Portia Rediscovered has a great photo from a Syrian street protest. Someone has been having fun with the image (ya think?), but it’s a funny shot to go along with the following caption:
Bus fare to anti-war protest rally: $0.50
Paint and canvas protest signs: $32.00
Asking a retired US Army sergeant to translate your protest signs: PRICELESS.
Check it out!
In 1996, in the midst of a strong economy, the U.S. re-elected a president who’s personal character had been a topic of conversation (not always polite) since he first appeared on the national radar. The media and cultural mantra then could be summarized as “I don’t care if he’s a good person as long as he does a good job.” The economy was doing well and those who took issue with the president’s behavior were lectured by the elites that Americans were more concerned about their self-interest than in being self-righteous.
Eight years later a president with marginal approval ratings, who was managing both an underperforming economy and what was frequently portrayed as an unpopular war, and who was as venomously despised by the left as his predecessor had been by the right, was reelected with majorities of both the popular and electoral vote. Some explanations for this unlikely scenario focused on the significant number of voters who said “moral values” or just plain “values” were what motivated their voting.
Not surprisingly, some of those out of power have been trying to repackage their memes in “value” oriented terms, confident (or at least hopeful) that their recent failures were merely a matter of poor communication and not a faulty philosophy. Others on that side, however, shout “Theocracy, booga booga!” as if this were a nation of vampires horrified at the sight of a crucifix. Yet their own One True Faith compels them to react to judicial nominees in the same way the Taliban greeted reliefs of Buddha.
Or perhaps these are the vampires, fleeing the dawn and being cornered in a crypt – be it the Senate Cloak Room or the faculty lounge at a University. Hissing at the rabble that have pursued them, they draw themselves up in as fierce a manner as can be mustered to demand imperiously that no one touch that window shade.
They know the day must have its turn, but if they can hold out long enough then night, too, will again have its way.
When my daughters got to be around three or four years old there were occasions when it was expedient for me to wash their hair in the kitchen sink. For some reason the idea of this simple, well-lit procedure was scarier to them than anything that they might have imagined coming out from under the bed or lurking in the basement. It was scarier even than Lima beans.
I couldn’t believe the tears and chin-quiverings that came about simply at the suggestion, or as I lovingly scooped a little one up in my arms, laid her on the kitchen counter with a towel rolled under her neck and her head in the sink and scrupulously gauged water temperature with the same care with which I had once tested bottles of formula.
Fortunately, in one of the first of these experiences with my oldest daughter I hit upon Mr. Henri, suave hairdresser pour l’enfants. In a cobbled together French accent that was various parts Pepe lePew and Jacques Cousteau I would regale her with an enthusiastic but sophisticated description of the wonderful experience she was about to receive, punctuated with nasal, “hauh, hauh, hauh” chortles.
“Hauh, hauh, my leetle floWEHR, Mr. Henri ees so glad you kept your appointment! Just for you I hav ze wonderful new shempoo, extracted from ze most delicate blossoms and mixed with bleu cheese! Hauh, hauh, hauh!”
As I prattled on like this her apprehension faded and the giggles soon began since, in addition to his obvious charm, Mr. Henri was also meticulous about keeping “ze soap out of ze eyes.” Command performances were repeated for one and then another daughter over the years until Mr. Henri retired by the sea to swap stories with Puff the Magic Dragon.
I thought of Mr. Henri again last night as I settled in a chair in our kitchen, just a few feet from the sink, while my oldest daughter fastened a drape around my neck in preparation for cutting my hair. She’s in beauty school and is at a stage where she is working on real, live people – including “free” (not counting the cost of tuition) hair cuts and stylings for mom and dad. I admit I felt a bit nervous, given the sharp implements and the large surface area to be dealt with, so I tried to think of what comforting thing Mr. Henri would say, and his response came immediately: “Don’t worry, be Daddy!”
I sat back, entrusting myself to her graceful fingers and perfectionism, much as she had made her own leap of faith into my arms so many years ago. I surrendered my head into her hands where it could rejoin my heart.
Ah, Mr. Henri, ze soap, I think it ees in my eyes!
Don’t stop me if you think you’ve heard this before:
A British court decided last week that 18-month-old Charlotte Wyatt need not be resuscitated by her doctors if her breathing fails. The unusual twist to this story, at least to American ears, is that it is the doctors who sought and received this sanction over the steadfast objections of Charlotte’s parents, described as devout Christians, who believe she can still thrive.
