Twins Twins photo

Godspeed, Little Man

Today was little Brody's funeral, and it brought me completely undone.

I can only imagine how incredibly hard it must have been for his mother - to wake and prepare for the day that she will be putting her 6 week old child to rest forever. To deliver a very moving eulogy, to share her babies story with a church full of people without collapsing in tears. To hug every mourner as they left the church, to smile and accept their condolences without wanting to scream at them. To nurse her other child on her lap, to hug him and squeeze him as they lowered her baby's casket into the ground. I know for sure she is a much braver woman than I.

I would have been a bawling, weeping, moaning mess. You know the Muslim women you see on the news, the way they howl and paw at themselves, throwing themselves to the ground? That would have been me. And i wouldnt be finding comfort in religion of any kind - i dont mean to offend anyone but i hate the hypocrisy of Catholicism. I hate how when good things happen it is Gods glory, his miracle, his wonder; but when babies are stolen away from wonderful kind people its all " God works in mysterious ways " or " He must have needed that angel back ". God gets all the glory but never the blame. Frankly, i think thats absolute crap ( and a whole other post ).

So i went, and i wept for what my friend had to go through. I wept for the thought of what i would do if it were me and my child. And wept for what my parents would have had to do almost 22 years ago. I wept for the little boy they had to put in the ground. And when little Brody's burial service was over i went to my brothers grave and i collapsed onto the grass and i cried there, with him, privately. I cried for all those things and more. I spoke with my brother and i told him how Flynn knows his name ( even though he doesnt pronounce it properly ) and how he can point him out in photos. I told him how Flynn is built like him, small and nuggety, and how our Dad says Flynn reminds him of his son. I promised to bring Flynn to his grave and tell him that we love Uncle Eli. And as i wept and talked and tried to arrange my flowers as best i could, two crows flew overhead.

I dont know what you, out there, believe - but i know what i believe, and i know who those two crows were and why they were there, watching over me. I carry them on my shoulders ( quite literally, tattooed there forever ) at all times, and today they came when i needed them....

Bottoms Up

So - i am lucky enough to be going in for a spot of day surgery today ( can you feel the sarcasm in that sentence? ) In the interests of being completely open on this blog, lets just say i'll be having an exploratory procedure - via the bottom. Or, to be proper, a colonscopy. Yep, thats right, thats where they take a tiny little camera on a tube and shove it up your you-know-where. Its usually the domain of persons over 60 years old but, as i said, i'm "lucky" enough to be one of the few young people who get to have it too. Like i said, its pretty much exploratory so the doctor is looking for the cause of some symptoms i've been having. Best case scenario? Its plain old haemorrhoids that, in all likely hood, were caused by pregnancy ( thanks Flynn! ). Worst case scenario? He could find that i have an auto immune disease, which would mean daily meds for the rest of my life and a strict diet ( thankfully, he seems to already ruled bowel cancer out ).

So - please excuse me if i dont post for the next day or two. I've already had a full day of no food at all, and am allowed precisely nothing ( no food, no drink ) today until i wake up after surgery. My point is that i'm near delirious with hunger and later this afternoon i'm expecting to be relatively drug-addled after anaesethetic. Probably not the best conditions for blog posting ( unless you like a good drunk post or two ).

And now that thats out there, let me finish up with a bit more TMI - i'm hitting the shower to shave my legs before i go to te hospital. I mean, what kind of lady wants to present herself ( bottom first mind you .... ) with hairy legs?

A Duty of Candour, Depressive Women, and Friends in Finland

The first two days of last week were spent at the University Strategic Conference. Unfortunately due to still having treatment at the clinic each morning, staying over was impossible. Experience tells me that it's the informal getting together in this way that are the most valuable and  enjoyable aspects of such events. However, the two days were very good and I came away with a sense that the University had somehow changed gear in working towards achieving its strategic aims. In the last session we were encouraged to raise ‘taboo’ topics. Ironically, the rules of confidentiality don’t allow me to say whether anyone did or not.

