“The pencil of God has no eraser.” ~ Haitian Proverb

This morning I watched footage of a news reporter standing on top of a huge pile of rubble, listening to the desperate cries of two women trapped deep below, sadly reporting that there was no way possible to extract them…no machines, no diggers, no tools….no way at all to remove the debris to save these trapped lives.

This whole tragedy takes on a more personal note as a close friend of ours tries desperately to reach his brother who was visiting family in Haiti….the earthquake hitting only a day before he was scheduled to return home.

There have been countless images of children wandering the streets looking for their parents, children huddled beside the bodies of their parents.  Stacks of corpses are beginning to line the streets, making it difficult to even walk.  The true severity of the situation became stark as I watched Rene Preval, the President of Haiti, tell a CNN reporter that he had no idea where he was going to sleep or seek shelter because the presidential palace and all government buildings had been reduced to piles of rubble.

My love of photography always pulls me towards those images that capture the pain and strength of the human soul.  Pictures that don’t need captions or subtitles…..when the story is written on faces and reflected in their eyes.  I’m sure in the upcoming weeks, more and more tragic images will flood in….here are a few that stood out to me.

Please remember our family friend in prayer and positive thought as he continues to search for his brother.

“You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip
by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by.”

~James M. Barrie

So yesterday was my first pdoc pow-wow of the new year.  The subject of STRESS was discussed at length.  I’ve had a bellevue couple of months which I initially attributed to the holidays.  After yesterday’s meeting of the minds, it was determined that I done went and over-stimulated myself.  That’s right.  Went and worked myself up into a lather.  Specifically between the months of May and October.  The Folk School, the writing, the submitting of manuscripts, the emotional high of mind-blowing opportunities showing up on my doorstep every hour on the hour.  All of that combined with Matt’s surgery and my warped desire to have  Martha Stewart Christmas Happy Times resulted in a most undesirable forehead-vein protrusion and a mood most foul .

I stopped making New Year’s resolutions a long time ago.  I think they’re a farce.  But this year….okay, I’m not gonna call them resolutions.  We’re not agreeing to anything via a vote or anything here.  I just saying….this year I’m making a concerted effort to relax more and commit myself less.  OH yeah.  Slacker you say?  Eh?  Please.

We’ve become a jacked up society that views rest ‘n relaxation as a luxury…when in all actuality, it’s a God-given necessity.  Even the big man in the clouds had the good sense to rest instead of putting in some overtime so he could give Jesus that new robe he’d been asking for.  No.  He put the foot down and rested.

Growing up, my parents had the STUPIDEST MOST DUMB RULE ON THE PLANET OF EARTH AND SPACE.  (That’s what I called “The Rule” when I was 7 years old.)  The Rule was this:  No screwing off on Sundays and there was a mandatory nap approximately 45 minutes after the usual pot roast/carrots ‘n taters lunch.  We didn’t have a choice in the matter.  Get in the bed and I want to see those eyes closed, sister!

Nowadays if I lay down in the middle of the day to rest, I immediately begin to flog myself with the guilt-stick.  Naturally,  my ADD makes it a tad difficult to stay still.  And as odd as it sounds, I can’t really relax unless I’m working on something.  Painting, gluing….working with my hands.  So vowing to stop all of that would be like a big fat yummy stress samich.  Instead, I’m going to bring the bar down a hair.   I’ve been told I set the bar so high that God and the angels in heaven would need a compass and pygmy guide to find it.  So I guess I’ll bring it down to cloud-level.

The bottom line is this:  When I’m stressed, ain’t nobody happy.  So I plan to find time for more useless activities…and to ease up on the guilt-trippin’.  So while I was hanging out in the waiting room yesterday, I kicked things off by downloading a game onto my LG Neon:   “Brain Exercise”  by Namco.

Apparently my brain age is 60.  I’d like a do-over because my elderly fingers ain’t swift with the the new texting keyboard.  I saw this little 10 year old brat across the room smirking…looking me in the face while she texted away…her thumbs looking freakishly Hobbit-esque.  I fought back the urge to inform her that if an Atari were to magically appear, a butt-whoopin’ of monstrous dimensions would go down, followed by me doing the Rocky dance while dumping water all over my head.  Hey.  It was the pdoc waiting room.  Things like this don’t even warrant a look from the desk-lady.

So to all my chronically stressed homies out there who have minimized the Excel spreadsheet in order to read my Blog…and are feeling really crappy about their choice….I applaud you!

Slack on, people!  Slack on!

Most of my readers will remember an article I wrote back in June about my cousin, Sean, getting shot in Afghanistan and his amazing recovery.  Shortly after the shooting, his wife received a call that noone but a military wife can begin to understand.  From there, phone calls were made to family, then emails, then forwarded emails, prayer chains, special prayers, strangers with a genuine and sincere interest in Sean’s fate.

