Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

When Push Comes To Love

I'm sad.

While I had planned on writing today, a kick off for our 13th year of Yes, Virginia efforts, a call with my mother has clouded my merriest of thoughts and jolliest of intentions. 

I have written about my father having been diagnosed with Parkinson's.  I remember every single detail of the birthday trip to Vegas three years ago when they arrived and sat my sister and I and our husbands down in the suite we had arranged for them, and tried to wrap their mouths around the words.  We tried to wrap our minds around the words.

At that point, the only visual evidence was the tremor - slight - in one of his hands.  We all held each other, comforted him, reassured my mom - and vowed that we were all in this together.  I count that day as one of the very few in which I have ever seen tears in my dad's eyes.

Parkinson's, like so many diseases that compromise neurological function, is cruel.  There is no cure, only medications to help mitigate symptoms.  And it progresses.  There is no getting better.  Like Alzheimer's it affects memory, lucidity, cognitive function.  And like Alzheimer's it is especially callous in that it can ebb and flow in those areas.  Good days, bad days, completely coherent, lose the plot, totally there, adrift somewhere else.  I have watched all of these things happening to him.  And physically he is diminishing.

It is heartbreaking.  Because when he is "there" he is all there.  And no one is more aware of his decline and descent as is he.  From the outside, I can only watch and try to support him and my Mom - a woman who is shouldering it all for this man as they have entered the "for better or for worse" portion of their vows.

A proud Irishman, he has always been larger than life, the life of the party, a man who could light up a room, who could tell a thousand jokes.  He has also always been a man who could be relied on by those in his professional life and personal life.  That's not to say he has been Mike Brady - he hasn't.  He and I have fought battles galore - some borne of generational gaps, some because we are too much alike, some simply because we are father and daughter.  At this point in my life, however, they serve to have brought us closer, afforded me the privilege of being able to say things to him others cannot, and I know he trusts me in this awful, terrible, dark place where he is trapped.

Getting them moved into a CCRC - Continuing Care Retirement Community - was huge.  It took months of effort with them, their house, the facility, etc, but they are there - they have a built in safety net.  Their community goes from independent living (where they are now) all the way up to hospice.

Today I spoke with my mom who finally came clean on some of what has been transpiring of late.  He is slipping.  Hallucinations.  Rambling, agitated.  His doctor has upped some of his meds and added an additional one to combat the newest symptom - 50% of Parkinson's patients will experience hallucinations.  The nursing staff has spoken to her about her feelings on him needing to be transferred to Memory Care.  That is crushing for her.  I know that.  And we talked through her feelings about it, and mine.  We both agree that he is not quite at that point yet, but we both know it is coming.  And that when the decision is made, he sadly, cannot be a part of it.

After our call, I texted her, "People like to say “when push comes to shove” about difficult decisions. In Dad’s case it will be “when push comes to love”  It is not a lack of love. It is an abundance of it and the burden of having to make a very hard, intensely personal decision. And it all sucks completely and is heartbreaking. But we cannot change it. We just have to manage it as it comes."

So, as I said at the beginning, I am sad.

But as I have sat here thinking about him, about what I had planned to write, the two formed a beautiful Venn diagram in my head - they do overlap.

My parents, like so many their ages, are not the most tech savvy or internet fluent.  They do, however, know all about Yes, Virginia, donate each year, and love to hear the stories about the people we help.  My Dad, James, has always loved Christmas.  He loved putting up his train platform, showering his kids with gifts, opening his home to friends and co-workers for parties.  And now, my father, biased as he is, looks at what his daughter does each year and is beamingly proud.  I always stress that his daughter could not do any of this without the open hearts of so very many people who come to this blog.  

I am honest with myself and I know that even if he is still physically here a year from now, so much of what makes him him, will not be.  My hope is that I am able to share our stories with him one last season.  To make him smile.  To make him proud.  To remind him that the good people still outnumber the bad in this world.

So through these tears falling on my keyboard, here is my first ask of season 13 - one I refuse to label as unlucky, and in my heart will be calling Yes, VirJIMia:  Please donate to our efforts.  Please send those my way who can use our help.  And please help me give my father one last round of holiday magic.

The link on the left side of the page is always open.  Paypal.com >Send Money>[email protected]  (Note:  Please choose the simple Send money person to person option, not the purchase -Send Payment - option that deducts fees from your donation.)

Yes, VirJIMia, there is a DGMS.  And when push comes to love, they are able to move mountains.

What Have We Become?

Last night, before heading to bed, I read an article that shook me to my core.  At this point in my life I should know better than to ingest news right before bed, but hey, slow learner.

