Thoughts From The Ridge

Canned Tomatoes and Afghans

2011-04-19T21:52:00.003-04:00

They're both lying in medical beds now, one in a hospital in Lexington and one in a nursing home in Hyden. They are my two aunts, staunch defenders of me against my parents, safe havens to run to in troubled times, an odd mix of friends and family. The both of them are sick and suffering and there's nothing I can do about it.

To say I feel worse than helpless is an understatement. If I were a man, perhaps the word would be impotent, and then some.

I never left their house but what my belly was full of good, homemade food, my head and heart full of laughter and hilarious family stories, and my hands full of some fresh garden produce, canned goods, newly made afghan or homemade pillow. In an always repeated exchange born in the deep hills of Kentucky, they would ask me to stay, and I would ask them to come home with me, and I'd drive off in my car with those wonderful Mountain accents ringing in my ears, sweet ways of talking that are now fast fading from the hills with the coming of cable and dish TV.

Last Saturday I visited one aunt in her home, watched a gory mob movie with her all afternoon and was periodically visited by her ferrets and cats -- and left with canned tomatoes. On Sunday I visited my other aunt three and a half hours away who lay asleep in her chair after having been awake all morning, and even out to church, her daughter-in-law said. That would be the church services they have in the nursing home's cafeteria. She came to briefly, to her children saying, Momma, it's Lyn. Bob and Lyn are here. I was able to ask her how she was doing, and she told me she was a-doing okay, then drifted back off to sleep. I left there with those precious words uttered from her lips, words that I hadn't heard for quite some time because a chronic medical condition periodically floods her brain with ammonia, and takes away her ability to speak. But it had come back, just a couple of words, that fell like pearls on my ears, I so hungry for the accent, so lonely for the sweet twang and descriptions like "hain't nary."

I'm an orphan now, and that's been hard enough. But what will it be like when there are no more elderly aunts and uncles in my life to sit and listen to? No more stories from the old days, and those great long convoluted explanations of who's related to who? And it so much reminds me what I learned a long time ago -- we grieve for ourselves.

I'm so angry at their suffering. I'm so angry and useless and unable to do one single thing to ease any of it or take it away, or help at all especially when I know they would have moved mountains to ease my suffering. It seems so paltry to say, I love you. I'm so angry at this medical situation where they tell the family, who is already grieving this living death, that sorry, but your loved one can only be sick for x amount of days and then their benefits wear out. Well, we have jobs we can't quit, and she can't walk on her own. Well, sorry 'bout your luck. And by the way, you have to have a password to ask how they're doing. It's not a question of extending life by artificial means. They need no artificial means to stay alive, unless you want to count when you help them eat. We're not talking about ventilators and end of life and feeding tubes.

Will this new health care bill help? Don't see how it can when it's already taken, what is the amount, $500 billion out of Medicare? There are supposedly no caps on care? So what is this about only being able to stay here for x amount of days? Only a bunch of junk filled with special interest riders funding this and that project along the way that has nothing to do with health care, and old people, and never solving the basic problem, which is why on earth does one single, generic aspirin cost $10 in a hospital? And why do we disrespect our elders so badly?

They don't deserve to live and die like this.

Tomorrow I will make vegetable soup out of one of the cans of Maye's tomatoes, because she would want me to, but I'm not for sure I'll ever open the other can. I think I'll leave it sit on my top shelf, the deep dark red of the tomatoes like some lighthouse beacon keeping watch over my kitchen. Later I'll snuggle under Francie's afghan as I watch the evening news, and run my fingers over the intricate and precise crocheted stitches one by one. Later that night, as I try to fall asleep, I'll strain to remember that voice, that sweet, sweet voice from so long ago telling me the story of when the fox got the chicken and she sent my cousin Paul to bring it back -- the chicken, not the fox. The picture of the fox, chicken in his mouth and my long legged cousin Paul, then a lanky boy, leaping through the briars and rhododendron will make me smile, ever so briefly, before my eyes begin to spill in the dark night.

CRS

2011-04-16T14:33:00.003-04:00

I'm discovering an interesting thing about myself as I'm aging. I'm discovering that if I really don't like someone, I can't remember their name!

This is a little different from the general CRS syndrome that I started experiencing as I passed that magic age of 50. Fifty is the age where you really do need to start working crossword puzzles because it seems like the silliest things elude your memory. I try to work at least nine a day, one from a newspaper, one from a subscriber on line, and 7 from a crossword website.

It's also the age where you need to make sure you pee before you get in the car and go anywhere, but I digress.

A post on Dea Riley's page prompted me to realize this unique memory phenomenon. She had posted a story about a Northern Kentucky university professor who has published an article maintaining Sarah Palin's Down's Syndrome baby is not her own, but her daughter's, and it reminded me of the talk show host that thought it was so funny to poke fun at Sarah's sixteen year old daughter on national TV. And see, I was so disgusted by his base stupidity that I can't, at this moment in time, remember his name.

Being a journalist I know where to look to find out, but I'm also experiencing a second, and not unpleasant sensation. I find I enjoy that I can't remember his name. I never did think he was that funny, he being one of those who think it's humorous to degrade others. Never a true comedian like the masters in the old days. I can remember Jay Leno's name just fine. And now that my fevered brain has insisted on sorting it out regardless of my preferences, I find I do remember the name of David Letterman.

So the question is, will David Letterman will now poke fun at Sarah's Down Syndrome baby on his next show? Or will he at last show a little class and leave the children out of it?

Pseudophedrine

2011-02-18T00:12:00.003-05:00

Is it just me, or have others realized that nearly all of the recreational drugs are already illegal or prescription? And that by getting pseudophedrine by prescription, you can about 4 times the number of pills you can get over the counter?

There's a doctor down in Hazard known as the "pain doctor," where everybody goes to get their oxycotin. His office, I am told, looks like a lobby of a four star hotel in Vegas.

'Nuff said, as my Momma always said.

Kentucky Congress

2011-02-17T23:38:00.004-05:00

So, so sad tonight, feeling so beaten and disgusted. Cannot believe the legislature has passed a preemptive strike to keep the EPA out of the coalfields of Kentucky. The blindness of the people to the manipulation of the coal companies -- you just have to wonder how many of our senators and representatives are on their payrolls? All of a sudden federal intrusion into our state's workings is a big thing. It wasn't a big thing when the Health Care Reform Act was passed, even though it's already been warned that the Bill will bankrupt our state. We didn't raise hell about it. It wasn't a big thing when Beshear accepted stimulus money that other states with more integrity turned down, and neglected to acknowledge that stimulus money's impact when HE claimed HE had managed to balance the budget (first with imaginary gambling money, then the stimulus). We didn't raise hell about that. Now, though, when it comes to the production of the beloved coal dollar, the monkeys are hooting and hollering in their trees.

We are insane in our foolishness when we can't accept that we can burn our own garbage for fuel. We are insane in our shortsightedness when we can acknowledge we can produce, on our beautiful, now idle fields, plenty of bio fuel (not the corn that strips the soil, but more friendly crops like hemp and switch grass) and that we can cover our barns with solar panels. We are insane in our shortsightedness when we think it is okay to blow up some of the oldest mountains in the world for more Wal Marts. We are insane when we can't seem to see that the coal companies master mine this to keep all other industries out of the Appalachians and that the citizens of Appalachia are cutting their own necks. We are insane, and I'm just having a real hard time wrapping my mind around it tonight.

Thanksgiving

2011-01-02T12:27:00.002-05:00

I never seem to be able to get in sync with the "real" world, and today is no exception. I was just moved to comment on how perfect it was a morning at our house today. The sun was out and shining through our windows, there was a fire cackling in the stove, we were snuggled up in covers and pets and comfortable in our chairs drinking good coffee and watching the Sunday political shows on TV. It occurred to me then that my resolution this year is to be mindful of the moment and to be thankful for it, not waiting for that faraway day in November to count my blessings.

Statistics

2011-01-01T12:25:00.003-05:00

Just something quick, just to break the ice from this long stalemate from writing. I heard on the news this morning the following statistic, that the baby boomers are starting to come of age for Medicare benefits this year, to the tune of approximately 10,000 a day. This is a staggering, breathtaking statistic, designed to make everyone in the audience gasp a little and say, "Oh no!" What irritates and aggravates me (seems that's getting easier and easier to do), is the lack of the "rest of the story" (apologies to Paul Harvey) this statistic provides. The other logical side, of course, maybe a little morbid, is how many people on Medicare are dying every day and thus leaving the program? In other words, what is the real net increase, if there is one, and why doesn't this particular news source, who claims to be neutral and unbiased, also provide this information as well as the more inflammatory and unfinished remark?

I once had a great Journalism teacher who taught us how statistics can be used to provide justification for nearly everything, including points that are total opposites to each other. I don't remember the statistic she used, but she took one and managed to derive about ten interesting and at times, totally opposite results from the same number. (Many teachings from my old journalism school really did set with me, such as this one, and such as the one my old copy reading and editing teacher admonished, to "always consider the source!"). I had an interesting time with this when I used to work at a hospital who was fined over a million dollars in bogus Medicare charges due to its incorrect coding for pneumonia patients. As a result the respiratory therapists were charged with the duty of obtaining sputum cultures within 4 hours of admission for every patient admitted with the diagnosis of pneumonia, and when that number, on paper, was not reached, we were skewered, splayed and flayed before the administration for our laziness. The reality of the situation was much different and the percentage results were variant on many factors, many of which were totally out of our control, including a basic one -- that we were rarely informed of the admittance of a pneumonia patient within the 4 hour time span, leaving us very little time to do our protocol, which was itself a 3 hour procedure. I became so angered at receiving the rancorous phone calls from the infection control nurse and the administration that on one occasion I took the infection control nurse's statistic and ripped it apart about ten different ways. It didn't stop her from calling our department, but when she got me on the phone, she simply told me to tell my boss to call her.

