You gotta walk that lonesome valley

Woman riding horse across Saskatchewan to raise mental health awareness

Dana Nordin hopes to increase awareness of mental health

CBC News Posted: Nov 19, 2015 1:15 PM CT Last Updated: Nov 19, 2015 1:15 PM CT

Dana Nordin plans to ride a horse almost 300 kilometres to raise awareness about mental health issues. (Dana Nordin)

Dana Nordin knows all about mental health issues.

As a child, Nordin had to deal with her mother's bi-polar disorder. Her mother would fly into rages for days at a time, then swing into an unpredictable manic state.

Several years ago, Nordin was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder herself.

Breast Cancer Run for the Cure, 2015

Now, she's riding her horse almost 300 kilometres, between the villages of Clavet and Buchanan, to honour her mother--and raise awareness.

Speaking to Saskatoon Morning's Leisha Grebinski, Nordin said bi-polar disorder still isn't talked about often.

"I still struggle with the stigma," said Nordin. "Stigma is the number one problem for any kind of mental illness or addiction to get help, because there's so much pressure, internally and externally to deny what you have."

Breast Cancer Awareness and Fundraising, 2014

She hopes that the ride will change that.

"Now, I've gotten to the point where I've come out of that closet," she said. "If I can take the brunt for somebody and be the spokesperson that it's not so bad, once you come out, you might find that you have more support than you thought."

Breast Cancer Merchandising

Rough ride

Nordin first started noticing there was something different with her mother when she was seven-years-old.

"I just remember mom not being super safe or super stable," she said. "She was sleeping a lot when she was in a depressed stages, and when she was manic, she was just fast and unpredictable."

Then -- she was diagnosed in 2009 with bi-polar disorder.

Movember Rally World Record: 2015

ALS Ice Bucket Challenge

"I had certainly had episodes before then that I didn't really realize or want to see," she said. "Accepting my diagnosis meant, to me, in the back of my mind, that I had to be like my mom."

Nordin said she has a strong support team surrounding her. Still, she admits that her disorder is a struggle. Just a few days ago, she was admitted to Saskatoon's Dube Centre, to stave off an episode.

"In the past, I didn't let anyone know until the middle of it, and then I would be hospitalized and drugged," she said. "In the past, it's been about a month that I was hospitalized. But this time it was only a week."

She plans to go on her ride this weekend.

BLOGGER'S COMMENTS. As with Clara Hughes, we have one incredibly brave woman here: brave not just because of what she has endured, but because she is willing to ride that lonesome valley to make others aware of people's suffering.

Cancer awareness is big business now, and no one ever says anything against it or how the funds are raised. But I did hear this about Clara Hughes and her magnificent (lone) cross-country cycling journey for mental health awareness:

"Oh, great. Now the crazies want to get in on it."

"The crazies". People with mental illness still have that dungeon chill about them, that sense they should be "put away", at least symbolically, because they're frightening, dangerous, and a source of shame. How bizarre to even think of having a rally or a run to benefit them! The kinds of jokes that would probably result make me shudder.

There is lip service paid, but not much else. We constantly hear people who haven't suffered from it exhorting others to "reach out for help!", when for the most part the only "help" is hospitals with no beds and therapists with months-long waiting lists (not to mention misdiagnoses, mismedication and general insensitivity in the medical community). Why so many holes in the system, I wonder? The bucks aren't there. No one is motivated to donate or fund-raise because of the (and how I hate this word!) stigma. No rallies for whack jobs, thank you very much.

Look at the multiple millions the breast cancer movement has hauled in - though only a small percentage actually goes to research. The rest is for running that vast juggernaut, the "pink" industry. As for mental health, have you ever pressed a few bucks into a bucket for this particular cause?

Can you imagine the mentally ill being seen not as whack jobs and nut cases, but warriors and heroes?

Why just one woman on a horse? Where are the pink tshirts, the ice buckets, the millions of dollars, the cheers?

Because people don't feel comfortable. Let's not let the crazies in on it. Who knows what Godforsaken group of people might be next.

Lonesome Valley

Words and Music by Woody Guthrie

You gotta walk that lonesome valley,

You gotta walk it by yourself,

Nobody here can walk it for you,

You gotta walk it by yourself.

Some people say that John was a Baptist,

Some folks say he was a Jew,

But your holy scripture tells you

That he was a preacher too.

Daniel was a Bible hero,

Was a prophet brave and true,

In a den of hungry lions

Proved what faith can do for you.

There's a road that leads to glory

Through a valley far away,

Nobody else can walk it for you,

They can only point the way.

Mamma and daddy loves you dearly,

Sister does and brother, too,

They may beg you to go with them,

But they cannot go for you.

