Crash Test Dummies are People Too!

Blog Across China: Xian Orphanage

2010-09-08T09:50:00.019-10:00

Before I moved to Utah and become a proud home owner/loving dog owner I used to have a job.

It was the kind of job where I got to rub shoulders with intellectually stimulating professors and interesting students from all over the world. I got to read engrossing novels and force those interesting students to write boring papers about them. And best of all, I got to travel to exciting places, with exciting people.

Maybe some of you remember that I taught English lit and comp classes at BYU-Hawaii for 12 years. I also taught an interdisciplinary history class called World Communities for several years, which afforded me the opportunity to travel to Mexico, New Zealand and Fiji. And then, as if life wasn't charmed enough, I was lucky enough to travel with the BYU-Hawaii concert choir to China, Mongolia, Korea, Japan, and New York City as the tour historian.

It was awesome with a capital AWE.

So last week, the president of the Empty Nesters Club in my Sponge Bob ward called me and said she heard my hub and I do presentations.

Huh?

I know. That's what I said.

Long story short, my hub and I are doing a presentation. To the Empty Nesters club. About one of our trips.

What do you say to Empty Nesters?

I know not.

But the request has turned my mind to China, so allow me to practice right here. On you.

I'll start with my favorite day in China.

Yesterday on my dummy diaries I wrote about how the spirit it mightier than the body, and how sometimes you encounter people who can't remember you, but who you can't forget.

For me, one of those people was a toddler named Kaisho. I met him in a government-funded Handicapped Children's Rehabilitation & Training Center in Xian, China, which is a fancy way of saying I met him in a Chinese Orphanage.

A lot of the kids there had been anonymously abandoned, and some were sent there near death.

Kaisho reached in and branded his hand print across my heart the moment I picked him up and started tickling him. He had the most contagious giggle. I wanted to steal him so bad. Sneak him out in a laundry hamper or something. Somehow I just had to kidnap him--smuggle him back to the United States with me.

I mean, he was abandoned anyway, right? Why couldn't I have him if no one else wanted him?

I just don't get red tape.

(But I do get red thread. Especially if it is invisible.)

In the end I had to admit, it wasn't such a bad place. As bad places go.

Hopefully Kaisho found a loving family to bust him out of that no so bad place.

Overall, the orphanage experience left our whole group in a state of reverence.

Would it be too much like a Hallmark card if I said we showed up to bring gifts to the children--store bought gifts--but they gave us better gifts. The kind you can't buy at Walmart.

I don't have to spell that out do I?

Just before we left, the children gathered around us and sang, "Jesus Loves Me. This I know. For the Bible tells me so." In English. They learned a Christian song in English, and they don't speak either language.

Sweetest moment ever.

Second sweetest moment was their faces when we busted out the toys.

Allow me to share a few excerpts from some of the choir member's tour journals:

After devotional today we were able to visit an orphanage that had several handicapped, sick or just abandoned children. It was such a touching experience. Many of us let the tears fall as we played with these precious kids. Just to make them smile or hear their little laughs was so awesome. As I was holding two boys on my lap for a picture, they both had their arms around my neck. I looked down and noticed that one of the boys pants had something stitched into it. It read, “A little bit of love from someone is precious for a lifetime.” That hit me hard and I hoped that I was giving a little bit of love to that boy--SPENCER BANGERTER

The visit helped me to know there are always children who need our help. When I saw the babies, I knew they really needed a mother. They have a right to parents and I worry about when they grow up and they ask where their parents are. I know it will be hard for them. I don't want them to think they don't have any hope because their parents didn't want them.--KIT MING LAU

It was very emotional for me to see all the children here dealing with so many challenges. It was really hard not to express any sadness or depression in their presence; I wish I could take every kid here in my arms and hold them for a day and forever.--LOUIS PRESCOTT

As soon as they looked into my eyes and hugged me, I wanted them to feel that familiarity of love. The three kids that were on my lap wouldn't leave, and as I sang little lullabies to them, they held on closer when people would try to lift them away. After a while I had two of them fall asleep in my arms, and they got heavy, but I didn't want to let go, to the point that I got a glimpse of what a mother goes through. I wanted to take them with me, and even for a minute have them feel that love. I just want to keep feeling these things.--GINA SMITH

In one room, we sang Mo Li Hua for the kids. Most of us were crying because we felt sorry for them, but also because we felt happy to visit them. I thought that through this kind of service, we can spread the gospel without any words. I was feeling that the Lord was there with us, and he was shedding the light on them. We had the opportunity to give gifts to them. I can’t forget their happy faces when they received the gifts. I was so honored that we could make them happy--MARI SASAKI

Dear Wonderful Future Kids . . .

2010-05-11T06:29:00.003-10:00

Mother's Day is cool because my hub and kids always make me breakfast and then go around the table saying what they love about me. This year I was a little surprised that all my kids said that they love that I am such a happy mom. My daughter even said that I am funny and fun and she loves that I am always laughing.

I don't feel like I am that way, but I would be so thrilled if I am remembered that way by my children.

I was also surprised when I found this cute open document on the computer. Apparently my daughter was asked to write it as an English assignment, but it was a fun treat to read it on Mother's Day because I remember writing similar letters to my posterity when I was her age, only mine were more gloom and doom and warnings about the corrupt state of the wicked wicked world.

I am so thankful that my daughter has an optimistic eye on the future, and doesn't take life so darn seriously!

I thought it was so cute that I asked her if I could share it on this blog:

Dear Wonderful Future Kids,

Just wanted to let you know that you guys are going to love life because I’m your mother, and don’t worry I’m planning on marrying a great guy. We are going to have so much fun, but of course you are going to learn a lot too. Oh, and you have super tight grandparents. It’s hard to know what to say except tell you how stoked I am to have kids. I can't wait to protect you as babies, remember the cute toddler moments, and laugh through the awkward teenage years.

As I’m writing this I’m still in the immature teenage period. Most of my friends have started dating, but not me. I'm still 15, but I’m okay with it because I think boys have cooties. Future daughters, you aren’t allowed to date until you're 25, and boys you better treat those ladies respectfully!

Look, you don’t even exist yet, and I’ve already made ridiculous rules.

I’ll support you in all of your interests….even band. I can get over my fear of the band room, just because I love you guys so much. I want you to believe that you can do anything, it just takes work. Work is hard, but it’s nothing to be afraid of and it can be fun. Just gotta love what you’re doing. All I know is that you guys are going to be stubborn and tall, unless I marry a short guy…not likely. I’m stubborn and give everyone a hard time, so you’ll probably cause me all the pain I caused others.

Love,

Your favorite and only mother,

P. S Smile and Be Happy!

If You Really Knew Me . . .

2010-04-12T08:03:00.003-10:00

When I lived in Hawaii I would often take my three sons and their little rugrat buddies to a place called Alligator Pond on Pounders beach where they would spend hours scooping up little damselfish with fishing nets and holding them hostage in left over laundry detergent buckets. On one occasion the older boys ran ahead while my friend’s four year old struggled along the shoreline lugging a five gallon bucket full of water.

“Want me to carry that for you?” I offered. So I did.

I carried it quite a ways down the beach before I noticed it was full of empty water.

No fish.

It struck me as pointless to be carrying a big ole’ bucket full of empty water all the way down the beach.

“Want me to dump this out for you? I said. So I did.

It made me think about life, because everything makes me think about life.

Sometimes we need to help others carry their buckets and sometimes we need to help them empty their buckets.

One semester, while I was a teacher at BYU-Hawaii, I decided to add a metaphorical bucket section to my curriculum. I began by asking each student to anonymously complete the following sentence:

“If you really knew me, you would know that _____________”

It made my eyes sweat to think on all the things my students were carrying around with them so I poured all of their buckets into one huge poem, because sometimes it just helps to share.

Grab a tissue because I’m going to share the poem here for all of you who need your buckets emptied today.

If You Really Knew Me

If you really knew me, you would know that I was raped when I was ten years old. I feel dirty and I hate my body.

If you really knew me, you would know that when I was nine years old I saw my cousin drown and I couldn’t save him.

If you really knew me, you would know that nobody takes me seriously. On the outside everything is a joke to me, but on the inside I am empty.

You would know that I am recovering from an eating disorder.

You would know that I have a sexually abusive grandfather that ripped my family apart.

You would know that I regret working so much and not spending more time with my children.

If you really knew me, you would know that I hated my wedding day and I want a divorce.

I suffer from depression.

I have a voice in my head constantly reminding me of my inadequacies and downfalls.

I lose hope often. I am discouraged. I yield to the screams of temptations. I was arrested for shooting my stepfather with a paintball gun. I got teased constantly as a child for being overweight. I ran in the face of danger. I hate myself. I suffer over the grandmother’s death my cousin died of breast cancer I was on probation for six months for beating up a kid in Jr. High I don’t respect my father I cut myself regularly to make myself feel my cousin took his own life . . .

If you really knew me, you would know that I am sad and angry because I didn’t tell my father about my mother's boyfriend.

You would know that I am heart broken and I don’t feel any happiness.

I'm thankful for the good folks over at Service Soapbox who are working together to make a dent in the world.

Drawing Heaven

2010-01-29T14:20:00.003-10:00

This video made me shush any whining and complaining going on in my head so I could look at things BIGGER!

It's a tiny glimpse into the incomprehensible capacity and power of God.

Last Letters from Haiti

2010-01-27T04:36:00.000-10:00

These are the last two letters from Haiti. Craig, Steve, Gary and Chuck are home. DARNIT! I wish they never had to come home. I have so enjoyed seeing the happenings through their eyes.

FRIDAY, January 22, 2010

We are sleeping on the tarmac at the Port-au-Prince Airport. Not too much more I could say. We were evacuated--iit felt literal--from Leogane this morning at about ten. We had just enough time to talk to the Bishop and pass along a bunch of money, and say goodbye to all of our friends from Bavaria, Cuba and Menonite--I know its not a country. We had just given the Cubans all of our supplies in anticipation of having to get out quick with the helis and then Tim Mooney and Stan Phillips showed up with the helicopters. They are in for an adventure! We took a few minutes to orient them.

Just like everything else we have experienced here there were a number of small miracles that took place. Everything that the ward in Leogane has done for us to make us comfortable and safe. For instance, Frere Eddy has been our driver and computer provider and good friend for the past week. I really wanted to make sure that he knew that Stan and Tim were here and he was needed to pick them up tonight, etc., etc. I had just asked the young man from the ward that Bishop Pierre-Louis had assigned to us for the day, to go and let everyone (Bishop/Frere Eddy) know that there were guys there to replace us and they needed the same help and voila! Frere Eddy shows up.

