"Celebrations of anniversaries of disasters provide opportunities, as do holidays." Joey Skaggs
Two years ago today my sister's husband was killed in a plane crash. She's shared her feelings about widowhood several times here. Every time I learned something. Which is what older sisters are for ... but I would have preferred to learn a different way.
Last year Judy gave us some real insights On Widowhood, After One Year. I asked Judy if she was up to another set of musings on the second anniversary of Bob's death. She came through, bigtime.
This was a difficult assignment because there was nothing monumental to write about. It was a year almost like any year, except I was still living alone. And there were times I wished Bob were here, but I did what I had to do anyway - live - and segued to the next project.
I read what I wrote last year when approaching the first anniversary. I made comments about how I felt then, and here I would like to address those comments and see how I feel now:
I still sleep on my side of the bed.
I finally went through the box of 'our' personal items. Saved some, didn't save others.
I have learned I can do just fine on my own, and it's kind of nice to live without fearing 'the look' when I failed to meet Bob's expectations.
I finally gave away all the flight suits from his closet. But mine is tucked away, waiting for someone to fly me to an air show.
I've resumed flying, which is great. What's not so great is that there's no Bob to call and tell about my great piloting. He loved my war stories.
I'm still not ready to part with his blue blazer with the Harvard buttons, his ski jacket and the Hawaiian shirt he wore on our final trip to Maui. Maybe by the time I write "Widowhood After Three Years."
Bob and I disagreed on some furniture, so I replaced the ugly dining room table and chairs, but most of the house remains the same. These familiar surroundings make me feel comfortable.
I am still learning that I don't have to explain myself to anyone. I really can do anything I want. If that sounds selfish, maybe it is. I've found that I enjoy spending time with Judy.
I can't imagine that I will ever minimize the depth and importance of Bob's and my relationship, but with determination I have learned to manage as a onesie.
No one can take away my memories, and they are still firmly packed away for the future, dosage to be determined at the time of need. Bob isn't here. That's the big fact. But I am. And I continue to believe that moping my way through life accomplishes nothing.
The tears don't flow so easily any more, though I am, after all, a woman.
When a memory of 'us' pops up I still get a little misty. But it's just another one of those memories than no one can take away. So I think past it and it gets tucked away. What's the point?
I still work as often as possible. Great distraction, great co-workers, long and hard days which keep me busy with little time for reflecting.
I did make the trip to Israel last year. Two days after my xxth high school reunion, where the women looked great and the men were fat and deaf, I was on a plane to Tel Aviv. When I deplaned I felt like I was on another planet. I couldn't read, I couldn't speak, I couldn't communicate. First question (puzzled face): "Speak English?"
I never understood, with his love of history, why Bob chose never to go there. I took in the magic of the sights, the hills, the buildings, the museums, and I wanted so much to share it with him.
I've had some personal tragedies during this year and as a result have spent a lot of time in airports. And hospitals. And bedrooms. While these have been distractions, too, I still miss being able to call Bob at the end of my day and tell him all about it. He would have offered an ear. He went to UVA and then Harvard Law School - the right words were built in.
This summer I am nursing at the camp my grandchildren are attending as rookies. I thought it would be nice to have Grammy around in these strange surroundings. Two days after camp concludes a friend and I will go to London and embark on a twelve day cruise through the Baltics, another trip Bob didn't care to take. I still don't get it. But now he'll never be able to explain it to me.
I realized why I had so much trouble trying to put these thoughts together. It's because life is lived one day at a time. Pain is temporary. Every day just happens, and you do what you have to do. I've survived a few depressing hiccups with a great deal of support from family and friends. Here I am, about to embark on my third year of widowhood ... and saying the word doesn't hurt so much any more.
I am surviving. It is not easy, but if you remain stuck in the past you will never get to the future. So tune in next year.
Once again, Judy, you've taught us what real coping looks like. Thank you. I hope you meet a new Prince Charming on that cruise. It's time.
"Nothing contributes so much to tranquilizing the mind as a steady purpose -- a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye." Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
Today is my niece Karen's birthday. You could ask, who gives a whoop besides her family? Anybody who's ever faced cancer, that's who. They know, as Karen knows, that every birthday is a gift. More, a triumph.
