I would really like to be a Zen master. To receive nonsense with love and compassion and let it pass by with an Akido-like attitude.
I usually succeed at this – after my first reaction, which is like a Celtic Warrior who rides into battle with blue war paint smeared across my face, the head of the enemy dangling from my horse, and a blood-curdling warrior’s death-defying cry of ruthless pursuit for the righteous cause springing from deep within my throat chakra.
It is not easy holding both approaches in one human body. But there you are.
I had an encounter with a deather/birther on Thursday. He is running for Congress – as a Republican – in a special election for my district.
The Zen part of me decided to give him a chance.
“I’m not really fond of Republicans these days,” I said to him as he offered his card. “Tell me why I should vote for you?”
“I understand why you don’t trust Republicans,” he said, which I thought was a good sign. “You can trust me because even if I disagree with you, I’ll vote as you want me to.”
Why did I not believe him?
His views on health care are that private sector is more efficient. At denying health care claims, I thought. I pointed out that I pay $750 a month for insurance and if I can no longer pay it, I lose all benefits. Nothing carries over.
I could go on Medicare, he assured me.
Not too bright this one. Or, he thought I was older than I am, which might also not be too bright in terms of wooing a constituent.
Still, I thought, I should be reasonable.
He was pro life. Which of course in my mind means he thinks women are incubators, but I didn’t get into that.
But, before I left his booth, I exercised the nuclear option. “Do you think Obama is a legitimate president. Is he a citizen of the United States?”
“Well, he hasn’t produced a birth certificate.”
And, thus was my Celtic Warrior awakened.
“You’re a racist,” I said to him,
And moved to the next booth. Then thought to ask, “And are there death panels?”
“Yes,” he replied.
I spat something else at him (I’m sure I did it with love in my heart and peace in my soul).
“I don’t want your vote,” he said. And the cool, I’m-just-a-nice-guy-with-an-opinion gave way to his lizard-brained true self.
He didn’t want to represent me. Had no intention of representing me. He just wanted to make the world safe for his the-earth-is-flat-and-the-sun-revolves-around-it point of view.
I’ve been angry with him ever since. And I’ve finally figured out why.
We need bright people with a vision of the world that are not threatened by life experiences that are different than their own.
What we do not need is more fear mongering. Fear is perhaps the basest of human emotions. Particularly when it is used to organize. Fear does not empower people. It empowers mob behavior.
I did not expect Obama’s election to unleash such an ugly side of this country.
I’m hoping that Obama finds a way through. I’m hoping that he isn’t just a slave to interests that are short-sighted and self absorbed.
But mostly, I’m hoping that as a nation we can rise above this ugliness. I have never voted for a Republican, but I usually at least respected them. But I don’t respect bullies and that’s what they have become, with a few exceptions.
You’re probably wondering what a plastic pink flamingo, wearing pink sparkly starred flip flops and adorned with glittery blossoms has to do with all of this.
Well, I came across it on my recent walk downtown. It is in the yard of an Irish couple with whom I exchange greetings when either is in the yard.
I don’t know why, but the plastic pink flamingo gives me hope. Especially after it started wearing the pink sparkly-starred flip flops.
It somehow soothes the Celtic Warrior in me, and raises the question for the Zen wanna-be master in me: “If a plastic pink flamingo wears sparkly-starred flip flops in the garden and no one but you notices . . .?”
Ommmm…Aiyeeeeee!
So There is Time Enough
Today’s New York Times has two op ed columns (Frank Rich and Timothy Egan ) that talk about Mad Men, the AMC series that follows Madison Avenue ad men in the Sixties – the Sixties that start in 1960.
So far it has covered the span of history that includes the 1960 election, birth of Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), death of Marilyn Monroe, and Cuban Missile Crisis.
Racism, sexism, drinking while pregnant and/or driving, and smoking like a chimney were deeply embedded as cultural norms. Perfectly acceptable.
Tonight’s premiere begins in 1963. Should be an interesting season.