I'm gonna walk that lonesome valley,

I'm gonna walk it by myself,

Don't want to nobody to walk it for me,

I'm gonna walk it by myself.

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Jelly-boned swines

"Curse the blasted, jelly-boned swines, the slimy, the belly-wriggling invertebrates, the miserable sodding rotters, the flaming sods, the snivelling, dribbling, dithering palsied pulse-less lot that make up England today. . . . God, how I hate them! God curse them, funkers. God blast them, wishwash. Exterminate them, slime." 

-- D.H. Lawrence's reaction to a London publisher's rejection of "Sons and Lovers" due to its “want of reticence.”

. . . and as Evelyn Waugh said of the Welsh:

"From the earliest times the Welsh have been looked upon as an unclean people. It is thus that they have preserved their racial integrity. Their sons and daughters rarely mate with humankind except their own blood relations.”

Phuc Dat Bich!

Phuc Dat Bich posted a picture of his passport on Facebook to prove it was his real name

NOVEMBER 20, 20154:12PM

Phuc Dat Bich. Yes that is his real name as the passport proves.

Elissa Doherty  news.com.au

IF YOU have ever thought your name sounded bad, spare a thought for this guy.

Phuc Dat Bich (yes, that is his real name) was tired of being accused of having a “false and misleading” name, so he took matters in to his own hands.

After having his Facebook account shut down three times, the 23-year-old Vietnamese-Australian posted a picture of his passport to the site to prove it was real.

“I find it highly irritating the fact that nobody seems to believe me when I say that my full legal name is how you see it,” he wrote. “I’ve been accused of using a false and misleading name of which I find very offensive. Is it because I’m Asian? Is it?"

Phuc Dat Bich loves his Subaru.Source:Supplied

Guess who’s riding in this hotted up Suby?Source:Supplied

“Having my fb [sic] shut down multiple times and forced to change my name to my ‘real’ name, so just to put it out there. My name. Yours Sincerely, Phuc Dat Bich.”

His post has received more than 21,000 likes and was shared 65,000 times, with many calling for Phuc Dat Bich (pronounced Phoop Dook Bic) to embrace how it sounds in ‘Stralyn’.

Phuc Dat is a common name in Vietnam, while Bich (“Beht”) is usually a first name for girls.

One of his best friends, Brett, confirmed Phuc Dat Bich’s authenticity and rejected suggestions on social media that the passport had been doctored.

He said Facebook had even asked his mate to provide evidence his name was real.

“He’s able to get through international airports so it is legitimate,” he told the Herald Sun.

Meantime, is post has elicited both sympathy and mirth in unequal doses, with one on Twitter pledging to name their children after him.

Facebook friends have questioned the safety of publicly sharing his passport details on social media, while others wondered about the likelihood of identity theft.

“Who the HELL would want to steal THAT identity!!!,” wrote one.

The 23-year-old says on his Facebook that he works at NAB as a cleaner and is a member of many Subaru clubs around Victoria.

elissa.doherty@news.com.au.

Twitter: @ElissaDoherty

You tell 'em, Bich!

Charlie Brown Christmas Dance

To balance the nightmare of terrorist bombing and bloodshed, harrowing fears of mortality and other atrocities, I offer this, something that was new when I was a kid and still appeals to me now for its variety of dances. Caitlin's school is doing a sendup of this for Christmas, with ALL of the various dances faithfully reproduced. There are things to feel good about, if I can only remember.

For when you're actually NOT okay - let me fix it for you

OK. I'm the LAST person who would object to someone trying to help when someone else is "actually not okay"

As someone who has BEEN "actually not okay" more times than I care to admit (but I'll admit it right now), I can tell you that many, many times I wish someone had been there to at least acknowledge my not-okayness, let alone offer me a little bit of comfort.

And maybe I'm the only person in the universe who feels this way: but - BLUGGHHH! This is the stupidest, most self-righteous, trite, patronizing thing I've ever seen!

This is called A Self-Care Printable, an apparently new phenomenon in self-help It contains a questionnaire for people who are Actually Not Okay. Whether this means they FEEL "not okay" or actually aren't OK (whatever that means) is never spelled out. "Not okay" is, after all, a pretty loaded term. 

I know it's not written by a professional, any more than those sappy, comforting memes with sparkly kittens on them are. It's written by somebody who wants to Go Viral. And the hell of it is - it works.

This has to be the most trivializing - but I digress. It's "someone out there", we don't even know who they are, but They Care - that much is obvious. No, wait a minute - they don't "care", they want to fix you so that you no longer feel you're "actually not okay", and won't burden anyone else by talking about it.