Karen's been fighting cancer for 8 years. During most of those years not for herself, which would be hard enough. But for her young son, which is, to a parent, much, much worse.
Alex was diagnosed at age 4 with a rare disease called VHL. An operation removed all the mechanics of his right ear, carotid artery and part of his brain. The outer ear is still there, but the hearing is gone.
You all know Alex. I haven't written about him for a while because although he's an extraordinary boy, thank god there's been nothing out of the ordinary to say. Last week Alex celebrated his 12th birthday.
A continuing triumph. Of family and medical diligence, healthy lifestyle, good karma, mind over matter. Whatever, we'll take it. Especially now for Karen's birthday too.
Because incredibly, a year and a half ago Karen got cancer. Not VHL. Skin cancer. Melanoma. Oh yeah. we've all heard of that. And not in a good way.
Karen's was first a small patch on her leg. Excised, clean margins, finished. Then, six months later tumors in her right eye signaled the much rarer, much more dangerous, ocular melanoma.
They tried everything, but it came back. On April 16, barely a month ago, surgeons had to remove her right eye. An outer cover is there, attached to the muscles which still work, but the sight is gone.
Karen and Alex. Mother and son. Different cancers, similar losses, totally the right attitude.
Fight. Mobilize. Energize. Laugh. Love. Live. Learn all you can. Gather your physical and emotional resourses. Seek and accept support and counsel and advice. Lean on your loved ones and stand on your own two feet.
According to Karen's example, that's what you do to survive. More, that's how you live life to the fullest.
Karen is a survivor of the highest order. An inspiration to cancer victims, mothers of cancer victims, other survivors and those who are trying to be. An object lesson to those of us who waste time moaning about petty problems.
Tomorrow Karen has her first appointment to be fitted for an artificial eye. She's been wearing cool eye patches, but is really looking forward to looking like she's got the real deal.
What a birthday present, eh? And not just for another of life's milestones, but for a true celebration of life itself.
Happy and HEALTHY Birthday, Karen. We're all wishing you many, many, many, many more.
"It's not a 'mental' illness, it's a medical condition." Dale Neaman
So there she is, Liz Spikol, profiled in the New York Times and on the Huffington Post, back to back. Wow. How cool is that. Especially on a subject about which she happens to be an expert: mental illness.
The focus is on Spikol's contribution to a modern movement dedicated to bringing mental illnesses out of the dark ages and onto the Internet and YouTube. To shine light on a litany of very real medical conditions once hidden in the same kind of closet as homosexuality.
I knew Liz as a child, followed her impressive professional career, learned of her long battle with mental illness. I've celebrated her growth here but never came out, so to speak, about my own membership in her not so exclusive club.
'Mad Pride' is finally a group I can get behind 100 per cent. No, I'm not crazy (neither is Liz). But I'm not totally sane either. If you just went, HUH? that's the problem 'Mad Pride' proponents are trying to address.
Look around, hardly anybody you know is issue-free, so to speak. Or chemical-free, as a result of any number of very real mood disorders and illnesses. Usually inherited, just like heart disease or diabetes.
Yeah, I live a "normal," mentally balanced life, but only with the help of prescribed pharmaceuticals, internal fortitude and external support. So do millions of others, many, many of whom are related to me.
In our family alone we've got bi-polar disorder, manic depression, hypo-mania, clinical depression, suicidal ideation disorder, a potpourri of anxiety disorders, PTSD, obsessive-compulsive disorder, alcoholism, ADHD, Asperger's Syndrome and last but not least, body dysmorphic disorder.
Just about the only thing missing is schizophrenia. Although.... wait ... no! ... maybe ... well ... hold on! ... shut up! Oh, nevermind. Just kidding.
Mental illness isn't funny. Unless you've been through the tunnel, come out the other end and are managing your disease well. Then it can--for some, Must--be a stitch. Because that's the best way to patch yourself up.
A poster girl for 'Mad Pride,' Liz Spikol speaks with heart, humor, raw honesty, intelligence and incredible perception about her battles with bi-polar disorder. Listen to her.