My journalism teacher simply taught us, statistics can be manipulated to mean anything you want them to. My constant and persistent complaint, ad nauseam, is how difficult it is to find good, well-balanced news sources anymore who are willing to take even this simple little concept into consideration much less any of the rest of the plethora of factors that separate a fair and unbiased story from propaganda.

For instance, without getting into a huge Journalism 101 explanation, the very decision regarding what to print can dictate the bias of a news organization. Take in point a story written by the Associated Press about the Hawaii governor's resistance in releasing Obama's birth certificate, that, although written by the AP, considered fairly neutral and unbiased, was only published on Worldnews.net, a decidedly biased news media. Does the fact that thiis commonly respected AP story was published on a decidedly biased news media somehow stain the story? No. The bigger question, I'm asking, is why this story wasn't picked up and published on the supposedly respected mainstream media?

If you comment on this post wanting to argue with me about whether or not I'm a birther and all the other crap, don't bother. You're totally missing the extremely simple, elementary point. In the last dialogue not one person actually addressed that point, the exact same one the great bastion of liberalism Chris Matthews also asked regarding Obama's birth certificate, "Why doesn't he just show it?" Unlikely as it usually is, I agree with Matthews on this one, who wants to put all the diatribe and excuses aside, and simply wants to know the answer to this very important question.

THE NEW CD - Generally Speaking

2009-12-15T01:16:00.010-05:00

The new CD. It has taken so much work, but I think it may be finished. The package design has already been sent to Discmakers and we're still fine tuning the master. I don't know what to say about it right now, except that I am exhausted.

This is the process -- write a song, then re-write it, and re-write and re-write. Then record it at the home studio, re-write again, and chart it out. Then mentally assemble a group of musicians to record it, send it out to all of them along with the words and charts. Then comes the scheduling of all involved. We finally meet in the studio to make the final arrangement decisions and actually record it. Now you listen to this song, I can't count the number of times, fine tuning each musician's part, bringing up this phrase, taking down that one countless, countless times, plus adding new instrument voices to the mix as you go and doing all the mixing with those tracks. Then you multiply this process by 12 songs. I am totally exhausted, and I have no idea how my Ed, my engineer has managed to stay sane through the whole thing.

If I have listened to the songs a hundred times, Ed has listened to them a thousand, tweaking here and there constantly. All told, it's been two years -- thank goodness it hasn't been a constant thing until just lately. I have only a vague notion of all of the things, effects, whatever, that can be done through audio engineering. I'm an analog girl, and knew my way around the analog studio. Everything is digital now, analog to the nth degree. There are the technical aspects of making all of the voices, human and instrumental, achieve a certain level, and a certain warmth and freshness. It is unknown to most that recording is done flat, with all resonance and such taken away, and then those characteristics are added back in. The whole point is to be able to make all of the instruments sound like a cohesive unit. I can't explain it much more than that. I do know it is a great deal of work.

It does things to your ego, listening to yourself that much. One might think it would be a wonderful thing, but it's not. First of all, I'm not that fond of my voice, and then there are the thousand tiny things I wish I could change -- one song should have been in a higher key, one was faster than I intended it, I kind of flubbed that note, etc., etc., etc., ad nauseum.

It is nearly done, though. I probably wouldn't be able to listen to it full all the way through again, were it not for the wonderful job that the musicians did. I have to admit that I am less interested in my singing than I am the playing of these musicians. I know I will enjoy this album for the rest of my life simply because of the wonderful musical talent that is on it. If it were up to me, the music would go on forever. Just hang an iPod on my ears when you cart me off to the old folks' home.

I have said this before, that song writing is a singular, solitary thing, and what you manage to croak out and strum on your front porch becomes a whole new thing when you invite other people to join in and put their own impressions to it. This process to me, is the most fun thing I can ever think to do. To be able to sit down with wonderful players and let them take my song, everybody contributing in, and make it into something else completely is, well, my idea of a good time. That's what does it for me.

A Time To Be Quiet

2009-12-05T01:29:00.002-05:00

It's been over a year since I wrote last, but the time has not been wasted. I've been busy at work finishing my CD, Girl Who Loves Horses, and I'm happy to say that I sent the artwork to the cover off yesterday. Hopefully the mixing will be done soon and that too can go off to DiscMakers.

I've also had the honor of working on an old friend's book, although I've had to put it on the back burner the last month. He is 90 years old, and this book that I'm editing will be a compilation of photographs that he's gathered to himself all of these years. It's a wonderful collection and it's been a great journey for me to be a part of it.

I had to put another of my animals to sleep a couple of weeks ago, and it's made me feel very quiet. I'm not one who makes it a habit to speak when I have nothing to say, but this time I found I had too much to say, and so was ironically rendered speechless. She was old by any standard, she was my mare, and she was ill and she was suffering, and so it was time, but, as always with the four-leggeds, their lives are not as long as yours and so at some point you will surely suffer heartbreak in return for all of the love they have given so easily to you. The price of love is grief, the owner of Barbero said, and they were eloquent words in their simplicity.

And so I will begin to write, perhaps to share my chapters of my fiction novel I plan to finish following my friend's photo book. But for now, I just need to be a little quiet, just a little longer.

Daily Observation 8/5

2008-08-05T12:23:00.004-04:00

Just got done listening to the local noon news. There were two stories that caught my interest today, and one I recall from yesterday.

The first one was a story having to do with how a community reached out and donated enough money and supplies so that school children, in a less affluent county than Fayette, had school supplies to work with this year.

The second story was about one of UK's football players who has broken rules and gotten in trouble, and is now being kicked off the team.

The third story, that was aired yesterday, was about how one particular school district is thinking about going to a 4 day school week because apparently it costs them almost $1500 per school bus per day to get their kids to school.

First let me say I'm all in favor of 4 day work weeks. The energy savings would be astronomical.

But, in another vein, I have to wonder how much money was spent recruiting this particular football player, and also how many times this happens. It seems like at least every year there is a particular UK basketball or football "bad boy," who just can't seem to realize the blessing they've been given and get their shit together to do a job they've signed on to do. And I also have to wonder how many school supplies, food, diesel and other supplies the money spent on these idiots would buy.

Perhaps the UK coaches ought to add this to the player's contracts: If you get here and screw up, you have to repay all the recruiting money we spent on you. And then donate that money to the schools.

Mitake Oyasin

2008-08-04T13:05:00.010-04:00

Being an animal lover, I have often speculated on exactly what the defining difference between animals and humans is. What is it that makes what one being does "animalistic," and what the other being does "humanistic?"

Throughout my life, I've met and been involved with a lot of animals. Whether they were technically human or not is another question. I've met humans with every advantage in the world, intelligent beyond the norm, who were the crassest, basest beings I've ever met. And I've been involved with animals from the most desperate conditions who were only "voice boxes" away from being able to talk.

The ability to communicate with verbal language is one defining difference. That has to be said carefully, because, according to an old linguistics professor I had a thousand years ago in college, animals cannot communicate with us. Come on. What a waste of an education that man had. No, they cannot, in English, say, "How do you do this morning?" But I think everyone who has had a pet knows when their pet is happy to see them. They are able to express emotion, which is right next door to communicating openly and freely, and quite frankly, is absolutely impossible for many humans I have known.

Psychological make up is one place that I've found a very defining difference. There are many different psychological behaviors that animals and humans have in common. For instance, obsessive/compulsive disorder. Consider the human who locks and re-locks his front door 5 times and compare him to my friend's dog, Emma Lou, who walks around with a large rubber bone in her mouth and will not tire, cease or desist from baiting you to play "fetch" with her. She is interesting in being fed, she takes care of her daily dietary and bodily needs, but her main focus in life is getting someone to throw that bone.

Seemingly unreasonable phobias is another. Come a thunderstorm, both of my dogs will be in my lap, or as close to me as they can possibly get. Come a severe thunderstorm, my border collie will stand at the sliding door and ferociously growl and bark at the storm, coming back repeatedly to me to let me know there's a monster outside the door.

Of course the list of human phobias is practically endless. Fear of heights is my main one, ironic for a girl who loves the mountains. I have to say, and this may reveal some deep, dark secret of mine, I love to look off of a mountaintop, but I find myself with the most unnerving desire to fly off the precipice and coast like some hawk or eagle. Or try to. This is a girl who, watching an advertisement for a theme park, will suffer actual vertigo watching people go up and down on roller coasters.

There is one huge difference I've noticed from my 15 years in the medical field. Animals do not delight in disability. We do. If I've seen it once in medicine, I've seen it a thousand times, and yes, in myself also. We hold on to illness and nurture it. We use it as an excuse to not get up. We wallow in our illness, becoming very encouched and comfortable in our disability. Very different from the little dog I had to lose earlier this year. She had every disability in the world, and tried tirelessly to be the dog that she was regardless of whether she could move freely or not. And she did become depressed, however she was always ready to change her mood. She would cry sometimes, from frustration I would guess, because it was always when she had gotten herself stuck. It was the most heartbreaking, lonely sound I had ever heard. Her little mouth made the most perfect little circle, and all of her heartbreak would just pour through. I could never get to her fast enough when I heard this song. It was an unbearable thing for me to hear. But the very instant I touched her, it was gone, replaced with the joy of being picked up and cuddled.

