The poor you have always with you

   When resurrecting my blog, some condensation occurred. True, some articles fit together more aptly than others but it seemed worth putting these particular 'eggs' in the same basket. The running theme, when one has been determined, is used as the title for the now-composite blog. (jbd, 2019)

*

   Christian Scriptures tell us that Jesus said, "The poor you have always with you." Apparently, some consider that a reason to not aid the unfortunate; lest they go against the word of God. My outlook holds it to be a challenge issued: to see if those of us who have been blessed with more, would share with those who have not.
   While I'm on my soapbox, don't tell me the economy is doing great, while there are people working two and three jobs, in an effort to keep body and soul together. Unless/until there is a burgeoning middle class, "the numbers" [usually stock market] don't mean diddly-damned-squat. I mean really: while there are people going to bed hungry and/or without access to potable water, nobody should be a billionaire. Criminy, it's no damned wonder that Jesus wept.

*****

   Mid Twentieth Century, when I was a child, the planet's entire population scarcely numbered three and a half billion. It has now more than doubled; heading towards triple.  I seem to recall a statistic from my grade school years, that the population of the United States of America was 200 million. A lot has changed since then: I have dwelt on this earth for over six decades, and the population continues to grow at an alarming rate. In spite of this, women are often compelled to have babies they either don't want or can ill afford.
   Not so very long ago, a former classmate had posted a meme on Facebook, saying the 85 richest people in the world, had more wealth than the poorest three-point-five billion people, combined. Do you realize how many zeroes that includes? Eighty-five individuals to three and a half billion!
   In the comments following the meme, one of my friend's acquaintances wondered what caused such disparity, to which my response was, "Politics/greed, mainly." Apparently, that touched a nerve in another contact, who felt the need to take me to task, saying, "Don't jump to condemn, disdain or assume that rich people are corrupt in some way simply because they're wealthy. Some might be but at the same time, many others most likely are not. Wealth envy is also a form of greed, you know. Remember Jesus' parable of the responsible steward." My first inclination was to blow it off or, at most, comment in a Facebook status update. Talking it over with my roommate, [this was probably 2012, during my first couple years back in Michigan] who supported my statement of inequity being a result of greed and politics, it seemed worthy of a blog post. Greed is expressed in many ways, not least of which is being able to hide money in off-shore accounts, to avoid taxes. That did not used to be the case in the United States, outside of the criminal element. Unfortunately, grand-scale greed has been deemed respectable, and therefor suitably rewarded. Anyway, I had neither condemned, disdained, nor made any assumptions regarding anyone's level of corruption. Also, seemingly contrary to this person's own assumptions, there is no envy of the wealthy, lurking in my heart. But if being rich isn't a crime, (and in my humble opinion, more often than not, it is) why is being poor treated as one?

***

(Eyes, planks, and Myanmar)
              
   It has been said [and variously attributed], "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." One can only hope to be so fortunate as to catch a glimpse of that justice in one's lifetime. There are also sundry proverbs and adages which assure "What goes around, comes around." Maybe; don't hold your breath.

*

   Not so very long ago, maybe 2018, someone posted a tweet extolling Myanmar as a wonderful place for a retreat. This someone was then chastised for promoting tourism in a region where genocide is committed. The laudable lives side by side with the reprehensible, throughout the world. Natural beauty, or immense wealth, across the street from a village whose residents are starving as a result of human-generated famine. It is nothing new.
   Can't you just hear the furor, should visitors be discouraged from coming to the United States?

Prominent Tourist: I had a wonderful time in United States; there are wonderful places to visit. Everyone should come.

Global Public Media Source: Are you insane? Look at what they are doing to those poor bedraggled asylum seekers. Their law enforcement personnel are really just a bunch of thugs, who prey on persons of color. Plus, the citizenry is gun-crazy: you could get shot.