"The eyes are not responsible when the mind does the seeing." Publilius Syrus
My niece Karen and her husband have been raising a son with a rare cancer called VHL. I've written about him so often it seemed fitting to give him his own page: ALEX ANDERSON
Hard as it is to believe, less than a year ago Karen was diagnosed with a different but equally rare cancer, Ocular Melanoma. April 16, 2008 doctors removed Karen's right eye.
Her story is really something. So here's her own page too.
"I stand here on this cursed ground, from which the cries of our brothers will forever resound, I salute our six million brothers and sisters... I salute the ashes of our people and vow 'never again.'" Israel Defense Forces Chief of Staff Gabi Ashkenazi
You don't have to be Jewish to honor the more than 6 million innocent victims of the Holocaust, modern history's worst crime against humanity. You just have to be a human being.
For the 17th year, thousands of people, from teenagers to survivors joined the March of the Living, an annual Walk of Remembrance from Auschwitz to Birkenau on Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day.
Jews and all those connected to survivors around the world marked the horror of the Holocaust with prayer and ceremonies. Yom HaShoah is especially poignant this year in Israel, preparing to celebrate its 60th anniversary as a nation, formed largely by and for those forced from their homes and countries by the Nazis.
Hamas, on the other hand, took the opportunity to pervert Yom HaShoah by airing a documentary series claiming that the Holocaust--the genocide of European Jews--was planned as a satanic Jewish plot to get rid of the handicapped and mentally ill.
Hamas also claims the Holocaust was meant to manipulate the world media into feeling sorry for Jews. And of course, it never really happened and the Nazis had nothing to do with any of it.
What can you say to that kind of bigotry, hatred and ignorance? We'd like to ignore it, but so many Palestinians, a whole generation of young ones for sure, are being taught this horrible lie.
It's not a time to talk Middle East politics. It's a time to remember those who died at the hands of evil hatemongers. And to pray. And to promise it won't happen again.
Those who join the Walk of Remembrance take a solemn pledge. It can't be any clearer than this:
"We pledge to keep alive and honor the legacy of the multitudes of our people who perished in the Holocaust.
We pledge to fight anti-Semitism, anti-Zionism, Holocaust denial and all other forms of hatred directed towards the Jewish people and Israel.
We pledge to fight every form of discrimination manifested against any religion, nationality or ethnic group.
We pledge to actively participate in the strengthening of Jewish life in the Diaspora and Israel.
We pledge to increase our knowledge of our Jewish heritage and to pass on a love of Jewish life and learning to the next generation.
We pledge to give tzedaka, to assist in helping the Jewish needy, wherever they may live in the world.
We pledge to involve ourselves in tikkun olam, to build a better world for all members of the human family.
After the Shoah the promise of 'Never Again' was proclaimed. We pledge to create a world where 'Never Again' will become a reality for the Jewish people and, indeed, for all people.
This is our solemn pledge to the Jewish people, to those who came before us, to those of our generation, and to those who will follow in future generations."
That's our future and our children's future, those special words: Never Again.
"With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things." William Wordsworth
For those keeping up with the saga of my niece Karen, who lost her right eye to cancer barely two weeks ago, here's the latest.
Don't cringe at my title, look at the pictures above and below to see I'm just following Karen's lead. Which is to make lemonade out of lemons, turn chicken sh*t into chicken salad, focus on the joy of family, continue to embrace life.
If you can't see that, you need to look again.
I've already shared a picture of Karen in her first basic black eye patch. But now she's got a full wardrobe of eye catching patches. So I asked her to give us a look-see. She did a fashion shoot this week with daughter Amy manning the camera. Here are the fab results.
Keep in mind Amy isn't yet 10 years old. I think she's got a real career ahead of her. Look out, Annie Liebovitz!
Miss Thing Does Bling
A Kiss For You
Haa Cha Cha Cha!
Oriental Peace Patch
Make That Double Peace, Y'All
Courage, humor, style and grace under pressure. I can't think of anything better to inspire us all, can you?
"True friendship is seen through the heart, not through the eyes."
My niece had surgery to remove her right eye last Wednesday. Oh yeah. Really. Of course I wrote about it here. Pray for Karen Please.
Karen came through the operation well. No question such radical surgery was necessary, there were two malignant tumors on her optic nerve.