But arguably such sessions are important for any organisations health. How many of us have been party to a meeting where the 'Elephant in the Room' is completely ignored as people feel for whatever reason unable to voice their concerns. It’s sometimes easier to simply convince oneself to be a team player and not rock the organisational boat. It can be hard to stand up and be counted for what you believe to be right. I believe that it is important for organisations and the managers who lead within them to learn how to listen carefully to what is being said.

Last year the UK Department of Health signalled its intent to introduce a ‘duty of candour’ for all health care providers, making them contractually obliged to publicly reveal mistakes made. This month the Health Select Committee recommended that the ‘duty of candour’ will need to be a condition for licensing (by the Care Quality Commission) for any qualified provider wishing to contract for the provision of health care services. Even without the moral obligation to enact a duty of candour there are important economic drivers to consider. The cost of settling legal claims against the NHS for clinical negligence was £807m in 2010, a rise of £146m on the previous year. Each of these claims represents something going wrong, a patient harmed or killed. Being a current user of health care services and the fact there were just under 6000 claims last year is enough to make me feel quite depressed.

And I am not alone. The journal, European Neuropsychopharmacology last week published an updated report on work originally undertaken in 2005 which looked at the size and burden of mental illness in Europe. The report showed that almost 165 million people or 38% of the population suffer each year from a mental health problem such as depression, anxiety, insomnia or dementia. Professor Hans-Ulrich Wittchen, who led the systematic review of empirical based studies, noted that the rate of depression in women was 2.6 times higher than for men, particularly for those women aged between the ages of 16 to 42. These researchers attribute this higher rate of depression in women to the burden of balancing the demands of marriage, family and a job – although I am not convinced this link is clearly demonstrated in their paper.

The mental health organisation SANE note that perhaps one reason we believe that women are twice as likely to suffer from depression than men is more to do women being more prepared to talk about it, whereas many men can find it more difficult to describe their feelings of anxiety, depression or loneliness and may even lack the language to express their inner feelings.

However, maybe the depressive woman doesn’t need to be, well completely depressed. Dr Sabura Allen, a clinical psychologist at Monash University published, in 2007, her now famous piece of research which looked at the recent sexual experiences of depressed and non-depressed married and single women who were both in relationships or not. Her study found that depressed women had more sex than their non-depressed counterparts. The study concluded that depressed women were likely to be seeking out sexual intimacy more often to help make them feel more secure. I am not so sure her research really proved this is the case. But it is known that sexual activity provokes a release of endorphins which elevate our mood and can make us feel ‘happier’ and increase our sense of wellbeing.

And finally, it is likely that this weekend will be a difficult one for many people. Each anniversary of 9/11 provokes in me a sense of deep contemplation of the human condition. I was in Finland when 9/11 happened and with friends of many years. We sat and watched the dreadful events unfold together. And Mikko, Leena, and Heikki remain good friends all these years later. They have, and continue to bring much happiness to my life!

A Decade On

I know i wont be the only one to post about this today but - its been 10 years since the September 11th terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center in NYC. Unfathomable at the time, and i think even in the jaded world we live in post 9/11 there is still something of the " How could they possibly have done that ? " about it all. So, in memory of all those who lost their lives that day, i'm going to re-post an entry i made back on September 11th 2008 ( 3 years ago and on the 7 anniversary of the attacks ):

The question was asked in my local paper today - " Do you remember ? " Frankly, i thought it was a stupid question. How could anyone possibly forget ? Of course, I'm talking about the atacks on the World Trade Centre 7 years ago today. What kind of person could ever forget the articles and the images accompanying them, even if they wanted to ?


I was in Year 12, my final year of high school, in 2001. The attacks had occured overnight, Australian time, and I remember my mother waking me earlier than usual telling me that two planes had crashed into the Twin Towers. Still groggy with sleep i wasnt exactly sure what she was raving on about - until she made me turn on the tv. I sat in bed, still in my pyjamas with the sheets bunched around my knees, horribly transfixed. I didnt want to see planes punching holes in steel, or desperate people leaping from buildings, or faces covered in ash, a trail of tears tracing its way down their cheeks. I didnt want to see that, but i couldnt look away. I didnt want to see that , and i dont want to remember, but i do.