I was raised in a religious family, but denounced religion as an adult…..up until I had a near-death experience of my own.  As I lay hovering between life and death, I became acutely aware of a presence that cannot be described with words.  There wasn’t a man with a beard in flowing white garments….no angels with wings and harps.  Just a presence.  My experience pales in comparison…..actually, it can’t even BE compared to what Sean endured for this country that we sit safely in today.  A country that most of us take for granted because we’ve never stepped foot in a third world, communist or terrorist-run country.

As I said back in June….it was surreal to have a family member become a near casualty of a war that had affected OTHER families…certainly not ours.  In my mind’s eye, Sean is still a little tow-head running around in brown corduroys and fuzzy socks.  In reality, Sean is a man with a tenacious and unyielding spirit.  A man who has triumphed over malignant hate with his pneuma intact.

Yesterday, Holly Zachariah wrote an article entitled, “Carver’s Gift”,  featured on the front page of the Columbus Dispatch, telling the story of Sean’s miraculous recovery and a woodcarver by the name of Jake Jacobsen.  Jake presented Sean with a beautifully crafted, hand-carved cane…Jake’s personal contribution to those men and women wounded in Iraq and Afghanistan.

“It was about 3:30 p.m. on May 31 in Afghanistan when Sean led a line of soldiers through a village. They snaked their way to a house where a suspected terrorist was having dinner.

Sean tried to kick in the door. It didn’t open. He stepped back and kicked again.

The door gave way, and he hit a wall of gunfire.

“You know, it’s like, have you ever stood next to a big concert stereo speaker when it comes on full blast?” he said. “You can just feel this vibration, this energy pushing into you, moving you. That’s what it felt like to me. Blow after blow after blow.”

A 7.62-mm bullet from an AK-47 hit his chest — the body armor that stopped it still bears the mark — and another pinged off his helmet. A warm feeling oozing just under his waistband told him he’d been hit low, too.

“I wasn’t panicked. I thought I could make it out. I knew I could still back out, still live.”

Then, a round blew through his left wrist and forearm, the one that supported his M-4 rifle. The arm went limp; his weapon fell. And a soldier without a gun in a firefight is as good as dead.

“When I saw my arm drop, I thought of my boys. I’m going to leave them without a dad. And Sarah. My Sarah. How can I leave her?”

Then, his thoughts turned to himself: “What’s it going to be like to die? Was I good enough?”  ~ Holly Zachariah (Columbus Dispatch)

Yes, Sean….you’re “Good Enough”.  So good, in fact, that the Angels knew the world would be an emptier place without you and hand-carried you back home.

“When a resolute young fellow steps up to the great bully, the world, and takes him boldly by the beard, he is often surprised to find it comes off in his hand, and that it was only tied on to scare away the timid adventurers.”

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I have an odd fascination with the stereotypical 1950’s housewife.  If I had access to a time warp machine, I’d go back there just to see how long I’d last.  I’d give it less than 24 hours.  Those women mentally afflicted.  Getting up at least two hours before your husband so he wouldn’t see you in the bathroom slathering Preparation-H under your eyes to reduce unsightly puff.  By the time he sat down to a full breakfast of juice, milk, coffee, toast, bacon, sausage, maybe a pancake, a poached egg…..you’d be fresh as a daisy in your crinoline and pumps, lipstick perfectly applied, the right amount of perfume…not too strong…just enough to assure your husband that you still took pride in your personal hygiene.  The kids would come down, yawning, sweetly rumpled.  The lunches already packed and sitting by the front door, you’d make sure Jane’s hair bow was in place and Dicks socks matched.  You’d wave them off, shut the door and commence to cleaning your house from top to bottom….same dress, same pumps…all without sweating…..and by the time your man comes through the door at 6:00 pm, you’re sliding rack of lamb under his nose while you take his hat and coat, handing him the sports page and an after-dinner cigar. 

There’s a reason why divorce and suicide rates were low back then.  “Mother’s Little Helper”.  That’s right.  Valium and Speed.  The Speed was responsible for that insane amount of cleaning that got done in under five hours….and the Valium was to keep you from killing your husband and beating your ungrateful children.

So the question that begs to be answered is this:  What does a perfect housewife look like in 2009?

This?

Or maybe this?

“Perfect” is a stupid word anyway.  And any mother who implys that she is perfectly superior to another mother NEEDS to take a Valium so it won’t hurt so bad when they hear the truth. 

Here’s a little Housewife Humor for the divas out there ignoring the dirty dishes piled up in the sink and secretly wishing Spongebob would come take your kid hostage:

It’s taken me a few hours to simmer down enough to write this post without bad words and visible anger.  Actually, the visible anger may still be slightly evident. 

