I Sighed Aloud

Did you?

About 45 minutes into the speech, that beautiful, rhetorically marvelous, speech tonight, I sighed aloud. The audience did, too.  I can't remember the context beyond the fact that he is leaving.

I sighed.

Going forward, I imagine I'll be outraged and horrified and I'll be screaming and groaning.  But tonight, watching the Father In Chief do Aaron Sorkin as well as Aaron Sorkin does Aaron Sorkin, I sighed.

And then, I cried.

Doing The Work

NPR told me that unfriending people on Facebook is not the way to advance the discussion.  The panel told me to listen, to learn, to open my mind to hearing disparate views.

I'm fine with that.

My No Labels quotes, shared on my Facebook page, get positive responses from the most conservative, Evangelical, not-on-my-page-at-all, connections.

There is something to be said about finding a center, about working with one another instead of screaming as we hold onto the outer edges of our beliefs.  I'm trying to be open minded.

TBG says that Hillbilly Elegy opened his eyes to the other. Watching Longmire on Netflix last night reminded us that not everyone lives within shouting distance of a Walgreens or a Walmart.  The disconnect between what I feel and what is happening seems to be getting wider with every passing hour.  I'm trying to bridge the gap.

And then I think of the gunman in Ft. Lauderdale.

He reloaded 3 times.

Had our shooter had the chance to reload, I am certain that I would
not be sitting at my desk typing this to you.  I would be dead.  But citizen heroes, Roger Salzgeber and Col. Bill Badger, 70 year old white guys just standing in line like the rest of us, jumped over fallen bodies and tackled the man before he could put another magazine in his Glock.  Pat Maisch grappled for the magazine, wrenching it away before more damage could be done.

There were no heroes in Ft. Lauderdale.  There were people running for their lives (understandable) and people hiding in terror (even more understandable) and people who lost their shoes and their luggage and their identification in the tumult (laughable, in a dark humor sort of way) but there were no people willing to jump the gunman and disarm him.

As Pat Maisch said in her editorial, here in Tucson two brave men, good guys without guns...tackled the shooter without regard for their own safety.  How sad that there were no heroes in the airport in Ft. Lauderdale.  How many lives might have been saved?  

Teddy Roosevelt was right:

Sometimes, the solution involves putting yourself at risk.  Sometimes the solution is as simple as making a phone call.  Sitting quietly on the sidelines is not an option.  We are all in this together.  We all need to do the work.

Six Years After

I met Pat Maisch at the Fire Station #1, at 10 o'clock on a sunny, cool, Tucson morning.  She held me as I wept.  I thanked the fire chief for the upcoming bell-ringing ceremony, and thanked the EMT and the Fire Fighter who were standing by.  They understand the irony and the absurdity and the horror best of all.

As Pat says, I'm so glad they are in my life and I hate the fact that they are in my life.

At 10:10, the bell began ringing.  6 mournful tones, each one ripping just a little bit deeper into my heart.  A pause.  Then, 13 strikes, for those of us wounded but surviving.  I shivered and remembered.

Pat wrote an editorial published in the Arizona Star on Sunday morning.  I'm copying it here for you.  Read it and see why I love this woman.  Pay careful attention to the parts about speaking out in the Senate and in the halls of Congress; she was detained by the police for those.  This is a person who puts her body where her mouth is.

As for me, I wept. Then I drove to the YarnBombing site and did good deeds all afternoon, sitting outside in the sunshine, stitching together panels from Arizona and Washington and Arkansas.  I was smiling as I drove home to hug JannyLou and Fast Eddie, the world's best next door neighbors.

The sun came up today and I was here to see it.  By definition, it's a good day.
*****

Six years since Jan. 8, 2011. Seems like moments ago or eons ago, depending. Life has a new normal for many since. Witnessing six people shot dead and 13 wounded on a sidewalk at Ina and Oracle roads on a beautiful Tucson morning changed me, as it should.

That morning two brave men, good guys without guns, Roger Salzgeber and Bill Badger, tackled the shooter without regard for their own safety. Bill soldiered on even with a bullet graze wound to the head. Their actions saved my life that morning.

As a result of my supplementing their action, I’ve received a what feels like a lifetime of attention. President Obama praised me in his speech at the memorial gathering here shortly after the shooting, even though I told him he was wrong about me being a hero. Bill and Roger were the heroes that morning.

Because of my notoriety, Mayors Against Illegal Guns (now Everytown/Moms Demand Action) was the first to give my story a voice for gun violence prevention. Americans for Responsible Solutions, the Coalition to Stop Gun Violence, Women Against Gun Violence, Reston Herndon Alliance to End Gun Violence, Newtown Action Alliance and more have given my story a voice.

