Okay, it gets on my nerves when people refer to a governmental health plan as "socialism." It's not socialism, friends, when the government is running the program. That's social democratism, and it's like what they have in Germany or Scandanavia. True socialism is a step in the supposedly inevitable process toward communism, in which there IS NO GOVERNMENT to run ANY programs. At least, this is according to Marx's definition, and considering that he is the one who conceived of the entire concept, I think we can agree that his definition should be the generally accepted one. I have this on authority from an expert in political science.
And while we are on the subject of health care reform, it's clear to me that the present system cannot continue. We can all assume the wealthy and politicians will always have good coverage; the rest of us, however, can probably assume the following: our premiums will continue to rise, our deductibles will continue to go up, everytime we change jobs or plans, we will lose coverage for any previous illness or condition (because to the new insurer, it is pre-existing), and employers will be forced to stop offering insurance coverage entirely. Businesses, small businesses in particular, won't be able to afford to cover employees and continue to engage in their primary business with its accompanying, normal, overhead costs. Duh! At best, we will all be dreadfully UNDERINSURED, as so many of us are already!!! So how can anyone argue that we don't need to revamp this system? If your problem with overhauling the health care system is that you don't believe in public assistance to the poor, realize that the above argument doesn't even take into consideration those members of society who can't get any insurance without public assistance, because they are: unemployed, disabled by a pre-existing conditions, the working poor, or the innocent children of any of the above. Although it is beyond me how any person who calls herself a Christian can, with a straight face, argue against assisting members of our society who genuinely need help. But that is an argument for another day and another post.
Anyway, it seems to me that a public option system is a fair compromise. Keep your private insurance if you can afford it, you like it, and so forth. But let the government offer a competing plan, or plans, to rescue those who don't (or soon won't) have decent private insurance. Not everything can be covered! Liver transplants, expensive procedures designed to prolong life in terminal patients (other than those to manage pain or possibly for children with terminal illnesses), cosmetic surgery and the like will not be covered. No one should expect the taxpayers to contribute to unreasonable medical costs/care. But the fundamentals should be available to everyone: vaccinations, amoxycillin for strep throat or ear infections, eye exams and corrective prescriptions, prenatal care, care for traumatic injuries, prescriptions drugs for those with diabetes, arthritis, and cardiovascular disease. Preventative care, health education, and incentives to lose weight, get healthy, and stay healthy should be built into the system somehow.
But FOR-PROFIT, MANAGED CARE SHOULD BE ELIMINATED. Profit gouging has no place in health care. For those of you who argue that the free market should apply to health care, I say this: what have they done to help the system over the last twenty years? NOTHING!!! Any costs they cut, on the backs of providers, they have taken as profits. We, as the paying insured, have seen our costs skyrocket, while managed care CEO's and wealthy shareholders have benefited. This bleeding of the health care system has done nothing to improve the quality of care; it has done the opposite, by preventing caregivers (especially highly trained medical specialists) from exercising their own educated judgment about how to treat patients. Gate-keeper primary caregivers, who are less trained, get to decide whether we even need to see a specialist and whether to order to tests, in fact whether to treat our illnesses/conditions at all. It's a tragic waste of specialized medical training and expertise, putting all this power in the hands of generalists.
And for those who complain about government bureaucracy and paper-pushing, let me ask you this? Has managed care reduced the amount of paper? Do we, as the insured, not have to fill out countless forms, make countless copies of bills and payments, subbmit here, submit there.. open HSA's, adding on all of that additional recordkeeping? And the caregivers? Ask them how much time/money they spend on recordkeeping, submitting requests, etc. It's a nightmare. How could anyone argue with a straight face that the current, private system is efficient?
Okay, rant over for now...
