Stroke has Struck Me

Could be a winner boy, ya move quite well …

So maybe you’ve been wondering where I’ve been; it’s been a year and seven months, after all. Just what, exactly, have I been up to?

Did I get caught up with my camera? Did I get lost in the sites and smells of Southeast Asia? Did I get involved in political intrigue there in Bangkok (and there has been a lot of it, lately). Did I finally write that book? Did I chuck it all for the simple life of a Buddhist monk?

Unfortunately, it was none of those things.

My brain on a hematoma ...
“There is a 4.5×2.3×3.1cm mild heterogeneous hyperdense hematoma in left basal ganglion with
moderate surrounding brain edema involving left periventricular white matter, temporal and insular
region; subacute stage of hematoma is possible. There is mass effect, resulting in mild rightward
shifting of midline structure about 2.7mm and obliteration perimesencephalic cistern with mass effect
to left-side midbrain.”

On December 23, just a few days shy of my 45 birthday, I had a stroke — a hemorrhagic stroke, to be precise. You see there are two different kinds of stroke we are worried about, ischemic and hemorrhagic. The vast majority are ischemic, some 80 to 85 percent. The rest are hemorrhagic — essentially the bulk are blood clots in the brain; I had to be part of the “lucky” few who actually had blood in the brain.

So let’s have a look at our hemorrhagic stroke victims. Most of those who don’t get to a hospital right away end up dead; of those that do get to a hospital quickly, half still succumb after the first day or two. The trouble is, I didn’t know this — I didn’t know any of it until well after fact (and lucky that I could learn it at all).

Incidentally, that picture of my brain, taken Dec. 29, is taken from the bottom, looking up, so everything is reversed.

According to the doctors, there was no underlying factor, as far as they could determine. I was overweight then, but I didn’t have high blood pressure or anything like that. It’s “just one of those things.”

All I knew was that at sometime that afternoon, I had, well … something bad. I was sitting in my chair and when I stood up — I fell down. Repeatedly. It was all I could do to make it into bed; my right leg and arm were useless. That’s pretty much all I remember for the next few days, a confusing blur of falling down repeatedly on the way to and from my bed to the bathroom. I don’t remember it but I a took out the bathroom sink during one fall.

After a few days friends started dropping by on Christmas Day; they were concerned they hadn’t seen me in a while. I vaguely remember asking them to come back later; I wasn’t in any condition to answer the door.

It was late on the third day — this would be December 26 — when I finally let someone in the door. By then I was feeling well enough to actually answer it. The next day, my birthday, I decided to visit that hospital. I thought I was just humoring friends, I thought, but the hospital folk took one look at me and ushered me in. You can guess the rest.

Well sort of.

The last I remember is the emergency room on the 27th of December; I woke up on January 4 in ICU. What happened? I don’t really know for sure, but It seems I had a relapse; the bleeding had stopped before but began again. I remember none of  that, from the time checked in until I came to in ICU. Seven days — a week — just gone.

Apparently whatever gains I made in the early days — my leg, my arm — were gone, too. My right hand and arm were just so much meat attached to my torso; my leg wasn’t much better. To say I was a lousy patient — at first — was an understatement.

Eleven days after waking up, I was discharged to an “extended care facility”— nursing home for short — for a month. My leg was good enough for short periods without much help but I still had an ambulance ride out to country where the home was. The staff of the home was great, although it took a few days to get used to showering with help — fully clothed of coarse (them, not me). But I had learned after my first few days in ICU that nurses generally knew what was up.

And what do you know? A few weeks later at the nursing home I could bend my index finger. By the time I checked out a few weeks later I could bend all of my fingers and could walk — within reason — with only the slightest of limps and no help.

Since then it’s been therapy. Lots and lots of therapy. Six days a week, and between that and what I pursue on my own, between gym and at-home workouts, it’s been a full-time job, getting better.

I came home last August, finally, after the doctor signed off and let me fly. So … it’s been over a year now.

Have I gotten better?

Well that depends. What is better? At five months a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time talked with me for 20 minutes before he learned I had had a stroke, and that was because I mentioned it in passing. According to him I’m “better,” or at least nearly so.