The article described a rape that took place on a train.  A rape that took place in full view of other passengers.  A rape that, if reports are accurate, was recorded by some passengers.  A rape that took place because none of those passengers could be bothered to intervene.

With just those details one could be forgiven for immediately defaulting to it happening somewhere "over there" where rapes are unfortunately waaaaaaay common, where women and young girls endure atrocities daily, where rape is regularly made to be the woman's or child's fault, retribution, shame.  But no, this sexual assault took place Friday night in Philadelphia.  (On second thought, that shit takes place here every day, too.)

And not one passenger could be bothered to even dial 9-1-1 on their phone.  Surveillance video from inside the train show not only the entirety of the attack, but the indefensible behavior of every other person on that train. 

Police Superintendent Timothy Bernhardt was shocked after viewing the video. 

"It's disturbing that there were definitely people on the El and no one did anything to intervene or help this woman.  It speaks to where we are in society; I mean, who would allow something like that to take place? So it’s troubling."

Troubling.  That word is doing some heavy lifting there, Tim.  Having been raped, I cannot imagine the compounded psychic damage that woman will now live with knowing that she was being brutally violated and not a single human being in the vicinity moved to help her, to speak out. 

It was an employee of SEPTA (the train system) who finally dialed 9-1-1 and authorities managed to apprehend the man at the next stop.

The woman was taken to the hospital.  And quite frankly, her fellow passengers should be taken to hell.  Do not pass GO.  Do not collect a Pearly Gate ticket.

After troubled sleep, I woke with the equivalent of a hangover - not borne of alcohol, but of disbelief, anger, and sadness for what this says about humanity these days.  This takes "I don't want to get involved" to despicable depths.  That nowhere in the response of those people was a moment's thought of "What if that were me, my sister, my mother?"  Only a selfish "Not my circus, not my monkeys."

Call me crazy, but part of being among people, in a crowd, etc, is the feeling that should something go down, there are witnesses, helpers.  That the better angels of even the biggest bastard's nature will move him/her/them to aid.  That thought has been tumbling in my head like clothes in a dryer since last night, along with the disturbing thought, What have we become?  

I know we are divided more than ever.  I know that the chasm between vaccinated and anti-vaxxers is Grand Canyon in scope.  I know that the mere site of a red hat on a head speaks to the contents of the head and heart upon which it sits.  I know that I am immediately eyeroll-y and suspect of anyone who purports to be a Christian in their bio - far too few actually acting Christ-like these days.

But come on.  Seriously, COME ON.

I started thinking about our Yes, Virginia efforts.  About how we know that donations inevitably go to those with whom we share not a shred of political or humanitarian commonality, but we donate anyway.  This community has always been about embracing the bigger picture, the children who should not be held to account for their parents' choices, beliefs, mishaps.  I do due diligence with each person/family we help, but my queries and backgrounding do not stray into territory that would color this mission of ours.  We help because people are in need.  We help because we see ourselves in others.  We help not only because we should, but because we can. 

To say I needed some ray of light this morning is an understatement.  And lo and behold, it came from an unexpected source.

Our weekend TV viewing typically begins with international soccer.  Now, before your eyes glaze over, I ask that you stick with me here.  You don't have to love the sport to love the story I am about to tell.   

It happened in this morning's match between Tottenham Hotspurs and Newcastle in the English Premier League.  Rabid fans on both sides.  Packed stadium, cheering, points on the line.  Focused players, serious referees, managers stalking the sidelines.  A 2-1 scoreline 5 minutes before halftime.  A corner kick being set up - corner kicks being a prime scoring opportunity.

Suddenly, play stopped.  Spurs defender Sergio Reguilon made the center ref aware of a medical emergency in the stands.  And center back Eric Dier ran to the sidelines to get emergency medical crew and a defibrillator.  The game was immediately suspended so the fan could be cared for.  Halftime was called early.

The spectator was treated and taken to the hospital.  All because the village worked the way the village is supposed to work.  The societal contract was honored in its entirety.  One life was important enough to total strangers - even the highly paid, uber competitive players on the field - to stop what they were doing and intervene.

The rape enablers in Philadelphia would be wise to take note.

THAT IS KNOWING YOUR PRIORITIES.  THAT IS SEEING YOURSELF IN THE PERIL OF ANOTHER.  THAT IS COMPASSION.  THAT IS HUMANITY.  

