Friday the 13th

Oh, my superstitions are running high. I grew up with superstitions and tales of mysterious portents of death and disaster. For example, one story that involved my great grandmother concerned a huge fireball that landed in the woods just beyond their cabin. The next day someone came to tell her that her husband had died.

Another great-grandmother, living alone on a secluded hill, heard knocking sounds all the outside of her house. Being my descendant, she immediately put a pistol in her pocket and stepping outside, walked all around her house, the well house, and finding nothing, went back to bed. Shortly thereafter, her daughter was bitten by a copperhead, but survived.

Growing up, we never stepped on a crack, (having a huge desire to preserve our mothers' spinal column), we never walked under ladders, and I still wonder when a black cat crosses my path. So far, no ill effects, because I usually pull over and start calling, "Kitty, kitty, come to mama.."
I will not tear up any photo's, or throw away any letters. It just doesn't seem right somehow.

One weird thing that happened to me occurred in Georgia in the 1990's. I was staying with my sister-in-law with my two boys in tow. She had a wonderful old house, that I would love to have. Earlier that day she had been cleaning the floors, and here comes a whole truck full of close friends, to spend the weekend. Cooking now became a top priority, so I set about cleaning the kitchen and getting field peas and lima beans out of the freezer, and trying to decide what meats to cook. I was standing at the sink, putting the frozen food in cold water to defrost, when out of nowhere, a six foot black snake dropped from the ceiling. I guess I made some noise, as my brother-in-law came running. By this time, I'm trying to get the snake out the back door, because I don't like to see them killed just for being snakes. But, my brother-in-law arrived to soon and the snake was dispatched and displayed for conversation all evening.

Curiously, that night, the whipper wills had moved in closer to the house and were singing up a storm. This is always a bad sign, as the whipper will, in folk mythology sometimes warns of impending death, and may escort the dead to the hereafter. I felt uneasy. But the evening went off without a hitch.

The next day, one of the young men, about 16 or so, who had come to visit was riding in the back of a pickup, going about 15 miles an hour, and fell from the truck, hitting his head. Seein g that he appeared alright they continued on their journey. When they got home, the young man immediately stretched out on the sofa. He was complaining of a head-ache, and wanted to sleep. His face was flushed, and he was nauseated. Ok, now alarm bells are going off in my head like crazy, but mom and dad said they would see how he did for the next few days, and if he didn't get better, take him into the doctor. I'm babbling about not waiting, go now, you never know, please, but it was the parents decision, and I felt helpless. I listened to the whipper wills all night as they seemed to move closer to the house. Their song was endless, beautiful, but without end.

The next day the visitors left, and we learned that the following day, they took their son to the ER. He had suffered a brain hemorrhage, and by the time he was admitted, and sent to a room, he was in a coma. The following day the parents were told that the bleeding had been so severe, that he was now brain dead. The parents then had to decide whether to remove the machines that were keeping him alive. They chose to do so, and this young man lost his life.

Of course we were all shocked. We dispaired that he was taken to the doctor sooner. We mourned his loss, and attended the funeral.

But, I have often wondered about the snake and the whipper wills. My upbringing, immersed in folklore, made me think about warnings and all the signs I had learned of death and disaster. I remembered the snake, and listening to the non-stop call of the whipper wills, hidden in darkness, coming closer and closer each night. Were they telling us of this young man's impending death? Were they waiting to carry his spirit away? All of this can be explained easily by coincidence, but it does make you wonder. Is it really coincidence? Shortly before my father passed, I would hear the whipper wills sing at night, and did they get louder? Was that my imagination? I don't know. But I feared and hated the sound. Silently, I cursed them, saying don't come around my door, you have no need here. Many will consider this the ravings of a hill woman, raised in ignorance, sounding like the old granny women who could cure ailments with roots, and strange herbs. But it does make you think. Doesn't it? Just a little?

He's better...

We went back to the emergency room yesterday, and, after doing a CAT scan, which basically showed that the clot "was not larger, maybe a little smaller", they gave him something for pain, and we came home.   Because some ass-hole doctor put him on oxycontin a few years back, which he doesn't take anymore, he has a very high tolerance for pain meds.  So, what they give him works ok, but he still has pain, and probably will for a while.  Chronic pain is a bitch, if anyone has ever had it.  Thank God I have a high tolerance for pain, or I would be bitching and moaning all the time.   As the southerner's say, 'ole Uncle Arther (arthritis) is a pain in the ass.  Wish he'd carry his ass back where he come from.'

What really bothered me was his blood pressure.  Before they released him, his blood pressure was 145/104.  Now, I'm no doctor, but I think he should be on medication to control it.  I have taken it at home and it has been 189/110.  The doctor said, 'It's not high enough to treat.'  The family doctor  says 'it's not high enough to treat.'  Bullshit!  Can anyone say stroke?  My brother was 32 when he developed high blood pressure and has been on med's ever since.

