Wednesday, May 6, 2015

in my father's eyes

Daddy never really knew what to do with me as a little girl so Mom took over. The boys and I rode on hay trailers and played with baby cows and watched him work fulltime for the USDA as a plant protection specialist meaning tracking the nasty Japanese beetle with push pins on a map. Obviously that eradication effort didn't work because they're all freakin' over my house. I'm sure it's a Monsanto thing. My warm and fuzzy memories are few until after I did a little therapy and understood from whence he came. He was born poor, the only son to Wilmer and Lottie Stafford and grew up in Roellen. When he was a teenager he fell out of the barn loft and broke both arms making it necessary for the girls to tend to his privates for a bit. Which is where I am right now.

The page turner for me in end of life care was watching Moyers' series "On Death and Dying" many years ago. For Christmas I got a copy of Joanne Lynns sourcebook on management of healthcare resources in a productive way. Much of today's industry is driven by profit and you're lucky to find a practitioner who really cares enough to give a shit. The pay is horrendous and the stress is overwhelming for many. But here's the thing...if you really want to help people? Help yourself. In "Dying Well" I read about poor Ira's journey with his dad and the pancreatic cancer that killed him. There is some kind of denial that exists among us that the end will not come and that's just not true. Life on earth lived well is all that is needed to guarantee a heavenly passage.


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