"Self-care printables" never did turn my crank, mainly because before this moment, when I found this earnestly posted on Facebook (under the title I'm Going to Help Someone Right Now Because I Know A Lot Better Than They Do), I didn't know what a self-care printable WAS. Nobody prints things any more anyway, do they? Unless they don't have the moral strength to stagger to the computer and turn it on.

But now comes this.

I've known people who were seriously suicidal. Hell, I've BEEN seriously suicidal before, and I've survived it, mainly by the teeth-gritting/stubbornness method, because it's been my experience that no one else can stand to step inside the abyss of loneliness and despair that is suicidal depression. You're in it alone.

You've got to walk that lonesome valley. You've got to walk it by yourself. That is the nature of the disease. That is what it IS. And it applies every bit as much to those celebrated professionals: even more so, since the average person with serious mental illness is misdiagnosed an average of sixteen times (with a good many of those diagnoses being dismissals. My absolute, all-time favorite was "go home and behave yourself!").

But in any case, real human help, mano a mano, professional or ludicrously UN-professional like this thing, could never come in the form of asking a suicidal person if they're "hydrated". Sorry, no one overcame their existential despair by popping a water bottle.

But that's what passes for "help" in 2015, on social media, on Facebook or Twitter or wherever, and it explains much about alienation and "expert-ism" as a way of life, and as a way of insulating yourself from someone else's pain.

For, you see, if you're the expert, if you have the answer as to what that person should be doing to fix their state of "actually not okay-ness", it puts you in the position of power, of strength, of expertise. Just try this! Better now?

That means you don't really need to get involved in it at all. You don't need to listen. You don't need to feel empathy or compassion or step into their messy lives. You just need to Fix It. But at the same time, you can pretend to identify on a surface level - I had a bad day once, too! - and feel really good about yourself for offering so much generous, helpful help.

I am convinced that 90% of people's efforts to "help" others are fix-it oriented and a means to stay insulated from another person's pain.

And if they don't get better? They're just not doing it right. Look, I tried, but if that's your attitude - if you really don't want anyone to help you -

Anyway. Since this blog is largely satire, I will hereby insert my highly-satiric-but-deeply-heartfelt answers to the blue-lettered questionnaire with its head-patting, run-along-and-get-some-yogurt-and-you'll-feel-better tone.

For When You’re Actually NOT Okay: A Self-Care Printable

“Everything is awful and I’m not okay: questions to ask before giving up.”

(Let us assume, as a given, that "giving up" means killing yourself. To be honest, I don't know what else it could mean.)

Are you hydrated? If not, have a glass of water.

I can't find the freaking water because of all the blood on the kitchen floor. I keep slipping and falling down before I get to the fridge.

Have you eaten in the past three hours? If not, get some food — something with protein, not just simple carbs. Perhaps some nuts or hummus?

I did that, but I kept throwing up the hummus. Maybe it was all those pills I mixed in. 

Have you showered in the past day? If not, take a shower right now.

I love the assumptions they make about my personal hygiene! Not that they stereotype depressed people - oh, no. Never mind that the huge majority of depressed people make themselves function, and disguise it so well that nobody even suspects it. Let's just assume I don't shower. I like smelling just as disgusting and awful as you are implying I do. I am just as big a slob as that question indicates. Not only that - I need to be reminded of it because I either don't know, or I don't care enough to make myself socially acceptable.
 
If daytime: are you dressed? If not, put on clean clothes that aren’t pajamas. Give yourself permission to wear something special, whether it’s a funny t-shirt or a pretty dress.

I used my funny tshirt for a noose, but it didn't hold for some reason. Poor Hello Kitty. And by the way, does this "pretty dress" business apply to men? Doesn't this person know that putting on a dress may be part of the problem? Transvestites and transsexuals often have a hard time of it in our culture. Or maybe the assumption is this: only a girl/woman could get herself into such a deplorable state. Guys are basically all right, or else they know how to ACT all right and not fall into a stinking, unkempt mess, refusing to get dressed or bathe out of self-pity and ceasing to make an effort.

If nighttime: are you sleepy and fatigued but resisting going to sleep? Put on pajamas, make yourself cozy in bed with a teddy bear and the sound of falling rain, and close your eyes for fifteen minutes — no electronic screens allowed. If you’re still awake after that, you can get up again; no pressure.
 
Oh! No pressure? You mean it can take as long as I want to kill myself? Can I do it nice and slow then, with my fuzzy-wuzzy teddy bear squeezed tightly in my arms? Will the sound of falling rain drown out the screaming worthlessness in my soul? Or the sirens? Sorry, they're not here yet, but they will be soon.