The helis dropped us off at the heli landing zone at the @ Port-au-Prince airport, in other words, the tarmac.
I broke down a bit on the helicopter ride out because I am so grateful for the opportunity we have had to be here and help a few people. This has been such an incredible experience. Seeing the growth and maturity of the church has been extremely satisfying. Chuck gave one of his classic analogies. When he was Branch Pres in Leogane 20 years ago they planted a little mango tree in the front part of the grounds by the chapel. Now that tree is a beautiful 30+ foot Mango tree with 100s of mangos (unfortunately not yet ripe). That summarizes the growth we witnessed and were blessed by. I had to catch myself the other night when I met the Stake President. I thought he was a young man looking for church activities and then I met the mission president who looked even youger than his missionaries! I almost congratulated them on how self-sufficient the church is here. How there are no foreign missionaries (and there hasn't been for some time). They don't need us and its awesome and then I quickly realized that that was about me and the fact is it is about the church, that is the way Our Heavenly Father wants for things to go! He just needs good people to live the gospel and he will make it all work regardless of the place or the circumstances.

There are huge military transports landing and taking off every half hour or so. And there are tons of pallets and supplieshere at the airport--I hope they start to make it out to where they are most needed. The airport is a little city all by itself. After a few hours hanging here with Arthur Brice and Chris Roberts from CNN--yes we talked and yes they said they were going to do a story on us--they were waiting while their photographer went for a helicopter ride with Jeremy. Anyway, after just sitting here the choppers took us over to an orphanage--House of God Orphanage, I think its called. The doc from the orphanage flew down with us to Santo Domingo. They are buzzing right now because there is a good chance the kids will all be able to get out soon. In fact I just overheard one of the guys talking about all of us flying out tomorrow with the orphans in a military transport leaving around noon?! The orphanage was a blast. We just sat with the nannies and the kids came and jumped all over us. Gary has never been so worked over. He had a child on each knee one on his left shoulder and a cute little girl that combed every hair on his head. We had fun talking with the nannies. They have seen a lot of white people--adoptive families--but this is the first time they have seen white people speak their language. Most of the kids are spoken for, but it sure was hard to pry them off of us and return here to the airport.

Please pray that we can get a few hrs sleep tonight and please continue to pray for us to make it home soon! We can feel those prayers very easily and know that they have been answered to allow us just a little time away to help these incredible people. Hope to see you soon!

Craig, Gary, Steve and Chuck

SUNDAY, January 24, 2010

Well, I guess this is it. We are finally on US soil!!! I suppose we have to go back and start from the beginning. We slept on the tarmac. Maybe I can paint the picture a bit. We were unsure about our departure time (and our departure) so we decided to stay really really really really close by. We were across the tarmac from the big transport planes that were coming in and out all day and night. Chuck took one of the tarps off of a pallett of 'stuff' and rigged it up so there was space for 1 and 1/2 people and then Steve, Chuck and I jumped in and Gary eventually joined us down by our feet. Gary said I kicked him all night, I thought it was mosquitos biting me. The most suprising part of the whole night was that it was cold! Gary ended up putting on 2 surgical gowns to get warm!

We woke up not knowing if we were going to spend a few more days (weeks, months) in Haiti or flying out on any one of 5-6 different options.

Gary and I hopped in the helicopter fairly early on and headed back out to Leogane. Gary has this ability to 'have stuff find him,' and we had procured a bunch of really needed supplies. We jumped out of the helicopter and delivered the casting stuff to the Cubans--even at the Univ of Miami hospital located at the airport, casting supplies are scarce.

When we talked with the Cuban general surgeon we learned that they still had not been able to get their x-ray machine working. The holdup is a box, a simple plastic box where the film gets dipped into the exposure fluid--antiquated system but incredibly crucial. Rest assured that Gary and I almost missed our flight out because we were on the helicopter again going back out to Leogane to take an x-ray fluid box. The box was delivered while we were on the plane thanks to Jeremy.

The first evac option was with the orphans from Maison des Enfants de Dieu--featured a bunch on CNN. Their doc flew in with us last Sunday and we spent the afternoon at the orphanage yesterday (friday). We were waiting for any word that the kids were on a bus headed to the airport. Gary and I had just taken off for the return trip to Leogane when we were called back because the bus was on its way! From what we know or heard there was a lot of politics involved but just over half of the kids received approval to be flown to the US and go to either adoptive families--best guess is that 90 percent plus had already been promised or adopted--it is just a very lengthy process. By now you have all seen the pictures and videos of all of us carrying the kids from the bus to the transport plane. It is almost impossible to describe our feelings about the opportunity to put a lifetime event like that in perspective or in writing. What a way to end our trip! We were so overwhelmed by those kids. I think there were 83 orphans that got out. Each of us, including all of the St George team that we flew in with - Bryce, Jan (nurse who delivered baby in Leogane) Keoni, Kurt Troy, Boyd and James and Marc Martial (team leader for church's Haitian Creole translation and good family friend who was down in Haiti with the lds church's official group), had kids crawling on us, wetting their pants on us etc etc. Steve said the little girl on his left knee was so scared to get on the plane that she instantly wet her pants and he just let her because he didn't want to make her feel bad.

The plane was awesome - while it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to ride in an Air Force C17, that was not even close to the story. Right after we got on and I sat down next to Chuck and the two kids crawling on him I noticed that Youmilde, the 7yr old little girl I held for about an hour yesterday at the orphanage, was crying and there were a bunch of little ones crying so I jumped up and put her and another baby on my lap. While the kids were all very excited they were also extremely afraid of flying and all the other unknowns ahead of them. After loading and buckling all the kids and escorts they opened the plane up to the line of Haitians and others with U.S. passports, the majority sitting on the floor. Once we were completely loaded they tried to get a count that would match the manifest so we could take off. It became a huge mess when the numbers didn't match up and we sat there for at least 2 hours until Chuck jumped up and grabbed the microphone and read each name so they could match names to people. Needless to say he captivated the audience with his jokes and the way he spoke their language fluently, yes he put on a show. The problem was, there were a number of people put on the list as escorts for the orphans that didn't end up going with us. Anyway, we finally took off and the light in their eyes and the curiosity about flying was really fun to watch. The flight took about 2 hours but felt a bit longer with the smells and the diaper changing and the kids running around! After helping drop them off at customs in the military airport here in Orlando we were on our way!

The hotel and everything else is nice. It is hard to maintain perspective. We spent a little time talking to Marc Martial about the team that went down from the church to replace us. They had some struggles including lack of organization and too many chiefs - this is the first time the church has sent a team of medical pros into a disaster--they are learning as they go just like we did.

Probably the most lasting memory I will have, and I think Gary and Chuck and Steve agree, is of a humble Bishop doing his job, magnifying his calling and being magnified by his calling as he cared for everyone he could, including us.

The opportunity to spend time with a few of the best men I know was a huge side benefit.

We are all a bit intrepid about the attention and excitement we have generated--iit is fun to poke at each other about the misquotes and pictures. Gary crying on the front page of CNN is classic classic stuff. Steve and Chuck and I were on the verge of tears every minute while there, but it is Gary that gets the story! Our goal from day one was to help Haitians and we were able to do a bit of that. Thank you so much for your patience and prayers and for letting us come. I am starting to cry sitting here at Dennys so I gotta stop.

See you in a few hours.

Love,

Steve, Gary. Chuck and Craig

Craig, Chuck, Steve and Gary: Letters from Haiti

2010-01-22T07:43:00.003-10:00

More fascinating letters from Haiti. (See previous post for explanation)

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Wednesday . Jan 20 . 2010

Pretty tough to know where to start. Sorry if this is too viral now--our intention was not to do anything other than keep a journal of a few of the special, memorable stories and let you all know that we are alive and kicking.

Today we continued our efforts with the Cubans. It is a remarkable, comical setup. You have the Mormons the Cubans and the Menonites (the Canadians said that sounds like a joke). They have joined up with us the past few days and have helped with crowd control and basic medicine and wraps. We are all in a little compound or school with hundreds of people laying around waiting for help. Back in Leogane the Canadians set up in the field where our choppers landed with us Monday. We are starting to see some great cooperation!

One of the most amazing parts of this whole setup is the way we have been supported by the ward here in Leogane. The Bishop has anticipated and cared for every little need. We have a great, secure place to sleep with the generator running (most of the time) so we have fans. When we need drinks, the members go grab them so the boys don't get dehydrated. There is a member here with a truck (SUV) and he has taken us everywhere we need to go.

We discovered today that Frere Eddy lost his 11 yr old in the earthquake. He is the one with the computer that allows me to write this epistle every night. Every night when we come back from a lifetime's worth of stuff in 10 hours, the members have a great meal ready for us. Gary is now begging for rice and beans and chicken sauce!!! We came thinking that we would provide help for them and they have done nothing but serve us.

Okay just a few stories:

Today we were joined by the EMTs and nurse from St. George and Dr. Ray Price and Dr. Creig McArthur from the church's delegation that came down Sunday. I think we entertained them completely. Chuck did toes two and three and Steve did toes two three four and five. Chuck and Steve turned a guy into a shooter--thumb and pointer remained.

Probably the most amazing story of the day is a follow up to yesterday's story about Edgar's niece. Today at about 4 o'clock a haitian group came to our compound and had space for 6 people to transport to Port-au-Prince to receive immediate surgery. We had a bunch of people with open fractures that we wanted to get on there. I quickly thought of Edgar's niece-- she is the little girl who was one of two survivors in her school class of 34. Edgar had been with us earlier but it is impossible to get in touch with anyone here. Cell phones are spotty, etc. As I walked over to see if he was still there, a small SUV pulled up and it was her!!! I can assure you that there is no explanation for timing like that other than prayers. She got on the truck. While Steve and Ray Price (it was fun for us to have Ray join the team and jump right in) were cutting off toes 2,3,4,and 5 - sorry Stan and Tim--A really nice German doc came over and held the flashlight for them for at least an hour so they could finish--yes we were doing surgeries in the dark, but we had good flashlights! ;)

There was an 18 yr. old girl who was home when the earthquake hit. her whole family died except for her--she was hit in the head and has brain damage. Her body was writhing and she has extension posturing in the right side of her body. She continually yells out and hasn't slept in five days. Because her whole family died her classmates from school have taken her in and cared for her, trading off day by day. Imagine someone requiring constant attention and not being able to sleep, but they stick with her.

One of the funnest stories of the day was when Jan--the nurse who came today with the EMTs--part of the St.George team, delivered a baby. The mother found us with an IV and everything totally ready to go. Jan discovered her as the baby was coming and delivered her. When the baby came out, she wasn't breathing so Gary grabbed her and, as he said, tossed her around a bit then held her in the air and everyone cheered!

Today we saw reporters from Time, People and BBC. Chuck talked to the Swedish reporters--Chuck is fluent in Swedish Chef.