I have had pets who have faked having a hurt paw for a little attention, but it is never like a human being does. I address this, because I see the tendency so much in myself. I have surprised myself on many occasions when someone has asked about my health and I found myself launching, quite happily, into a detailed description of all my latest health complaints.

I wonder if this difference can be explained because we have the ability to recognize that there is a distant future. There is instinct. Animals, I think, can surmise that a danger could be present, for instance, the canine practice of circling the nest two or three times before lying down. But I don't think this is the same as realizing that tomorrow may not come. Much like a teenager, I'm not exactly sure they can realize they are not invincible. My greatest pain with my little dog was knowing for sure that she was totally not ready to go. Neither was my father despite the tremendous pain he was in. My mother, on the other hand, I think was done with this world and with us and only wanted to be with my father again.

Despite my professor's belief that we are so much more developed than animals, I think I have to side with the four-leggeds on this one. There's a whole lot of reasons I find myself vastly preferring four-legged company to human, unless they are humans that have great relationships with and great respect for the four-leggeds. After all, we are all related.

Shingles

2008-07-05T21:49:00.003-04:00

Sorry for the delay in posting. The shingles spread to my right eye and I've had great difficulty in being able to see out of it. Things are much better now, though, there is still some fuzziness there. So sorry for any typos that might have slipped thru...

Look below for my latest thoughts on mountain top removal.

Lyn

The Eloi and the Morlocks, Kentucky style...

2008-07-05T21:35:00.004-04:00

Of the many issues rampant today, a particularly volatile one involves the strip mining method known as mountain top removal, which is being practiced in the coal fields of Eastern Kentucky.

The ones who own an interest in the coal want it to be mined. These are not just cold-hearted coal company people who routinely go in, ravage an area, claim to re-claim it and then leave it an environmental mess. They are also honest, hard-working and at times elderly residents of the area who look at the coal as money they can pay their medical bills with and perhaps leave something for their children. It's two sides of the same coin, and I'm torn between two lovers on the issue.

I despise strip miners. I despise the way they manipulate and swindle the people, I despise what they do to the land, and I despise the way they go off and leave the slag fields for someone else to clean up.

Here is a case in point. Peabody Energy Company contacted me some time back wanting permission to lease some land that I was heir to back in Leslie County. Here was their spiel. They wanted the land so the could do exploratory drilling for gas and oil, and if they struck it, then besides the revenue from the leasing of the land, there would also be revenue from the proceeds of the drilling. I thought, well, drilling is not as bad as strip mining and the extra money would sure help my aunt and uncle. Come to find out what they are actually doing is leasing this land (thus preventing the owners from using it), drilling and finding wells, and then capping them off. No help for America, and certainly no revenue for the aforementioned aging relatives.

It's the brazen lying and manipulation of a population of people who have historically been manipulated beyond belief for generations. It is the manipulation of a part of our state that is rarely acknowledged as absolutely imperative to the survival of the state. It's the dirty little secret that we never talk about when we're advertising our great horse farms of the Bluegrass, of Central Kentucky, all of which are powered by the coal mines in Eastern Kentucky.

It's a question that has plagued me since childhood when I saw first hand the poverty that my people grew up in. It's the question that kept coming to me when I saw the affluence of the Bluegrass. What about the mountains? Where is their share? Why must my elderly aunt and uncle drive four or five counties away down two lane mountain roads to receive adequate health care? All of the coal that has been ripped out of those hills, and nothing's changed. There's a new Wal Mart in Hazard. Oh boy, that's some progress. But the health care workers at the regional hospital there had to strike for a decent wage.

Kind of reminds me of the Eloi and the Morlocks in H.G. Wells "The Time Machine."

Governor Beshear, I challenge you to make things right with Eastern Kentucky. I challenge you to empower our universities with the ability to find other, better, renewable forms of fuel, to build better health centers and clinics in the areas that are supplying the rest of you (my house is solar-powered) with power and energy. They're not just our country cousins, they're our people.

SURPRISE!!!

2008-06-17T23:37:00.002-04:00

Surprise! I got sick -- not with one malady but with two, one right on top of the other.

It was a real mess. The first thing was shingles. Boom, right out of nowhere, the Saturday morning before Memorial Day I woke up feeling like someone had hit the right side of my scalp with a hammer of about a thousand very sharp pins. I dealt with it Saturday, and Sunday, when it was no better, I skipped a family reunion in Leslie County and instead made a little visit to the Urgent Treatment Center. The nurse practitioner gave me the lucky news plus prescriptions for about 5 different kinds of medications.

The shingles ran its course, and is still running its course. I blistered up beautifully, and was in a great deal of discomfort, especially anything that had to do with going outside and getting sunlight on my scalp, which would make the blisters act like a thousand red ants that were pissed off at my skin. The really bad thing with the singles happened when it got into my right eye. I already have glaucoma, which is increased intraoccular pressure, that causes "snow" or "white" blindness. When the singles got on my cornea, it also raised the pressure in my eyes causing me to become extremely sick at my stomach and also made any kind of light entering my eye to feel like a blinding sword.

But we weren't quite done as my reproductive system, which was supposed to have hung up it's "gone fishin'" sign several years ago, decided to kick back into gear in a real big way. Apparently I've been producing a huge amount of estrogen, and very little progesterone, resulting in a condition called endometrial hyperplasia, or, as is known in the common vernacular, bleeding like a stuck pig. A trip to the gyno secured me some progesterone tablets which helped until the prescription ran out when the bleeding, plus cramps, returned in full force.

I haven't written because I couldn't write, and it's been a horribly frustrating time. I haven't been able to see to write, or read, or to enjoy any of the beautiful weather we've been having. Even the light from my laptop was blinding to me so that I couldn't do much more on my computer than check my mail on a daily basis, and that with an eye patch over my right eye while wearing jet black sunglasses in the house. Things are much better now, though. I'm able to type this short amount without said sunglasses or eye patch tonight, and without being doubled over in cramps. A new medication, a new course of action, and hopefully all of this will resolve itself.

I can't get over how pissed off I am at my body, though, for doing this to me. How dare it throw all this crap in my way when I have so much work to do outside and so many things to get done. I'm really angry at the illusion that we keep that we really do have control over these sorts of things. It gets back to how much you really can control your own life, your own time and your own space. What of this life really belongs to you? I can't help but be reminded of a great songwriter, John Lennon, when we said, life is what happens when you're making plans.

One thing I can do is pay homage to my dear partner who once again has had to put up with another round of drama from me. If I can do nothing else, while squinting here tonight at the screen, let me give him his Father's Day dues. And I'll follow my own teaching and try to figure out what I've learned from the experience, while thanking the Great Spirit (somewhat dubiously) for the lessons.

Arriviste

2008-05-24T00:42:00.002-04:00

The word means one who is newly arrived on the scene, posed to take off, as it were. The question is, who does it pertain to in our upcoming election?

That McCain is the same old same old is undisputed. Despite his genial appearance on Ellen the other afternoon, still, he is one, like Kerry, who has a tendency to flip flop back and forth in what he says. He did stand his ground on gay marriage in California, denying Ellen the ability to actually marry her lover vs. having a civil contract with her. And did it with self-deprecating humor that even he says is reminiscent of Reagan. However, his old style politics have been around since the founding fathers.

Hilary and Barak are a bit of a different story. We say we want change, but can we, as a nation, really accept this much change? A woman president? An African-American president?

This is a giant moment in history for America, that we have finally evolved to have an election truly reflecting the cross culture of our country, but instead of celebrating it, we grind it under the wheels of the press, tearing apart every innocuous slip someone might make until it winds through the sausage grinder of the American press corps into an unrecognizable mess.

What is truly sad to me, in this day of arrivistes, is that we cannot have this giant moment in history without the tried and true cries of racism and sexism when what ever electoral party in question doesn't get what they want. If we don't vote for Hilary, we're sexists. If we don't vote for Barak we're racists. What about if we simply don't like the people?

And if generalizing the American people as racists and sexists is not enough, well, then break it down in the demographics on the nightly news. It seems, after tonight's pablom, that the more educated in Kentucky are voting for Barak and the less educated are voting for Hilary. Oh puhleeease!! Suddenly now voting for Barak is the way of the enlightened!

I recently wrote to a friend that were it not for the fact that my grandmother campaigned for the women's right to vote, and was the first woman to vote in Leslie County, and had to walk from Trace Branch to Hyden on a dirt road to do so, I wouldn't even bother.

I'm not interested in any of the candidates. Not one of them has pledged any sort of interest in researching new power alternatives, although McCain came the closest on Ellen the other afternoon when he said we had to cut our dependence on foreign oil and stop sending billions of dollars to people who don't like us. Duh!!! However, he's into nuclear power and I'm not overjoyed about that.

Hilary, when asked about strip mining, mumbled something about alternative power sources but didn't expound on it. Barak is bragging on his TV commercials about the $200 million he pushed through for coal processing plants. It was high on his list, but it pretty much knocked him down to the bottom of mine. More coal processing plants means more strip mining of my beloved mountains.

I think I am an enlightened voter, as well as some of my "less educated" friends. I'm just not an interested, excited voter. I don't see any indication in any of the candidates of what I am most interested in seeing happen in my country -- that we would wake up as a nation and realize that this Earth is not going to last under this brutal attack of carbon dioxide buildup, fossil fuel mining and burning, and fairly much unconcered rape of our natural resources. We are not respecting the Earth, as we are not doing anything to preserve it. When these candidates start talking that kind of talk, then I'll be excited, and then I'll be listening. Until then, it's voting for the one who's least likely to do the most harm. Same old, same old.