Note: Spoiler alert follows. Although, if you haven’t been watching the series, I don’t think it will spoil anything if you start to watch it.
The protagonist, Don Draper, is who he says he is, though only after assuming a new identity. He lifts the dog tags from his dead compatriot after he is burned beyond recognition in a scene that takes place in Korea.
It’s the moment that Dick Whitman changes his story and become Don Draper.
Story, Robert McKee, says is a metaphor for life.
I have become fascinated lately with rewriting the story. Not a short story or novel I’m writing. But my story. The story that I’m living.
Perhaps the best birthday present I am giving myself as I turn sixty (still two months away, but nonetheless), is to recognize that the story I thought I was supposed to live is not my story.
And so I have started rewriting my story.
Compassion, I believe, is at the base of all good story writing. That means compassion for myself for having tried to live a story that wasn’t mine; compassion for those who wrote the story I thought I was supposed to live; and compassion for the human condition.
And today, at least, I think the human condition is that we do the best we can with what we have. At its highest, the human condition allows us to learn that the best we can do can be really quite extraordinary – once we learn compassion.
In the old story, I was a monster. Monstrous because I asked questions; monstrous because my questions provoke the possibility of change.
In my new story, I understand that I have been given gifts: the gift of asking questions, the gift of being willing to embrace change; the gift of uncertainty. I have come to believe that faith is acting without the benefit of certainty.
And so I have faith in story: to allow story to unfold, reveal character with compassion, and let it end in ambiguity if necessary.
I have come to look at safety in a different way. I don’t think we can make ourselves safe from the unexpected, from the event that pulls the rug out from under us, from losing people we love, or even our own lives.
Now I think safety is more about living life fiercely so when it comes time to face my own death I can say that there was time enough.
Mad Men is good story. It shows the wages of living a life of quiet desperation. What it’s like to live a story that isn’t yours.
_____________________________________________________________________________
As a coda, there is also an op ed column about the American poet Marianne Moore. Ford Motor Company asked her to come up with names for a new car it was getting ready to sell. They turned down all her suggestions – and named it the Edsel.
If You Start to Die – Don’t
I read that quote in Gail Collins’ New York Times column today. It was 108 year-old Frank Buckle’s secret to a long life. Frank is the last surviving veteran of World War I.
I read it this morning after spending a fitful night of maybe-sleep worrying about how I will pay my bills. Not an unusual concern these days. Nor is it the first time in my life that I have worried about this.
I have been a freelance technical writer for 24 years; and never have I had so much trouble finding work. Some of the problem is that I was distracted for a good five years with taking care of my mother’s and father-in-law’s descent into declining health and eventual death. My mentor also died over this time period. As did the wife of a friend of ours. And my cat.
I say I was distracted by this. Actually, work would have been a distraction from that. As Willie Loman’s wife says in Death of a Salesman, “Attention must be paid.”
But those four or five years took me out of the loop. My Linkedin profile is practically anorexic. I don’t really know how to take advantage of the maybe-there’s-a-three degree-of-separation between me and someone who is hiring.
I have begun to think I am unemployable.
But, when you start to think something like that – don’t.
I think in part, the workplace has changed. Companies want to hire temporary employees, but ask that the temporary employee commit as if it (the company) was offering a marriage proposal without a prenup.
I remember from my dating years that what they are really offering is a one-night stand.
So I can rant about this change (which I am quite capable of doing), or try and retool myself. Much as I did when I finally decided that if I was looking for a committed relationship, I shouldn’t settle for one-night stands with the hope it might be more.
I still have no idea what the answer is or where to go. I just know that taking a job that requires twelve-hour days, four of which are taken up in a commute, is like death to me.
Someone said to me, “Anyone can put up with anything for six months.” She said this right after I visited a friend of mine whose life is waning. He will probably not be here in six months.
So my choice was, “When you start to die, don’t.”
And my challenge is, how do I pay the bills?
Don’t know the answer yet.
