I've been spending a lot of time volunteering at Seasonal Worker's lately. Jason is working there more than full-time and I am in there almost full-time. Some of the work is pretty sad. Every day we see five or six families (at least, many days it is more than that), needing emergency food. Many people come in requesting blankets or warm clothes and we do the best we can to help them find what they need. It feels like a revolving door though, anything we do isn't going to be enough. Until people in the valley are making enough money to survive on, the best we can do is to keep sending them out with bags of food, or blankets and some hope.
I wish they didn't need us. It is going to be a long, cold winter for a lot of people.
Friday, November 19, 2004
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
For Jean
She wears poverty like broken in jeans
that are frayed at the bottoms
and have holes in the knees
and waits for disability to come through
so she can pay off a 40 thousand dollar hospital bill
while she visits the food banks
and wonders how to rescue her dreams.
You can't think about politics
when every ounce you have is going to simple survival.
It is a mean world
and the winter will be long and cold.
I listen
and tell.
She wears poverty like broken in jeans
that are frayed at the bottoms
and have holes in the knees
and waits for disability to come through
so she can pay off a 40 thousand dollar hospital bill
while she visits the food banks
and wonders how to rescue her dreams.
You can't think about politics
when every ounce you have is going to simple survival.
It is a mean world
and the winter will be long and cold.
I listen
and tell.
Ashland Utilities Disfavors Working Poor
by Vanessa Houk
Ashland's utility tax is regressive to the poor. If our community wants to do more to help ease some of the problems low income people face in our community, we should consider abolishing this tax for people living below the federal poverty line.
We live in one of the most beautiful places in Oregon. Tourists are drawn to Ashland not only because of the Shakespeare Festival, but because there is an atmosphere of warmth and creativity here. Many have retired here for the same reasons. We lost our beloved Briscoe School as a direct result of the upsurge in retirees and we will soon see Lincoln Elementary close as well. Families are struggling to stay in this community.
Like many other families, we were affected by 9-11 in an economic sense. Jason had a good paying job, but was laid off and since then he has taken short part-time and seasonal work. Whatever he could get, whether it was climbing on a roof with a construction crew or maintenance work, he has done everything he can to stay actively employed. Both of us have. From paid writing gigs to cleaning a local art gallery and library, small bits of money trickle in. We battle to try and stay current on rent and utilities, but I look at it as a learning experience. Poverty 101, if you will. It's taught me a lot about human kindness, but also about greed.
We hear a lot about Ashland's commitment to low income housing, and our collective commitment to families like mine and while I am grateful for that, I have to say that in this dialog we are ignoring a larger problem. Ashland public utilities collects a 25% tax, the Electric User's Tax, which is overly burdensome to low income residents. For middle and upper income people, this tax does not amount to much, but for families like mine, this tax is a hardship. The cities own web site says it needs this money in order to support "city services", although there is no further explanation. I'm sure it is an important part of the cities 2004-2005, 94 million dollar budget (which, by the way can be found online-- all 422 pages of it), but I am at a loss as to why this needs to be at the duress of the elderly and working poor?
One of the promises that is listed in Ashland's "goals", is that "the city will strive to provide resources and services to meet basic human needs," but while we are collecting this tax from people who are living below the federal poverty level, we are failing to keep that promise. Access to electricity is a basic human necessity. Let's keep the lights on for low income residents and keep our commitment to a more affordable Ashland by ending this regressive tax.
by Vanessa Houk
Ashland's utility tax is regressive to the poor. If our community wants to do more to help ease some of the problems low income people face in our community, we should consider abolishing this tax for people living below the federal poverty line.
We live in one of the most beautiful places in Oregon. Tourists are drawn to Ashland not only because of the Shakespeare Festival, but because there is an atmosphere of warmth and creativity here. Many have retired here for the same reasons. We lost our beloved Briscoe School as a direct result of the upsurge in retirees and we will soon see Lincoln Elementary close as well. Families are struggling to stay in this community.
Like many other families, we were affected by 9-11 in an economic sense. Jason had a good paying job, but was laid off and since then he has taken short part-time and seasonal work. Whatever he could get, whether it was climbing on a roof with a construction crew or maintenance work, he has done everything he can to stay actively employed. Both of us have. From paid writing gigs to cleaning a local art gallery and library, small bits of money trickle in. We battle to try and stay current on rent and utilities, but I look at it as a learning experience. Poverty 101, if you will. It's taught me a lot about human kindness, but also about greed.
We hear a lot about Ashland's commitment to low income housing, and our collective commitment to families like mine and while I am grateful for that, I have to say that in this dialog we are ignoring a larger problem. Ashland public utilities collects a 25% tax, the Electric User's Tax, which is overly burdensome to low income residents. For middle and upper income people, this tax does not amount to much, but for families like mine, this tax is a hardship. The cities own web site says it needs this money in order to support "city services", although there is no further explanation. I'm sure it is an important part of the cities 2004-2005, 94 million dollar budget (which, by the way can be found online-- all 422 pages of it), but I am at a loss as to why this needs to be at the duress of the elderly and working poor?
One of the promises that is listed in Ashland's "goals", is that "the city will strive to provide resources and services to meet basic human needs," but while we are collecting this tax from people who are living below the federal poverty level, we are failing to keep that promise. Access to electricity is a basic human necessity. Let's keep the lights on for low income residents and keep our commitment to a more affordable Ashland by ending this regressive tax.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Confinement in 2004
When you are held captive
and confined to bankrupt hope
because your dreams have all folded
and you are more alone than ever
your soul is hungry for new chickens to count.
And you feel like nobody has ever felt so bad before
even if history says otherwise.
Some jails exist in the mind.
It is too easy to live in fear
and hope that it goes away.
Written on 10/27/04-- I didn't like this at first, but after the election I think it works for me after all.
When you are held captive
and confined to bankrupt hope
because your dreams have all folded
and you are more alone than ever
your soul is hungry for new chickens to count.
And you feel like nobody has ever felt so bad before
even if history says otherwise.
Some jails exist in the mind.
It is too easy to live in fear
and hope that it goes away.
Written on 10/27/04-- I didn't like this at first, but after the election I think it works for me after all.
A Special Kind of Self Help Group
Feeling betrayed and abandoned by the sky
and the moon
and knowing twelve step groups don't even exist
for your kind of madness
you compulsively check for the lunar eclipse
just in case those numerous clouds
have all gone away
of course they don't
so you log onto the internet
and look at photos
and know that it isn't even as close to good
as it should be.
Feeling betrayed and abandoned by the sky
and the moon
and knowing twelve step groups don't even exist
for your kind of madness
you compulsively check for the lunar eclipse
just in case those numerous clouds
have all gone away
of course they don't
so you log onto the internet
and look at photos
and know that it isn't even as close to good
as it should be.
The New War on Poverty
The young man smiles as cars pause at the light getting off Interstate Five in Medford, Oregon. He holds a cardboard sign that says "Need food, a job, prayer. Thank you." He's there almost every day and if he isn't, someone else is standing in his place. One woman's face is map of hardship, pain and probably loss. Her sign is worded differently, but the essence of it is the same. They are desperate people. These are hard times and every freeway ramp is a compass of what the economy has done to people all over the United States.
A few people pause and open their car window. They hand over a dollar or two and maybe say a few encouraging words. Other people won't even make eye contact. This is too close to poverty and it is uncomfortable to see that people are suffering. It is easier to make sure that the car doors are locked and just get through the light as fast as you can. And besides that dollar isn't going to do anything much. These people can work, they just choose not to. Or, that is what they must tell themselves in order to disregard the people with the signs.
About thirteen years ago, shortly after I first moved to Southern Oregon, I used to drive by another homeless man. He liked to hide out underneath the tunnel, on the north end of town just after the "Welcome to Ashland" sign. He is the only one I remember seeing on a regular basis back then. He is my compass for acknowledging that this problem of poverty, of hopelessness is growing bigger. And I don't think it is limited to my own backyard.
We are seeing people who had good jobs falling into poverty. We are seeing people who once worked their way off welfare, got out of the system and now are finding themselves dropped right back into a life of food stamps and welfare. And it should make us uncomfortable. It should make us angry. A lot of us are not all that far away from those cardboard signs.
The young man smiles as cars pause at the light getting off Interstate Five in Medford, Oregon. He holds a cardboard sign that says "Need food, a job, prayer. Thank you." He's there almost every day and if he isn't, someone else is standing in his place. One woman's face is map of hardship, pain and probably loss. Her sign is worded differently, but the essence of it is the same. They are desperate people. These are hard times and every freeway ramp is a compass of what the economy has done to people all over the United States.
A few people pause and open their car window. They hand over a dollar or two and maybe say a few encouraging words. Other people won't even make eye contact. This is too close to poverty and it is uncomfortable to see that people are suffering. It is easier to make sure that the car doors are locked and just get through the light as fast as you can. And besides that dollar isn't going to do anything much. These people can work, they just choose not to. Or, that is what they must tell themselves in order to disregard the people with the signs.