Old Memories

2008-05-01T02:03:00.008-04:00

There is a feller I fell in love with so many years ago, and it was all such a waste. I gave up so much for him, and I was totally helpless in my giving. He was always very cool -- he had that about him. He was immensely popular and that he gave me any kind of attention at all just floored me. I thought that much of him and that little of myself. If all of that wasn't embarrassing enough, I still think about him a lot, and dream about him a lot. And I don't know why, and I can't help it.

What hurt so much about losing him was that he had told me we were friends, and stupid me, I truly thought we were. But when he went on to higher education and his new friends, he dropped me like a hot potato. Where before he had found me ravishing and exciting and always welcomed my calls, now he began to be short and crisp on the phone, and to make snide remarks about my lifestyle, my friends, and the things I thought to be important.

Honest to goodness, I think of him at least once a week, if not just about every day. Why, why, why, why?

Is it unresolved anger? Part of me would like to face him and say, you know, you just didn't know who I was. All the crap you thought you knew about me, the crappy way you treated me, none of that said anything about me. It said loads about you.

The other part of me doesn't ever want to see him again. I know what his opinion would be on just about any subject, and I really don't want to hear it. His opinions are unimaginative. I ran into a mutual friend at a bookstore a long while back. You ought to get in touch with him, this mutual friend said. Best let sleeping dogs lie, I replied.

Because I was so hung up on this fellow, I let a lot of really good men pass by. There were a couple of really great guys I just couldn't muster anything for, and I think they held it against me. I really, really liked these guys. Maybe if they had ever just sat me down face to face and given me another option, it would have been different, but they both came in at awkward times, doing awkward things that scared me more than anything. I ran like a scalded dog.

You can't make someone fall in love with you, and I never asked that of him. We were great buddies for the longest while, and that was good enough for me. I never thought once about marrying this fellow. I would not have relished being his wife. Yet, I never could go the distance with any other man except for one. I married him -- he was the only one who ever made me forget the first one, but although he, once again, was a great guy, he had his issues, and I had mine, and the marriage fell apart almost instantly. My current fellow and I talk about marriage all the time, but that's all we do, is talk. Despite the fact that he is, of course, a great guy, and a true friend, I just can't do it.

There's a part of me that wishes I would never think of him again. There's a part of me that hopes I never forget him.

I have had hundreds of dreams about him, and never a satisfying one. He's always elusive in my dreams. There, but on the way out. I wake up happy that I got to see him, and missing him, and frustrated that he's gone yet again. There was a series of dreams that I had about him, one right after the other, so upsetting that I finally called and asked him if he was okay. He was, but his new girlfriend wasn't. After he dissed my profession (as a respiratory therapist - "Just a 2 year program? I thought you were a college girl..."), he asked if I was still singing. I told him no, just for meaness. The weird thing about it, something that was so strange, was that I did not recognize his voice at all. It was like talking to a complete stranger, except for his inherent snideness, which was all too familiar. I ended the conversation as soon as I could. I happen to be a college girl. That would be two degrees, thank you very much.

I guess I am still angry, and I guess I'm angry at the waste of it. I thought it was one of those great male/female friendships, till all of a sudden I wasn't good enough anymore. He was fun, and had a great sense of humor and a wry wit, and it felt good to be in his circle. It felt horrible to be left behind. But at the same time, his humor was becoming cruel and demeaning. I guess it was for the best.

I am more satisfied now than I have ever been. At long last I'm giving full bent to creative expression, damn the cost. It is such a relief. It's a luxury I never gave myself, dogmatic creature that I am. I quit the smoking, took back my space, decided I was worth taking care of. I fuss over my little family of my boyfriend, horses, alpacas, dogs and cat, and my friends. I don't think I lost anything by losing him. I'm not sure I gained much either. He might have actually lost out as well.

Well, this is a blog with no point. This is a blog with no lesson, and really with nothing said. Just a comment on the strange way we are, what sticks in our minds, and where our minds go wandering from time to time. I guess the lesson learned, is one an old woman once told me. Folks won't remember what you said to them, she said, but they'll always remember how you made them feel.

Consider The Source

2008-04-21T23:22:00.006-04:00

With Earth Day in mind, I've lately been looking back at my time here on planet Earth, (right in time with the stages of life the sociologists and psychologists say I'm supposed to go through at this age), and I have been taking inventory of my experiences and trying to figure out if I've learned anything from them.

Once, when I was young, I had a vision. I was twelve, and I was asleep in bed and I woke to see a tall, dark woman with long dark hair standing at the foot of my bed. She didn't say anything, and I didn't say anything to her, and she faded out of sight. It wasn't scary, and the words "the red way," came to me and kind of stayed with me. The next morning my mother told me it was probably my great-great grandmother, who was Metis. It wasn't until many years later in college, when I felt compelled to pursue some Native American studies, one of the things to come out of my readings was this concept of "the lesson." The older I got, the more references I found to the concept. And I ran across the phrase "the red way," discovering it referred to a Native concept of living one's life, and to be thankful for the lessons.

I spent many years trying to figure out what my "red way" was, as I am Metis also. I thought if life is for learning lessons, what have I learned? I mean, really, besides how to do emergency repairs on ventilators and balance my checkbook. I have to say that one of the most important lessons I can ever remember learning I got from one of my Journalism teachers, Mr. McCauley.

The lesson was "consider the source."

I cannot begin to tell you how many times that simple directive, once considered, has made a major impact on my life. That small phrase has transformed a whole host of incidents too tiny to even remember. At the time, muttered by an elderly man with gray and white, fly away hair, it seemed an innocuous statement, almost a no-brainer, but I wrote it down dutifully in my Copyreading and Editing notes. It was one that really, I had never considered before. And thankfully, I've never forgotten it.

I didn't realize it at the time, but Mr. McCauley saved my life. Always prone to have a bit of trouble with self-esteem, that phrase was like a lifesaver thrown to a drowning woman. No more was I prey to those who hunt out and stalk women with poor self-esteem. I was making some mistakes, but my eyes were opening. Wait a minute! Consider the source!

I started applying it to daily issues. For instance commercialism. We are supposed to do our jobs, which is to consume. We go to work, get money, spend and consume something. To this end, we are bombarded by TV and radio ads urging us to buy this vitamin, or that beauty product. Advertising worms its way into our most private moments. If it doesn't get us, it gets our children. Keeping up with the status quo becomes the paramount goal of parent and child alike, causing us to take jobs that take us away from our families at night, and for long hours at a time, subjecting us to unrelenting stress that sneaks into our marriages, relationships, and health. I felt fine before I turned the TV on, but now I realize I'm getting a double chin, I've got gray hair, and surely there must be other things wrong with me. Wait a minute! Consider the source!

Rev. Wright, Obama's preacher, said it succinctly on TV the other night. When asked how he felt about what Obama had said about him, the reverend matter of factly replied, oh, Obama's a politician. He has to do what a politician does. Here is a man who has been the spiritual leader of a man who wants to be our president, and he passes Obama off like an afterthought. I don't like what he said about my country. Seems to me if he truly cared about changing America for the better, he'd be a little bit more supportive of Obama, given he's his spiritual leader and all. Consider the source.

Consider the source. What a great slide rule. What a great concept. What's the purpose, what's the agenda, who gains and who loses? What's the real motivation. It's not a guarantee against bad decisions, but it can shed a little light on the situation.

So, after all this time, my hat's off to you, Mr. McCauley. I do appreciate the little newsman's tip you gave me. It's the best advice I can give to anybody. And with that in mind, consider the source.

King Coal

2008-04-17T15:34:00.006-04:00

I am reminded that some time ago a representative from Peabody Energy Company contacted me wanting my cooperation in leasing our land for gas and oil on my family's home place in Leslie County. They would pay us to rent the land, which would be a great source of income for my aunt and uncle. His presentation was slick and rehearsed, with many dropped hints about much revenue we (my father's heirs) could expect to collect from royalties. Imagine my surprise when a family member informed me that, indeed, Peabody is drilling for oil and gas in Leslie County -- however they are capping the wells and have no plans to extract any oil or gas at this time. They are choosing NOT to produce any fuel. They're just holding on to the land.

Our subjectivity to King Coal in this state is sad. The new buzz word regarding coal, is "clean electricity." But when it comes to coal, there is NO such thing as "clean" electricity. It does not matter how many cleaners you force the air through. When you have strip-mined coal, you have single-handedly supported the subjugation of an entire populace of people, their ecology, history, and the complete devastation of a rare and delicate ecosystem that can never be "reclaimed." From the devastated faces of the family members of coal miners buried alive to the land and waterways fouled from the drift and sludge pond overflows, coal is a filthy energy source for Kentuckians and everyone else, and we need to acknowledge that fact. Every time we turn on an electrical appliance, we need to remember where that electricity is coming from and the true cost it takes in human lives, health and our environment.

Coal is great for the economy. Aren't we told that as well? Well the people of the community should benefit, right? I mean all that money in the area? The elderly people in that community travel at least one county, if not two or three, down twisting, winding roads, in order to receive quality health care above the competent one in Hyden. It's the same in other coal-producing counties. There are some sections of the area that have an economy less than many third world countries. It doesn't employ a lot of people to strip-mine coal. Not enough to make any difference in the economy.