Gary has been helped every day by a girl from Connecticut who is here on vacation. She has become his personal translator --yes I have been replaced -- it is amazing, she keeps returning to help and she is very useful.

These are such great people. Gary has remarked many times how the kids and the people love to touch you--shake hands, hand on shoulder, hold your hand, etc. They are very endearing. The kids don't care that he doesn't know the language, they just love to follow him around and smile at him, etc. We have tons of pictures, hopefullly we can remember some of the faces and put them with the stories...

Craig, Chuck, Steve and Gary

PS the aftershock got us out of bed early this morning but wasn't too scary...

Thursday . Jan 21 . 2010

Not positive but I think maybe the fourth aftershock of the day knocked out a tower in Leogane??

My phone hasn't been working and the internet wouldn't do anything.

Today was a day of branching out. Some of my stories are more second-hand because I took Dr. Price and Dr. McArthur into Port-au-Prince with Frere Eddy. Let's start there.

We couldn't get Dr's Price (Ray) and (Creig) McArthur back to the main group of docs who came down with the church. They are in Port and it got too late, so they stayed with us here in the chapel in Leogane. We took the 2nd Counselor with us, Frere Matthieu. He has been helping us since we arrived in Leogane. The Bishop assigned him and Sister Patricia (a recently returned missionary from Leogane) to shadow us and help us with anything and everything. They have done everything from opening instrument packages during surgeries to washing the blood away to holding patients during procedures. We discovered that Frere Matthieu's wife gave birth to a baby boy at 1 a.m. Thursday morning in St. Marc, about 100 miles away so we took him with us into PAP so he could catch a bus to meet his brand new baby! Their first! We wanted to pay him for all he had done to help. When I tried to do that he refused saying 'you are here serving us, what I did was service too.' So we gave money to the Bishop who gave it to him as a gift for the baby!!!

When I got into PAP I was happy to meet up with Alex Laguerre right when we got to the Stake Ctr. We knew it as Chapel Central while I was serving in Haiti 20 years ago. I was walking up the drive and a man and woman were walking towards me and the guy said, 'you look like Craig Nelson' I grabbed him and gave him a big hug. He was such a great missionary and leader.

I stayed there at the Stake Center for about two hours waiting for the church contingency to figure a few things out, including providing us with much needed supplies. Another highlight was running into Kristin Larson's husband and Marcia Peterson' brother, Dan Egan. I wanted him to come back to Leogane and let me take care of him and translate for him a bit. I gave money to the Stake Pres for members in PAP and I gave money to him for Mildors wife in the event that I couldn't track her down. Frere Eddy and I drove over to the Delmas Chapel to try and find Aurore, but was unsuccessful. On our way thru Port we were sitting at an intersection and the truck started shaking. I thought the big bus next to us hit us, but then everyone around started talking abt an aftershock.

It was good to talk with Frer Eddy on the drive back. He teared up when he related how his 11 year old Kristine, who stayed after school to get extra tutoring, was killed in the earthquake.

Now to the docs in Leogane. When I returned to our setup here the Mormons the Menonites and Cubans had been joined by the Germans. A group of medical pros from Munich found us here. Gary, and the St. George guys--Kiani, Kurt, Troy and Jan did some great bartering with them and they invited Steve into their tent to amputate a lady's foot! She had a bad foot wound and the outside of her heel and the whole foot was badly infected. The tent was way more sterile than anything we had used for surgeries before. But don't be too dismayed, Steve used a leatherman saw--yes it was sterile--to saw off the tibia and the fibula. Steve said its called a bologna amputation. (Sorry, I guess it's spelled belowknee...)

Gary and Bethany, the young Menonite lpn did a burn debrievement--took off dead skin for a 6 year old little girl who was in their house while her mom was preparing dinner and the earthquake caused her to have boiling beans spilled on her right arm and chest--the entire right front quarter. The drugs were extremely helpful, she screamed and yet was really tough.

We cannot thank everyone enough for donations and especially Taylor Drug and IHC Am Fork hospital for what they gave us. The suffering is overwhelming and the ability to provide even a little relief almost makes it bearable.

Chuck took a 65 year old and with Gary they took off left ring finger and toes 1 2 and 3 on the right foot. Gary was excited to be able to share with a German gu--1st year resident who showed up with a German news crew and preened in front of the camera for a minute or two-- good looking young guy who they used to get the word out about the german contingency here.

We shared patients with the Canadians and the Menonites helped us transport them over.
I got transfered to the Canadians and Steve is my new/old comp. The Menonites took us over so Steve could do a surgery or two with their orthopod. Steve put an external fixator on a broken femur without xray guidance! The patient was a 16 year old we had cared for @ New Mission and then transported to the Canadians. His name was Wishly, he lives out in Ti Riviere about 10 miles away.

I worked with Sam, a doc from Zimbabwe who now lives in Canada. I did a bunch of translation stuff. The most interesting was a 20-year old who was in school with 54 classmates when the earthquake hit. She was one of 5 who got out. She had a double femur fracture and the doc tried to explain that they couldn't operate but needed to put her in bed and put the leg in traction. Her brother and Sister were caring for her and they both looked up at me real quick and said "we don't have a bed, we don't have a house." They are living in the tent city here in a little soccer stadium.

I know I have been here too long, I got choked up when, after showing them how to put the leg in skin traction with rope, tape and a cinder block, the doc told the bro and sis to come get him in a week and he would come with them to their tent and check up on her.

Steve and I then came back here to the chapel where the members had cooked a bunch of extra rice and beans so we could take some to the Canadians - they only had MREs. They were so excited about the food that they have planned to come over here to the chapel this afternoon to watch the girls cook it so they can replicate!

All of the uncertainty has been difficult. Not knowing when and how and where we are going is tough but everything has worked out so far. It sounds like the choppers are coming to get us around noon Friday. My phone isn't receiving or sending texts or emails but when this gets through please know that we are happy and full of faith. Please keep praying that we will see you soon!

Love
Craig, Chuck, Steve and Gary

Helpers in Haiti

2010-01-20T06:59:00.000-10:00

I received the following email from my good friend, Mags and I immediately asked permission to post it here.

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My brother Craig who served a mission in Haiti 20 years ago but still speaks fluent Haitian Creole (he translates for General Conference for Haiti), went with a group of doctors that included two former mission companions. He got there Sunday to the Dominican Republic. Yesterday was his first full day in Haiti.

Margaret

1/18/10

We are in Leogane. We went to Jacmel first and landed with at least 12 - 15 other doctors from Houston with more expected soon. We had heard that there were a lot of problems in Leogane without a lot of doctors and Chuck's dreams were answered. Chuck was Branch President here 20 years ago. My best guess is that we treated around 30 people today. Each individual needed procedures - fractures, dislocations, head trauma (including a sweet little girl who is a member of the church - 8 years old - with exposed bone and infections all over her head).

There were a number of individuals whose infection was beyond our treatment level and needed immediate surgery (amputation) but we cannot do anything other than clean and give antibiotics and pain meds. Everyone we saw needed a lot of help.

We are setup right in the LDS Chapel here in Leogane. Chuck Steve and Gary were incredible. We feel extremely fulfilled and tired. The church members here in Leogane are very helpful too. I think there are probably 200+ people living here in the chapel --right now we are in the same room where we did all the work today, it is the chapel and multi-purpose room. There are 20 kids/people watching a church movie on a TV. There are two or three families asleep in the middle of the room and there are a bunch of people milling around--that's just in here. There are at least 100+ sleeping out in the front area or parking lot. We just had dinner--they made us rice and beans with chicken sauce!!! We are going to sleep in the Sunday School room where they put up drapes and mattresses. There is a generator but Gary still doesn't know how he's going to take a shower --no running water.

Flying over Port-au-Prince and Jacmel and Carrefour and Leogane was tough. There were a lot of really pancaked houses and there were tons of people displaced. The sad thing is, it didn't look that different except the really affected houses, etc. These people have endured so much, we were all on the verge of tears so many times today--seeing the kids was especially hard. If I had time I would spend a couple hours and write about every one of the little kids that Steve and Chuck and Gary put casts on or reduced dislocations or stitched up. There was even a 3 month old that Chuck put a cast on his right ankle which was broken --this is almost one week after his house fell on him and busted it!!!

1/19/10

How can I describe what happened today...

1. Teamed up with Cubans

2. Australian Reporter

3. Guy died in Gary's arms

4. Chuck and Steve cut off a bunch of fingers

5. Really, really tired

We started off the day by deciding to set up a clinic at a location other than the LDS Chapel here in Leogane. We went over to where Chuck and Steve had been yesterday where there was a small team of Cuban doctors on their way and a lot of people needing help. We found the Cubans were there and had plans for a pretty nice setup. While Chuck and Steve got things going, Gary and I decided to run back over to where Doctors without Borders (Medicine Sans Frontiere - MSF) was working with the Japanese team. We (Gary and I) wanted to connect with someone so we could help with more acute medical situations. We needed X-ray capabilities and possibly even surgical or amputation abilities. When we got there the Japanese and the MSF were fighting and there was a news team from Australia there trying to find someone to help them get a good story about the needs so I grabbed them and we took them back over to where Chuck and Steve were setting up. They hung with us for about 3 hours or all morning. They interviewed Gary and Chuck and Steve and I and they took about 1 1/2 hrs of video - promised to send it to us!!! They wanted to get a story or two about children receiving attention in dire or difficult situations. That was pretty easy.

They took the most footage of Steve and Chuck putting a body cast (hip spica) on a little girl named Beauvais with a femur fracture. She was really in bad shape--imagine having an 8 year old daughter break her leg--her femur and then just sit around for a week. The whole operation (if you could call it that) was done on the ground or on cinder blocks with a large group of Haitians surrounding us and holding her.

We were setup in an old school with a number of buildings and rooms with old desks or chairs in them--nothing was even close to sterile let alone clean. Gary was over in another part of the compound helping to administer drugs to people in post op situation. The Cubans were performing amputations --probably 6 or 7 --and Gary helped them with pain --he is really good at that. While helping Steve and Chuck with a few things and talking with the reporter, Pete, Gary came running over to us and asked for an ambu bag or battery/hand operated suction. When I got in there he was holding a guy about 20 years old who had just had his leg amputated. Because he aspirated his own saliva and Gary had no way to get the stuff out a pretty healthy young guy died (other than just undergoing an amputation of an infected leg with sepsis without anesthesia).

Chuck is telling me about a 2-month-old baby whose mom died on top of her and she survived but was trapped for quite awhile --who knows exactly how long. The baby had some pretty bad mental issues --moving, but not very well, eyes continuously crossed and uncrossed, weak cry, etc., either hypoxic or intracranial bleeding.

