This is a column I wrote in June 2007, six months before my father died from a brain tumor. I'm still so grateful that I flew to St. Louis the day after Thanksgiving to be with him, and that I was by his side when he took his final breath. I still miss him so very much.
Along with about 20 other sons and daughters, I spent a chunk of my Sunday afternoon standing in the greeting card aisle at Walgreens in Bloomingdale perusing the selection of Father’s Day offerings.
Like always, I welled up at the sentimental Hallmark Celebration offerings and made a fool of myself laughing out loud at the company’s Shoebox cards.
The guy standing next to me looked as if he was ready to call 911 so I tried explaining to him why I was busting a gut.
I showed him the cartoon on the card. “You see there’s a father and son at the beach looking at this dead seagull and the kid asks the dad what happened to the bird. The father tells him that it died and went to heaven. And the kid looks down at the dead bird and asks his dad, ‘Did God throw him back down?’”
I burst into laughter all over again. The fellow customer just looked at me and walked away, leaving me to marvel at the subjectivity of humor. Obviously the person who wrote the greeting card and that person’s boss thought it was funny or it never would have ended up on the greeting card rack at Walgreens.
Despite the tears and guffaws, I left the store empty-handed. How can some stranger back at Hallmark headquarters in Kansas City possibly summarize my feelings about my dad?
My sister and I were talking on the phone about that very subject -- my dad -- recently. She lives in St. Louis, about a mile from my parents, and gets to see them a lot more than I do. We were discussing the fact that neither of us knew my dad as well as we would have liked to.
My father wasn’t around a whole lot when we were growing up. He was a vice president for an international insurance brokerage firm that required him to constantly travel around the world.
Frankly, my younger brother and I were convinced the whole insurance brokerage thing was a front and that our father was really spy for the CIA. After all, he was former Army Intelligence, serving during the Korean War; his biggest client was McDonnell Douglas, a major American aerospace manufacturer and defense contractor based in St. Louis before merging with The Boeing Co. in 1997; and he bore a marked resemblance to Robert Wagner in the ‘60s television series, “It Takes a Thief,” in which Wagner worked for a secret government agency called the SIA.
My dad would return home from overseas trips carrying one of those black leather attaché cases with the combination locks where we were certain top-secret documents were stashed. We never got a chance to peek inside, but we did manage to snoop around in his luggage on occasion, searching for microfilm and dissecting his pens to see if they contained cyanide capsules or miniature weapons a la James Bond.
We never found anything but that’s only because the CIA undoubtedly took precautions against snoopy children of operatives. To this day, my dad has never emphatically stated one way or the other if he was a secret agent.
No, dad wasn’t around as much as other fathers in the neighborhood when we were youngsters. By the time we were old enough to engage in real conversations with him, we weren’t all that interested in hanging around the house getting to know dad better. And since my dad tended to be quiet and contemplative, downright distracted at times, starting a conversation with him was like pulling teeth.
But after my sister and I ended our phone conversation, I began looking back on our relationship through the years. No, we don’t have the kind of bond where I feel comfortable calling him out of the blue to talk about whatever’s on my mind.
However, now that I think back on it, despite all his travels, my dad was on hand for every landmark event in my life, as well as a few he’d probably rather forget but his presence made all the difference in the world to me.
Yes, he abandoned his missions to foil Brezhnev’s KGB agents’ devious plots long enough to attend my figure-skating recitals and high school graduation. I kept my promise to him and declined other dates when I turned 21 so my father could take me out for my first drink. He was front and center at my college graduation and flew to New England on the pretense of a business trip to make sure I was settled in at my first real job.
He picked me up in his arms and ran home cradling me when I was 8 after spotting me wearing one white sneaker and one red sneaker. A sharp rock had pierced the rubber sole of the red sneaker and gone straight through my foot. My blood had soaked the shoe and I was afraid to tell anyone because my mom had just bought the sneakers.
And he was there for the darkest moments of my life.
He held my hand when the doctor assembled our family in a hospital room and solemnly told us that my little brother wouldn’t live through the night.
And he rushed to Columbia, Mo., when the police called to tell him his daughter was at the university medical center, the victim of a campus serial rapist.
No offense to Hallmark or American Greetings, but the sentiments on their cards all seemed so hackneyed and indifferent when compared to what I was feeling, what I wanted to say to this man.
You see, my dad, now in his 70s, has cancer. The man who used to begin his day with a brisk 5-mile walk followed by 18 holes of golf barely has the strength these days to walk from the bedroom to the family room.
The last time I saw him, I couldn’t even give him a hug because the chemotherapy and radiation had weakened his immune system to such a point that he had to wear surgical masks around his own family.
So I walked out of Walgreens without a card and, instead, stopped by my church and offered a Father’s Day Novena for my dad. Then I made a donation to the Moffitt Cancer Center & Research Institute in his honor.
A prayer for my dad and the hope of ending the suffering of future dads: that’s my Father’s Day gift.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
When All Else Fails, Try Humor
I'm hardly the first person you'd coming running to for parenting advice.