 
Have you stretched your legs in the past day? If not, do so right now. If you don’t have the spoons for a run or trip to the gym, just walk around the block, then keep walking as long as you please. If the weather’s crap, drive to a big box store (e.g. Target) and go on a brisk walk through the aisles you normally skip.
 
My legs are being stretched on a rack. I just heard the bones shatter.
 
Have you said something nice to someone in the past day? Do so, whether online or in person. Make it genuine; wait until you see something really wonderful about someone, and tell them about it.
 
Seriously. Saying something "nice" to someone is supposed to keep me from committing suicide. But it has to be genuine! What language is this person speaking? Since when does an "actually NOT okay" person "on the verge of giving up" have the strength or the inclination to "say something nice" to anyone at all? If your mouth opens, pain comes out, not My Little Pony. It's trite advice like this that stops people from doing that immediate cure-all, "reaching out for help". If THIS is the quality of the help, I'd rather not reach out for it at all.

Have you moved your body to music in the past day? If not, do so — jog for the length of an EDM song at your favorite BPM, or just dance around the room for the length of an upbeat song.
 
Have you ever been depressed, whoever you are? Do you know what the word "inertia" means? Have you ever heard the phrase, "if I could get out of bed, I would"? Have you ever felt insulted by someone's implication that you could "beat the blues" and not feel suicidal any more just by doing a few simple, fluffy things that (of course, because you're too self-pitying) you never thought of doing before?

Also, I guess this advice is only for people who know what EDM and BPM mean. I don't. It's that whispering on the playground thing again, the secret language which winnows out the old. The old aren't worth saving or even comforting: they're on the obsolete pile anyway and don't deserve sparkly teddy bears, rain on the roof and the reviving magic of hydration.
 
Have you cuddled a living being in the past two days? If not, do so. Don’t be afraid to ask for hugs from friends or friends’ pets. Most of them will enjoy the cuddles too; you’re not imposing on them.
 
My landlord didn't like it. Neither did my boss or the postman. After that, I ran out of living beings. No one else can deal with me, you see. It's uncomfortable if someone isn't cheerful and saying nice things all the time.

 
Do you feel ineffective? Pause right now and get something small completed, whether it’s responding to an e-mail, loading up the dishwasher, or packing your gym bag for your next trip. Good job!

When I read crap like this, I feel ineffective, but PLEASE don't take it personally.  Oh and by the way, thank you so much for saying "good job!" like you'd do to a preschooler! I've also seen it in dog obedience school, and it's very effective. Just. . . don't try it on me. Didn't I just tell you I'm an adult, or at least old?
 
Do you feel unattractive? Take a selfie. Your friends will remind you how great you look, and you’ll fight society’s restrictions on what beauty can look like.

This is just - this is jaw-dropping, sorry, I have nothing to say about this! I didn't write it, by the way, this is not a satire, it's a real thing that people post and re-post and write thousands of comments about. It fills me with a mixture of panic and despair.  Again, there is a gigantic assumption that anyone with any degree of depression "feels unattractive". It is a very short step from this to "looks like a mess" or "no longer cares". The "fighting society's restrictions on what beauty can look like" is a La Brea tar pit of assumption: in other words, even if you look like shit, you can CHALLENGE that assumption that you look like shit and forge a whole new standard of "beauty"! And of course, everyone must be Beautiful. It goes without saying.

"Do you feel unattractive? Take a selfie" might just win the Ignobel prize for terrible-but-typical psychological counsel in 2015. Take a selfie is just as potent in this day and age as "take a Valium" was 40 years ago.
 
Do you feel paralyzed by indecision? Give yourself ten minutes to sit back and figure out a game plan for the day. If a particular decision or problem is still being a roadblock, simply set it aside for now, and pick something else that seems doable. Right now, the important part is to break through that stasis, even if it means doing something trivial.

Who ARE you, and why is everyone so slavishly listening to everything you say? Do you realize that in the dark pit of your soul, you know nothing, and no one is interested in anything you have to say? Furthermore, do you realize that if you had to live inside a truly depressed person's head for even one day, or perhaps one hour, you would run screaming?

 
Have you seen a therapist in the past few days? If not, hang on until your next therapy visit and talk through things then.

I love the automatic assumption that anyone who ever feels "actually not okay" needs a therapist/sees one. They're just that kind of person, you know? They're "troubled people", they "see therapists", they'll never really be part of the rest of us. But that's OK, that's good, it means we have the opportunity to hand out tons of gratuitous advice! It's good to be target-oriented, isn't it? Targets are always a good thing.
 