EJ doesn't like me to talk to the doctor.  Because I have worked in a hospital, and use words like ambulation and affect and vital signs, and ask what are his O2 stats, the doctors immediately distrust me.  Don't ask me why.  Maybe they think I'm trying to show off, but if you have worked for anytime in the health care field, these words become part of your vocabulary.  Anyway, I jumped his ER doctor  about his blood pressure, and she said it wasn't that high.  I said it was.  She said it wasn't.

I ask questions.  Always.  Because I know what fuck-ups sometimes work in a hospital.  I know when they do shift change, some of the personnel sit around a bull-shit for an hour or so before they decide to check on a patient.  And, I know they make mistakes. 

Don't get me wrong.  Most of the people who work in health care are very caring and professional.  But it's the ones who stand around looking like fools that make it hard for everyone else.  I know the first thing you do when you enter a patient's room is greet them by name and wash your hands, which I did not see anyone do. Fuck the gloves, they are not foolproof. I know you always leave a patient with a call light in reach, which he didn't have.  Shit, I saw a lot of things that weren't up to par, but, maybe I'm too picky.  But I know when Medicare and Medicaid come in to do their annual inspection (so the hospital will continue to have that contract), good lord, the whole staff goes into overdrive to correct all the mistakes.   What's even wierder is that they notify the hospital, usually a month in advance what days they will probably be there.  What does this say about health care?  A lot of the things that goes on in a hospital happens because the legal department makes sure their ass is covered.  That's why you sign that statement before surgery saying you could die, because your surgeon might be an idiot or a crack-head or whatever.

You guys can jump me about this, but the best doctors I have dealt with were from India.  You may not be able to pronounce their names, but for some reason, they treat you like a person.  Some doctors from the Philippines also have this trait.   And they will listen to you, and answer your questions. 

I always wonder what a doctor's grade point average was when he graduated from medical school.  What if it was a 2.5, or just enough to pass?   Kinda scary, isn't it?

So...

I'm not sure if Ej will be going back to the ER today or not.  I tried to make him go yesterday as he has not improved since he got home.  He told his friend more about his condition than me, as he doesn't want me to worry.  Yeah, right.  Anyway, we'll see what happens today.  I could force him, but as he's 28, and that's hard to do.  He is as stubborn as I am. 

The other day, a friend of ours came over to fix our heat pump, God bless his heart, and he brought his wife with him.  She and I, (notice I didn't say me and her, which was my first instinct) sat and talked while they worked on the pump.  Somehow we started talking about politics.  I can't remember who brought it up.  Oh, I remember, I showed her the decorations on my blog, the anti-bush ones, and said I  hoped she wasn't a republican.  She said, well, as a matter of fact....she was.

So we discussed Bush's Iraq policy, and she was all for it, stating if we didn't do something about the terrorists, if we pulled out now, they would just follow us home and blow us all up.  Well, of course I had to voice my opinion, saying that the terrorists were not from Iraq, but Afghanistan, and other Arab countries.  That Bush went into Iraq looking for a reason to invade.  She said, well they hated us, and would do anything to see our country fall.  I said, all the Arab countries hate us.  I said many operations in Iraq were conducted to keep insurgents from crossing the border into Iraq from Syria, one for example, Operation Matador. 

Anyway, she said something to the effect that she had voted for Bush.  I said, Whatever for?  The man is insane.  There were a few things about dignity, and going after those responsible for 9/11.  I said most presidents wouldn't have had any other options than to go after them. 

We disagreed on this.  Anyway, things got a little heated, and I said what had always been in the back of mind, but I had never voiced.  That if wasn't for Bush and his war, my son might still be alive.  She said, I swear I'm not making this up, she said  not necessarily.  I looked at her, and said what do you mean?  She said he might have been deployed to some other location and been killed there.  Maybe I'm wrong.  I'm the one who  said it.  Which opened me up to responses such as this one.  But the coldness of a statement like that shocked me.  So matter of fact, like discussing who fumbled the ball at the football game. 

Then I started thinking about destiny.  It was all I could do to keep from screaming and ripping her throat out, but all I said was I had never thought of it that way.  I was pretty much shocked, I guess.  I should be used to it by now.  Most people react to his death in Iraq the same way.   "Well, he's just a statistic."  or "What did he expect would happen?"  Unspoken, but hanging in the air, challenging me. 

Then I try to talk about the son who wasn't a corpsman.  The one who loved cats, who loved his family, who could do just about anything and make people laugh.  The one who read books all the time, and whose son was the light of his life.  And, its like I'm talking to myself.  The subject is changed, to something at random.

Many will say that some people are just uncomfortable  talking about death.  Well, there is such a thing as being appropriate and acknowledging someone's loss.  It's not hard to devote a few minutes to listening to someone talk about this type of thing.  Its a type of validation that says, yes, I hear you, and I will listen for a moment or two. 

Maybe I'm wrong.  Maybe she was right in what she said.  I'm still a little floored by it all, but she was in my home, and it is my policy that whoever enters my home, will be treated with respect, until they start throwing beer bottles and act like a crazed baboon.  We all have boundaries. 

So, I'm asking you.  Did I over react?  Did I take a simple discussion and turn it into another thing all together?  We actually parted as friends, but why do I still feel sad about the whole thing?

