Youth In Asia (Killing Me Softly)

I have recently been investigating ways to kill myself painlessly. Just in case. Some of you may be a tad worried about that (no reason to, I assure you); some of you won’t read any further than this paragraph.

For those of you still here, this really is not about being depressed and unable to see the bright side of life. I have, so far, been unable to NOT see the bright side. But I am concerned about euthanasia, and have been off and on for at least the past 20 years. At least since Dr. Jack Kevorkian began making headlines.

During my quest for information I contacted a pharmacist friend of mine and asked what the best thing to use was. He wondered only if I was having a bad day. I’d say that was a pretty bad day, but I was saddened only that he didn’t realize where I was coming from. And he never would say. That may have been part of a pharmacist’s oath or something but the guy I used to know would have gotten where I was coming from. Instead he was suspicious, I think.

Putting religious beliefs aside, if you can, I want to examine euthanasia with the view of it being a practical matter, and possibly being a great relief to ourselves and our family and friends. I know that we are not dogs and cats, but I think we can look at pet euthanasia and apply its principles to people. Why wait until someone’s body and/or mind is ravaged by disease, their finances drained so there is more burden brought upon those left behind? Bad enough they have to watch their loved one suffer for far too long as it is.

Part of the outcry against human euthanasia is that people will be killing off family members and themselves willy-nilly at the first sign of a sniffle so as to benefit from expected inheritances.

I believe fervently that people, as a general rule, aren’t going to do this very often or easily. (I think that about abortion as well but haven’t looked at the numbers.) Pet owners sometimes still wait far too long to euthanize their pets, believing against all hope that they aren’t really suffering or there’s a chance they’ll get better. I believe having the option—without the legal trouble—to off yourself or help someone close to you to do so will not be misused any more than other things are misused. There is always going to be stupidity, and that cannot be legislated, even though we all know it’s been tried repeatedly and those attempts likely will continue as long there are politicians and attorneys.

I'm adamant I'd like the option if I became unable to care for myself in any way. I don't want my daughters, granddaughters, friends and family to have to see me that way for an extended period of time because my body was still willing to produce enough oxygen to carry on. That's no way to live, for me or them.

If it became a legal option to end your life, we could then procure the knowledge and the means to do it compassionately and with as little pain to the dying as possible. We are already half way there, with hospice. I don't know anyone who isn't grateful for the compassionate care received there. Let’s go one step further and have the legal option before we become dessicated if we so choose.

Let's Not And Say We Did

I'd like to call these Pet Peeves, but I've never had a pet who irked me in this way, so I'm calling it People Peeves. Things friends and lovers say that peeve. Clearly I attach too much importance to words, tending to take every single alphabet grouping to heart. I don't think I can work it any other way, though.

“I’m taking up too much of your time.”

Why? If you believe what you're saying, then what the hell are you doing that for? That is clearly a manipulation, especially when I give you no indication that you are doing so. Don’t you know yet that if I want to hang up the phone, I have no problems saying so? That if I am ready for you to leave, I can tell you easily that it’s time for you to do so? If you are ready to go or hang up, just say so instead of putting it on me. How old are you?

“Sorry to bother you.”

Another manipulation. You want me to say, “It’s no bother,” to give you reassurance. Because we are friends or acquaintances, I’ll give you the reassurance the first couple of times, but if you continue to say it every time you call, I’m going to stop talking to you eventually, because you annoy the crap out of me.

“I didn’t mean to …”

This is a tricky one, as sometimes we do things that bring up “unintended” consequences. I have to say that if you say that a lot, you won’t say it a lot to me as I won’t be putting myself out to you for long. And I’ll know when you mean to apologize.

“You think you know me, but you don’t.”

Ahhh, the phrase that indicates your long-time partner is hiding something from you and wants you to be astute enough to figure it out instead of coming clean themselves. It’s not good news.

"You have no idea how much I love you."

Well, you know what? It’s because you are doing a damn poor job of showing me. So shut up.

Walk Like An Egyptian

I still remember the feel of the sheets I found in a department store in downtown Kerrville, Texas, (the one that’s gone now, Schreiner’s) that I wanted to buy with what was left of my going-away gift certificate from my coworkers. I stood there, in the linens department, for 20 minutes, feeling those sheets—Egyptian cotton, 400-thread count—my fingers shoved into the packaging, caressing the material like a big weirdo and daydreaming about how it would feel to sleep on them.

Twenty minutes! Really!

The set was on sale for $80 and I had the money for it but I also had Libby and Bella, two pooches, who would have ruined them immediately while not experiencing a single pang of guilt for doing so.

Oh, but I wanted those sheets in the worst way! It is one of those times that stand out clearly in my mind. The longing—they call it that because the feeling lasts a bit—then denial, acceptance and the walk-away.

I loved that store and the things it sold: always they had lovely home goods, my favorite section.

I sighed, put the package down, looked around to see if anyone was taking special notice of me and walked away slowly, hoping to prevent myself from being arrested for acting like a sheets pervert.

I don’t have any Egyptian cotton sheets still, nor do I have Libby and Bella any more, and I’m OK with all of it.

Headline Strikes Fear

As a newspaper editor, one of my favorite things to do was write headlines, and if I look at a newspaper nowadays, I swiftly scan Page One and judge each headline, subhead and cutline as if it were in a contest. Because, really, among those tasked with the job, I can say we are a competitive bunch, within and between newsrooms, and want to do our best.