   Trust me, Individual One's digits would be worn to a frazzle, during the ensuing tweet storm. He probably would have trouble picking a target for the first burst of outrage. He sees the 'speck' in his brother's eye, but not the 'plank' in his own. (A reference to New Testament [Christian Bible] passage: Gospel of Matthew, Chapter Seven, Verses three through five.)
   It is advisable to clean up one's own mess, before calling attention to some other party's situation. Excuse me: that is the way of "accountable" people - those who rely on distraction and deception, employ less forthright tactics.
   In my frustration, I will resort to my fall-back position and try to treat encountered individuals with kindness. It usually works. But just for a moment, allow me to digress, returning to a certain set of thumbs. With a number of elderly people running for office of U.S. President, I wondered if a thumb-wrestling contest might be more entertaining than a debate, then figured 45 would have an unfair advantage. 

*

(Fruit of the poisoned vine)

    All relationships are fraught with potential dangers. When a toxic personality is added to the mix, run for your life. Seriously. Run - with all due haste. Toxicity can take varied forms and come in a variety of strengths and guises. Whether or not humans are made "in the image and likeness of God," once that product "rolls off the assembly line" anything can - and usually does - happen. People do not live in total isolation - not even hermits. Experiences gained through contact and interaction shape one's psyche.
   There are many disorders which can distort a personality. Since people live in communities, distortions are not contained within the affected self but leach into surrounding persons and situations. If a person contracts a deadly and highly contagious disease, that individual is placed in quarantine. The penal equivalent of quarantine is solitary confinement. Alternatives to those two extreme solutions can include restraining orders, divorce, even "unfriending" on Facebook. It isn't always so simple - not to diminish the accompanying trauma of even the least of these actions.
   If you have ever been in any relationship in which abuse was a factor you are likely aware that knowing the need to get out and actually leaving can be miles apart, as it were. Whatever actions are or are not taken will affect the lives not only of the immediately concerned individuals but also their satellite people. And not just current generation, but progeny. One recalls the John Donne (1572-1631) quotation "No man is an island."
   There are persons who have chosen to break the cycle, by remaining childless. Others have taken a less drastic path, instead changing parenting tactics. Both courses of action require tremendous inner strength - not only from the central character but supporting cast of friends/relatives. If you are in any role of an unfolding drama, I applaud you - and wish you a successful run.
   Whatever choice a person makes, is determined by a variety of influencing factors; some are chosen by a given participant, others are dictated by society at large or an individual's societal circumstances.

   By 2050, it is projected there will be 1.5 billion people over age sixty-five. I recently heard of a program to use "grandmothers" to help people overcome depression. We need to help each other; in so doing, we help ourselves. In this scenario, older persons [hopefully, there are also participant "grandfathers"] get to feel useful and impart the wisdom of life experience, while younger folks get the undivided attention of someone who has been in a situation similar to their own. Presumably, there is a commensurate pay scale but it is probably less than that of a medical professional. So far, I have not heard of doctors claiming the elderly are stealing their jobs; goodness knows, there will always be a place for practitioners of healthcare professions. No one need be left out of helping others: it begins with kindness.

As we remember ...

'Unknown' soldier finds place in the Heart (of Texas)

   Remember the story of Eleanor Rigby? According to the Beatles' song, she "died... and was buried, along with her name. Nobody came."
   Such was nearly the fate of a gentleman who quietly passed away during the month of October. (I do not recall the year with certainty but know it was within first decade of Twenty-First Century.) Given the global population is fast approaching ten billion, people live and die anonymously every day.

    This man, estranged from his son, had no other known family, not many acquaintances, and fewer friends. His part-time caregiver had power-of-attorney; she and those who transported him to and from medical appointments probably knew him as well as anybody.

    Though loath to speak ill of the dead, it seems evident the man lacked even rudimentary social graces.
    His health status had declined to the point he faced the certainty of spending his remaining days in the nursing home. His little dog was placed with a family known to his caregiver and Mr. S. was taken to the Brady West [nursing home] facility.