Coal in Kentucky involves a brutal history of graft and politics, senseless death and dismemberment, disease and generational poverty, all shoved down the throat of a populace that has been exploited, maligned, ridiculed and discounted despite their incredible contributions to our lives and culture. I can speak personally from my experiences as a respiratory therapist. In many in-services involving pulmonary lung function testing for Black Lung, we are cautioned about those "hillbillies" trying to "deceive" Medicaire and Medicaid by "faking" their test results for black lung benefits. As far as I'm concerned every coal miner who has spent any significant amount of time in the minds should qualify for Black Lung. These people are soldiers. They do a horrible job for a lifetime for our ability to turn on the lights, and they live out their lives with compromised lungs and disease as a result. That the government should turn their backs on them after a life time of service, is not surprising, but it is appalling. There is no reason they should not be considered civil servants also, and subject to their benefits.

You would think that an occupation as dangerous as coal mining would be under the strictest safety guidelines imaginable. But recently it took a huge effort on the part of several environmental and human interest groups to keep some extremely basic mining safety requirements (e.g. for instance that the foremen and women have basic CPR skills) on the table for legislation. OSHA, who is the bane of every hospital's corporate compliance office, seems to have turned a blind eye to coal mining. The EPA hasn't seemed to notice that the Middle Fork of the Kentucky River is the most unnatural green I have ever seen in my entire life. We rely on these government fail-safes to guard the health and lives of our miners and environment, but where are they before the cave-ins, the landslides and the spills?

Fossil fuels have been passe since the 70's. The only reason alternatives have not been developed is because there are people who have a vested interest in the status quo who have prevented it. How telling is it that not one of our new presidential candidates has an energy policy that eliminates our use of fossil fuels for power! They go on and on about "clean" coal, not mentioning that it still involves raping old growth forest and fouling mountain watersheds and ways. Why should they worry? It's not in their back yard.

Many years ago a coal company showed up with a deed for my family's coal, signed with an "X," as they maintained my grandmother didn't know how to write. Odd, since she raised three teachers. These people are sleazy in their very nature. This is no golden opportunity for plentiful energy and income. This is a golden opportunity for a very few to profit at a horrific cost. I recently heard these words, "Wall Street has it's eye on Kentucky." Wall Street is looking to rip the bones and guts out of our cherished mountain land and old growth forest. Wall Street doesn't give a damn about Kentucky.

Lot's Wife

2008-04-07T22:08:00.003-04:00

The good news is the computer is working again, and I'm restored to the net. The bad news is that it took a new hard drive to do it. Just goes to show you, you never, never know. The problem was that I was downloading an update, and the computer froze midway through. The tech folks said there was nothing I could have done. Next time, though, I will make sure I am in town with 5 green bars on my hook up. And next time I will definitely back up before I download.

As luck would have it, I had finally figured out how to use the external hard drive I had bought about 9 months ago, and I did back up at least most of my important files about a month ago. These are files that mean a whole lot to me, i.e., my writing, my music, my photos. My address book did back up, so I only lost the most recent email addresses. My new essays I have been publishing on the web, so they were still accessible. About the only thing I failed to back up was my Journal. And I'm not so sure it was a bad thing.

The last three years have not been pleasant. I lost my father in 2000, and we went through a difficult adjustment, myself and my family. There was the family farm to consider, and the running of it. My mother, at 80, rallied and did a tremendous job of stepping in to fill my father's shoes, but by 2005 she was sick with some physical problems, and heartsick, I think, missing my father. She died in March of that year despite everything I could do.

A month later, within 2 days of each other, I lost one of my oldest friends to a car wreck, and the mobile home I'd been living in for 25 years caught fire and we almost died. I wrote about that in my piece about Jack.

Once my mother died, it was a free for all in the family. It was a very horrible time. I opted out. I am just too tired anymore to deal with power struggles and ulterior motives and drama and all of that other crap. I actually, surprisingly, found it somewhat easy to take the money, turn around and walk away, and build myself a new farm, and a new home. I bought my Mac about three months after my mother died, installed the Journal program and wrote pretty faithfully about everything. So there was this record, and even though I hadn't ever gone back and read anything I had written, still there was that knowledge that I had written everything down. It was there, like a dark grey cloud in an otherwise blue sky.

It's not there anymore, and the strangest thing -- I feel absolutely light as air. I darn near feel like a new born babe. Just knowing all the bad stuff I had written about was gone, was the most liberating thing. I realized I never had to go back and read about it all again. There was now no way that could ever be done. It's like the sentiments were documented, expressed, and then tossed to the wind.

I woke up to a crystal blue sky today with a ton of sunlight all around, and with my morning coffee checked in with the computer. There was my horoscope for today, saying something to the effect that it was time to move on, that new things couldn't be done as long as I was still involved with things that had happened in the past. How bizarre!! It occurred to me that perhaps some other hand had somehow been involved in the computer freeze up. Odd that the only thing I really lost was the one thing that I really did not need to hold on to. And then I remembered the story of Lot's wife, that God had told her not to look back lest she become a pillar of salt. That's not the first time I'd thought about that, but it is now the first time that, with a smile on my face, I know I won't be looking back, and even can't cause there's nothing there. This is great! I don't even have the choice. I tell you, between the depression, the gray skies and the rain, I was beginning to wonder, but perhaps it's not my time for crystallizing just yet.

Computer Down

2008-03-30T17:51:00.002-04:00

Regretfully my laptop has taken a nosedive, which is why I just answered a comment with "anonymous." I'm on a friend's laptop writing this at this time. My laptop will be leaving me tomorrow and will be gone for about 7 to 10 days, they say, so I probably won't get to post anything during this time.

Thanks for visiting, and I'll be back as soon as I can.

Lyn

Testing for Lung Cancer

2008-03-29T23:42:00.003-04:00

Someone asked me about testing for lung cancer, so I thought I would address that quickly. First and foremost, when talking about medical stuff, I have to say that I am not a licensed respiratory therapist in Kentucky at this time (but will be within a couple of months), and am currently licensed in the state of Ohio, as that is the last place I worked. Regardless of where I am, or am not, licensed, I have to say that I have to act under my profession's standards, one of which is that I am not allowed to practice medicine without a physician over me. So with that in mind, I have to say, your physician is the best person to talk to if you have medical concerns. I can tell you what I know of certain things, but for a proper diagnosis and treatment, you need to speak with a physician.

With that in mind, I know a little about lung cancer because it is how my father died. Believe me, between my experience as a respiratory therapist, my education, and taking care of my father, I could easily write a book about it. Very basically, though, cancers are cells that have, for one reason or another, grown out of control. There are many different types, but they are generally classified as small cell or non-small cell cancers. This covers cancers that affect the alveolar sac, the bronchials and the tissue.

One of the insidious things about lung cancer is that there are no nerve endings in the lung tissue itself, so that you can have a tumor there the size of a grapefruit, and it won't hurt. Common symptoms prior to diagnosis of cancer are shoulder pain, a sensation of something pulling, deviation in your trachea (your trachea moving to the right or left instead of running down the center), increased shortness of breath (due to decreased lung capacity), and coughing, either productive (including blood) or non-productive. The symptom that my father initially presented with was shoulder pain, which was misdiagnosed as "Uncle Arthur" (arthritis).

Lung cancer, at least, causes you to lose a lot of weight, really fast.

Here we get into the practice of medicine vs. the reimbursement machine. Health insurance, medicare, medicaid, etc., wants a diagnosis before they will reimburse for a procedure. It's better to go to your doctor looking for a specific procedure and the reason for it instead of with just a bunch of vague symptoms. So if you were concerned about lung cancer, the very first thing I would tell my doctor is, I have this particular symptom, and I'm concerned about lung cancer because (history of smoking, family history or whatever), and I would like a chest x-ray, (which may or may not pick it up, but still, it's the first step). Hopefully you have a good doctor that you can be truthful with and say this. And he, or she, will do a few procedural things in the office and then let you get an x-ray. If you don't have a good doctor, you can always go to an urgent treatment center, and complain of coughing or something to do with your lungs. They will almost always do a chest x-ray for you.

Here is the kicker, though. The doctors will look at the x-ray, but there are professional radiologists who also do a reading, and this reading is a lot more involved than the cursory reading you would get at a doctor's office, or the UTC. It is your right, as a patient, to get a copy of that x-ray, and to get a copy of the radiologist's reading, and I would definitely do that.

I will probably write more about being a smart patient at a later time, but that is the point I would like to make now. So, to answer the question, I would first get a chest x-ray, then get the radiologist's reading, and based on that talk with your doctor. If you don't have a good one, get one. If there is anything to be seen on the x-ray, then you would do the next step, which would be to get a cat scan or MRI. Then if there is something, a biopsy.

Try to find a doctor who expects you to be a savvy patient. This is so important. Doctors are not gods, even though they are treated like they are. Just because they are a doctor, and maybe even an excellent doctor, if you can't be up front, honest and direct with them, then maybe they are not the doctor for you. It's your job to be critical of them, because it's your life you're putting in their hands. When I was going through respiratory school, someone once asked me, what do you call a med student who has graduated with low C grades? The answer, of course, was "Doctor." So be a critical consumer when dealing with medical issues. Access to your medical information is your right, and it would be better for you if you dealt with people who understood and respected that.

At Home With The Blues

2008-03-27T22:57:00.004-04:00

I read an interesting story in the news the other day -- it was classified as news of the weird, or something to that effect. It was a short little article, concise and to the point (unlike my essays), and it basically said that some people who take prozac stop taking it after a while because it makes them feel too good. Seems that feeling good is so alien to these people, that it made them horribly uncomfortable, and they couldn't take it anymore (feeling good or the prozac).