My take on this may not be quite what you anticipate either, but stick with me for a couple of paragraphs.
Here are the details: Charlotte was born very prematurely at just 26 weeks of gestation, and has been hospitalized since that time. The doctors say she is in constant pain and cannot have a meaningful life. She was born in October of 2003 and the doctors originally said she would not survive the winter; they now say she will not survive infancy. Her parents say she has become more responsive and, though impaired, can see and hear to some extent. (For more details read this story from Friday’s StarTribune or visit this Q&A on the Charlotte Wyatt Case from the BBC.)
While I can’t possibly know what this girl’s condition and prognosis truly are and what is best for her, I’m strongly in favor of leaving these decisions to her parents. That said, there are things I do know about that give me pause about this case and the many others like it yet in store.
First, what caught my attention when I read Friday’s Strib article was that it is the doctors that want to deny resuscitation and it ended up in the High Court because the parents wouldn’t agree. In my day job I frequently work with a group of nurses who provide healthcare consulting nationwide for high-risk pregnancies and newborns. I asked and was told that Charlotte’s situation would be highly unlikely in the U.S. One nurse even told me that you might have a better chance of finding a case where doctors were advocating for more care or intervention than the parents were willing to try.
I’m generally suspicious of anything that purports to be a microcosm, but this case does illustrate for me the difference between not just Britain’s nationalized healthcare system and the U.S., but between socialism and capitalism as well. For all the hoary cliches proponents of each system throw at the other, this is a case that shows that under socialism the State definitely does believe that it ultimately owns your children, and will act accordingly when it has to.
As a parent, it is bad enough for me to imagine doctors coming to me and saying there’s nothing they can do. It would drive me right over the edge, though, if they were to come and say there’s nothing they will do – and to have that decision enforced by my government.
Earlier I mentioned that there will be many more of these types of cases to come. There’s some social commentary involved there to be sure, but this observation is mainly due to the improvements in medical technology now available to us. Another one of the things I’ve learned from our group of nurses is that it is now possible for babies to be born at 24 weeks (not 26, like Charlotte) and survive. A high percentage of these babies don’t survive, and there are definitely developmental issues for those that do, but these “miracle” babies are becoming more common. Indeed, I’m told the biggest reason behind the U.S. infant mortality rate going up for the first time in more than 40 years is because it used to be that babies born this prematurely could not live and were counted as “fetal deaths” instead of live births. Since infant mortality rates are based on infants that die sometime after a live birth, an increase in 24-26 week live births with some subsequent deaths ends up – strangely enough – increasing the mortality rate even though more babies are actually surviving.
Is it expensive? You better believe it. A case like this could cost more than a million dollars. In Britain, where the State pays, the State is willing to put a value on an individual life. They will rationalize it as allocating resources for the greater good, or try to frame it in terms of it really being in the best interest of the sufferer.
I believe that in the U.S. there’s still a greater desire to value life rather than put a value on it. That may be changing, however, and one of the ways people will use to find a way out of the dilemma is to talk about “meaningful” life or quality of life, as if life that doesn’t line up with some ideal is somehow not as precious.
I can firmly say that that is an ignorant attitude not worthy of the exalted intellect this philosophy supposedly honors. I can say that because there’s something – or rather, someone – else I also know.
Hardly a week before the StarTribune ran Charlotte’s story, they ran this article about Marja Laina Cassidy. I know Marja’s mother Maija and was working with her when Marja was born prematurely three years ago at just 23 weeks gestation. Marja weighed barely over a pound and a half then and was so small that Maija’s wedding ring slid easily over her baby’s upper arm. Follow the link above and you can see the pictures and read the story about how – and what – Marja is doing now. And if that gives you a lift, I’d also recommend reading this story from Stones Cry Out.
Yes, the cost of Marja’s life – and the lives of the growing number like her – is frightening. It is not nearly as frightening, however, as what I fear it will cost us as a society if we say that they are not worth it.
Update:
I spoke with another nurse today who has had years of experience in hospital Labor & Delivery rooms and in neonatal care. She confirms that a “Do Not Resuscitate” order could not be issued in the U.S. without the parents’ consent. Furthermore, if such an order were given, it would have to be renewed every 24 hours.
The team “Night Writer Plus” consisting of myself, the lovely Night Visions, and two fortunate souls sitting next to us with nothing better to do (but knowledgeable about the Grammys), boldly stepped into the vacuum left by the absent Fraters and won the Thursday Night Trivia Contest at Keegan’s.