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Grunting in Tennis
As we tennis enthusiasts all know, women grunting when they hit the ball is practically de rigeur these days in tennis. Apparently, officials are now considering whether to make some rules about it, because some people are complaining. Funny, no one complains when the men grunt... Anyway, I am convinced that the coaches "teach" grunting at Eden Prairie Lifetime Fitness, where I play. I find it hilarious, particularly because the particular grunting style at my club is far from Sharapova's screech. It's more like the Uuuhhhh... (pitch rising toward end of word) that one utters during sex when one is close to achieving orgasm. I truly believe the coaches got together and decided to teach that particular noise to club members so that the coaches could imagine how we all sound during sex! (All of coaches but one are men, and the one woman teaches mostly kids. I don't think she teaches grunting.) Anyway, that sexual grunting noise is fascinating to me. I don't do it; I'm far too private for that. On the other hand, I have been known to let loose with the occasional,"Oh, God!"
Chance or God?
Chance or God?
Emptiness.
And then…
A burst of energy,
A fountain of matter,
Fusion and reaction,
Formation of elements,
Suns, space…
How did the carbon and hydrogen and oxygen
Eventually combine
Into you and me?
And however did we come to find one another
In the infinite expanse of our universe?
Emptiness.
And then…
A burst of energy,
A fountain of matter,
Fusion and reaction,
Formation of elements,
Suns, space…
How did the carbon and hydrogen and oxygen
Eventually combine
Into you and me?
And however did we come to find one another
In the infinite expanse of our universe?
Monday, April 6, 2009
Thoughts on Death (again...)
My boyfriend, Dana's, mother died three days ago. Darlyne had just turned 84 years old. We brought her up from Rochester, MN eight months ago, when she became too lonely living alone. Her husband of thirty-four years had passed away the preceding February. Darlyne tried to continue living on her own in their Rochester townhouse, but six months later, she found herself unendurably lonely, and was amenable to moving up to the Twin Cities to be near Dana and his sister, Lynann. We found a retirement community for her, where she could live independently in her own apartment, with her dog, Corky the Yorkie, and where she could smoke cigarettes. At 83, she was too old to quit. We were hoping she would make friends with the other residents, join in some group activities, use the transportation to the mall, movies, and museums, and resume a busy and active social life. Unfortunately, this was not to be. She was bound by her cigarette addiction to be near her apartment, where she could smoke. She would go down to the lobby area, to chat and read the paper, but she would have to return to her unit for a smoke before too long. She routinely went up to bed at 5 pm, at which time she would enjoy an enormous glass of brandy with a little milk on top. The alcohol helped her sleep, she said. At first, she agreed to go out for meals with Dana or Lynann. They took her to nice restaurants, but she preferred Perkins or Denny's. She always insisted on paying. After one visit to the art museum, she politely declined any further offers to visit cultural destinations, much to Dana's chagrin.
He went to visit her every single day, for either breakfast or lunch, sometimes for both. Eventually, she preferred to eat all her meals in the dining room at her Residential Community. She felt more comfortable in familiar surroundings. Her processing skills were declining rapidly; she was easily overwhelmed, and did not like to show her bewilderment. Dana could tell, however, that she couldn't follow conversations and was easily confused.
She had blood in her urine, so we finally persuaded her to go to the doctor. She was terribly anxious about going to the doctor, partly because she was terrified that they would put her in the hospital, where she couldn't smoke or drink. When the young doctor entered the examining room, she asked, "So, Mrs. King, why are you here today?" Dana's mom answered, "Well, I get very depressed. I'm old and I lost my husband, and I just get very down." I was utterly blindsided by her response; maybe she forgot about the blood in her urine, or maybe she just said the first thing that came to mind, or maybe, just maybe, she felt that depression WAS her biggest problem... I still don't know. I explained to the doctor that she had had blood in her urine and, when tests revealed a bladder infection, the doctor put her on Cipro. I suggested she throw in an anti-depressant, and Darlyne agreed, but I'm not sure she really understood.
After she went home, she started taking the Cipro, and it gave her terrible diarrhea. Two days later, she was so weak and dehydrated, she either fainted or had a seizure, and was taken to the hospital. Once admitted, Darlyne refused to eat, refused to walk or even sit up, and simply gave up. Dana told her she would have to go a nursing facility when she was discharged; he was fighting to keep admitted, until they knew exactly what her health issues were and had her under control. Two days later, he spent the morning with her, but soon after he left, she simply died.