Chuck and I are trying really hard to keep laughing. We both just discovered that the tears will not stop once they start -- it's a good thing he's such a goofball.

GRAPHIC STUFF - Chuck and Steve spent at least 45 minutes amputating a little boy's left pinky. It was burnt and had bone sticking out. They had to put a tourniquet on him to stop the bleeding and Chuck got some spine instruments to cut the bone.

Then they spent at least an hour helping a 60+ yr old lady whose pointer, middle and ring fingers were completely destroyed and rotten. I put a couple extra tourniquets on her because she kept bleeding. There was an extremely comical moment -- if you can get over the sick, twisted, disgusting nature of it. As Steve was taking off bandages and beginning to cut off rotten fingers, there were maggots falling out. Steve was very gentle and helped all the maggots out carefully with his scalpel - he said, "move along little doggies." After a lot of manipulation and cutting she is now much much better off and can easily do a hang ten.

Edgar's niece (Edgar is Chuck's best buddy and former 1st Counselor in Leogane Branch) was in school with 34 kids/students. She is one of two who survived. She had a bad leg and it was splinted by a local doctor. It was an open broken tibia and fibula everything was swollen and infected. She needs amputation. She is getting X-Rays tomorrow because she might have a broken femur too. Edgar is family. Chuck couldn't talk, it hurt so bad. He told Edgar and his brother that she needed her leg amputated. The little girl's Dad--Edgar's bro said to Chuck, "No problem you can cut off both legs if needed, she is alive and for that we are grateful."

Please do not be overly concerned. The good that we are doing here is amazing. We could go home today and be totally fulfilled. The needs here are overwhelming but every person helped is another opportunity to live a long, healthy life. The people have no idea that there situation is so bad and therefore for them it isn't. They are happy and tough and resilient - seriously when you see the ugly or painful situations that little small children are in and then they smile it all melts away. thanks for letting us come and thanks for dealing with the consequences - I know that Heavenly Father loves these people. I feel it every time I get one of those smiles. Your prayers are being answered.

This Blog is Helping Cure JM

2009-10-01T19:12:00.011-10:00

Kevin of Always Home and Uncool has asked me to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife's birthday.

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

My girl'z got guts!

2009-08-14T03:38:00.009-10:00

Remember my super model daughter?

Well she had a room. In Hawaii.

And this is how I will always remember it.

I took these pictures last Sunday before she left on a jet plane to fly away to Utah.

Forever.

This ceiling fan was the only thing I enjoyed trashing IMMENSELY, since it was really good at giving us an earful of noise, but not so good at giving us any AIR FLOW.

Ba Bye celing fan.

"Mom, you're so emotional!" My daughter said as we were pulling out of the driveway to take her to the airport.

Good thing she didn't see me taking all these pictures.

Or sitting on her bed for the last time watching her sleep earlier that morning.

"Bye house," she said as we pulled out of the driveway.

"Bye townhouses," she said as we drove down the street.

"Bye BYU."

"Bye Laie."

"Bye beach."

That's when I turned around and smacked her upside the head. And she stopped.

This is my daughter's room now.

SNIFF!

I miss my daughter!!!!

And her room!!!!

SNIFF!

(I know families are forever, but my heart aches for anyone who loses a child too soon.)

One of the last nights she was here I sprawled out on her bed with her and did something we've never done together before. Watched CSI. Or was it Bones. Or was it Cold Case? Or L.A. Ink? I can't remember. I don't love any of those shows. But we were together. On her bed. In her room. For the last time.

My hub kept calling for me to come look at some house on the internet, but I just ignored him, because when you're about to finish a really good book, you want to savor the ending. Even if ends with CSI.

My daughter left for Utah a week before us so she could start practicing with her new High School soccer team.

She started practicing 3 hours after she arrived, (which wasn't easy because we don't do red blood cells in Hawaii.)

And then she played in her first varsity game the next day.

And we missed it.

Because we're still in Hawaii stuffing the last 10 years into polite little boxes.

We talk every day and I ask her how she's doing.

"I can't breathe, but I'm fine," she says.

Not only is she a super model she's a super trooper. I can't imagine at 14 years old--moving away, without your fam, a new high school, a team of strangers, 3 hour practices every day.

And NO AIR!

At least she's got GUTS!

LY daughter of mine!

Thinking of you (and all your friends).

And thinking of you (and all your soccer girlz).

Can't wait to see you next week!

The Five People We Meet in Heaven

2009-06-30T09:55:00.000-10:00

Reading this book is a great way to cope with a Christmas in Kauai with the in-laws.

Watching the movie is an equally great way to cope with PVBD (post vacation boredom and depression).

Needless to say I watched the movie this past week and found myself scribbling down all the movie wisdom.

The premise is intriguing--an 83 year old man named Eddie, who spent his life doing maintenance at an amusement park called Ruby Pier, is killed while pushing a little girl out of the way of a falling carnival ride.

At the time of his death Eddie was disappointed with life. He was a soldier who was unable to get the war out of his head. He resented his abusive father and blamed him for his own wasted life being stuck as a maintenance man. And finally he lost the love of his life to early to a fatal illness.

In the after life he is told that there are five people waiting to meet him. Each will illuminate something for him in Heaven that he didn't understand on Earth.

All of the people waiting to meet and teach him have either been effected by him somehow or vice versa. Three of them are strangers and he is responsible for two of their deaths.

When he first arrives in heaven he is unable to talk so he can better listen.

These are the lesson Eddie learns as he closes his mouth and opens his mind:

1. There are no random acts.

2. We are all connected.

3. No life is a waste.

4. Life has to end, but love doesn't.

5. Hatred is a curved blade--the harm we do to others we also do to ourselves.

6. Sometimes when you think you're losing something you're really just passing it on to someone else.

7. Sacrifice isn't something to be ashamed of, it's something to be proud of.

8. Strangers are just family we have yet to come to know.

9. Everyone deserves to be forgiven.

After Eddie learns these lessons he is taken to Ruby Pier where he is greeted by all the people he protected and kept safe simply by maintaining the park and preventing accidents. Their children were there too, and their children's children.

What a sweet realization.

It's the very reason I love the finale of the musical Les Miserables so much. Every time I see it I get a lump in my throat when Jean Val Jean dies and is greeted by all the grateful people he effected.

During the daily grind of life it's hard to remember our significance in the lives of others. It's so easy to feel isolated and alone and forget that each life effects the other, and the other effects the next.

And the world is full of stories, but the stories are all one.

Kinda makes me want to pour myself a cup of hot chocolate and watch It's a Wonderful Life.

Earn it!

2009-06-28T21:44:00.005-10:00

Tonight, while channel surfing, we caught the last 10 minutes of Saving Private Ryan--the part where Captain Miller dies just after he whispers "earn it" in Private Ryan's ear.

So poignant, that scene. Think about it. There's a big war going on and a group of men risk everything and face extreme dangers to save one private.

One single man.

How many men died to complete the mission? I can't remember. And all just so one man can return home safely. Was it worth it?

I love that Private Ryan appreciates the sacrifice and spends his life trying to earn it.

It makes me wonder how much more I would appreciate and accomplish if I remembered on a daily basis all those who have made sacrifices on my behalf.

I can't help but think of the great sacrifice our Savior made so that I might live and return home safely. Imagine what would life be like if I was humble and mindful enough to acknowledge that sacrifice by working diligently to earn it.

A New Years Prayer

2009-06-24T18:20:00.003-10:00

I have learned that once in a while people need to know you're human.

People, I am definitely human.

In fact today I was way too human. It was a painful emotional day simply because I cleaned out and organized all of my kids past photos and awards and school projects.

Oh, how each little letter and drawing and expression on their sweet faces pricks at my heart. I miss those cute babies of mine sooooooo much. I wish I could go back and hold on to each moment--stop them from slipping away like water through a net.

It's also difficult to remember some of the hard times. It's especially hard to see photos of myself right after my twins were born. (They were born at 29 weeks and spent 6 weeks in the NICU).

I found the cutest little note in my daughters stuff that made me cry. It must have been written when she was in her early elementary school years. It read:

Oh Heavenly Father, please help my mommy. She's so frustradid. Thanks. You are the best. I love you.

I also came across this prayer I gave out with a homemade Christmas angel the year after my twins were born. I gave this to all the people who looked after me and my family during the challenging weeks they were in the hospital.

A New Years Prayer

Dear Lord,

Please give me a few friends who understand me,

and yet remain my friends.

A work to do which has real value, without which

the world would feel the poorer.

A mind unafraid to travel, even though the trail be not blazed.

An understanding heart and a sense of humor.

Time for quiet, silent mediations.

A feeling of the presence of God.

And the patience to wait for the coming of these things

with the wisdom to know them when they come.

--W.R. Hunt.

What more could anyone ask for?

A guest post from my twelve year old

2009-04-29T21:38:00.004-10:00

My twelve year old son is writing his autobiography for his English class. This is the son who I call the other pea in my pod (except he's annoying and I'm not). See what I mean in this post and don't forget this hilarious post.

Every day he comes home from school and pumps out these cute stories about his life. I'm going to post the little blurb he wrote today summarizing his elementary school years. See if you can't see the little dummy inside him emerging already.

(I bleeped out the teacher name on purpose, for obvious reasons):

The elementary school I attended was Laie Elementary. I went there for all seven years. Kindergarten-sixth grade. Everything was running smoothly. I was having so much fun having nap time all day. Same thing in 1st grade. But then in 2nd grade it all happened. I had Ms. _______. Ms. _______ was good. It wasn’t her. It was SFA. SFA was a reading program. Dude! It was so boring! Crazy boring. Reading all the gayest books for like 3 hours. I hated it and I had to go through it for like 5 years.

That’s not all that happened in 2nd grade. This was a scary memory. It started on the last day of school. We were having a party and I needed to go. The bathroom I went to was a small bathroom. Only 1 toilet. So I walked in, shut the door and did my business. I washed my hands and tried to open the door. It was locked! So I’m stuck in the bathroom on the last day of school. I’m in there for about an hour.

After the first twenty minutes it was getting hot. There were no windows. I seriously thought I was going to die. I started yelling and pounding on the door. Finally, after about 30 more minutes, my best friend Kameron saved me. My teacher must have finally noticed I was missing. I was so sweaty when I got back to class that everyone was fanning me off with their text books.

I do have some good memories of Elementary school. I loved my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Ah Sue. She was really funny. I also like Mrs. Aluli, my 5th grade teacher and Mrs. Tuliloa, my 6th grade teacher.

