There are many things we are deeply fearful of. The death of a child is one. Being imprisoned for something we’re not guilty of is another. Losing any loved one that you can’t imagine living without is another. Unless you’ve experienced such wretched circumstances, it’s hard to imagine what it might feel like.

Growing old and not being able to care for yourself is another common fear. Large families may wonder how anyone could die alone, unprotected and uncared for. In the USA, unless you have the means to take care of yourself, you’re subjected to laws and an underground of political corruption that literally and unbelievably forces senior citizens to die. Here is just one true story.

Maggie Was a Loving Mother and Grandmother

Maggie Grover is an American 76 year old nursing home patient who is fed baby food and is usually dehydrated. Everything she owns and loved has been taken away. She was assigned a bed and some pills.

In her younger years, she tolerated and then finally divorced a bi-polar, abusive alcoholic husband who spent his days as a drifter until he died of a brain tumor. She did the best she could to raise their 4 children as a single mom. For a brief few years, she had married a good and generous widower. However, one night he died in his sleep. Maggie took care of his 3 children as if they were her own. When all seven children became adults, Maggie married again. This man was not a kind man.

When Maggie began to develop signs of dementia, her husband became even more abusive. Several of the children tried to help their mother but their attempts to assist were met with harassment and later, legal blockages. Regardless of what the local County agencies asked for, such as making the home habitable for a handicapped person or providing hospice care, he blocked help at every turn. For years Maggie’s children and grand kids checked on her when her husband was not around, which was most of the time. They would find their mother staring into space and unable to eat or take care of herself. Doctors orders were not followed. She couldn’t swallow her pills. The husband neglected her and her care. Nobody from any agency did what the children had expected.

Prisoner by Law

A daughter fought a legal battle and won the right to take care of her mother in a rental home right next to her own house. Maggie came to live there with her little dog, whom she dearly loved. She was diagnosed with a form of Parkinson’s. Under the care of the children and a nurse they hired, Maggie’s health vastly improved. Despite this reprieve, Maggie continued to be neglected and abused by her husband. She asked for a divorce. During this time, health care monies became an issue, as was paying for her rental. The husband had no intention of offering assistance, nor would he agree to the divorce. Lawyers convinced the children to grant custody of their mother to a “guardian”, with the promise that she would be well protected, could remain in her rental house and her health needs taken care of.

The papers were signed in a few minutes, with very little information or discussion. Upon losing the right to care for their mother, the Legal Guardian put her into a shoddy nursing home, gave the dog to the husband, wiped out Maggie’s entire savings , took it for himself and forbade Maggie to divorce her husband.

The nursing home was instructed by the Guardian to give her baby food. She is not permitted water or liquids on demand, so the children sneak in food and water to keep her alive. Maggie knows what’s happening around her. She can talk. On visits to the nursing home, a family member watched as a patient rummaged through the drugs while two aides stood by looking on, but not taking any action. Aides pat the butts of patients. Patients pretend to be asleep so they don’t have to eat the food. Meanwhile, the Guardian told Maggie he plans to put the dog to sleep because she asks to see her beloved pet. It was learned this is his standard practice; putting pets of patients to sleep. Maggie is now forced to exist on Medicaid and the whims of her legal Guardian and the nursing home.

She has no rights.

Fifth Amendment

“No person shall be…deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due
process of law.“

For those who have witnessed their own Maggie story, forced to watch as their loved one is abused by Legal Guardians, the Sixth Amendment does not apply to someone like Maggie. Her family has contacted every legal counsel they can find and learned that everyone, from the guardian, to the doctors who work in the Nursing Home or were consulted on Maggie’s case, to the Judges, are all corrupt. Not a single one has helped.

Sixth Amendment

“In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy
and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the
crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously
ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the
accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have
compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the
Assistance of Counsel for his defense.”

The family’s research found that there is tolerance and a blind eye towards bad guardianship at both the state and federal levels. This means there is nobody protecting Maggie’s life, liberty or property. Everything was taken away from her by the Guardian.

Fourteenth Amendment

“No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges
or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any
person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to
any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.”