He has been experiencing the same mixed emotions I did. He was relieved she didn't have prolonged suffering. He was grief-stricken to lose her. In a way, though, he felt he had already lost her, because she wasn't the person she had been, age having taken its toll. He found it impossible to conceive of the fact that she was dead. He was grateful he had the eight months of daily visits, to reconnect with her. He felt regret that she hadn't tried harder to keep living, tried to renew an active life, quit drinking, maybe even quit smoking. Yet he also felt defensive about her right to choose to live the way she wanted to, having lived to 84... Mixed emotions, some conflicting, some not. Watching him, I was struck by how similar we are, in that neither of us show a great deal of emotion, even if we feel it. We are so used to exercising reason and logic, so accustomed to controlling our emotions, that we sometimes wonder if we are cold-blooded. We feel guilty that we are not incapacitated by grief, that we are able to continue to operate in a perfectly calm and organized fashion, despite losing our MOTHER!!! It was comforting to me to see Dana react in a way similar to my reaction, because I know well how much he loves/loved his mother, how special and unique was their relationship, and how great a loss he feels. He is not cold-blooded; he is merely handling her death in his own individual way.
At her funeral service, he told a story: When Dana was 8 or 9 years old, he and a friend were walking home after a day of outdoor play when they passed through a backyard containing a pigeon coop. The pigeons were beautiful, white birds and they did tricks, rolling over and so forth. Suddenly, Dana really wanted a pigeon of his own... so he took one. When he got home, he built it a coop and put it in the back yard. He told his mother he found the pigeon under a bridge. Soon, his conscience began to trouble him. Finally, he couldn't endure his guiltiness and confessed to his mother that he had stolen the pigeon. She asked him if he remembered where he had stolen it, if he knew where the house was located. He nodded. At the time, they didn't have a car, and the house was about two miles away. Dana's mother told him to put the bird in a box and, together, they set out walking to return the pigeon. When they arrived at the scene of the crime, Dana went up to the door alone, while his mom waited by the mailbox. He rang the bell and a man answered the door. Dana told the man what he had done, apologized and returned the pigeon. A little boy came up behind the man; it turned out that the pigeon was his pet and he was overjoyed to have it back! Afterward, Dana and his mother walked home together. They stopped for a burger and a coke. She never mentioned the pigeon, lectured him, or scolded him. It was enough that she knew HE knew his behavior had been wrong. Dana started crying while he told this story. He said his mother always knew when more words were unnecessary. She made him do the right thing, but she supported him when he did.
I admire the fact that Dana could think of an anecdote that so beautifully illustrated his thoughts and feelings about his mother. When my mother died, I couldn't distill my thoughts and feelings about her down to any single story or description. I couldn't express to others the scope of my mother's character, her personality, my memories or anything! I was utterly overwhelmed by the enormity of her life. I ended up reading something my cousin had written about HER memories of my mother. I wish I could have done better!
He went to visit her every single day, for either breakfast or lunch, sometimes for both. Eventually, she preferred to eat all her meals in the dining room at her Residential Community. She felt more comfortable in familiar surroundings. Her processing skills were declining rapidly; she was easily overwhelmed, and did not like to show her bewilderment. Dana could tell, however, that she couldn't follow conversations and was easily confused.
She had blood in her urine, so we finally persuaded her to go to the doctor. She was terribly anxious about going to the doctor, partly because she was terrified that they would put her in the hospital, where she couldn't smoke or drink. When the young doctor entered the examining room, she asked, "So, Mrs. King, why are you here today?" Dana's mom answered, "Well, I get very depressed. I'm old and I lost my husband, and I just get very down." I was utterly blindsided by her response; maybe she forgot about the blood in her urine, or maybe she just said the first thing that came to mind, or maybe, just maybe, she felt that depression WAS her biggest problem... I still don't know. I explained to the doctor that she had had blood in her urine and, when tests revealed a bladder infection, the doctor put her on Cipro. I suggested she throw in an anti-depressant, and Darlyne agreed, but I'm not sure she really understood.