Next steps: recuperation, then--in 6 weeks--the artificial eye implant, then occupational therapy to learn to see and live a normal life with only one eye. If anybody can do that, it's Karen.
There are more next steps: MRI, scans, maybe biopsies to check for metastasis. Friday we see the oncologist. Karen, her husband Bob, my sister Judy and me. Together. United. En masse.
The goal now is quality of life and prolonging life.
And she's already cracking jokes, telling her husband, "I had my eye on you from the beginning. Let's hope it was the good eye."
On a more poignant note, telling me, "Life is so precious. I had to lose an eye to see the truth."
My current challenge is finding colorful eye patches to match her outfits. Basic black (see above) is always in fashion, but we want to push the envelope and go for more gusto. If you have any info, let me know.
"The greatest treasures are those invisible to the eye but found by the heart." Michael Nolan Last summer I wrote about my niece's heroic battle with a vicious cancer called ocular melanoma. At the time, though the surgical treatment was rough, it seemed she emerged victorious. We celebrated. But then the Cancer Demons said: Not. So. Fast.
Today (Wednesday) surgeons will Remove. Her Eye. Yeah, join me in a giant shudder. It's called Enucleation.
Here's the medical info:
What is Enucleation? Immediately after the eyeball is removed, an orbital implant is inserted deep in the socket to preserve the shape of the eye. It will later be replaced by a permanent prosthesis.
It may hurt when you jerk your good eye to one side or another because the muscles of both eyes always move together and although your eye has been removed, your eye muscles move as if your eye was still there.
The plain facts in cold medical terms for laymen. What, they can't say life will go on, you'll be able to operate normally? Well, actually, they do.
What will I look like after my eye is removed? Keep in mind that your eyeball helps to keep the eyelid up. Therefore, when the eye is removed the eyelid simply stays shut as if you are winking. You may be self-conscious and want to wear an eye patch or sunglasses until you get your prosthesis.
Will I be able to lead a normal life with only one eye? It will take some time to adjust to using one eye, but almost everyone learns to compensate during the first year after surgery. There is reduced visual field on the side when looking straight ahead, and there is a loss of depth perception.
If the vision in your remaining eye is good, you will still be able to drive, read, play sports, and perform all your usual daily activities.
Yeah, enough already. In your wildest dreams you don't want this nightmare.
Here's the part they don't talk about. How long will I live?
That's because they don't know. They believe the enucleation will finally and completely eradicate the cancer. But ocular melanoma can metastasize to the liver and lungs. So even though the prognosis will most likely be good, the scans and tests and vigilance must continue even as life goes on.
Karen is 45 years old. She has a husband, two children, two dogs, a busy, productive life. Her 11-year-old son Alex also has cancer. A different kind, called VHL.
I want to howl to the heavens: HOW MUCH PAIN MUST ONE FAMILY TAKE?
I know the answer. As much as they're given.
Karen is such a warm, courageous, loving, caring person. She virtually glows with goodness and light. Read her story if you didn't already: I See Courage.
Pray for her please. If you don't pray, send some healing thoughts her way.
"A child's physical poverty is overcome by the spiritual richness that music provides." Dr. José Antonio Abreu
Did you watch 60 Minutes Sunday night? If so, you were inspired and humbled by a story about a music program call El Sistema -- the system. It's credited with saving hundreds of thousands of Venezuela's cruelly disadvantaged, impoverished children by teaching them music.
Bob Simon tells how children start in El Sistema as early as 2 years old, are eventually given instruments, willingly practice for hours every day, six days a week and learn to play in orchestras instead of on the dangerous streets.
The brutal reality of the slums in which they try to stay alive is so unfair you want to scream. Not so different in America, but what do we do about it? Cut after-school and cultural enrichment programs. Our children play with guns instead of clarinets and trumpets and drums.
The best of the El Sistema musicians travel the world as the Simon Bolivar National Youth Orchestra. They've just played Carnegie Hall to cheering crowds. That's what happens everywhere they appear.
If this doesn't make you smile and cheer and even choke up a little with pride for the accomplishments of these amazing children, then you are made of stone. But you're not.
So crank up your speakers and get the hankie ready.