    He really didn't want to go and apparently had no intention of staying: he died that same evening. 

    Events proceeded rapidly - there were no funds to embalm him, so he would have to be interred within 24 hours. It was thought a pauper's grave would be his final resting place but, going through his papers, his attendant found documentation of United States military service. There is a section of Rest Haven Cemetery (on Hwy 87, in Brady, Texas) set aside for McCulloch County (Texas) veterans who die impoverished. City of Brady workers dug a grave.

      With some hastily made phone calls, a small funeral cortege was assembled. This included a preacher, the caregiver and her husband, one or two veterans and their wives. Also standing in attendance were a couple members of Brady City Council, as well as the funeral home workers who had delivered the body. Two women brought flowers from their yards.

      Those gathered offered the solemn dignity which all God's children deserve. A few words were spoken, a short silence observed, then there was a quiet dispersal as the grave was closed. A small flag was placed as a temporary marker.

It had seemed a pauper's grave was all that was in view.

He got flowers and a flag; as a vet'ran, 'twas his due.

________

   It has been more than a decade since a member of the writing group I attended, related this incident and asked if I could write it up for the Brady Standard-Herald, where I worked as proofreader and occasional columnist. The couplet used to close, was my contribution to a dead soldier's memory. The woman who told me about this was one of the city council members in attendance and she also brought flowers. She died earlier this year.

The Shield

   On harsh winter evenings, people while away time as best they are able. Confined by the weather, some read, listen to music or find some other means to amuse themselves. I like to write.
   A drawing I had seen spoke to me - in a voice so nearly audible it could have been disconcerting, had I not understood how my mind works. It looked like anime background, and the visual, not to mention that persistent Voice, prompted me to write a story. When Muse speaks, we mortals had best heed the Voice.

  ***

   Sometimes one wakes, surprised by the surroundings amidst which one finds oneself. Nat'varen Dushja had gone through life in a mostly somnolent state, interrupted by stages of full consciousness. It seemed Fate had conspired with denizens of the underworld to surround Nat with oppressive spirits. Like others, he "went through the motions," not only because his sense of honor and duty demanded it, but because he simply knew no other way. "Normal" is rigidly defined by one's culture and one's experiences therein. Thankfully, a brave few break the confines, expanding the definitions, making them more fluid. Though they may initially be ridiculed, eventually, they are perceived as visionaries and pioneers.

   Many have spent years, whole lifetimes in some cases, in this state of semi-wakefulness. Wizards invent and market potions, some which could more accurately be called poisons, and hawk them shamelessly, often needlessly, to unwary persons. Charlatans develop programs to bend the psyche. Not to say all of those who worked to alter chemical or mental balances do so out of greed, but many are dissuaded from the path of altruism by the lure of riches.

   It was well Nat had been blessed with an inner strength that accorded endurance, but he also had a valiant champion, a guardian. She had hovered, unbeknownst to him, outside his immediate sphere, until their paths were destined, eventually, to cross.

   Beryl Zagovornik was a Golden Dragon who had, during her middle years, attained the rank of Protector. Initial awareness of Nat'varen was superficial, and had come through a third party. Her first encounter with Dushja had been established in of a shared dream. Although Nat, not used to dreaming, chalked it up to "something he'd eaten," Beryl had recognized the portent's significance, having been a member of the Protectorate for eons. Her perceptiveness and empathy had garnered her comrades' high regard. Her empathy, however, had cost her dearly, leaving her decidedly more vulnerable than in her youth. Ironically, it was her vulnerability which was the source of her greatest strength. It was also undeniable that she was growing weak: Nat'varen Dushja may well be her last case. Whether or not the mission were completed, for that responsibility rested ultimately with him, when she had fulfilled her role, she would return to her home world. There, Beryl would live out her years among those who knew her best, until she either left this plane of existence and returned to the cosmos, or she were once more summoned to an extraordinary case that demanded her special talents.