After she went home, she started taking the Cipro, and it gave her terrible diarrhea. Two days later, she was so weak and dehydrated, she either fainted or had a seizure, and was taken to the hospital. Once admitted, Darlyne refused to eat, refused to walk or even sit up, and simply gave up. Dana told her she would have to go a nursing facility when she was discharged; he was fighting to keep admitted, until they knew exactly what her health issues were and had her under control. Two days later, he spent the morning with her, but soon after he left, she simply died.
He has been experiencing the same mixed emotions I did. He was relieved she didn't have prolonged suffering. He was grief-stricken to lose her. In a way, though, he felt he had already lost her, because she wasn't the person she had been, age having taken its toll. He found it impossible to conceive of the fact that she was dead. He was grateful he had the eight months of daily visits, to reconnect with her. He felt regret that she hadn't tried harder to keep living, tried to renew an active life, quit drinking, maybe even quit smoking. Yet he also felt defensive about her right to choose to live the way she wanted to, having lived to 84... Mixed emotions, some conflicting, some not. Watching him, I was struck by how similar we are, in that neither of us show a great deal of emotion, even if we feel it. We are so used to exercising reason and logic, so accustomed to controlling our emotions, that we sometimes wonder if we are cold-blooded. We feel guilty that we are not incapacitated by grief, that we are able to continue to operate in a perfectly calm and organized fashion, despite losing our MOTHER!!! It was comforting to me to see Dana react in a way similar to my reaction, because I know well how much he loves/loved his mother, how special and unique was their relationship, and how great a loss he feels. He is not cold-blooded; he is merely handling her death in his own individual way.
At her funeral service, he told a story: When Dana was 8 or 9 years old, he and a friend were walking home after a day of outdoor play when they passed through a backyard containing a pigeon coop. The pigeons were beautiful, white birds and they did tricks, rolling over and so forth. Suddenly, Dana really wanted a pigeon of his own... so he took one. When he got home, he built it a coop and put it in the back yard. He told his mother he found the pigeon under a bridge. Soon, his conscience began to trouble him. Finally, he couldn't endure his guiltiness and confessed to his mother that he had stolen the pigeon. She asked him if he remembered where he had stolen it, if he knew where the house was located. He nodded. At the time, they didn't have a car, and the house was about two miles away. Dana's mother told him to put the bird in a box and, together, they set out walking to return the pigeon. When they arrived at the scene of the crime, Dana went up to the door alone, while his mom waited by the mailbox. He rang the bell and a man answered the door. Dana told the man what he had done, apologized and returned the pigeon. A little boy came up behind the man; it turned out that the pigeon was his pet and he was overjoyed to have it back! Afterward, Dana and his mother walked home together. They stopped for a burger and a coke. She never mentioned the pigeon, lectured him, or scolded him. It was enough that she knew HE knew his behavior had been wrong. Dana started crying while he told this story. He said his mother always knew when more words were unnecessary. She made him do the right thing, but she supported him when he did.
I admire the fact that Dana could think of an anecdote that so beautifully illustrated his thoughts and feelings about his mother. When my mother died, I couldn't distill my thoughts and feelings about her down to any single story or description. I couldn't express to others the scope of my mother's character, her personality, my memories or anything! I was utterly overwhelmed by the enormity of her life. I ended up reading something my cousin had written about HER memories of my mother. I wish I could have done better!
Sunday, September 21, 2008
In which I am visited by my mother
As many of you know, my mother died a year ago last April, after a prolonged fight with myelofibrosis, a fatal bone marrow disorder. A wasting disease, this illness reduced her to a living skeleton; her heart was so strong, it just kept beating, long after she had turned inward, stopped talking and had made herself ready to depart. It was excruciating to watch her decline. Three of her four daughters were with her, holding her, when she died, and the fourth was in flight.