Because of my good fortune that day, I must make a difference, as an activist, with a voice for voices silenced by gun violence.

Since that Jan. 8 there have been so many mass shootings, numbers differ by agency count. Infamous ones include: 12 killed 70 wounded in Aurora, Colorado; Sandy Hook Elementary School found six educators and 20 tiny, beautiful, first-graders killed; in Isla Vista, California three dead of stab wounds, 3 killed and 7 wounded by firearms; San Bernardino’s shooters killed 14 and injured 22; a Charleston church shooting left nine dead and one wounded; then Orlando, Florida.

I often wondered who would take Virginia Tech’s distinction of most killed in a single shooting. Virginia Techs’ 32 dead in 2007 held the record until 2016. Then, Pulse Night Club in Orlando, June 12. Forty-nine dead, 53 wounded. Now I wonder who’s next if we don’t try to help stop the madness.

Through advocacy, I’m honored to know many wounded survivors, as well as surviving loved ones of many shootings, from those I’ve mentioned and from other individual and mass shootings. With the honor comes knowledge, horrible knowledge of the visible physical wounds and a sense of the emotional wounds. Then there is the knowledge of how a loved one was killed. I can only imagine the unimaginable, but victims’ families and friends live it, every minute of every day. It doesn’t stop.

For me, this terrible knowledge carries a self-imposed responsibility to continue to stand up, to speak out, to be loud, whether at a Senate hearing, a state hearing in Arizona or elsewhere, a sit-in at the U.S. Capitol Rotunda. Anywhere.

A recent “anywhere” was the first day of class at a University of Arizona lecture hall. Putting a face and personality to a name of one taken makes that person and that shooting much more real. In this case, we talked about Alex Teves, a 2010 UA grad who had been a true hero in that Aurora, Colorado movie theater when the shooting started. Alex sacrificed his life and saved his fiancé, Amanda.

Alex’s mom, Caren, was with me when I told that class about Alex, including his freshman dorm room. To our astonishment, from more than 6,000 new students on campus that day, one young lady in our audience had that exact room assignment. What a tender coincidence. Those little “coincidences” mean so much to the loved ones of those slain. .

Each day an average of 91 people die from a firearm wounds. Two-thirds are deaths by self-infliction — suicides. An important number consistently forgotten, and easily dismissed by some, is the daily count of those wounded by gunshots. The latest number I know is 231. Their wounds range from a graze to very complicated, life-altering injuries. The consequences of a man holding a gun loaded with ammunition. A very intimate relationship, that.

My advocacy tries to educate and convince legislators that we can keep the Second Amendment whole and do common sense measures to keep guns out of the hands of people who are a danger to self or others. Some will never be convinced, and to them we say “Stand aside, let us pass!” It’s our right to try and we have work to do.

Today, please remember the 13 wounded including our former Congresswoman, Gabby Giffords, and those killed on the sidewalk that day: Dorothy Morris, Dorwan Stoddard, Phyllis Schneck, Judge John Roll, Gabe Zimmerman and beautiful, little, 9-year-old, Christina-Taylor Green.

Honor their lives with action because words without action change little. Do something to make a difference in someone’s life.

Remember them. I do, every day. Always.

On Jan. 8, 2011 Patricia Maisch wrestled ammunition away from the shooter and stopped him from reloading. She lives in Tucson.

How Am I Doing?

This is a reflective week for me, as I recall my life 6 years ago, before I was perforated.  The memories come  fast and furious, and Vin Diesel is no where in sight.

Six years ago today I finally mastered the Pilates roll up, after a decade of failed attempts.  I succeeded on Thursday, and was shot on Saturday.  It didn't seem fair then, and it doesn't seem fair, now.  I'm still struggling to finish one without grabbing my thighs or a helping hand in front of me.  Of all the things I lost when bullets and I intersected, this is the one that remains the most infuriatingly out of reach.

It will come.  I know it will.

I have sensation all through my thigh muscles, almost all the way down to the deepest parts of my quadriceps.  My adductors, the brevis and the longus and the magnus and minimus, are attempting to work in harmony with one another.  I feel them scrunching and stretching and trying their hardest.

It's a mind over matter situation, too.

I anticipate the sharp shooting fireworks that result from their active engagement, even though it's far less bothersome than it has been in the past.  I remember Kelley, the RIC PT, encouraging me to assess the threat value of the feeling and I try, I really do try, to acknowledge that it is fleeting and not destructive.  I try to breathe through it, even though I want to scream.  It hurts but I'm not causing any further damage.  That's the mantra I repeat to myself while remembering to keep my pelvis stable and my lower abs engaged and the entire leg pressed firmly into the mat.

