Gratitude

Whoa! What was that? Survival of yet another end of the year feasts of holidays. No sooner is Halloween over then we're off to the races. Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas Eve, Christmas Night, Boxing Day and then, alas, begins a New Year, the Latin version. Goodbye to 2010 and I'm not looking back. I need no reminders of a nervous breakdown or the realization that I'm unable to do every little thing independently anymore. Call it being human, aging or whatever. The holidays are always an emotionally charged period for just about everyone except the Jehovah's Witnesses. Frankly, I believe they have the right idea, observing this sacred time without the secular hoopla. Though, it is a wonderful time for kids or be the kid within us all.

The week between Christmas and the New Year found me luxuriating on the sofa between bouts of ADD and irritability so nothing got done. Not watching TV or a video, not out shopping for deals, not checking or writing emails or this blog. Signs of Christmas are around me still. The window candles are in a heap on the floor. The Christmas tree is still decorated because I don't have the heart to take it down. The tree was assembled, put up, and decorated by a dear friend of mine. Being Jewish from NYC, she never had the pleasure or opportunity to do a tree. Afterwards, I entertained her with old stories of fights and frustration that accompanied buying, setting up, decorating and watering a real tree. What's so difficult about stringing lights that can get couples and families so riled up? So the tree stands, as do the collection of nutcrackers lined up in military fashion and several rocking horses from days past when toddlers and little kids played with them. At auntie's house, touching was not off-limits. Usually by this date, everything Christmas is put away. However, as this is the true start of a new decade, it can wait until the mood strikes. This is the decade many of us have been waiting for!

Changes ushered in are in place and taking hold. This decade includes newer attitudes and ways of being for me. My hair has grown out and I've become a blond, again. I've lost a size in clothing, always a reason to gloat for most women. That it was achieved, through an emotional breakdown rather than Weight Watches, really does make a difference. My apartment and its campus have become my convenient home office, though currently I'm still tethered to a workstation computer. That will change. I love teaching English to a new generation of immigrants and the workplace leadership has stabilised. New friends have arrived, others permanently deleted, past relationships have wonderfully resurfaced, while others just passed through. Then there are the proven faithful companions who remind me life is a gift. Each relationship has helped me grow in depth and understanding.

If you were to meet me in person, you'd see a well groomed woman with class, a chic hairstyle, quality clothing and a friendly personality. I'm told that being in my presence confers peace and gentleness upon visitors. Hearing this astonishes me for kindness is as natural as breathing for me. Appearances are very deceiving. My HUD Section 8 housing-choice certificate landed me in a luxury community that has affordable housing. We make the community stable because turnover is high. A Social Security Disability check under a $1,000 a month is what way too many Americans refer to as an "Entitlement Programs". This infestismible amount keeps me from financially drowning and creates the illusion of independence. Between food stamps, and the community food pantry means I have food in the cupboards. I know what it is like, not to have anything to eat. A Fuel Assistance program pays my gas bill. I've been a recipient of Medicare and Mass Health (Massachusetts's Medicaid program) for 15 years. I'm considered a dual eligible for government health care, yet another "Entitlement Program" cause for rampant hysteria about health care in the only Western nation who denies quality health care as a human civil right. In 2010 my prescription costs alone, not including 6 months of copay and the December figures, are topping $12,633.00!

There are plenty of mathematicians, engineers, accountants and bankers in my own clan who'd could figure out exactly how much my medical expenses were in 2010. Fifteen years after being diagnosed with a disease that ravished my professional, social and personal life, change is taking an effect. Any amount calculated will be staggering given that for generations mental illness has always been considered perhaps the most costly disease of all. Everyone has an opinion about health care as the insurance companies of swelling coffers and for-profit hospitals and clinics have become everyday. Gratefully, not in Boston and other great cities.

I foolishly believe that if my birth family and other American families were confronted by the data, the facts, and the numbers, their attitudes might change. This is ridiculous, of course. These "financial hardships" and "medical issues", are rather new emotionally distant attitudes instituted to simply hide Fear. For knowing and loving someone with a serious disease makes them - adults- feel uncomfortable. Boo-hoo! Such compassion less, immaturity and cowardliness to prevent children from providing sustenance to a loved one in need, isn't a Judea-Christian spiritual principle at all.