My mother looked like a reptile when she died. I know I’m not supposed to say this, or even to have noticed it in the first place, but I couldn’t suppress the thought. Her mouth was opening and closing the way a fish’s mouth does when it’s lying on the dock, gasping for oxygen. But my mother wasn’t gasping. No breath was moving in or out. She was staring at the ceiling, her eyes sort of rolled upward. Otherwise she was still. And silent. My two younger sisters were making lots of noise; they were sobbing, and we were all talking to her, holding her, urging her to let go and not to be afraid to leave us. I wondered if she heard us. Did she even knew we were there with her, or did she have to go by herself, with no one else, all alone on that last journey… I was strangely calm and controlled, even as I held onto her bony feet and joined in to the exhortations. “It’s okay, Mom, you can go ahead and let go if you need to. Don’t be afraid. We will take care of Daddy, we promise. We’ll all be okay! We love you, Mom. We love you so much, but we’ll be okay. We promise! We’ll all be okay. You can let go!” Jeannie and Libby were wracked with sobs, but I felt like I was a character in a movie, or as if I was having an out of body experience. My feelings were just flattened. How could I possibly process losing her? She was the person I loved most in the world and who, I am certain, loved me more than anyone else did. She was my guide, my savior, my best friend, my source of life. And here she lay, wasted away to the point she looked like Gollum, her bones all visible and sticking out, her skin gray, her grey hair in little flat clumps, poking every which way. I watched her, horrified, as she opened and closed her mouth, exposing her tongue and throat, gaping at nothing. As she let go of life, she looked so primitive, like a brain stem preparation, not like a human being.
I grabbed her wrist and felt for a pulse. The hospice nurse saw what I was doing, and put a stethoscope on her chest. “There’s no heart beat,” she quietly announced. Jeannie and Libby screamed out their pain… they had no words. They wailed and keened. I tried to cry, but I felt like a teenager in combat, just shell-shocked. My logical mind understood that Mom had died, but my heart couldn’t figure out what to do with that. It was too big. It was sort of like contemplating the size of the sun. Not only was it impossible to conceive of something so overwhelmingly enormous but, if I looked at it, it burned me to ash. I told myself everyone grieves differently, and not to be hard on myself, but I felt guilty and warped anyway. My sisters’ reaction seemed so much more normal. Was I broken inside? Did I love her less than they did? I didn’t think so. Was a I relieved for her, that her suffering was ended? Partly, yes. It was inevitable that this disease was going to kill her, so in some ways, honestly, it was better that she be released from her body. And, for us, the dread of her death was exhausting. Logistically, practically, everyone had to get back to day-to-day life and other responsibilities. Yet, I was losing HER. Mom, Mommy, Mooter, Meutler, Mooner, Moon-unit, Momlette, , Mither Mither on the Wall…, Maw......... Inconceivable! I should be in the fetal position, shouldn’t I?
After she died, we were all in a state of shock. It helped having the Hospice Nurse there, keeping us grounded and telling us what to do next. Jeannie insisted on bathing mom and grooming her, and dressing her in a funeral dress, even though Mom had chosen cremation. Jeannie wanted to honor our mother, and that, for her and Libby, was a way to do it. I agreed, and I announced that I was going to shave her, which was my habitual contribution to her personal care (everyone, including mom, agreed that I was the best at it). I had just finished, when Barbara Bunn, a lifelong family friend called, and I took the phone out to the seawall. Dangling my feet over the edge, I figuratively laid my head on her bosum (if such a thing can occur by telephone) and choked out my pain. By the time I returned to mom's hospital bed, my sisters had finished, and mom looked beautiful.
Every now and then, Mom visits me in my dreams. The first time she came was just a few nights after she died. I was in our kitchen at home, and she walked in. She looked plump and her hair was longer, like she wore it when she was young. "Mom! You're alive!" I cried. "Yes," she said softly and in a comforting way. "Hug me." She felt warm and I could feel her breathing. My head was at her waist, like when I was a little girl. I felt so relieved.
What did this dream signify? Did she really visit me? And tell me there is life after death, and not to worry? Or was this just a wish-fulfillment dream?
Remember in the New Testament, after Jesus's resurrection, how he asks the disciples to put their hand in his side, and feel the warmth of his flesh and blood, so they could know he was alive? That's how it felt when I hugged my mother and felt her warm, life-filled body... But did my unconscious mind just remember the Bible story?
