January 7, 2019

What Lies Beneath

I have seen some things this week. If you read my previous post about my dad, you know that we have been through an ordeal with his health. Tonight he is at peace. He was resting comfortably when I left him, and in the gentle care of his Hospice help, I believe he is on the runway awaiting takeoff.

I have suffered all the emotions that can be named and many that cannot — sometimes all at the same time. Today is Monday. Officially one week since he was admitted. This story begins on Saturday.

I don’t know what the afterlife is. I don’t know if ghosts are real or what really happens when you die. I do know the universe is full of mysteries and that prayers are answered, though not always in the ways you expect. I don’t know what really happens when you die. So I don’t know if what I’m about to tell you is real or if in my desperation and exhaustion I manifested them in my imagination. I have a big one and am often told that what I think is real wasn’t. But I digress.

I spent the night on Saturday with my dad. I wasn’t going to, but something made me get dressed and go to the hospital. Although we were alone, I kept waking with the sensation that there were others in the room with us. Several times I would feel something brush past me — like a spider web or that little shock you get when you shuffle sock feet on carpet. At one point I felt a hand brush the hair across my forehead. When I sat up to look, no one was there. Several times throughout the night I woke to hear my dad talking to someone, but when I got to his bedside, his eyes were focused far away. The energy in the room felt vibraty. Charged.

During one of her visits, my dad asked my daughter where her mother was, and where her mother’s mother was. And then he introduced her to his mother who he said was standing in the corner.

On Sunday there were a few moments when it seemed like my dad was going. Once I was overcome with the smell of pipe tobacco (my gramps smoked a pipe) though no one else said they could smell anything. Later I smelled oranges or orange blossoms. Again, no one else smelled it. So maybe in my grief I was desperate for something to comfort me or wanted so badly to believe he was going to finally have peace, or maybe I was delusional from fatigue. But then the truck showed up.

My dad had a toy Dodge Dakota pickup truck that sat next to his chair at home with candy in it. Whenever my parents would babysit, he would drive the truck back and forth with Jocelyn and they ate candy bars together. It was their little private thing. A few months ago Jocelyn (my daughter) asked if she could have the truck, but my mom told her it was lost. She had looked everywhere, but it had been lost for years. My dad got a new chair for Christmas and we are all certain that the truck was NOT on the shelf by his chair. It was gone.

This morning (Monday), I went to my mom’s house early to let the dog out and feed her breakfast. I took some time to walk around and remember my dad. I laid on his bed, cried a bit, looked in his closet and smelled his clothes, peeked in the dog biscuit drawer to see if Millie still had snacks. Then I went into the sunroom to sit in his chair.

Guess what was sitting on the shelf? The candy truck.

My dad is at peace. And so am I.

 

 

 

January 3, 2019

Do No Harm

My father has Alzheimer’s. My 84 year old mother has been caring for him at home. Every day for the past 2 years he has been a little less my dad. In fact, he hasn’t been MY DAD for months now. He’s gone.  He lives trapped in his head in a place between fear and confusion. It is a cruel disease. We are suffering. He is suffering.

He fell on New Year’s Eve and broke his hip (well, probably the other way around, actually) and was admitted through the ER. The fracture would require surgical repair.  However, it wasn’t going to be that simple.

My dad’s body has been deteriorating because of the Alzheimer’s. He was severely dehydrated and not producing enough platelets. The fracture site was depleting his stores further. The doctors were concerned he wasn’t healthy enough for surgery, so they started pumping him full of fluids and platelets and blood and morphine and haldol because — and this is the very best part — the Alzheimer’s creates anxiety and fear but also prevents the morphine from having a sedative effect and the steroid causes more fear and confusion and agitation so not only is my dad in pain, he is now combative. My docile, go-with-the-flow, stay-in-your-lane, peacekeeping daddy is pulling at his IV and fighting the bed and trying to get up, further damaging the fracture.

All I ever wished for my dad was peace. I wish him peace. When his single kidney (he only has one due to renal cancer 25 years ago) started to fail, I was grateful for the blessing. We could manage his pain and keep him comfortable and let his body do what it needed to do to help him go quietly. I wish him peace.

