My Phriend Phyllis

Once or twice in a lifetime, you find someone that just clicks with you.
Such is my friend, Phyllis.

Way back in 1990, I took a teaching position in (to me) a brand new state in a brand new location , in an ancient school building.  It was a fourth grade position.  Elementary school isn't my forte', but I was desperate because my marriage was falling apart.  Getting that job was tantamount to survival for my daughter and me.

That put me on the Fourth Grade Team of a bunch of really, really good teachers.  There were four of us in number, plus one if we considered the Special Ed teacher who worked in one of the classrooms--and she was excellent, too.  I soaked up every bit of wisdom that I could from these folks.  Truth be known, as my home circumstances got "worser and worser", they also became an enormous source of support for me.  Friend Phyllis was a huge part of this team.  After months and months of hearing my daily complaints at lunch, she finally declared:  "We are tired of hearing about what your husband did or didn't do.  We want to hear about what YOU have done."  That was the smack upside the head that I needed in order to understand that it was time to stop being a victim and take control over my own life.  Not sure Phyllis knew that at the time...

I live in Plainfield because of Phyllis.  I needed to get the hell out of Cloverdale where my ex was ensconced as a school administrator.  On her invitation, we spent the better part of a day together looking at places to live.  That later led to a rental home for me...

When it came time to move, I enlisted my aunt, uncle and cousin from Illinois, and Phyllis's twin sons to help.  The distance between homes was slightly over 31 miles and was not without its problems.  Lots of them.  The worst--for me--was the horrible spasm, or whatever it was, in my back.  I reached down to move a box.  Never actually touched it, but suddenly, my back was stricken.  Phyllis took control of the rest of the day while diagnosing for me to OD on ibuprofen.  It was almost a month before I could move somewhat normally again.  Ugh!  I'm fairly certain that Phyllis considered the day a total disaster, but I was moved.

In later months and years, Phyllis and I maintained a walking schedule.  We did the track at Hummel Park for two laps, five days a week in the summers, early in the morning.  We talked and laughed and cackled the whole distance.  When she moved to Mooresville, we changed our venue.  Thereafter, things fell apart.  She was getting divorced and I had fish to fry in my own life.

In the interim in all of this, I had these words from her, all of which hit me where I live:

"Peg, how much to do you like that fireplace?"  ~~Spoken because an electric fireplace that I'd had forever took up an enormous amount of space in the duplex that I rented, just past divorce time.

"It's your JOB to know if your daughter is sexually active."  ~~Spoken just after I'd said that there are some things kids just don't tell their mothers, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

"Peg, don't fold up.  You'll just have to unfold again."  ~~Spoken when I felt ready to give up on life.

"You have given your daughter all of the wisdom to survive.  It's time to sit back and just enjoy your time with her."  ~~Spoken when I was trying to control things over which I had no control with life with a teenager.

Truth be known, I think Phyllis, somewhat single-handedly, got me through my divorce.  Although she probably won't accept the credit for that, I know what she did and how I responded to it.

A couple of days ago, Phyllis and I attended the funeral of a former school administrator.  I had found a place in the pews to hide my rollator/walker to wait for the services to start.  Suddenly, a person stood in front of me and said, "Move your walker so I can scoot in beside you!"  Not "Hi, how are you?  May I sit with you?"  It was Phyllis.  She totally knew that she could be my pew buddy.  She didn't even need to ask.  And we sat in that pew, crying over the songs and giggling when we had to move the hymnal further away so our old eyes could see it.  We hadn't seen each other in years. but the bond was still there.  Taking up where we left off, no excuses necessary.

I don't know when I will see Phyllis next, but it doesn't really matter.  We are in touch on Facebook.  "God don't make no junk."  I am so blessed to have friends like the people of Monrovia, IN, schools who gave me so much of what I needed for years and years.  God bless them all!