Before my son was born, I'd never even diapered a baby.
When I found out I was pregnant, I began practicing on my pet Pekingese who was amazingly tolerant when I'd get the sticky tabs of the Pampers stuck to his fur.
After a few dozen attempts, I became pretty proficient at diapering a Pekingese. Too bad my son wasn't born with a tail.
A lot of women are born mothers. I'm not one of them. I felt inadequate more times than not. I kept waiting for someone to accuse me of being an imposter.
A few came close. Like the time I walked out of the grocery store pushing my cart filled with bags only to hear the cashier yell after me, "Hey, lady, you forgot your baby!"
Sure enough, my sleeping infant was snuggled in his carrier, which was attached to the seat of a different shopping cart.
Luckily, Ian was oblivious that time. He caught on when he was a little older, though. There was that horrifying moment my husband and I rushed from our jobs to attend his kindergarten open house. We arrived at the same time, looked at one another and realized neither of us had picked up our son from preschool. I rushed over to get him. He was waiting, hands on his hips.
"You forgot me again, didn't you?" he said, sighing. I made him promise this incident wouldn't send him into therapy when he's 30.
Of course, wise beyond his years, my son relished bolstering my sense of inadequacy. As soon as he learned to talk, way too soon as far as I was concerned, he delighted in causing me public embarrassment.
One day he threw a tantrum in the grocery store because I wouldn't buy him a toy in the toy aisle.
I explained to him that the grocery store toy aisle is simply a marketing ploy designed to torment harried mothers into buying overpriced plastic army men for spoiled children. But the decibel of my son's screams rose to ear-piercing levels, attracting tsks from elderly women who had apparently raised perfect children.
Reaching the limits of my patience, I firmly grabbed his chubby cheeks, ordered him to shape up and dragged him away from the toy aisle.
As we were standing in line waiting to check out, he announced to anyone who'd listen, "My mom is a face-hurter, and a hand-squeezer, too!"
I wasn't really surprised when Ian graduated from preschool with the dubious class title of "Most Irrepressible."
I recalled these events as I drove to the hospital to visit a friend’s newborn baby. And I pondered what advice I might offer the new parents, not that they'd ask for my advice so it'd have to be unsolicited.
First and foremost, I'd tell them to find the humor. Laugh at discovering you've been walking around all day with a glob of baby vomit on your shoulder.
Secondly, watch what you say. Although they may not seem to be listening, kids will regurgitate the most unlikely comments you make at the most embarrassing moments.
I remember cringing at the beach when my friend's 5-year-old daughter ran up to us sobbing. "I was poking a stick at a horseshoe crab and Ian told me I was going to grow up to be a serial killer."
My final suggestion is to have answers prepared when your child starts asking life's big questions, somewhere between ages 2 and 5. Keep in mind that kids don't necessarily want a technical explanation or scientific theories. They just want a simple answer they can wrap their little brains around.
Feel free to borrow my answers:
Why is the sky blue? Because God used a blue crayon.
Why did He use blue? Because He'd already used his yellow crayon for the sun and His green crayon for the grass.
Will there ever be dinosaurs again? (Trust me, they aren't interested in a theory about the Ice Age). Yes, they'll be back on Tuesday (kids this age have no concept of time).
Why do people go to war? Because they don't know how to share with their friends (that way you slip in a moral lesson at the same time).
Why do people wear clothes? (Avoid a lengthy diatribe about Adam and Eve. Kids' attention spans aren't that long.) So they don't get arrested.
Why don't dogs wear clothes? Because they want to get arrested. (OK, I didn't have time to think that one through).
What do grownups do after kids are in bed? We play with your toys.
Where was I before I was in your tummy? You were in God's tummy.
Where was I before I was in God's tummy? You were a prayer. (Spiritual explanations are always good because they can't be disproved. He won't come back when he's 17 and call you a liar.)
Why do grownups work? So they have an excuse to send their kids to school.
Is there life on other planets? Yes. There's some little alien child in the universe right now annoying his mother with endless questions.
Before my son was born, I'd never even diapered a baby.
When I found out I was pregnant, I began practicing on my pet Pekingese who was amazingly tolerant when I'd get the sticky tabs of the Pampers stuck to his fur.
After a few dozen attempts, I became pretty proficient at diapering a Pekingese. Too bad my son wasn't born with a tail.
A lot of women are born mothers. I'm not one of them. I felt inadequate more times than not. I kept waiting for someone to accuse me of being an imposter.
A few came close. Like the time I walked out of the grocery store pushing my cart filled with bags only to hear the cashier yell after me, "Hey, lady, you forgot your baby!"
Sure enough, my sleeping infant was snuggled in his carrier, which was attached to the seat of a different shopping cart.
Luckily, Ian was oblivious that time. He caught on when he was a little older, though. There was that horrifying moment my husband and I rushed from our jobs to attend his kindergarten open house. We arrived at the same time, looked at one another and realized neither of us had picked up our son from preschool. I rushed over to get him. He was waiting, hands on his hips.
"You forgot me again, didn't you?" he said, sighing. I made him promise this incident wouldn't send him into therapy when he's 30.