The next generation are or will soon, achieve the age of emancipation. I'm sure their parents don't appreciate my use of this term, for their years of love, teaching, developing, supporting, investing and providing for their children, opportunities that are rare for most of the world's population. Yes, they can vote and serve in the military, but they can't legally have a beer, a glass of wine or a pomegranate martini. It was the boomer generation with parental support during the Vietnam War that lowered the drinking age to 18. The reasoning being that if you were old enough to vote and to die for your country, you must be old enough to consume spirits. Alcohol, silly, " the demon alcohol", my grandmother called it, has now been driven underground especially on university campuses. One step ahead, two steps back. Do I dare mention cannabis? Also banned during Prohibition, a plant byproduct, enjoyed by the Founders of these United States, as an alternative spiritual gateway, remains absurdly underground and fills an elaborate prison system. Does anyone else see the insanity of all this?

emancipation

- noun

1. the act of freeing or state of being freed; liberation

2. informal freedom from inhibition and convention



Tea Time

They are like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their fruit in its season.

- Psalm 1:3

You know that ditty from childhood, we teach each new generation of toddlers. The one with all the accompanied movements. Watching children sing and perform "the Little Teapot" is a delight because they are free of inihibition. They're their authentic selves bathing in the love we shine upon and give them - except when we're busy with the business of adulthood. That's why grandparents, single aunts, uncles, friends and cousins are important. They are the attentive audience. Young ones have not learned yet, how to cover up their real selves and hide. 

I'm a little teapot, short and stout. Here is my handle. Here is my spout. When I get all steamed up, then I shout. "Just tip me over and pour me out!!"

I've been that teapot lately. Actually, I've been more like the whistling kettle on the stove. Being snowbound can do that to anyone. However, there's more to the picture than the almost 100 inches of snow on the ground. The snow and storms just keep coming and coming, reminding us, humans, that we are not in charge here in New England, or on any place on planet Earth. The seasonal weather reminds me of that fact. Within the culture of New England, Yankees, as we're referred to in other parts of the United States, weather is the ice-breaker to conversations with strangers and friends alike. It doesn't matter what season. Our first comments to one and another are about the weather and "Can you believe this?"

The whistle of the kettle grates on my nerves. Naturally, I'm indisposed. So the whistle becomes louder, stronger, more insistent, shrieking to be removed from the heat. I'm the tea kettle, impossibly steamed up, waiting for someone to take me off the fire of the stove.

It will take more than a cup of tea to lift my spirits. But it's a great start!

Remember, Reflect, Respond

Dear Readers:

My apologies. I've been busy moving a mountain. I've drafted hundreds of blogs in my head, but finding the opportunity and time to make writing a top priority has eluded me. I've been writing though. Business letters, emails, Christmas cards, notes to my favorite collegians, birthday cards and lists. Lots of endless lists of things to do, places to go, people to call, movies to see, and dinners with friends. Excuses, excuses!

Slowly, I'm creeping out of the dark hole, that in truth, has been going on for two years now. This was one of the worse summers ever for me. My dearest friends - all women- helped me through the worst of the crisis. It required a four week partial-hospitalization treatment program. However, my girlfriends have their own families and responsibilities. They are not, nor should be, my caregivers.

I'm my own caregiver. So progress is exceedingly SLOW. Almost impossible. People who are having a psychiatric crisis are consistently NOT the recipients of the same kindnesses bestowed upon others with a diseased body. You know what I mean? Visitors, protective family members, cards, flowers, meals, candy,daily phone calls offering help and/or support, household help, drivers to take you and pick you up from treatment or simply a drive to see the beauty of the region where I live.