I have other friends who say their mothers have visited them. One friend told me her mother didn't come for quite a long time after she passed away, and my friend wondered whether her mother would ever come. About 6 months after her mother died, my friend dreamed she was at a soccer game, watching her young son play, and the ball rolled into the bushes. When my friend went to retrieve it, her mother was there, back in the trees. She was wearing an elegant cocktail dress and holding a martini. A distinguished gentleman in dress-clothes accompanied her. She said, "Hello, dear! Don't worry about me; I am having a WONDERFUL time. Mr. Melanokis is entertaining me!"
My friend woke up and felt happy to know that her mother was enjoying herself, wherever she was. I just love this story. Everyone's mom should end up doing what makes her happiest, whether it's partying with a handsome Greek man or standing in her kitchen... I hope I'll end up on a tennis court, or in a dressing room on the 5th Floor at Bergdorf's trying on darling clothes that look great on me. Or skiing down a mountain in Colorado with infinite skill and grace...
My mother's best friend believes that after we die, we go to a heaven she found described in a poem. In the poem, a perfect black leopard stalks and kills a perfect rabbit; and then the rabbit just gets up and hops-- perfectly-- away.
I barely remember the rest. The funeral home came to get her, Daddy was there, someone brought over some food...
My mother looked like a reptile when she died. I know I’m not supposed to say this, or even to have noticed it in the first place, but I couldn’t suppress the thought. Her mouth was opening and closing the way a fish’s mouth does when it’s lying on the dock, gasping for oxygen. But my mother wasn’t gasping. No breath was moving in or out. She was staring at the ceiling, her eyes sort of rolled upward. Otherwise she was still. And silent. My two younger sisters were making lots of noise; they were sobbing, and we were all talking to her, holding her, urging her to let go and not to be afraid to leave us. I wondered if she heard us. Did she even knew we were there with her, or did she have to go by herself, with no one else, all alone on that last journey… I was strangely calm and controlled, even as I held onto her bony feet and joined in to the exhortations. “It’s okay, Mom, you can go ahead and let go if you need to. Don’t be afraid. We will take care of Daddy, we promise. We’ll all be okay! We love you, Mom. We love you so much, but we’ll be okay. We promise! We’ll all be okay. You can let go!” Jeannie and Libby were wracked with sobs, but I felt like I was a character in a movie, or as if I was having an out of body experience. My feelings were just flattened. How could I possibly process losing her? She was the person I loved most in the world and who, I am certain, loved me more than anyone else did. She was my guide, my savior, my best friend, my source of life. And here she lay, wasted away to the point she looked like Gollum, her bones all visible and sticking out, her skin gray, her grey hair in little flat clumps, poking every which way. I watched her, horrified, as she opened and closed her mouth, exposing her tongue and throat, gaping at nothing. As she let go of life, she looked so primitive, like a brain stem preparation, not like a human being.
I grabbed her wrist and felt for a pulse. The hospice nurse saw what I was doing, and put a stethoscope on her chest. “There’s no heart beat,” she quietly announced. Jeannie and Libby screamed out their pain… they had no words. They wailed and keened. I tried to cry, but I felt like a teenager in combat, just shell-shocked. My logical mind understood that Mom had died, but my heart couldn’t figure out what to do with that. It was too big. It was sort of like contemplating the size of the sun. Not only was it impossible to conceive of something so overwhelmingly enormous but, if I looked at it, it burned me to ash. I told myself everyone grieves differently, and not to be hard on myself, but I felt guilty and warped anyway. My sisters’ reaction seemed so much more normal. Was I broken inside? Did I love her less than they did? I didn’t think so. Was a I relieved for her, that her suffering was ended? Partly, yes. It was inevitable that this disease was going to kill her, so in some ways, honestly, it was better that she be released from her body. And, for us, the dread of her death was exhausting. Logistically, practically, everyone had to get back to day-to-day life and other responsibilities. Yet, I was losing HER. Mom, Mommy, Mooter, Meutler, Mooner, Moon-unit, Momlette, , Mither Mither on the Wall…, Maw......... Inconceivable! I should be in the fetal position, shouldn’t I?