   During moments of introspection, Beryl experienced doubt: were her talents really anything special, did she really serve a purpose, or was she just an aging dragon with a penchant for intervening in the lives of others? Was she deluding herself that those lives she had touched were better for the interaction? She felt certain her own life had been enriched and could only hope others felt similarly.

   Guardian spirits take various forms, according to the world of their origin. Some but not all, can take on the likeness of the species to whom they are assigned. Harking from a small orb in Drakonski Nebula, Beryl was a lovely dragon, whose golden scales glimmered with a warm, rosy glow, like burnished copper in firelight. Many of her kinfolk lived off-world, due to crowding: small planets have difficulty supporting and sustaining great numbers of large inhabitants. Beryl used to regret her inability to shape-shift, but over the course of millennia, one comes to self-acceptance and she saw not only the beauty but the practicality of her form, even taking into account her flaws and foibles.

   The dream wherein Beryl met Nat held a world, forbidding, foreboding, cold and dangerous, yet strangely beautiful, if not comforting, in its chill cleanness. There was uncertainty, which is a given. Crossing treacherous icy terrain, required a great deal of focus and skill not to trip. A misstep could spell disaster, if not death. And though the phrase was often bandied about in a trifling manner, surviving such an error in judgement may well prove a fate worse than death: death brought an end to an individual's misery, while struggling to come back from poor timing and other mistakes often proved more troublesome.

   Throughout her life, Beryl had given of herself, wanting to help others enjoy life. She felt how many were gladdened by her presence, her influence in their lives and it gave her immense joy. Sadly, there were those who reached a point where they saw her not as a helper, but an opponent. Those beings were no longer inspired but intimidated and though they blamed Beryl, what intimidated them were their own insecurities.

   As a protector, one tried to gauge how much influence to use in a particular case, how involved to become. Mortal beings, whether dragon, dog, human or amoeba, are subject to design flaws - rendering life a guessing game, even on the best of days, under the most favorable conditions. One did the best one could with the subject and information at hand, hoping Immortal Beings would be pleased, or at least amused and inclined to be generous.

   There had been a handful of cases in which Beryl had crossed physical lines of interaction. Dragons did not play by the same rules as some professions and there had been no judgement of impropriety levied, no chastisement for "immoral conduct." Those encounters had made her cautious, wary, hesitant to become involved with another human - which was exactly the reason she found Nat'varen Dushja so perplexing!

   The coldness of that dream world was only too real for her, physically and emotionally. Yet she saw Nat's struggles and despite her better judgement, her dragon heart was touched. Furthermore, her mind was intrigued by the intellectual complexity she sensed.

   Could she confer some of her dragon-ness, and if she could, would Nat comprehend? Never before had she dared consider the possibility, much less contemplate putting it in motion. "Don't be a fool!" her mind screamed at her, or rather, Don't be a bigger fool than you've already been. Beryl chided herself, knowing it was coming to terms with her own mortality that made her desperate to make a difference. She saw so much promise in Nat, so much potential. She just wanted to be part of it!

   Self-preservation demanded a return to the homeland forthwith, but was quelled by the desire to reach just a little further, just this once. It may yet prove fatal, but Beryl would use the dragon-fire in her heart to thaw part of the frozen wasteland and nurture a life nearly as spent as her own.

   No regrets and no looking back, Beryl would do all within her dragonhood to help Nat'varen Dushja conquer his foes, be they without or within. If he triumphed, she would rejoice, should he stumble, she would try to help him regain his footing.

   Protectors are strong and steadfast and while there was breath in her dragon body, Beryl would stand by Nat, until relieved of her post, dismissed by her charge or overcome by forces beyond control.

   Stand strong, Nat'varen Dushja, you are called to boldness! Grasp the weapons made available to you and master your world!