On December 21, 1988, Pan Am flight 103 blew to bits above Lockerbie, Scotland, wiping out 243 passengers and 16 crew members.  The explosion was due to a bomb crammed into a Samsonite suitcase surrounded by baby clothes, compliments of Abdelbaset Ali Mohmed Al Megrahi.  In 2001, he was convicted of 270 counts of murder and sentenced to life in prison.

He served seven years.  Seven years.  During that time he became riddled with prostate cancer, which might have just been a karmic come-back.  And now one solitary man…not a panel…not a board…but one single, solitary man makes the decision to let this maggot go home so that he can be with his family for the last three months of his life.  His release an  ”Act of Compassion”, says Scottish Justice Secretary Kenny MacAskill.

The salt on the wound was the royal treatment that Megrahi received yesterday evening as he landed on Libyean soil…greeted with a red carpet, thousands of cheering citizens, hugs from Kadafe’s son….Megrahi’s arms lifted in victory.  Where’s the fairness in this?  This isn’t justice….it’s a travesty.  It’s an insult.   A destroyer of faith. 

Where was the compassion for those innocent souls who met their death in a tragic and violent way?  Where?  They didn’t get to come home to die.  They weren’t transported in comfortable surroundings to their home-land.   They didn’t come home to celebrations and political hoo-rahs.  No.  They came home like this:

It was later determined that the captain, first office, flight engineer, a flight attendant and a number of first-class passengers were still found strapped to their seats and were most likely alive until impact.  The flight attendant was found alive by a farmer’s wife, but died before her rescuer could summon help. 

While Megrahi is now pampered at treated like royalty, his victims has their clothing torn off by tornado-force winds from the busted cock-pit.  Their bodies swelled to four times their natural size, resulting in their lung exploding.  Those who weren’t fastened down were blown out into -50 degree freezing air, their 31,000 foot fall lasting for over two minutes.  Some passengers remained  attached to the fuselage and crashed into Lockerbie still strapped in their seats.

Although the passengers would have lost consciousness through lack of oxygen, forensic examiners believe some of them might have regained consciousness as they fell toward oxygen-rich lower altitudes.  Forensic pathologist Dr William G. Eckert examined the autopsy evidence and determined that the flight crew, some of the flight attendants, and 147 other passengers survived the bomb blast and depressurization of the aircraft, and may have been alive on impact. None of these passengers showed signs of injury from the explosion itself, or from the decompression and disintegration of the aircraft.

Again I ask, MacAskill…where’s the compassion for THESE people?  Or for their families who have to get out of bed every single day, missing someone that had no right to be taken away?  And Libya…you talk smack about wanting to play nice, then go and do something like this?  Obama told them not to give him a “hero’s welcome”…..and they did.  So what do we do now?  More importantly, what does the government do now?  Shrug and say, “Eh, we told them…nothing else we can do now”?

I’m gonna tell you this RIGHT now….if they let that pimp freak Kadafe’s tent-dwelling self come over here and shack up in Central Park like he’s talking about doing….I’m going to start doubting a few things politically.

What can you say to the families of the victims after something like this?  ‘I’m sorry’ seems trite.  Compensation seems insulting.  ‘Everything happens for a reason’ sounds insane.

MacAskill’s only explanation for Megrahi’s release was so that he could be comfortable in his last days.  A gift of comfort. 

Confucius say:

“The superior man thinks always of virtue;  the common man thinks of comfort.”

Last year I picked a handful of fallen soldiers at random and listed them here, along with a brief bio.  I’ve decided to do the same this year.  I didn’t know any of the following soldiers.  They simply stood out to me as I ran through a sickening and long list of casualties.  On this Memorial Day, I honor the sacrifice of each and every life for the sake of our freedom.  I pray for comfort and peace for the families, friends and loved ones of the following men and women:

Army Sgt. 1st Class Bryan E. Hall

Hall, 32, of Elk Grove, Calif., died April 10 when his vehicle was struck by an explosive in Mosul. He is survived by his wife, Rachel, and 2-year-old daughter Addison. 

Air Force 1st Lt. Roslyn L. Schulte

  19, of Richmond, Va.; assigned to the 1st Battalion, 36th Infantry Regiment, 1st Brigade, 1st Armored Division in Friedberg, Germany; died April 2, 2006, from wounds sustained when his dismounted patrol came under enemy small arms fire during combat operations in Hit, Iraq.

25, of St. Louis; assigned to the Headquarters, Pacific Air Forces Command, Hickam Air Force Base, Hawaii; died May 20, 2009, near Kabul, Afghanistan, of wounds sustained from an improvised explosive device.

 Army Pfc. Jeremy W. Ehle

Army Pfc. Joseph R. Berlin Jr.