 

My Tribute to a Good Man

Way back in 1988, my family--which consisted of my then-husband and our daughter--departed Illinois for our new adventure in living in Indiana.  He had lost his principalship in the school district where we lived in Pontiac, IL, due to some totally unfair political moves that the Superintendent took to save his own skin.  (We weren't the only victims.  Two of the three principals in the district were sacrificed.)  He/We had interviewed in a number of districts in IL, most of which neither of us had ever heard of.  All of them represented a reduction in salary for him, and none of them were places I particularly wanted to live in.  And then, seemingly out of nowhere, an administrative position in Cloverdale, IN, became known to us.  Cloverdale is, perhaps, ten miles from my in-laws in Greencastle.  I figured we could do this!  What neither of us understood was that changing states meant jumping through new hoops of requirements in order to be allowed to teach in Indiana.  I'll spare you the gory details.  Just understand that my then-husband moved in with his parents so he could attend summer classes at Indiana State University in order to be qualified for things he had already been doing in Illinois.  Our daughter and I stayed behind in Illinois, charged with getting some work verifications that he needed, packing up our worldly belongings, and getting out of our house in Illinois by the time our lease expired.  While he went to school in IN, I mopped up in IL.

It turned out to be a draught year.  The summer that we moved, it was HOT.  The house that my then-husband found for us to rent was acceptable but had some problems, not the least of which was that there was no air conditioning.  I won't even go into all of the details.  I'll just tell you that I was doing all I could to set up a new home for us; deal with my daughter who was in a depressive tailspin over leaving her home and friends behind; deal with my father who was still recovering from a broken hip and still grieving over the loss of my mother, and now me; and figuring out how I could get certified to teach in Indiana after already having a "life license" in Illinois.  In short, that first year was hell.  My daughter broke her foot.  She and I both hated her teacher.  No one except the people in the church were paying attention to me...and so it went.  I stayed up endlessly every night, drinking wine and writing letters to my husband--my cries for help--only to have him trash the letters.  I don't blame him, really.  He just really wasn't into things at home.  Meg and I were holding him back from what he wanted to do for himself.  Shortly thereafter, he found another woman to love.

So...during that first year or so, I was taking college courses out of Indiana State University in order to get my teaching credentials in order.  I was on track.  And then the bottom fell out.  I became aware that my husband had strayed.  I knew it.  I had all the evidence in the world, but he refused to admit it nor would he say that he wanted a divorce.  (That's a whole other blog post.)

With my marriage falling apart right under my nose, I knew I needed a job.  It was two weeks before the beginning of the school year in 1990, but I would only be employed as a substitute teacher--certainly not enough income to support myself and my daughter after a divorce.  A Monrovia teacher who lived in Cloverdale and whose kids went to school with my daughter told me that there was a fourth grade position open in the Monroe-Gregg School District.  Call "Billy Mac" Fisher, she said.  I did, and--wonder of wonders--Bill Fisher hired me!  Bill was a local boy, and there were other applicants for that fourth grade job that were also local, but he gave the job to me.  I was ecstatic.  I would be teaching fourth grade that first year.  Truth be known, I was NOT a very good elementary school teacher, but I was ensconced in a team of three other fourth grade teachers who were the best of the best.  I learned quite a bit that year!

My classroom assignment was in a basement room of a building built in 1902.  The ceilings were low in that room.  There were real slate blackboards--I mean REAL slate blackboards on which writing could barely be seen beyond the first erasure.  It wasn't the best of situations.  Right around the corner of the classroom was the oil furnace.  One day, out of nowhere, smoke started filling my classroom from the ceiling vents.  I pressed the button to call the office:  "I am evacuating the classroom  We have smoke!"  I took the kids out.  In an instant, running down the hall toward us, fill-tilt, was Bill Fisher.  After a fairly short evaluation, it was determined that the furnace had simply "burped" and we were safe.  The smoke dissipated and we re-entered the classroom, but I will never forget seeing Bill coming on the run.

