Let's pretend that an 18-year-old male, out of his mind from recent use of PCP, was walking in the traffic lanes on a major city street and a citizen called 9-1-1 to report this to the authorities. Let's pretend that the police show up, remove the male from traffic, and direct him to sit on the curb while they figure out what to do next. Let's pretend that the male becomes aggressively combative, attacking the two police officers who responded to the incident report. After using tasers on the male and being unable to subdue him, another officer arrives on-scene and becomes involved in trying to subdue the person.
Let's pretend that shots are fired, bullets that have no effect on stopping the male from his continued attacks on the officers, two of whom are on the ground and now unable to defend themselves. Let's pretend that 3 of the shots hit the male, 2 in the body and 1 in the head. An ambulance is called and the victim is rushed to the hospital in critical condition. The 2 injured officers are also transported to the hospital so their injuries can be accessed and attended.
Okay, there's the scenario. Your response would be:
1. if you are the parents, call an attorney before you rush to the hospital to see if your child is still alive.
2. if you are a passer-by, contact the media so you can be interviewed on camera as the authority on what happened, who was involved, and who is more at fault: the rogue police officers or the innocent young man who was shot 3 times.
3. if you are a near-by neighbor, pick up the attacker's cell phone and start making calls to all the contacts on the phone, hysterically telling them that the police just shot this guy.
4. if you are even remotely connected to the attacker (uncle, aunt, g'parent, ex girlfriend, classmate, cousin, friend, neighbor), write blog entries on the local on-line newspaper website testifying that this is a "good boy" who made an indiscretion by using drugs, but he doesn't deserve to be shot in the head by the vicious cops.
5. raise the hue and cry about police violence in response to unarmed citizens they detain for questioning.
6. suggest that the cops should be trained to wound the attacker, not shoot him in the head.
7. criticize the cops for not being able to subdue the attacker without resorting to deadly force and call it an "over-kill" response.
8. say that the cops deserved to be hurt because they are so out of shape that they couldn't even stop one unarmed attacker.
If you live in my neck of the woods, all of the above appear to be appropriate responses to the scenario!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Finally, a Reality Check
There is an information processing problem with the CA mother of eight: her brain synapses don't fire the way other people's fire. I was entranced with the Dr. Phil interview: he would begin a sentence with 4-5 key words and she jumped in, finishing the question for him and providing her response. It was never a direct response, but a somewhat tangental mouthing of words that seemed almost scripted. There was no communication, but an endless stream of words, sort of like a religious zealot who relies on verbally forcing a listener to accept their vision of reality.
The little things, like no income, no provisions for the present 6 children, much less the hospitalized 8, the vow to return to school and get a "good job" so she can provide for the 14 children: none of it makes sense. When Dr. Phil pointed out that her potential entry-level income in her chosen field, counseling, may be about $35k annually, if she can find a job when she finally finishes her education, the response was a reference to teachers with whom she's spoken who have told her about positions that pay more. Who's going to care for the 14 children while she's at school? She wants to stay with her babies while they need her, and she'll go to school after they are all in school. And then off and running about how she knows she needs a good job to provide for her children, and she will do that because she has a plan, but first she has to bring the babies home and shower them with love, and then she'll go back to school and on and on and on. Oh, and by the way, she needs a van that will accommodate 14 car seats.
To say that she's out of touch with reality is generous, and her parents just sat there, amazement on their faces at the continual stream of generalizations, justifications, assurances that spewed from her mouth. What about the pending foreclosure? Yes, I have to find a home. What about the necessity for approximately 50 people per week to help her care for the total of 14 children? Yes, I will have to find volunteers. What about the current condition of the inadequate housing? Yes, I have to clean it and make it safe for all of my babies. What about diapers and food and on-going care for the 6 children already at home ... I have a plan. I have thought about that. I will take care of this. I love my children. These are my babies.
The birth of these 8 children is not a reality show, and the lives of 14 children are at stake. I believe that the Department of Social Services must step in and find foster homes for each of the octuplets, homes to which the children will go directly from the hospital because it is obvious that their mother cannot either provide for them or care for them, which endangers them in a way that can not be permitted. I was relieved to hear on last night's news that these children will not be released to their mother until their care is assured, which paves the path for the state to come into the picture actively.
The little things, like no income, no provisions for the present 6 children, much less the hospitalized 8, the vow to return to school and get a "good job" so she can provide for the 14 children: none of it makes sense. When Dr. Phil pointed out that her potential entry-level income in her chosen field, counseling, may be about $35k annually, if she can find a job when she finally finishes her education, the response was a reference to teachers with whom she's spoken who have told her about positions that pay more. Who's going to care for the 14 children while she's at school? She wants to stay with her babies while they need her, and she'll go to school after they are all in school. And then off and running about how she knows she needs a good job to provide for her children, and she will do that because she has a plan, but first she has to bring the babies home and shower them with love, and then she'll go back to school and on and on and on. Oh, and by the way, she needs a van that will accommodate 14 car seats.