21, of Chelsea, Ala.; assigned to the Special Troops Battalion, 4th Infantry Division, Fort Hood, Texas; died Dec. 30, 2007, in Baghdad of injuries sustained in a non-combat-related incident.

Navy Culinary Specialist 1st Class Regina R. Clark

43, of Centralia, Wash.; deployed with Naval Construction Region Detachment 30, 2005, Naval Reserve, Port Hueneme, Calif.; temporarily assigned to II Marine Expeditionary Force (Forward); killed June 23 when a vehicle-borne improvised explosive device detonated near her convoy vehicle in Fallujah, Iraq.

Since this wretched war began, I’ve heard countless people make the comment, “It’ll take a violent tragedy for the United States Military to give veterans adequate mental health treatment.” Why in the hell does it always take an act of violence for people to start paying attention? With every single homicide, murder, suicide, etc….there have always been signs of stress and disturbance before the incident. Signs that had been over-looked or deemed inconsequential.

It’s no different with Sgt. John Russell. A military man who had given 15 years of service to the United States Army. It was mental stress that placed him in a mental health facility located within Camp Liberty in Baghdad six weeks shy of wrapping up his third tour of duty in Iraq. And it was in this clinic that five men lost their lives, not to the perils of war, but at the hand of a fellow comrade. A comrade who had obviously shown enough emotional and mental distress to be transferred to Camp Liberty by his superior officers.

The military screams in the faces of its recruits to show toughness in the face of weakness. To never show signs of fear. To never cry. To always maintain a facade of mental and physical strength. It is precisely THIS mentality that needs to be addressed. Last November, Army Secretary Pete Geren said combating the stigma of mental illness “is a challenge” throughout American society, especially in the Army “where we have a premium on strength, physically, mentally, emotionally.”

Stigma: A mark of social disgrace. And what is society? A community, nation, or broad grouping of people having common traditions, institutions, and collective activities and interests. Our society has created the very conditions that have become a cesspool for mental afflictions. We are expected to out-perform our neighbors, co-workers, friends and family. Society places a gold medal around the necks of those who live a markedly priviledged life with no sign of weakness or mental affliction, expecting the rest of society to match these standards to be deemed respectable and strong. So is our society one that has “common” traditions and “collective” activities and interests? Uh, no. We’re a society divided. Divided by prejudice, stigmas, entitlement and bias.

It seems unforgivable that the men and women who risk their lives to ensure our safety are treated the worst when it comes to healthcare and quality of life. How many times have we heard, “This war is like no other.” People are coming home…YOUNG people…kids…missing arms and legs, with major brain trauma resulting in paralysis. But aside from these obvious injuries there are ones that are just assevere and life-threatening. That being Combat Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Families across this nation are describing their husbands, wives and children returning as completely different people. People who had previously been gentle, soft-spoken and kind are coming home violent, depressed, angry and suicidal. And it’s not just one or two. It’s hundreds. I believe the official count is 1.7 million. 1.7 million people living in excrutiating, mental anguish without the proper care and treatment. Now, those 1.7 million people have families which would double, if not triple, those numbers.

I’m so sick of hearing the U.S. Military giving the same repetitive answers to these increasing tragedies stemming from PTSD. “U.S. Military to re-visit mental-care system after 5 killings.” Why not BEFORE 5 killings?! If a soldier came home with an arm injury and you neglected it, the arm would eventually fall off. Now let’s get juvenile and pretend that for every arm that was neglected, five more perfectly healthy arms suffered the same fate. If this was taking place, facilities would be shut down and doctors would be stripped of their credentials. How is Mental Healthcare any different?

According to several reports, Sgt. John Russell was showing signs of distress long before he was taken against his will to the Camp Victory facility. Could this tragedy have been prevented? It’s hard to say. But what IS known is the less-than-adequate mental support by the U.S. Military. These men and women are mentally being placed in the middle of a war with no gun or protection, figuratively speaking. Alot of these soldiers receive divorce papers and lose their families while deployed. There is virtually no type of legal or mental support for these types of occurences, which are becoming more and more frequent.

Maybe some good will come of this tragedy. We are re-writing history in so many areas, why not in the way we treat and council members of the military along with their families? If the stigma is so volatile, then why isn’t it being aggresively addressed? The U.S. Military’s number one fact of Combat PTSD is “Traumas happen to many competent, healthy, strong, good people.” Yet these traumatized soldiers receive inadequate healthcare. Things just don’t add up.

I’m always skeptical about investigations being launched after a tragedy of this magnitude. Maybe if proper education and precaution were taken, we could have avoided this type of thing altogether. I’m sure more military men and women would be more apt to seek treatment for their mental issues if they weren’t labelled as “weak” by their own.

“The day soldiers stop bringing you their problems is the day you have stopped leading them. They have either lost confidence that you can help them or concluded that you do not care. Either case is a failure of leadership.” ~Colin Powell