"Youth would be an ideal state if it came a little later in life." Herbert Henry Asquith
We've been in Florida. Just as well, since my head was about to explode, sending political fragments all over the place. I've been overwhelmed by Campaign Fatigue, Media Madness, Pundit Parlance and Candidate Combustion.
Frankly, I was also tired of the sound of my own voice. So I took some time off to visit my parents. Grab some sun. Hit the pool, then the hot tub. Read. Sleep. Relax.
My biggest decision was whether I'd cook or we'd go out to dinner.
I'm not going to write more about my folks. I've already said pretty much all I have to say. At least for now.
So go on over to Blinq and read about Dan Rubin's dilemma over what songs to put on his mom's iPod for her 80th birthday: Blinq: Loading Grandma's iPod.
Dan and I are both lucky to have parents who are not only alive but living active lives. Setting great examples for all of us on aging not only gracefully, but energetically.
Here's the perfect perspective ... the physical therapist suggested my dad use a cane just until his daily workouts on the weight machines made his legs stronger.
"No cane," said Dad, who'll be 92 in May. "It'll make me look like an old man."
"As long as families remain important in this world, the [Harlem] Globetrotters will remain a priority." Eathan O'Bryant This year marks the 80th Anniversary of the Harlem Globetrotters, the remarkably gifted and entertaining team known as the "clown princes of basketball."
This month marks the 16th Anniversary of the night our son played basketball with the Harlem Globetrotters. When he was 8 years old. On a broken ankle.
That night at the Spectrum was beyond exciting. It's the kind of rare fantasy-come-true experience that lights up childhood memories. It was magical. Especially because he never saw it coming.
My niece worked in publicity for the Globetrotters and when they came to Philly she got us floor seats. I was thrilled since I'd been a Harlem Globetrotters fan as a kid, when "Meadowlark" Lemon was their star.
Mike had never heard of them, but it took about 30 seconds for him to become entranced with the players' skill and their antics. We cheered as they "beat" the tar out of the poor Washington Generals throughout the first half.
Then Karen led us back to the locker room where the players were nice enough to autograph Mike's bright green cast. I have that part on video. Unfortunately we were forbidden to use any cameras during the game. You'll see why that still kills me now.
Mike's broken ankle, by the way, came from a too vigorous basketball game at school. Even as a 3rd grader, he played to win.
So back to the 2nd half of the Globetrotters game. That's when they traditionally pull a little kid from the audience to "play" on their team. Karen, bless her, had arranged for them to choose Mike.
Though nobody knows it, the routine is carefully scripted. The 'Trotters bring the kid to the foul line, give him a few tries to make a basket. When he can't do it, their star center lifts him up to dunk the ball.
The other team fakes outrage, yells foul. The referees confer, shake their fingers at the 'Trotters and the kid, who's back down on the floor looking happy, if confused, while the 'Trotters claim he's a legitimate player.
At least, that's the way it's supposed to go.
So they bring Mike onto the court -- a regular sneaker on his good foot, a huge matching sneaker I'd fitted onto his neon green cast. Already a crowd-pleaser and a perfect foil for the 'Trotters.
The players ceremoniously lead him to the foul line, hand him the ball, tell him to shoot. They're all poised to begin their act. The crowd is loving the small "player" with the big cast, looking even smaller standing there on the Spectrum floor next to his over sized "team mates".
Nobody but Mike knows he's taking this totally seriously. He bounces the ball a couple times, checks the distance to the basket. The players pretend to look at their watches, start tapping their toes. The crowd is laughing, cheering, yelling, "Give him time! Let him try!" The referees quiet everyone down, tell him go ahead and shoot.
Mike's knees bend, hands cupping the ball, eyes on the basket. He lifts off, weight on his good foot, lofts the ball ... and makes the shot. Nothing. But. Net.
The place erupts. Fifteen thousand people go nuts. The players and the referees are caught flatfooted -- it's not in the script. And Mike's just standing there, proud of himself, but looking at them like, "What? You told me to make a basket, so I did."
They pick him up and carry him around the court while the crowd screams. Then they go into a huddle at center court, Mike in the middle, lost from view. When they open the circle he emerges in full Globetrotter uniform, shirt hanging to his knees, shorts almost to his ankles.