I was a non-tenured teacher in Indiana.  It was Bill Fisher's job, as my school principal, to evaluate me twice a year.  That meant he had to observe me at work in the classroom.  The first time he came to do that, I had moved one of my more petulant young men, desk and all, to the front of the classroom so I could monitor him better as I taught.  (BTW--big mistake!  Being in front of the class gave him an audience!)  Anyway, Mr. Fisher sat at my desk while I taught.  I had my back to the young man in question while I taught the lesson Bill was observing.  As I was teaching, the young student was performing for his classmates...using a pencil as if to stab me in the rear.  I didn't see it, but Bill Fisher sure did.  He came roaring out from behind my desk, exclaiming "Young Man!!"--grabbed the kid by the shoulders and yanked him out of the room and down to the office.  After the dust cleared, a tiny voice came from my students, saying, "Don't you think that was a bit harsh?"  Yeah, it probably was...but I guarantee that those kids never forgot that moment.  I know I sure didn't!  I'm not sure the kid even knew what hit him.  Justice was swift and sure!

The next year, Mr. Fisher announced that he would be retiring at the end of the year.  As his only non-tenured teacher, I became aware that he would still have to evaluate me before he could check out.  We had evaluation dates scheduled, but it seemed that something came up every time that kept him from doing the last one.  It was weighing on him.  After at least three failed attempts, I said, "Bill, why don't you write up an evaluation based on what you know about my teaching, and I'll sign it."  He did, and I did.  What he wrote was totally fair, with both praise and criticism.  It was a "gentleman's agreement" between the two of us.  We bent the rules a bit, but there was NO COLLUSION .  (Sorry.  I couldn't resist.)  Bill Fisher retired in 1991 or '92.  (I forget exactly which year.)  We got a new principal, but I missed Bill's honesty and lack of political nonsense.  His priorities were so down-to-earth.  We need more Bill Fishers in education!

Sometime after Bill retired, he and wife Martha moved to a condo just down the hill from me.
In 2007, I suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm.  I was required to stay out of school a couple of weeks after the year had started.  One day, as I sat in my little house with a scarf on my head to hide the scar on my noggin, a big ol' dinosaur of a car pulled into my driveway.  It was Bill Fisher, just stopping by to see if I was okay.  What a guy! 

Bill Fisher and his wife of 70+ years attend my church--or I attend theirs.
We ran into each other often. His son, Jeff, had been a teaching colleague of mine, and Jeff's wife, Wilma, was part of the office staff.  Stuff happens, as it inevitably does.
Wilma, who was a little slip of a thing, had a massive heart attack and was rendered unconscious.  She was kept alive, artificially, for a couple of weeks until Jeff and her kids decided to pull the plug.  They had been assured by the doctors that tiny Wilma was brain dead.  It hurt my sensibilities that someone so small could be so stricken.   I knew that Wilma was one of the reasons that Jeff stayed on the straight-and-narrow, and that without her Jeff would be in trouble.  He had seriously high blood pressure.  He was a smoker and a drinker, and generally just a good-ol'-boy without any pretense of being anything other than he was.  I really respected that about him.

When Wilma died, I ordered a Prayer Blanket for Bill and Martha because I knew they would worry about Jeff.  At the end of the church service, I found Bill doing his usher thing (cleaning out the pews before the next service), and approached him to give him the blanket.  All I said was, "I know you worry about Jeff.  I want you to know that we care."  Bill burst into tears.  That said it all.  I hugged him and left.

Not long after Wilma passed, Bill and I talked by phone.   He gave me Jeff's phone number and encouraged me to talk to Jeff.  I did.  Several times.  We actually were making plans to meet up with another retired colleague when Jeff went south.  His passing was as sudden and as unexpected as Wilma's had been.

Jeff's funeral services were to take place on the exact same day that my family and I were leaving for Illinois to take part in my sister and brother-in-law's 50th wedding anniversary. I had helped to plan the event for months.  There was no way I could miss it.  I had written a eulogy, of sorts, for Jeff.  On our way out of town, I left my offering at Bill and Martha's door, then left a message on their answering machine that it was there.  It was read by the officiant at Jeff's funeral.  A bit later, Bill asked me for a copy because he said that I had gotten the essence of his son to a "t".  I felt so honored...

And now, Bill is gone.  I am told that he was scooping out ice cream for family when he complained that he couldn't feel his feet, and then fell to the floor, unconscious.  That was Saturday evening.  The rumors went around at church on Sunday morning that Bill had had a "serious" stroke.  By Sunday evening, he was gone.