It's been almost 8 months since I surrendered and asked for help from my doctor. During the early part of my recovery, I had a younger cousin who underwent two open heart surgeries at MGH, three valve replacements and 7 days in the intensive care unit. Yes, she faced a huge ordeal. She was under the care of superior heart surgeons who did this on a daily basis. She was back to her old self in 6 weeks and returned to work 2 weeks later in October. She was provided several round-the-clock family caregivers. Her extended family, friends, colleagues, and clients sent her beautiful flower arrangements, one from a prestigious Boston florist. There were many cards, prepared meals, someone cleaned her house, changed her sheets and helped her take a shower. Either her husband or father drove her everywhere. She was taken to enjoy a drive, to witness the awesome fall foliage. It may take a year until she feels totally like her old self, but she is well on her way, embraced in love. I adore her and the woman she's become. Her generosity astounds

Another cousin, a bit older than myself, is an independent, respected, friendly woman with her own business. Once she told me, "It's obscene the amount of money I make." She is one of the most humble, faithful and socially conscious people I know and am proud to be related to her. She had non-threatening, emergency surgery in October. Being an independent type A personality, this was her first experience with surgery and a hospitalization. Given her service her clients, to the community and to the church, she was inundated with flowers, an abundance of meals stored in her freezer, an endless stream of visitors and callers, cards, and nearby siblings who looked after her daily welfare. She was back to work from home, almost immediately. Began to take her daily walks within a week, though instructed to slow down, I don't believe she knows the meaning of those words.

For these precious cousins, I sent cards and visited with them, though it required an enormous amount of energy that I did not have. I did it because I love them and because it is the right thing to do. There is no envy or jealousy in my heart, just wonderment.

How would I'd feel if I had been given prepared meals in the freezer that I could pop into the microwave? What would be the scents and visual joy of a cluster of cut flower arrangements? Where would I place a bunch of get well cards? How glorious would it feel like if someone helped clean my apartment, change the sheets on my bed or humored me into the shower? What would it feel like to have compassionate daily visits and telephone calls from my parents, all my siblings, in-laws, my beloved nieces and nephews, other friends and acquaintances? What would feel like to be embraced in loving actions rather than meaningless words? What would it feel like to be warmed by the summer sun, rather than be confined, immobile on a sofa in an air conditioned living room? What would it be like to have the focus to read even a magazine or quietly listen to some inspirational music? What would it be like to be picked up at home rather than be expected to drive myself to the doctors, the hospital or to have someone who doesn't feel I'm an inconvenience?

I do not know. I am not a recipient of these unselfish, loving gestures when I'm ill. I feel the added pain of indifference. A relapse into a severe depression is an inconvenience. It may short-circuit someones fun or agenda. So when I'm able to muster the strength and have the financial resources, I buy myself flowers and real chocolates, forget about housework and changing the sheets. I try to shower at least every other day. Some days I actually get dressed and put on make-up. I do not write or watch TV or videos. I don't check my email or watch the news. One day I found the perfect card. I adore turtles. On the front of the card is a turtle bandaged up. Inside is the sentiment " It's not the speed that matters. It's the getting there. Hope you feel better soon."

The card is prominently displayed as a reminder that God loves me more than I can possibly imagine. He has not forsaken me. So I pray a lot and cry a lot. I remember Jesus was abandoned and forsaken by everyone of his male disciples in his time of need. The only ones with him in the end were his women, his mother Marion and his wife Mary Magdalen.Yes, blasphemy! However, there were no unmarried Jewish men. It was unheard of in those times. Who went to perform the traditional, ritual of female relatives anointing and cleansing the body of the deceased? Who did Jesus appear to first? Mary Magdalen. It was not his disciples, who had abandoned him. He'd deal with them later - with forgiveness. So I ponder the meaning and experience of being forsaken. Forgiveness is easy. Being forsaken is not. I hope my loved ones and their loved ones, never has to experience being forsaken. I hope everyone learns to give and receive forgiveness.

I, also, remember that I don't live in Haiti, on the island of Hispaniola, especially in or near the destroyed city of Port au Prince. If they can survive, so will I. These are the authentic Chosen Ones. What selfish American has their faith and perseverance? Who could tolerate abject poverty, homelessness, hunger, cholera, amputations, disease, a non-existent government, a security force with UN troops that no one trusts, and for good reasons. Who'd survive the worst natural disaster known without a whimper with Civil War era medicine?. Even among the most athletic and fit, who would be able to climb the steep, endless mountains with the ease, grace, and the carefree attitude of the Haitian women carrying enormous bundles or 10 gallon tubs of water on their heads?