After she died, we were all in a state of shock. It helped having the Hospice Nurse there, keeping us grounded and telling us what to do next. Jeannie insisted on bathing mom and grooming her, and dressing her in a funeral dress, even though Mom had chosen cremation. Jeannie wanted to honor our mother, and that, for her and Libby, was a way to do it. I agreed, and I announced that I was going to shave her, which was my habitual contribution to her personal care (everyone, including mom, agreed that I was the best at it). I had just finished, when Barbara Bunn, a lifelong family friend called, and I took the phone out to the seawall. Dangling my feet over the edge, I figuratively laid my head on her bosum (if such a thing can occur by telephone) and choked out my pain. By the time I returned to mom's hospital bed, my sisters had finished, and mom looked beautiful.
Every now and then, Mom visits me in my dreams. The first time she came was just a few nights after she died. I was in our kitchen at home, and she walked in. She looked plump and her hair was longer, like she wore it when she was young. "Mom! You're alive!" I cried. "Yes," she said softly and in a comforting way. "Hug me." She felt warm and I could feel her breathing. My head was at her waist, like when I was a little girl. I felt so relieved.
What did this dream signify? Did she really visit me? And tell me there is life after death, and not to worry? Or was this just a wish-fulfillment dream?
Remember in the New Testament, after Jesus's resurrection, how he asks the disciples to put their hand in his side, and feel the warmth of his flesh and blood, so they could know he was alive? That's how it felt when I hugged my mother and felt her warm, life-filled body... But did my unconscious mind just remember the Bible story?
I have other friends who say their mothers have visited them. One friend told me her mother didn't come for quite a long time after she passed away, and my friend wondered whether her mother would ever come. About 6 months after her mother died, my friend dreamed she was at a soccer game, watching her young son play, and the ball rolled into the bushes. When my friend went to retrieve it, her mother was there, back in the trees. She was wearing an elegant cocktail dress and holding a martini. A distinguished gentleman in dress-clothes accompanied her. She said, "Hello, dear! Don't worry about me; I am having a WONDERFUL time. Mr. Melanokis is entertaining me!"
My friend woke up and felt happy to know that her mother was enjoying herself, wherever she was. I just love this story. Everyone's mom should end up doing what makes her happiest, whether it's partying with a handsome Greek man or standing in her kitchen... I hope I'll end up on a tennis court, or in a dressing room on the 5th Floor at Bergdorf's trying on darling clothes that look great on me. Or skiing down a mountain in Colorado with infinite skill and grace...
My mother's best friend believes that after we die, we go to a heaven she found described in a poem. In the poem, a perfect black leopard stalks and kills a perfect rabbit; and then the rabbit just gets up and hops-- perfectly-- away.
I barely remember the rest. The funeral home came to get her, Daddy was there, someone brought over some food...
Saturday, September 20, 2008
In Support of a Liberal Arts Education
I so often hear my friends saying things like, "I told my son to get a degree in business; I want him to be able to support himself after college!" or "She's majoring in German; I don't know how she'll ever get a job!"
I, on the other hand, encourage my children to study liberal arts in college. I believe the liberal arts education prepares a person for a career in any field, and prepares him or her so well that he or she will advance more quickly than a student who has studied only one narrow field in college. A liberal arts degree, composed of courses in foreign language, literature, science, history, geography, anthropology/sociology, economics, the arts and math, teaches the student HOW TO LEARN, TO THINK AND TO COMMUNICATE. Those skills translate to any job or profession!
Reading literature (fiction)gives people perspective, empathy and understanding of others whose life experience may be dramatically different in many ways than the reader's. Writing essays teaches basic writing skills, including word choice/vocabulary, proper grammer, spelling and punctuation, and organization of thoughts and ideas. Learning a foreign language reinforces these skills and adds knowledge of other cultures. Knowledge of history permits one to understand more thoroughly the impact and meaning of current events: How did this happen? Has it ever happened before? Why? How was it handled? What was the result? What lessons can be learned? How significant is this event? How can we evaluate a person's ideas if we have nothing to compare them to? How can we find solutions if we don't know the causes of problems?