I know that I told Bill at least once what he had done for me and why I consider him my hero.
He had no clue at the time, but giving me that teaching position way back in 1990, saved me and my daughter from an otherwise unsure fate.  After his passing, I discovered that Bill was 89 years old and had been married to his beloved Martha just three months shy of 71 years.  Boggles my mind.

Bill Fisher's funeral services will be tomorrow.  You'd better bet that I will be there to pay my final respects to a man whose life changed mine.  May we meet again in Heaven, Bill.  Until then, Godspeed through the Pearly Gates...and God bless your family.   

Billy Mac Fisher was a man of values, heart, and dedication.  I love that man in the truest sense of the word.  The world will be the less without him.
     

Proud Grandma

If you have followed my blog at all, you know that I have two teenage grandchildren whom I love more than life itself.  They live clear out in the Pacific Northwest, while I continue to reside in the Midwest, so I live vicariously in their lives through things that their mother (my daughter) tells me.

They are both great kids.  Smart kids.  Handsome kids, each with talents all his/her own.  The eldest of the two is Robin, who will be 17 in early August.  Robin is a leader.  She has herself booked into so many activities this summer that her mother could scarcely find a free week to send the children here for a visit.

Robin is a youth leader in her church--the Woodinville Unitarian Universalist Church--which is non-denominational and accepts all religions and all people.  Last Sunday, she was part of the service and gave a sermonette of her own creation.  I copy it, verbatim, below.  The "con" she refers to is short for "convention"--a youth gathering of other church youth leaders.

The theme of this past spring con was ‘courageous love.’ Two words that can inspire an entire weekend’s worth of discussion. I’m going to try to share with you what I learned at, and since, con about the connection between vulnerability and self love, the importance of being uncomfortable, and the way that love supports social justice work.

We all have our different understandings and definitions of words. Over the course of con, I was given the chance to adapt--and adapt again--my interpretation of the word ‘courage.’ I came to the idea that being courageous is ‘putting yourself in a vulnerable place to help yourself and others.’ As for the word ‘love’ it is a word that can be thrown around often but it isn’t as easy as some make it sound. Evidently, we all struggle with love sometimes. Loving people who are different than us, people who we see as enemies, our family, friends, and ourselves takes courage. At con, we discussed the ‘cans’, ‘shoulds’, ‘whys’, and ‘hows’ of love. Can I love a person who has done a terrible thing to me and why should I? And how can I love myself when society tells me not to?

In my 16 years of life, learning to love myself has proven to be the hardest part of love, and I know I’m not alone in that. In today’s society, we are taught that there are parts of ourselves that are inadequate, inferior, and shameful. It takes courage and vulnerability to not cover up the parts of ourselves we are ashamed of, not to walk through life pretending to be someone else. I’ve found that only accepting part of yourself and hiding the rest doesn’t work. To truly love and accept ourselves, it is necessary to accept our whole selves. 

Maisy Elspeth, one of the worship leaders at con, shared that, “The root of the word courage is cor- the latin word for heart.  In latin, the word courage means to speak one's mind by telling all one's heart.” Sharing your heart and true self to the world can be, and probably will be, uncomfortable. This Sunday, I invite you to embrace your uncomfortability because that’s what courage is--the willingness to do something you know is right, no matter how hard and uncomfortable it may be.

The idea of embracing the state of being uncomfortable carries over into social justice work, in fact, for privileged identities, being uncomfortable is necessary in helping to dismantle oppressive power structures. We try to ignore the ways that we, personally, take part in oppressive systems because we don’t want to feel guilty or uncomfortable so we tell ourselves things like, “it’s fine, it’s only a joke,” or, “I’m not racist, I have black friends,” or, “I can’t perpetuate sexist stereotypeing because I’m a woman.” The truth is, if we don’t have the willingness to look at our own complicity in racism, sexism, transphobia, ableism ect… we won’t be able change our actions to make the world a safer place for oppressed groups of people.

Since con, I’ve been learning about white supremacy and reflecting on the reasons I do racial justice work. I’ve realized that I’ve done this work, in part, to quench my ‘white guilt’, to congratulate myself on being a ‘good white person’ who does this work out of the kindness of their heart. Only recently have I come to understand that the narrative of the, ‘good white person’ is harmful. Reflecting on the harm I cause to others due to my internalized white supremacy and trying to prevent said-harm in the future doesn’t make me a good person, it simply means I’m doing the bare minimum of anti-racism work that I should be doing. 