While all of this is happening, Maggie is well enough to try and fight for her right to life. She is worried at the burden this has created for her children. At each attempt to rescue their mother, the Guardian, in retaliation, has threatened to ban the family from visiting their mother in the nursing home, move Maggie out of state or put her into an even less desirable nursing home. In other words, the Guardian is emotionally black mailing the family. The Guardian entered into an agreement releasing the husband of any and all financial responsibility for Maggie but won’t let them divorce. Maggie has been put into a room to die.

As if none if this is hard enough to grasp, not even the local politicians want to take an interest in what is known as “Guardian Abuse”. It’s tied to the health care industry, which is a political bomb shell right now. Sara Palin, in her remarks about “death panels” is not that far off base. In the USA, if you sign away the care, custody or responsibility of caring for someone who can’t care of themselves, you sentence that loved one to death.

And unless a situation such as Maggie’s story happens in your family, you’ll likely believe it doesn’t happen or can’t happen where you live. Research “Guardian Abuse”, “Grannynapping” (kidnapping or when families try to rescue someone), Medicaid fraud, (Maggie’s Guardian has 3 houses and several kids in college. Remember, he takes all his “Ward’s” monies) and exploitation of the elderly.

As of the time of this writing, the family was most recently told by a Judge that they will need a “high priced lawyer” to help them. Of course, they don’t have the money, so they live each day in deep anguish, wondering if there is anyone who cares.

Note: Names and certain personal points have been changed to protect the persons involved. The family has been threatened for speaking out. I am speaking out on their behalf.

Note: The following true story was originally published in the Cre8pc Blog in 2006. Today, my son Stefan, now 16, played on 4 baseball teams this past baseball season. He plays offense and defensive positions for high school JV football and is plays defense positions as a second string Varsity player.

My son just called me from his Dad’s cell phone, from his Dad’s car. The conversation went like this:

“Hi Mom.”

“Hi Stefan.”

“When you wash my baseball pants…” He pauses. I wait.

“Mom, when you wash them and put them in the dryer.” I wait. The suspense is killing me.

“Well, when you get them out of the dryer.” Pause. And in all seriousness he says, “Can you put them in the freezer?”

I giggle, and wait for the punchline. There is none. He continues, completely serious. I’ve already spent 4 hours with him since I got him home from baseball camp. He fell asleep on the couch while I worked on my laptop nearby. As he leaves to go somewhere with his Dad, he admits the baseball clothes need to be washed for his first travel team baseball game tomorrow, and they are still lying in a pile in his room. This I know. So I’m curious about this freezer part.

“Why the freezer?” I asked, calmly, but a giggle slipped out anyway.

A slight sense of guilt in his voice replaces the serious 12-year old monotone voice on the other end of the cell phone.

“I got gum on them at baseball camp. Dad says you can pry it off when it’s frozen.”

He giggles. I giggle. He knows I’ll take care of this.

Privately I wondered to myself. How often do you put baseball pants in your freezer?

I Am Caught on Video, Screaming and Crying

Last week I mentioned that my son’s team was in their playoffs for the championship for the season at Little League. They’ve tried for 4 years to get the top spot. Another team kept winning. They couldn’t be beat. Stefan’s team always came up short, like 2nd or 3rd place.

This year, they reached the end of the playoffs, intact. They’d beaten everybody and now faced the team that always wins. Stefan’s Dad couldn’t be there for the game, which was pretty upsetting for him. His step-daughter was graduating high school and he needed to be there. I offered to video tape the game so he could see it later. My husband, Eric, (Stefan’s step-dad), brought a digital camera as well.

I set the tripod up in a spot that let me get the pitcher, hitter, catcher and umpire in one shot. Stefan had to sit out several games because he had broken a finger this season. Being one of their 3 lead pitchers and a strong batter, it was torture for him to watch his team from the sidelines. He was healed enough to play in the very last 2 games. Coaches let him be the starting pitcher, but limited him to 2 innings, so as not to ruin the finger and to keep him safe for the travel team, in which he earned a spot as the pitcher. That travel team will be my life every weekend for most of the summer.