But I’m alone in my prayer because the medical team insists on treating his body instead of the patient and so HURRAH, he is strong enough for surgery! His kidney function is restored and the platelets are stabilized! Congratulations, Dr. Frankenstein — in your desire to save his life, you have condemned him hell.

They keep talking about his “quality of life”. I don’t think they understand what that means.

Because, you see, there is no such thing as “better”. My father is not going to be well, even if he can walk again. He won’t come home again. He will go from here to rehab to a long-term care facility. And he will be lost and afraid and angry and drugged into a stupor.  While they have been so focused on being right they have completely lost sight of what is good. (my closest friend always said that and I thought it is just the smartest and most courageous thing I’ve ever heard).

So, I still wish my dad peace. And I am praying to ease his pain and I will tell him again that it is ok to let go. And I will pray that the people in power will be blessed with good sense and that the people with good sense will get power and that the rest of us will survive in the meantime.

November 9, 2018

Wag the Dog

I don’t know anything about dog racing.  I do know that the fine folks at PETA and HSUS authored a bill (Amendment 13) that was passed in Florida to shut down Greyhound dog racing. 

I don’t know anything about dog racing.  But I do know a lot about horse racing and Thoroughbred after-care and adoptions and keeping a non-profit afloat, so I can’t imagine this issue is going to be a lot different.

I don’t know anything about dog racing.  But I do know that with the rise of casino gambling, the live racing events are not bringing in enough money to the venue for the management to support it or help it or regulate it or care about it. That’s up to the individual sanctioning organizations.  

I don’t know anything about dog racing after-care.  But I do know that the organizations who bring in a ton of money every year do not spend very much of it on the care and keeping of those animals.  Don’t get me wrong — they do great work and they do a lot in terms of legislation, education, grant funding, and awareness. But those things don’t feed animals. On the other hand, the small non-profits who do have boots on the ground to help feed, shelter, and care for these dogs (horses) subsist on pennies — and every penny goes directly to the animals.  These groups have lemonade stands and walk-a-thons and social media fundraisers to try to cover the cost of caring for ONE animal. And they fall short. Over and over and over again.

Here’s what I do know:  shutting down racing is going to hurt those animals.  It will cost a few hundred dollars per dog for basic veterinary care, plus the cost of sheltering/fostering, plus the cost of rehoming (triple that for a horse).  Tuesday’s vote had a multi-million dollar impact. Some shelters are not no-kill — that means dogs that are residents over a certain daily limit are euthanized. Dogs will be sold for “bait” in the dog-fighting industry.  Breeding stock will be neglected and abandoned. Well-meaning folks with hoarding tendencies will take on too many to care for and those dogs will die a slow death by starvation. Horses in these situations end up on a long, sad truck to slaughter.

I also know that while there are unscrupulous people working in racing who are not caring for their animals kindly or humanely, there are unscrupulous people standing next to me in line at the grocery store who are not caring for their children kindly. Or humanely.  People suck. There are rotten ones in every business. I can’t speak for the dog people, but I know the horses I see at the track eat better than my own horse, have access to vet care on the regular, and have owners who go without so their horses don’t have to. I know of big-time race syndicate owners who sleep in the barns when their maiden mares foal for the first time.  I know men who don’t go to the hospital when their children are born. Are animals injured at the track? They sure are. Elite athletes competing at an elite level will suffer injuries — just like they do in the NBA, the NFL, and the Olympics. Are the dogs competing in agility competitions spared from injury? I don’t think so — I know of a frisbee freestyle dog who broke its back jumping up to catch the disk and flipping over.  Are animals drugged to mask pain in the racing industry? Probably. Is it all of them? Nope. I know elite show horses who are given performance enhancing or anxiety suppression medication prior to competition, yet I don’t see cries of abuse or calls to shut them down. Do you know what fancy cat people are allowed (and encouraged) to give to their cats so that they behave at fancy cat shows? And while we’re at it, can we talk about those cruel humans who declaw their cats so that their pretty sofas don’t get ruined?  Or the people who have the vocal cords on their pet dogs cut to curb nuisance barking? Do you know that the Bureau of Land Management voted against humane sterilization of older herd females even though wild horses are currently starving to death?