The best part of Elementary school was the field trips. I really enjoyed camp Erdman in 3rd grade. Hearing those scary stories gave me nightmares for like a week. Another great field trip was our Big Island trip. It was really fun hanging out with my friends, but the best part was learning amazing stuff about Hawaii. In 5th grade we got to sleep over on the U.S.S. Missouri. It was different to sleep in a ship. It was a really interesting field trip. My last, but not least, favorite field trip was box car racing. We drove a little mini go carts racing our friends. You have to admit that’s pretty awesome.

Those are some of my good memories that happened in my elementary years. But, all in all, I really loved elementary.

I'm In A Georgetown State of Mind

2009-03-02T13:37:00.005-10:00

My English class is reading Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried and we're talking about things that haunt us.

So in regards to ghosts, and in honor of Ellen Hopkins--NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLING AUTHOR-- for commenting on my Monster post yesterday, I wrote a poem.

(Do you know how long it's been since I wrote a poem?)

I wrote it Ellen Hopkins style, but blogger doesn't support the format so let me explain it to you. The lines in between each stanza are supposed to be justified to the far right. Those lines must be read as part of the main poem, but they also make up their own poem when read alone.

Last summer

I spent a whole day alone, wandering
the streets of Washington D.C.
Just me. And my ghosts. It was

lovely to see

them again--to give them my
undivided attention. We caught
up over Philly cheese steak on

street corners

then took a taxi to Georgetown
where we strolled arm in arm
past bloodshot windows,

neck and neck,

as if through a Coldplay song—
The Scientist, maybe,
Or Keane’s Somewhere

Only we know--

and feeling like a kid at Christmas,
flipping through mom’s Ideals
magazines and wondering

what it was like

to live inside snow-capped cottages with
roaring fireplaces and smells of nutmeg
and cinnamon sticks. How would it be

to have plenty

of hot apple cider, divinity and love?
Georgetown is like that when you
wander through it. It's almost enough,

but not quite . . .

and it strikes you that here you
will come together, but also separate.
You are in this world, yet it is not quite

enough

in you. I love you, it whispers,
but I don’t know where to put you.
I wish I had the courage to ask it not

to put me away.

So Lucky I Have Hemophilia!

2009-01-28T11:16:00.004-10:00

This is my son, Wyatt:

He has hemophilia.

This is an article I wrote about him for Bloodstone magazine:

In Hawaii, the locals often say, “Man, so lucky we live Hawaii!” My kids say it a lot after a fun day of snorkeling or boogie boarding, but I never thought I’d hear my ten-year-old son say, “Man, so lucky I have hemophilia!”

Growing up in a cloud of hemophilia anxiety never made me feel the least bit lucky. Nothing about my childhood was predictable, safe, or secure because my dad had severe factor IX deficiency (Christmas disease), which translated into his inability to hold a job, nurture his family, or finish his education without being interrupted by a bleed.

For him, a bleed meant long hospital stays with whole blood transfusions, uninformed doctors, and chronic pain. At 36 years of age he was battling a hard-core addiction to pain medication and had contracted HIV from a contaminated blood transfusion. He took his own life in 1982 when I was 14 years old, leaving me his deep-seeded fear of what the future held for hemophiliacs.

Twenty five years and four children later, my fear has been replaced with gratitude—gratitude that clotting factor is now synthetic and sitting at my disposal in the back of my fridge; gratitude that my son can kick a soccer ball or shoot a basketball with his brothers; and gratitude for the care, concern, and support of a strong hemophilia community.

Of our three sons, only one, Wyatt, was born with hemophilia. He came into this world, along with his twin brother, fighting for his life at 29 weeks and 2 lbs. I’ll never forget my husband leaning over me and crying as I was coming out of my emergency C-section.

“Are you ready to hear this?” he asked. “Wyatt has hemophilia.”

“Let’s hope he likes computers,” I said.

But he liked sports, and in a fiery way. We predicted he would the moment we set eyes one him. While his brother slept peacefully in the incubator beside him, Wyatt’s eyes were wide open, and his determined spirit jumped across the NICU to greet us.

My husband and I became proactive right away because we wanted Wyatt to feel uninhibited by his disease. We didn’t want him to see it as a disability full of limitations and restrictions. We taught Wyatt to confront his hemophilia head on and prevent injury with prophylaxis. From the time he was one year old, we have been infusing him with clotting factor every 4 days, at first through a port and now intravenously. Over the years, he has sustained a few injuries complicated by his hemophilia, but, for the most part, the consistent prophylaxis has enabled him to protect his joints and stay healthy.

Now he’s an active kid who plays year-round sports. He’s on a local basketball team, soccer team, and tennis team. He has also played on baseball teams and run track. Every year he competes in his school’s annual Thanksgiving foot race where he finishes in the top three. He rides bikes, rip sticks, skate boards, roller blades, and water skis.

Synthetic factor has given Wyatt the gift of a normal, anxiety-free life, as well as the opportunity to develop his athletic talents and be part of a group in ways that were never available to my dad. And, as an added benefit, our family has been welcomed into the hemophilia community with open arms. Wyatt’s community advocate from Accredo’s Hemophilia Health Services—Bonnie Webb—frequently sends packages to my kids, and, whenever we‘re in the same state, she takes us out for pizza.

All of my kids have been able to participate in hemophilia summer camps and have been invited to educational workshops and conferences where Wyatt gets to interact with other hemophiliacs his age so he knows he’s not alone. This past Christmas, our family was in high spirits on the way home from a hemophila party at Dave & Busters, where we spent the evening having fun with other hemophiliacs on the island. Wyatt got thoughtful for a few minutes in the car before he said, “Man, so lucky I have hemophilia!”

. . . . . . . . .

Here are some photos of all the things my dad never got to do.

Sorry Dad.

LY Dad!

My Magical Day with Epeli Hau'ofa

2009-01-15T10:47:00.013-10:00

Two summers ago I travelled to Fiji and New Zealand with a group of professors and librarians from BYU-Hawaii. I was like a kid in a candy store. Ask them all. The trees, the clouds, the people . . . I couldn't soak it up fast enough.

Someone snapped these photos of me from the van.

Yes, I stuck my head out the window and snapped photos all day.

And then I scribbled out articles all night.

It was heaven.

One of the most exciting moments of the trip was meeting an author who I adore, Epeli Hau'ofa. He made me think deeply and laugh whole heartedly.

I found out last night that he died on Sunday, January 11th.

Today is his funeral.

I can't describe how I felt when I heard the news--sad that he's gone, happy that he was here, grateful that I got to meet him and interview him and take photos of him before he passed on.

I love it when people have a profound impact on the world around them. Epeli Hau'ofa was like a mental meteor in the Pacific.

LY Epeli Hau'ofa! And God bless!

Click here to read the Newsroom article I wrote about USP and Epeli Hau'ofa.

But be prepared to NOT recognize me AT ALL.

Click here to read the announcement of his death.

And to see how much better my photos of him are then the one The Solomon Times chose to print. (Hello! They coulda asked me.)

And look how totally star struck I am interviewing him and getting my favorite book, Tales of the Tikong, signed by him:

And here are some photos of the incredible creativity pouring out of the Oceana Centre for Arts and Culture that he founded and directed:

Aloha Oe, Epeli . . .

Oceania will miss you!

Dear American Hero

2008-12-02T21:28:00.004-10:00

My daughter just asked me to read this letter she wrote for her debate class. It's so beautiful I had to share:

Dear American Hero:

The marvelous things you do to keep me free amaze me every single day. This year in history we learned about the Revolution, the Civil War, and now we are learning about World War I. I was surprised to learn how many people died for our freedom and how many people have died to sustain it. I am so grateful that men like you are willing to put your life on the line to protect our country’s freedom. I know sometimes war can be disastrous and people wonder why we have a military, but I think that it’s incredibly brave and courageous for any man to stand up for his county. Without the military our country would be scared all the time that we could be bombed at any moment, but you provide security in the minds of every citizen.

This year I made it on my high school’s varsity soccer team as a ninth grader. It’s a huge responsibility but I love the sport and so it drives me to do better. This relates to you serving in our military. Even though it hurts sometimes, especially around the holidays, you love our beloved country so much that you are willing to work hard to sustain it. And in the end, all the pain that you have endured will be okay because you know that you have done a great service. Sometimes when I’m out of breath, almost ready to give up, I think of all the things I am grateful for and it motivates me to keep going, because I am very fortunate to live in this great nation. I know I am lucky to be able to live in a country with such a great military that are filled with people like you, dedicated to the cause and ready to fight for it.

Christmas is almost here and I can’t wait to eat some good old wholesome turkey. I know if you have a family, or a loved one here in the States, the holidays must be one of the hardest time’s because you can’t spend your time with them, but I think that it also has got to be one of the most blessed times to be military. First of all, you are what everyone is thinking about even more during the holidays. Every one begins to realize how lucky they are to have you out there serving them. Millions of people begin to think about all the services you have given them in there head. I know it’s hard anyway, but I want you to know that I am truly grateful for the wonderful things you have done for me, my family, and most importantly the United States of America.

Most Sincerely:

Tatum Frampton

The Room Where We Belong

2008-11-30T23:10:00.002-10:00

I have to do this--seize this moment, capture it, even though I don't want to. I would rather laugh and hide and play than face pain, but when I face it I must record it or else I know I'll have to face it again and again until I record it properly.

I've been working on a response to my brother's comments about my truth post, but I need to interupt myself to write about the room where we belong.

This weekend I attended the funeral for a little 3 year old boy who died last Friday night after getting a piece of plastic lodged in his throat.

I have dreaded this funeral all week even though I generally enjoy funerals more than weddings. It's an oddity, I know, but I can't help it. I blame it on the fact that I'm a photographer and long to capture emotional truth. Weddings are just the beginning of a long hard struggle. Funerals are the end (before the page turns and a new struggle begins). At weddings love is bliss, but it's also ignorant. At funerals love is refined. It has already endured and solidified. Each embrace is filled, not with passion and excitement, but with compassion and reverance.

A child's funeral though . . . an unlived life . . . how do you offer condolences for that? How do you console the inconsolable?

That's not my gift.

All I can do is capture it. So capture it I must.

Thomas Jefferson, who lived a long and full life, lost nearly everyone he whole heartedly loved by the time he was 40 years old, but when asked if he would live life over again he said, YES! He loved life. But he said there was one thing he couldn't figure out about life--the meaning of grief.

It's an age old question/problem. The best and worst minds and hearts have grappled endlessly over it.

I keep a little book in my nightstand by C.S. Lewis called A Grief Observed. It's a candid journal of his reflections immediately after his wife died. The whole book is a desperate attempt to make sense of his grief, but waxing philosophical about pain doesn't ease it.

He says, "there is nothing we can do with suffering except to suffer it. It doesn't really matter whether you grip the arms of the dentist's chair or let your hands lie in your lap. The drill drills on."