About thirteen years ago, shortly after I first moved to Southern Oregon, I used to drive by another homeless man. He liked to hide out underneath the tunnel, on the north end of town just after the "Welcome to Ashland" sign. He is the only one I remember seeing on a regular basis back then. He is my compass for acknowledging that this problem of poverty, of hopelessness is growing bigger. And I don't think it is limited to my own backyard.
We are seeing people who had good jobs falling into poverty. We are seeing people who once worked their way off welfare, got out of the system and now are finding themselves dropped right back into a life of food stamps and welfare. And it should make us uncomfortable. It should make us angry. A lot of us are not all that far away from those cardboard signs.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
November 2004
After the election
we can think we were heard
or not heard
depending on who is elected
in a huge round
of "my mother said that you are the very best one",
or maybe we'll count
and re-count
and they will think we forgot again
because we are supposed to be pretty stupid
after all is said and done.
And maybe we will have a trillion dollar game of tag.
Cartoon tag,
and the flags can be dripping
with the blood of fallen soldiers
who need to go home before dark.
"Mother may I?"
"Yes, you may... Vote!"
After the election
we can think we were heard
or not heard
depending on who is elected
in a huge round
of "my mother said that you are the very best one",
or maybe we'll count
and re-count
and they will think we forgot again
because we are supposed to be pretty stupid
after all is said and done.
And maybe we will have a trillion dollar game of tag.
Cartoon tag,
and the flags can be dripping
with the blood of fallen soldiers
who need to go home before dark.
"Mother may I?"
"Yes, you may... Vote!"
As Metaphysical as We Get
We grow tired of watching ghosts run out in the road
caught in our headlights one more time
or visit our apartments late at night
and wonder why can't anything feel original.
Like the native burial grounds at the cabin
that was unmarked but electric
on a cellular level
"Here be dragons",
unexplored, dangerous, unknown.
We grow tired of watching ghosts run out in the road
caught in our headlights one more time
or visit our apartments late at night
and wonder why can't anything feel original.
Like the native burial grounds at the cabin
that was unmarked but electric
on a cellular level
"Here be dragons",
unexplored, dangerous, unknown.
Elections
I've been waiting for the president to heal us
instead of hiding behind words
we whisper in stores, gas stations, hospitals
and cling to promises
broken like smooth glass we find on the beach
at low tide
and we are all supposed to forget
that we have been failed before.
Collectively unlearn what we were taught as the truth.
Some of us do.
A scattering sees the glossy advertisements
of our own demise
and we point it out
and whisper new words,
like courage
and facts.
Heal us.
We are broken
and without hope.
I've been waiting for the president to heal us
instead of hiding behind words
we whisper in stores, gas stations, hospitals
and cling to promises
broken like smooth glass we find on the beach
at low tide
and we are all supposed to forget
that we have been failed before.
Collectively unlearn what we were taught as the truth.
Some of us do.
A scattering sees the glossy advertisements
of our own demise
and we point it out
and whisper new words,
like courage
and facts.
Heal us.
We are broken
and without hope.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Haven't written in a long time, mostly because I have been driving all over the place. I really did miss having a car, so it has been fun although it is staring to wear off a little bit. The first week I was ready to go anywhere at a moments notice-- we were doing dumb stuff-- driving around in circles really. Today started my week of getting back to normal. So Mads and I went for a walk in the cold over to the bank to pay rent and to power to give those thieves some cash, by the sandwich shop (where we are on a first name basis with the staff-- I love small towns) and then finally home. On the way home we searched for tree monsters and they were out there! Some are red, some are invisible, some would chase you if they could and they all have big teeth although that does not necessarily mean that they are bad. It's not their fault their teeth got big. I learned all of this from my Mads (she is four by the way). So we had another good day. And then tonight it rained, so I walked to the Minute Market for some ice and my feet got really wet, but it was quiet and I had a nice time. Jason and the kids were watching Hellboy. Not exactly what I would have let them watch, but I was tricked. I had asked what they were watching and was told "PBS", which they later all admitted meant "PRETTY BAD SHOW", after they were caught. Mads went to bed with her flashlight. Between Hellboy and the monsters, I am fairly certain she will be joining us in bed later.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Had such a great day today. An unbelievable day. Started out going to see John Edwards at a rally at the Medford Armory. That was interesting however I do not like what he says about medical malpractice (Tort) reform. It is a bunch of bull. I was actually so worked up that I boo-ed him after his statement on it and I think I was the lone voice of dissent. So be it.
Next we went to the office (Seasonal Workers) and the mail arrived. Jason had some dental work done and he was told it was not covered because they changed our Oregon Health Plan at some point. He paid about $188 out of pocket and had another bill for $400+ which they have been hassling us about daily. We had told them we were requesting a hearing with the state because we thought we should still be covered. The dental office (SISKIYOU DENTAL) has been terribly rude to us, and it was getting to the point where we were going to have to come up with some money for them, just to get some peace. But TODAY we heard from the state that we are covered retroactive since July 1st which means that SISKIYOU DENTAL now owes us $188 dollars back AND they can bill the state for the $400+. I am thoroughly disappointed with the way that dental office has treated Jason (at one point he had an appointment they cancelled and did not bother to call and tell him it was cancelled-- so he took two busses, plus a morning off work just to get there and find out he had no appointment.) NOT a good business! So if you need dental work in the Rogue Valley, you now know who to avoid!
But to continue on with my good day... Sierra came home and announced she was one of four kids chosen for MATH OLYMPIADS at her school! My kid is one smart cookie! I knew that, but it makes me happy that other people see it too. And to think that my genes helped produce someone who excels in math, well it cracks me up!
One of the seasonal workers who knows about cars took a look at the car we want to buy and he agreed it is a good one! I am excited about that.
We should be getting the car tomorrow. Told you it was a good day!
Next we went to the office (Seasonal Workers) and the mail arrived. Jason had some dental work done and he was told it was not covered because they changed our Oregon Health Plan at some point. He paid about $188 out of pocket and had another bill for $400+ which they have been hassling us about daily. We had told them we were requesting a hearing with the state because we thought we should still be covered. The dental office (SISKIYOU DENTAL) has been terribly rude to us, and it was getting to the point where we were going to have to come up with some money for them, just to get some peace. But TODAY we heard from the state that we are covered retroactive since July 1st which means that SISKIYOU DENTAL now owes us $188 dollars back AND they can bill the state for the $400+. I am thoroughly disappointed with the way that dental office has treated Jason (at one point he had an appointment they cancelled and did not bother to call and tell him it was cancelled-- so he took two busses, plus a morning off work just to get there and find out he had no appointment.) NOT a good business! So if you need dental work in the Rogue Valley, you now know who to avoid!
But to continue on with my good day... Sierra came home and announced she was one of four kids chosen for MATH OLYMPIADS at her school! My kid is one smart cookie! I knew that, but it makes me happy that other people see it too. And to think that my genes helped produce someone who excels in math, well it cracks me up!
One of the seasonal workers who knows about cars took a look at the car we want to buy and he agreed it is a good one! I am excited about that.
We should be getting the car tomorrow. Told you it was a good day!
Friday, October 08, 2004
Bereavement
If you live your nightmare
does that mean you get to dream your life?
Weeping mothers might lean away from CLOSURE
but they understand that there is freedom
in surviving the worst thing that can happen.
Not fearing death can be a gift.
Others shy away from aging
but I relish times passing.
If you live your nightmare
does that mean you get to dream your life?
Weeping mothers might lean away from CLOSURE
but they understand that there is freedom
in surviving the worst thing that can happen.
Not fearing death can be a gift.
Others shy away from aging
but I relish times passing.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
So, we've lived without a car for almost a year now. That is kind of amazing actually. I couldn't have ever imagined making that work out as well as we have AND just being happy, even without wheels. Not to mention that I had no idea how much material I would glean from taking the bus. There are some real freaky people in Southern Oregon and some of them even know my name now. Which brings me to another bonus of bus riding... I have a larger sense of community now. It forced me to meet people and to talk to them. People really open up... we hear all about rehab and so and so's kid who was removed from their home and too many stories to mention here. Since May I have probably lost about 35 pounds... we walk a lot more. All these months I have maintained that we are CAR FREE and glad to be that way and then this weekend when my parents came for a visit they mentioned that they would like to help us out by buying us a used car and VOILA--- BAM--- I am obsessed with getting a car again. Sweet wheels that I can hop into, crank up the radio and escape! Oh sweet jesus... that sounds nice. So much for car free, but I do hope to keep walking every day anyway.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Monday, October 04, 2004
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Survival
Abandoned by the rest
you wandered through, clutching memories
like self respect and hope
as if they were an evening bag
and you were high society.
All you had to hold on to
were little things you remembered
like the curve of his young chin
and his unseasoned trail.
Sometimes life holds us upside down
and shakes us.
Sometimes we are drawn to the edges of cliffs
and we get pushed off.
Sometimes it feels as though the whole world is mean.
And yet we hang on.
Abandoned by the rest
you wandered through, clutching memories
like self respect and hope
as if they were an evening bag
and you were high society.
All you had to hold on to
were little things you remembered
like the curve of his young chin
and his unseasoned trail.