I’ve found that there are better reasons to participate in social justice work than self-congratulation. For instance, love, is one of those reasons. I’d like to share a quote about the importance of love in anti-racism work from Layla Saad’s “Me and White Supremacy” workbook.  

“This is love work. Cornel West said, “justice is what love looks like in public”. Love is 

one of those words that is very hard to define. But in the context of this work, here is 

what it means to me: It means that you do this work because you believe in something

greater than your own self-gain. It means you do this work because you believe that

every human being deserves dignity, freedom and equality. It means you do this work

because you desire wholeness for yourself and for the world. It means you do this work

because you want to become a good ancestor. It means you do this work because Love

is not a verb to you, it is an action. It means you do this work because you no longer

want to intentionally or unintentionally oppress people. You will also need Love for this

journey because when the truth-telling gets really hard, you will need something more

powerful than pain and shame to encourage you to keep going. It is my hope that love is

what initially brought you to this work. It is my conviction that love is what will keep you

going.”

In my time since con, I’ve gained a deeper understanding of the interconnectedness of love and justice; social justice work is guided by love, and love is given direction and strength through the lens of justice. My challenge for you today is to take some time to reevaluate the reasons why, and the ways how, you do social justice work. I invite you to foster your love into acts of kindness, resilience, and rebellion. And know that when the going gets rough, you can always draw courage from this community.

Thus saith "my baby" Robin.  She uses some words that I consider triggers that will incite ire in a non-receptive audience ("white supremacy" among them), but she is using them in their truest sense.  Her target audience was her church--a place of acceptance.  My scared grandma sense wishes she didn't care so much because 1) I never had the courage to step up and be counted in my younger days, and 2) I fear that her resistance/rebellion will somehow put her in danger.  I lived through the 50s and 60s when Freedom Riders were beaten and even killed for standing up for truth.  But the real truth is, that though I don't always believe in the tactics, I DO believe in the messages, and I bless this young'un in her quest to make the world a better place.  Please God, protect her in every way!  

Why am I so proud?  How many 16-year-olds do you know who have delved so deeply into love in the purest sense?  I love you all, courageously!

Heart Attack Anniversary

This afternoon, I had my annual cardiology appointment.  When Dr. Gill--a really handsome fellow--walked in the door, I quipped, "We've got to stop meeting like this."  He laughed, then said, "It's better than the first time we met!"  Oh, how right he is!

I retired from teaching at the end of May in 2009.  My daughter and grandchildren lived with me.  I considered my retirement a chance to help take care of the grandkids without the constrictions of my job.  Hallelujah!

That summer, the grandchildren were at their dad's in Muncie, IN, for some visitation.  August 1st was a Saturday.  I was beginning to experience some symptoms of old age degeneration, so it was easy to dismiss my morning aches and pains as part of waking my body up and get it going.  My neck was stiff.  My right arm felt heavy...then my left arm felt heavy.  Things just felt weird.  Hard to explain.  I took a couple of aspirin thinking they would be my pain meds of the day.  But when nothing improved, I alerted my daughter, even though I didn't feel any chest pain.

Along about 10:30 AM, as I recall, dear Megan was hardly even out of the shower when I announced, "I don't want to alarm you, but I think something is going on.  I need to go to the hospital."  I was still in my bathrobe.  We both hurriedly got dressed and headed out for Hendricks County Hospital, which is a good 30 minutes away, but as we approached the Plainfield Fire Department station on Main Street on our way, I said "Pull in here.  We'll ask what to do."

Behind the fire station was a picnic table with two or three paramedics enjoying...maybe lunch?  One of them approached the car.  I asked, "What do we do if someone is having a heart attack?"  He said, "Which one of you is having the heart attack?"  I thought it was a strange question.  Well, obviously not the one driving!!  "Hang on while we get another ambulance here."