I went to school early and gathered around a radio with about 30 other seniors. Any 12 or 13 year old Year 7 kid that even let out so much as a peep got threatened with the evil eye and a " Shut the fuck up, you idiot! ". I think it was obvious that we all knew we were witnessing an important moment in history. We Year 12 students were allowed to have the radio news playing in every class that day, probably as much for the teachers benefit as it was for ours. I dont remember which algebraic equations i worked on that afternoon, but i do remember wincing as a light plane flew over my maths class room.

My brother worked at the local McDonalds after school, and i went with my mother to pick him up at the end of his shift. It was unusually quiet, not many families calling in to pick a Big Mac or a Happy meal; i sat at a table staring up at the tv and cried. Bawled, in fact. A totally public place, good old McDonalds Family resturant, and i had nowhere to hide, but i sobbed my heart out at what i was watching. The news reports just kept repeating the same images of people jumping to their deaths. I couldnt help but wonder what last lonely thought they may have been thinking to push them to that extreme. Nor could i help but despair at such a waste of life - and for what ? None of us really knew at that point.

I didnt know anyone in New York City. I didnt even know anyone who lived in the US, but my heart bleed for the families who lives had been irrepairably damaged by such insanity. I wondered what they must be thinking, feeling, hoping, praying; I wanted to let them know that they werent alone in their loss and their sorrow. And i did, by writing a letter to the New York Times. I doubt that it was ever published, by message of support was there on the internet, recorded for all of humanity to see. If i could have helped dig through that rubble, to comfort a crying child who had lost a parent, to donate blood or skin to burns victims, I would have. I may not have been there, I may not have lost any of my people, but i felt it all the same.

It wasnt until i lived in the US during 2005 that i got some insight into what it was really like. I lived in NJ and my host father worked in New York City. On a trip to the local zoo one cloudless, blue sky September day with my boys and their grandparents, I noticed Grandpa Jerry sitting on a fence alone, just staring up at the sky. I asked him what was going on and he told me he was just reflecting - this was as perfect a day as that one looked like it was going to be. If the youngest of the boys had not been born the day before - September 10, 2001 ( happy birthday H! ) in a hospital in Jersey - my host father would have been there, one block from the WTC, when the planes hit. My host father had lost people he knew but luckily had been given a healthy, beautiful baby boy to take his mind off all that.

I dont mean to dwell on these things of course; but isnt that what remembering is ? Isnt remembering dwelling on the past, whether it be good or bad, and whether we want to or not ? Sure, I could have gone through today pretending like i didnt know the date, had forgotten its significance, or focused on sending good birthday vibes to my little H ( who is now big... ). But kind of memorial would that be ? What kind of respect would that be showing those who lost their lives ?
Honestly, I dont particularly want to remember, but some things you just cant forget....

Baby Love

So after yesterdays news i've been keenly aware of and crazy in love with my son today. I felt a pang in my heart for what my friend has lost, and couldnt help but imagine myself in her situation. It did upset me for a little while, and then it made me want to run to my son, scoop him up, and never let him go. Of course, that just isnt possible ( especially not with such an active and wriggly toddler ..... ), as much as i wanted it today.

Image from here

What i did do is just took the time to really be with him - not just in the same room, not just absently mindly playing with him whilst thinking of something else but actually "being" with him. We had a playdate with another mum from mothers group during which i let him run and play and do his own thing but the rest of the day i made him my focus. Even when out shopping with my sister i made a point of talking to him, doing wheelies with him in his pram, rubbing his hair as we strolled - little things that made me feel connected to him.

He fell asleep in the car on the way home from the shops and i put him gently in his bed. When he woke after half an hour a bit distressed ( he's cutting his canines and they arent playing very nicely... ) instead of shushing him for a few minutes and then shutting the door i climbed into his bed with him, snuggled in under the doona and we had a nap together. Its been a long time since we've had a nap together and it felt good. Not only to get a bit of extra rest, but to have that snuggly, warm, bonding moment that i'm sure will be less and less frequent as he gets older.

Once he finally gets to sleep tonight ( again, those teeth are playing havoc ) i might go in and steal one more baby kiss before heading to bed. I'm just hoping my own sleep tonight is less restless than last night, when i couldnt seem to shake the sadness of the " what ifs? "....