There's a lot going on all at once.  That's what makes the work so interesting, even after all these years.  It's also what makes it so frustrating.

Then, again, I am here to kvetch about it, so there's really no problem at all.

I have more endurance; I can park far from the doorway of the grocery store without worrying that I won't make it back to my car.  I still like to lean on the cart as we cruise the aisles, but I use that time to consciously work on my gait.  Lifting my knee is no longer precluded by scar tissue.  I simply forget to do it unless TBG is there to remind me.  But, holding onto the shopping cart's sturdy handle, I can prance and place my foot down with the same energy and strength on both sides.

That is progress.

I carried FlapJilly down the stairs on my back last week.  That was impossible to contemplate, let alone accomplish, when we visited at Halloween.  I shoveled and raked and lifted with SIR as we cleaned the roofing shingles and nails from his lawn and garden and deck.  We worked for almost an hour.  I was sweaty and energized and I didn't hurt at all.... until I sat down and took stock of my aches and pains.  But, they were healthy, I-worked-hard kinds of pains, and they felt good in my soul.

The piece that makes me happiest, though, happened just this morning in the gym.  My usual routine is five leg and butt exercises after stretches and push-ups and plank.  This morning, I decided to treat myself.  I did chest and triceps and have left my lower body workout for Pilates this afternoon.  I did bench press and french press and used the Gravitron to do dips.  I smiled at myself as I realized that I was using exercise as a reward, just as I did before.

Before.  I'm getting back to where I was as a physical human being.  The rest of it.... that's another story for another post.

For now, Before doesn't seem that long ago. That's a good thing.

That T - A Snippet

Yesterday, I mentioned a T at the end of my Medicare identification number, wondering what it meant.

Last night we went out with our Cornell Friends, and The Dartmouth Man chimed in.

He wondered what the B at the end of his wife's number meant, and went online to research it.

"Aged Wife."

We laughed and laughed and I felt marginally better about being Officially Old and then I went home and discovered that my T means

Uninsured - Entitled to Health Insurance Benefits HIB (Medicare Part A) under deemed or renal provisions; or Fully insured who have elected entitlement only to Health Insurance Benefits (Medicare Part A) - (and not yet entitled to retirement benefits - entitled to Medicare but not yet drawing Social Security Benefits)

It's gobbledygook to me.  The grammar is so bad, I won't even try to decipher it.  I'll just laminate my card and stop obsessing.

Officially Old

My Medicare card came in the mail today.

It's red, white, and blue, identifies me as FEMALE, and has added a T to the end of my social security number.  Why a T?  I do not know.  Yet, there it is and there it will stay.

No longer will i have to break out my BlueCrossBlueShieldofArizona identification card to remember my Plan ID Number.  I just have to remember to put a T at the end of the nine digits I've known since I was a little girl, getting my own savings account after registering for my own social security number.

Then, I felt very adult.  Now, I feel old.

I spent an hour or so with a lovely insurance lady who explained the varieties of Plans available.  I got lost, a bit, in the Deductibles and Monthly Payments and Total Cost Per Year calculations, but she sounded as if she knew what she was talking about.  Fast Eddie and JannyLou and TBG have all worked with her, being older (and wiser?) than I.  I have confidence in them, and so, by extension, confidence in her.

Still, I was a bit uncomfortable, trying not to cough or sneeze in her comfy chair, in her sunny office,  as we arranged for medical coverage for my dotage.

G'ma and Daddooooo had Medicare.  I managed the bills. I presented the cards, squeezed out of the slots in their why-would-I-need-a-new-one-this-works-just-fine wallets.  I never imagined taking my own card out of my own wallet.

Yet, here I am.  Officially Old.  My government will take care of my basic medical needs, because, as the lady explained to me, as I had explained in the past, this is not welfare.  I paid for this by working.

Of course, I didn't work anywhere long enough to have contributed enough to cover my costs.  It's my kids' FICA contributions which will take care of me.  That's a lovely thought, but also somewhat disheartening.  Will there be someone to work and pay for their costs when they are Officially Old?

I don't have an answer for that, nor for the What will I do when they privatize Medicare? reel that is on a perpetual loop in my brain.  I've got a fairly expensive drug plan, in case the generic Crestor doesn't work and I have to return to the brand name.  Will Big Pharma price me out of a healthy old age?  Why did some companies raise their rates 8% and then, six months later, another 14% last year?
Will our carefully husbanded resources be able to keep up?