Fraters: We have the title. We have the free drink tickets. We have no fear! See you next week.
There have been times over the years when I’d be so vexed and miffed with the local newspapers that I’d think about starting my own. Actually it was more like fantasizing than thinking, because once thinking actually entered into the the daydream I’d think of the enormous start-up costs for a plant and equipment, the challenge of vetting reporters, recruiting advertisers, dealing with unions and worrying about things such as whether my delivery staff was actually delivering the paper or sitting at Krispy Kreme. I’d then find more pleasant uses for my imagination.
Then the blogosphere began to coalesce and a wide variety of opinion, analysis and even news reporting became easily available. Clicking between multiple voices from various sides of an issue and across the political spectrum increased my awareness and understanding (especially once I discovered the MOB).
Much is written and disputed in both the print and online media these days about the shrinking influence of the old model of journalism and the new wave. I won’t rehash the arguments for and against here, but I was very intrigued by this post today from Jay Rosen (PressThink) on the “stand alone journalist” and his description of virtual newspapers where writers could submit news and punditry for purchase and posting. More details on this concept are available here and here, and a Minneapolis edition can be found here.
I think it’s an interesting concept, and while I’d still make my daily visits to the Fraters, Mitch, the Captain and the other NARNians as well as MOBsters such as Bogus, MAWB Squad, Kool Aid Report, the Psycmeistr and Centrisity (to name but a few), these are all strong voices that would be great regular contributors to a consolidated Minnesota site – and even better if they could make a few bucks in the process!
Granted, I’m new to the blogosphere and perhaps this type of thing has been tried and found wanting for reasons not readily apparent to me. If any bloggers have already looked into the NewsMinneapolis site, or choose to look into it now, I’d be very interested in hearing your reactions.
Is the Democratic Party in a persistent vegetative state? (And are “blue” states blue due to a lack of oxygen?) One might wonder about that if the presence of intelligent thought – as opposed to pure mulishness – is one of the requirements for meaningful life.
I’ve been meaning to comment on the the inconsistency of the media’s reaction to Howard Dean’s promise to use Terri Schiavo’s case as a political football, but Tim Blair has already framed it perfectly:
CASE ONE: The fight over removing Terri Schiavo’s feeding tube “is a great political issue … and a tough issue for Democrats … This is an important moral issue and the pro-life base will be excited that the Senate is debating this important issue.” —Republican legal counsel Brian Darling in a memo first reported on March 18.
Result: Much left-wing rage, many on the right embarrassed, Darling resigns.
CASE TWO: “We’re going to use Terri Schiavo later on. This is going to be an issue in 2006, and it’s going to be an issue in 2008.” —Democratic National Committee Chairman Howard Dean, April 15.
Result: Pending.
Result: (sound of crickets chirping) is more like it. I don’t think the Dems could survive without the “life support” provided by the Mainstream Media.
(HT: Around the World in 80 days)
I’ve been thinking about family dynamics a lot lately, so Varifrank’s “writing between the lines” on an article about the negative reaction of Pope Benedicts’s older brother to his sibling’s elevation cracked me up.
This popped up in today’s “The Writer’s Almanac:”
It’s the birthday of Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, born in A.D. 121. He is not as well known for his leadership abilities as he is for his deeply philosophical nature. He was a kind and tolerant ruler who freed many slaves and tried his best to rid Rome of corruption. But Aurelius is best known for the writings he left behind. They were diaries and reflections he wrote every day, and were not meant for publication, but were his own personal insights into the stresses of ruler-ship and of everyday life, and fears about his own personal inadequacies. His writings, now known as the Meditations, also mark his beliefs in the doctrines of Stoicism: that we must get through the problems of our lives with patience and endurance, drawing on our own inner resources to see us through. He believed that most of life was predestined, but that much of it could be improved by our own discipline and will power.
He wrote: “If you work at that which is before you, following right reason seriously, vigorously, calmly, without allowing anything else to distract you, but keeping your divine part pure, as if you might be bound to give it back immediately; if you hold to this, expecting nothing, fearing nothing, but satisfied with your present activity according to nature…you will be happy. And there is no man who is able to prevent this.”
The original Marcus Aurelius would have made a good blogger. The MOB’s version isn’t bad either: stop over at The Attic and get some cake and check out today’s take on a flat tax vs. a national sales tax.