Of course, wise beyond his years, my son relished bolstering my sense of inadequacy. As soon as he learned to talk, way too soon as far as I was concerned, he delighted in causing me public embarrassment.
One day he threw a tantrum in the grocery store because I wouldn't buy him a toy in the toy aisle.
I explained to him that the grocery store toy aisle is simply a marketing ploy designed to torment harried mothers into buying overpriced plastic army men for spoiled children. But the decibel of my son's screams rose to ear-piercing levels, attracting tsks from elderly women who had apparently raised perfect children.
Reaching the limits of my patience, I firmly grabbed his chubby cheeks, ordered him to shape up and dragged him away from the toy aisle.
As we were standing in line waiting to check out, he announced to anyone who'd listen, "My mom is a face-hurter, and a hand-squeezer, too!"
I wasn't really surprised when Ian graduated from preschool with the dubious class title of "Most Irrepressible."
I recalled these events as I drove to the hospital to visit a friend’s newborn baby. And I pondered what advice I might offer the new parents, not that they'd ask for my advice so it'd have to be unsolicited.
First and foremost, I'd tell them to find the humor. Laugh at discovering you've been walking around all day with a glob of baby vomit on your shoulder.
Secondly, watch what you say. Although they may not seem to be listening, kids will regurgitate the most unlikely comments you make at the most embarrassing moments.
I remember cringing at the beach when my friend's 5-year-old daughter ran up to us sobbing. "I was poking a stick at a horseshoe crab and Ian told me I was going to grow up to be a serial killer."
My final suggestion is to have answers prepared when your child starts asking life's big questions, somewhere between ages 2 and 5. Keep in mind that kids don't necessarily want a technical explanation or scientific theories. They just want a simple answer they can wrap their little brains around.
Feel free to borrow my answers:
Why is the sky blue? Because God used a blue crayon.
Why did He use blue? Because He'd already used his yellow crayon for the sun and His green crayon for the grass.
Will there ever be dinosaurs again? (Trust me, they aren't interested in a theory about the Ice Age). Yes, they'll be back on Tuesday (kids this age have no concept of time).
Why do people go to war? Because they don't know how to share with their friends (that way you slip in a moral lesson at the same time).
Why do people wear clothes? (Avoid a lengthy diatribe about Adam and Eve. Kids' attention spans aren't that long.) So they don't get arrested.
Why don't dogs wear clothes? Because they want to get arrested. (OK, I didn't have time to think that one through).
What do grownups do after kids are in bed? We play with your toys.
Where was I before I was in your tummy? You were in God's tummy.
Where was I before I was in God's tummy? You were a prayer. (Spiritual explanations are always good because they can't be disproved. He won't come back when he's 17 and call you a liar.)
Why do grownups work? So they have an excuse to send their kids to school.
Is there life on other planets? Yes. There's some little alien child in the universe right now annoying his mother with endless questions.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
'Man did eat angels' food'
Jesus Christ was stabbing me in the throat again last night.
I always take it as a sign from God that I’m headed in the wrong direction when He gouges me with my crucifix while I’m sleeping.
I believe God speaks to us in subtle ways. We just have to be aware.
I always know I’ve really messed up when I go to communion and Jesus’ body gets stuck in my teeth instead of delicately dissolving in my mouth and filling me with the Holy Spirit.
It’s time for a toothpick, some quiet contemplation and a trip to the confessional.
But while He may be great at sending signs, His son will be the first to tell you that God isn’t as forthcoming with His advice. He’s quick to tell you you’re doing wrong. He’s reticent to tell you what you should do to fix it.
That’s when I turn to my Bible: God’s words, flipping through the pages for enlightenment.
That’s just what I did last night after turning on the light and readjusting the pesky crucifix. I wasn’t quite sure where I had erred in God’s eyes but I was certain there was something God needed to tell me.
There, in the Book of Psalms, I stumbled upon the words, “Man did eat angels’ food.”
I had enjoyed a heavenly evening at the Angels Among Us Auction and Dinner for St. Stephen Catholic Church and School the night before. We dined on rare roast beef, mahi mahi, a variety of pastas, chocolate and carrot cake, and sipped fine wines.
It was truly a meal fit for angels. Instead of relishing the opportunity to enjoy an evening of good food and good friends, I was lamenting the fact that I had no money to bid on the variety of goodies being auctioned due to my recent layoff. I found myself wishing I had the freedom to bid thousands of dollars without a qualm like some of the auction-goers around me.
God was sternly reminding me to count my blessings. I had the chance to attend the event, watch the excitement, taste the foods and chat with friends. There were many, many people who could not even afford a ticket to attend the event. In fact, it was partly to help supplement their children’s religious education that the dinner and auction was held.
OK, God. I got the message. You can quit making your son jab me in the neck. It was a glorious evening and I was fortunate to take part in it as a volunteer and participant. Dena Craig, Mel Williams, Jean Weber and the other members of the Angels committee did an extraordinary job putting the event together and raising funds in one of the worst economies we’ve seen in our lifetimes.