MAPPS show the way

12 October, 2019
   The United States is seems always in the throes of schemes (AKA "campaigns") to place a candidate in the White House. There are all sorts of promises to "Make America Great Again" - which probably do not amount to the proverbial hill of beans. Military strength and economic standing seem to be the focus of both media attention and financial backers.
   Positive impact of exposure to music, drama and other non-athletic programs have been recognized. Yet it seems electives in these fields are always the first to be sacrificed when any budget cutting is implemented.
   Raised in middle-class America during the second half of Twentieth Century, I have been fortunate: the cartoons I watched featured soundtracks of classical music. Television shows often had theme songs with [more or less] sensible lyrics and, in the old movies I watched on a black-and-white TV set, even the thugs had a reasonable semblance of manners.
   Talking with my youngest sibling once, she suggested I write about a school program she has proposed calling MAPPS: Music, Arts, Penmanship, Prosthetics Support. Having already alluded to the importance of music and art, I would like now to dwell on the two "P"s.
   Penmanship is again being taught in United States schools after having been deemed  obsolete, for a period. It makes me sad that some were denied this enrichment. Of the handful of individuals with whom I am in regular correspondence, fewer than half reply in cursive. The ones who do are in the "over 55" age range. Some older people stop writing as their hands start to shake with infirmity of age, but I have seen the script of nonagenarians, which is well-shaped and legible, if slightly wavering. We seem to be in such a hurry. But really, what's the rush? Unless one is allergic, shouldn't one take time to *stop and smell the flowers*?
   Prosthetic devices are becoming increasingly visible among the general population. The manufacture of these items is, I would surmise, a billion-dollar industry. All too often need gives way to greed, and a person is denied something which would enable them to become a productive member of the community because they simply cannot afford it. In an age when 3-D printers can crank out a foot for a duck, why is any person forced to use a stick, padded with a wad of rags? Where are our priorities?
   Awareness of prevailing conditions is a start. From there, we must think, learn, and do - each according to our abilities. My sister believes in my ability to communicate and hopes my "putting it out there" will make a difference. I hope so too.
   Candidates for office should be required to spend as much promoting arts education as on their campaign. That might be a way to limit the mega-bucks spent by special interest groups. As it stands now, we are failing not only present and future generations, we are dishonoring past generations.
   Everything seems to be about the bottom line, which in this case, I suppose, is: Do we really want to be great or do we just wanna have the most guns and 'win the most games'? who are we really, and does it even matter?

Stop the war now!

30 September, 2019

   War has nothing to recommend it. Oh sure, some people speak of the ways war is a boost to economy. One who takes time to notice telling details, will likely find those who tout economic advantages of these deadly conflicts, have little or no actual "skin in the game."

*

   Daily, one becomes aware of individuals who are at grave risk from the ravages of disease. Some are refugees from war-torn countries; some are seeking political asylum; some are the working poor. United States "middle class" seems in danger of disappearing, leaving ultra wealthy individuals and the very poor. It has been pointed out that being rich is not a crime. I believe unless a person uses wealth to better the lives of others, perhaps it should be. Undoubtedly, some will say mine is a "sour grapes" attitude but I assure you, it is not. My wants and needs are simple and I live well, within my means. I do think my lifestyle should be a universal minimum standard. I have no problem with some being extremely well-to-do: just so long as no one is so poor they do not have the veritable pot to piss in. It may just be my opinion but I don't think a "war on poverty" is supposed to eliminate it buy killing off poor people.
   Some argue the wealthy may spend as they see fit, because it is their money. Is it really? Unless wealth was earned solely by one's own physical labor, someone else contributed to it and should rightly be given due recompense. CEOs whose salaries exceed the earnings of company workers - by several hundred times are, not to put too fine a point on it, crooks. There are companies that often do not pay workers a living wage: said workers must work multiple jobs and/or apply for assistance.
   To add insult to injury, United States legislators are implementing/seeking ways to make the process more difficult and re-evaluating participants, to force "able-bodied" people to work a minimum of twenty hours per week. (This may also be happening in other countries besides U.S.) Ostensibly, this is being done to reduce the number of recipients and weed out "welfare queens." These boneheads just don't get it: with few exceptions, those who can work are already working - most of them much harder than many of these glorified bean counters ever even thought about working.
   Privilege messes up priorities: people who have always had  life easy, often think less fortunate individuals are "slackers." Money can also affect memory to a point at which the "nouveau riche" forget obstacles which impeded them. We as individuals need to live our own lives to the best of our abilities. We should also, as society, make it a priority to help disadvantaged individuals recognize their full potentials.
   You may think this blog's title has nothing to do with its content. Too often, war is glorified, to stir up fervor for warmongers' selfish desires. Language also exhibits way too much militarism, in further misguided glorification. Feelings of "patriotism" are being co-opted into nationalism. Residents of countries that have taken in refugees, now grumble that their national identity is being destroyed. When cultures meet, they should find ways to blend, instead of clash.
   We need to open our hearts and minds to change, instead of being bound up in isolationism. Rigidity leads to breakage, whereas flexibility is the way to attain enduring strength. Do not be afraid of change: welcome it as a means of renewed and increased potential. Give peace a chance.