The cheering contines. And Mike continues to play. He makes one more basket on his own, another when they finally lift him for the ceremonial dunk. After the game's over they all sign an official ball and shake his hand.
That's the ball up there in the picture, ink faded now, but still legible. And that's the bright green cast he was wearing. Mementos of a night we'll never forget.
"Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow." Albert Einstein
My sister Judy and I tend to become experts on almost everything life throws our way. It's how we learn, cope, grow, survive. We're always willing to enlighten others if we have something of value to offer. I do it here. Judy's joined me from time to time, especially on her latest area of expertise: widowhood.
Hardly a skill anyone would want, nevertheless Judy became a widow suddenly and cruelly when her husband Bob was killed in a plane crash July 16, 2006. From the beginning she's been sharing her thoughts on coping with loss and widowhood. It's been cathartic for her, supportive for other widows and eye-opening for the rest of us.
She hasn't parsed it out in formal stages of grieving. That's been done to death (pardon the pun - trust me, she'll smile) and it's not her style anyway. Judy has simply opened her heart and her soul when the spirit moved, allowing us glimpses into the head and home of a new widow.
More than enlightening, it's inspiring. She's taken us on a journey of pain, darkness, self-reflection and courage. Now she's ready to open the door to hope. And new beginnings.
This is the one I've been waiting for, in Judy's words:
I think I've rounded a corner. Nearly 16 months after Bob's crash, something happened to me. I noticed it when I came home from the latest trip -- a week in Philadelphia for family, grandchildren and my high school reunion, then on to Israel for nearly two weeks.
I've traveled since Bob died but when I've come home from those trips there was always a feeling of sadness, either because I had no one with whom to reminisce ... or no one to tell about my adventure.
This time I came home, did my unpacking, laundry, bills, etc., then went back to work. And hit the ground running. Jury duty segueing into flu shot clinics and on to my OR nursing. I came home so tired after each day that my outlook became objective and I was able to realistically see what life was going to be like now.
I looked around the house and realized I had created a shrine to Bob with pictures, his belongings, his collections and a few sentimental items of his clothing. I also realized I didn't need things to remind me of him. As I've learned and said before, I have memories nobody can take away. The material reminders are extraneous.
Frankly, everything is a reminder anyway and I'm okay with that. So I've begun to divest myself of more of the remaining items. I've been gathering pictures and other memorabilia to be given to his son and brother. I've begun giving away even more things to Good Will and The Salvation Army.
I haven't yet, but am contemplating doing some furniture rearranging and throwing out and replacing, though I'm cheap and that will take longer. But at least I've begun to think about it.
None of this is meant to convey that I don't miss him, or that I know my life would still be interesting and exciting if he hadn't left it.
I plunge ahead fearlessly, confident that while I no longer do much plumbing, electric repairs or airplane maintenance, I can do it – all by myself. I feel sure Bob is watching and cheering and when I talk to him, he hears me.
But I guess this is the end of my tsunami, the one that's supposed to hit when one gets the kind of news I got. I didn't have the tsunami all at once, but I did have to figure out how to get on with my life.
I haven't gotten it all figured out, but I'm starting. And there's something that feels very good about that.
"No monuments are erected for the righteous; their deeds perpetuate their memory." John Lennon
My friend Suzie lost her father November 28 to a sudden coronary, blessedly in his sleep. It's tragic on many levels, not the least that age 67 is far too young to go. And because he was Suzie's Dad.
It was clear meeting Suzie's parents how much they loved each other and their daughter. I always felt I knew them well ... because of Suzie.
The home she bought, based party on the private, pretty space she set up for their visits. The pictures of them throughout that home. The stories of her childhood, her mom's good heart, her dad's dogged dedication to the Republican party. We joked about that a lot.
Suzie's Dad loved his family, his country, his party and his fellow man -- pretty much in that order.
He was a devoted husband and father. An Army veteran. A staunch Republican, former head of the GOP Marion County. (Only for Suzie would I put up a Republican link.)
I can't bring myself to hold it against him, especially because he was such a dedicated volunteer, teaching people to read. And because he was Suzie's Dad.