Sometimes life holds us upside down
and shakes us.
Sometimes we are drawn to the edges of cliffs
and we get pushed off.
Sometimes it feels as though the whole world is mean.
And yet we hang on.
Friday, October 01, 2004
For Ashley Day
You rest in the southeast
near an old oak
right behind "babyland"
near the stone angels
and I will not forget
how you didn't get a fourth birthday.
Incense burned
and accidents happen,
but your baby sister got away
and your family had to keep going.
The community talked about justice
and Methamphetamine, counseling,
prison for your mother
but all of that didn't have anything to do with you,
not really anyway.
And I wonder how many of them
have stood at the foot of your grave
and remembered that you would have started school this year?
How many wept with the stone angels?
You rest in the southeast
near an old oak
right behind "babyland"
near the stone angels
and I will not forget
how you didn't get a fourth birthday.
Incense burned
and accidents happen,
but your baby sister got away
and your family had to keep going.
The community talked about justice
and Methamphetamine, counseling,
prison for your mother
but all of that didn't have anything to do with you,
not really anyway.
And I wonder how many of them
have stood at the foot of your grave
and remembered that you would have started school this year?
How many wept with the stone angels?
Midnight Adventurer
I've never been to Ireland
'cept for after midnight
in my head
and all my imagination can conjure up
are green hills,
a blarney stone
and a handful of drunk men
spouting off limericks.
I haven't seen streets
or dogs, though I suspect they are there too
somewhere. Is the same moon just as luminous?
I can only suspect.
Do they watch reality TV, game shows?
If I were brighter
I might know such things.
I've never been to Ireland
'cept for after midnight
in my head
and all my imagination can conjure up
are green hills,
a blarney stone
and a handful of drunk men
spouting off limericks.
I haven't seen streets
or dogs, though I suspect they are there too
somewhere. Is the same moon just as luminous?
I can only suspect.
Do they watch reality TV, game shows?
If I were brighter
I might know such things.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
Old Protest
My father worked for a company
that made parts for rockets
and nuclear bombs
although he hesitated talking about it
sometimes he would slip up
like the time he brought home a flier
from "Grandmother's for peace"
and told me they had protested at the plant that day.
They were calm women, he said.
That stuck in my memory all these years.
My father worked for a company
that made parts for rockets
and nuclear bombs
although he hesitated talking about it
sometimes he would slip up
like the time he brought home a flier
from "Grandmother's for peace"
and told me they had protested at the plant that day.
They were calm women, he said.
That stuck in my memory all these years.
Matrimony
132 Months of Marriage
and you remain sort of a mystery
like why you still get worked up
because the clean socks do not match
or there are no towels.
And the earth shakes
while nothing else matters
but that you can't find your papers
or keys, or sunglasses
and you must have them right this moment
and you are somehow convinced
that I am hiding them from you
for my mere amusement.
Yes, you are an enigma,
a puzzle of which I believe is missing a few pieces sometimes
but a riddle nonetheless.
132 Months of Marriage
and you remain sort of a mystery
like why you still get worked up
because the clean socks do not match
or there are no towels.
And the earth shakes
while nothing else matters
but that you can't find your papers
or keys, or sunglasses
and you must have them right this moment
and you are somehow convinced
that I am hiding them from you
for my mere amusement.
Yes, you are an enigma,
a puzzle of which I believe is missing a few pieces sometimes
but a riddle nonetheless.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Oregon voters have an opportunity to send a message to the insurance industry as well as the medical lobby when we vote no on measure 35. There is a lot of misinformation out there about capping medical malpractice cases and even exactly what this measure will do. Here is some truth.
Getting to the Truth of Measure 35
by Vanessa Houk
Six years ago my son died at birth. His death certificate lists the cause as stillbirth, but the real cause of Dylan's death was a hospital that was short staffed and unprepared for an emergency on that night in late August. For many months after Dylan's death, I lived in a fog. It took everything I had in me just to wake up every morning and take care of our four year old daughter. I did not have the energy, strength or reserves to ask questions about what happened. Our families tried to inquire, but Jason and I simply needed more time to face up to what happened. When I thought about bringing a lawsuit against the doctor or the hospital, it made me feel sick inside. I did not want blood money, I just wanted to hold my baby son and get a chance to see him grow up. Then about fourteen months after Dylan's death we obtained a copy of his medical records and we saw that there was nearly an hour lapse between our sons struggle (and serious drop in heart rate which signaled he was in distress) and when the doctor finally began a cesarean section, a measure that might have saved his life had it happened much sooner. Instead that hour led to his death and changed our lives.
I talked to a well known attorney who specializes in medical malpractice cases and was informed that the statue of limitations had passed. We had just one year to grieve, heal and begin to ask questions. There was nothing we could do to ensure my doctor would not make the same mistakes and possibly hurt someone else. This haunted me until I learned that this same doctor retired (after an extremely short medical career) and no longer has an active license to practice in the state of Oregon. We were lucky that way. She could still be delivering babies and I would be wondering how many more were "stillborn".
We are hearing a lot about measure 35, most of it funded by the OMA and AMA and the insurance industry who are trying hard to convince us that medical malpractice lawsuits are spiraling out of control. The proponents of Measure 35 want you to believe that this is an issue about keeping quality medical care, especially in the rural areas of our state. Oregon voters are smarter than that. The truth is that this measure is more about deciding the absolute value of a life. This measure isn't just about doctors and lawyers. This is about you and me and an industry that needs to be reigned in.
The insurance industry is not regulated by the Federal government, instead each individual state has a department that oversees the insurance companies selling policies in that state. In our case, the Oregon Insurance Division in Salem is responsible for overseeing the industry. There are three consumer advocates that handle complaints related to the medical field. Three employees cover the entire state! How can we feel secure that our needs are being addressed or even being looked out for?
According to Terrie Troxel, President and CEO of the Insurance Institute of America, the insurance industry is financially healthy and profitable. The insurance industry has been profitable before, during and since the so-called insurance crises of the mid 1980s. Nationwide, the insurance industry averages profits of 18.5 percent annually. The average is over 60 percent higher in Oregon, where the average annual insurance industry profits are 30.4 percent. These numbers do not show an industry that is struggling over "jackpot awards." The truth is in the numbers.
So they want you to believe that injured people are claiming huge pay outs and we are at risk of losing good doctors who can't afford malpractice insurance and yet instead of pointing inward and acknowledging there is room for some belt tightening, they point at families like mine.
Johns Hopkins lists medical errors as being the third leading cause of death in the US. Even using a lower estimate you are more likely to die as the result of a medical error than you are to die in a car crash! We must hold doctors to a high standard and vote no on measure 35. Our own lives may depend on it.
Getting to the Truth of Measure 35
by Vanessa Houk
Six years ago my son died at birth. His death certificate lists the cause as stillbirth, but the real cause of Dylan's death was a hospital that was short staffed and unprepared for an emergency on that night in late August. For many months after Dylan's death, I lived in a fog. It took everything I had in me just to wake up every morning and take care of our four year old daughter. I did not have the energy, strength or reserves to ask questions about what happened. Our families tried to inquire, but Jason and I simply needed more time to face up to what happened. When I thought about bringing a lawsuit against the doctor or the hospital, it made me feel sick inside. I did not want blood money, I just wanted to hold my baby son and get a chance to see him grow up. Then about fourteen months after Dylan's death we obtained a copy of his medical records and we saw that there was nearly an hour lapse between our sons struggle (and serious drop in heart rate which signaled he was in distress) and when the doctor finally began a cesarean section, a measure that might have saved his life had it happened much sooner. Instead that hour led to his death and changed our lives.
I talked to a well known attorney who specializes in medical malpractice cases and was informed that the statue of limitations had passed. We had just one year to grieve, heal and begin to ask questions. There was nothing we could do to ensure my doctor would not make the same mistakes and possibly hurt someone else. This haunted me until I learned that this same doctor retired (after an extremely short medical career) and no longer has an active license to practice in the state of Oregon. We were lucky that way. She could still be delivering babies and I would be wondering how many more were "stillborn".
We are hearing a lot about measure 35, most of it funded by the OMA and AMA and the insurance industry who are trying hard to convince us that medical malpractice lawsuits are spiraling out of control. The proponents of Measure 35 want you to believe that this is an issue about keeping quality medical care, especially in the rural areas of our state. Oregon voters are smarter than that. The truth is that this measure is more about deciding the absolute value of a life. This measure isn't just about doctors and lawyers. This is about you and me and an industry that needs to be reigned in.
The insurance industry is not regulated by the Federal government, instead each individual state has a department that oversees the insurance companies selling policies in that state. In our case, the Oregon Insurance Division in Salem is responsible for overseeing the industry. There are three consumer advocates that handle complaints related to the medical field. Three employees cover the entire state! How can we feel secure that our needs are being addressed or even being looked out for?
According to Terrie Troxel, President and CEO of the Insurance Institute of America, the insurance industry is financially healthy and profitable. The insurance industry has been profitable before, during and since the so-called insurance crises of the mid 1980s. Nationwide, the insurance industry averages profits of 18.5 percent annually. The average is over 60 percent higher in Oregon, where the average annual insurance industry profits are 30.4 percent. These numbers do not show an industry that is struggling over "jackpot awards." The truth is in the numbers.