He says, "Reality, looked at steadily, is unbearable." But he also says, "You can't see anything properly while your eyes are blurred with tears."

It's impossible to make sense of our sorrows while we're sorrowing.

But those who have transcended their sorrows can crack a door for us or strike a match.

I wish Thomas Jefferson could have read some of the beautiful comforting words published about why we suffer, including this excerpt from a James E. Faust conference address:

“Here then is a great truth. In the pain, the agony, and the heroic endeavors of life, we pass through a refiner’s fire, and the insignificant and the unimportant in our lives can melt away like dross and make our faith bright, intact and strong. In this way the divine image can be mirrored from the soul. It is a part of the purging toll exacted of some to become acquainted with God. In the agonies of life, we seem to listen better to the faint, godly whisperings of the Divine Shepherd.”

One of the speakers at the funeral talked about getting and keeping a firm grip on the eternal truths and perspective we've been given and then shared a story about a little boy who was about to die. He asked his parents what it would feel like to die and his mother thought for minute before answering him like this:

"You know how you fall asleep on the couch sometimes and then you wake up the next morning in your own room? That's because your father scoops you up in his arms and carries you to your room. That's what dying will be like. You'll fall asleep with us and then your Heavenly Father will come and scoop you up in his arms and take you back to the room where you belong."

Nylons and a quick truth goose . . .

2008-11-14T16:06:00.004-10:00

This past summer I got into a heated discussion with a few of my siblings over following counsel from the Stake President to wear nylons to church. I was really dumbfounded by it. And a little peeved. Thinking back, it's likely I'm a bit tainted, even cynical about religious power and authority because my husband and I have been working for the church for the past 12 years.

My poor brothers were somewhat aghast by my somewhat passionate stance against blindly obeying a stake presidents counsel about foot wear. I guess I just don't see what foot wear has to do with spirituality. Please don't try to explain it to me either because I've heard it all before, and I even slightly understand it, yet it still gets my knickers in a knot. See I'm one who sees our church and the Gospel as two different ball games being played against each other sometimes even though they're on the same team.

On the night I told my brother and several other family members I thought it was a misuse of authority for a stake president to set forth a proclamation calling all women to wear nylons to church I encountered an awkward silence. And then with wide eyes, one brother told me that he was worried about me. Worried that I might leave the church.

I was extremely surprised. I had never had anyone worry about me leaving the church before (except my husband when I almost left the church during my mid-life crisis 10 years ago.)

As I thought about it I realized that after living away from my siblings for nearly 20 years they really don't know me that well or what makes me tick. My brother wasn't insulting me, he was simply reacting to what he was seeing and hearing at that moment.

He has no idea how much I love the gospel principals, despite my irritations with the way it's imposed and implemented sometimes by members fumbling along trying to understand all the deep mysteries. Or worse yet, not trying to understand all the deep mysteries.

I think this is true of you, my readers, as well. You don't know me very well. When I poke fun at things--my husband, my mother-in-law, my friends, my kids, stake conference, relief society, Mormon mommies--some of you may not be sure how to take it or where it's coming from. When I tease you and then tell you I'm a liar, some of you may not know whether to believe me or not.

I thought it might be helpful if I cleared a few things up on this backstage blog. For those of you who are interested anyway. My hope is that it doesn't confuse you more.

I'm actually a truth stalker. I've been addicted to the search for truth and pinning down a definition of truth for several years now.

My class themes revolve around simple truths and complex ethics. We talk about morality and ethical dilemmas and layers of truth--relative truth, emotional truth, moral truth, happening truth, story truth. We often discuss things like whether it's ever okay to lie.

It's an extremely complex search. But one thing I've discovered is the way you tell the truth is almost as important as the truth itself. Form/style is as important as substance. I think of truth as a gift, and half the fun and excitement of receiving a gift is the pretty wrapping and the curly ribbons.

For instance, in the letter to my husband from jail a few of you noted, correctly, that I started off serious and then retreated back to my funny playful Crash self. But notice I got humorous, but I didn't get silly. Crash's diary is my silly place, where I can tease the truth. But here I will only humor the truth, humorously maybe, but only because sometimes the truth is funny.

But mostly it's not.

Often humor can reveal truth more quickly than coming directly to the point. Plus, I like to make my readers think. I hate to be handed anything on a silver platter and I want readers who hate it too.

Two reasons I used humor when writing that love letter:

1.) Love letters can sound trite. Love is so deep and complex and double sided. It's exhilarating, yet disappointing and disillusioning. It's never ending. In love it's hard to tell where emotional needs and ego are getting in the way of real intimacy. Love goes on and on and on, ever changing, yet ever persisting. Love never dies. It's like an idea. You can't kill an idea. You can kill love, but it's never fully dead. Love is a constant process of small and simple realizations.

I wanted to express that side of love because that is the truth (for me). But it's hard to avoid generalizing with cliched phrases or passionate exclamations.

2.) Love is private. And deeply personal. It touches so deep that even if it were possible to come up with the precise words to describe it, it may not be appropriate to share in public. I wasn't really writing a love letter as much as I was making a point about the nature of love/marriage. Love is beautiful. But love is a lot of hard work. Love is serious business. But love is funny too.

There's nothing more pleasantly painful than love. Or truth. But we just can't handle all that pleasant pain at once.

So why not soften it up a bit with some pretty paper and a nice curly bow?

It mattereth not, as long as the truth is inside, the gift is always worth opening.

Letter to my husband from jail. I mean from Relief Society

2008-11-12T09:11:00.001-10:00

Sometimes I wish I was in jail. Not because I want to be a lawbreaker, but because the best letters are written from jail.

If I was in jail I wouldn't have to cook or clean or hold Relief Society Presidency meetings and I could spend all that extra time writing beautiful letters.

Martin Luther King, Jr wrote an astonishingly beautiful letter from Birmingham City Jail.

I think it's all that time, mixed with all that separation that creates all that astonishing beauty.

Joseph Smith wrote beautiful fervent longing letters while he was in jail too. On Sunday our Relief Society lesson was all about his tender letters to Emma.

The teacher gave us all a piece of paper and said "pretend you are in jail and you might not see your spouse again. Now write him a letter. GO!"

She gave us 3 minutes to complete this task. I put my nose right to the grindstone and tried to put myself in that fervent longing state of mind that I imagine comes from being in jail.

This is what I pumped out (unedited) in 3 minutes:

Dear Alan,

You have been the rock of my life. I am so lucky I have had you as my companion on earth because I needed you much more than I realized. For many reasons, but especially to teach me about forgiveness. You have taught me the true importance of marriage. Patience. Acceptance. Long Suffering. (On your part, not mine. Well, a little bit on mine too.) I have really seen my flaws and weaknesses through marriage and that made me angry at times. I blamed you for that--even accused you of not loving me enough. But I have realized that love has little to do with . . .

"Pencils down!" said the teacher.

If I was really in jail, I would have added that love has little to do with having your ego stroked and your emotional voids filled. I would have said, "thanks, hon for teaching me that love is a choice and not an instinct. It's caring about the personal growth and development of your lover."

Actually I think I learned that from The Five Love Languages. This one is a hard lesson because it's so fun to have your ego stroked and your emotional voids filled. But filling emotional voids can be like pouring water in a net and that can get a little futile and self-centered.

I would have told him I was just kidding when I said that God must have been drunk when he invented marriage--though that's not actually an insult if you think about it because all the founding father's were drunk when they divorced England and that turned out for the best. And if God was drunk, it was probably because he couldn't handle all the pain he was about to inflict on women, (for their own good, of course.)

I would have told him that I actually think marriage is an ingenious plan because it's a super-sonic refining process and we don't have much time here, and anyway I couldn't have asked for a finer super-sonic refiner.

I would have told him that I'm sorry about the years I was working through my trust and abandonment issues and that it's really unfortunate John Mayer wasn't a pop star when my dad was raising me.

I would have told him how thankful I am that his only obsession is with our kids (and Glenn Beck) and that I would never be able to read a map or shop at Walmart the day after Thanksgiving without him.

And then I would have told him that I love him deeply and I would have drawn a few hearts and added this P.S. which would have said, "I'm so glad I got to teach you that tone-of-voice should sometimes be the spoon full of sugar and not the medicine."

The truth about the boring old boat man

2008-11-09T17:15:00.004-10:00

The truth about the boring old boat man is he's not boring at all. And neither are his boats. I just said that to make him feel bad.

Nah, you guys know my whole purpose in life is to make others feel good. Or at least to make others feel.

The truth about the old boat guy is he's incredible. I'm not interested in boats, but I am interested in life lessons and there are so many life lessons to learn from boat restoration.

I don't know why I like to curl up with my laptop and go to the old boat guy's blog and watch him take his old boat apart, then carefully put it back together. There's something so soothing about it. So soothing that I've actually cried a few times while reading it (metaphorical tears, of course--which means real tears over metaphoric truths.)

Maybe because it took him so much time and effort and dedication and care and commitment and patience. Who is that patient anymore?

Or maybe because he had to be so precise. Who is that patient AND precise anymore?

Or maybe because every step of his restoration process is a perfect metaphor for what we are in our master's hands and how patiently our master toils over each one of us in order to restore us to our perfect state because we can't do it ourselves.

Whatever it is, I'm thankful there are still people out there like the boring old boat guy.

Anyway, I just wanted to say that, in case you didn't get the hidden truths embedded in all the mysteries wrapped in riddles inside the enigmas in my diary.

Through the Fence

2008-10-08T10:22:00.004-10:00

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and William Faulkner
1999

Through the fence,
Between the curling flower spaces,
I could see them.
I could hear them talking.
A sound meaningless and profound.
I stood in weeds
And we looked at one another for a while.
There was a sense of water,
Swift and peaceful above secret places
Felt, not seen, not heard.

When I’m gone it will be easier on you.

I could still hear the clock between my voice
Ceasing as if cut off with the blow of a knife.
I don’t suppose anyone ever deliberately
Listens to a watch or a clock.

He looked at me
Then emptied everything out of his eyes.
I couldn’t stop it.
I knew if I tried to stop it I’d be crying.

I could hear it getting night.
It was like a door.
Only it wasn’t a door.
Then it was gray.
Then it was gone—
Beyond the broken, infrequent slanting of sunlight.

If things just finished themselves.
You’d think misfortune would get tired.
But then time is your misfortune.

I see now I must pay for your sins as well as my own.

The Man Who Never Was

2008-10-08T10:19:00.002-10:00

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Tim O'Brien
2004

He tied on a compress and told me to ease back.
In a way I already knew what was coming,
like staring into a black crystal ball, or being
inside a book nobody’s reading.
Way too real!