This doesn’t mean I am a racing-apologist or disagree with the decision to vote it down. My concern is for the safe transition and rehoming of thousands of dogs.  I don’t want to see dogs abandoned at the track the way horses are when racing is shut down, and I don’t want to see healthy young dogs euthanized because there aren’t enough homes. The problems of racing in both the equine and canine industries are multi-faceted. As long as horses and dogs are bred for sport, sports for dogs and horses will continue.  Who decides which sports are humane or acceptable? Shutting down one industry without a plan and the resources to support it creates more hardship for the aftercare industry, and actually doesn’t stop the abuse — if dogs can’t race in Florida, they will find another place to continue even if they have to go overseas.

I don’t know anything about dog racing.  But I do know that those dogs are athletes, bred for a specific purpose, and they love it.  My own couch potato beagle will “hunt” every day in the backyard because it’s in her DNA. My retired racehorse never again has to run fast and to the left, but when a car is passing his pasture, he feels compelled to race it along the fenceline. They were bred for their intelligence and athleticism — if racing isn’t OK, that’s okay — but they need a job.  How do we decide what is ok? Horses are used in Police work — is walking on hard concrete harmful to their feet and joints?  Dogs are used in Police work — is sniffing all those drugs detrimental to their health?  What about the Amish who rely on horsepower for farming and transportation?  Service dogs save lives — but I know of one who never gets cookies and isn’t allowed on the bed.  Animals in research labs.  The circus.  The zoo.  Sanctuaries.  THE IDITAROD! The myth of bailing horses from the kill pen buyer actually saving a life (FYI, bailing a horse from a kill-pen buyer actually condemns 3 more to slaughter — he has found a way to get animal welfare activists to fund his slaughter business).  This is a discussion for another day. 

My vote is to regulate and celebrate these magnificent animals. Stop the abuses, support the after-care industry, and be part of the solution.  

If you’re searching for dog rescue charities, PetSmart Charities invests $45 million in more than 3,000 animal welfare groups across North America, including all 50 states and Canada. The nonprofit used 90 cents of every dollar to help pets.

If you want to help a retired racehorse transition safely from the track, Thoroughbred Charities of America is a charitable organization that provides grants to approved non-profit organizations that work toward improving the lives of Thoroughbred racehorses and the people who care for them. TCA offers the Thoroughbred industry and its supporters a way to give to one organization while helping many.  Over the past 28 years, TCA has provided over $23 million in grants to more than 200 Thoroughbred-related organizations.

 

PS: these opinions are all my own.  All the love, all the days. 

 

November 8, 2018

“IT’S HARD TO explain Poppy to the uninitiated.”

I get a lot of giggles and smirks and “is that really your name” questions when people encounter Polly Sue Poppy for the first time.  And with good reason!  After all, it IS alliterative, and who doesn’t love alliteration and it is a bit onomatopoeic so it is fun to say out loud.  It’s only natural then, that I have evolved into somewhat of a character befitting my name:  sort of Mary Poppins meets Abby Sciuto.  Some days what you see is what you get.  Sometimes what you want is what you get.  Sometimes I’m an enigma.  But I’m always unique.  You have never met and will never again encounter a me. I love my name and I make a habit of collecting my name found on signs and t-shirts and cheese labels and wine bottles and BBQ trucks, either Polly or Poppy.  I’ve attached some of my favorites below.

I also do feel like a character most days, so imagine my surprise when I stumbled upon this Youtube treasure! I’M POPPY! Look at it.  LOOK.  When you scroll, glitter sprays across the screen.  A glitter bomb of glory. She’s quirky and weird and silly and awesome.  I love her.  I had to know more.  So I went to the Oracle of Google and found this article.  “Poppy means nothing. Poppy means everything. Poppy is exactly what she purports to be. She is Poppy.”  It’s me. She’s describing me.  This young woman/cyber-bot/imaginary-friend has somehow encapsulated my essence, my soul, my decoction, my…nitty and my gritty. Her real name, though, is Moriah Rose Pereira* which is both disappointing and dispiriting, but I guess there can really only be one and it’s me.  I’m Poppy.