So they want you to believe that injured people are claiming huge pay outs and we are at risk of losing good doctors who can't afford malpractice insurance and yet instead of pointing inward and acknowledging there is room for some belt tightening, they point at families like mine.
Johns Hopkins lists medical errors as being the third leading cause of death in the US. Even using a lower estimate you are more likely to die as the result of a medical error than you are to die in a car crash! We must hold doctors to a high standard and vote no on measure 35. Our own lives may depend on it.
Monday, September 27, 2004
An Evening
Start with your favorite black velvet hat
and your dress boots
that are as comfortable as sin.
Nothing else will matter
as long as you add some quick wit
and a few opinions on current politics.
Speak your mind fearlessly
so you can be living
your life without regrets.
Think that everyone else in the room
is just as full of self hatred and loathing
as you are and they do not have the black hat
nor the soft shoes.
Start with your favorite black velvet hat
and your dress boots
that are as comfortable as sin.
Nothing else will matter
as long as you add some quick wit
and a few opinions on current politics.
Speak your mind fearlessly
so you can be living
your life without regrets.
Think that everyone else in the room
is just as full of self hatred and loathing
as you are and they do not have the black hat
nor the soft shoes.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Acceptance
I told you how I longed for Fall
and how rain made me feel better
walking on falling leaves
and the way the air smells on a cool day
like a clean life.
It's hard to get close to a clean life
if you are me anyway.
Everything is so full of drama and pain
and sometimes I just want to run away.
But where would I go?
On foot. In the rain.
So I stay here quietly breathing in the new season
knowing it is the best I can hope for.
I told you how I longed for Fall
and how rain made me feel better
walking on falling leaves
and the way the air smells on a cool day
like a clean life.
It's hard to get close to a clean life
if you are me anyway.
Everything is so full of drama and pain
and sometimes I just want to run away.
But where would I go?
On foot. In the rain.
So I stay here quietly breathing in the new season
knowing it is the best I can hope for.
Friday, September 24, 2004
What If
This is the last month
of our marriage
and I spend most nights
alone on the couch?
Most of our minutes
alone together
are sexual
but not very filling?
I want to tell you so many things
but even our phone conversations
are short, to the point,
without laughter?
And the last words
I say to you
are angry,
biting and cold.
Will you know the truth?
This is the last month
of our marriage
and I spend most nights
alone on the couch?
Most of our minutes
alone together
are sexual
but not very filling?
I want to tell you so many things
but even our phone conversations
are short, to the point,
without laughter?
And the last words
I say to you
are angry,
biting and cold.
Will you know the truth?
Aftermath
First numbness and disbelief
an ancient ache
that can't be willed away
yet sits quietly
waiting for answers that never come.
Yet somehow time goes on
ever slowly
and the residual effects
are there for all to see
or not see
as it fits.
And years later there is surprise
that the pain still seeps in sometimes
and can be as raw as the beginning
as lost as hope was.
First numbness and disbelief
an ancient ache
that can't be willed away
yet sits quietly
waiting for answers that never come.
Yet somehow time goes on
ever slowly
and the residual effects
are there for all to see
or not see
as it fits.
And years later there is surprise
that the pain still seeps in sometimes
and can be as raw as the beginning
as lost as hope was.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Note to Charles B
You make me look at the bums holding signs by the freeway
wondering if they are really seeing things
or if that is just me clinging to a little bit of hope?
You helped make it okay for the poor to speak out.
You who said fuck your rules
and your conformity,
it is just me and my cross eyed cat
and he knows something
that all of you are searching for.
We keep it going
but you started it.
You make me look at the bums holding signs by the freeway
wondering if they are really seeing things
or if that is just me clinging to a little bit of hope?
You helped make it okay for the poor to speak out.
You who said fuck your rules
and your conformity,
it is just me and my cross eyed cat
and he knows something
that all of you are searching for.
We keep it going
but you started it.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
Finding religion at a Rummage Sale
Such fever,
a dash of people
and piles of old stuff
someone else no longer wants
a hint of consumerism
and recycling
amid little old ladies
and young male booksellers alike.
The air smells like church,
old hymnals
and tiny pencils to fill out the offering envelopes with.
But back to the stuff...
Jesus could have found new shoes here
or even earlier
Mary might have fallen for the bassinet
for a mere twenty bucks.
But then who would have suffered
so the rest of us could be here
gathering piles of our new junk.
Such fever,
a dash of people
and piles of old stuff
someone else no longer wants
a hint of consumerism
and recycling
amid little old ladies
and young male booksellers alike.
The air smells like church,
old hymnals
and tiny pencils to fill out the offering envelopes with.
But back to the stuff...
Jesus could have found new shoes here
or even earlier
Mary might have fallen for the bassinet
for a mere twenty bucks.
But then who would have suffered
so the rest of us could be here
gathering piles of our new junk.
Monday, September 13, 2004
My Madison
For a moment
there was a giant
named Scrambled Eggs
running across campus,
hiding behind trees.
And then for awhile
you grinned at the old lady
on the bus
across from us,
who smiled back
and asked your age.
"Four and a half,"
emphasis on the half.
You collected rocks,
flowers and bark
on the way home
for a potion you wanted to make
in the afternoon.
And we stopped to admire
three friendly brown dogs,
five crows,
and pick two dandelions
for wishes.
I blew mine
and silently hoped
I could capture this day.
For a moment
there was a giant
named Scrambled Eggs
running across campus,
hiding behind trees.
And then for awhile
you grinned at the old lady
on the bus
across from us,
who smiled back
and asked your age.
"Four and a half,"
emphasis on the half.
You collected rocks,
flowers and bark
on the way home
for a potion you wanted to make
in the afternoon.
And we stopped to admire
three friendly brown dogs,
five crows,
and pick two dandelions
for wishes.
I blew mine
and silently hoped
I could capture this day.
Firefighter
Don't want to remember
how Mike tried to hide from the fire
and yet it burned most of his body
sans the rings around his socks
and I learned that nineteen year old boys could die.
Just like that.
No more hanging out at the park
talking in his soft voice
about moving away
and being someone important
or listening
because that is what he did best of all.
In those hills
near the trees he loved
he clung to life and branches
and to the bleep of a life support machine
until his parents could say goodbye.
Don't want to remember
how Mike tried to hide from the fire
and yet it burned most of his body
sans the rings around his socks
and I learned that nineteen year old boys could die.
Just like that.
No more hanging out at the park
talking in his soft voice
about moving away
and being someone important
or listening
because that is what he did best of all.
In those hills
near the trees he loved
he clung to life and branches
and to the bleep of a life support machine
until his parents could say goodbye.
Friday, September 10, 2004
The End
Jason wants a Viking funeral
complete with a huge boat and a fire,
but not me,
I figure my life has been dramatic enough
and I can see myself going quietly
in a simple pine box
and a few spoken words out in Tumalo.
Leave me underneath the old juniper tree
walk away quietly,
and that will be enough.
Jason wants a Viking funeral
complete with a huge boat and a fire,
but not me,
I figure my life has been dramatic enough
and I can see myself going quietly
in a simple pine box
and a few spoken words out in Tumalo.
Leave me underneath the old juniper tree
walk away quietly,
and that will be enough.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Blame
My four year old daughter's voice
coming back to me saying,
"We used to be so happy, Mom,
and then Dylan died
and now we have all been so sad.
When will we be happy again?"
And the freezing knowledge
that despite my best efforts
and attempts at pretending
that everything was still
the way it always had been,
I hadn't even been able to fool
my own kid
and the grief and pain
of failing her
was almost enough to
put me under for good.
But she and I held on
and we found our way back.
The recipe for hope
as I remember it
included hide and seek,
kite flying,
and many days that fell together
like a house of cards.
My four year old daughter's voice
coming back to me saying,
"We used to be so happy, Mom,
and then Dylan died
and now we have all been so sad.
When will we be happy again?"
And the freezing knowledge
that despite my best efforts
and attempts at pretending
that everything was still
the way it always had been,
I hadn't even been able to fool
my own kid
and the grief and pain
of failing her
was almost enough to
put me under for good.
But she and I held on
and we found our way back.
The recipe for hope
as I remember it
included hide and seek,
kite flying,
and many days that fell together
like a house of cards.
Why Bigfoot Doesn't Get Mentioned in Many Poems
Oh, those poets like to be taken seriously.
Full of pretentious and conspicuous art,
their words float with deep meaning.
An overabundance of civilizing
and making things just right,
while Bigfoot is excluded.
I saw him on Highway 97 once
on my way to Bend.
Haven't told very many people that either,
because the few I have confided in
have looked at me strangely
and changed the subject.
So I thought I should mention him here.
Oh, those poets like to be taken seriously.
Full of pretentious and conspicuous art,
their words float with deep meaning.
An overabundance of civilizing
and making things just right,
while Bigfoot is excluded.
I saw him on Highway 97 once
on my way to Bend.