If You are willing, my fortunes may change. If they don’t, I count myself fortunate anyway.
I always take it as a sign from God that I’m headed in the wrong direction when He gouges me with my crucifix while I’m sleeping.
I believe God speaks to us in subtle ways. We just have to be aware.
I always know I’ve really messed up when I go to communion and Jesus’ body gets stuck in my teeth instead of delicately dissolving in my mouth and filling me with the Holy Spirit.
It’s time for a toothpick, some quiet contemplation and a trip to the confessional.
But while He may be great at sending signs, His son will be the first to tell you that God isn’t as forthcoming with His advice. He’s quick to tell you you’re doing wrong. He’s reticent to tell you what you should do to fix it.
That’s when I turn to my Bible: God’s words, flipping through the pages for enlightenment.
That’s just what I did last night after turning on the light and readjusting the pesky crucifix. I wasn’t quite sure where I had erred in God’s eyes but I was certain there was something God needed to tell me.
There, in the Book of Psalms, I stumbled upon the words, “Man did eat angels’ food.”
I had enjoyed a heavenly evening at the Angels Among Us Auction and Dinner for St. Stephen Catholic Church and School the night before. We dined on rare roast beef, mahi mahi, a variety of pastas, chocolate and carrot cake, and sipped fine wines.
It was truly a meal fit for angels. Instead of relishing the opportunity to enjoy an evening of good food and good friends, I was lamenting the fact that I had no money to bid on the variety of goodies being auctioned due to my recent layoff. I found myself wishing I had the freedom to bid thousands of dollars without a qualm like some of the auction-goers around me.
God was sternly reminding me to count my blessings. I had the chance to attend the event, watch the excitement, taste the foods and chat with friends. There were many, many people who could not even afford a ticket to attend the event. In fact, it was partly to help supplement their children’s religious education that the dinner and auction was held.
OK, God. I got the message. You can quit making your son jab me in the neck. It was a glorious evening and I was fortunate to take part in it as a volunteer and participant. Dena Craig, Mel Williams, Jean Weber and the other members of the Angels committee did an extraordinary job putting the event together and raising funds in one of the worst economies we’ve seen in our lifetimes.
If You are willing, my fortunes may change. If they don’t, I count myself fortunate anyway.
Friday, October 23, 2009
My own fairy princess
There are no accidents.
God brings certain people into your lives at certain times for very specific reasons.
I’d been having a crummy year. There were massive layoffs and shakeups at work. My dog died after I fed her contaminated dog food. My father was slowly dying from cancer. I figured it was just more of the same bad luck when we received the call from a doctor at a hospital in Burbank, Calif., on that August day in 2007.
In a solemn voice, the doctor told us that my sister-in-law, Mara, was in the hospital. It happened to be the same day my father-in-law was scheduled for major surgery at Brandon Regional Hospital. We’d just been informed that this normally independent, vibrant 83-year-old man was going to have to come live with us while he recuperated.
Now this doctor in Burbank was delivering a second blow. In a shaky voice, she told us that Mara had advanced non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, Stage IV.
There was no hope, the doctor said. She thought the best thing was for us to come to California and bring Mara back to Florida so she could die surrounded by her family.
I never gave it a second thought. As far as I was concerned, it wasn’t a matter up for consideration. There was only one thing to do.
I turned to my husband, Michael, and said, “I’ll take care of your dad. You go get Mara.” It was the first time in our 25 years of marriage that I saw my husband cry. His father was facing major surgery that could end his life. His sister had been given a death sentence. And all I could be certain of is that God, for whatever reason, had placed the care of these family members in my hands.
I desperately needed a fairy godmother.
Instead, God brought me a fairy princess complete with her own supply of fairy dust.
If you don’t believe me, take a close look inside my house. Mara has been gone nearly nine months now and my vacuum cleaner and duster are still picking up the fairy dust she left in her wake.
You see, my sister-in-law was a real-life fairy princess. The majority of the time, she was Snow White, though she would transform into Tinkerbelle, Cinderella and Princess Anastasia at various times. Frankly, after seeing her in the role, I, for one, truly believed she embodied the spirit of Snow White with her creamy white skin, long, wavy black hair and sweet, high-pitched voice.
One of Mara’s favorite sayings was, “Believe in miracles – expect magic.” I saw no reason why she couldn’t be the character she portrayed for children’s birthday parties.
She loved children and children loved her. I think one of the reasons she related so well to children is because they accepted her. They didn’t judge her. And they never took advantage of her generosity.
So creating a business as a children’s entertainer was ideal. Mara loved dressing up as storybook characters. She loved singing, dancing and performing magic tricks for children. She loved throwing parties for kids. And she loved being the center of attention.
I worried how she would cope when she became sick and had to leave all that behind.
Up until then, her appointment calendar had been filled with activities.
“Jan. 6 – party for Riley, age 3, Sleeping Beauty, $150 check, lovely thank you,” read her diary.
“Jan. 16 – Snow White party – Anna Sophia, 6, gave me a blush pink rose. It made me so happy.”
