Enough is enough (Or, ignorance=death)

   Get this: there have been more mass shootings – mass shootings – in the U.S than days this year.

   This is a stunning statistic, a shocking statistic.  Or it should be. 

   According to the Gun Violence Archive, a research group which tracks such things (who knew?), there have been 255 mass shootings in this country as of August 5, which was the 217^th day of the year.  The GVA defines a mass shooting as an incident in which at least four people, excluding the shooter, are shot. 

   I’ll say it again.  At least four people were shot 255 times so far this year in America.  That’s a lot of people shot, and it includes five high-profile massacres in the past 10 days – Dayton, El Paso, Gilroy, Brooklyn and Southaven, Mississippi – in which more than 100 people were shot, with at least 37 killed. 

   And this doesn’t include all the other shooting incidents in this country this year, as compiled by the GVA – a total of 33,237 shootings, in which 8,796 people were killed and 17,480 were injured. 

   Again, these are stunning statistics.  These are shocking statistics.  Or they should be. 

   What’s really shocking is that this all isn’t shocking. Why didn’t we know about these 255 mass shootings, let alone these 33,237 shootings?  Each and every one of the 255 mass shootings should have been front-page, above-the-fold news.  Instead, they were relegated to the back pages, or, more likely, they were deemed local news. 

   Which is why they keep happening, why there’s so many of these mass shootings.  They aren’t news anymore.  They aren’t a big deal anymore.  They are now the story of dog biting man instead of man biting dog. We have become numb to these horrific events. 

   This is exactly what the gun lobby wants.  The same gun lobby which managed to stop federal gun control from being passed even after 20 little children were slaughtered at Sandy Hook Elementary School.  And which is no doubt egged on by the angry, hateful, he-man rhetoric spewing forth every day, every hour from our president. 

   After every one of these shootings, at least one person is quoted as saying, “This doesn’t happen here. Not here.”

   Well, it does happen here.  And, with the way things have been going on, it will more likely than not happen wherever here is. 

   “I don’t want to go out anymore,” my friend was saying yesterday, referring to all the news about the weekend’s carnage. “I’m scared.”

   “I hate the NRA,” I interjected.

   “NRA? What’s that?” my friend asked.

   You get the point.  It’s time to pay attention and not let this happen anymore.

Going further

   On Thursday, the Fourth of July, I went out in the afternoon on my own about twice as far as I’ve been going.  And I was fine. 

   I went to the Fourth of July Festival in Memorial Park, a big, yearly event here in Claremont.  There are games, booths set up by community organizations, a speakers corner, live music and food prepared by various clubs.  More than anything, more than Independence Day, more than the U.S of A and patriotism and all that, it is about community.  It’s the kind of event where you see people you haven’t seen all year or in years. 

   Then I saw the parade, which sets off at the park after the festival ends. The Claremont 4^th of July parade is a hokey, small-town affair, with kids and families on bikes, vintage cars, homemade floats.  But – arguably for this reason – it is a cherished tradition, with thousands of people lining the streets, cheering and waving.  I snagged a great, shady spot near the beginning of the route, across from the announcer.  (This was a bit of luck, since people set out chairs and blankets days beforehand.)

   I hadn’t gone to these two events – two events that are critical in the life of the Claremont community - in the last two years, since my spinal surgery. Attending them felt very important, and, indeed, although I arrived at the festival as it was about to wrap up, I found myself moved.  This was an important moment, like another coming out.  I was taking another step out, back into the community and back into my life, into my life.  It also felt important, perhaps more important, that I get there on my own.  I felt I had to do this myself, without help, without being dropped off like I was being allowed to go. 

   And in a few days, I’ll be traveling north to the Bay Area (one attendant will fly with me and the other will drive my van) for nine days.  In addition to this being my longest trip since my surgery, I will be attending Pacific Yearly Meeting about an hour north in beautiful rural Marin County while I’m up there.  I was not able to attend for the last two years, and it will be another big step out, back into community and life.

Out of my head

   I’ve been in the hospital. Again. 

   Actually, I went two times. Once, I went to the E.R and was sent home.  Then, I went again the next day and was admitted. 

   For over two weeks. 

   That’s not all.  I don’t remember either incident, and I don’t remember much of my stay in the hospital.  Just bits and pieces of it. 

   For two or three months – actually, since shortly after I began staying up in my chair all day and going out on my own in my chair – I had been getting numerous headaches.  This was weird, because I haven’t gotten many headaches in my life. At first, the pain came when I would go over a bump, then it started becoming more constant and then more severe.

   It turned out that blood was going or leaking into my brain, which was causing pressure and thus the pain.  It is a mystery why this happened.  I hadn’t hit my head or had some trauma.  In any case, I guess Tylenol and Aleve were no longer cutting it, and I landed in the hospital towards the end of May. I eventually had surgery to drain the blood from both sides of my head. 

   I say, “I guess,” because I don’t remember much of this period.  I remember some friends coming by and the woman who came and asked what I wanted for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  I remember eating a bud veggie burger, and I remember joking that the bags hanging from my head to collect the blood made me look like Snoop Dogg. I also remember a very vivid dream in which I was taken to Orlando or Cape Cannaveral to watch a production or the preparation of one.  Perhaps this was when I was in surgery.

   Otherwise, this entire period is pretty much a blank. Several attendants have told me I’d be perfectly lucid one day and then talk nonsense the next day, saying things like my attendant was hiding in the restroom. One attendant told me we watched television and laughed.  Another attendant has said there with one night when I kept spitting up vomit. 