Haven't told very many people that either,
because the few I have confided in
have looked at me strangely
and changed the subject.
So I thought I should mention him here.
Hanging out with the Socialists
I fold donated clothes
that will be given to low income families
on labor day
while ninety-something year old Grace
tells me of the death of another bishop
as she oohs and aahs
over a pile of polyester shirts
I set aside for the old ladies.
Grace's weathered and wrinkled skin
tells a bit about the map of her life,
of doing without
and of fighting back.
I fold donated clothes
that will be given to low income families
on labor day
while ninety-something year old Grace
tells me of the death of another bishop
as she oohs and aahs
over a pile of polyester shirts
I set aside for the old ladies.
Grace's weathered and wrinkled skin
tells a bit about the map of her life,
of doing without
and of fighting back.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Walking Under the September Sky
The air even feels better somehow,
almost like when you are reading a good book
and you aren't close to being done yet,
so you know you have a whole lot to look forward to.
And the stars are vivid, but still and calm.
The shadows in the alley lead to illumination
down on the corner by the Iris Inn.
And you can't help but feel better about things
as the bottoms of your shoes crunch leaves into the dirt road.
This walking,
aliveness,
as you notice small signs
that the world continues to hang on
underneath this simple radiant sky.
The air even feels better somehow,
almost like when you are reading a good book
and you aren't close to being done yet,
so you know you have a whole lot to look forward to.
And the stars are vivid, but still and calm.
The shadows in the alley lead to illumination
down on the corner by the Iris Inn.
And you can't help but feel better about things
as the bottoms of your shoes crunch leaves into the dirt road.
This walking,
aliveness,
as you notice small signs
that the world continues to hang on
underneath this simple radiant sky.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
Notes to the Self, Past Tense
You might want to avoid men named Bruce
even if he looks like Jon Bon Jovi
but with sadder eyes,
and for god sakes, stay out of San Francisco
in the rain when your pockets are almost empty.
You think you invented sadness
and know pain
but girl, you better duck
because a big one is coming
and there is no Red Cross to arrive for clean up.
You're going to go it alone
but you will be okay.
You might want to avoid men named Bruce
even if he looks like Jon Bon Jovi
but with sadder eyes,
and for god sakes, stay out of San Francisco
in the rain when your pockets are almost empty.
You think you invented sadness
and know pain
but girl, you better duck
because a big one is coming
and there is no Red Cross to arrive for clean up.
You're going to go it alone
but you will be okay.
For Carlos Arredondo
You were so alone
thinking about your dead son
soon to be wrapped in old glory.
A can of gasoline and a propane torch
and not enough time with Alex.
A poster child of the true cost of war,
we all saw your raw pain and identified.
And felt shame.
I would have your tears extinguish the fire
and lead you directly to hope.
I see you wrapped in the moon.
I see the arms of the world around you.
You were so alone
thinking about your dead son
soon to be wrapped in old glory.
A can of gasoline and a propane torch
and not enough time with Alex.
A poster child of the true cost of war,
we all saw your raw pain and identified.
And felt shame.
I would have your tears extinguish the fire
and lead you directly to hope.
I see you wrapped in the moon.
I see the arms of the world around you.
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Barbies
I've never written about the barbies before tonight and I am not sure why.
When Dylan died, we struggled with how much we should involve Sierra and we made a few mistakes, but we did manage to do something right when we included her in the funeral. She was only four years old at the time, but on some level I think we both understood that losing her brother was going to affect her for a long time too and we owed her as much of a sense of closure as we could pull off. So the morning of his funeral was cool, but there was that underlying sense of urgency-- that knowledge that it was going to get warm fast and would indeed be a hot day by the afternoon. The three of us left the apartment and headed towards Tumalo. We had to be there before everyone else, but we also wanted to stop by Safeway to drop off my prescription for pain medication and to get a light breakfast for Sierra (melon, I can still remember that I ate some and I was hungry enough that it tasted okay to me). Jason was also looking for a silver dollar, but the banks were not open. He wanted to throw it in the ground with Dylan (to pay for his crossing). Anyway we got out to Tumalo and the undertaker (Steve) was already there. He had this green astroturf looking stuff around the hole and Dylan's casket was lying across this brace type thing (not sure what it is really called, or even how else to describe it. It is so that the casket can be above ground and can be seen-- this thing holds it up.) There were twenty or twenty five folding chairs in front of the casket. We made some uncomfortable small talk with Steve for awhile and then people began arriving. Greg and Marissa and Syd and Achia were some of our people. As soon as Sierra saw her little friends (Marissa and Achia), she pulled her barbies out of her bag and those three little girls sat in the dirt in front of Dylan's casket and began playing together. Everything about that day was surreal to me, but the sweetness of those little girls all dressed up, sitting in that dirt pretending, helped me cope and got me through the day.
I've never written about the barbies before tonight and I am not sure why.
When Dylan died, we struggled with how much we should involve Sierra and we made a few mistakes, but we did manage to do something right when we included her in the funeral. She was only four years old at the time, but on some level I think we both understood that losing her brother was going to affect her for a long time too and we owed her as much of a sense of closure as we could pull off. So the morning of his funeral was cool, but there was that underlying sense of urgency-- that knowledge that it was going to get warm fast and would indeed be a hot day by the afternoon. The three of us left the apartment and headed towards Tumalo. We had to be there before everyone else, but we also wanted to stop by Safeway to drop off my prescription for pain medication and to get a light breakfast for Sierra (melon, I can still remember that I ate some and I was hungry enough that it tasted okay to me). Jason was also looking for a silver dollar, but the banks were not open. He wanted to throw it in the ground with Dylan (to pay for his crossing). Anyway we got out to Tumalo and the undertaker (Steve) was already there. He had this green astroturf looking stuff around the hole and Dylan's casket was lying across this brace type thing (not sure what it is really called, or even how else to describe it. It is so that the casket can be above ground and can be seen-- this thing holds it up.) There were twenty or twenty five folding chairs in front of the casket. We made some uncomfortable small talk with Steve for awhile and then people began arriving. Greg and Marissa and Syd and Achia were some of our people. As soon as Sierra saw her little friends (Marissa and Achia), she pulled her barbies out of her bag and those three little girls sat in the dirt in front of Dylan's casket and began playing together. Everything about that day was surreal to me, but the sweetness of those little girls all dressed up, sitting in that dirt pretending, helped me cope and got me through the day.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Isolation
Holding onto loneliness
isn't courageous
or noble
like the few people in the royal family
society actually likes,
it is just empty and sad
like having to eat by yourself day after day
with nobody to talk to.
Being alone with your demons
must be what it is like to be mentally ill for a little while.
Holding onto loneliness
isn't courageous
or noble
like the few people in the royal family
society actually likes,
it is just empty and sad
like having to eat by yourself day after day
with nobody to talk to.
Being alone with your demons
must be what it is like to be mentally ill for a little while.
Saturday, August 28, 2004
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
I was glad to see John Kerry in Central Point recently, but I wished he had taken some questions from his constituents. I have one burning question for him. My question is this; "Do you think you understand what it is like to be low income in America today, and do you understand some of the challenges the poor face?"
There is no correct answer to this question. The only way to really understand poverty is to be poor.
Until you find yourself standing in line in a welfare office, waiting for an intake appointment, or in line at the grocery store with an Oregon Trail card (food stamps) in your pocket, you cannot understand what poverty does to people. It chips away at your self worth. It takes away your anger, your pride, your self worth and whittles it all down until you are complacent and accepting.
Monday, August 23, 2004
We used to hop in Jason's old green Pinto and drive up to the mountain on August nights like this one. We'd bring a pint of Haggen Daz and one spoon, some Pepsi and my notebook so that I could write if the muse decided to visit. And a flashlight. We also brought our hopes and dreams 'cause that was back when we still had some. We still go out at night, but now we are restricted to the parking lot in front of our apartment in case the kids wake up while we are gone. We still watch the moon together, sans notebook and flashlight and spendy ice cream.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
Friday, August 20, 2004
What I really want to write about is how I want to be able to think about my son without feeling that sharp pain of loss. You'd think I would be there by now, but it still hurts. I was thinking about how this time of the year it is all magnified. I miss him. I wish I had gotten a chance to feel his fuzzy little head underneath my chin and heard him cry just once. And wiggle-- I wish I could have seen him move, even if it had just been for a short time. I think that is one of the cruelest things about stillbirth, is that some people think it is somehow easier, because I did not get a chance to really, really know him. But I had the mourn the loss of that chance too-- on top of missing him and mourning for him and loving him.
These are the things I know Dylan heard. He listened to most of the Complete Works of Winnie the Pooh-- I was able to give him that. He heard his dads voice. He listened to many episodes of Seinfield (in utero) while I was lying down counting his movements and his kicks. I am also certain that he heard Sierra's voice. She and I talked to him daily. I hope that he heard birds and laughter and music. I hope that he heard how much we all loved him. That is probably my biggest wish other than wishing him back to us.
It's Friday night and the rest of the house is asleep. Probably kind of a bad thing for me to be left alone with my thoughts. Less than ten days until Dylan's birthday/anniversary of his death. I seriously hate the month of August. Every year J and I say we are going to just run away for the month and I wish that had been possible this year. I want to just hide out and be left alone.