“Jan. 29 – mermaid party – Jessica gave me the mermaid from her cake.”
“March 4 – three doll cakes. So cute. Pink tablecloths. White chandelier with little pink birds.”
“April 17 – Jasmine party – macaroons, lily of the valley, hyacinth, pink, magenta, soft blue.”
She took as much delight in every party as the little girls who were honored.
But, once here, Mara seemed content to give up her party life and simply appreciate each moment she had left on earth “before God makes me his angel.”
“I always knew I’d die young,” she told me. “I’m the eternal woman-child. I never wanted to grow up. Now I’ll never have to.”
She loved to fill the bird feeders in our back yard with seed and watch the birds come and go or pick flowers from my garden and put them in vases all over my house. When my plumeria bush bloomed for the first time, she was convinced it bloomed just for her. She spent hours just staring at that white plumeria bloom, marveling at its beauty. I’ve never met anyone who was so appreciative and aware of the beauty around her.
Nor have I ever met anyone so appreciative of any kindness shown toward her. She was always making handmade thank-you cards and gifts for people in gratitude of the smallest expression of thoughtfulness.
I think her acceptance of her death lay in her enormous spirituality. She never married but wrote in her journal, “God is my prince.” She would note people she wanted to pray for on certain days and would pepper her appointment calendar with Bible verses like, “Blessed are the pure of heart for they shall see God,” “Children are the greatest in the kingdom of heaven,” “Trust God; delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart,” “God will take care of those who serve Him and sincerely endeavor to do His will,” and “There shall be showers of blessings sent by God above.”
The toll on her physical appearance was the only indication of her illness’ progression. I never once heard her complain about pain or feel sorry for herself. I marveled at the way she kept going when most people would have been bedridden.
Apparently God thought I needed a reminder of how wonderful life is. So he sent me a fairy princess, a fairy princess who relished every moment of life until her death.
God brings certain people into your lives at certain times for very specific reasons.
I’d been having a crummy year. There were massive layoffs and shakeups at work. My dog died after I fed her contaminated dog food. My father was slowly dying from cancer. I figured it was just more of the same bad luck when we received the call from a doctor at a hospital in Burbank, Calif., on that August day in 2007.
In a solemn voice, the doctor told us that my sister-in-law, Mara, was in the hospital. It happened to be the same day my father-in-law was scheduled for major surgery at Brandon Regional Hospital. We’d just been informed that this normally independent, vibrant 83-year-old man was going to have to come live with us while he recuperated.
Now this doctor in Burbank was delivering a second blow. In a shaky voice, she told us that Mara had advanced non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, Stage IV.
There was no hope, the doctor said. She thought the best thing was for us to come to California and bring Mara back to Florida so she could die surrounded by her family.
I never gave it a second thought. As far as I was concerned, it wasn’t a matter up for consideration. There was only one thing to do.
I turned to my husband, Michael, and said, “I’ll take care of your dad. You go get Mara.” It was the first time in our 25 years of marriage that I saw my husband cry. His father was facing major surgery that could end his life. His sister had been given a death sentence. And all I could be certain of is that God, for whatever reason, had placed the care of these family members in my hands.
I desperately needed a fairy godmother.
Instead, God brought me a fairy princess complete with her own supply of fairy dust.
If you don’t believe me, take a close look inside my house. Mara has been gone nearly nine months now and my vacuum cleaner and duster are still picking up the fairy dust she left in her wake.
You see, my sister-in-law was a real-life fairy princess. The majority of the time, she was Snow White, though she would transform into Tinkerbelle, Cinderella and Princess Anastasia at various times. Frankly, after seeing her in the role, I, for one, truly believed she embodied the spirit of Snow White with her creamy white skin, long, wavy black hair and sweet, high-pitched voice.
One of Mara’s favorite sayings was, “Believe in miracles – expect magic.” I saw no reason why she couldn’t be the character she portrayed for children’s birthday parties.
She loved children and children loved her. I think one of the reasons she related so well to children is because they accepted her. They didn’t judge her. And they never took advantage of her generosity.
So creating a business as a children’s entertainer was ideal. Mara loved dressing up as storybook characters. She loved singing, dancing and performing magic tricks for children. She loved throwing parties for kids. And she loved being the center of attention.
I worried how she would cope when she became sick and had to leave all that behind.
Up until then, her appointment calendar had been filled with activities.
“Jan. 6 – party for Riley, age 3, Sleeping Beauty, $150 check, lovely thank you,” read her diary.
“Jan. 16 – Snow White party – Anna Sophia, 6, gave me a blush pink rose. It made me so happy.”
“Jan. 29 – mermaid party – Jessica gave me the mermaid from her cake.”
“March 4 – three doll cakes. So cute. Pink tablecloths. White chandelier with little pink birds.”
“April 17 – Jasmine party – macaroons, lily of the valley, hyacinth, pink, magenta, soft blue.”
She took as much delight in every party as the little girls who were honored.
But, once here, Mara seemed content to give up her party life and simply appreciate each moment she had left on earth “before God makes me his angel.”