So on the first anniversary of the tragic earthquake, I remember and reflect with gratitude, about my opportunity of being called to see and to bear witness to the inhumanity Haitian dilemma. It is not their fault. And I pray.

I never had any heroes until Paul Farmer, Ophelia Dahl, Jim Yong Kim and the late Thomas White of Boston came around They are the founders of Partners in Health, whose 25 years of dedication to the Haitian people, has transformed how we can deliver world-class healthcare, to the poorest, most vulnerable and forsaken people inhabiting this planet - Earth. May God have mercy on us all!

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The following are the remarks of Paul Farmer at a Memorial Service called "Remember, Reflect, Respond: Haiti One Year Later" held a week ago at the John Hancock Auditorium in Boston. If you've made it so far reading this blog, then you can make it through, to the end. The speech by Paul Farmer was part of an event Remember, Reflect, Respond: Haiti One Year Later.

Remember. The day before yesterday, Port-au-Prince looked as if it had just been leveled by an earthquake. But all of those gathered there on January 12th, 2011, knew how different it was from a year previously. All five of our senses told us why, because each of them feeds into memory.

The assaultive images and sounds and smells and textures of those first few days after the 12th have faded, which is good and bad and surely necessary: none of us wishes to dwell on the great disaster of our times. Some memories are well worth summoning, as they remind us of the best that humans can offer one another in times of great distress. But much of what is recalled includes things we wished we’d never encountered, images and smells and even sounds that conjure themselves violently. The images you can see here tonight. The sounds you can imagine: the slow creaking of a roof starting to fall, then its rapid collapse upon the living and pinned, the cries of pain coming from underneath an innocent-looking puff of powder that itself settled over the persistent groans of the injured and the dying.

The sense of touch ran the gamut from the brutal punch of bone-breaking cement to the urgent tug of hands seeking to save those trapped, to the gentle or sometimes sharply-honed touch of medical care. Some can still taste January 12th as a previously unknown flavor of relief or gratitude, spared in spite of long odds; some still taste the more bitter dregs of sorrow. This foisting of memory—the “remember” part of the equation—has sparked sentiments ranging from pity to mercy to grief.

For most gathered here tonight in Boston, we contemplate the pain of others. But some here lost limbs, many lost family, and perhaps everyone lost a bit of innocence about the possible dimensions of a collision between bad luck and longstanding unfairness. For still others, much like those I left yesterday in Haiti, all five senses transport us once again to a house of pain, pinned under the fallen beams of oppressive memory.

How might we lift these beams? We gather here to reflect on this loss and to pay proper tribute to the fallen. It is when memory, however brutal, is yoked to reflection and to meaningful action that we lift those beams to free ourselves and others, that we may make common cause to protect and heal and rebuild anew.

Respond. Not everyone will agree when I say that our immediate response to the quake was effective and humane. But even critics of the acute-relief phase allow that the pragmatic solidarity of the world was marshaled quickly. This city, certainly, has fueled our own response and I know I speak for many doctors and nurses and first responders when I thank those here, and many others, for allowing us to serve as best we could.

We could have done better, perhaps, and can do better in the future. It is harder now, as memory fades, to sustain our response. To make it better and stronger and more effective, to draw on every noble sentiment and every bit of technical skill, we acknowledge the link between memory and passion.

Whether we think of one lost friend or, to use the figure reported yesterday, 316,000 lost souls, we come together to pay respects to those lost and recommit ourselves to firm and informed actions. Just as we’ve lost too many friends to name them all, so too do we have too many aspirations to list them all. But I would like mention one, the new teaching hospital in Mirebalais, because it, better than any other project in more than 25 years of work, is emblematic of both our aspiration to build back better and our respect for the Haitian people and their story. It will be a temple, we hope, in which we can reflect our love of the fallen, from Drs. Josue and Mario to Mamito to Tom White, and our desire to draw on the science and art of healing. It will be a place drawing on the expertise of builders, represented by Jim Ansara and David Walton (one here tonight and one in Mirebalais), and by healers like Natasha Archer and Michelle Morse, and by those who procure and teach and train and manage, and by all the rest of you, who make this redemptive work possible.

Our response thus draws on memory. A temblor of pragmatic solidarity that will register on the Richter or on any other scale, a tsunami of goodness: that will be our response.