I unexpectedly found myself in a hospital emergency room last Wednesday. Of course, just about everyone who finds themselves in an emergency room does so unexpectedly since it’s not the type of event that typically makes it into your dayrunner. (“You want to get together at 10:00? Sorry, that’s no good for me – I’m down for cardiac arrest then. What does the following week look like for you?”)
In this instance, however, the element of surprise was not as great since the ER staff was focusing on my father, who was already scheduled for heart surgery later in the week. I had arrived at my parents’ home the night before in anticipation of the surgery, so I was there in the morning when my dad woke up feeling very weak and couldn’t catch his breath – the result of what would turn out to be fluid building up in his chest due to his failing aortic valve. My mother had called the EMTs and he was taken to the regional hospital nearby where his immediate symptoms were quickly brought under control by the ER team and we all began breathing easier.
The shock was greater for two other families who were also gathering in the ER that morning. One was the family of an older man brought in as a result of a stroke, and the second was the family of a teenaged young man who’s truck had crashed into a tree.
The “children” of the stroke victim were all adults and I imagined that their expressions suggested they knew something like this was going to happen eventually but they would have been happy for it not to have been today. Having been through strokes in our own family I knew what was still in store for them and wondered if they had an inkling yet of the nature of the life changing experience that had just introduced itself to their family.
For the family of the young man the shock was even greater and ultimately more complete as he was soon pronounced dead.
From the relative comfort of my family’s situation I still had cause to ponder the seeming randomness of three lives and three families coming together at that time – all within 50 feet of each other but each in our own world as three destinies were parceled out: you live, you die, you limp.
The doctors decided to move my dad a day early to Barnes Hospital in St. Louis where his surgery was to take place. My mother and I went back to the house to get my things and pack what she’d need. My folks live in the same small rural Missouri town where they grew up and where they are still surrounded by family and many older friends with whom they have many shared experiences. On the way to the hospital we stopped to top off the gas tank and while at the gas station my mom saw some friends, one of whom had already had the same surgery my dad was having. Mom filled them in on the change in plans and as the group was standing together I saw what I took as a look of knowing pass between them that I chalked up to the shared procedure.
On the day of the surgery I saw the same look of knowing on the faces of my dad’s older brothers, his sister and sister-in-law as they arrived in the waiting room and greeted my mother. The words they used were appropriate, but the looks they gave her – and the look she returned – were so meaningful and even tangible that I knew that was were the real communication was taking place. Since his brothers had had heart attacks and by-pass operations I at first attributed the look to that experience, yet I couldn’t get it out of my mind.
I thought about it as we waited and then a deeper understanding came to me. The knowing did come from shared experience, but it wasn’t the experience of the surgery itself. It was the bond of a generation that had been young together, raised their families at the same time (often in what must have looked like a large, rolling pile of kids), sent the kids off and simply went on getting older. It was a knowing that acknowledged this wasn’t the first hospital waiting room they had gathered in, and that it wasn’t going to be the last. Only today’s outcome was unknown.
They and their friends have gone on to a time in their lives still largely alien to me and my generation. As I’ve grown older I’ve lived the things they’ve lived and come to understand the things I didn’t grasp when I was younger, but perhaps I thought that as an adult I had come to know it all. They each, however, have buried at least one parent, have marked the illnesses and passing of friends and family, felt the stiffness in their own bones. They move slower now, but what was the point of hurrying in the first place?
I suppose it is my own self-centeredness that causes me to think my parents belong to me, overlooking that they had their own brothers and sisters before I was born, and see more of their siblings now than they do their own kids, with two-thirds of us scattered across the country. Theirs is a shared history before and after my generation, with all the hopes and fears, ups and downs, affection and annoyances common to us all, and a shared experience of aging who’s only consolation may be that you don’t have to do it alone.
We waited, prompting our uncles for the old stories from their growing up that we in turn had grown up hearing, listening again to the tales of the tricks played on their little brother and the times where they probably should have died many times over.
On schedule the surgeon came out and called my mother, brother, sister, sister-in-law and I to one side and gave us the news that the operation had gone perfectly. I turned to give the thumbs up to the rest of the family when the relief crashed over us like a wave, making me weak in the knees. Our small group huddled together, shaking, almost as if we had received the worst possible news instead of the best. The rest of the family gathered around, touching us and offering congratulations and then withdrawing, knowing we’d need some time to ourselves – and now that I think about it, probably needing some time themselves. They, too, had survived and were moving on, still ahead.
But I know things now that I didn’t know before.