talked about how hard it is at the grocery store, and I suggested that they could deliver for her - or maybe one of those children or grandchildren could go with her, walk arm in arm and listen to her wonderful stories while they carried her milk. She patted my hair when she left.
There's Russell, not my Russell, but I told him he had the same name as my husband, and he got a kick out of that. Three months ago he came into my office and was unsteady on his pins. He almost fell over, but somehow I kept him off the floor and we've been friends since then. He came in recently to find out how fast I could make a very large check clear. It turns out he doesn't have much time left here on this planet, and he wants to make sure he can give it to his girlfriend. I was like, Russell, you didn't tell me you were that sick? How well do you know this woman? He laughed me off and said they'd been together for 25 years. This check was the least he could do for her considering all the shit he puts her through. He said goodbye and shook my hand like it was the last time we would see each other.
There's Gary who stopped by to go over some recent transactions. Then he asked me if I had my holiday shopping done, and when I said not quite yet, produced six watch and pen sets from a bag he had at his feet. They were $45 a piece, but I could have two for $80 or three for $90 and how many sets would I like. That was fun to delicately extricate myself from. There's Georgia that wants to adopt me, and/or introduce me to nice young man she knows. I'm happily married Georgia, I always say. He's got a really good job, she says with a smile. Oh Georgia, I say - you are too much. Then we laugh, and I smile until I can get her the fuck out of my office. There's so many stories and so little time to give them all the justice they deserve.
Tonight, we'll sit in our living room and read the story of Jesus' birth to the children, just as my mother did every single Christmas Eve when we were children. My sister is with us for the first time in a very long time. She's making block towers with the baby while I write this. We'll keep trying to get the 18 year old cat to stop eating the artificial tree. We'll hang our stockings later after everyone showers and puts on beddy-bye clothes. And after I kiss them goodnight, after my sister goes to bed and my husband goes to sleep, I will touch my mother's tiny urn on my dresser and wish her a Merry Christmas.
Monday, December 7, 2015
Fake Prophet
I realize that anyone who is reading my thoughts is, in all likelihood, probably in agreement with some of my arguments - otherwise you would have bid me and my little rants adieu some time ago. I am unabashedly a liberal in my ideology and belief systems. I support and defend a woman's right to her body and to be equal with men. I believe that we have an obligation to come to the aid of those less fortunate. As Uncle Ben teaches us, with great power comes great responsibility.
I also believe that the system, "the man" shall we say, succeeds when we are kept like sheep - fat and sassy, debating the television/media flavor of the month, the hyped hoopla that allows us to think we're having real debate. Let's get indignant over a red cup at Starbucks. Let's pretend there's a war on Christmas and Christians because somebody suggested we say Happy Holidays and you think godless liberals don't want you to say Merry Christmas anymore - it's not like there aren't ten or eleven religious holidays from roughly Thanksgiving to New Year's Day, and maybe wishing everyone you meet a Happy Holiday might be a nice thing to do. Let's get angry about Caitlyn Jenner being a real woman or not and deserving of fake awards or not. Let's talk about who's fucking who on The Voice, The Real Housewives of X town and The Fake Ass Duggar Prophets.
They want us to focus on this pablum and allow the real issues to pass from our memory. Suck all the crap in and stare into Kaa's eyes ... Forget the refugees ... Turn from an honest dialogue on gun control ... Pay no attention to the squeezing of equal healthcare access for poor women and men ... Ignore the economic caste system that is becoming written in stone.
And then into the mix, toss Donald Trump and his ever increasingly divisive rhetoric. Months ago, I mentioned I was concerned about him and what he might foment. Don't worry, friends and family told me. He's a joke; no one really believes what he has to say. Each day he struts and preens in front of the cameras, spouting off unimaginable soundbites:
- Today's campaign press release, "Donald J. Trump is calling for a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States until our country's representatives can figure out what is going on."
- If he's elected President he would deport Syrian refugees who are here, including children. “They’re going to be gone. They will go back. … I’ve said it before, in fact, and everyone hears what I say, including them, believe it or not,” Trump said of the refugees.
- When he was asked about all Muslims here being issued ID cards: He said, “we’re going to have to look at a lot of things very closely.”
- On the families of terrorists: "The other thing with the terrorists is you have to take out their families, when you get these terrorists, you have to take out their families. They care about their lives, don't kid yourself. When they say they don't care about their lives, you have to take out their families," Trump said.
- A protester at his rally who was punched and kicked by Trump supporters, "maybe he should have been roughed up."