I can actually understand that. Clinical depression and I have been bedfellows for years and years now, and it's a relationship I have long given up hope of ever being divorced from. I have also taken prozac, although I don't now. It did make me feel pretty good. Actually a little too good. I wound up doing some things I pretty much wish I hadn't done now, which we won't get into here. Oh well...

I have tried to explain this malady to friends and acquaintances and very rarely see the light of understanding in their eyes. They listen to me politely but I'm pretty sure they're probably saying something like "God, Lyn, get over yourself," or "Get a grip," or "Such a Diva!!" in their minds. I'm sure they think that all I really have to do is pull myself up by own bootstraps, but if that was true, I'd be the first in line to buy a pair of boots (not owning any). It's not bootstraps that does it -- it's more like that bonk on the side of the head you get when you don't drink your V8.

Clinical depression is not about feeling sad. Unless I've just lost a parent or loved one, or pet, I rarely feel sad. It's more about really not feeling anything. It's worse than apathy. It's more like a lack of a needed spark. If you listen to the clinicians explain it, it makes perfect sense. There are synapses in your brain that your nerve impulses run through, and they need to be bathed in certain chemicals, such as serotonin, for those impulses to make the leap from one synapse to the other. In clinical depression, the person might have the serotonin bath, but it doesn't stay long enough for the impulse to get through. Thus serotonin re-uptake inhibitors, or anti-depressants such as prozac. When the bath is there, there is no signal. Or the bath leaves and here comes the signal. Everything is mismatched and delayed. Reactions, if they happen, are delayed and sluggish. Feelings, if you have them, are delayed. And the sensation of being out of body and space and time happens a lot.

Another thing that happens a lot is lack of activity. Given a quiet day with little or no outside stimuli, I have been known to sit for hours, and even as the sun goes down, never turning on a light -- just sitting there in the dark. My mind is flying through vistas of thoughts, memories, songs or other odd bits of things, and my body is catatonic, hypnotized, almost totally unable to move on it's own. My mind can beg, plead with my body to move, but it remains as still as the big rocks we keep digging up on the farm. I'm not sad. I'm not blue. I'm just "not." It takes a strong stimulus to click me out of it -- something like the dogs barking, someone at the door, or an emergent need to go to the bathroom.

Music, thank God, can break through. I've often told my close friends, if I'm lying in the hospital, and they're trying to decide whether or not to let me die, hook me up to an EEG and play music. If there's no brain activity, let me go, cause if I can't respond to music, I'm gone. Music, somehow, provides a link, maybe through stimulating endorphans, I don't know. That would be interesting to check out. Of course, another rather awkward thing happens to me when I listen to music. I become more and more incapable of maintaining conversation. Once the music is turned on, my mind tunes to it, and it becomes totally intent on following every musical riff of every instrument that is playing. My body subconsciously moves in total and complete time to the different beat of every different instrument. I begin to twitch like a live wire. It's not something I can control very easily, and at this age, I don't really want to control it anymore. I love the feeling of being taken away that it brings. Something melodic like John Mayer's Stop This Train will take me so far away from where I am that when the music stops, for a moment I don't know where I am. So it's not particularly a good thing for me at work. Especially when you work in a hospital.

There is one other strange thing that happens in these states. I find if my laptop is in the area, open and ready to go, I may actually begin writing something -- something that at first may be weird, fragmented, and make no sense whatsoever. But eventually something will come from it -- a song, a poem, an article, an idea. It's because I'm so old and learned to type when I was 12. Typing is a totally automatic thing for me, something I rarely have to think about.

So what do I do with all of this? A brain that doesn't work right? I know my process. Everybody should know their process. It is very important in everything you do. I put music on pretty quickly in the day. My laptop is always ready, and I've given myself permission to write whatever I want whenever I want to. And of course, I keep several dogs. Even if they can't find something to bark at (one of their favorite pass times), they will, from time to time, come into my office to check on me and visit, Jack slipping his long, sleek nose under my hand to force me to pet him. Time to wake up, Mom.

Smoking

2008-03-23T17:58:00.009-04:00

I once worked at a large rehab center in Cincinnati, and there had a conversation with a nurse who confided she had recently had a heart attack and had died nine times on the table. She was trying to quit smoking because of it. (No, she said, she had never 'seen the light').
“I guess you never had to worry about quitting,” she said to me, alluding to the fact that I am a respiratory therapist.
“On the contrary,” I said. “I love to smoke.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I had to quit,” I said. I looked down at the newly waxed floor. It wasn’t a great memory.
“Well, how did you do it?,” she asked, pulling at the neck of her scrubs a little and exposing her nicotine patch. “I got this and it works some, but I still smoke a little.”
“With the patch on?” I asked. “No, no, no, not a good idea. Very, very bad, triples your chance of another heart attack.”
Up went the eyebrows again. Hadn’t they bothered to tell her?
“Well, I still get the cravings,” she said. “I don’t know what to do with them.” She paused. “How long have you been quit?”
“You know, I don’t really know,” I replied. “It’s been a while. It wasn’t like all the other times. I didn’t mark the date or anything. I just quit cold turkey.” I gave her a sad smile and added, "I still get the cravings, and still don't know what to do with them."
We chatted a few minutes more. I gave her some tips for quitting, warned her again about the danger of smoking with a patch on, and went on with my busy job – a large part of which was taking care of end stage COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) patients. I could tell she wasn’t impressed by my story, and I had not given her some magical trick that would make all of her angst and cravings go away.
But the conversation stayed with me, and there were several things it brought to mind. I remembered when a fellow RT kept emailing me about upcoming and pending legislation to ban tobacco, and I finally wrote him and told him to please stop, that I wasn’t going to join him in his fight to get tobacco banned. Yes, me, the respiratory therapist. I don’t want the government involved in my personal rights, and I don’t think it’s an issue that should be settled in the courts or through legislation.
I think legislation to ban any moral issue, with the exception of mountain top removal and child exploitation, which I believe to be criminal acts, is a waste of time. As with Prohibition, the black market will undoubtedly step in and take up the slack. In the case of tobacco, they will market cigarettes not made in the United States where the production of tobacco and the chemicals used on it are under extremely strict control, where all farmers handling those chemicals must pass certification to be able to buy and use them. There is no control of any kind over the growing practices used on tobacco that is imported. Herbicides and pesticides like DDT and Paraquat, that are no longer allowed in the US, are routinely used in other countries. It is why, as a respiratory therapist, I tell my patients, friends and family, quit if you can, but if you’re going to smoke, smoke American (or Native American).
Which brings up an interesting side point. According to traditional Native American lore, tobacco is a spirit, and probably, like most spirits, doesn’t appreciate being taken for granted and used without ceremony. Tobacco should never be mindlessly chain smoked, hanging out of somebody’s lips like drying spittle. It is strong medicine. As a native born Kentuckian I will tell you burley should be “sipped,” like fine whiskey or fine wine. If you can't enjoy it that way, then you shouldn't be smoking it. Period. But big tobacco makes sure there will be no "sipping" on cigarettes.
Why? Big tobacco is in the business of making money for big tobacco. They want to sell lots of cigarettes. They don't want you to sip it, they want you to chain smoke it, so they lace it with extra nicotine. Nicotine is about 200 times more addictive than cocaine, and it makes your brain feel so, so good. They learned a long time ago that smoking non-filter cigarettes was killing off their 40 to 50 year old customers, so they filtered their cigarettes so people would live into their 60’s and 70’s – an extra 20 years worth of cigarettes! A lot of our tried and true businesses are in the same category, e.g., most of your fast food places. News flash, they don’t care about your nutrition.
I have been a respiratory therapist (among other things), for about 14 years now, and this is my take home message. You get COPD from smoking the way most people smoke. It is an insidious condition that is comprised of three different pulmonary conditions: chronic bronchitis, emphysema and asthma. It is incurable.
Dying from COPD, from one who works with COPD patients, and has had to watch, is one of the most horrible and brutal deaths you can possibly imagine. By the end, you’ve gone into renal failure and you’re on dialysis. Medications you’ve been given to try to stop the onslaught have made you diabetic. The financial cost is staggering, especially if you don't have insurance. You and your family can lose everything you’ve ever worked for. The suffering you go through, and the suffering you cause your family and friends is horrible. It is an unimaginably slow and torturous drowning in your own secretions, trying to breathe through airways that have collapsed and to get air to places where it can’t go anymore, never being able to fully exhale. You mouth to us to let you die, because you have a breathing tube stuck down your vocal cords. You lie there in bed, unable to do anything for yourself, with tubes in all your orifices, yes, all of them. Your muscle and fat and tissue waste away so that you get horrible decubitus ulcers on your back and butt and hips that you can literally fit a fist into comfortably. Your hospital room reeks like a rotting, living corpse. You can lie this way for months, even years. Your body colonizes the foulest of bacterial infections.
Try this. Take a great, big, deep breath and hold it. Hold it until you cannot possibly hold it anymore and relish that unbelievable rush you get when you are able to exhale and empty your lungs. You can't do that with emphysema. You can't effectively exhale because carbon dioxide filled air stays trapped in the air sacs of your lungs, leaving you to feel like crap most of the time.
I have been a smoker, off and on for a very long time. I still break over. I relish the ceremony of smoking, the act of smoking. I enjoy it immensely. But I hardly ever do it anymore. Why? Because I placed my stethoscope over my own heart one day and just listened to it. Constant and steady, it was doing its job. And then I felt bad. And then I began to feel sorry for it and angry at myself. All the stupid stuff I did to myself and through it all my poor heart kept working so hard, so strong, so steady. I have a heart, a poor, hard-working, fist-sized beating heart! And if nobody else in the whole world cares, I do.
Smoking is an issue that has a little to do with genetics – there is a gene that codes for addictive behaviors – but it is largely an issue that has to do with your own sense of self, your self esteem, or lack of it, how you were raised, and how you are raising yourself. The tobacco is incredibly addictive, with all the crap they put in it, but the smoking is incredibly personal, and all about what it means to you. I can't tell you how to quit because I don't know what your smoking is about. That's something you're going to have to figure out yourself.