But, I think it’s important for all of us in these weird, rocky economic times to put our lives first, and don’t put up with one-night stands – unless you both agree that’s what you want.
Comments and suggestions are welcome. If you know anyone who needs a writer (technical, business, etc.) let me know.
Oh, and I love Gail Collins. In a recent column she said that the Republicans were afraid that if Sotomayor was appointed to the Supreme Court that she might become untethered and commit empathy. Her writing takes some of the sting out of losing Molly Ivins.
Through the Doors of Compassion
I’ve been on blog silence for close to three weeks now.
When I was a kid I watched a lot of naval war movies because my older brother was fascinated by them and because my dad had been in the navy during World War II. In the movies, the submarine would go on radio silence when it wanted to be undetected.
That might be why I’ve been on blog silence. I wanted to be undetected because I didn’t want to turn into a ranting blogger. So, hopefully, I’ve emerged from my lizard-brain fueled rage enough that I can start addressing the lizard-brain fueled brain activity around health care.
Once again, leaders of the Republican Party are tapping into fear, ginning it up, and using it to grab power. What they want to do with the power, other than to have it, isn’t really clear.
Ginning up fear is not community organizing. It is inciting mob behavior.
Let me say that again: ginning up fear is not community organizing. It is inciting mob behavior.
Community organizing is about empowering. Inciting mob behavior is about wielding power to suppress others.
I’ve been a hospice volunteer and the designated spokesperson for advanced directives for two people: my mother and Jeanette, an older friend I met through the Gray Panthers.
My mother ended up dying in an ICU. It’s not so much that she wanted to die, as that she was ready to. She had end-stage emphysema when her hip broke into four pieces. She decided to have her hip repaired, but then got pneumonia three days later. That’s when they took her to the ICU.
The ICU is no place to die. The purpose of it is to keep a body alive. There is no intimacy to the place. That’s not a judgment – it’s simply the way it is. When intensive care is required for the mechanics of the body – it’s the right place to be.
My mother worked hard the last three days of her life to decide whether she was ready to let go of her body. What she feared more than death, was losing her life. And the future for her was grim. She would have had to go to a skilled nursing facility to recover from the hip operation. Here health was already very fragile, so she faced the prospect of dying in the skilled nursing facility – which is a nicer name for a nursing home.
My father died in a nursing home. He had Alzheimer’s so the skilled nursing facility was where he had to be given that my parents did not have the financial means to have the twenty-four hour care a person with dementia requires.
It was a good nursing home. Staff was caring. And, my father was less isolated in there than he had been when he still lived at home with my mother. The social network falls away when dementia sets in. It’s no one’s fault, it’s just hard to maintain a circle of friends when one becomes a widow or widower before their spouse dies.
But a nursing home is a hospital. It’s for people who are too sick or frail to go home, but not acutely ill enough to require the care needed in an acute care hospital. Or, it’s for people whose minds are no longer their own. Who require the care and monitoring associated with that of a child. I asked my mother if caring for him was like caring for a child. She said no, because a child grows while my dad declined.
My dad forgot how to swallow. It’s what happens with end stage dementia. Pneumonia set in. My mother made the decision to withhold antibiotics. And so he died of pneumonia.
It was not a question of prolonging his life – but rather prolonging his death.
She opted, as my father had asked while his mind was still lucid, to not prolong his death.
My mother was adamant about not wanting her death prolonged. So when she said to me in the ICU, “I thought I was dying last night,” I asked if that’s what she wanted. She said yes.
I intervened on her behalf. It took a bit of convincing the staff that she knew what she wanted, and by then, her advanced directive had shown up in her hospital records.
We let her life come to the end she wanted.
With my friend Jeanette, it was slightly different. She had asked me to take the power of attorney on her advanced directive because she said, she trusted that I loved her, and that my decision would be based on loving her. When I asked her what she wanted, she said, “I want you to pull the plug.”
I came to understand that she kind of meant that literally—she wanted me to tell her when enough was enough.