In short order, I was put in an ambulance.  My daughter was instructed to follow us.  At the time, I was totally not in trouble.  They asked what hospital I wanted to go to, telling me that IU West in Avon, IN, was closer than the one in Danville, so that's where we headed.  I could clearly see my daughter in her car right behind the ambulance.  No lights or sirens.  I wasn't critical.  The EMT had given me two baby aspirin and installed EKG electrodes on my chest.  All was well.

And then all hell broke loose.  My heart started to flutter.  It didn't hurt, but I could feel it.  The EMT could see it on the EKG.  Then it stopped for a second or two.  Then it started again.  He asked me, again, if I could feel it.  Yes, I could.  Here we were, on a busy highway, stopped in traffic when the EMT alerted the driver that we needed to go (whatever code they use) for lights and sirens.  His explanation to me was, "I just don't like to be stuck in traffic."  We were probably less than a half-mile away from the hospital by then.

My poor daughter at first didn't comprehend that the sirens she was hearing were for me.  She was looking around to pull over for an approaching emergency vehicle, when the emergency vehicle was right in front of her, leading the way!

In short order, I was delivered to the ER.  Blood tests were taken.  Much is a blur.  Megan was there by my side.  And then the cardiologist on call came in to tell me that I'd had a heart attack, based on Troponin levels in my blood...blah, blah...and that, since it was a weekend, they didn't have the staff to do an angiogram, so they sent me by ambulance to Methodist Hospital in Indy.  Guess what?  By the time I got to Methodist, my heart had settled down.  All was normal.  And since nothing was whacko at that time, they decided they could wait until Monday to the honors.  Ugh!

I got a heart stent out of the deal and felt much better when it was done.  By Tuesday, I was ready to go home...and they were okay with letting me go.  This is how my cardiologist became my cardiologist.  For a couple of years, I saw him every six months, but my ticker has been so stable over the years that I only have to see him every 12 months now.  Still--10 years after the fact--he remembers the day I was brought in.  Remembers me.  Remembers my daughter.  Remembers the fact that my heart attack actually happened in the ambulance on my way to the hospital, but that I had felt it coming on.  I really didn't experience any pain.  I didn't know I was having a heart attack--only that something wasn't right.

On a side note, I got home from the hospital fairly early in the day.  Very LATE in the day, my daughter got a call that her son--my grandson--had a bike accident and was being transported from Muncie, IN, to Riley Hospital for Children in Indy because of a suspected brain bleed.  She came to my room to tell me and asked if I wanted to stay home.  No.  HELL no.  She drove.  We found ways to get into the hospital, thanks to some maintenance guys.  It all went as well as could be expected.  Ryan had a major concussion but seemed to bounce back.  He started Kindergarten under physical restrictions.  I'd had a moderate heart attack but seemed to bounce back.  I had some restrictions, too.
Somehow, my grandson and I still keep on keepin' on!

I'm SO glad these are just memories and not current events.  At my appointment today, Dr. Gill told me that he remembers the day I was brought in and remembers my daughter.  With all of his other patients, I'm not sure why that is.  Maybe because my daughter is beautiful!

It's nice to know that my ticker is still working fine.  The rest of me?  Not so much!   

Joy Comes in the Morning

After my last post about the fatal dog attack that my friend "Amy" and family endured, my first payment for the roof $5k loan was due.  I had that set up for an automatic debit, $162 per month for three years.  Except, the day before, I received a mysterious email from my bank indicating that the loan was all but paid off by "Margaret McNary as Anonymous".  I called the bank seeking an explanation.

The bank rep asked me if I had sent a "big check".  No ma'am.  I don't have that kind of money.  There has to be a mistake somewhere.  She left for a minute or two, then returned to tell me that the loan had been paid off by an anonymous someone...a gift.  Wait.  A gift?  A gift is a $20 sweater or a box of candy...not a $5,000+ donation!  I blubbered for a bit, asking the gal to check over and over to make sure it wasn't a mistake.  The only thing she would tell me that the donation didn't come from my daughter who is also on my bank account.  So who??

I'm still stunned.  This doesn't make me rich, but it sure does relieve me of a three-year financial burden.  I hope, in time, to know who did this for me.  But it sure does reinforce my feelings about my fellow man.  Someone out there loves me.  Just wish I knew who it is!!