To say that she's out of touch with reality is generous, and her parents just sat there, amazement on their faces at the continual stream of generalizations, justifications, assurances that spewed from her mouth. What about the pending foreclosure? Yes, I have to find a home. What about the necessity for approximately 50 people per week to help her care for the total of 14 children? Yes, I will have to find volunteers. What about the current condition of the inadequate housing? Yes, I have to clean it and make it safe for all of my babies. What about diapers and food and on-going care for the 6 children already at home ... I have a plan. I have thought about that. I will take care of this. I love my children. These are my babies.
The birth of these 8 children is not a reality show, and the lives of 14 children are at stake. I believe that the Department of Social Services must step in and find foster homes for each of the octuplets, homes to which the children will go directly from the hospital because it is obvious that their mother cannot either provide for them or care for them, which endangers them in a way that can not be permitted. I was relieved to hear on last night's news that these children will not be released to their mother until their care is assured, which paves the path for the state to come into the picture actively.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Another Good Idea Poorly Executed
I called my friend and told her not to bring her dog: I'm going out with the Round-Up and spraying weeds in all the landscaped areas. I waited for the sun to rise, as the directions remind the user to be sure it's "warm" before applying the spray. Gloved, gowned, and determined, I set off for the backyard, warning Mia to stand clear.
It took about 5 minutes before my head was throbbing so badly that I had to put down the sprayer, go inside, and pray that the cranium would not explode and leave brain matter all over the kitchen. Then, it dawned on me: I had not eaten anything since 6 pm last night, when I had a roll with cheese in the car on my way to the second class of the day. "Ah-ha," says I, "I'll just eat something and I will be fine."
Why aren't simply solutions the answer? I did eat, I hydrated, I regloved, and determinedly retook the sprayer into the back yard and within minutes had the same excruciating, pounding headache. "What the what the?" I thought, as I once again headed inside.
Okay, so something wasn't working; perhaps, I had not waited long enough for the food to metabolize, the water to hydrate, yada yada yada. After half an hour and another bottle of water, I decided to head for the front yard, where I could both pull some single, significant weeds and spray the spreading patches lower to the ground. I pulled a few, then sprayed where I had pulled, then relocated, pulled some more big weeds, sprayed again -- and almost keeled over, grabbing my head and actually moaning out loud at the sudden excruciating pain.
Well, you know how thick-headed Scandinavians are reported to be? While most of the time I disagree, preferring to think that we are simply committed to our ideas and opinions, I suddenly had the thought that should have been obvious a long time before that the weed poison and I were not compatible!
It wasn't the lack of food, it wasn't the bending over, it wasn't the warming sun: it was the poison.
I went back inside, showered and changed my clothes, drank another bottle of water, took some aspirin, and gave my body time to regroup. The headache receded, the dripping sweat stopped falling from my scalp, and I felt that I would survive the experience. This becomes yet another of my many normal maintenance tasks that I am going to have to hire done by someone else as it appears that which has never affected me in the past has now become a major health hazard.
Yeah, I'm loving it, this retirement and all the time to do all those kinds of things I enjoy doing, like household projects and landscape maintenance. As my dotter always tells me, if it doesn't kill me, it makes me stronger. Or sick?
It took about 5 minutes before my head was throbbing so badly that I had to put down the sprayer, go inside, and pray that the cranium would not explode and leave brain matter all over the kitchen. Then, it dawned on me: I had not eaten anything since 6 pm last night, when I had a roll with cheese in the car on my way to the second class of the day. "Ah-ha," says I, "I'll just eat something and I will be fine."
Why aren't simply solutions the answer? I did eat, I hydrated, I regloved, and determinedly retook the sprayer into the back yard and within minutes had the same excruciating, pounding headache. "What the what the?" I thought, as I once again headed inside.
Okay, so something wasn't working; perhaps, I had not waited long enough for the food to metabolize, the water to hydrate, yada yada yada. After half an hour and another bottle of water, I decided to head for the front yard, where I could both pull some single, significant weeds and spray the spreading patches lower to the ground. I pulled a few, then sprayed where I had pulled, then relocated, pulled some more big weeds, sprayed again -- and almost keeled over, grabbing my head and actually moaning out loud at the sudden excruciating pain.
Well, you know how thick-headed Scandinavians are reported to be? While most of the time I disagree, preferring to think that we are simply committed to our ideas and opinions, I suddenly had the thought that should have been obvious a long time before that the weed poison and I were not compatible!
It wasn't the lack of food, it wasn't the bending over, it wasn't the warming sun: it was the poison.
I went back inside, showered and changed my clothes, drank another bottle of water, took some aspirin, and gave my body time to regroup. The headache receded, the dripping sweat stopped falling from my scalp, and I felt that I would survive the experience. This becomes yet another of my many normal maintenance tasks that I am going to have to hire done by someone else as it appears that which has never affected me in the past has now become a major health hazard.