I sit in my lovely house with a hefty bank balance and I wonder.  I'm relatively healthy right now, but who knows what tomorrow will bring?  The future is out of my hands, resting with Congress and the Fates and the Furies.

Is this the beginning of a querulous old age?  There's no reason for it, and yet, here it is.

Somebody smack me if I become too morose.

A Moment

There are some moments in time which catch my heart.

It's unexpected, a piece of the action which brings me back 30 years in one glance.

He's four and a half helping his 2-years-younger-the-same-age-as-FlapJilly-right-now into The Golden Nugget on Clark Street.  We were breakfast regulars; Big Cuter knew just how heavy the front doors could be. 

 Can you feel the proprietary nature of his relationship to the door and the little girl?  

He's balanced and careful and nurturing and allowing her to feel as independent as she'd like to be.

That worked for his sister and it works for his niece.  

Still, his hand is quite firmly ensconced in her tiny pink mitten; she's cocky but not stupid, after all.

I can't stop looking at it.

It's the wallpaper on my smart phone. 

His holding the door below the push plate so that FlapJilly wouldn't have to lean.

He's keeping it all accessible to her, down at 3 feet above the ground.

She's small and she's sturdy and she's his responsibility.

There is no doubt that he takes it seriously.

Yes, probably, I am making too much of this.

But when one is suffering from family-withdrawal-after-the-holidays, one tends to obsess.

Just a little.

2017

TBG thinks it's an interesting number, 2,017.  That's the way he is, calculating and examining the world from a mathematical perspective.  

I find it amusing that I've arrived at the second year I imagined when I was a child. The first was 2000, when I would be the unimaginable age of 48.  The second was this, 2017, when I'd be Officially Old - 65.

FlapJilly and her parents went to a Noon Year's Eve Party (at a library, of course) designed for those who couldn't stay up until midnight but who certainly could manage 12 noon and ended twelve hours later with my daughter, in her backyard, with a fleece blanket over her shoulders, slashing the top off a bottle of champagne with a crowbar instead of a sabre.

Facebook is exploding with wasn't that the worst year ever??? but I'm more anxious about the future than I am about the past.  The last night of Hanukkah coincided with the end of the old year, and the lights reminded me that miracles do exist, that the way will be brighter than, perhaps, we can imagine.

But the best thought of all, the one that reminds me to look to the light, was this note, shared by SIR's cousin, on New Year's Eve.  If you're looking for a reason to remember 2016 with fondness, here it is:

As much as 2016 sucked for so many people, I had one of the best years ever. My Mom was here for EVERY SINGLE DAY of it!!!!!! And they told us she wouldn't even live to see one day of it. Silly doctors, they didn't know who they were talking to.

Happy New Year, denizens!  May it be filled with wonderful surprises.

Saying Goodbye

My body returns to Tucson today, but my heart remains behind.

The Best Library

We've been on a tour of the local libraries this vacation.

It's the best, free, indoor activity for an Indiana winter.

Today's adventure took us to the St. Joseph County Public Library in South Bend.

There was one marvel after another, starting with this perfectly appropriate Christmas tree in the lobby.

We rode the elevator to the third floor, the space reserved for children, and found ourselves in a train centered wonderland.  First, we had to enter through the luggage tunnel:

TBG and Flapjilly were the happiest campers, conversing

through the train car's window.

When he turned around, Grandpa was amused by this very useful moose.

There were computers everywhere, on big tables and on little desks 

We distracted the digital native with the magnetic table; you moved the fish and the lizards with wands from below. Somehow, Little Cuter managed to stack them atop one another; it was a bit too graphic an image for a 2 year old, so we moved on.

Story time was a lesson in "You don't have to be able to carry a tune to amuse little children."

The librarian sang and jumped and read and clapped and then it was time to go.  It was hard to extricate the little one; there were so many wonderful books to read. Only the promise of lunch with Daddy allowed us to put on her coat.

We told her not to worry.We know we will be returning on our next visit.

A Most Generous Grandchild

She shares hugs.

She shares giggles.

She shares stories and baby dolls and lots and lots of books.

And, of course, she shares her germs.

This is how I spent hours between 3 and 5 this morning:

Dinner

Big Cuter likes to cook. FlapJilly likes to help. Little Cuter reigns in her kitchen.

Grandma ate and enjoyed every bite.

The food tastes much better when I don't have to do anything but bask in the love of those I love.

It's a very happy Hanukkah, indeed.

Happy Heart

For this ten day trip, I packed three library books and four new downloads on my Kindle.

My girls seem to be following in my footsteps.

My heart is full.