Little m Long a

My first time was in 1984.  I was nineteen years old, but I was confident, proud, self-assured and completely unafraid.  I had read up, done some research, talked to friends who had done it before and picked up a few pointers.  This was going to be a monumental experience in my life.  A coming of age moment.  I may have even showered.  I know I put on a clean shirt.  And I had begun a relationship with whom I felt was the perfect person.

It was all over in a matter of minutes–seconds, really.  And it didn’t hurt like some people had told me it was going to.  Yep, I was 19 years old and officially–a voter.  I’ve done it at least every four years since, you know, to keep in practice.  Keep my skills sharp as it were.  Many years I have been adamant and strongly in favor of a particular candidate.  I enjoyed getting in bed with them, so to speak.  Other times I have been totally apathetic and felt like I was just going through the motions.  I have been all over the voter map, Republican, Democrat, Independent, Green, Whig, I’ve always voted for the candidate, not the party.  You been there?

Well, this year I added a new first to my voting exploits.  A primary.  I’ve never done it.  Never seen the need to do it, until this year.  There are so many things going on in our communities, our country and in the world around us that it is becoming harder and harder to just sit back and watch things happen all the while hoping they don’t get too close to my backyard.  I can’t do that anymore.  We are ripe for a change and I felt it necessary to let someone know how I felt, what direction I would like to see our lives heading.

So, in my passive aggressive sort of way, I donned my favorite t-shirt:

Loaded up the twins and started out for the Senior Citizens Center (that’s our polling location).

And I cast my vote.

It took all of two minutes.  (One minute and thirty seconds of which involved chasing down the twins who had tackled the nice old lady handing out stickers as they yelled—TICKER!!, TICKER!! PEAS!!  I WANT TICKERS!!!)

For anyone who has read my blog, I think it is fairly obvious which way I leaned this year but if you need help figuring things out, here’s a bit of my thought processes:

1)  Although I’m not a picketer or a sign waiver (I’m passive aggressive–see above) I have written (or mailed) letters to the current officeholder that reflect my (and my kids) disapproval of the War in Iraq.  See here or here for references.  I’m done with the Right Side.

2)  Although I’m all for women in power and respect everything she has and will continue to do for this country, I’ve already got a very powerful woman in control of my life.  It would be nice to get a tad bit of a reprieve.

3)  I voted for Obama.

My sincere desire is that everyone, regardless of which way you lean, exercise your right to vote this year.  The primaries are an important part of the prelude to November.  Your voice does count.  Unless your children assault the sticker lady at the polling table and you are forever banned from the polling location.  There’s still absentee.  Get out and VOTE.

I began my nursing career believing I had been fully prepared to handle anything that could be tossed in my direction.  Oh sure, there were departmental and hospital specific procedures and idiosyncrasies that are naturally a part of the learning curve.  But I had just graduated from one of the best nursing schools in the state and very highly ranked nationally.  I had been prepped, taught by the best.  I was ready.  Or so I thought.

You see, in nursing school they teach you how to treat injuries, how to heal wounds and infections, how to administer medicines and administer care that helps people get better.  What they didn’t tell me my was that sometimes, often times, the patients don’t get better, that despite my best efforts and most earnest attempts people sometimes die.  I wasn’t ready for this.  No one is ever ready for this.  They didn’t teach me about this.  Over time you develop ways and means to deal with the harsh realities but nothing ever seems sufficient.  A part of your very soul is left with every patient that leaves you.  It hurts.  The hurt lingers.  In some ways, it never leaves.  Countless nights I have come home from a difficult shift and hugged Zoë until she said quit.  Then I hugged her more.

I’m not sure if it is because I have been there, witness to the shock in a parent’s eyes when confronted with horrific news, or if because I am parent myself five times over, but I was moved recently by a post from Dan over at All That Comes With It.  You see, Dan has helped to organize a charity walk to take place this summer, 78 miles in six days.  It’s called the Dales Walk and will cover the length of the Dales Way in Yorkshire, England.  Proceeds from the walk are to benefit The Joseph Salmon Trust, a charity set up by Dan’s good friends Neil and Rachel in memory of their son, Joseph who was just three years old when he passed away suddenly and totally unexpectedly in his sleep due to complications from a streptococcal pneumonia. 

Through their experiences with such a devastating personal experience they have organized The Joseph Salmon Trust which aims to “support parents who have lost a child by providing financial assistance to those who need it most. This may be to help with funeral costs or to allow the self employed a break from work while they come to terms with their loss. Grieving families have enough to deal with without worries about where they will find the money to say goodbye to their child or pay the next electricity bill. Nothing we can do can make their situation better, but we can do something to stop it getting worse.”

Neil and Rachel have shown strength unimaginable after enduring what I can only imagine as being the worst experience that anyone would ever have to face.  They are extraordinary people, but I suppose I should expect nothing less from anyone whom Dan should call friend.  He’s a pretty good egg himself.  Although he could probably stand to lose a kilogram or two, but then again, who couldn’t.  The walking will surely help.  So what’s my point?  What can I do to help? you are most assuredly asking yourself by now. 

Easy. 

Give……..That’s it. 