Who would argue that science helps anyone better understand how the world works, cause and effect, measurement, investigation, evaluation, resourcefulness, documentation, and statistics, among other things. Most adults don't use math beyond multiplication and division on a daily basis, but understanding logic, linear thinking, spacial perception, abstract relationships and quantification enhances one's life experience and global understanding in ways too many to describe.
In most liberal arts classes, the work consists of a great deal of reading, writing, and discussing ideas. Creativity is fostered. Giving birth to an insight or idea is immensely satisfying and having the ability to express one's self, verbally and in writing, and to communicate one's knowledge and ideas is essential to effectiveness in any chosen career. Liberal arts students get plenty of practice coming up with creative ideas and insights, presenting them, and defending them; with such repetition comes capability and confidence.
In my opinion, a business degree is the equivalent of trade school. It's simply not a broad education. I hope my children will become truly well-educated in college, and then pursue their careers or vocational training in graduate school.
I, on the other hand, encourage my children to study liberal arts in college. I believe the liberal arts education prepares a person for a career in any field, and prepares him or her so well that he or she will advance more quickly than a student who has studied only one narrow field in college. A liberal arts degree, composed of courses in foreign language, literature, science, history, geography, anthropology/sociology, economics, the arts and math, teaches the student HOW TO LEARN, TO THINK AND TO COMMUNICATE. Those skills translate to any job or profession!
Reading literature (fiction)gives people perspective, empathy and understanding of others whose life experience may be dramatically different in many ways than the reader's. Writing essays teaches basic writing skills, including word choice/vocabulary, proper grammer, spelling and punctuation, and organization of thoughts and ideas. Learning a foreign language reinforces these skills and adds knowledge of other cultures. Knowledge of history permits one to understand more thoroughly the impact and meaning of current events: How did this happen? Has it ever happened before? Why? How was it handled? What was the result? What lessons can be learned? How significant is this event? How can we evaluate a person's ideas if we have nothing to compare them to? How can we find solutions if we don't know the causes of problems?
Who would argue that science helps anyone better understand how the world works, cause and effect, measurement, investigation, evaluation, resourcefulness, documentation, and statistics, among other things. Most adults don't use math beyond multiplication and division on a daily basis, but understanding logic, linear thinking, spacial perception, abstract relationships and quantification enhances one's life experience and global understanding in ways too many to describe.
In most liberal arts classes, the work consists of a great deal of reading, writing, and discussing ideas. Creativity is fostered. Giving birth to an insight or idea is immensely satisfying and having the ability to express one's self, verbally and in writing, and to communicate one's knowledge and ideas is essential to effectiveness in any chosen career. Liberal arts students get plenty of practice coming up with creative ideas and insights, presenting them, and defending them; with such repetition comes capability and confidence.
In my opinion, a business degree is the equivalent of trade school. It's simply not a broad education. I hope my children will become truly well-educated in college, and then pursue their careers or vocational training in graduate school.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Bailouts are different from welfare... how???
Institutional greed is seriously problematic for our economy! We are bailing out institutional greed! It could have been prevented, through government regulation!
When did this happen before? 1929!!!
We need to insist that our govt establishes better regulations, which allow us to see inside! Disclosure, transparency...
And please! Don't just dismantle this regulation when it seems safe to do so. Human nature is human nature and greed is always there, under the surface!
Ask each candidate, senator, congressman, "What are you going to do so this doesn't happen again?" And vote based on the issues and the candidates' policies. Not on whether you LIKE the person, or have a gut sense of confidence in him or her.
Govt bail outs! Why is this okay, but paying taxes to help the poor is distasteful, is disagreeable, is stupid...
I am perplexed!
When did this happen before? 1929!!!
We need to insist that our govt establishes better regulations, which allow us to see inside! Disclosure, transparency...
And please! Don't just dismantle this regulation when it seems safe to do so. Human nature is human nature and greed is always there, under the surface!
Ask each candidate, senator, congressman, "What are you going to do so this doesn't happen again?" And vote based on the issues and the candidates' policies. Not on whether you LIKE the person, or have a gut sense of confidence in him or her.
Govt bail outs! Why is this okay, but paying taxes to help the poor is distasteful, is disagreeable, is stupid...
I am perplexed!
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