He is still ahead in the polls. Clients I know think he's great - "he's just saying what most of us think already." They were having a lively discussion in the lobby about how Trump would turn this country around. It reminded me of Hitler's Willing Executioners, by Daniel Goldhagen. I hope I don't give Goldhagen's thesis a disservice by summing it up thus; the German people were not only aware of what was going on under the Nazi regime, but were willing participants and in multiple instances, participated in a culture of cruelty and murder. The prevailing thought prior to this had been that the majority of the German public was indifferent to what the regime was doing and more disliked the Jews than hated them.
Are Trump and his supporters Nazis - certainly not, but he is riling up his supporters with comments that make a lot of people very uncomfortable. Apparently, not uncomfortable enough for the Republican party or the other candidates on the stage with him to disavow him and all he stands. It's as though they've become indifferent. We must not go down that path.
I also believe that the system, "the man" shall we say, succeeds when we are kept like sheep - fat and sassy, debating the television/media flavor of the month, the hyped hoopla that allows us to think we're having real debate. Let's get indignant over a red cup at Starbucks. Let's pretend there's a war on Christmas and Christians because somebody suggested we say Happy Holidays and you think godless liberals don't want you to say Merry Christmas anymore - it's not like there aren't ten or eleven religious holidays from roughly Thanksgiving to New Year's Day, and maybe wishing everyone you meet a Happy Holiday might be a nice thing to do. Let's get angry about Caitlyn Jenner being a real woman or not and deserving of fake awards or not. Let's talk about who's fucking who on The Voice, The Real Housewives of X town and The Fake Ass Duggar Prophets.
They want us to focus on this pablum and allow the real issues to pass from our memory. Suck all the crap in and stare into Kaa's eyes ... Forget the refugees ... Turn from an honest dialogue on gun control ... Pay no attention to the squeezing of equal healthcare access for poor women and men ... Ignore the economic caste system that is becoming written in stone.
And then into the mix, toss Donald Trump and his ever increasingly divisive rhetoric. Months ago, I mentioned I was concerned about him and what he might foment. Don't worry, friends and family told me. He's a joke; no one really believes what he has to say. Each day he struts and preens in front of the cameras, spouting off unimaginable soundbites:
- Today's campaign press release, "Donald J. Trump is calling for a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States until our country's representatives can figure out what is going on."
- If he's elected President he would deport Syrian refugees who are here, including children. “They’re going to be gone. They will go back. … I’ve said it before, in fact, and everyone hears what I say, including them, believe it or not,” Trump said of the refugees.
- When he was asked about all Muslims here being issued ID cards: He said, “we’re going to have to look at a lot of things very closely.”
- On the families of terrorists: "The other thing with the terrorists is you have to take out their families, when you get these terrorists, you have to take out their families. They care about their lives, don't kid yourself. When they say they don't care about their lives, you have to take out their families," Trump said.
- A protester at his rally who was punched and kicked by Trump supporters, "maybe he should have been roughed up."
He is still ahead in the polls. Clients I know think he's great - "he's just saying what most of us think already." They were having a lively discussion in the lobby about how Trump would turn this country around. It reminded me of Hitler's Willing Executioners, by Daniel Goldhagen. I hope I don't give Goldhagen's thesis a disservice by summing it up thus; the German people were not only aware of what was going on under the Nazi regime, but were willing participants and in multiple instances, participated in a culture of cruelty and murder. The prevailing thought prior to this had been that the majority of the German public was indifferent to what the regime was doing and more disliked the Jews than hated them.
Are Trump and his supporters Nazis - certainly not, but he is riling up his supporters with comments that make a lot of people very uncomfortable. Apparently, not uncomfortable enough for the Republican party or the other candidates on the stage with him to disavow him and all he stands. It's as though they've become indifferent. We must not go down that path.
Saturday, November 28, 2015
Sister
Ever since my sister was a teenager, she knew she wanted to help people. She didn't know how, and she didn't know where, but that's what she'd talk about when you asked her what she wanted to do with her life - which is a loaded question, to be sure. Her path took a little bit longer than some, but she worked her ass off in school, working full time and being the third parent in our household. I'm incredibly proud of her. She's thoughtful, caring and very generous. My children are so lucky that she is theirs.
It only makes sense that she would channel that need to help and care for others into a career as a social worker. She secured an internship working for the VA her last semester of graduate school. They were so impressed they offered her a job, and almost a decade later, she's still there - working tirelessly to support her veterans. That's what she calls them, her veterans, my guys. Whenever we talk about work, the stresses of our day, she talks about her guys.