Just Give.

Support Dan on his Dale’s Walk.  All sponsorship monies paid through him go directly to The Joseph Salmon Trust.  Expenses incurred during the six day trek are completely out of pocket for Dan.  I told you he was a good egg.  What’s in it for you?  I think Dan has some buttons and that warm feeling you get inside from knowing you did something good. 
 
           

Visit All That Comes With It and click on the button to the right to donate.  You can also follow the progress of the walk on a page Dan set up called oddly enough, The Dales Walk. 

For some reason, I feel it necessary to update my readers on an earlier post.  Last month, you may remember that Zoë and Zane wrote a letter to the President of the United States.  It was a simple, childlike (they are just six and five years old respectively) yet impassioned plea for an end to the war in Iraq.  If you haven’t read the post, please take a minute to catch yourself up.  You can find it here.  Go ahead.  I’ll wait.

To date, the war in Iraq has totaled over 3,800 military deaths and by some counts upwards of 75,000 civilian casualties since the initial invasion in 2003.  Couple that with the almost untold numbers of military and civilian wounded and injured and the numbers seem unfathomable.  This war has affected every single person in this country directly or indirectly.  There are no six degrees of separation here.  Everyone I know either has a family member, neighbor, friend, or acquaintance that has in some way been involved in or affected by the war in Iraq.  It’s easy to see how a small child learning that the world can be a cruel place would be just a tad bit concerned.  Today, Zoë and Zane received a response from their letters.

“Zoë.  You got a letter today.”

“I did?!  From who?  Who’s it from?  Can I see it?  Let me see!!!”

(Zoë doesn’t get a whole lot of mail so it’s a pretty big deal to her.)

“It’s from The White House.  Do you know who lives in The White House?”

“Uhmm…(Pause, pause) (Big look of surprise)  The President!!  He got my letter?”

“Yes, he did, Zoë.  Let’s see what he said…..”

I think the easiest way to do this is to actually show you the letters that Zane and Zoë wrote.  Zane’s letter was typed but was his exact dictation.  Zoë’s letter is exactly as she wrote it, unedited.

Notice how Zoë signed her letter…. Love, Zoë.    She also can’t help but draw at least one picture on every piece of paper she touches.  Not a malicious bone in her body.  And now….the response.  (Zoë and Zane received the exact same letter.)

So after reading the letter Zoë says, “So he said yes?”

“Not so much, Zoë.  But at least we know he got your letter.”

Let us not become complacent.  Continue to lobby for a quick resolution to the war and let’s get our guys and girls safely back home.  Contact The White House with your concerns.

So I am on my way to the post office to mail a letter.  Seems pretty insignificant, right?  Well, in the grand scheme of things it probably is but I’m gonna do it anyway.  You see, I grew up in the era of the letter.  If someone wronged you in any way, send a letter. You’re not happy with the local tv station because during a commercial break of your kids favorite Winnie the Pooh cartoon they had the audacity to air a douche advertisement and now your precious tot is scarred for life?  Send a letter.  You didn’t like the way you were treated at Che Snobs?  Send a letter.  The guy at the service station, you know the one, seems familiar like you went to grade school together but can’t recall seeing him in high school. It’s because he was never there.  He spent his formative years hanging out behind the Tic Toc smoking weed laughing at all of the idiots wiling away their days slaving in the man’s schoolhouse.  Well, now he’s second in line for the next promotion to oil change guy and while dreaming of his better days to come he didn’t clean your windshield before topping off the tank in the full service line and you’re mad as hell….send a letter.  Yes, friends, the letter is powerful.  In fact, you want better service because you feel you’re about to be wronged?  Threaten to send a letter.  The mere mention of, “I’m gonna send a letter” will no doubt send any attendant scurrying into action riddled with the fear of the consequences that surely follows receipt of the letter.

Your next question is probably, and rightly so, what’s got you riled?  Why are you sending the letter and to whom are you sending it?  All good questions and I’ll answer them in due time.  But first, a bit of preface.  A few days ago Zane and I had just picked up Zoë from school and we were beginning our drive homeward. As is the norm I usually start the ride home by posing the same question, “So what did you learn in school today?”  I didn’t get the chance that day as Zoë beat me to the punch.

Dad…

Yes, Zoë. 

Did you know, that a lot of years ago..a whole lot, that there was an airplane that flew into a building?

Really?

Yeh.  And a bunch of people died……we prayed for them today.

And the clouds parted to cast a true shadow.  I hadn’t even looked at a calendar so as usual I was totally oblivious to the world going on around me.  September 11.  Wow! Has it really been six years?  Everyone has a where were you when moment.  I can still vividly recall that morning six years ago when my wife called me from work to tell me what was going on.  I spent the day tying to absorb the reality of what was happening almost in a stupor. My focus shifted from trying to find a rational explanation for myself to how in the world was I going to explain this to my daughter.  My eight month old daughter playing on the floor in front of the television totally oblivious to the horrors playing out on the screen before her.  Oh, it’s come up in conversation from time to time but somehow I’ve been able to sidestep the main issues and quickly shift the conversation to more pleasing topics like princesses or ponies or ice cream.