He doted on Suzie's mom, took care of her, took care of everything. And Suzie wasn't just "Daddy's girl," she and her dad were a team ... regardless of that pesky Republican thing.
Suzie's Dad was a solid, hard working, kind, decent, honorable man. A good husband, a good father, a good brother, uncle, friend. A good person.
A righteous man.
I put a flag up there in his memory, because Suzie said they put one in the local paper and he would have liked that.
Rest in Peace, Suzie's Dad, you left a truly righteous legacy.
"Records achieved while a player was relying on chemical assistance, should be prominently marked with an asterisk — to signify that the achievement was less praiseworthy than it seems." New York TimesEditorial
In a surprisingly puerile editorial on the "shocking" Steroids in Baseball Report, the New York Times hit an absurd low with that last sentence. An asterisk to note players kinda sorta cheated? And are therefore "less praiseworthy"? Oh, please.
Athletes who used steroids to break records, become MVPs, make an All Star team or be named to the Hall of Fame didn't get there honorably. They cheated. Period. Forget the lame asterisk. Throw the bums out.
Hey, it's not like there's no precedent. Cheat in the Olympics, lose your medal. Cheat in the Tour de France, lose your title. Cheat in boxing, lose your belt. Cheat in a beauty contest, lose your crown. Cheat in a presidential election ... oh, wait, you don't get punished for that one.
Yes, baseball is the All American game, supposed to be above reproach, up there with Mom and Apple Pie. Pie my eye. Baseball's become an international multi-billion dollar business. Fans want to see stars hit the tar out of the ball.
It should surprise no one that during the past 20 years elite baseball players with multi-million dollar contracts very likely use something in the steroid family to get there. And to stay there. In a perfect world, they'd be there on merit alone. Hank Aaron was. Babe Ruth was.
Mitchell's list of steroid users is making a lot of noise. Let's not forget there's a much longer list of baseball players who made the grade honorably as good athletes, legitimate stars and genuine role models without chemical assistance.
Players who were and are clean and sober should be praised, rewarded and touted as the real All-American Heroes. The cheaters should be booted out on their asterisks.
When will the League and the owners figure out that baseball doesn't need steroids? Yeah, in football you need more size and strength. (Although take a look at the magical Brian Westbrook.) In basketball, height and speed. Hockey, balance and brawn.
In baseball, you've gotta have heart. Bottom line, it's every man for himself. It's a team game, but at the plate, on the mound or in the field, you're alone. If you don't go for your own personal best, you let down your team. If you can't do it on your own, you let down yourself.
Think I'm naive? Think about this: for every Barry Bonds, there's a Jimmy Rollins. I'll take the latter every time. And no asterisk will ever signify the enormous difference between a cheater and a winner.
"May your charity increase as much as your wealth." Proverbs
I'm back from wherever we went. It was ... an interesting trip. I'll tell you more this week. In the meantime, no matter how you worship--or don't--a few ways to Give and Learn.
My sister Judy sent me a link to a word game produced by the good people at Poverty.com. It tests your vocabulary. Maybe even helps build it. If you play, you'll help build a child's starving body. One grain at a time.
This is a word game that has a kick: for each correctly defined word they [Radisson, iTunes, AmEx, Google and others] will send rice to countries where people are starving.
If you like our language and occasionally think about world hunger, go for it. I love it!
PS: If you aren't interested, that's OK, too. Just delete it and don't give a thought to the starving children..............
"Breast cancer is the second leading cause of death, in terms of cancer, among women." Scott Thompson
Big diseases get a month of their own. October belongs to Breast Cancer and I'm on board. It's in our family. Among our friends. It's taken some, maimed others, affected us all.
Odds are, someone you know and love has had breast cancer too. I hope you didn't lose anyone, but odds are you--or someone you know--did.
Breast cancer is treatable in most cases. Especially--and this is KEY--if caught early.
Yet big drug companies, big insurance and other health care special interests haven't stepped up with big public campaigns to promote drugs, treatments--and most important--screenings for breast cancer.
Why not? Money. The next time you're watching TV, check out some of the ads and ask yourself if anybody you know ever died from Restless Leg Syndrome or PMS.