“I always knew I’d die young,” she told me. “I’m the eternal woman-child. I never wanted to grow up. Now I’ll never have to.”
She loved to fill the bird feeders in our back yard with seed and watch the birds come and go or pick flowers from my garden and put them in vases all over my house. When my plumeria bush bloomed for the first time, she was convinced it bloomed just for her. She spent hours just staring at that white plumeria bloom, marveling at its beauty. I’ve never met anyone who was so appreciative and aware of the beauty around her.
Nor have I ever met anyone so appreciative of any kindness shown toward her. She was always making handmade thank-you cards and gifts for people in gratitude of the smallest expression of thoughtfulness.
I think her acceptance of her death lay in her enormous spirituality. She never married but wrote in her journal, “God is my prince.” She would note people she wanted to pray for on certain days and would pepper her appointment calendar with Bible verses like, “Blessed are the pure of heart for they shall see God,” “Children are the greatest in the kingdom of heaven,” “Trust God; delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart,” “God will take care of those who serve Him and sincerely endeavor to do His will,” and “There shall be showers of blessings sent by God above.”
The toll on her physical appearance was the only indication of her illness’ progression. I never once heard her complain about pain or feel sorry for herself. I marveled at the way she kept going when most people would have been bedridden.
Apparently God thought I needed a reminder of how wonderful life is. So he sent me a fairy princess, a fairy princess who relished every moment of life until her death.
Blogging with a purpose: Who cares what I have to say?
What do I have to say? And, most importantly, why should you read anything I write?
I had the same questions. As a full-time journalist for more than 25 years, I’m accustomed to interviewing people, covering government meetings and making phone calls so I can regurgitate facts accompanied by carefully quoted opinion about how those facts are going to affect readers.
Stay neutral, remain unbiased, avoid any semblance of favoritism. That’s always been the journalist’s mantra -- until recently.
Suddenly, journalists not only allowed to have opinions, but are encouraged to express them publicly.
It’s like opening the floodgates, tearing down the Berlin Wall, ripping through that miasma of objectivity that’s prevented us from telling all that we really know in the guise of fairness.
I’m not timid about expressing my opinion. My journalistic integrity, however, has kept me on a short leash in the public realm.
But now there’s this thing called a blog, an abbreviation for Web log, representative of random thoughts about sundry topics designed to evoke equally random responses from Web surfers.
Eleven years ago, there were about 50 blogs on the Internet. Today there are more than 10 million blogs. The blogosphere is inundated with everything from political commentary attracting half a million visitors a day and having untold influence on American public opinion to inexpert opines that appear to be more self-promoting than elucidating.
That’s just one of the reasons for the decline of newspapers and the high unemployment rate of journalists.
They’ve been replaced by citizen journalists and user-generated content providers who can do the job for free.
Well … they COULD do the job. Except most don’t want to make the effort to sit through boring meetings, wade through reams of boring documents, makes tons of phone calls and interview tons of people to get both sides of the story and then go out of their way to make sure the story is well-written, interesting, factual and, most importantly, credible.
As a result, the public is subjected to endless streams of blogs posted by self-professed authorities on various subjects. We find fiction presented as fact, propaganda passing for information and self-serving punditry qualifying as legitimate truth.
People aren’t sure where to turn for fair, unbiased information in this digital age. The public doesn’t have any guarantee that it’s getting facts or even half truths from the Internet. After all, who is holding the blogger accountable?
In this era when we’re bombarded with information from computers, cell phones and iPods, a generation of self-proclaimed experts have established themselves as bloggers and twits with forums that provide them with legitimacy despite the fact that they have no credentials.
Frankly, I don’t care to read the uninformed opinion of some stranger who managed to save up $800 to buy a computer. If I must blog, I’m either going to provide thought-provoking commentary or I'm going to stick to the principles of journalism and provide information that will allow readers to form their own opinions.
OK, I might take a stab at being entertaining as well.
I had the same questions. As a full-time journalist for more than 25 years, I’m accustomed to interviewing people, covering government meetings and making phone calls so I can regurgitate facts accompanied by carefully quoted opinion about how those facts are going to affect readers.
Stay neutral, remain unbiased, avoid any semblance of favoritism. That’s always been the journalist’s mantra -- until recently.
Suddenly, journalists not only allowed to have opinions, but are encouraged to express them publicly.
It’s like opening the floodgates, tearing down the Berlin Wall, ripping through that miasma of objectivity that’s prevented us from telling all that we really know in the guise of fairness.
I’m not timid about expressing my opinion. My journalistic integrity, however, has kept me on a short leash in the public realm.
But now there’s this thing called a blog, an abbreviation for Web log, representative of random thoughts about sundry topics designed to evoke equally random responses from Web surfers.
Eleven years ago, there were about 50 blogs on the Internet. Today there are more than 10 million blogs. The blogosphere is inundated with everything from political commentary attracting half a million visitors a day and having untold influence on American public opinion to inexpert opines that appear to be more self-promoting than elucidating.
That’s just one of the reasons for the decline of newspapers and the high unemployment rate of journalists.