I can’t deny it; I’m a very fortunate man who rarely lets a day go by without giving thanks. And yet when I look at my hand and think about my handwriting or my typing — I typed this, for the most part, with my left hand because my right still isn’t up to the task — or when I look at the muscles of my right side in a mirror, I can’t help but think I’ve got months still to go.

Still.

You’re so together boy

Oh, you handsome devil
I swear my nose isn’t that crooked. And how ’bout those horns? Flashed with me my right hand, no less.

And in some ways I think I won’t get better, at least like I was before. My hand writing will never be the same regardless of which hand I use in the future. And even if my right hand continues still to improve — I typed this sentence with both hands, albeit slowly; a month ago I couldn’t — there are things I’ll do left-handed now (I’m right handed, in case anyone needed me to clarify that — well I was. Kind of sloppily ambidextrous now, I guess).

Then there is the brain itself. Fortunately my aneurysm was a relatively small one, about 4.5cm at its widest point, at the base of my brain, namely my left basal ganglia (hence no operation for me). While the motor pathways for my right side are gone, my brain found — is finding — alternate pathways to use.

Huzzah?

Then there was — and is — my attention span. Back in the hospital I could concentrate for about five minutes on a problem before me brain was done; when I got out of the nursing home a month later I was good for 15 minutes. Six months ago I could go for an hour or two before I need a brake, preferably a lengthy one.

Today, I’m more or less back to normal, with regard to my attention span. But what of the rest? My speech and speaking voice are shadows of what they once were, for example, in terms of being heard and understood. One day, it’s okay, the next … not so much.

Time will tell.

But that’s okay.

Maybe it’s just because I had a hemorrhagic stroke and lived to tell about it. Maybe it’s because that after a year of therapy and working out, I’m better than most survivors — I walk into the gym, after all.

Besides, there is a bright side. I weigh the same as I did in high school, for the first time since high school.

Time will tell.

‘Til Death Do Us Part

Death In the Circle of Life: Sala Keoku, Nong Khai, Thailand

I found a small treasure trove of photos I took in Nong Khai at Sala Keoku back in April, 2010, that I never posted to my Flickr account or anywhere else. Huzzah.

Here’s the first of many that will make their way into archive editions of the Photo a Day:

One of the many works at Sala Keoku created by Bunleua Sulilat outside Nong Khai, Thailand

A little bit more about the park’s creator, Bunleua Sulilat. I’ll have to write more about this place later; for now it’s late and I’m sleepy.

Life and Death: a Photo a Day

Entropy Spares No One, Not Even Flowers in a Photo a Day

I actually took these on two separate occasions — obviously — a little while ago, but haven’t posted them elsewhere. And I didn’t see anything ineresting that piqued my photographer’s eye today. Of course Ansel Adams, et al, would say that’s my fault, as opposed to the world at large, and I would not argue.

But I’ve been wanting to post these somewhere. The same flower, a few weeks apart. I’ve been meaning to get a third shot, but I keep forgetting when I find myself back in this particular location. …

Anyway, once again, the trusty Nokia N8 serves for Jeff Chappell’s Photo a Day (or rather, in this case, photos)

Need cheering up? Here’s a (slightly) more happy, somewhat amusing (if I do say so myself) discussion of entropy.

a flower bursting with life ...

... and then a flower withering in death ...

 

On This, An Anniversary of a Mother’s Death

IMG_0088-sunsetLike with Dad, there’s not much for me to say that I haven’t said before, Mom, except perhaps to say that nothing has really changed. Time passes; life goes on. And I enjoy it, for the most part. Perhaps more some; perhaps even more than most — I couldn’t really say. There are the distractions of living in a foreign country and a new language to learn and all that this entails; I’m even making that last official by attending classes.

And yet, and yet. There is a Mom-shaped hole in my psyche that, while scarred over, will never completely heal. I believe in the past I used the analogy of a severed limb; you can learn to live without it, and with the time the stump heals and scars over. But one is never the same despite how well you learn to live without it; the limb never grows back.