She's extremely professional and never breaks confidentiality, never lets a name slip out. There's a ton of paperwork, just as you would imagine there would be for such a ginormous bureaucracy/corporation. It often surprises me how all encompassing her job is. Obviously, she has to go to where the guys are, so she does group home visits, takes them to their doctor appointments, talks to their caregivers. If they move to a new group home, she's the one that moves them. I thought she meant that she arranged their transportation and the dates, but I was wrong. She loads the boxes with their belongings into her car or a van and literally moves them into their new place. She's got to have all those difficult conversations, as well. From their emotional and mental stability, to hygiene and physical issues, she has to cover the gamut of questions to make sure she catches any potential problems - so she can protect her guys and do the best job possible.
At the beginning of this week, she was driving two of her veterans in her car to their doctor appointments, one in the front seat and the other in the back. They were all chatting about Thanksgiving and their plans. She had stopped at Dunkin Donuts for them and had just gotten back on the freeway. After a few minutes, the veteran sitting next to her suddenly became silent, head dropping to his chest. She tried to get a response, find a pulse in his wrist, but she couldn't. The veteran in the back checked the man's throat and thought he felt something faint. She called for help, but she feared she was too far from the next hospital, so she quickly turned and headed back to the emergency care unit at her building. A dozen people met her car when she pulled up, and they tried to revive him but to no avail. Her veteran had died next to her, in the front seat of her car.
She's been around death before, but never like this. We were all together, sisters and brother, when we watched Mom die in her hospital room seven years ago. She's had other veterans die, some due to health conditions and some by their own hand, the demons brought back from serving their country having finally been silenced. But she's never had another human die inches from her while she was desperately trying to get them help. I told her that it must have been a comfort to his family that his last moments were spent with her, safe and relaxed. He hadn't expressed any discomfort or pain to her. He was there one moment and then gone. His family was grateful that she was able to give them that assurance.
On Thursday, I fed her and talked when we could, as the children ran in and out of the room. She didn't want to upset them, to make them feel like they had to comfort her on the holiday. She's been offered therapy and a great deal of support at work, but for now she wants to deal with it herself. These unexpected traumas, they bloom out like ink on paper, making the sadness harder to escape. If you have a moment, I humbly ask if you would offer a prayer, a candle, a loving thought to whatever you hold dear, whatever brings you succor, for my sister.
It only makes sense that she would channel that need to help and care for others into a career as a social worker. She secured an internship working for the VA her last semester of graduate school. They were so impressed they offered her a job, and almost a decade later, she's still there - working tirelessly to support her veterans. That's what she calls them, her veterans, my guys. Whenever we talk about work, the stresses of our day, she talks about her guys.
She's extremely professional and never breaks confidentiality, never lets a name slip out. There's a ton of paperwork, just as you would imagine there would be for such a ginormous bureaucracy/corporation. It often surprises me how all encompassing her job is. Obviously, she has to go to where the guys are, so she does group home visits, takes them to their doctor appointments, talks to their caregivers. If they move to a new group home, she's the one that moves them. I thought she meant that she arranged their transportation and the dates, but I was wrong. She loads the boxes with their belongings into her car or a van and literally moves them into their new place. She's got to have all those difficult conversations, as well. From their emotional and mental stability, to hygiene and physical issues, she has to cover the gamut of questions to make sure she catches any potential problems - so she can protect her guys and do the best job possible.
At the beginning of this week, she was driving two of her veterans in her car to their doctor appointments, one in the front seat and the other in the back. They were all chatting about Thanksgiving and their plans. She had stopped at Dunkin Donuts for them and had just gotten back on the freeway. After a few minutes, the veteran sitting next to her suddenly became silent, head dropping to his chest. She tried to get a response, find a pulse in his wrist, but she couldn't. The veteran in the back checked the man's throat and thought he felt something faint. She called for help, but she feared she was too far from the next hospital, so she quickly turned and headed back to the emergency care unit at her building. A dozen people met her car when she pulled up, and they tried to revive him but to no avail. Her veteran had died next to her, in the front seat of her car.
She's been around death before, but never like this. We were all together, sisters and brother, when we watched Mom die in her hospital room seven years ago. She's had other veterans die, some due to health conditions and some by their own hand, the demons brought back from serving their country having finally been silenced. But she's never had another human die inches from her while she was desperately trying to get them help. I told her that it must have been a comfort to his family that his last moments were spent with her, safe and relaxed. He hadn't expressed any discomfort or pain to her. He was there one moment and then gone. His family was grateful that she was able to give them that assurance.