Yeah, I'm loving it, this retirement and all the time to do all those kinds of things I enjoy doing, like household projects and landscape maintenance. As my dotter always tells me, if it doesn't kill me, it makes me stronger. Or sick?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Silver Threads Among the Gold
My dad used to sing "Darling, we are growing old, silver threads among the gold," to my mom, which made them both laugh. Since he had just celebrated his 50th birthday before he died, I now realize that neither he nor my mom were old at that time, but there were, indeed, grey hairs on both their heads.
Quite cockily, I've always been a blonde -- sort of. There have been cycles when my previously very white blonde hair no longer seemed so bright, and others when the sun highlighted the strands after a summer of working outside. With the recent haircut, I am no longer blonde, nor can I pretend to be anything other than a greying senior citizen. My hairdresser kindly added some blonde highlights to the brownish grey, so I now share the "silver threads among the gold," but it's more grey than any other color.
So be it. We all have to learn to accept the natural aging process and move on.
Today, I moved on to the appointment with the eye doctor, who assured me after an extensive exam that my prescription does not need to be adjusted, even though I really cannot see well. You know the little strip of copy that runs along the bottom of a TV set? I cannot read it: it's a blur. I have to set my glasses just exactly right on my face to read a book, and signs across a room are blurry. When I put transparencies on the overhead, I have to hold a printed copy in my hand as I wander the room because I cannot read what's on the screen. Using the computer requires me to adjust my head so I can see through the bottom of my bifocals. It's annoying and stressful not to see well, so my hope this morning was that a new pair of glasses would have me seeing clearly again.
Not going to happen as there is no change in my prescription; however, I am now scheduled for a visit to an opthamalic plastic surgeon, who is going to determine how much vision improvement I will enjoy after lifting my eyelids off my eyeballs. Really. The vision in my right eye is "significantly impaired" from the sagging eyelid and can be dangerous. My left eyelid is heading south, too, just not as rapidly, perhaps because I had ambliopia (lazy eye) in my right eye, along with acute astigmatism. When you don't use your eye, it has a tendency toward the muscles becoming lax, which is exacerbated by age. To correct the problem and restore a full range of vision, the eye institute employs an eye doctor who specializes in surgical realignment of the eyelids, an eye lift.
Hopefully, he does both eyes at the same time, rather than fixing one and leaving the other to droop more before fixing it, too. I'd look like a perpetual wink if he only fixes the right eyelid!
The good news is that my insurance will cover the procedure to the extent that any insurance covers any procedure. I find out by the end of March whether it's going to happen or other issues, such as the tyrigium removal centuries ago, the incredible attack of iritis decades ago, and continuous dry eye sydrome, a common desert malady, will prohbit me from a successful surgery.
Quite cockily, I've always been a blonde -- sort of. There have been cycles when my previously very white blonde hair no longer seemed so bright, and others when the sun highlighted the strands after a summer of working outside. With the recent haircut, I am no longer blonde, nor can I pretend to be anything other than a greying senior citizen. My hairdresser kindly added some blonde highlights to the brownish grey, so I now share the "silver threads among the gold," but it's more grey than any other color.
So be it. We all have to learn to accept the natural aging process and move on.
Today, I moved on to the appointment with the eye doctor, who assured me after an extensive exam that my prescription does not need to be adjusted, even though I really cannot see well. You know the little strip of copy that runs along the bottom of a TV set? I cannot read it: it's a blur. I have to set my glasses just exactly right on my face to read a book, and signs across a room are blurry. When I put transparencies on the overhead, I have to hold a printed copy in my hand as I wander the room because I cannot read what's on the screen. Using the computer requires me to adjust my head so I can see through the bottom of my bifocals. It's annoying and stressful not to see well, so my hope this morning was that a new pair of glasses would have me seeing clearly again.
Not going to happen as there is no change in my prescription; however, I am now scheduled for a visit to an opthamalic plastic surgeon, who is going to determine how much vision improvement I will enjoy after lifting my eyelids off my eyeballs. Really. The vision in my right eye is "significantly impaired" from the sagging eyelid and can be dangerous. My left eyelid is heading south, too, just not as rapidly, perhaps because I had ambliopia (lazy eye) in my right eye, along with acute astigmatism. When you don't use your eye, it has a tendency toward the muscles becoming lax, which is exacerbated by age. To correct the problem and restore a full range of vision, the eye institute employs an eye doctor who specializes in surgical realignment of the eyelids, an eye lift.
Hopefully, he does both eyes at the same time, rather than fixing one and leaving the other to droop more before fixing it, too. I'd look like a perpetual wink if he only fixes the right eyelid!
The good news is that my insurance will cover the procedure to the extent that any insurance covers any procedure. I find out by the end of March whether it's going to happen or other issues, such as the tyrigium removal centuries ago, the incredible attack of iritis decades ago, and continuous dry eye sydrome, a common desert malady, will prohbit me from a successful surgery.
Friday, February 20, 2009
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