This January 19, this, the twelfth anniversary of your death — it staggers me, frankly, that so much time has passed between this moment and then — found me in a beach town in Thailand visiting with friends both local and abroad. We celebrated and got up to hi-jinx and played the drunken tourists. I raged against the dying of the light; I thumbed my nose at entropy and death. I enjoyed the beach and the company and the local rotgut (which to be fair is pretty good rum, actually) and practiced my pidgin Thai — this all interspersed with my quiet time in a cafe in the company of no one and nothing but a cappuccino and a book (one must balance the pleasures of the mind with the pleasures of the flesh — although coffee clearly falls in the latter).

In short, it’s pretty much the prescription for a perfect weekend, one to take your mind off your troubles past and present (not that I have any real troubles, at the moment, to be honest — life is pretty damn good — so much so that finding time to write frequently escapes me). And yet, and yet. Even with all these wonderful blessings, good friends, good food and good drink by the ocean — what more could one ask for? — I remained subtlety aware of the dread anniversary passing by. I may thumb my nose at death, but he always grins his toothy grin and waves in return (it’s impossible to insult a patient adversary who always wins in the end).

Some might say it’s unhealthy to dwell on this date and its terrible significance; to them I say rubbish. Again — I repeat myself — I would cherish every memory of you, even those dark days that came at the end your life, your misery, your pain and your suffering that in very real ways became those of the ones who loved you (and love you still — at least for my part).

For memories are all that are left of you in this world. And were I to (gladly) live a thousand years, Mom, I could never forget you. And as with Dad, I’ll never quite be finished saying goodbye. I will always be in this moment.

And Yet I Cannot Forget, Dad

Windswept Graveyard HDR: St. James' Church, Thornes. Copyright Kevin Wakelam
Windswept Graveyard HDR: St. James’ Church, Thornes. Copyright Kevin Wakelam

Not sure what I can say that I haven’t said before, Dad. Not sure what I can say about your death that I won’t say on the next anniversary, and the next, and the next, ad infinitum. …

Nevertheless, as is years past I feel the need to mark this grim date here, simply for my own edification. Sages of grief tell us that we should dwell not on the bad aspects of death but on the good aspects of life. I would not disagree, and yet some dark part of me can’t or won’t let get of those last days, those last moments of your life. Good or bad, they are the last memories I have of you and I don’t want them to fade, grim as they might be.

Even as time and entropy causes these memories to fade — damn them both — I would cling to them, the good and the bad, the lovely and the ugly, for they are all that I have left of you.

As before, it’s difficult to accept that so much time has passed — four years, to be precise. Even half a world away, living in a foreign culture, with the added distractions of moving into a new apartment and beginning an organized study of a foreign language, December 16 looms large in my consciousness. A day that lives on in personal infamy, along with its sister, January 19.

A dead laptop can keep me from writing about until a week after the fact — yet another distraction — but I cannot forget. I would not, even if I could.

I think being here does make it somewhat easier to deal with, though. They celebrate Christmas here, too, but like the Japanese, it’s merely a secular holiday for them: an excuse to sell things people don’t need; an excuse to buy them; an excuse to listen to awful music; an excuse to celebrate and party — not that Thais need an excuse for that, which is one of the reasons I love them.

So even with the reminders it doesn’t feel like this dread season, but then I think that has more to do with my physical environment than anything else. When its 90 degrees outside — that’d be Fahrenheit, or 32 Celsius — the sun is shining and I can see subtropical plants and flowers outside, when a gecko skitters across my wall chasing after a bug that has wandered in through the open window — well, it’s just doesn’t feel like the Christmas I know and loathe.

For this, Dad, I give thanks. And yet, and yet. Part of me still resides this time of year in a small rural hospital, watching over your last laboring moments of life. Part of me still resides on a frost laden, wind bitten graveyard, next to your casket poised over its hole in the ground, all your grimly playful allusions to “daisy-root sniffing” over the course of my life coming back to me.

And part of me still seethes with anger at how your memory was desecrated and betrayed by those whose petty concerns outweighed your final wishes. Those whom you gave life to and loved. And part of me weeps that I don’t think I’ll ever be man enough to forgive and forget, as you would want me to do.