My smoking was about several things. It was about anger. It was about my space. I discovered I was extremely pissed off because I could never seem to find a quiet place for myself to be -- a place where I was truly me, and not someone's something. It was about carving out a tiny little fraction of space and time for myself, and when people wouldn't let me, instead of confronting them, I started to hide behind a smoke screen. That tiny little space became so very important. It was the ultimate game, my whole life, my little make believe world. I was trying so hard to be someone that I wasn’t, to please other people. Why was I doing that? Could it be that I didn't have the guts to do what I really wanted to do, that I was afraid of failing at it, and that rather than face that unpleasant thought, I just did what everybody else wanted, and then if I failed I could blame them? Well, it was an unpleasant thought, and I tried to ignore and forget it. I smoked, because when I smoked I bathed my brain in feel good endorphans and I put up an effective little smoke screen that I could hide behind.
I quit because I gave up on that. I quit because that lonely little organ that sits in my chest continues to beat faithfully, regardless of what I do to it. It beats regardless of who I am being. It beats because that is its job. It is my true friend, and I’m giving it a break. Whoever or whatever I am, how ever long it takes me to deal with this problem, I'm not going to screw my heart over. Bottom line. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

It's been a hard road, but I choose to look you in the face and be myself with you now rather than to try to be who or what you may expect me to be. I come with issues. Everybody does. It might have been someone else’s fault while I was young. But I grew up; it became my responsibility, and my fault because I didn’t take responsibility for my own actions.
With that comes a huge lesson, and that lesson is, I am no good to anybody if I am not good to myself. If I don’t eat good foods, exercise, sleep well, surround myself with good, positive people with the capacity to love, if I don’t express myself with my music and writing, cherish my boyfriend and my excellent friends and animals and my surroundings, I do a lousy job when I go to work. I’m not able to put my patients before me. I don’t do anyone any good. I come home sore, exhausted and depressed, instead of sore, exhausted and feeling like I did something. It’s a huge difference.
It is about smoking, the nicotine addiction, the habit, big tobacco and it’s not. If it isn’t tobacco, it will be something else. If you’re struggling with tobacco, be aware of the disease process and own that you’re going to pay a huge price for a little momentary pleasure. It's important to remember Big Tobacco does not give a holy rat's ass about you. They are not your friends. Be aware that it might be more about something else than simple smoking. Show some courage and just look and see. You don't have to change it if you don't want. You're the one in control. And you're not going to be anybody in the world but exactly who you are whether or not you smoke. But just once you might try to reach out and take your space. Keep going outside to take a smoke break -- just don’t smoke. For Pete’s sake, don’t tell anyone that you’ve quit. Don't tell a living soul. Make everybody think you've got to go out and smoke. Just don't smoke when you get there. Breathe instead. Breathe. Big deep breaths. If you need a screen to hide behind, go find one. But breathe. Breathe and feel the beat of your own heart.
We are all smokers, with our own weird little cigarettes. Legislation is not going to change tobacco use or any other kind of neurotic behavior. It’s like trying to legislate the sun because it causes skin cancer. If you’re truly concerned about someone else’s smoking, just be a friend. Talk about the uncomfortable things. And use that money we’d spend on legislation for our children and our teachers. They need all the help they can get.

Compassion or Murder

2008-03-11T14:41:00.002-04:00

by Lyn

I finally came to a decision today, after months of putting it off. I must have my little dog put to sleep and the pain and the frustration with the decision has made me tearful, weepy, frustrated and deeply depressed.

She is an ancient thing for a dog -- 20 years old. She has lost one eye to glaucoma and the other is covered with a cataract. Her hearing has diminished such that I'm fairly certain she can't hear any but the loudest sounds. She has kept a slight ear condition that has resisted treatment for years, and now her balance has been affected, such that she tends, with the one eye, to go in circles. The muscles in one of her back legs has atrophied, and there is spondylosis in her spine that is causing the extensor muscles of her back legs to operate while the contracting muscles do not. She is able to extend her legs, but not pull them back, effectively causing her to have to walk on stilted legs behind. Added to this is a little doggie Alzheimer's which causes her to become confused and disoriented. When all of the conditions are acting together, she walks around and around in circles, becoming frantic, panting madly, running into walls, and falling because her back end goes out on her.

As I write this, I think, how absurd that I should feel badly about putting this dog to sleep. What a selfish person I am to keep her alive, just to ease my pain. And yet, there is that thing about her that she has had all of her life -- this never say die attitude. She never quits and I hate to be the one to make her do so.

I got her 13 years ago. I was a respiratory therapist working at a small hospital in Harrison County, Kentucky, and I passed her on the road on the way to work one morning. She was sitting in the road, I thought for the warmth, as some old dogs will do. It was in the brief flash as I passed her that I noticed the blood. I turned around and went back and walked over to examine her, and that's when I saw what was really going on. She had obviously been hit by a car or worse. Her jaw was fractured, and one eye was hanging out. And she was sitting because she had obviously been hit such that she couldn't walk.

There was no picking her up without getting bit, so I threw a blanket over her and carried her into work with me under the disapproving stares of my co-workers -- that I should bring a dog into the hospital. I put her in my boss's office, prayed I wouldn't be paged, and called the local dog warden. He showed up a little later and took her to the vet. I told him to tell the vet to do what he needed to do (which I thought surely would be to put her to sleep), and to send me the bill.

Several hours later the vet called to ask me what I wanted him to do with the dog. She had a fractured jaw, a dislocated hip, a broken pelvis, and seven broken ribs, but nothing vital had been injured. I was amazed, but told him to "fix" her. It didn't seem right to put her to sleep after surviving that kind of injury. When her owner called later to thank me for rescuing her, she also told me she didn't have the money to pay for the bill, and did I want the dog? So by the end of that day, I was a new dog owner.

I took her home a couple of weeks later not sure if she would ever walk again. I made her comfortable in a box in my bedroom, then joined my roommate to watch TV. Shortly we heard a dragging noise and looked down the hall to find her dragging herself towards the living room. A couple of days later she was walking and within a week she could run enough to enjoy going outside like a normal dog. I re-named Zena, Princess Warrior. I was amazed by her heart.

She was never an affectionate kind of dog. She was a cross between some kind of hound and some kind of terrier and had the spiky hair of a punk rocker that defied brush or comb. The eye that had been knocked out had been put back into place, and was functional, but was now slightly rotated to the outside. Her jaw, which was wired back together, was slightly rotated in the other direction. Hers was truly a face only a mother could love. She was content to be picked up and cuddled only as long as your hand was constantly scratching her or rubbing her. The moment that stopped, she was struggling to be put back down again. She would never lay content, dozing in your lap.

Outside her nose would immediately go to the ground and she was off and running (albeit rather lopsidedly) chasing down a smell and totally impervious to the call of her owner. She had a nose that could smell any kind of food, any where it was. She had no fear when food was concerned. My boyfriend, when cooking out one day, learned to become ever vigilant around her. He had the grill too close to the porch on one occasion, and when he became distracted and turned the other way, she grabbed a 16 oz T-bone steak off the grill and, waving her tail in delight, went bopping off to her lair underneath the porch. Eating was the most important thing in her life, and the very moment she smelled cooking she would bounce about the kitchen voicing a cross between a bay and a bark that could slice through the thickest insulation or consciousness. My father, who was the world's worst at feeding snacks to animals, adored her.

My Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1995. He had complained for months of an aching in his shoulder which his doctor attributed to "Uncle Arthur." Of course, a respiratory therapist could have told him it was an early symptom of lung cancer, and I did, but his particular doctor was old and content in his ways and was not the least bit interested in listening to anyone else, not the least a newly graduated RRT. Finally the cancer was discovered, way too late, and an emergency left lung removal was done. My father, always a tough nut, sailed through the surgery and chemotherapy with no outward affect. However, shortly afterward he developed an aneurysm and had to have surgery for that. Shortly after that it was a hernia operation, which he said was the worst one. By the end of that one he was in severe pain and for the first time in his life, I think, fell deep into depression.

That was when Zena began to shine. She had long realized that Dad was the bearer of such delicious treats as the chips from Long John Silver's fish and chips, or roast leavenings, or slices of country ham fat, pieces of hamburger from Arby's and the coup de foudre, the creme de la creme, the ham bone. All it took was the sound of his truck coming down the driveway, and she was voicing like a bloodhound on the hunt. Dad would make her and Ladybird, our other dog, sit politely and wait for their treats, but Zena, so excited and hungry, would bounce in place. He was tickled. He was charmed. He was enthralled. He was delighted. And once again he began to laugh the laugh I was beginning to think I would never hear again. I watched him watch her as she zig zagged lopsidedly through the tall weeds one day and I could almost hear him say "if she could get through it, so can I." He never complained about the pain again.