Stefan did really well. They weren’t no hitter innings, as he’d wished, and 2 runners got in. The game dragged on, with the other two pitchers taking over for Stefan’s team. Those two boys are also very dependable. It was a tie game, 6 – 6 by the top of the fifth inning. The other team scored a point and it was now 6 – 7. This was going to be close. I had stopped breathing long ago. Our team had a huge crowd of parents and well wishers and we were all on the edge of our seats in the baseball stand.

At the bottom of the fifth, Stefan came up to bat. He is well known in my town for his batting. At the age of 9, he hit his first home run out past the Minors field, and that set his mark. Every year he had these remarkable hits, and we have a pile of baseballs with dates on them for each homerun.

There is a large covered bridge near the Majors field where they play. It was moved there years ago by the town, to preserve one of our relics from colonial days. The chant for Stefan had become “Hit the bridge!” when he’d come to bat. It was also common to hear the coaches for the other teams yell to their kids, “Back up! Stefan’s up!”

But, lest you think he’s some miracle child. He’s not. He strikes out too. He hates it, but there’s a pile of 12 year old pitchers in our Little League who throw fast balls. Stefan says his are over 65 MPH when clocked. I think there are few other boys just as fast. This makes it hard to hit a ball. Some have better “change ups”. So even with his history, we know he can just as easily have a bad day at bat and sometimes, on the pitcher’s mound.

I aimed the video camera to Stefan, now at bat. Everybody was yelling at him. I didn’t know this until later, but one of his coaches said to him, “If it’s a strike pitch, hit it anyway.” They needed to get a hit and it was now or never. Two kids were on base, ready to bolt. For some reason, I seemed to know he would have his miracle Disney moment. I know this because it’s on the tape. Right before he whacks the ball, you hear me say, “He’s gonna do it.”

And he did. Boy did he! He nailed that ball so hard it went out past the ball field, where nobody could possibly catch it, and off towards the covered bridge.

I saw the ball go up in the air and, not breathing, waited to see if it would land in the outfield where it could be retrieved or caught, or go out beyond, into the park. When it continued to fly onward, the crowd went absolutely nuts. I started screaming. Then, I started crying and sobbing out loud, “He hit the bridge. He finally hit the bridge.” Then I remembered his Dad.

In the next few seconds I spun the camera, still on the tripod, to catch Stefan taking his leisurely run around the bases, with screams continuing in the background. We learned, from viewing the tape later, that the catcher from the other team tossed down his glove in sheer anger and frustration, knowing this likely meant the end for them. I caught the part where Stefan made it to home base, after the other 2 kids got in, and was swept up by his team mates.

Still crying and filming, you can hear me in the background sobbing. Eric was sitting right next to me, but I was off-planet and not aware of anything other than being so incredibly happy for our son. Then, as the tape rolls on, still aimed at the team celebrating, one of the mom’s notices me and shouts out, “Mom! Are you crying?” You hear the parents start to comment on that. (“Awww, she’s crying!”) And then I shut off the video, stopped to gather myself, and then, with all the parents offering congratulations and comfort when they saw my tears, I went to hug Stefan.

Then, I called his Dad on his cell phone. That was hilarious. He was sitting in the stands of a huge high school stadium, in the hot sun, with his wife and our daughter and other family members, repeating, “Oh my god. Oh my god,” and his voice kept getting higher and higher and then he started telling everybody in the stands there, “My son just got a 3 hitter home run!” As if these people cared.

The 6th inning went by quickly (at this age, they only play 6 innings.) Stefan’s team held off the other team with a no-hitter inning, so they won, 10-7. They finally beat the other team, and got some amazing trophies.

Later, the wife of the Head Coach came up to me, and quietly said, “This couldn’t have happened at a better time.” I knew what she meant, and nodded my agreement.

What the boys did not know, is one of their coaches had been diagnosed with a serious illness just a few days before. We hope he’ll pull through and go on to coach many more games.

I’ve been on cloud nine all week. This is why I haven’t blogged. I’m sure I’ll get back to business soon enough, but for now, I have some baseball pants with gum on them to wash and then freeze.