All that talk in those last months about burying hatchets. Even now I’m astonished about how you knew, or at least suspected in your aged wisdom, what was to come. I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent it, that I didn’t do more than I did to try.

There’s nothing more to say, Dad, except that I love you still, and even though you are gone you are not forgotten. That even now rarely a day goes by that I don’t think of you and Mom, at least fleetingly, in passing, for one reason or another. And that even now I would trade almost anything — years of my own life, even — if I could only have a few precious hours to speak with you again.

Until entropy catches up with me as well — the cancer or the heart disease lurking in my genes, or simply pneumonia — whatever it might be, until then I shall not forget, and I will forever be saying goodbye.

A note on the image: This image isn’t mine; I found it via a Google image search for “windswept graveyard.” The graveyard where my parents are buried unfortunately isn’t quite so picaresque. Anyway, the original by one Kevin Wakelam can be found here. 

Picking the Faded Blue

On this dread anniversary — so close on the heels of the other one — one of my favorite poems from Robert Frost, A Late Walk:

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.

Time will not heal this wound, Mom, no matter how much time passes between then and now. I won’t let it.

a grim, yet fitting, reminder

Christmas Karma Gets a Leg Up on Me

Quadriceps tendon tear: 24 hours after and awaiting to go under the orthopedic surgeon's knife.Well played Christmas, well played.

I honestly didn’t see it coming, this time around. Had no idea what you had in store for me. Had even been feeling pretty good mentally; the ghosts that traditionally haunt me this time of year had been quiet. Having gotten over a bad chest cold some weeks before, I had even begun to think I would be allowed to pass through the Yule season without so much as sniffle, much less a loved-one dropping dead.

How many holiday seasons have passed since I could claim that? Certainly not since the previous century have I been able to enjoy such a December.

How silly of me, however, to believe that Christmas Karma wouldn’t manifest itself in some form. I should know better. Of course, dear Christmas, were I to anthropomorphize you – which I suppose I have already done – you would have been thinking “Oh, no. I don’t think so. You’re not getting off that easily; you’re going to have a Merry Fucking Christmas after all.

“In fact I’m going to return to a familiar theme, one that’s always sure to please: Xmas Time in the Hospital. Fa La Fucking La, bitch! But lets not dwell on previous glories; rather, let’s add a new twist. Let’s make you the one that ends up in the hospital this time, eh?”

As I prepare to go under the knife, this Christmas Eve, let me say again, well-played Christmas, well played. And fuck you too.

In the immortal words of seminal West Coast punk band Fear:


but for me, it’s not so great
Fuck Christmas. Fuck Christmas. Fuck Christmas! FUCK CHRISTMAS!

I seem to be lacking bi-lateral symmetry. Quadriceps teandon tear, 24-hours after, and waiting to go under the orthopedic surgeon's knife.

Looking Back on a Father’s Death

Sculptor August Rodin's Falling ManWell, Dad, it’s been three years.

I sometimes wonder where I would have to go to escape the trappings and reminders of this time of year. The remote jungles of New Guinea or Argentina? The deserts of Africa? The Moon?

Then I wonder: were I ever to actually find such a place, would it really matter? Would it be enough to keep from thinking about what this time of year means? Would it be enough, when each hour, each minute that ticks by echoes and reverberates in my conscious, making me almost preternaturally aware of the passage of time, as it ticks down to these two black anniversaries looming – each moment resonating in me like the telltale heart that beats under Poe’s floorboards.

No, I suppose it wouldn’t. And as I’ve remarked before, part of me doesn’t want to forget, painful as it is to remember, painful as it is that your last breath lingers in a corner of my mind, and will for as long as I have one.

I did manage to forget about this time of year for awhile yesterday and the day before. I had just moved into my temporary apartment – because my actual apartment that I’m renting (in the same building as the aforementioned room) won’t be available until January 3. Upon moving into this temporary room in the same building I found not one but two roaches. Granted one was dead, and here Southeast Asia, frankly, as in any warm climate, there’s really no avoiding the occasional roach; you’re going to find one in your bathroom sooner or later. Still, it’s not a welcome site on your first day in your new pad.