And, as for EJ, when I tell people what happened they seem to think he bumped his head.  No big thing.  Is it just me, or has the whole world forgotten the word compassion?  Do I expect too much?  Tell me what you honestly think.  I really need some kind of feedback on this.

He's home!!

I got to bring my son home yesterday.  He still has the blood clot, but they say his prognosis is excellent.  They gave us instructions on what he can and can't do.  His head hurts, but he has medication for that, but there is something different about him.  He is not sleeping as much, and his headaches are getting better, but, of course I still worry.  I feel sometimes like he is made out of glass, and I must be so careful with him.  As he would say, Mama, that's bullshit.  But I can't help it.  I go in his room and take a peek at him from time to time.  He just seems so much quieter, but I guess that is part of the healing process.  His blood pressure is down, which is wonderful.  I feel confidant that he will be ok. 

I wanted to thank everyone for all their kind comments, and prayers, because every prayer, every good thought counts. 

It's strange.  I know he is a grown man, and perfectly able of making his own decisions, but, it is hard for me not to try to "keep him from getting hurt".  I have even said, believe it not, quit playing with that, you might poke someone's eye out.  I think, I have turned into my Mother.  Not necessarily a bad thing, but something I had wished to avoid.

Again, thanks for your thoughtful and caring comments.

Send good wishes, ok

My oldest son has been a constant source of support since he lost his brother, my youngest son.  He was the one who carried the burden of knowing his brother had been wounded in Iraq, had lost a foot and hand by an IED device which exploded by a mosque, in Hit Iraq.  I learned later that causality officers had been to my old address in West Virginia to notify me, but the assholes there, did not tell them where I had moved.  I had just sent Travis an email telling him that I had moved to Virginia, and how to contact me.

EJ had been informed by his father, but chose not to tell me until he learned whether his brother would pull through or not.  He knew I would worry myself to death, and would do everything I could to get to Baghdad where he was being treated.  As soon as he could be stabilized the plan was to have him transferred to Germany.  Everything seemed to be going well, until his lungs failed.  Evidently his lungs had been burned so severely by the explosion that they were destroyed.  He was placed in a coma, removed from all the machines, and died.

EJ came home from work at lunch that day, said Mama, sit down here with me, we have to talk.  I sat down, having no clue, and he told me that my son had been wounded, and he had passed away that morning.  I kept asking someone to slap me, wake me up, because I was having a nightmare.  That none of it was real.  He held me, while we cried, and walked around in shock.  I remembered how I stood in the kitchen that morning, and felt, I swear, someone blow down the back of my shirt.  I turned, and no one was there.  Was it my son, letting me know he would be ok?  I like to believe that. 

The death of my youngest son proved to be the last straw in my oldest son's eight-year relationship with his fiance.  He moved in with me, after the funeral service, and we went about our daily lives, always aware that part of us was gone.  We drifted on a sea of disbelief.  His father lived in Georgia, and had been distant with both of us during the whole thing.  He was there for my son's widow, along with her family, and that was his choice at the time.  Since then, my son and I have dealt with all of pain, and grief pretty much on our own.  He has not worked since then, at times wanting to die, wracked by guilt that he could not save his brother.  He was always his protector, and being eleven months apart in age, there was not a time he could remember his brother not being there, somewhere, a part of his life. 

He fell this past weekend and hit his head.  He came home, and went straight to sleep, which was unusual, because he has had trouble sleeping since all of this happened.  I didn't know about the fall until I spoke to him the next day.  He said he was dizzy, had a the worst headache of his life, and couldn't focus.  Of course I called the paramedics, but they decided his injuries were probably minor.  After they left, I took him to the ER, and after a cat scan, they found bleeding on his brain, which was creating pressure in his skull.  They could not tell if the bleeding would continue so he was transferred to the best hospital in the area where they do brain surgery.  He is now in the neuro ICU, and depending on what the cat scan shows today, they will decide how to proceed.  The blood clot is in his left temporal lobe and, as he is suffering no effects showing damage to speech, ambulation, or memory, it is a miracle in itself.  I go to see him, and it hurts so much for him to talk, that I just sit and watch him.  It makes me think of when he was born, a month premature, and all I could do was watch him in his crib, hooked up to wires, in the neonatal intensive care unit.  He had hylen membrane disease, which means his lungs weren't developed fully, but he survived.

Over this passed year, I have told him he is a survivor, that he comes from a long line of survivors, people too stubborn to give up.  I'm not quite sure what his prognosis will be, but I feel his recovery will take a while. 

But, so far, he seems to being doing as well as expected.  For some reason, I have been calm and positive when I am with him, and do my crying and worrying at home.  But, I have faith he will be all right.  I have faith he will recover, because I can lose him.  All I ever had really was my children.  My son's.  So proud of them, so blessed to watch them grow, and become the wonderful young men they grew to be.

Please keep him in your thoughts.  He is a good, kind-hearted, and giving young man.

That's him.  The good looking kid with the fish in his hand.  Bass-fishing, the love of his life.