She has been to me my little monkey sent from God. Her comical antics, her crooked grin, her lopsided lope all reminders of the cruelty fate can sling at you, but that, with perseverance, can be overcome. Strange to credit such power to a dog, but without her in my life will I begin to falter?

Gretchen Jackson, Barbaro's owner said it so succinctly. The price of love is grief. To have to say goodbye suddenly to someone you love, without warning, is horrible. To have to say goodbye in a slow, painful way is just as bad, if not worse. To have to say goodbye in a clinical, controlled, planned way feels like insanity to me. Yes, she's old, but so am I. Yes, she's lame, but so am I. I have glaucoma, I have inner ear problems. It's altogether likely I could develop Alzheimer's. They would not put me to sleep, because I am human. She is "just" a dog. But in many ways, she has been more human to me than many people I have known.

I prayed to God to help my father die at the end. I prayed for my mother in that way as well. God apparently heard and granted both of those prayers. I have prayed the same for my little dog, but unfortunately, God's grace is not forthcoming this time. And so I must take His place. There's no vital organs affected. Amazingly, there is no heart or lung disease, no diabetes or any of the other arrows of old age. Simple mobility issues and a little confusion. There's times I wish it was cancer or even diabetes. I could act swiftly and easily then. But this is not easy.

When she is frantic and agitated, whirling around her pen, panting like crazy, I say, "No, no, no more. I can't stand it." And when she is asleep, curled into a little spiky ball, snoring softly, paws twitching after dreamy rabbits, again, I say, "No, no, I can't take it." There is no feeling of correctness, of making the right decision, of feeling I've done the best for her. It's a sad, sad thing, and I do not like playing God.

Jumpin' Jack Flash

2008-03-10T15:58:00.001-04:00

by Lyn

It was the first anniversary of my father's death and I was on my way home from work, traveling the back roads of Harrison County, and feeling very sad. I spied the Harrison County Animal Shelter on my left in the distance and once again felt the same sadness I felt in passing any animal shelter, thinking of all the animals needing a good home. This afternoon, though, was to be a little different.

As I got closer to the shelter I began to have this "feeling" that I needed to stop there. I can't say where the feeling came from or why, but, at the same time, I noted, I had been looking for a way to commemorate my father's passing and I guess it was this extra added little "umph" that made me pull into the shelter, park, get out and start walking around.

I have friends who go to animal shelters with the express purpose of spending time with the animals, and I think they are God's angels, but personally I find that hard to do myself. I am one of those people who, when walking into a shelter, instantly want to take every living animal inside home with me. Since I can't, I then grieve for hours afterward remembering the hopeful little faces I left behind.

I certainly had no need for another dog - I already had two, plus two horses and five cats. So I'm not exactly sure what I was looking for when I rounded the corner and, amidst all of the dogs who were yelping and jumping against the cages, saw the border collie lying flat down on the concrete, in the middle of his cage. His head was on his paws and a look of utter and woebegone hopelessness covered his face.

I stopped in front of his cage, and amid the chaos of his kennel mates said to him, "Hey feller, what got you landed in here?" He did not even raise his eyes to me. "Come on," I said. "You know I'm talking to you." This was rewarded with a couple of dull thuds of his flowing black tail. I laughed in spite of myself, and persisted, "At least you've got food and shelter." Three more thuds of the tail. I hunched down a little in front of the cage and tried to get him to come over. He pretty much ignored me until my haunches were getting just stiff enough to where I had to stand again, then he slowly got up, stretched and came over to sniff my hand, and looked up at me with the saddest eyes I had ever seen.

It was a couple of days later, adoption papers in hand, when he was leaping for joy at being let out of his cage that I gave him his name, "Jumping Jack Flash."

Jack was a handful from the very start. Headstrong to a fault, he insisted on doing every thing in his own way, only yielding to my authority when all else had failed. We had issues immediately. He threatened to rip my face off when I tried to brush him one day. Being brushed the next day with a muzzle on was the result.

All of our interactions went something like this:
Me-I want you to do this.
Jack-I don't want to do that, I want to do this other thing.
Me-No, I want you to do this.
Jack-What if I do this other thing first?
Me-No, I want you to do this first.
Jack-Well, okay, maybe I'll do that, but I'll stop over here and do something completely different before I come back over and then we can talk about it.

I knew border collies required a lot of attention and work. I knew you essentially had to "work" them to keep them happy and content, as left to their own devices and ignored, they could be very destructive. I had watched all of the border collie agility trials on TV and thought perhaps Jack might become an agility dog and we could have fun attending the amateur trials and such. On our first attempt I asked him to sit. I was encouraged as he sat perfectly, tongue lolling, looking at me with the "what?, what?, what?" face. I showed him the frisbee. "Here Jack, look, this is a frisbee." I was rewarded and excited when he looked at the frisbee with interest and even lifted his haunches off the ground a couple of inches. I threw a frisbee past him and cried "Get it Jack! Get the frisbee!" Jack watched the frisbee fly past him and looked back at me. "Get the frisbee Jack," I repeated. Jack sat perfectly still, panting. I retrieved the frisbee myself, showed it to him again and sailed it past him again. "Get it Jack, get the frisbee!" This time Jack didn't even watch it sail past. Instead he rolled over on his back and let his tongue roll rackishly out of the side of his mouth. I left the frisbee in his area hoping he would develop an interest in it, but he studiously ignored it. Thus it was with balls, chew toys, ropes, etc.

Bobby was intensely aggravated with me for getting Jack. He felt it wasn't fair to our two other dogs, who were smaller, and that Jack wouldn't fit into the program. Jack, though, had other plans regarding him and worked non-stop to make up with him regardless of my husband's disaffection. Bobby, who loves all living things, was soon caught stroking Jack's slick, black head and ears.

"You know Grandma's getting old," I pointed out to him. Grandma was our oldest dog and at 16 years old, was becoming ancient. "Yeah," he muttered. "And you know Grandma's a lot older than Ladybird..." "Yeah," he replied. Ladybird, the other of the two girls, seemed to bond instantly with Jack, especially in regard to bolting out of the house and running through the fields together. "Well, what's going to happen when Grandma's gone?" I asked. "Who is Ladybird going to run with then?" He muttered something unintelligible. "Dogs are pack animals," I said. "They really need that family thing happening." "I know," he said. "He's (referring to Jack) alright I guess."

I found them later, both asleep on the couch, Jack with his head in Bobby's lap.

Jack is a talker. He must have great thoughts, because he will, all of a sudden, come up to me, sit down in front of me and proceed to "tell" me something of great importance. He will not utter a decent, full-throated bark, but instead will whine, yip, dance and then do alternating combinations of the above. Sometimes I can figure it out - maybe he wants out, he needs to pee, or he wants a treat, but most of the time it's Greek (or dog) to me.

The early wee hours of April Fool's Day, we were sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. My mother had passed away a month earlier, and the night before we had lost a dear friend in an auto accident, so we were dull with grief when we stumbled into bed and instantly fell asleep. It was a couple of hours later that I awoke to hear Jack talking to me. He was not just talking. He was jumping against the bed, actually shaking it, and jumping on and off the bed, painfully stepping on my stomach and legs. I awoke up crying "Ow, ow, ow," into a dense fogginess where I could barely hear what I thought was Bobby's cell phone alarm going off. I turned over groggily and shook him awake, muttering "Turn off your #!?!# phone!!," then fell back asleep, vaguely feeling him leave the bed.

Seconds later he was back, pulling at my arm, shouting, "Get up, the house is on fire!"

The word "house," in this particular case, is a bit of a misnomer as our house was actually a 30 year old mobile home way out in the country. We all know the statistics re: rural mobile home fires - I believe the current time is about 5 to 8 minutes for it to burn completely to the ground. Also most mobile homes, and especially the older ones, are constructed of horrific volatile chemical compounds, from the paneling to the flooring, resulting in a noxious black smoke when it burns. Needless to say I was awake in an instant and ran into the hallway only to see the kitchen nearly engulfed. Everything after that was blur. I remember grabbing animals, stuffing them under my arms and then into the cab of our truck. I made the foolish mistake of going in a second time to grab my beloved guitars and throw, yes throw, them out the door. I made the foolish mistake of going in a third time to turn the power off, this time not without consequence. I could feel myself starting to go down and just managed to crawl back outside again coughing and hacking for my very life. Somehow Bobby had found a water hose and had it turned on the fire and all the area around it, trying to wet it down so it couldn't burn. He was cussing fluently and shouting his defiance to the fire gods. Through the flames and the smoke I could see a familiar black form shadowing his every footstep, yipping and whining in chorus. Jack was not going to let him fight that fire alone.

An hour later the firefighters were there, I was being given smoke inhalation treatments and the kitchen was a rancid, smelly, smoking, soaked ruin. Bobby was talking with the firefighters who were congratulating him on doing the impossible -- the unbelievable accomplishment of actually putting a mobile home fire out and saving most of it. Jack was going back and forth between Bob, the firefighters and myself, poking his cold nose into and underneath our hands.

Jack still gets muzzled when we groom him or clip his toenails - something that he still cries like a baby or growls like a rabid wolf over. But he gets away with a lot. I'm left with some questions about that awful April Fool's Day. How did Jack know to try to wake me instead of Bobby, who sleeps like a log? Why was I prompted to stop in at the dog shelter in the first place? I'll never know the answers, but I know I'll always be grateful to a pound puppy named Jumping Jack Flash.