While on deadline, I’d get the lead story and drop it in place, and prepare for my favorite part, writing the headline. I was lucky to have other editors and reporters who were key to inspiring pithy turns of phrase.

I’d yell out, “Marty! I need help with this headline.” Marty, being the quickest producer of good—and lengthy, when necessary—front page copy, never frazzled by deadline, would jump up and come over and we would start throwing out suggestions, beginning with the stupidest. Pretty soon the newsroom staff would be cracking up. It would spur others to throw in their craziness when somebody in the bunch, like Jane, would yell out something that made all of us say, “That’s it!” And we’d all turn back to what we were doing, assured that we were working together, turning out another great product, one that renewed every 24 hours.

Got a chuckle the other day while surfing: Being unable to avoid the strip of pictures and headlines that show up on Yahoo! News from catching my eye, I found it funny what stories are deemed interesting and how their placement may or may not be critical any more, given the short time a story is featured online before being pushed down in the queue.

These two were side by side: “Swimmer Dies In Open Water Race” and “Kate Hudson’s Style Misstep”

It was amusing to me that they were next to each other.

Clearly, one was far more important than the other.

While a swimmer dying during a race would have been lead worthy in a print version of the hometown paper, I was never going to click on that one, not being a swimmer and the story likely not local to me. And it was bad news, something I strive to avoid.

Instead, I found my curser hovering over the more important link, drawn to what could possibly be so bad as to warrant a story about what the lovely Kate Hudson was wearing. I was thinking that clicking on this story might bring me a laugh at best, and at the very least, there’d be a picture of Ms. Hudson, who has never been a disappointment to look at no matter what she does or doesn’t have on.

But I didn’t. Click on it.

It was fear I might find that somebody actually believed it was important. Which reminded me that all news is bad, thoroughly avoidable and completely unimportant.

Unless you're getting paid to write it.

Our Girls

Well, the time goes so quickly
It goes lickety splitly
And now Aidenne and Joss
Are in school

Life is full of clichés now
Of which many are true
And Aidenne and Joss
Well, they rule

They love everything going
Their smarts they are showing
And now Aidenne and Joss
Are no fools

In the show that’s unfolding
I’ve become quite unscolding
That Aidenne and Joss
Make me drool

I want to be near them
So I can see/hear them
Our Aidenne and Joss
Are so cool

Song For Someone Else

Not Missing Loving You

Couldn’t be any harder
Couldn’t be what it was
What it was couldn’t be
Any harder to lose

I won't count the tears
I've faced my fears
And shed the pain of your deceit
It doesn't hurt much anymore
Except sometimes when we meet

Not thinking about you any more
Not thinking about her
Not wondering what I’m going to do
Not missing loving you

Got nobody to kiss goodnight
Or worry about me
My phone won’t ring and you won’t say
“I’m on my way; let’s eat.”

Not thinking about you any more
Not thinking about her
Not wondering what I’m going to do
Not missing loving you

I’m not sweating every evening
If you’re coming home or not
Or whether you’ll be driving
After drinking all you’ve got

Not walking around on eggshells
Wondering what will set you off
No more freezes, no more fights
That do not get resolved.

Not thinking about us any more
Not thinking about her
Not wondering what you’re doing now
Not missing loving you

©2010 Queen Greetings

PTSD: Worse Than Death

But Does It Have To Be?

This is in response to a blog that is emailed to me. I will email it to you upon request.

Yes, it is nothing short of tragic the mental and emotional horrors that can consume one after experiencing war. The additional tragedy is that men, mostly, turn to alcohol or drugs to cope with their inability to speak about what happened, thus beginning the personal slide into a life that likely leads to crime of some kind or another, affecting so many others, whether they become criminals or not.

At its best, their lives are spent trying to live every day with the experiences locked inside them, cutting them off emotionally from their families and friends, possibly for fear of what will happen if they let it out. Families cope with the dramatic changes in their son, husband, father by seeking to help, only to be castigated by the one whom they seek to help. "You don't understand" and "You don't want to know" is the refrain. When families suggest seeking counseling, they are told to mind their own business. Men shut down more and more as time passes.

At its worst, resentment builds at home with terrible consequences. Violence against loved ones occurs repeatedly, emotionally, physically, as men are unable to cope with normal living. Seeing their family's hurt faces is a reminder that they aren't doing what they should, but they are at the point of feeling only anger then. Families split with deep, long-lasting societal consequences.

It is a sad commentary on our society when most men feel it useless or humiliating, even unmanly, to seek help for emotional and mental crises. They get instant relief by becoming drunk or high, but it's only a short-lived fix as evidenced by the increased need for more of their escape of choice. While they are getting this fix, family and friends are first filled with concern, worry and sometimes fear.

Society does send mixed messages, as does the military. There are trained people in all walks of life who can help with post traumatic stress disorder, but there is still a stigma attached somehow—or the perception of—and the fear of losing their jobs or respect of their peers if it's found out they are seeing a psychiatrist.

The military and civilian worlds need to help reduce this stigma. TV shows like "Army Wives" (Lifetime) and "The Unit" (CBS) are helpful but I'm not sure men make up much of their audiences. Even with the best-laid marketing plans, it's going to take a long time, with a lot more casualties piling up at home.

Why is it so hard to ask for help?