These are the things I know Dylan heard. He listened to most of the Complete Works of Winnie the Pooh-- I was able to give him that. He heard his dads voice. He listened to many episodes of Seinfield (in utero) while I was lying down counting his movements and his kicks. I am also certain that he heard Sierra's voice. She and I talked to him daily. I hope that he heard birds and laughter and music. I hope that he heard how much we all loved him. That is probably my biggest wish other than wishing him back to us.
It's Friday night and the rest of the house is asleep. Probably kind of a bad thing for me to be left alone with my thoughts. Less than ten days until Dylan's birthday/anniversary of his death. I seriously hate the month of August. Every year J and I say we are going to just run away for the month and I wish that had been possible this year. I want to just hide out and be left alone.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
When you really start to look around at other people, you see that almost everybody has scars from something. We think we are so good at hiding them, but if you really look, you can catch glimpses of what hurts them the most. I think we are equally good at choosing to not see this... It is hard to witness pain. It's interesting to me though, how we all go about our daily lives pretending to always be okay (whatever that means). We are all so lonely together.
I think that this is why people get married. We are desperate for other people to really know us, that we will even let one other person in deep enough to see our flaws. Humans are daring that way.
I think that this is why people get married. We are desperate for other people to really know us, that we will even let one other person in deep enough to see our flaws. Humans are daring that way.
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Name Dropping with John Kerry
In fierce heat, we waited like cattle
while rock songs played
(oh but the 80's were good)
and we tried to believe that things would change
while clutching signs and chanting.
And then you appeared.
You spoke of change. Of honesty.
Of valuing families.
We wanted to believe.
Longing for the days of John F Kennedy
we watched you tie your white horse to the fencepost
and hoped that you listened too.
In fierce heat, we waited like cattle
while rock songs played
(oh but the 80's were good)
and we tried to believe that things would change
while clutching signs and chanting.
And then you appeared.
You spoke of change. Of honesty.
Of valuing families.
We wanted to believe.
Longing for the days of John F Kennedy
we watched you tie your white horse to the fencepost
and hoped that you listened too.
Friday, August 13, 2004
August Nights
We rally for meteor showers
and summer rain
after days of hundred degree temperatures
and feverish sun.
Not knowing answers
does not reduce our longing
to be seen
to be heard.
Invisible
we crave
and hunger for someone
anyone--
to lift the mask up.
Ignited
our liberation from summer will go on.
We rally for meteor showers
and summer rain
after days of hundred degree temperatures
and feverish sun.
Not knowing answers
does not reduce our longing
to be seen
to be heard.
Invisible
we crave
and hunger for someone
anyone--
to lift the mask up.
Ignited
our liberation from summer will go on.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Perseid Meteor Shower is peaking as I type. I have been outside several times this evening and it is spectacular. The stars look like they are jumping across the sky. Just beautiful. At about 4 am, Jason, the kids and I are going to Briscoe school-- we will lie down in the field and watch it until daybreak.
Monday, August 09, 2004
Grief is like quicksand. A person mourns, talks about their feelings and thinks they have worked through their grief. And then you are standing in line at the supermarket and out of the corner of your eye, you see a little boy who is just the age and size your son would be if he hadn't died, or someone catches you off guard and asks about the headstone that rests in your garden and it takes you right back to the rawness of it. That awful pain and envelope of fresh loss. It's like stepping in quicksand. At first you think you are fine, but you quickly realize that you are in trouble and nobody can help you get out. The only way out is by your own wit. There is nothing more lonely than being trapped in quicksand. Or in grief.
Friday, August 06, 2004
A Craving for Comprehension
Either there aren't enough poems written about passion
or maybe all poetry is an outburst of words
and emotions. Obsessions with the small things
most other people miss.
Ordinary things exalted
like the softness of the summer sky
at about ten at night.
Not just a sky, no.
Rapture for common folk.
Just pay attention.
Either there aren't enough poems written about passion
or maybe all poetry is an outburst of words
and emotions. Obsessions with the small things
most other people miss.
Ordinary things exalted
like the softness of the summer sky
at about ten at night.
Not just a sky, no.
Rapture for common folk.
Just pay attention.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Anniversary
This should be a month for parties
little boy trains and cartoon characters
and whatever it is that six year old boys like
whatever you would like best
instead there are crushed dreams
and silence
and huge pain that I run away from,
festering deep.
The night you entered this world
I held you for hours
and told you about your family.
On one hand I knew that it was
the only "earth time", you and I would get
and yet I couldn't really fathom what that really meant.
I didn't understand death.
Maybe I still don't.
I'd give anything to be making a birthday cake
with six candles on it this year.
This should be a month for parties
little boy trains and cartoon characters
and whatever it is that six year old boys like
whatever you would like best
instead there are crushed dreams
and silence
and huge pain that I run away from,
festering deep.
The night you entered this world
I held you for hours
and told you about your family.
On one hand I knew that it was
the only "earth time", you and I would get
and yet I couldn't really fathom what that really meant.
I didn't understand death.
Maybe I still don't.
I'd give anything to be making a birthday cake
with six candles on it this year.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Thunderbird Park
Trailer heaped upon trailer
until-it-is-so-tight-in-here-that-even
the smallest
grassy yard looks park-like in comparison.
You can bring your assumptions in with you
about poverty and laziness
but talk to the small woman in number eleven for five minutes
and you'll realize
our similarities
are as numerous
as the broken cars that line the street.
Trailer heaped upon trailer
until-it-is-so-tight-in-here-that-even
the smallest
grassy yard looks park-like in comparison.
You can bring your assumptions in with you
about poverty and laziness
but talk to the small woman in number eleven for five minutes
and you'll realize
our similarities
are as numerous
as the broken cars that line the street.
Migrant Camp
Dusty roads lead in
encircle
and then head somewhere back out again
but not until you pass the bunkhouse
that sleeps forty
or the small littered cabins
that sleep three or four
per unit
and you notice the heat
as it rises from the dusty road
and lands on the sweaty brows of men from Mexico
by way of California
who greet you with a few words.
Hola, Cómo es usted? Muy bien.
A wave of the hand and a smile
because the work begins tomorrow, lunes
and these men who are anxious to start working
are as grateful for the jobs
as we are for the slight breeze that suddenly sneaks down into camp.
Dusty roads lead in
encircle
and then head somewhere back out again
but not until you pass the bunkhouse
that sleeps forty
or the small littered cabins
that sleep three or four
per unit
and you notice the heat
as it rises from the dusty road
and lands on the sweaty brows of men from Mexico
by way of California
who greet you with a few words.
Hola, Cómo es usted? Muy bien.
A wave of the hand and a smile
because the work begins tomorrow, lunes
and these men who are anxious to start working
are as grateful for the jobs
as we are for the slight breeze that suddenly sneaks down into camp.
Monday, July 26, 2004
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Peace
Imagine bridging gods and grief
balm and the brambly seas
as easily as tree branches sway
in the afternoon breeze.
Just like a four year olds playtime
goes from pretending to be on the beach
to swiftly bothering the cat
and then back to water play
just as simply.
If only connections were so effortless.
Imagine bridging gods and grief
balm and the brambly seas
as easily as tree branches sway
in the afternoon breeze.
Just like a four year olds playtime
goes from pretending to be on the beach
to swiftly bothering the cat
and then back to water play
just as simply.
If only connections were so effortless.
Summer Rainbow
How can you capture
the cool wetness
of a sudden summer storm
and the wired feeling
you get from walking out in it?
We almost owned the city
those of us without umbrellas
without borders or rules.
How can you capture the lights of the city
seen through raindrops
against a darkened sky
long before night-fall
when it seemed that even god
was without limits?
How can you capture
the cool wetness
of a sudden summer storm
and the wired feeling
you get from walking out in it?
We almost owned the city
those of us without umbrellas
without borders or rules.
How can you capture the lights of the city
seen through raindrops
against a darkened sky
long before night-fall
when it seemed that even god
was without limits?
Note to that young girl who was sexually abused
In your twenties you defined yourself by what happened
behind a closed door
by what was hidden
and the promises that were broken
you thought that was plenty
but then you discovered that it was only yourself that you were fooling
and even that didn't last long
so you picked up that broken little kid
off the floor and you held her tenderly
and kept her away from mirrors for years.
You thought that was sufficient
but still the nightmares wouldn't go away.
So you held the magic close to you instead
and tried so very hard to hang on
you were so undaunted
even when you had every right to be
and I just wanted you to know
all these years later
that I am proud of you.
In your twenties you defined yourself by what happened
behind a closed door
by what was hidden
and the promises that were broken
you thought that was plenty
but then you discovered that it was only yourself that you were fooling
and even that didn't last long
so you picked up that broken little kid
off the floor and you held her tenderly
and kept her away from mirrors for years.
You thought that was sufficient
but still the nightmares wouldn't go away.
So you held the magic close to you instead
and tried so very hard to hang on
you were so undaunted
even when you had every right to be
and I just wanted you to know
all these years later
that I am proud of you.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Story in progress...