Have you been over-exerting yourself lately — physically, emotionally, socially, or intellectually? That can take a toll that lingers for days. Give yourself a break in that area, whether it’s physical rest, taking time alone, or relaxing with some silly entertainment.

Reading this is enough, though too silly and disturbing  to qualify as entertainment.
 
Have you changed any of your medications in the past couple of weeks, including skipped doses or a change in generic prescription brand? That may be screwing with your head. Give things a few days, then talk to your doctor if it doesn’t settle down.

While I love the immediate assumption that anyone who ever feels bad is "on meds" because they can't cope like a normal person, I think this is laying it on a little thick. "Your medications"? It's like saying "your knee" or "your elbow" - a given. It's obvious you just assume you are talking to a psych patient. No one else would read or even NEED directions like this. Isn't it obvious it isn't meant for anybody "normal"? So fuck the cozy fuzzy-wuzzy teddy bear cures. I am about to fly into a psychotic rage!!

 
Have you waited a week? Sometimes our perception of life is skewed, and we can’t even tell that we’re not thinking clearly, and there’s no obvious external cause. It happens. Keep yourself going for a full week, whatever it takes, and see if you still feel the same way then.

"Wait a week" - now what could they mean? Wait for what? All the fuzzy jammies and recordings of rain on the roof can't disguise the fact that this is a totally patronizing, warm-fuzzy and lamentably unprofessional attempt at suicide prevention. I think the author of this Self-Care Printable should work in an ER for a week - a day, maybe! - or a psychiatric outpatient clinic, and listen to the despair and maybe bandage up a few slashed arms or try to pump out stomachs. Or talk to some cops about some of the things they find, cutting people down. But it's really a lot easier to hand out fuzzy blankets to imaginary "really not okay" people. It fixes them right up.

Oh, and one more thing. The voice in this thing is in the form of "you-questions", but all of a sudden it can change to "our (perception of life)": the "Royal we", or the "we" assumed by extremely patronizing persons who feign identification (such as doctors). "Now we don't want to do anything foolish, do we?"

It's the lack of respect. That's all. But it passes for help. Maybe it actually helps people - I don't know. But to me, anyone who would benefit from this kind of help doesn't really need it, because they already feel more or less OK. Not about to "give up" - whatever that may mean.

You’ve made it this far, and you will make it through. You are stronger than you think.

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Best Funny Animals - Funniest Animal Videos Compilation [2015 NEW]

Major screwups on the computer. Chrome is rusted, Foxfire won't (fire), and Windows 10 only screwed it up more. I had to move this piece of text several times to get it in the right place. The problems are so odd and intermittent that no one can figure out what they are. They seem to clear up, then come back (e. g. I can't post pictures on Facebook, which is one of the things I live for. Then I can, then I can't.) So. . . enjoy the funniest animal video.

Is the cat coming up or going down the stairs?

One of the best reaction shots in film history

 

Pure evil: The Snow Man

I am exhausted, my eyes are raw, I feel "off" in some extremely uncomfortable, unpleasant way that I can't even describe and don't want to think about. I woke up at 4:00 a.m. terrified I'd never get back to sleep again, and I barely did. Why? My computer is completely fucked up. It stopped doing anything useful 2 days ago, abruptly. I couldn't blog because it wouldn't post. Or at least some of the time. It would start to, then quit. I couldn't do anything on Facebook. Blank spaces appeared everywhere, on YouTube, etc. where there was supposed to be "something". Usually instantaneously fast, it became slow, slow, slow, or just left you hanging while you watched a pointless little spinning ball in the middle of the screen.

I called my son, of course, assuming it needed some small adjustment. The thing was sort of working, after all. But he didn't come downstairs right away. Time went on, and more and more, while one of my two blondie grandgirls showed me a brand new game she had just mastered, called "cat's cradle". As delighted as I was with the resurrection of a game that goes at least as far back as my mother's generation, I was NOT delighted by what my son finally told me.

He had no idea what was wrong with it. Wait a minute. JEFF doesn't know what's wrong with it. He said "if this shit started happening to my computer my hair would stand on end". He thought it was big stuff. But he couldn't fix it. This was a first. He does computer stuff for a living and is very good at it. There is NOTHING he can't fix. He couldn't fix this because everything he tried (and he tried everything) had no effect.

I was using mainly Google Chrome, which had worked flawlessly at light speed for several years, so he uninstalled and reinstalled it several times, to no avail. Then he was running out of time, so stuck Firefox on there as an alternative, and left. But it had not been  set up and looked like a big blob of burning charred meat in an empty field. I sat down and realized all my bookmarks were gone. All of them. "They've been wiped clean," my husband reassured me. "Just put them back in."