Picture taken after the kids received their trophies:

I’ve been remembering childhood moments lately, and it really hit home that I had superb parents. I thought I’d share a few of those parental moments here, in the hopes that maybe my stories will inspire young parents elsewhere.

My dad, whom I called Daddy until the day he died at the age of 83, was a simple man who never had a problem finding his inner child. Daddy was childlike in many ways, and that playfulness endeared him to everyone. But as sweet and innocent as he generally was, he was an incredibly hard worker, and provided well for his family. Part of that hard-work attitude came from the fact that his parents died when he was just 8 years old, and he had to quit school and work for the people who took him in. That meant farm labor, generally, as well as hunting and fishing to put food on the table.

Daddy grew up to be a supervisor at a chemical plant, making good money, but he never stopped gardening, hunting and fishing, and he always included his kids in the process of getting food for the family.

As a kid, I wasn’t fond of gardening or hunting, but I loved to fish. From the time I was 4 years old, every Saturday morning, at 4:00 a.m. sharp, Daddy would wake me up to go fishing. While I stood around, groggily trying to wake up, I’d watch Daddy prepare our lunch for the day. He always made me a cream-and-sugar sandwich (it is exactly what it sounds like it is) and he’d make a bologna sandwich for himself. He’d then add some snacks (chips and cookies usually) and some Cokes to the ice chest and we’d head out.

I wore glasses as a kid, but I never put them on during the trip to whichever bayou we were headed to. Since it was still dark out, I liked to look at the street lights and the lights on the old Mississippi River bridge without my glasses, because they’d be all fuzzy and pretty – like stars. Once we’d reach our destination, we’d spend all day paddling around in our little bateau (small boat) amongst the cypress trees to find the best fishing spots.

In those days, there was a lot more Spanish moss hanging from those beautiful old cypress trees. Although time and people have taken a toll on moss over the years, and we don’t see it nearly as much anymore, we do still see lots and lots of water mocassins – there were plenty of snakes then, and there are plenty still. At least once per trip, we’d generally have a large snake drop into our boat from a limb above, but luckily Daddy’s reflexes were quick, and he’d flip it out of the boat before it had fully landed (usually with a paddle).

We’d drift along, threading worms onto hooks, and catching mostly catfish and bream throughout the day. Because the fish tended to congregate near tree stumps (cypress knees), there was always a strong likelihood of me casting my line into branches, and getting the line “caught” and tangled. But no matter how many times I got my line caught, Daddy would patiently paddle to the area of the tangled line, and free the line for me. Never once did he even sigh from impatience.

During the morning, we’d munch on snacks and drink our sodas, but as noon approached, I’d excitedly wait for Daddy to pull out my cream-and-sugar sandwich. Oh it was awesome by then. Why? Because by then, it would have turned all soggy and mushy, with a little worm dirt from my fingers thrown in, and it was the most wonderful food in all the world. Weekly fishing trips were the ONLY time I had those sandwiches, and only Daddy ever made them for me, so they represented a very special bond between us.

Later, as the sun would start to set, we’d return to the dock, put the boat back onto the trailer attached to the pickup truck, and head home. We’d usually haul in about 30 or 40 fish. When we got home, we’d spend an hour or so cleaning the fish, saving a few for supper that night, and freezing the rest for future meals.

The fishing trips ended when I was about 12 or so, because of course, by then, my pre-teen interests were elsewhere. Luckily though, by that time, my parents had bought a camp (like an old cabin) that was sandwiched between two bodies of water. In front was a large lake, and in back was a bayou. The camp was raised because the lake often overflowed the banks and felt compelled to meet the bayou, resulting in water under the camp. At those times, it wasn’t uncommon to hear (and feel) the thump, thump, thump of alligators mating under the camp. My parents owned the camp until they died (it’s still in the family), so as we all grew up and had families of our own, we had a place to go when we wanted to fish and just hang out.