  Maybe it’s for the best that I don’t remember any of this.  But it’s disturbing that nearly three weeks of my life are a blank, are missing, gone. (And, as it just occurred to me, so much for going to the year-end high school music and watching the Tonys.)

   I have now been home for nearly two weeks, which has been wonderful, but it has not been easy.  My headaches have subsided, but my head has been playing tricks on me.  I have trouble focusing and sometimes thinking. The other day, I was going through a pile of mail, paying bills, filling out forms, and I felt my head really straining – and also realized the seriousness of what happened. I find myself grasping for a word or a phase like “cutting it,” in the above reference to Tylenol and Aleve or having to hunt for a letter on the keyboard.  I am having to reorient myself and understand that it is late June, three weeks later than it feels like. 

   It occurred to me the other morning that it’s a bit – a tiny bit - like when I had my spinal surgery two years ago and found myself far more disabled. It is alarming that I’m experiencing these difficulties with my mind, all the more because my head has always been my biggest asset in being disabled, the thing I could rely on when I couldn’t rely on my body.  (It doesn’t help that I’m having attendant shortages and shifts, making me feel unstable, and that a nurse is coming daily to give me antibiotics through an I.V, for yet another U.T.I – these are fast becoming the bane of my existence - which makes me feel like an invalid – and which means I can’t go to my outpatient therapy.)

   But I’m feeling more on top of things, less fuzzy, than I did last week, my first week home. Last weekend, I got rides to and from a movie and meeting, and I did fine.  I went for a short stroll on my own and had no problem.  I’m still planning to go north in three weeks to the Bay Area, where I’ll see family and friends, at to attend Pacific Yearly Meeting, after two years of not being able to do so, in the beautiful, golden hills of rural Marin County. 

   And I’m writing this.  Not only am I able to do this, but I’ve found that doing this helps to calm my head and regain some focus.  I will say again that I’m happy to be writing and posting and that I’ll continue to do so when I have something to say (I may write les over the next two or three months, what with the trip and heat) and am able to. 

The system's not broken - well, not completely

   In this time of political divisiveness, when everyone is sticking to their ideology and Hell-bent against any compromise, when the reds are evermore redder and the blues keep getting more blue, when nobody can agree on anything – except that they can’t agree on anything! – there is one thing that everyone loves to say and that is that government doesn’t work. 

   It has always been popular to say this.  You always hear people grumbling about nothing getting done and taxpayers’ money being wasted and pledging to “throw the bums out.” This, in fact, is why, either because people got fed-up and decided once and for all to really throw the bums out and try something completely new or because people got fed-up and gave up, Donald Trump was, to everyone’s shock, including his, elected president. 

   Well, I’m here to tell you that government does – or can – work. At least when you take baby steps or, more to the point, deal with (or start off with) little, local stuff. 

   I have written recently about going out in my chair on my own after two years of not being able to do so. In venturing out, I have found a route that is safer and more practical with my decreased ability.  However, there were two rather significant bumps along this route that were difficult or impossible to negotiate in my chair.  One was an uneven sidewalk path between the end of a cul-de-sac and another street.  The other was a lip on a curb-cut that rendered the curb-cut barely a curb-cut. 

   I decided to send out an e-mail to the city and point out these problems.  I did this on a whim, wondering if I’d get a response, much let get them remedied. 

   Guess what?  Within a week or so, I got a response, not only thanking me for my e-mail – about all I was hoping for – but also saying that at least one bump would be paved over until there could be a more permanent fix.  What’s more, the guy asked if he could meet with me so that I could point out the insufficient curb-cut.  This turned out to be unnecessary, and, on subsequent trips along the route, I was quite pleasantly surprised to find both bumps paved over for now. 

   Wow!  Not bad for the no-good, do-nothing government! When I asked for something to be done – even if something could be done – something was done.  With a promise that more would be done.  What’s more, I was offered a meeting. 

   Yes, it was little stuff, baby steps – literally, two small (not-so-small) bumps – but I was heard.  And I was actually helped. 

   I felt like I was getting something done. It was empowering.  Kind of like what our democratic form of government is supposed to do.

My balancing act

   I have gone to the hospital four times in the first four months of this year.  Three of these visits were only to the emergency room, and one, when it turned out I had sepis stemming from an urinary tract infection, resulted in a week-long stay.  Two had to do with my g-tube, and two were occasioned when my urine wasn’t draining through my catheter. 

   No matter how you parse the numbers, this is a sobering, even dubious, record, a lot of visits in not a lot of time.  Indeed, it averages once a month.  I have joked to friends that there should be a room reserved for me in the E.R. 

   It makes sense, then, that I’m struggling more and more with balancing what I call my “medical life” and my “social life.” My medical life include these visits to the hospital as well as various doctor appointments, therapy sessions, having to be turned every 2-3 hours when I’m in bed and to be given water and medications through my g-tube at certain times throughout the day and night and other such things directly pertaining to my body and health.  My social life includes just about everything else and pertains, one might say, to or more to my mind and likely my soul. 

   As I get more and more active, staying up longer in my chair and going out more and doing more things like posting here after 2 years, my medical life feels more and more of a bother, intruding on my social life.  Increasingly, I feel I’m balancing these 2 lives I have, and, increasingly, it’s a real trick.