I kept waiting for the pain to hit, but
I didn’t feel much. A throb, that’s all.
Back then it felt like a miracle--
a pinprick of absolute lasting light--
a dreamy edge of impossibility to it.

We looked at each other, both of us
trying to pretend it was nothing special.
He shrugged and gave me a stare that lasted all day.
A secret smile, as if to warn me about something.
That’s the last thing I’ll ever see, I thought,
wishing I could do things I couldn’t do.

I heard cartoon music and figured my war was over.
Happy trails, he said and almost hugged me.
By then I was gone with the pain.

You’ll get used to it, they told me.
He’s the man who never was.

But then they don’t understand history.
They don’t understand that in the dark,
where things get soft,
the dead sometimes smile
and sit up and
return to the world.

And the smile
never goes away . . .

Sleeping Dogs

2008-10-08T10:17:00.004-10:00

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Charles Dickens
2000

You and me know what we know, don’t we.
We know our station. Ashes and dust.
It’s a mad world. Mad as bedlam!
Insanity or intoxication.

And I know what I am—a shapeless thought.
(I need be to get through this world at all.)
I wallow in words only meant to mystify.
My eyes, not being so much under control as my tongue,
send meditations to flight with an indescribably sensitive
pleasure, that very little would change to pain

Have you seen her?
She has spread a little pair of wings
and flown away before my eyes.
I ask pardon of that lady in my heart.

Why has she done nothing to set things right?

You know my motive--to bring forgiveness.
But it comes from my wicked hand,
thus the lessons of my life have been perverted.
I thought it possible that I could truly mourn for one
and not have some part in the grief of all.

Such is the first mistaken impulse of an undiscliplined heart.

But no matter. No matter!
When I say I’ll do a thing, I do it.
I do my duty. That’s what I do.
A weak-minded person may do what wonderful people may not.

Think of me at my best if circumstances should ever part us.

And tell me how you fare to feel upon your lone lorn journeys!
There’s time enough. Don’t hurry.
And don’t take refuge in a lie!

The time has past. I let it go by.
I had no conception of the wound I would droop beneath.
It died upon my lips
and there I leave it.
No one has ever raised the curtain since.

Ah, but let sleeping dogs lie----
Who wants to rouse ‘em?

Let Us Tear Life

2008-10-08T10:14:00.002-10:00

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Pablo Neruda

Oh, sleeper in my shadow—
like the door to a secret tunnel,
every thing carries me to you.
Why did you pour your tender fire
so quickly over my life’s cool leaves?
Your roots pierced my chest
and suddenly my heart was filled
with fruits and sounds.
In your life I see everything that lives.
Your wide eyes are the only light I know.
Let us tear life from the rupture
that is breaking our hearts.
Invincible love, hide me
in your arms where my heart burns and rests.
Your hands and mine will steal the stars.

Hit or Miss the Moon

2008-10-08T09:39:00.001-10:00

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Robert Frost
2002

Whatever you do tonight,
Come and fetch me.

Drop everything!

Burst into my narrow stall
as reckless as the best of them tonight.

Let’s go up on the hill and scare ourselves.
mix sparks with stars.

Is it too late to drag you out?

Come, if you’re not afraid to
hit or miss the moon.

Here a Star, There a Star

2008-10-08T09:38:00.003-10:00

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Emily Dickensen
2002

Old fashioned eyes--
not easy to surprise.
I have found the phrase to every thought I ever had,
but one!
How still the riddle lies.
Here a star, there a star--
Can I expound the skies?
The moon slides down the stair.
The sunrise leaves the door ajar.

Ah friend! You little know how long the angels
labored diligent at this celestial wick.

Take care, for God is near.

Ever After

2008-10-07T21:41:00.003-10:00

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and U2
2001

A picture in gray--
all the colors bleed
into one, and what you don’t
know you can feel somehow.

Gypsy heart,
to touch is to heal--
to hurt is to steal.

I’m finding out all the things
I’ve been talking about.

Learn to kneel if you want to kiss the sky.
Lend a hand in return for grace.
Shed a tear and then let love go.

Ever after is a long time.

Alot Like Never

2008-10-07T21:40:00.003-10:00

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Tim O’Brien
2001

It’s time to be blunt—
Heat up the truth. Make it burn,
get the hell out of the way and let it tell itself
cause here, man, every sin is fresh and original.

None of it happened,
but it was as real as anything.
A kind of falling.
Boom-down.
Higher and higher—The rockets red glare.
Pure knowing.
A lot like yesterday.
A lot like never.

It’s not a game. It’s a form.
A new wrinkle. Fine lines.
And it requires a perfect balance between
crazy and almost crazy—where things come together,
but also separate.
The distinction is important.

There’s a moral here.
There’s a definite moral here.
Once you’re alive, you can’t ever be dead.
And it will always be that way.

What Rot!

2008-10-07T21:35:00.003-10:00

A pashtich poem by Debbie Frampton and Ernest Hemingway
1998

The old grievance.

It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy.
I thought I had paid for everything,
but I had been getting something for nothing.
That only delayed the presentation of the bill.
The bill always came.
You gave something up and got something else.
A simple exchange of values. That was morality.
No, maybe that was immorality.
I didn’t care what it was;
all I wanted to know was how to live in it.

They say it’s important to discover graceful exits.
Swell advice.

Try and take it sometime.
Awfully easy to be hardboiled in the daytime,
but at night it’s another thing.
There’s that feeling of going through something that has happened before.
Something I had been through, and that now I must go through again.
Awfully amusing, but not too pleasant.
You know it makes one feel rather good
deciding not to be a bitch.

Damn noble!
Isn’t it pretty to think so?

What rot!

The Bitter Lapse

2008-10-07T21:24:00.004-10:00

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Edgar Allen Poe
1998

The sole intent of my somewhat childish experiment
had been to deepen that first singular impression.

Yet as I gazed upon him, I shuddered, not knowing why.
Perhaps it was the hideous dropping off of the veil—
The vacant eyes, like windows—
The paradoxical law of sentiments-

There are combinations of very simple natural objects
which have the power of thus effecting us.
Still, this power lies beyond our depth.

A mystery all insoluble.

I struggled to reason off the nervousness
which had dominion over me.

I could not account for such feelings,
nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies
that crowded upon me as I pondered them.

There arose out of the pure abstractions
an intensity of intolerable awe.
A gradual wasting away--

a settled apathy—

The bitter lapse
into everyday life.

Grace

2008-10-07T21:22:00.003-10:00

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and U2
2002

The sky falls--
takes the blame--
covers the shame--
I’m strung out like a guitar
and you don’t even look away.

I wasn’t jumping --it was a fall.
Just trying to find a decent melody--
trying to follow the scatter of light.
But love has to be believed to be seen.

human nature

2008-10-07T21:11:00.005-10:00

The sun circles,

round and round--

liquid motion,

silent sound.

Finite fumbling

shadows spill--

flight of fancy,

almost real.

Sky is tipping,

space gives birth,

moon is tripping

over earth.

Stars go reeling,

senses sprawl--

human nature

takes

the

fall

rhetoric

2008-10-06T15:50:00.002-10:00

2007

and now
behold,
verily
i
say unto you,
wo!

and i say

unto you,
thou shalt
hearken!

and i
speak unto you again
exceedingly
insomuch
that now ye know.

know ye not?

do ye not suppose
all these things?

yea, ye know!

nevertheless,
notwithstanding
thus saith i,

wherefore
inasmuch as ye would,
and i desire

that ye should,
it must needs be--

for i have spoken it
and it shall come to pass.

NoTe: notice in this poem nothing is capitalized. that's an important clue to uncovering my attitude about rhetoric in religion.

The Bathroom Door

2008-10-02T17:00:00.000-10:00

The bathroom door is basement black and locked.
I can see it from my bed. I wait and watch
the yellow slip of light beneath the door.
I know a secret, it winks to me.
When I can’t wait any longer,
I slide out of bed and tap on the door.
Daddy, I say, can I come in?

Daddy?

Just a minute, he says, but it’s not his voice.
I’m eight years old and I wet the bed.
It’s better than the forever hallway,
past the fire-breathing furnace
and up the freezy back porch stairs.

I’m nine, I’m ten, I’m eleven.
My mom is whispering and
tapping at the bathroom door.
Yellow light blurs into black as
I squeeze my eyes shut tight.
The light can’t keep the secret anymore.
I found it in the towels.
I needed a cape so I could save the world,
but the secret was hiding in the towels.

I’m twelve and there’s a hammer.
Let me in! my mom screams.
So help me, God, I’ll break this door down!
The yellow light holds it’s breath for the blow.
Give me the needles!
She’s hitting and crying and hitting.
You . . . promised . . .You
promised.

I should have kept the secret in the towels.
I could have saved my daddy.

I’m fourteen and there’s a hole in the bathroom door.
The doorknob is gone. My daddy is gone.
We stuff the hole with paper and hope
no one comes in.

Woman Wanted

2008-09-23T13:25:00.000-10:00

2002

Woman Wanted: Preferably a virgin. Must be willing to serve God, country and three square meals a day. Must be in good shape and able to pull own weight (but not too much weight). Silent type preferred, particularly during Sports Center and between the hours of 10pm-6am. Honesty is a must, unless it goes against any social, cultural norms or hurts anyone’s feelings, especially mine. Sincerity is a prerequisite, even if you have to fake it. Must have a sense of humor and be able to laugh at yourself and my jokes. Did I say preferably a virgin? Ability to act independently is desirable, unless otherwise indicated. Experience both filling and taking orders helpful. Would prefer busty blond, but am willing to work out alterations. Benefits negotiable according to productivity. Full time, plus overtime required. No vacation time. Wages not quite minimum. No experience necessary—will train. Room, Board and French maid uniform provided, and some flowers if absolutely necessary. Please send resume, photo and self addressed stamped envelope. And don’t call me, I’ll call you.

The Real Cinderella Story

2008-09-23T13:24:00.001-10:00

1993
(Wow! I didn't even have kids yet. I guess I was a flaming feminist in my roaring twenties too.)

The Real Cinderella Story

The attitudes of this story do not necessarily reflect the opinion of the author, and all similarities to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

Once upon a time in a far away land a long long time ago, there lived a stingy old bachelor (S.O.B). In fact, everyone in the entire land was an S.O.B because women were not yet fabricated.

One sunny morning the S.O.B. made some porridge for breakfast before he began scrubbing his kitchen floor. He soon wearied and became bored to tears and, in great frustration, flung his scrubbing brush across the room.

“I’m sick to death of scrubbing all day long. All I ever do is pick up after myself while my mind wastes away,” he cried, shaking his fist at the ceiling. “I want more to show for my life than dishpan hands.”

Suddenly a fairy godfather appeared. “Fear not,” he bellowed, “I’m working on a plan!”
“Whatever do you mean?” asked the S.O.B., quite taken aback.