One of my favorite places is lying against Jacob's chest but I don't like his arms to be tightly around me, just loose and casual so I can breathe in his smell. It is a cross between coffee and vanilla. I don't even drink coffee, but I love the way it smells and I love being near him because he is the only person I can think of, who is in my life right now, who doesn't have any great expectations of me. And that means a lot. He just lets me be.
So I have been hanging out with him a lot lately. We both like old reruns of "Friends" and real milkshakes, not the fast food kind, but ones that we make with his deceased grandmas hand me down mixer. We are a great team, Jacob and I. When I am with him, I sometimes even remember what it is like to want to live.
That sounds so dramatic, I know. So sixteen year old high school girlish. The last few years have been rough for me though, so I've earned the right to a little self pity.
(who is talking... what happened to her? Dialog of jacob talking to her could get her name in there that way)
One of my favorite places is lying against Jacob's chest but I don't like his arms to be tightly around me, just loose and casual so I can breathe in his smell. It is a cross between coffee and vanilla. I don't even drink coffee, but I love the way it smells and I love being near him because he is the only person I can think of, who is in my life right now, who doesn't have any great expectations of me. And that means a lot. He just lets me be.
So I have been hanging out with him a lot lately. We both like old reruns of "Friends" and real milkshakes, not the fast food kind, but ones that we make with his deceased grandmas hand me down mixer. We are a great team, Jacob and I. When I am with him, I sometimes even remember what it is like to want to live.
That sounds so dramatic, I know. So sixteen year old high school girlish. The last few years have been rough for me though, so I've earned the right to a little self pity.
(who is talking... what happened to her? Dialog of jacob talking to her could get her name in there that way)
Notes from a Welfare Mom
You see me in line at the grocery
and search my childs face for a runny nose
or a dirty face
(and let's not forget those little hands)
as you smugly look over my purchases
with a nod to the gallon of milk, the bread and the fresh fruit
but a wave of your gloved fist to the ice cream (luxury).
My children do need something to smear on their faces,
something to give you reason to judge anyway.
You notice my thrift store clothes
and my shoes that are coming apart at the soles
and you still think that this is all that I want out of life.
You see me in line at the grocery
and search my childs face for a runny nose
or a dirty face
(and let's not forget those little hands)
as you smugly look over my purchases
with a nod to the gallon of milk, the bread and the fresh fruit
but a wave of your gloved fist to the ice cream (luxury).
My children do need something to smear on their faces,
something to give you reason to judge anyway.
You notice my thrift store clothes
and my shoes that are coming apart at the soles
and you still think that this is all that I want out of life.
Preservation
They talked about an old woman
who collected fruits and vegetables from the food banks,
took them home and canned them
one by one
until hundreds of jars lined up in her living room.
And she kept canning
for years and years
until her family finally put her in a retirement center.
And then someone dug a little deeper
and asked why.
It turned out that her husband had died
and while this woman grieved
maybe even in order to survive
she canned some of her years away.
I wonder if she can sometimes see those years
piled up like the old jars
in her new room?
They talked about an old woman
who collected fruits and vegetables from the food banks,
took them home and canned them
one by one
until hundreds of jars lined up in her living room.
And she kept canning
for years and years
until her family finally put her in a retirement center.
And then someone dug a little deeper
and asked why.
It turned out that her husband had died
and while this woman grieved
maybe even in order to survive
she canned some of her years away.
I wonder if she can sometimes see those years
piled up like the old jars
in her new room?
Talisman
My ancestors thought it was all about luck,
landing on Ellis Island
and then finding their way to the promise of riches in California.
Those sweet green eyed people
who knew sorrow
but kept trying anyway.
Did they hope it would be easier for me someday?
My sister sent me a four leaf clover
through the mail.
It was laminated.
So I hung it in our doorway
where it now catches the afternoon breeze.
My ancestors thought it was all about luck,
landing on Ellis Island
and then finding their way to the promise of riches in California.
Those sweet green eyed people
who knew sorrow
but kept trying anyway.
Did they hope it would be easier for me someday?
My sister sent me a four leaf clover
through the mail.
It was laminated.
So I hung it in our doorway
where it now catches the afternoon breeze.
Appraisal
We still watch the same moon
that we searched for in Sunriver
though years have passed.
We still sing the old songs
off key and maybe a little too loud
but together, you and I,
and that is actually a hell of a lot
when you really stop and think about it.
That we still lie together at night
and make each other laugh,
is enough for me.
How many people can say that?
We measure our wealth by our commitment,
not some number in a bank account--
and you have made me rich beyond words.
And worlds.
We still watch the same moon
that we searched for in Sunriver
though years have passed.
We still sing the old songs
off key and maybe a little too loud
but together, you and I,
and that is actually a hell of a lot
when you really stop and think about it.
That we still lie together at night
and make each other laugh,
is enough for me.
How many people can say that?
We measure our wealth by our commitment,
not some number in a bank account--
and you have made me rich beyond words.
And worlds.
How can a poem be untitled?
You taught me purple
and made me pay attention to laughter
when I most wanted to turn away
from the truth of
the sun.
It fades at almost the same time every night
with or without me standing out there watching it.
And what I really wanted to say is that your beauty silences me
and humbles me golden
just like that old sun.
You taught me purple
and made me pay attention to laughter
when I most wanted to turn away
from the truth of
the sun.
It fades at almost the same time every night
with or without me standing out there watching it.
And what I really wanted to say is that your beauty silences me
and humbles me golden
just like that old sun.
Monday, June 28, 2004
What can I say about my life? I get up every morning and throw some kind of food together for breakfast (for four, although it is rare that we all eat the same thing at the same time-- so I either make two choices or whomever is fussy gets to fend for herself). Who was it that said "I have a life, it just isn't a very good one at the moment..." Well mine is good in it's simplicity, but poor in how monotonous it can be. Yes, a quandary too.
Jason is in Medford at the moment. I wish he would get a job. Any job would do. I want to stay right here...
Jason is in Medford at the moment. I wish he would get a job. Any job would do. I want to stay right here...
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Oddly enough, we are completely, pathetically, direly poor. Dirt poor. Behind on rent and about to lose power kind of poor. We have less than a dollar in the bank, no car, no assets. In the past that would have worn me down and by now I would have been fighting off another bout of depression. Not this summer. I guess I am manic. I am the happiest I have been in years. I enjoy every single day with my kids, Jason and I get along well and life is good. I'm writing almost every day and even getting paid for some of it. I do worry about staying here in Ashland, but trust that things will work out of us. We deserve to be here, I do know that much at least.
Monday, May 31, 2004
Madison lives in chaos with a creative family whose idea of a "mess" is probably different from most of the rest of society. We are "pilers". Things get put on top of other things and then we can ignore them. I mean literally. So, this little girl created an imaginary friend. What does she call him? "Order", of course!
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Teachers
How many things
have I missed seeing
just because they weren't dazzling at that moment?
My childs sense of wonder, in running through puddles,
or the colors of the sun as it escapes for the evening,
or the soft wrinkles around my best friend's eyes.
I think four year olds should be college professors.
They would teach us about slowing down,
and how to pick up small stones to study later.
We'd all throw sticks in creeks
and watch for them to move with the water.
Ducks would be our friends.
And we'd have ice cream for dinner sometimes.
We all have a lot to learn.
How many things
have I missed seeing
just because they weren't dazzling at that moment?
My childs sense of wonder, in running through puddles,
or the colors of the sun as it escapes for the evening,
or the soft wrinkles around my best friend's eyes.
I think four year olds should be college professors.
They would teach us about slowing down,
and how to pick up small stones to study later.
We'd all throw sticks in creeks
and watch for them to move with the water.
Ducks would be our friends.
And we'd have ice cream for dinner sometimes.
We all have a lot to learn.
Hands
If your hands were sand dunes they would be exquisite.
Sepia browns, wrinkles and lines,
maps of something unknown.
If your hands could talk, what stories would they tell?
Of love, grief, pain?
Ripples, patterns of wind and water
contantly changing and eroding,
thousands of crevices
stretched across time.
Hands the color of Tuscon
and old sage,
Saddle tan
and memories of gold.
If your hands were sand dunes they would be exquisite.
Sepia browns, wrinkles and lines,
maps of something unknown.
If your hands could talk, what stories would they tell?
Of love, grief, pain?
Ripples, patterns of wind and water
contantly changing and eroding,
thousands of crevices
stretched across time.
Hands the color of Tuscon
and old sage,
Saddle tan
and memories of gold.
Sunday, May 23, 2004
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Cassie Mason woke slowly. She was lying on a hospital gurney with both arms at her sides. Her body was numb and she was confused and disassociated. "What happened? Where is my son?" she asked.
A male nurse was standing next to her. He bent down and gently said "Someone will talk to you very soon, but we need to get you stabilized first."
She tried to look into his eyes, but he looked away. A doctor also approached. He, too would not meet her gaze. For a few seconds, she tried to silently rationalize this, "He must have some sort of damage," she thought. "Maybe brain damage or Downs Syndrome." She closed her eyes and fell back into sleep.