When Love leaves

Fourth Quarter 2019
Dear One,
   Autumnal equinox has come to the region in which I dwell, and I have been answering several missives. Sometimes I need to refer back to previous letters, to form adequate responses and apply context. A most thought-provoking query has come my way: What do we do when God leaves? [And how do we know? - this is my own question; not put forth by asker of first query.]
   Verily, I had not pondered this supposition, ere now. Church leaders insist God never leaves, insisting that if we feel bereft, the "fault" is within us. Having known love to dissipate, seemingly of its own volition, my friend and I challenged that stance and discussed it at length.
   Those brought up "churched," are taught God is Love. There are many forms and fashions, designating kinds of love: parental love nurtures a child; filial love is accorded members of one's family [biological or chosen]; erotic love is that shared with one's partner; and agápi is selfless love. Obviously there are nuances and shadings which individuals grow into, throughout life experiences. If we hold that God is Love, must we not also see Sacred in Truth; Light; and Creativity: for do not those forces also come from/embody Love?
   I began to wonder if maybe we humans put too much onus on our deities - Supreme or otherwise. If one is inclined to ascribe power to a supernatural entity, one likely expects said entity to be around when needed. When it begins to feel that God has gone away, one understandably feels betrayed and abandoned, particularly if it seems Almighty has just lost interest. I once phrased this sentiment thus: "It seems God should always be there, unless we *declare emancipation;* like when kids divorce their parents. Or maybe like a semi-neglected spouse. You know - when there's no more 'magic' but there's no call for divorce either."
   Perhaps believers do Sacred a disservice, holding God to impossible standards. After all, does not even Creator of All That Is, deserve the occasional "bad hair" day? Who among us knows how perturbed and frustrated a Being can become, during Time without beginning or end?
   My own prayer life bears little to no resemblance to its former self, which is not the impediment some may suppose. My attempts to be a better person are no longer motivated by hopes of meriting placement in some unseen Kingdom; merely by a desire to be and to do, good. If ever a deity were 'there,' It will continue to be so, despite any action or inaction on my part. Anyway, I have for years held the belief that the further humans drifted from revering Goddess,the worse off the species became. What else lies behind the mania to subjugate women and deny their human rights/body autonomy?
   Do you ever question the validity of [the] Three Ohs: omnipotence; omniscience; and omnipresence? Even if God's own self is not a man-made construct, surely the concept [of God] most assuredly is. Personally, I believe part of the problem can be laid squarely at the door of western culture, which deals so much in black and white, when most things are shades of gray. Westerners deny themselves the charms and comforts of mysticism: either something can be proved beyond shadow of doubt or it is dismissed as "smoke and mirrors." What a miserable excuse for a life.
   If one but gives one's heart and mind a bit of creative space, one finds oneself thinking elevated thoughts. Perhaps one will write New Be-Attitudes: Blessed are the inconvenient, for they shall raise awareness; Blessed are those deemed "insignificant," they too have meaning; Blessed are the weirdos, for we shall persevere - and one day, lead the lost. This last brings to mind climate activist Greta Thunberg. Some likely deem her "weird," as the young woman acknowledges she has Asperger syndrome. Greta is undeniably a force to be reckoned with and as such, may well deliver us from ourselves. At the very least, she will help show the way.
   If you are one who believes in God, I hope you are able to "keep the faith," even if you *lose your religion;* faith is, by far, the better of the two.