They’ve been replaced by citizen journalists and user-generated content providers who can do the job for free.
Well … they COULD do the job. Except most don’t want to make the effort to sit through boring meetings, wade through reams of boring documents, makes tons of phone calls and interview tons of people to get both sides of the story and then go out of their way to make sure the story is well-written, interesting, factual and, most importantly, credible.
As a result, the public is subjected to endless streams of blogs posted by self-professed authorities on various subjects. We find fiction presented as fact, propaganda passing for information and self-serving punditry qualifying as legitimate truth.
People aren’t sure where to turn for fair, unbiased information in this digital age. The public doesn’t have any guarantee that it’s getting facts or even half truths from the Internet. After all, who is holding the blogger accountable?
In this era when we’re bombarded with information from computers, cell phones and iPods, a generation of self-proclaimed experts have established themselves as bloggers and twits with forums that provide them with legitimacy despite the fact that they have no credentials.
Frankly, I don’t care to read the uninformed opinion of some stranger who managed to save up $800 to buy a computer. If I must blog, I’m either going to provide thought-provoking commentary or I'm going to stick to the principles of journalism and provide information that will allow readers to form their own opinions.
OK, I might take a stab at being entertaining as well.
Clinic proof of need for health-care reform
Caller ID indicated that my doctor’s office was phoning.
My heart skipped a beat. Were they calling to tell me I had some horrible, painful, disabling disease?
My panic was allayed by the nurse who explained that they had received my request for a prescription refill from my pharmacy and wanted me to see the doctor for a routine checkup.
My doctor was asking to see me. In fact, he had some openings right away.
Hmm. In the past, I had to wait weeks to get an appointment. And rarely had my doctor’s office called to invite me for a visit.
Things became clearer when I arrived at my primary physician’s office the next day. Rather than walking into a crowded waiting room where I had to wait an interminable period of time to see the doctor, I arrived to find the room empty. I was ushered into an exam room five minutes later. I’d barely cracked open a 2-month-old copy of Time magazine when my doctor walked in.
He apologized for keeping me waiting. I told him he hadn’t kept me. In fact, I’d just become engrossed in an interesting article and he’d disturbed me.
It occurred to me that I was witnessing one of the many consequences of the economic crisis in Tampa Bay. With an 11 percent unemployment rate, residents no longer have access to health insurance, and bustling medical practices are going bust.
By contrast, hospital emergency rooms are inundated with patients who have neglected health concerns, permitting perfectly treatable ailments to turn into life-threatening emergencies.
And free clinics like the Brandon Outreach Clinic in Brandon and the Judeo Christian Health Clinic in Tampa have more patients than they can possibly accommodate.
Drs. Stephen Parks and Pat Jeansonne started the nonprofit Brandon Outreach Clinic 20 years ago to help those people who fall between the cracks – the working poor who don’t make enough money to afford health insurance but make too much money to qualify for Medicaid.
Parks was able to get help for one man with a painful, disfiguring chest tumor. He’d been denied treatment because he had no insurance. In desperation, he sought help at Parks’ clinic. He told Parks he was prepared to excise his own tumor with a razor blade if necessary.
A pregnant woman with no insurance walked into the clinic one evening. However, the nurses quickly discovered she wasn’t pregnant. She had an ovarian cyst the size of an eight-month-old fetus.
Last year, Parks and other volunteer doctors treated 1,735 people. Already this year the clinic is seeing a 30 percent increase in the number of patients needing help.
Last week, politicians got together to kick off a free mobile dental health clinic for children at the Tom Lee Community Health Care Center in Dover to provide dental care to the county’s 141,000 children living below the federal poverty line. Workers at the clinic noted that many children they see, some 13 and 14 years old, have never even had a dental exam.
And, yet, we still have Americans questioning the need for health-care reform. Unbelievable.
My heart skipped a beat. Were they calling to tell me I had some horrible, painful, disabling disease?
My panic was allayed by the nurse who explained that they had received my request for a prescription refill from my pharmacy and wanted me to see the doctor for a routine checkup.
My doctor was asking to see me. In fact, he had some openings right away.
Hmm. In the past, I had to wait weeks to get an appointment. And rarely had my doctor’s office called to invite me for a visit.
Things became clearer when I arrived at my primary physician’s office the next day. Rather than walking into a crowded waiting room where I had to wait an interminable period of time to see the doctor, I arrived to find the room empty. I was ushered into an exam room five minutes later. I’d barely cracked open a 2-month-old copy of Time magazine when my doctor walked in.
He apologized for keeping me waiting. I told him he hadn’t kept me. In fact, I’d just become engrossed in an interesting article and he’d disturbed me.
It occurred to me that I was witnessing one of the many consequences of the economic crisis in Tampa Bay. With an 11 percent unemployment rate, residents no longer have access to health insurance, and bustling medical practices are going bust.
By contrast, hospital emergency rooms are inundated with patients who have neglected health concerns, permitting perfectly treatable ailments to turn into life-threatening emergencies.
And free clinics like the Brandon Outreach Clinic in Brandon and the Judeo Christian Health Clinic in Tampa have more patients than they can possibly accommodate.