On Thursday, I fed her and talked when we could, as the children ran in and out of the room. She didn't want to upset them, to make them feel like they had to comfort her on the holiday. She's been offered therapy and a great deal of support at work, but for now she wants to deal with it herself. These unexpected traumas, they bloom out like ink on paper, making the sadness harder to escape. If you have a moment, I humbly ask if you would offer a prayer, a candle, a loving thought to whatever you hold dear, whatever brings you succor, for my sister.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Refugee
My friends, I am broken anew tonight, awash in grief. There are so many cities swimming in grief from the dead and wounded. Meanwhile, thousands of miles away the lines are being sharply drawn on whether the support is fake or real, heartfelt or hypocritical. Add to that swift pronouncements from governors in 31 states in the US saying they won't "accept" Syrian refugees. I found this CNN article helpful:
http://www.cnn.com/2015/11/16/world/paris-attacks-syrian-refugees-backlash/index.html
To summarize, refugee admittance to the country rests not with the individual states but with the federal government. By refusing to cooperate though, they can make it much more difficult. 1,500 Syrian refugees have come here since 2011. 250,000 have died since the war broke out and more than 22 million people have fled their homes.
The same social media that quickly told us to #PrayforParis is now giddily swimming with commentators reveling in keeping Syrian refugees out. This country was built on people escaping persecution, war, famine and death. I have no doubt my father's ancestors came here to escape the potato famine, and I'm equally sure they weren't all completely law abiding citizens. My maternal grandfather was Scotch-Canadian, fell in love with my grandmother, an American, and renounced his citizenship to stay with her and fight for the US Army during WWII. We are a nation of immigrants, remember ... "Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me"
My grief comes not from this hypocrisy but from this article:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/lynzybilling/where-syrian-children-sleep#.tdD6N7AOq
Most war photography is gripping, but these children, these poor babies are not only an unfortunate fact of war but an undeniable example of the depravity of humanity. If you can look at these faces and still tell me that we can't find some way to help, to save them, then I fear that there may be no hope for us. Look in Tamam's eyes, as she lies there with her too aged 5 year old eyes, fearing that as her head touches the pillow the bombs will now come. Look at the Pietà that is Sham and his mother. The tiny bruised toes of Gulistan.
Do we turn our backs on these people, on these children? If you cluck your tongue at me or chide me at my sentimentality, tell me that we can't be too careful ... then we have lost our humanity. Do not tell me that you are a religious person, a spiritual person, if you feel this way. No God I know, or have read about, would agree with you. There is more and more darkness coming, and we must be on the side of light, of hope, before a generation is lost.
http://www.cnn.com/2015/11/16/world/paris-attacks-syrian-refugees-backlash/index.html
To summarize, refugee admittance to the country rests not with the individual states but with the federal government. By refusing to cooperate though, they can make it much more difficult. 1,500 Syrian refugees have come here since 2011. 250,000 have died since the war broke out and more than 22 million people have fled their homes.
The same social media that quickly told us to #PrayforParis is now giddily swimming with commentators reveling in keeping Syrian refugees out. This country was built on people escaping persecution, war, famine and death. I have no doubt my father's ancestors came here to escape the potato famine, and I'm equally sure they weren't all completely law abiding citizens. My maternal grandfather was Scotch-Canadian, fell in love with my grandmother, an American, and renounced his citizenship to stay with her and fight for the US Army during WWII. We are a nation of immigrants, remember ... "Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me"
My grief comes not from this hypocrisy but from this article:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/lynzybilling/where-syrian-children-sleep#.tdD6N7AOq
Most war photography is gripping, but these children, these poor babies are not only an unfortunate fact of war but an undeniable example of the depravity of humanity. If you can look at these faces and still tell me that we can't find some way to help, to save them, then I fear that there may be no hope for us. Look in Tamam's eyes, as she lies there with her too aged 5 year old eyes, fearing that as her head touches the pillow the bombs will now come. Look at the Pietà that is Sham and his mother. The tiny bruised toes of Gulistan.
Do we turn our backs on these people, on these children? If you cluck your tongue at me or chide me at my sentimentality, tell me that we can't be too careful ... then we have lost our humanity. Do not tell me that you are a religious person, a spiritual person, if you feel this way. No God I know, or have read about, would agree with you. There is more and more darkness coming, and we must be on the side of light, of hope, before a generation is lost.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)