The straight poop

   The incident of myocardial infarction which affected my life, occurred 6 September, 2010.
An infarction is defined thus: obstruction of the blood supply to an organ or region of tissue, typically by a thrombus or embolus, causing local death of the tissue.
   Maybe it's just me, but did you notice similarity between the words "infarction" and "infraction"?  Latter is approximately synonymous with "misbehaving." So, in other words, my heart muscle misbehaved.
   Time adds perspective to life events. Now that it has been a while since my coronary incident, I thought I'd share the experience. May you find it informative and amusing.

*****

Shannon Medical Center: San Angelo, TX
7-14 September, 2010

"Going undercover" generally implies an element of intrigue, a degree of danger, a hint of romance. Well, there was definitely a degree of danger - hence the phrase "serious as a heart attack."    Now if you don't like a movie, a play or a meal, you can walk out and go someplace else and that's that. Anyway, while there are movie critics, theater critics and food critics, where are you going to find an unbiased hospital critic? Do hospitals solicit big name patients with exotic illnesses or conditions and offer discount treatment for a good review? Actually, I have been informed that big city hospitals do, in fact, solicit celebrity patients. But it's not like people wander in off the street and say, "I think I'll have the heart catheterization: Do you have a particularly recommended surgeon?" *    As an aspiring journalist, it behooves me to recognize the story potential of whatever circumstances I find myself encountering. This is the story of my inadvertent stay at a top notch medical care facility.    It began 6 September, 2010, while walking Baby, my neighbor's overweight dachshund. After making the block, I was pretty well winded and felt like a cylinder the diameter of my forearm was running from between my shoulder blades to my sternum. Reclining on my friend's sofa, I experienced pain so intense it nearly brought me to tears.    That afternoon, a certified ECA (Emergency Care Attendant) advised me to seek immediate medical attention. The stubborn need to proceed at my own pace [plus just not having an appetite for the condescension of some medical personnel] caused an 18 hour delay in following his advice. Plus, I was loathe to be chastised for my weight and not taking my meds. (If a fat person walked into a doctor's office, carrying a severed limb, the first question would undoubtedly be, "What are you doing to lose weight?")    Tuesday morning, I called a friend who had to come into town for work, so she could take me to the Heart of Texas Memorial Hospital, Brady, Texas. On the way, a call was placed to my pastor. Upon my arrival, Lyndy, the ebullient desk nurse, was taken aback: she didn't get a whole lot of heart attack walk-ins.    Applying the cuff, she "clocked" my blood pressure at 226/186, which is pretty much the medical equivalent of blowing through a school zone at 80 mph.    I recall an IV being started. Thankfully it wasn't "curtains" though it was definitely, "Goodnight, Nurse."  A groggy state of consciousness was reached around 1:30 p.m. I remember eating a sandwich and  making a passing comment to my nurse about Jesus "reclining at table." Later a friend helped me fill out the menu for the next two meals. She advised the roast pork for supper and it was very tasty.    Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I was attended by Ronnie, Tammie, Brenda, Bertha and other dedicated care givers on Shannon's staff. I saw a couple people I recognized, including His Grace, Bishop Michael Pfieffer, OMI.    Thursday evening, being deemed stable enough to move, I was transferred to a room on the fourth floor, since ICU had a bed crunch. I always wondered what it would be like to take part in a "fly-by-night" operation - and now I know.    Meeting Glory and Molly on fourth floor, I put on my sleep mask and went beddy-bye. The staff commented that I wasn't the typical Intensive Care patient, meaning I talked ... extensively and coherently.    