Our drive home was going to be very interesting.  Very interesting, indeed for we hadn’t even made it out of the parking lot and one of my great fears as a parent was becoming reality.  I was no longer able to shield my children from the fact that the world is sometimes a harsh and uninviting place.  Chinks becoming visible in the armored bubble I have been working so hard to surround them with.  I should count myself as lucky for at least I made it six years.  Some kids get a whole six minutes before having to face such pain.  I made a decision to stop avoiding and try in some small way to face the issue. Then in that ever so, what was I thinking way of mine I muttered just audibly enough, “Yeh, it was sad and terrible day.  It’s one of the main reasons we’re at war today.”

We’re at war??  Why?

Well, it’s because…umm…

OK.  So I suck at harsh reality.  I couldn’t do it.  I mumbled something else about terrorists and Iraq and oil but nothing comprehensible to a six and five year old.  Hell I’m 42 and I can’t comprehend it.  Really! How did we get in this mess?  Let’s see, we’re going to retaliate against the people responsible for the events of September 11.  That went well.  And oh, just next door there is this Iraq place and they have amassed huge quantities of weapons that they may use against us so we had better nip that little situation in the bud while we’re over there right?  Oh, no weapons?  Well, the people were just begging for us to come in there and rid them of their cruel dictator and implement our own form of democracy.  Oh, they didn’t call us for help?

Let’s just suffice it to say the kids were pretty upset and my inadequacies as a comforting father were becoming apparent. Thank God my wife was home when we arrived.  She is way more articulate than me and was able to at least give the kids some perspective. And a plan.  You see, she, too is from the letter era.  She also hails from all things bold and gutsy and suggested to my kids that if they really wanted to do something about this terrible war go to the source, the single person seemingly responsible for our current dismal situation.  They should write a letter….to the president of the United States.

I’m cynical.  I’ve never written a letter and have long stopped believing it’s power.  Maybe it’s just a sad testament to the inevitable wearing away at my belief in the system as pure and just.  I do however, believe in hope and I believe that my children should always, always have hope.  Hope that their actions do and can make a difference in the world around them.  So my kids sat down on the afternoon of September 11 and wrote a letter to the president of the United States asking him to please end this war.  Do I believe that after reading the simple pleas of a 5 and 6 year old boy and girl that Mr. Bush will call off the hounds?  No, I do not.  But my kids do.  My prayer is that one day soon, very soon our guys will be coming home for good.  And when they do, I’ll be able to say to my son, “You see, he got your letter.”

Lagniappe:  Fiction Plane–Death Machine

Go to the source. Contact the White House with your concerns.

I’m a quitter.  That’s right.  I’m the punk kid at the park who gets pissed off when he can’t kick the ball and yells, “I quit!”, grabs his ball and and stomps home.  Hell, once as a kid I can remember the exact scenario, getting home and realizing, “Man, this isn’t my ball!”

I’ve started and stopped so many home improvement projects that I’ve lost count.  My general theory is to get the project to a functioning level then move on.  I’ve got some sort of tool in just about every room in my house left over from some project or repair task I started or puttered with then just got frustrated, bored or lost interest altogether and never put away the tools.  It drives my wife nuts.

It’s not just home improvement, either.  Pick a task, any task.  I have probably, at some point, in my life started and stopped it.  Swim team?  Freshman year.  Quit.  Football?  Sophmore year.  Quit.  (In my defense, those guys were mean.  I weighed all of 113 pounds.  In pads.  And I was not that fast.  It was for my own good, really.  Someone was going to get hurt.)   Track?  Well, I stuck that out through my senior year but changed from distance to hurdles because I was afraid of the varsity distance coach.

Books?  I can’t remember the last book I finished.  Oh yeah.  The Kite Runner.  Fabulous read.  I couldn’t put it down.  But that was over two years ago and I distinctly remember stopping or neglecting altogether at least three other projects to finish it.  Those projects are still incomplete.

I have this recurring dream about quitting a class at college but I never actually officially dropped the course.  So the final exam is coming up for this class and I can’t even remember where the room is.  I can’t even remember what building the class is in or, for that matter, whether it was an English class or a Microbiology class.  It really freaks me out because I need the grade to graduate and graduation is in one week.  I know!  It’s madness!

I had a counselor tell me once that I suffered from the adult version of ADHD.  He followed that up with other words and stuff but I kind of lost interest in what he was saying as I was busy trying to decide if he actually picked the teal green/blue paint color for his walls or just inherited them when he moved into this office.

So, as you can see, there seems to be a pattern here.  I have what would seem to be a lifelong inability to complete a task.  It’s always kind of bothered me.  Kind of.  Until today.  For today marks one full year; 525,600 minutes; since I smoked my last Marlboro Light.  That’s big.  Really, really big.  Not so much so that the guys over at Phillip Morris are sending me cards saying, “Where ya been?” or, “We miss you.”  But none the less I’m pretty proud of the milestone.  Yep, I’m a quitter.  I think to celebrate the occasion I’ll pour myself a nice tall Grey Goose martini.  Oh s#*@!, I quit that last October.  Maybe I’ll just inhale deeply and exhale without coughing.