I write often about Stepping Up and Stepping In.  The idea that privilege all too easily allows us the ease of looking down or away when someone is in need.  Allyship is that way far too often.  It is really easy to slap a rainbow flag in your newsfeed or profile picture, but true allyship means stepping in when real life threatens those for whom you purport support.  The same way that seeing someone being assaulted means you step up and step in to render aid, hell, even render distraction because as DGMSer Jacqueline wrote this morning, "If I saw something like this even beginning, there’s no way in hell I’m not getting involved. What in the actual F is wrong with every single one of these morons? If he had a weapon to use against me, he can’t be raping her. Sometimes it just takes one person to step up and the crowd follows."

We may not like each other these days, but in the end, we are all we've got.  Think about how you move through this world and how, while it may not be a thought at the fore of your mind, it is in there somewhere, the faith that your fellow man and woman would come to your aid in the public sphere.    

The holidays are coming.  Yes, Virginia is going to be ramping up again.  People are hurting.  Children are going to go without.  So allow me to channel a little Ted Lasso here - my request is simple:  Be the soccer players, not the train riders.

Let's restore some more faith in humanity.  Because we can.

The Death of Empathy

Like many these days, I find myself repeating the term "self care" on a loop in my mind.  Now into the tenth month of the year, I look back and could never have predicted what was coming when the calendar turned to 2021.

Yes, we are still mired in a pandemic, and will be for the long haul because of the rampant stupidity of so many.  That, by itself, has been a communal stressor for 20 months now.  Isolation, trying to stay healthy, aware, worried about loved ones and their health - all have taken their toll.

Tackling my parents home of 25 years - clearing it out, painting, cleaning, selling, and then cajoling, handling, and all the machinations to get them moved into a retirement facility where my father's Parkinson's now has a built in safety net.  Yes, I have three siblings, but two of them are nonexistent and the other was plunged into her own worst nightmare.

Cancer.  Watching my sister battle this insidious, equal opportunity destroyer has been crushing.  Being able to support her through chemotherapy, give her injections, to hold her hand on this horrific journey?  Well, any question I may have had about the universe planting us in Phoenix when it did evaporated.  Never have I felt more in the right place at the right time - for her and my parents.

That all being said, once we rang the bells signaling the end of her 16 rounds of infusions; once I injected her for the last time - everything inside me kind of collapsed.  (She still has six weeks of radiation in her future, but for now she is in the "wash out" period where they leave her body alone.)  To use my husband's favorite analogy - "You can carry a hot plate just as far as you need to." - I had carried it as far as I needed to and let it crash to the ground. 

Ergo, my radio silence the past three weeks.

Stepping past the shards of that hot plate, I grabbed the words "self care" like a flotation device.  I drove to Texas to see two of my kids.  I got to hug Kendall and Daniel - newly engaged - and love on their new kitten and her beautiful engagement ring.  In Austin, I had the honor of signing the marriage license of Culley and Sean - their wedding plans having been changed five times because of COVID and they just wanted it done.  My signature as an ordained reverend (go ahead, laugh) made it official and we are all looking forward to a family ceremony/celebration in November.

Seeing my kids is always balm for whatever aches and pains my heart may be experiencing.  Coming back, I began reinvesting in myself - working out, eating better, sleeping more, and just being with Rudy.  Yes, I thought about writing many times, but I just needed a break from this, too.  A break from being angry, from pleading, from ranting about deaths that never should have happened.

But this morning I clicked on a Washington Post article, and, well, here I am.  Angry, ranty, ragey - and it needs to come out.  For me, I guess this keyboard is also a form of self-care after all.  Even after all we have seen the past six years, I am still blown away by how absolutely STUPID are so many of our fellow travelers.

The article was a heartbreaking (for the medical staff) story of 48 hours invested in trying to find an ICU bed for a critically ill COVID patient who had developed a life threatening abdominal hematoma.  A 69 year old man and his wife became sick in late July, him more so than her.  Neither were vaccinated because they did not trust the shot and never went anywhere except church.

Let's take that part for a moment - church is SOMEWHERE.  And in their piece of Oklahoma - Stillwater - only 35% were vaccinated when the man fell ill.  

So once the community hospital ER found his oxygen dangerously low he was whisked upstairs to intensive care.  Day after day his condition worsened, he grew more desperate and frightened, once ripping out his tubes.  Roughly two weeks into his COVID stay, a nurse discovered a mushy spot in his abdomen - it turned out to be a deadly complication - a hematoma.  He was bleeding inside his abdominal muscles and needed lifesaving treatment.  And so the clock began ticking.