Maybe some other time, I’ll tell tales about my incredible Mom, who was the queen of mom-dom. But for now, since this is getting long, I’ll just say that she completely devoted her life to her family, and nothing was too much for her kids. If it meant being the head of every school club, or the coach of a school team, she’d do whatever needed doing to ensure her kids were healthy and happy. Most of all though, no one ever questioned her ability to love – and we all learned what love really is from her (and of course Daddy too).

Young parents often struggle to be good parents, but I hope at least a few of them understand that spending time with their kids, being patient with their kids, and loving them beyond all measure will go a long, long way towards creating a happy, healthy family.

As this year comes close to ending, I hope everyone looks forward with plans for good times to come. So let me wish you a Happy New Year! May 2009 be a wonderful year for you and your family.

I live in a house that looks small on the outside but is surprisingly abundant when you’re on the inside. It’s a Cape Cod style, which traditionally have small rooms and the attics are turned into second floor bedrooms. My house was once a rancher, but the previous owners added a “dormer” second floor, which acts today as the entire Master bedroom, large bathroom, walk-in closet and another small room off the closet for more storage.

It’s from this second floor that I often write from because it’s the quietest room.  Even though there is a desktop PC, it’s hidden in an armoire wardrobe piece adapted into a computer desk.  There is a small TV. And piles of books, which are like my babies. I’m lost without my books.
I come upstairs to escape the sounds of my house.  Married to a computer geek who works in fields related to my own, the house is expertly networked with not only servers and shared drives, but there’s every imaginable game except for the Wii.  The only reason a Wii isn’t in this house is the rooms are too small and I was afraid someone would get whacked in the jaw while playing.

Friends of ours have a much larger, roomy house.  This couple and their kids are a lot like my family.  We’re close in age, our kids are the same ages and our jobs are all somehow related. Their house is big enough for a “no tech zone” in their living room. This room has no computers and no TV.  In my house, the living room has a large TV (not plasma) for the PS3, which is also set up as a computer monitor.  From the living room I typically hear speeding cars, grenades going off, men screaming, shooting guns and every possible weird beep ever invented.  On any given night, my husband is in a PS3 game trance while the youngest son is playing Playstation games on a hand-held device on the couch.  The books on the coffee table are mine.

Our finished basement is large and broken up into sections. One of those sections is my office. It’s tidy and cozy.  There are several book cases, my desktop, desk, filing cabinets and the wood stove, which keeps it warm because there’s no other heat source in the basement.

Another section is the family room equipped with a corner bar that stores bulk food from Costco and a pretty fish tank that gurgles. This is where “The Dudes” hang.  Most weekends, from sun up to sun down, there is a group of teen age boys singing “American Woman” or “Spirit in the Sky” along with RockBand2. The visiting boys bring their RockBand guitars.  In the evenings, after homework is done (because that’s the rule!), the house is filled with song after song from RockBand2.  I never need a radio while making dinner anymore.  All I need to do is leave the door open to the basement and I listen to the boys.

Living in the country, the sounds of my house change with the seasons.  In the springtime, the birds start singing by the thousands as soon as the sun begins to rise.  With the windows open in early fall nights I can hear the high school band playing during football games.  Summer nights always bring sounds of cars from the distant highway.  The road that goes in front of my house is annoying. We never should have bought a house so close to a road.  I totally forgot that kids turn up the base in their cars, really loud.

I visited another friend this morning. Her house is sheer chaos all the time.  She has more kids than I do.  Our teenage boys are best friends.  Her house has peeling paint, dents in the walls, clutter everywhere and is a rush of kids and pets all the time.  Today when I see her, she’s flopped on a couch with her laptop, hair piled on her head, mascara smeared under her eyes and beaming with contentment as the sounds of RockBand2 ooze up from her basement.

As I walk out to my car, after fiddling with their broken front door handle and dodging toys in the hallway, I smile to myself.   I feel a kinship with her. Our houses are our safe comfort zones.  Our homes are always busy and filled with kids and our kids’ friends.  She and I both taxi our kids to their sports games, band practices, and we typically travel with kids in tow and our dogs in our cars.

If it ever got quiet, we’d be bored out of our minds.