No Such Thing As A Free Lunch

Ben Franklin said that “God helps those who help themselves,” but government helps those who don’t. In his recent book “After America,” Mark Steyn points out how many Americans have become dependent on government: “ . . . by 2004, 20 percent of U. S. households were getting about 75 percent of their income from the federal government [and] another fifth of households . . . receive about 40 percent of their income from the feds . . .” Is that the kind of republic Franklin had in mind when he worked at the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia? No. I don’t think so.

So, government is supporting over 100 million of us, but can the rest of us afford to continue paying for it? No again. Under President Obama, we’re borrowing forty cents of every dollar we spend. We’re borrowing money we probably can’t repay. We’re borrowing money our children and grandchildren will have difficulty paying back, and we’re spending it on ourselves, not them. This is sinful.

Forty percent of Americans are hugely dependent on government. It’s also true that forty-seven percent of Americans pay no federal income tax. How much overlap is there between those two populations? Are we talking about the same people? In most cases, yes. How many of them are likely to vote for a congressman or a senator who says we must stop spending money we don’t have? Not too many when they discover that the only way to eliminate deficit spending is cutting back on the checks they get. We’re a country more and more divided between those who pay and those who get paid.

How long can we take money from our most productive and give it to our least productive? How long can we borrow from foreigners? Not much longer. The whole rest of the world doesn’t have enough money to keep lending to us - especially when they know we’re paying interest with dollars printed under Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke’s policies of “quantitative easing” and artificially low rates.

Too many Americans have learned that it’s easier to let government support them than to support themselves. Reflecting back on thirty-six years of teaching since my recent retirement, I saw a similar pattern in our government schools. A school district’s eligibility for federal money is often figured based on how many parents fill out forms that enable their children to get free or reduced-cost breakfasts, lunches and dinners. The higher the percentage of families who qualify, the more money the school or the district gets. Schools, therefore, are naturally disinclined to scrutinize financial data parents put on the forms. The tendency is to qualify all who apply. Parents and schools both benefit. Not all kids do, however, because some them will grow up to become the citizens expected to pay back the forty cents of every dollar spent on “free” lunches this year. The old adage still applies after all: “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

Just as an aside: if you saw how much of that food qualifying students throw in the wastebasket every day it would make you sick. People tend not to value what they don’t pay for, students included. Early in my teaching career, I noticed that custodians would save the discarded food for local pig farmers. Then federal government regulators ruled they couldn’t do that. Ever since, it’s gone into the waste stream.

The percentage of students dependent on expensive federal programs is increasing right along with the percentage of adults dependent depend on federal government checks. Students qualifying for federally-mandated special education are “coded.” Even though I earned an advanced degree in special education decades ago, I still have trouble deciphering criteria for certain codes. For a while at least, the simple explanation for someone qualifying as “learning disabled” was functioning at a grade level lower than what would be expected with his/her measured IQ score. The truly disabled had some measurable perceptual or processing deficiency. Others didn’t, but were nonetheless functioning below grade level, and were, therefore, coded. They received the special assistance of a teacher or an educational technician all through school. Several I got to know well over the years, and it was my personal and professional opinion that they simply didn’t want to do the work. They learned early to be helpless as teachers would administrators would lower the bar for them to pass on to the next grade. Every year I’d have several, and it was rare for even one to be kept back. Much more was spent on such students per capita than on those who did the work expected of them.From Motifake.com

Others were coded for behavior problems and that designation changed periodically as well as euphemistically. Some years it was “Behaviorally Handicapped.” Other years it was “Emotionally Disturbed,” and so forth. Some even got their own “educational technician” to follow them around throughout their school day acting as personal secretary or manservant. Parents of these children qualifed for so-called “crazy checks” amounting to several hundred dollars per month. The Urban Dictionary describes them as “often approved for simple and common conditions such as a child (usually in a single-parent household) who can't behave in school.” If their children learned to behave, their crazy checks would stop.

Teachers are encouraged to believe that every child comes to school ready to learn. Trouble is, too many learn that if they don’t work, others will support them. That’s the lesson they carry with them throughout their lives.

And we wonder why America is going bankrupt.