"But I can't get the addresses unless I can go on the sites, and I can't go on the sites unless I have the addresses."

"Oh yes you can."

"No you can't. Look, I have to sign in to everything and give my password, and I don't remember any of them. Then I just get a generic page, not MY page. The internet has divorced me."

It was hell, actually, and I had that horrible sinking feeling of losing everything I had worked on for years and years. I couldn't sleep, woke up anxious in the night, and have felt like utter crap for 2 days. I spent four or five hours trying to make sense of Firefox or Foxfire or whatever-it-is. Bill got me back my bookmarked things or I'd still be sitting there. I feel as if my whole system has been demolished, and I am now piecing little pieces of stone back together with mucilage.

The problems are still there, hit-or-miss, returning as soon as I think they're gone: I can't post photos on Facebook (except that sometimes I can); I can't post certain things on my blog; things are still going blank or refusing to work, as if some vital connection is greying out. The internet is fine, it isn't that. My computer is fine. I now have Internet Explorer, Google Chrome and Firefox at my disposal, and all of them are fucking up in similar ways, but not the SAME ways, not at the same time, and intermittently, a unique form of torture the Nazis knew all about. It's like they're running around passing the football around so elaborately that I can't keep up.

I've deleted several paragraphs here because nobody really wants to know what goes on in my mind at these times. Hell, I don't want to know. I don't know if other people have these areas of vulnerability. Maybe they don't. They certainly don't talk about them if they do. Everyone maintains at least a veneer of mastery. I can sort of do it, sometimes. But I'll die knowing it was, after all, the very thinnest of thin ice.

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Horse-o-rama

Things fall apart: thoughts on the attack on Paris

This started out as a journal entry, then evolved from there. I have been known to delete posts that I later thought were too negative, just because I'd rather not put out that kind of energy. But today it's too much. I wonder now what it takes to go on about your business being cheerful and saying, "Yes, isn't it too bad." The feeling is, "if we feel gloomy the terrorists have won" and "everything happens for a reason" (!). This is about as helpful as saying "crying won't bring him back" and other stone-hearted, sappy bromides that are supposed to be so damn helpful. Our grief is being hijacked along with everything else. Put on a happy face. The problem is, I just can't do it any more.

November 14/15

Horrible terrorist attack in Paris yesterday. Out of the blue, seemingly. This stuff is popping up everywhere and makes me feel sick inside, like climate change. I wonder about the future, what kind of hell it might be for the grandkids, such wonderful souls. Irreplaceable. It could be a worse hell than the world has ever seen. People say things like, “oh, the human race has always kept going no matter what happens,” as if that's some kind of insurance policy against disaster.

Because something has been (more or less) true in the past does NOT mean it will be true in the future: in fact, the more time goes by, the higher the odds it will change. Example: "I’ve smoked cigarettes for 40 years and it hasn’t hurt me." That means you can go on for another 40 and be OK! It means that if it hasn’t happened YET, it will never happen, and CAN never happen, which is the stupidest piece of flawed non-logic I’ve ever seen. But I see it every single day, and people believe it, blandly, sticking a happy face on atrocity, which only leaves the door open for it to continue. It’s just a little thing called denial.

I never know how to get my head around all this, or how to feel. Things seem to be coming apart. When will it end? Nuclear war, I think. As if that threat is no longer there! Then the climate will truly collapse - it won't take more than a tiny nudge - and there will be no food. No food is already a huge one, along with where to live when everything is underwater. No food means riots and people tearing each other’s throats out to survive. Humans will revert to the pack mentality from which they sprang, devolving from apes into something somewhat less than that.

I have a purpose in my life, I am very clear about it and have no doubt of it, and that is to be love to my grandchildren. BE love, not just show love. This is nothing grand, but I don’t have to think about it either. It is as natural as breathing and has been the crown of my life after decades of wretched struggle. So many times I have wanted to end my life, but it looks as if it may be taken out of my hands.

At these times, anxious times, I look at my health and the fact that things have not been quite right for a long time. I had abdominal symptoms, quite severe ones that drove me to the doctor, something I only do under duress because I hate doctors. As usual, her attitude was dismissive, but she did delegate, as all doctors do now. I saw a gynaecologist, a urologist, a gastroenterologist, had two CT scans, two mammograms, a colonoscopy, and they supposedly found nothing. More than three years after being told my colonoscopy was completely normal (though my doctor was supposed to “go over the results” with me, an appointment which turned out to be totally useless because she said “there’s nothing to talk about”, as if this was a waste of her time), she was leafing through my chart and said, “Oh.”

Now, you never want to hear your doctor say, “Oh.”