Drs. Stephen Parks and Pat Jeansonne started the nonprofit Brandon Outreach Clinic 20 years ago to help those people who fall between the cracks – the working poor who don’t make enough money to afford health insurance but make too much money to qualify for Medicaid.
Parks was able to get help for one man with a painful, disfiguring chest tumor. He’d been denied treatment because he had no insurance. In desperation, he sought help at Parks’ clinic. He told Parks he was prepared to excise his own tumor with a razor blade if necessary.
A pregnant woman with no insurance walked into the clinic one evening. However, the nurses quickly discovered she wasn’t pregnant. She had an ovarian cyst the size of an eight-month-old fetus.
Last year, Parks and other volunteer doctors treated 1,735 people. Already this year the clinic is seeing a 30 percent increase in the number of patients needing help.
Last week, politicians got together to kick off a free mobile dental health clinic for children at the Tom Lee Community Health Care Center in Dover to provide dental care to the county’s 141,000 children living below the federal poverty line. Workers at the clinic noted that many children they see, some 13 and 14 years old, have never even had a dental exam.
And, yet, we still have Americans questioning the need for health-care reform. Unbelievable.
Economy to blame for upsurge in crime against women, children
It’s the stupid economy.
Apparently the dour economy is to blame for the revolting headlines inviting readers to delve into the details of men killing babies, beating and raping women and murdering their families.
David Braughton, chief executive officer of the Crisis Center of Tampa Bay, says rape, child abuse and domestic violence in Tampa Bay has shot up as the economy has taken a downturn.
And he believes there is a direct correlation between crimes against women and children and financial woes.
He said child abuse, rape and domestic violence is most often committed by men who feel inadequate and need to be in charge. It’s a panacea against feelings of helplessness and frustration.
Upon losing his job and the ability to control his financial security, an already-mentally unstable man may seek other ways to regain a sense of control including attacking those who are less powerful.
With Tampa Bay’s unemployment rate reaching 11.1 percent last month, Braughton’s theory explains a lot of the insanity we’ve seen in recent months including the horrific May 3 shootings of a Lakeland mother and her two children by her husband followed two days later by the death of an infant thrown from a car window along Interstate 75 in Tampa.
Braughton said rape is one of the most underreported crimes in the county. Eighty percent of the time, it’s committed by someone the victim knows, and she’s too ashamed to report it.
Despite rape victims’ reluctance to report the crime, the crisis center has experienced a 10 percent increase in the number of calls for sexual assault exams over the past year.
“We’re now seeing a victim a day,” said Braughton. “It’s all about power and control, people venting their frustrations on others. As unemployment and other stresses go up, we see more victims.”
Last year his office did a record 340 sexual assault exams, prompting the nonprofit to add a full-time rape advocate.
“The demands for our services are skyrocketing,” he said. “Calls to our 24-hour 2-1-1 crisis hotline have gone up 50 percent and requests for financial help have more than doubled. We’re admitting 20 to 30 new cases each month to our specialized counseling program for sexually abused children.”
While we focus on the homeless, the hungry and the unemployed, these faceless women and children may very well be the most tragic victims of the recession.
Apparently the dour economy is to blame for the revolting headlines inviting readers to delve into the details of men killing babies, beating and raping women and murdering their families.
David Braughton, chief executive officer of the Crisis Center of Tampa Bay, says rape, child abuse and domestic violence in Tampa Bay has shot up as the economy has taken a downturn.
And he believes there is a direct correlation between crimes against women and children and financial woes.
He said child abuse, rape and domestic violence is most often committed by men who feel inadequate and need to be in charge. It’s a panacea against feelings of helplessness and frustration.
Upon losing his job and the ability to control his financial security, an already-mentally unstable man may seek other ways to regain a sense of control including attacking those who are less powerful.
With Tampa Bay’s unemployment rate reaching 11.1 percent last month, Braughton’s theory explains a lot of the insanity we’ve seen in recent months including the horrific May 3 shootings of a Lakeland mother and her two children by her husband followed two days later by the death of an infant thrown from a car window along Interstate 75 in Tampa.
Braughton said rape is one of the most underreported crimes in the county. Eighty percent of the time, it’s committed by someone the victim knows, and she’s too ashamed to report it.
Despite rape victims’ reluctance to report the crime, the crisis center has experienced a 10 percent increase in the number of calls for sexual assault exams over the past year.
“We’re now seeing a victim a day,” said Braughton. “It’s all about power and control, people venting their frustrations on others. As unemployment and other stresses go up, we see more victims.”
Last year his office did a record 340 sexual assault exams, prompting the nonprofit to add a full-time rape advocate.
“The demands for our services are skyrocketing,” he said. “Calls to our 24-hour 2-1-1 crisis hotline have gone up 50 percent and requests for financial help have more than doubled. We’re admitting 20 to 30 new cases each month to our specialized counseling program for sexually abused children.”
While we focus on the homeless, the hungry and the unemployed, these faceless women and children may very well be the most tragic victims of the recession.
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