But Wait, There’s More!

Then I woke up yesterday to find the hot water heater isn’t working. Okay, roaches and no hot water – maybe I should have spent more time apartment hunting, eh Dad? Maybe the extra money I was spending on that guesthouse was money well spent. At least it had hot water and no roaches.

Then last night, I log onto my bank account back in the United States just to verify the funds I believe I have in there, before I buy some plane tickets and hotel reservations for a trip next month. After all, Dad — even though I know you would look askance at my spending habits, being a child of the Depression and whatnot – some of what you and Mom tried to teach me permeated my thick skull: I make it a point never to spend money I don’t have. So a glance upon logging in reveals that there is considerably less money than there should be in my account – specifically about a $1,000 less.

I look closely at the recent transactions and see a bunch of transactions that show up as international ATM withdrawals – withdrawals that I never made. Four of the five of these transactions all appear on the same date as the day that I last used my card myself. I remember specifically when I last used it, as I have a local account with an ATM card here in Viet Nam, which I use for day to day cash needs. Furthermore, I save all my ATM receipts (again the influence of you and Mom).

Yeah, I know, if I would just use banks instead of ATMs, and actually deal with people this wouldn’t have happened. But you know, Dad, I’ve been using ATMs to do my banking since 1988, and this is the first time something like this has happened. Yes, I should probably consider myself fortunate, mucking about in parts foreign, that this hasn’t happened before.

But what’s really odd is that I still have my card in my possession. And no, as I answered to the customer service person I talked to last night, I never let anyone else use it, and it was never out of my possession. While the ATM codes within the transactions listed in my account are somewhat inscrutable, it appears that these transactions took place in Russia – Stalingrad, in fact.

Russian crooks here in Viet Nam have somehow spoofed my ATM card. Fuckers. Not sure how; even if they were able to observe me enter my pin, would my card have been out long enough to capture an image with high enough resolution to see the number on the card? Could they have hacked the ATM machine, either electronically or physically?

Furthermore, is it too late to nuke what remains of the Soviet Union? Where’s Ronald Reagan and Caspar Weinberger when I need them?

Damned if I know. I just know I’m not going to use the ATM’s in the backpacker ghetto of District 1 in Ho Chi Minh City anymore. And since I don’t have access to nuclear weapons, I’ll just have to bend over and take it. Of course I don’t know that they were actually Russian; just because the transactions show up as having taken place at a Russian ATM doesn’t mean the thief or thieves were Russian.

Anyway now those charges are disputed, my card is invalidated, and I have to have a bunch of paperwork and my new card delivered via courier to me here in Viet Nam at my expense. The bank will only ship it to my address of record – that being my address back in the States – so it falls to me to arrange to get it here; one hopes one can trust the employees of Fed Ex.

So yeah, the last thirty six hours have kind of sucked, but such is the life lived abroad. You deal with these sorts of things when they arise or you go home. On the other hand, I had my first observation review with my boss at the school where I’m now teaching – the observation having taken place last week – and that all went well. Even so, it has occupied my thoughts of late. To say that I’ve been preoccupied these days would be an understatement.

And yet, Dad … and yet.

Underneath it all, I’m still acutely aware of the passage of time; acutely aware of just what time of year it is. Despite the fact that temperatures are still approaching 90 degrees Fahrenheit during the day, and the weather is humid; despite the fact that the trees are green and flowers bloom and local fruit is readily available – despite this I know that it is winter and the time of dread anniversaries.

The trappings of the season one finds in Viet Nam, and indeed much of Southeast Asia – a secular version of Christmas with skinny Santas in flashy gold outfits and sappy versions of Christmas songs I never knew existed until I came here (I hear covers of Wham’s “Last Christmas” 10 times a day; it’s a terrible pop song so be glad you haven’t heard of it) – these all serve as reminders as well. The fact that they are almost always seemingly culturally out of place only make them stand out that much more – that and the fact that it’s all unironically and unapologetically consumerist in nature.

So here we are Dad, three years to the day down the road. Well, I’m here, anyway, but you are not.