When she opened up her eyes again, she saw her husband Daniel, staring down at her. He had such an terrible look on his face and she wanted to close her eyes again, but before she could, he was saying, "Dylan's gone." He shook his head and added, "I'm so sorry, but he didn't make it." He reached for her hand. She couldn't feel anything. Walls began to form in her mind. "No," was all she said. "No."
The same nurse stood next to her husband. "On a scale from one to ten, with ten being the highest; how much pain are you in right now?" Without thinking, Cassie said, "Nine." "I wish they would all go away," she thought. "I need to figure out what happened."
She closed her eyes again and within minutes, morphine kicked in and she surrendered herself into the drug induced fog.
When she came to again, she was aware of someone near her head. "Cassie," a voice pleaded. "You have to wake up." She shook her head no and tried to stay asleep, but the voice was persistent and several other voices joined in. "Cassie, please? You must open your eyes."
Her eyes opened up a little bit and she tried to focus. "Where am I," she asked. Daniel and the midwives were standing there and one of them pushed something towards her. "Your baby, Cassie, you have to see him."
The small, warm bundle rested on her chest, just underneath her chin. As a sob escaped her body, she looked down at his face. His blueish-pink skin reminded her of a robins egg and his eyes were closed. He was beautiful. A shock of dark hair stood straight up and she thought about touching it too, but all she could manage to do was to stare at him while tears fell down the side of her face. "Oh," she mumbled. Her witnesses silently stood back, knowing she needed this time. She fell asleep holding him on her chest, unable to let him go or say anything else.
She held him most of the night. Several times she woke up, remembered what had happened and looked at her baby. She told him how much she loved him. She told him about his family-- his big sister and how terribly sorry she was. She knew she had failed to keep him safe. At one point a nurse came in and asked her if she could take the baby away and Cassie sent her away. She was not ready to let him go.
"I love you to the sun and back
and to the moon and back
all the way up to the stars,
and around the world three hundred and sixty seven times," she said softly.
When she woke up later that morning, her son's body was gone.
Nurses came in and out of her room; checking her IV, administering more pain killers, and trying to talk to her. She didn't say much to anyone. Daniel was there too, sleeping in a cot beside her bed. "I should call my family," she thought. "I need to let them know." But before she could act on any of her thoughts, she was always falling back asleep.
The doctor came in and stood by her feet. She asked Cassie if she had any questions. Inside her head, Cassie was screaming, but she held it all in and said, "No, not really." Daniel was awake too and he sat on the edge of Cassie's bed. The doctor read her chart, made a few notations and quietly left.
The television was on and the news channel reported that thousands were mourning in the streets of Paris on the one year anniversary of Princess Diana's death. She watched as they showed pictures of piles of flowers and distraught people milling around the streets. It seemed right. Sometimes she clutched the soft white baby blanket she had brought, expecting she would use it to carry him home in. Sometimes Daniel pushed the IV back and curled up on her bed next to her. She slept better when he was right there, even if it was cramped and they were both uncomfortable. She seemed less alone.
A day after Dylan's death she managed to call her parents. When her own mother's voice answered the phone, Cassie realized she wasn't even sure how to form the words to tell her what happened. She started, stopped. Tried again. She heard her own voice saying that her son died, but she was so outside of her own self that she did not feel those words. It was a short phone call and she was glad when it was over.
A male nurse was standing next to her. He bent down and gently said "Someone will talk to you very soon, but we need to get you stabilized first."
She tried to look into his eyes, but he looked away. A doctor also approached. He, too would not meet her gaze. For a few seconds, she tried to silently rationalize this, "He must have some sort of damage," she thought. "Maybe brain damage or Downs Syndrome." She closed her eyes and fell back into sleep.
When she opened up her eyes again, she saw her husband Daniel, staring down at her. He had such an terrible look on his face and she wanted to close her eyes again, but before she could, he was saying, "Dylan's gone." He shook his head and added, "I'm so sorry, but he didn't make it." He reached for her hand. She couldn't feel anything. Walls began to form in her mind. "No," was all she said. "No."
The same nurse stood next to her husband. "On a scale from one to ten, with ten being the highest; how much pain are you in right now?" Without thinking, Cassie said, "Nine." "I wish they would all go away," she thought. "I need to figure out what happened."
She closed her eyes again and within minutes, morphine kicked in and she surrendered herself into the drug induced fog.
When she came to again, she was aware of someone near her head. "Cassie," a voice pleaded. "You have to wake up." She shook her head no and tried to stay asleep, but the voice was persistent and several other voices joined in. "Cassie, please? You must open your eyes."
Her eyes opened up a little bit and she tried to focus. "Where am I," she asked. Daniel and the midwives were standing there and one of them pushed something towards her. "Your baby, Cassie, you have to see him."
The small, warm bundle rested on her chest, just underneath her chin. As a sob escaped her body, she looked down at his face. His blueish-pink skin reminded her of a robins egg and his eyes were closed. He was beautiful. A shock of dark hair stood straight up and she thought about touching it too, but all she could manage to do was to stare at him while tears fell down the side of her face. "Oh," she mumbled. Her witnesses silently stood back, knowing she needed this time. She fell asleep holding him on her chest, unable to let him go or say anything else.
She held him most of the night. Several times she woke up, remembered what had happened and looked at her baby. She told him how much she loved him. She told him about his family-- his big sister and how terribly sorry she was. She knew she had failed to keep him safe. At one point a nurse came in and asked her if she could take the baby away and Cassie sent her away. She was not ready to let him go.
"I love you to the sun and back
and to the moon and back
all the way up to the stars,
and around the world three hundred and sixty seven times," she said softly.
When she woke up later that morning, her son's body was gone.
Nurses came in and out of her room; checking her IV, administering more pain killers, and trying to talk to her. She didn't say much to anyone. Daniel was there too, sleeping in a cot beside her bed. "I should call my family," she thought. "I need to let them know." But before she could act on any of her thoughts, she was always falling back asleep.
The doctor came in and stood by her feet. She asked Cassie if she had any questions. Inside her head, Cassie was screaming, but she held it all in and said, "No, not really." Daniel was awake too and he sat on the edge of Cassie's bed. The doctor read her chart, made a few notations and quietly left.
The television was on and the news channel reported that thousands were mourning in the streets of Paris on the one year anniversary of Princess Diana's death. She watched as they showed pictures of piles of flowers and distraught people milling around the streets. It seemed right. Sometimes she clutched the soft white baby blanket she had brought, expecting she would use it to carry him home in. Sometimes Daniel pushed the IV back and curled up on her bed next to her. She slept better when he was right there, even if it was cramped and they were both uncomfortable. She seemed less alone.
A day after Dylan's death she managed to call her parents. When her own mother's voice answered the phone, Cassie realized she wasn't even sure how to form the words to tell her what happened. She started, stopped. Tried again. She heard her own voice saying that her son died, but she was so outside of her own self that she did not feel those words. It was a short phone call and she was glad when it was over.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Not a whole lot going on today. Jason was able to get into the dentist, which is good. Mads and I are just hanging out. She is watching some of her favorite movies and I am online. I just made some pasta for her lunch. That pretty much sums up the excitement in my life (will it be penne or egg noodles?)
Of course if my life wasn't like this, I would probably be longing for it.
Of course if my life wasn't like this, I would probably be longing for it.
Saturday, May 08, 2004
I've been restless all week. I keep taking long walks, hoping that will somehow clear my head. Yesterday Jason, Sierra, Madison and I went for a nice, long walk in the rain. We searched for puddles to stomp through and had a grand time. On the way home, we were at Briscoe School right near the old school bell and we were all racing towards it. I grabbed Jason's arm to hold him back and he grabbed me and I fell flat on my face in the mud. I hurt my hand, but it was just so funny. We laughed all the way home. I want to act like a four year old sometimes and make wishes on dandelions. It is a good way to be.
So two days ago, I turned thirty five. Shouldn't be a big deal. But for some reason, this one really bugged me. Half of seventy and I can't get past thinking about all of the things I haven't accomplished yet.
I'm settled down. We've been married ten years and have three kids together (two living). So my life doesn't even belong to me anymore. I am a mom first and then Jason's wife. My whole identity is tied up with them. And most of the time that is fine, but I get in moods sometimes and I wonder what happened to me. I used to play hard and laugh all the time. Now my sarcastic comments are often missed by our four year old daughter although I am fairly sure she will develop the same offbeat sense of humor.
It's not that I want to take huge risks. I know that I can't. I'd just like to be able to think that I can sometimes. Does that even make any sense?
I'm settled down. We've been married ten years and have three kids together (two living). So my life doesn't even belong to me anymore. I am a mom first and then Jason's wife. My whole identity is tied up with them. And most of the time that is fine, but I get in moods sometimes and I wonder what happened to me. I used to play hard and laugh all the time. Now my sarcastic comments are often missed by our four year old daughter although I am fairly sure she will develop the same offbeat sense of humor.
It's not that I want to take huge risks. I know that I can't. I'd just like to be able to think that I can sometimes. Does that even make any sense?
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