For 48 hours the hospital staff tried everything they could to find him a bed at a neighboring higher level hospital, expanding their search to neighboring states as one after another reported zero beds available.  There simply were none to be found because they were filled with people just like him and his wife who had embraced bullshit and refused to be vaccinated.  

In a move that would even surprise Sarah Palin, these anti-vaxxing, conspiracy embracing, ivermectin ingesting, iodine nebulizing cultists have become their own death panels - sentencing themselves to death in the vicious circle of their idiocy.  In far too many places, ICU beds only become available when COVID easily snatches yet another life sacrificed on the altar of their willful ignorance.

The man in the article went downhill rapidly as his abdomen swelled with blood - to volley ball size.  He was put on a ventilator.  He was being pumped with medications.  His family was told it was only a matter of time, that there simply was no room at any hospital that could have performed the surgery necessary.

Another note - not all hospitals are created equal.  Your little community hospital may be perfectly equipped to handle your child's fall, a non-life threatening car accident, or an outpatient procedure, but they are not staffed or equipped to handle the multitude of traumas, complications, and life threatening scenarios that are part and parcel of the human condition.  Yet another reason why rolling the COVID dice and laughing at the available vaccines is just fucking foolish.   

On August 8th, the man died.  And he did not have to.  Sure, COVID could have still stolen him on its own, but because of COVID easily dining at the buffet of human arrogance in this country, he had no chance, because 40 hospitals in four states had no beds.

I can almost, almost feel sad for his family having to helplessly watch as he internally bled to death, knowing it did not have to be fatal.   But then, there's this...

The wife, weeks later, still mired in her grief, still shocked at how her husband died said this, “I just have so many questions about the shot.  I don’t know if I’m persuaded. I guess you want to say I don’t believe in it.”

I. DON'T. BELIEVE. IN. IT.

You foolish, feckless dimwit.  You watched as your husband struggled for oxygen.  You sat at his bedside amid monitors, and IV drips, and a wall of medical devices all dedicated to keeping him alive.  You saw the staff devastated as hospital after hospital told them NO, yet they kept calling, networking, desperately trying to find an open bed for your husband.  You saw the toll it took on them as they invested themselves in his survival.  You watched him die, fully aware of why he was there in the first place, and why they could not find him a bed in another higher level hospital - COVID.

And all you can offer from your head filled with straw is I don't believe in it.

Congrats, lady.  You are the reason this pandemic blazes on.  You are the reason beds continue to become available only when another equally ignorant soul dies from COVID.  You are the reason the ages of the people in those beds is younger and younger.  And you are the reason that people like me have given up on giving a shit about people like you anymore.  

I am done trying to reason with you.  I am done caring more about you than you care about yourself.  I am over articles that tell us we need to try to better understand you.  I am nothing but a seething mass of anger as you and your ignorant cronies pack school board meetings and threaten those who are trying to protect our youngest.

We understand you.  Jumpin' Jesus on a pogo stick, do we understand you.  We understand you are selfish pricks.  We understand that you are self involved, self important, deluded, not intellectually curious, and too stupid to know how stupid you are.  We understand that you feel no obligation to society to work together.  And we understand that our lives are being held hostage by you and your crackbrained cohort.  You act like pants shitting toddlers over being asked to help out, to step up, to be part of the solution, to simply wear a piece of fabric over your fetid maws, to get vaccinated like you have been vaccinated repeatedly in your lives. 

Now here's what you need to understand.

COVID is real.  And it does not care whether you believe that or not.  It does not need your approval, your admitting it exists, or your permission.  It only needs your unmasked face, your unvaccinated body.  That's all.  And you don't need to be licking doorknobs to contract it.  Its teensy aerosolized droplets can find your nose with ease.

You need to understand that another 86,217 people have tested positive in the past 24 hours.  That another 2,032 people have died (Yea! Open beds!)  And that 1 out of every 445 people in this country have now died because of this virus.

You need to understand that you are not viewed as patriots, but as crybabies.  You are not great thinkers, you are nonthinkers.  Your Facebook group has not stumbled upon the answer in a Reddit thread.  You need to understand that your "Don't tell me what to do!" stance is murderous.  Literally.

And you need to understand that should you contract COVID and find your oxygen levels plummeting to meet your IQ, you may well die because hospitals are filled with irresponsible, fatuous fools just like you who don't trust science.  Until you need it, that is.

You've killed more than your neighbors, your parents, your friends, innocent people in the check out line in this pandemic.  You've killed empathy.  Because it is impossible to feel sorry for a damned fool who plays Russian Roulette with a deadly virus and is then shocked when the bullet leaves the chamber.