During the course of the weekend I was privileged to meet Katy, Cody, Judith, Rosa, Olga, Rachel, Kacci and Ashe. Also Mallory and Felipa from dietary services and Paige, Abigail, Laura, Brandon and Alma.    Saturday, I put on a pair of jeans and went for a stroll, commenting, "Wearing the latest in semi-invalid wear..." During Monday's stroll, I sang, "She's a walkin', talkin', party doll." I like to think they'll miss the entertainment value.    Around 4:45 Saturday morning I met Darlene, whom I shall evermore call "Vampira." She was an engaging, gnome-like woman who came in to draw blood. Apparently it was good for her, as she came back 12 hours later and did it again. She and I had compatible humors. She said it was time to feed the bats and I said they must have developed a taste for "Hemo-Lite" seeing how I was down from a 16 hemoglobin count to an eight.    Brandon, a 29-year-old RN, reminded me a lot of my son and became a personal favorite. We shared a similar sense of humor, too.    An endoscopy and colonoscopy were scheduled to determine source of blood loss. Drinking that four-liter bottle of electrolyte solution was perhaps the worst trial of the whole ordeal. Then I was NPO (nothing to eat or drink) after midnight Sunday. The procedure did not take place until almost 2:45 p.m. Monday.    I met Laura, one the neatest people, who understood my warped sense of humor. We sang bits and pieces from Rocky Horror Picture Show. What a gas!    Speaking of gas, she told me one of the medications I would be receiving would have an amnesiac effect. I asked, "Like the neuralizer thing on Men In Black?" "Yeah," she said, "like that."   Tuesday morning, a new set of student nurses came onto the floor, among them were Edwina, Sara and Jacqueline.    Finally, around 2:30 p.m, Brenda, the RN had my dismissal papers ready. She went over the list of new meds, side effects and all that. I said, "I can just see me finally starting to date and we get romantic. He'll be asking, 'Baby, did the earth just move?' and I'll be saying, 'I thought it was my nitro pill kicking in'." The nurses laughed and Brenda left to get the requisite wheelchair.    I was given the go-ahead to remove the telemetry heart monitoring patches and wires. Stepping out of Room 469 one last time, I exclaimed, "Live, from Shannon's fourth floor, it's JoAnn Dalgard - unplugged!" Brenda rolled her eyes and told me to get in the wheelchair.    Jacqueline and Edwina came along. The chair was parked at the curb, I gave hugs all around and got into Debbie's car. We hit the street around three o'clock and stopped at a drive-thru' to get drinks.     Later I learned my friend Fr. Chris Roque had stopped to visit, missing me by about a half hour.    Got back to Brady and attended Cursillo reunion group, where everyone was surprised, loving and very welcoming. My friend Debbie took on the role of nursemaid, keeping me at her house until Friday. She would have kept me longer, but I felt ready to sleep in my own bed.    Though afflicted with post-procedural anemia, exacerbated by anti-occlusion medication, my overall experience was positive. Please feel free to take my word for it - Shannon Medical Center is a great hospital. You don't have to go finding out for yourself.    A couple words of caution, if you are at all sensitive about your age, leave that inhibition at home: the only one who did not ask me to verify my date of birth upon entering the room was Alma the housekeeper. Secondly, if you want to sleep in the dark, take a sleep mask.    If a hospital stay is in your foreseeable future, I hope you find excellent care and comfort are readily available.       Stay healthy. If you must go to the hospital, I hope it's to visit someone else.

***

[September 2019]

   Since 2010, I have had to get a cardiologist's 'go-ahead' for surgery: from December 2017-June 2018, I have endured four major surgeries, in pursuit of walking straight. I can now do over two miles; my year-end goal, is to walk at least three. Having just reviewed a comprehensive blood panel with my cardiologist, I am confident of making it.