The “oh” turned out to be the results of the colonoscopy. The polyp they found, the one they never told me about and which my doctor either didn't notice or didn't bother to mention, was not a large one, and not cancerous, but these things can turn cancerous in the future. Other things were wrong inside me that may or may not be a problem later, and which might lead to heavy bleeding or perhaps something worse than that.

My colonoscopy was not completely normal, as the technicians told me it was, but my doctor vagued me away because she didn’t really bother to look at the results.

OK, I don’t want to be one of these cranky old ladies who goes on and on about her health. For the most part I don’t talk about it at all because deep down, I don’t think I have much time left. In only a few months, without conscious effort, I have lost well over 30 pounds, and most of it dropped off me in almost alarming fashion. I was weight-obsessed from age 15 on, though I was never more than 15 or 20 pounds overweight (considered huge by the standards of the day). Thus began a siege on my body that left my metabolism permanently confused, if not completely fucked.

I ruined my body, in a sense, meaning there was a lot of fluctuation, some of it quite dramatic, and some really stupid diets, one of which left me 15 pounds underweight. I’ve never had so many compliments on my appearance in my life (oh, wait – there was that manic episode, the one that nearly killed me, when I supposedly looked 10 years younger! And certainly, if you look ten years younger, you no longer need to keep taking those stupid pills.)

So now my weight plummets, just from cutting out junk food. It’s still going down. I feel a vague nausea and my appetite is definitely down. So, do I go back to that doctor and say, “I’ve lost weight”, especially when she warned me I needed to lose weight and was verging on obesity? She'd probably say, "You look marvelous," and tell me there's nothing wrong.

This is why I don't want to go. Do I invite that familiar leaning forward and peering at me with puckered brow, then suddenly sitting up straight and saying in a decisive voice, “Nope. Can’t find anything”?

No.

Sometimes I think (to try to connect these thoughts together) that all of this is a death-march, that we just have to sing our marching songs as we go our merry way. I mainly want to stay around to help with the grandkids, if they survive. I am not yet sure of the nature of the disaster. Climate change experts are saying it could happen more catastrophically than anyone expects. It could all come apart, suddenly give way, as it seems to be already. Right now denial holds it all tenuously together, so that every extreme flood, every sinkhole swallowing up houses, every freak snowstorm or raging forest fire after a baffling drought is considered a separate event.

I get a queasy feeling from it all. When the food runs out. When the terrorists come HERE, not to France, not even to the United States but here. Don’t think about it, your health is bad enough. Die now? Might be a good idea, but it would upset my family, I think. 

I am too much of a coward to face the kind of world that is coming. So if “something” wants to carry me off, maybe it’s a lot more benevolent than it seems on the surface. What will be will be, but we always assume the people who mean the most to us will be spared. And that is the greatest uncertainty of all.

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Vive la France!

For the people of Paris: La Derniere Classe

La Derniere Classe: The Last Class

From Contes du Lundi by Alphonse Daudet

Told by a little Alsatian

This morning I was very late getting to school and I was afraid of being scolded because M. Hamel had said he would be quizzing us on the participles and I didn’t know the first word. It occurred to me that I might skip class and run afield. The day was warm and bright, the blackbirds were whistling at the edge of the woods, and in the meadow behind the sawmill the Prussians were practicing. Everything seemed much nicer than the rule of participles; but I resisted the urge and hurried toward school.

Passing the town hall, I saw a group of people gathered in front of the notice board. For the past two years that has been where we’ve gotten all the bad news, the battles lost, the demands, the commands; and I thought without stopping: “What now?” Then as I ran by, the blacksmith Wachter, who was there with his apprentice reading the postings, called to me: “Don’t rush, boy; you have plenty of time to get to school!” I thought he was teasing me, and I was out of breath as I reached M. Hamel’s.

Normally, when class starts, there is noise enough to be heard from the street as desks are opened and shut, students repeat lessons together and loudly with hands over ears to learn better, and the teacher’s big ruler knocking on the tables: “Let’s have some quiet!” I was hoping to use the commotion to sneak into place unnoticed, but today all was silent, like a Sunday morning. Through the open window I saw my classmates already in their seats and M. Hamel, who went back and forth with his terrible iron ruler under his arm. I had to open the door and enter amidst this great calm. You can imagine how flushed and fearful I was!

But no, M. Hamel looked at me evenly and said gently: “Take your seat quickly, little Franz, we were starting without you.” I hopped the bench and sat at my desk right away. Only after I had settled in did I notice our teacher had on his fancy green coat, his ruffled shirt and the embroidered silk cap he only wore on inspection or award days. Also, the whole room seemed oddly solemn. But what surprised me most was at the back of the room where the benches were always empty now sat people of the village, quietly like us: the old Hauser with his tricorn, the former mayor, the former postmaster, and some others. Everyone looked sad; and Hauser had brought his old primer, worn at the edges, which he held open on his knees with his glasses resting on the pages.