It's all about the bottom line. There's no significant profit margin on mammograms. In fact they can be obtained for little or no cost (info on that below). So there's no incentive to advertise mammography.
Non-profits like Susan G. Komen for the Cure have to carry the message and count on our donations to foot the bill for educating the public.
Because for all women, especially those over 40, there's a far more compelling bottom line: regular mammograms and other screenings lower our risk of dying from breast cancer.
You'd think that would be easy to understand. Let me say it again: a mammogram can save your life.
There are endless statistics on this, but I'll give you some personal anecdotal evidence that makes my point.
Of nearly twenty family members and friends with breast cancer, we've had four deaths. Two of those women finally succumbed to the disease years and years after screening and diagnosis, having lived long and happy lives.
Two others never did a self-exam. Never got mammograms. They just got breast cancer and each died within a year.
The new mammography machines are much more gentle. But even if your town doesn't have one, tough it out. A little discomfort once a year beats losing your life to breast cancer.
So I'll say it one more time: a mammogram can save your life. Get one.
"If winning isn't everything, why do they keep score?" Vince Lombardi
Life is hard. Job, family, bills, school, taxes, bosses, teachers, doctors, parents, kids, commutes, mortgages, crime... managing to keep your head above water, inside and out.
Then one magical autumn afternoon it all fades away. Nothing matters but this:
Philadelphia is Electric. Ecstatic. United. Filled with joy and walking on air. If only for the next few weeks, we're on top of the world. And life seems a little easier to handle.
If only it were that simple. One poignant reminder of the world outside Philly almost "harshed my mellow" as we used to say. A message board comment on this AP story Phils Complete Comeback to Claim NL East.
"All the way from IRAQ!!! YOU GO PHIL'S! YA GOTTA BELIEVE!!! i LOVE YOU GUYS! BRING IT HOME!" SPC HILL, UNITED STATES ARMY
Suddenly I was reminded life's not as simple as baseball. There's war. And suffering. And death.
On the other hand... SPC Hill, all the way across the world from Iraq, in harm's way, is as pumped as we are here at home in Philly. I'm glad the Phillies brought him some much needed relief, release, happiness, a reason to cheer.
I hope the FightinPhils "bring it home" for him and all our military men and women too. As I hope we can bring them home, alive and well.
But for a little bit longer, I'm going to savor an all-too-rare thrill in Philly:
"Baseball was, is and always will be to me the best game in the world." Babe Ruth
Oh. My. God. The Phillies are tied for Phirst!
I don't know what it is about Philly and our sports teams, but together they form a palpable, living entity.
Civic pride, self-image, sometimes even friendships and relationships rise and fall with our teams. Especially the Eagles and the Phils.
They keep us on the edge. Our fists clench. Our pulses pound. We hold our breath, then let it out in howls. I watched the Eagles play in the Super Bowl with my son and his friends in 2004. Even furious at the loss, the experience was extreme. Electric.
Today's generation can't begin to imagine the Phillies in a World Series. I can.
I've been so busy whining about my age that I forgot one of the benefits of being a Baby Boomer: I saw the Phillies make it to the World Series twice. And win once.
My husband (who was just my bf then) was at The Vet for Game 6 to see Tug McGraw throw that final strike to win the 1980 World Series. I watched on TV with friends.
It's entirely possible some of us have permanent throat damage from screaming for Our Team. Nothing was like that day. Nothing.
We watched the heartbreaking loss in 1993 on TV in stunned disbelief as "Wild Thing" Mitch Williams' seemingly perfect strike became Joe Carter's series-winning 2-run homer for Toronto.
Though it was hard to lose, it was hard to love the 93 Phillies the way we loved the boys of 1980. And they way we've come to love our Fightins now.
If you think about it, today's team has more in common with that 1980 team. Mike Schmidt, Pete Rose, Garry Maddox, Lonnie Smith, Steve Carlton, the Tugger. And yes, Larry Bowa too.
Veterans and rookies working together to make it happen. Scrappy. Determined. Resilient. Most of them likeable. Some heroic. All of them hungry. And, like the fans, not willing to give up.
No matter what happens, we've had the most fun since 1980 with our 2007 team. Finally.
They've brought us back to that 1980 slogan --and more important-- the feeling You Gotta Believe.