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*P.S.: there may or may not be some argument about whether or not Ms. Pereira adopted the caricature of another internet star, Brittany Alexandria Sheet, whose nom de guerre is Mars Argo

August 10, 2018

marquer une pause

I love everything about this website.  It was designed by a very good friend who is creative and brilliant and was able to take my very abstract ideas and shape them into this beautiful design.  If you are in need of a kick-ass website or need a social media manager, I cannot recommend John at The Legato Group highly enough.  As you can see, he does amazing work.

March 16, 2017

Snow Days!

Let’s talk about Snow Days.  You know, those wonderful bonus atmospheric events that dump great boulders of muck so quickly and so deeply that schools must determine when — in the best interest of the children, after all — to close for the day.  You know, those days that when teachers post on social media how excited they are to have a bonus day off the rest of the people throw stones.  You know, the events that cause people to criticize the profession because we already get our summers off, mind you.  How many  MORE days do we need, anyway?  Must be nice to take home that fat stack of greenbacks for part-time work, amiright?

First, allow me to dispel anyone of the #1 myth — I do not get paid to have my summers off.  I am contracted for 184 days.  I am compensated for working 184 days.  My salary, however, is spread out over 26 payments or 52 weeks.  So, yes, I do receive a paycheck in the summer but it is for the work I already did!  Now, I guess I could take it in a lump sum, but somehow it is easier to manage a family and budget with a bi-monthly direct deposit.

Let me also dispel the myth that I am overcompensated for the work I do.  I have as much (if not more) education than most professionals I know, including lawyers and MBA professionals, yet my hourly rate is nowhere near what they bill per client.  Guess what?  I had to take a licensing exam, too.  Guess what else?  My Master’s degree isn’t enough — I have to renew that license every 5 years with course work from accredited programs.  Guess what else, else?  I have to be an expert in adolescent psychology, in English Language, Literature, and Rhetoric, have training in recognizing signs of depression, sexual and physical abuse, illegal drug use, receive training in how to keep my students safe in the event of a school shooting, prepare them for end of course exams which have little to nothing to do with the real world and — BTW — are antithetical to the universally accepted college entrance exams, the ACT and SAT, which I also have to prep them for.  And I feed hungry kids.  And I clothe needy kids.  And I call social services weekly because even though I hate taking a child away from his mother I love him enough to help him be safe.  I’m supposed to discipline the student who doesn’t have a pencil today, never mind that he also doesn’t have heat in his home or a proper winter coat.  I teach students with an IQ of 148 and those with an IQ of 65.  Every day is agony…and ecstasy!  Because there is nothing better than having the privilege of being witness to a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.  Except for a gift from the universe in the form of crystallized H2O.

Myth #3:  I don’t have to work hard or worry about student achievement because I’m tenured.  I hate to break it to you, but 50% of my annual evaluation is based on student growth measures.  Every kid I teach has to make a year’s gain (see diversity makeup noted above).  In other words, I do earn my paycheck.  Every. Single. Day.

I will concede that unscheduled school closings create a hardship for working parents.  In addition, for some students, it is better to be at school than at home because that Free Lunch may be the only hot and nutritious meal the student eats today….or this week. These are the things I feel guilty about when I’m doing the Snow Day Happy Dance — because I’m reminded that while the day off is a treat for me, it is a burden for others.  Then again, my heart hurts when I’m driving into work on a day that should have been called but wasn’t and I pass students walking through deep snow without boots or gloves or hats or coats and the cold, biting wind is stinging their wee faces.

Finally, can we all just agree that the winter months are long and dreary?  I go to work in the dark and come home in the dark.  We go weeks without sunlight — every day is cold and gray like a fat, dead pigeon.  I’m sure every job out there has its perks — this is ours.  Let us have it.

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