While I was taking all this in, M. Hamel stood by his chair and in the same grave, gentle voice with which he had welcomed me told us: “Children, this is the last time I will teach the class. Orders from Berlin require that only German be taught in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine … the new teacher arrives tomorrow. Today is your last French lesson. I ask for your best attention.” These words hit me hard. Ah! Those beasts, that’s what they had posted at the town hall. My last French lesson …

Yet I hardly knew how to write! I had learned nothing! And I would learn no more! I wished now to have the lost time back, the classes missed as I hunted for eggs or went skating on the Saar! My books that I had always found so boring, so heavy to carry, my grammar text, my history of the saints—they seemed to me like old friends I couldn’t bear to abandon. It was the same with M. Hamel. The idea that he was leaving made me forget his scolding and the thumps of his ruler. Poor man!

It was in honor of this final class that he had worn his best Sunday outfit, and now I understood why the old men from the village were gathered at the rear of the class. They were there to show that they too were sorry for neglecting to attend school more. It was also a way to thank our teacher of forty years for his fine service, and to show their respect for the country that was disappearing.

I was pondering these things when I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What wouldn’t I have given to say that vaunted rule of participles loudly, clearly, flawlessly? Instead I tangled the first words and stood, hanging onto my desk, my heart pounding, unable to raise my head. I heard M. Hamel say: “I won’t scold you, my little Franz, you must already feel bad … That’s how it is. We always say: ‘Bah! I have time. I’ll learn “tomorrow.”’ And now you see it has come … Ah! It is Alsace’s great trouble that she always puts off learning until tomorrow. Now people will be justified in saying to us: ‘How come you pretend to be French and yet don’t know how to read or write your language!” You are not the most guilty of this, my poor Franz. We all have good reason to blame ourselves.

Your parents did not press you to learn your lessons. They’d prefer to have you work in the fields or at the mill to earn some more money. Myself, I am not blameless. Haven’t I sent you to water my garden instead of work? And when I wanted to go fishing, didn’t I give you the day off?"

Then, from one thing to another, M. Hamel spoke of the French tongue, saying it was the most beautiful language in the world, the most clear, the most sensible. That we must keep it ourselves and never forget it, because when a people if they hold onto their language it is like holding the prison key …

Then he took a grammar text and read us our lesson. I was stunned to realize how well I understood it. Everything he said seemed so easy, easy! I believe also that I had never listened so well and that he had never explained to us so patiently. One might think that the poor man wished to give us all his knowledge, to fill our heads in a single try.

After grammar, we moved on to writing. For this day, M. Hamel had prepared new examples, written in beautiful, round script: France, Alsace, France, Alsace. They looked like little flags floating about the classroom, hung from the rods atop our desks. It was something to see everyone set to our work, and so silently! The only sound was the scratching of pens on paper. Once some beetles flew in but no one paid them any attention, not even the little ones who were assiduously tracing their figures with one heart, one mind, as if this also were French … On the roof the pigeons cooed softly. When I heard them I said to myself: “Will they be forced to sing in German, too?” From time to time when I’d raise my eyes from my writing I would see M. Hamel still in his chair staring at the objects around him as if he wanted to memorize exactly how things were in the little schoolhouse.

Imagine! For forty years, he’d been in the same place with his yard before him and all the class likewise. The benches and desks were polished, worn with use; the walnut trees had grown, and the hops he’d planted himself now climbed around the windows to the roof. How heart-breaking it must be for the poor man to leave all these things, to hear his sister packing their things in the room above.

They would have to leave the country the next day, forever.

All the same, he bravely kept class to the very end. After writing, we had a history lesson, then the little ones sang together their BA BE BI BO BU. At the rear of the room, old Hauser put on his glasses and, holding his primer in both hands, chanted the letters with them. It was obviously a great effort for him; his voice trembled with emotion and it was so funny to hear him that we wanted to laugh and cry. Ah! I do remember that last class…

Suddenly the church clock struck noon. During the Angelus we could hear the Prussians’ trumpets beneath the windows as they returned from their exercises… M. Hamel rose, colorless, from his chair. Never had he appeared so large.

“My friends, say, my, I … I…” But something choked him. He couldn’t say it.

He turned to the board, took a piece of chalk and, using all of his strength, he wrote as large as he could:

“VIVE LA FRANCE!”

He stayed there, his head resting on the wall, and wordlessly used his hand to motion to us: “It’s over … you may go.”

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