“Alas, I’m drawing up the blueprints for what I call a woman.”
“What on earth is a woman?”

“Only the latest in modern convenience--something to take care of all your daily drudgery, freeing you up to think.” The fairy godfather smirked as the S.O.B rubbed his chin and bobbed his head.

“Fascinating,” he replied, “but will this woman-thing be . . . human?”

“Why yes, she’ll be as much alive as you and the rest of the S.O.B.’s”

“But if she doesn’t like doing my daily drudgery? What is she wants to think instead of make my porridge?”

“Oh dear . . .” The two fell silent while the fairy godfather paced back and forth across the nook. “I’ve got it!” he boomed at length, “We shan’t give her a brain!”

“What? No brain? But how will this woman know when to serve me? How will she know when to fetch my meals or hang my laundry?”

“Agreed. She would be quite useless without a brain.”

“I’ve got an idea!” cried the S.O.B. “let her think she can think.”

“Pardon?”

“We’ll tell her she can think as soon as she finishes going to the market and feeding all the animals and darning my socks and. . . “ his voice escalated, “scrubbing this blasted concrete floor!”

“But what if she does finish her tasks and demands to think with the rest of the S.O.B.’s?”

“Well, then, we’ll just have to give her more tasks. By the time she finishes them all, she’ll be so tired she won’t even care about thinking.”

“Brilliant!” said the S.O.B. now pacing rapidly as his mind began to churn. “I feel alive!” he cried.

“There are so many new things to think about. And so much time to think them in.” Then suddenly he stopped as if struck. “Do you think I will ever get tired of thinking?”

The fairy godfather shook his head. “Pshaw. But in the unlikely event that you ever do get tired of thinking, the woman can entertain you.”

“I like that idea,” said the S.O.B. “Make her very pleasing to look at so if I ever get bored I can look at her.”

“And if you get really bored . . . you can touch her.”

“Touch her?”

“Purely for your own entertainment of course.”

“Good golly, fairy godfather, I think you’re on to something.”

The fairy godfather smiled smugly.

“But if I’m looking and touching when will I have time to think and when will she have time to serve me?”

“Well, why don’t we make some women pleasing for looking and touching, and make the rest plain and sturdy for serving.”

The S.O.B. was now rubbing his hands together and looking gleefully about, when suddenly his face twisted up in puzzlement. “Wait!” he started. “What if the plain ones finish cooking and cleaning and darning and feeding and serving and then demand to join the men in conversation?"

“Easy, we’ll tell them they can join the men in conversation just as soon as they make themselves as pleasing to look at and touch as the ones we look at and touch.”

“Eureka!” shouted the S.O.B.

The fairy godfather, drained from thinking so hard, began to yawn. “I could sure use a large glass of ale,” he smiled wickedly.

“Let me get that for you,” said the S.O.B. And then he stopped . . . and smiled. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Let’s do it!” The fairy godfather scanned the room and peered out the window at the garden and the pastures full of grazing cows. “Perfect,” he said. “Bring those cows hither.”

The S.O.B. quickly obeyed and the fairy godfather as waved some pixie dust around the cow, ranting and raving something about bibbity bobbity and then BOO!”

“What do you think?” asked the fairy godfather as soon as the dust settled around the two dazed figures, blinking and staring.

The S.O.B. nodded approvingly. “I like what you’ve done to the udders,” he said.

As soon as the two new women were put to work, the fairy godfather and the S.O.B. began scouring the kingdom for farm animals. After countless experiments they discovered that horses made the most pleasing women when they were bored, but got rather haughty and spoiled when asked to fetch things, and eventually turned into nags.

Vegetables! Now that’s what good women were made of—straight from the earth and particularly cooperative. The perfect prototype for an ordinary woman.

Consequently, all the S.O.B.s in the land became gardeners and lived happily ever after.

The End.

Letting Daddy Die

2008-09-21T05:40:00.000-10:00

2006

He is face down on the floor, his hair carefully combed, his arms tightly folded under his chest. His favorite red flannel shirt is tucked neatly into his dark denim jeans. He is wearing his thick brown belt for special occasions and brand new socks. Directly above him on the floor is a framed portrait of Christ smiling serenely, a lamb strewn across his shoulders. On his right side, where his face is tilted, is an 8X10 picture of us--all of us--taken at a scout fundraiser just before the separation six months earlier. In it his grin is far too wide. “Look happy!” he had said, then, BAM, we all said cheese and it was done.

My sister enters the room behind me. My mom is still climbing the front porch stairs. We don’t watch her come in, only hear her telling dad we brought him some homemade bread before her voice snags in her throat.

A moment of silence. A pause before the pain.

My sister leans forward, bends her knees and, as if yanked out of thin air, is caught in my mind like a fish on a hook, flopping on the couch beside the body. My mom trots around before kneeling down and placing two fingers over his right wrist. She freezes, covers her mouth and, eyes wide, twists her neck backwards. Now she is galloping from the body to the phone to the open window where the sun shoots into the room, exposing my dad in various shades of death.

The March chill bites into my skin and I begin to shake. Spring has sprung like a mousetrap.

Across the street a postman strides from house to house, nodding pleasantly at a woman pushing a stroller. The postman says something to the baby which makes the woman smile. A toddler, trailing behind, sprinkles cheerios from a baggie into the leftover crusted snow where a flock of birds gather and peck incessantly. When the cheerios are gone the toddler beings to point and scream and then a pack of firefighters burst into the room. One of them has his arm around my mom. She looks at him with large glassy eyes as he directs her to the couch. Now she’s lying down and he’s telling her that everything is going to be alright.

“Looks like he’s already gone,” says one fireman to another.
“Been gone for a while,” comes the reply, as if we hadn’t noticed.

The toddler continues to scream across the street.
“Lookie! Firetruck!” his mom points and tells him, but it’s no use.

From the couch my mom bobs up and down like a weeble.

“Ma’am, can I ask you when you last saw your husband?” the fireman says.
“Yesterday,” she tells him.

I didn’t see him yesterday. I could have, but I didn’t because there was a school dance. I can’t think of the last time I saw him. Was it the concert where my friend and I ditched him for closer seats so we could act like star-crazed teenagers? He was tripped out on the ride home and drove way too fast.

“See ya later, alligator,” he said when he dropped me off.
“Whatever, Dad,” I said, slamming the car door.

Had I seen him later? I couldn’t remember. Maybe the last time had been in the school cafeteria when I ran for class secretary and pretended not to notice him putting up campaign posters for me. Or maybe it was the night he walked me home from his apartment after I came to borrow money.

“You don’t have to walk me home,” I told him, but he insisted. He tried to ask me about boys and school, but I just rolled my eyes. He told me about a great book written by a young girl about my age named Anne Frank.

“You should read that book,” he said.
“I have,” I told him.

The toddler’s screams get louder and louder and then stop suddenly in front of the house. Two medics burst into the room with a stretcher. They turn the body over and I look away. When I look back he is hooked up. There is a whirl of buzzing and ringing followed by a few broken beeps. They pull out flat metal paddles and rub them together. I look away again. They’re going to jump start him. I exhale. That’s all he needs . . . just one more jump. Turn the ignition and his motor will ignite. I am sure of it. In 3 days it will be April 1st and I will feel the same surety as his casket is lowered into the ground. I will hold my breath, positive that he will bust out with his wide grin and shout April fools! It made sense. It was the ultimate practical joke from the ultimate practical joker. He had pulled off a real hum dinger. You got me, Dad, I would say. For a second there you were nearly dead. No, he would correct me, for a second there I was nearly alive.

When I look back the stretcher is in mid-air, suspended for a moment between here and there as my dad passes me in a blur of stinging red and violet.

“Tell me,” I would ask my sister over and over, “was the toddler still crying when they lifted him into the ambulance?”

“No,” she would say. “I don’t remember a toddler.”

“What about the body? What was it like when you found him?”

“He was face down. Wearing a red flannel shirt . . . and jeans, I think. The window must have been open all night because it was freezing and his arms were tucked up under his chest.” At this point she would begin to blink back tears. “The thing is . . .” she would say, “there was this picture of Christ on the floor above him. And there was that family photo . . .” she would trail off.

“The one we had taken for that scout fund raiser?” I would finish.

“Yes, that one . . . “

I would have been there, I almost tell her. I could have been.

“Just be happy you weren’t there,” she tells me.

But I should have been.

I still find him there sometimes, lying on the floor, his hair carefully combed and his red flannel shirt neatly tucked into his dark denim jeans. Sometimes I get there before he dies. I close the window and cover him with a blanket. He cries a little and says God forgive me as his breathing gets louder and raspier. He gasps when he realizes that he’s really done it this time. He wants to change his mind, make things right, but it’s too late. His chest is already heaving.

Other times I get there before he puts the needle in. I sit next to him on the floor and see his tears, Daddy, are you okay? I say. I reach out and put my hand on his shoulder. Do you need to talk? He opens his eyes with surprise. Don’t worry about me, Honey, he tells me, but I stay and wait.

Later he asks, Why are you here anyway? Do you need something? No, I tell him. I just came to see if you were okay.

Sometimes I ask him to recall our last memory together. This IS our last memory together, he says.

No, for real, I say.

He pauses and smiles. You? For real?

Eventually he always breaks down and tells me that he couldn’t take it anymore. That he was a failure. . . a sinner. He tells me he messed everything up. He buries his face in his hands and apologizes for being such a disappointment to me. I know you’re ashamed of me, he says. He tells me that he’s ashamed of himself. He’s sorry about all the times he shot up while we were around and how he wished I hadn’t seen him that way--how he wished my friends hadn’t seen him that way. And finally he says that he’s sick and he’s sick of being sick. You’ll all be better off without me.

I rub his shoulders and tell him I’m sorry too, and that everything will be okay, that I understand he’s having a rough go of it and I know he’s trying his best. It’s a lie, but later it will become the truth. He will sit up and hug me and say, you don’t really mean that.
Of course I mean it, I say, even though I don’t, yet.

I skip the school dance that night and make popcorn and we watch some TV together and talk about boys and school. I thank him for the campaign posters and tell him how much I loved The Diary of Anne Frank. He gives me butterfly kisses before my wedding and a high five when I graduate college.

Usually, after all of our talking and crying and hugging, he puts the needle in anyway and the medics carry him out.

After while, crocodile, he says as he passes me standing in his living room.

Wait! I call out and the medics stop. I said I was sorry! Doesn’t that count for something?

Shhh, he puts his finger to his lips and his eyes fill with tears. It was a good try, but life’s just not that cut and dry.

Well, I’m not just going to stand here and let you die! I shout after him. '

You already have, he tells me, then POOF, he disappears.