 

Help for the Helpers?

There are times in life when the Human Spirit becomes so damaged, so discouraged, by a traumatic event that it feels as though endless sleep would be a welcome relief to the awful memories of the event.  But what if every time we closed our eyes, the whole bad scene replays itself over and over to the effect that sleep is no longer possible?  It's normal to relive these things for a couple of weeks.  Maybe even a couple of months.  But when it doesn't stop and it affects one's ability to live at a so-called "normal" level, it become Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and it is life altering.

I have a friend, a former student that I will call "Amy".  Amy is in her mid-30s, with two middle-school-aged kids by other relationships and a toddler with her current spouse.  Since the last baby, she has been diagnosed with heart failure, rheumatoid arthritis, fibromyalgia, and who knows what else.  She can't work anymore, so she and the whole family--including her live-in mother--depends on the income of her wife who works two jobs to keep them all afloat.  And with all of these people come their pets:  wife's pitbulls, Mom's dog, another family dog, and a couple of cats.  I came in Amy's life a year or two ago when someone posted that the family needed help with meals because of her disabilities and her wife's inability to cook due to time constraints with her two jobs.  I have provided meals for her and her family, plus we have met once a month for a Girls' Lunch Out.

Last evening, Amy messaged me that she and her family had been through a seriously traumatic event and that she couldn't "get past it".  There is so much drama with her crew that I wondered to myself, how bad can it be?  Well...bad.  Here is what she wrote:

Our pit bulls attacked my mom’s dog today. Mom and I tried to get them off him and couldn’t. I was dragged across the yard by them and covered in his blood, used my cane, threw bricks...all to no avail. They killed him.

My kids are so scared of them they had Belle’s dad come get them and are sleeping there. Adam witnessed me being dragged and hysterically cried, saying he didn’t want to see his mommy die. I can’t even begin to describe how terrible it all has been. Every time I close my eyes I see him and I keep hearing his yelps and my mom screams.

There was more, but it was all I needed to hear. I wasn't there. I didn't see it. I didn't experience it. And yet I was horrified for those who did. This is the stuff of nightmares. As an animal lover, I was traumatized just by hearing the story--for them, and for the dogs. There are no happy endings to this story. The whole family, and extended relatives as a result, are traumatized. All I could say to Amy was that I felt for them all...was so sorry for the whole thing...and hoped she could get some rest. Talk about feeling helpless!!

The pit bulls will be surrendered to the Humane Society because there really are no other options. I hurt for the critters. I hurt for the children. I hurt for the adults. Nothing can change the reality.

Interestingly, just this morning at the light of day, I saw a video on Facebook, posted by another of my friends who is a 911 dispatcher in Missouri. I'm not sure anyone considers how the first responders to tragedy feel. One of the strongest impacts in my mind after 9/11 was the total confusion and helpless visages on the firemen who were trying to respond--TRAINED to respond--but simply couldn't do anything to change the situation. As long as I live, those images will always be with me. I wasn't there, but I could feel what they were feeling.

And that got my feeble brain to wondering who helps the helpers get past this stuff? Fortunately, there are opportunities of help via Critical Incident Stress Management (CISM) for those who avail themselves of it. (I had the lowest level of training in that once. Like CPR, it's something that needs to be refreshed on a regular basis. There are very specific steps in dealing with these kinds of trauma.) Of course, there are people who won't admit that they need help because they think they are stronger than all of that. I think everyone who has experienced something horrific to them needs to seek help. Fortunately, Amy has touched base with a counselor. It's still early in her recovery for this.

This is one of those No Win situations for which no human help will work. That's where faith comes in. Sometimes, we have to give in. Sometimes we have to admit that we are powerless to change things and that only something bigger than ourselves can help. Sounds like a cop-out. Maybe it is. To me, without it, nothing makes sense. We are all serendipitously at the mercy of the universe. I have trouble with that. It feels better to me to feel the focus of faith and prayer. It causes me to give off the positive vibrations of love even in awful situations. I have to have faith. Without it, life is just one trauma after another, with no hope of it getting better. I'm not stupid. I don't believe that I can change the world, but I sure wish I could!