And that is indeed what this is all about, isn’t it? The fact that you aren’t here, that you are gone, never to return. Actually as I write this it is only the early morning of December 16 back home in the States, so technically the anniversary of your death won’t be for several more hours yet. But here on the other side of the planet, that day is already here.

And even though three years of passed – and what eventful years they’ve been in my life – you’re still never far from my thoughts. It is rare that a day passes and I don’t think of you or Mom, for one reason or another.

A Road Less Traveled?

It seems hard to believe that three years have passed since your death, and that it will be 11 years in January since Mom died; this time of year always makes your deaths seem so close to me in time. Like my memories of her, some of my memories of you have begun to fade, while others sharpen. As my own age begins to catch up with the age you were when my earliest memories were forming, those childhood images I have of you seem to gain clarity.

It boggles my mind to think that when you were 42 – well, in a few weeks I’ll be 43, won’t I? – that I was already two years old, and that you had three older children, two of which were teenagers already. There but for the grace of God (or more precisely, vulcanized rubber) go I.

I suppose it’s somewhat ironic, this, considering the country where I live currently – many if not most of my students have parents my age; often they are even younger than I. Here in Southeast Asia people find it even more incomprehensible than you and Mom did that I have no wish for marriage and family – that someone would chose to be solitary, and happily so. Some of my students got me a piggy bank for Teacher’s Day here in Viet Nam because, according to them, I need to save money in order to get married. Then one of the Vietnamese people I work with asked me the other day If I had ever married; I told him with a smile that I had dodged that bullet. I added that I was engaged once, though, but that I had wised up before it was too late.

He looked mystified and just said “Oh, I’m sorry,” because in his world view there could be other response to this than condolences. It was one of those “Toto-we’re-definitely-not-in-Kansas” moments I relish living abroad. I grok a little bit more about the local culture and that of my own, and consequently myself – and this is a wonderful thing; it’s ultimately why we travel, yes?

I only wish you could be here to talk about all this in person. There’s so much I’d like to tell you about the last three years. I count myself fortunate that I at least had a few years to get to know you not as your child but as a fellow adult – albeit one whose life took very different turns than your own (sometimes to your chagrin, I know). I think I was only just beginning to come into my own person as a fully-formed adult – yes, I hear you laughing as you say that when I was in my 20s you didn’t think that day would ever come – when Mom died. I rue the fact that I was only just beginning to get to know here as one adult to another when death took her; if there is any sort of justice in the universe someone will have to answer for that after my own death comes.

In any event Dad, once again know that you are gone but not forgotten – that you never could be. That in some ways, even though life goes on, that time passes, that the ghosts remain quiet for long stretches of time, know that I’m still standing by your bedside watching impotently as entropy takes you away from me, that even as it does this, that I declare that it can be damned along with the entire universe before I will forget

Wherever you are now, know this, Dad.

Even though my siblings and I let you down in such a horrible way, I hope your spirit can find some solace in this.

Time, Entropy and a Mother’s Death

And to think this terrible anniversary almost slipped by unmarked.

Greek cemetery stele at Karameikos: a child bids farewell to his dead mother.But not so much time has passed – as marked in emotion and memory. In years it has been 10. And even as the conscious mind wanders farther and farther away from that moment in both time and space, the subconscious does not, can not, will not forget.

Lately I’ve been having trouble sleeping. In spite of the fact that my immune system seems to have finally overcome my tenacious Xmas-time viral malady, and I’ve been able to venture forth once more on my bicycle; in spite of the fact that I have small but steady income from work that I enjoy (although at times it can be by turns frustrating and boring) – in spite of regular exercise and relative lack of worries, sleep has been short and fitful for some days now.

It’s been long enough that I had begun to worry about it – it had begun to affect my mood, which is always somewhat fragile at best. But this is a futile worry; worse than futile really – herein lies a vicious cycle.

The night before last, however, I finally slept soundly for nearly eight hours — out of exhaustion more than anything else, I think. I awoke refreshed and relieved. But last night, after four short hours, I woke, for no apparent reason, the wisps of some un-recalled dream quickly scattering to the winds of consciousness. Instinctively I realized that further sleep was not to be had this night

I glanced at my watch and spied the date – it seemingly leaped at me off the face of my watch: January 20 – the day after. And suddenly I knew why sleep was loathe to come to me lately.