And that’s how it ended for her. She had end stage Parkinsons. Against her will she was taken to a nursing home. The woman who had been her long time caretaker, and who had become her genuine family, was put in the awful position of being falsely accused of taking advantage of her. Jeanette, an old time lefty who fought passionately against injustice was so far gone with Parkinsons’ that she could not stand up for her.
The thought of Jeanette lingering in a nursing home along with the injustice with which her longtime caretaker was enduring was what helped me act on Jeanette’s wishes.
Pneumonia set in.
“Pneumonia used to be called the old person’s and cancer patient’s best friend,” her doctor, who knew Jeanette very well, said to me when I sought his advice about what to do.
Within a week of her entering the nursing home, Jeanette died.
Her dying honored the way she lived.
End of life is one of the most intimate of moments. It is not something you want to lose control over. Advanced directives give you the opportunity to articulate what your life means to you – and the difference between living and merely keeping your body alive.
Compassion. That’s what’s called for in those moments.
And what the Republican Party leaders are spewing has nothing to do with compassion. It is a raw attempt to grab power by playing on people’s fear to incite mob mentality. They provoke the lizard brain.
The lizard brain is incapable of compassion.
We do not want these people, Newt Gingrich, Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh, Senator Grassley, et al anywhere near the power they want to seize. They have shown their true character.
They are willing to sacrifice compassion on the altar of their egocentric need for power.
Power without compassion is dangerous.
Putting the lizard brain in control of mobs leads to genocidal horrors.
We cannot let these people prevail.
When Your Heart Breaks Open
A friend I have known for close to 30 years is being invaded by tumors. Alien beings are taking over his body, stealing the nourishment intended for him.
I have known him for half my life, met him as I turned a critical juncture in my life – when I became a hospice volunteer. We were in the original group of volunteers in a hospice program at San Francisco Hospital. This was 1980 – just months before the tsunami of AIDS surged across the landscape and SFGH became a Mont St. Michel in an epidemic that carried away thousands.
When I told him I always expected that he and I would be in the same old age home, rocking in our rocking chairs on the porch, he replied, “This is it. Sixty is the new eighty.”
I’ve lost many people, particularly over the past ten years. In-laws, my parents, my high school teacher. I’ve also lost family members because they weren’t willing to alter their view of me – weren’t willing to let go of roles that kept the family intact, but were toxic for me. And so I am no longer a part of their lives. There is no room in their hearts for me.
But, my friend has been in my life on purpose. One of those people who became family by virtue of spirit and intent, rather than birth or blood. Perhaps that is why his leaving is particularly confusing and unnerving for me.
I have no idea where to put it. How to hold it.
What we learned in hospice was that our role was to be a witness. It was a good lesson for me because I had always been a caretaker. Doing something to make it better, and better meant getting between the person I was taking care of and whatever difficulty they were facing.
In working with the dying, I learned to step out of the way; to clear the path so the person could face their impending end in whatever way gave them the most dignity. For some it was denial. For others it was looking it squarely in the eye.
My friend is looking it squarely in the eye. Both his life and his impending death. He believes there is a life after death – not heaven or hell – but other lifetimes. And, I feel that he will always be with me, woven into my heart, because of what we shared.
I became a hospice volunteer because I wanted to learn how to accept death. I thought that meant that it would become fathomable to me. It hasn’t.
It is particularly unfathomable to me that the life of someone with whom I learned to become a witness, I am now serving as a witness to.
But, my heart is breaking. I’d like to think that it is breaking open so I can fully witness the final journey of this very dear man, whose heart bettered the world with each of its beats.
Would that he could live so we could celebrate his eightieth birthday together.
______________________________________________________________
Karen Turns Sixty
by Karen L. Hogan
If I could turn back
the hands of time
I would have nothing to regret
or remember.
So, I’d do much of it the same way
no doubt,
end up with the same regrets,
the same memories,
and my age-spotted hands
would be no younger.