It seems ghosts have long memories; shades never forget, even if the living do, preoccupied as we are with seemingly important mortal affairs.

And yet, somehow, grim as it may seem, I’m glad. Grim as it was, I don’t want to forget my mother’s death. I don’t want to forget anything about her, even though as the years pass memories, both good and bad, inevitably fade.

Time and entropy rob of us of everything, in the end.

So even though I’m half a world and a decade away from that terrible, awful time, I’m glad that ghosts are restless. I’m glad that somewhere deep in my emotional, limbic brain, some core part of me has been aware of this passing anniversary on a subliminal level, even as I have been diverted by life in an exotic locale and preoccupations with the present and near future.

I’ve said these words to you before and will say them again (and again), Mother: you are gone, but I haven’t forgotten. Even though the years pass and new experiences and memories pile up inside my my head, crowding precious recollections, the grief and longing are still there, fresh as they ever were, just under the surface.

And then as now, I’d give nearly anything to have you back, whole, healthy, and aware, even if just for an hour or two.

I still love you and miss you, Mom; time and entropy be dammed.

Pondering the Politicizing of Tucson

Walt Kelly's Pogo: "We have met the enemy, and he is us."Even before the dead are buried and the survivors have healed physically from their wounds – seemingly before the blood was washed from the sidewalk — the left and the right stepped in with pointed fingers, wielding the same tired old clichés of their respective rhetorics. The survivors – both the wounded and those who lost loved ones and friends – have barely begun to grieve, and yet the wounded and the dead have already become American political pawns.

I don’t believe for a moment that right-wing rhetoric caused Jared Loughner’s mental imbalance, but I think it’s undeniable that he was influenced by that rhetoric in his choice of victims and the way in which he chose to attack them. The strategic editing and sanitizing of Sarah Palin’s website and Twitter stream in the wake of the shooting is telling; the fact that right-wing mouthpieces immediately went on the defensive even more so.

It’s utterly reprehensible and disgusting.

What’s also equally utterly reprehensible and disgusting is the way the left immediately began pointing fingers and crying “See, see! Your fault!” From the mainstream media all the way down to my Facebook page, index fingers were flexed within hours.

The real shame of it is that there was opportunity in this tragedy – an opportunity to perhaps wrangle a bit of meaning out of otherwise senseless death. Both sides could have taken a thoughtful and nuanced approach and suggest that maybe we as an American culture should examine the nature of the current political discourse in the wake of this tragedy.

But no. The left resorted to the same tools that they claim to loathe when wielded by the right: rhetoric founded on baser emotions rather than logic, and finger pointing. And the right immediately began defending their own choice of rhetoric by spouting the same – an excellent opportunity for more of the same angry polemic pontification that they love so much.

Well played, left and right. You have met the enemy, and they are you. These days I fear we have already given up the ship.*

So many people lamented the right-wing politicizing of 9/11; here those same left-wing people are politicizing another tragedy, albeit a smaller one (at least to those of us who didn’t lose a loved one in Tucson). And here we have the right-wing polemicists refusing to even accept the possibility that they may have influenced Loughner’s choice of manifesting his insanity.

Have we learned nothing? Will we ever?

I’ve said it before; I’ve no doubt I’ll say it again. There is only one thing more disgusting than a Republican, and that’s a Democrat. But today I think it is the other way around. People on the right played to type. People on the left, however, for all their claimed enlightenment, should conceivably have known better, and conducted themselves accordingly; they did not.

I might say they chose not to, but I don’t think it was actually a matter of choice, unfortunately.

If we want to find someone to blame for this tragedy, as Americans, we should each of us look in the mirror.

*Apologies to Walt Kelly and Oliver Perry.

P.S.  Editorial cartoonist Matt Bors has an interesting take on the Tucson tragedy, most of which I happen to agree with. Plus this sadly amusing comic:

Matt Bors' take on the Tucson Tragedy and what's happening in its wake.