John McCain & Death with Dignity

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Official portrait (Wikipedia)

John McCain did it right. Not just carefully constructing the last word in his acrimonious exchange with Mr. Trump, or in the countless ways he demonstrated patriotism, dignity & courage and pointed out how democracy is now being threatened. I disagreed with his political positions more than I agreed with them, but in the last few years I’ve sent him more than one thank-you letter. The thumbs-down elicited my most enthusiastic note. But here’s what else he did right:

John McCain kept control of his dying – which is to say, the last piece of his living. In so doing, he left one more gift to America: some suggestions about how to die.

We spend untold energies, and untold billions of dollars, on the national obsession with avoiding death. In exremis we go to the Emergency Room – where tests and procedures are undergone, suffering is often prolonged and increased, and costs skyrocket.

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Talking about dignified death with Kathryn Tucker

Here is some food for thought from a recent Arcadia Healthcare study: Just looking at the costs (forget the pain & suffering) of the final months of care according to where that final month took place – for the 42% who died at home, $4,760. Another 40% died in the hospital: $32,379. Dying in a nursing facility came in second from the top at $21,221.

I have no idea where John McCain was when he died, but I’d be willing to bet he was at home. Home is where 99% of us say we want to die – but we don’t work very hard at making that happen. Instead, we put off making plans, writing advance directives, talking to friends and family about what we want, planning our funerals. Seriously now, do you have anything written down about what you’d like for your memorial service? Senator McCain reportedly spent eight months at the end of his life lining up eulogizers, specifying music, contacting speakers, saving his family that often burdensome task.

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Kathryn Tucker

But it’s the business of dying – living as one chooses right up until the time of death – that McCain seemed to do so well. Not many of us pay such attention. He apparently didn’t need to hasten his dying, but we would all do well to know about hastening, whether we choose it or not. Even in states where medical aid in dying is legal, dying patients put off making their own decisions, or find out too late that their physician will not participate. Fortunately for us all, there are people like Kathryn Tucker, Executive Director of the End of Life Liberty Project, fighting to protect and build the movement toward death with dignity. (I was privileged to host an event for the distinguished Ms. Tucker recently, hence the photos.)

So maybe you’re not as strong-willed as John McCain. Maybe you don’t have access to the Navy Band for your memorial service. But you can acknowledge that dying is something we humans do and write down what you want (or don’t want, like painful, expensive last-minute heroic measures) for yourself as you’re doing it. You can TALK to family and friends. You can send a contribution to ELLP. Or Death with Dignity or any on the other organizations working to make death with dignity possible.

 

It’s a Happy New Year in Ethiopia

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Some of the host crew

Happy Enkutatash (that’s እንቁጣጣሽ in Ethiopic) to us all. Ethiopian New Year actually fell on September 11th, but we’re still celebrating in San Francisco.

A group of gorgeous young Ethiopian women (and a couple of handsome guys) who work in the dining room of the geezer house where I live put on an Ethiopian New Year’s festival today, complete with a vast assortment of delicious, spicy dishes I cannot pronounce, a coffee roasting demonstration* (see below,) an exhibition of traditional dance (intermittently joined by a few nontraditional American geezers) and one precious but disinterested two-year-old.Ethiopia3 9.14.18

We also got a lesson in international understanding. So herewith, some facts you might not have known about our faraway neighbors:

Ethiopia, founded in 980 BC, is one of the oldest nations in the world, and the only country in Africa that was never colonized. Its citizens had to beat back the Italians twice, but remain independent to this day.

Ethipioa1 9.14.18The official Ethiopian language is Amharic, but more than 80 languages are spoken. None of them are easy for English-speakers – although this writer is proud to have mastered the Amharic word for “good morning” (which I cannot spell.) This may be as far as I go. Ethiopia is also the only country in Africa with its own indigenous alphabet, but there are 33 main alphabets with each containing a row of seven different pronunciations . . .  The Ethiopians I know speak English with beautiful accents.

Ethiopians are famous for being great runners. Some of us are old enough to remember when Abebe Bikila won Africa’s first Olympic Gold Medal in 1960, setting a world record when he ran the marathon – –  barefoot.

While the majority of Ethiopians are Orthodox Christians, the country embraces practitioners of all three Abrahamic religions – Christianity, Judaism and Islam.Etheopia2 9.14.18

*About the world’s most popular breakfast drink – Coffee was discovered in Ethiopia! Legend has it that a sheep herder in the 11th century noticed his sheep having a fondness for a particular bush, and decided to try a nibble. The coffee industry took off from there. Ethiopia is now the largest coffee producer in Africa.

And finally, Ethiopia and Eritrea are about to sign a peace agreement ending a bitter, long-running dispute. Could we learn something here?

Peace and joy and Happy New Year!

dove of peace

Journey to Justice: 1300 Miles by Bicycle

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Jung Woo Kim and some of his fellow Dream Riders

Their stories are about growing up in immigrant families, with parents working long hours six and seven days a week and very young siblings resolutely looking after each other. But their focus is on the future – a better future for people everywhere. Humankind.

A dozen young immigrants – Dream Riders – are sharing their stories, and their hopes for the future, as they bike from Seattle to San Diego on a Journey to Justice, part of the Citizenship for All campaign. The support van traveling with them carries the usual – First Aid supplies, water, energy bars – and one not so usual essential: a lawyer. That’s because eight of the riders do not currently have legal status and their route is filled with pitfalls like immigration checkpoints. If they’re stopped they follow this protocol: Keep calm and quiet. Don’t consent to being searched. Call the lawyer.

DreamRider Bo Thai

Dream Rider “Bo Thai” talks of hazards & inspiration

The group stopped by Calvary Presbyterian Church in San Francisco recently for breakfast and a brief press conference. Hearing their stories, and the stories of some supporters, was a reminder of how lucky America is to be a nation of immigrants – especially with immigrants like these still wanting to become citizens despite the hurdles and hostility they face.

Mi Jin Park, currently protected by DACA, spoke eloquently of being at school with her brother when they were 5 and 7, in a crowd of children waiting for permission to leave with their parents. Park would tell the teacher in charge that she and her brother had to meet their mother on the corner – and then the two would run all the way home, to their tiny apartment in a sometimes scary neighborhood. They would lock the door and look after each other. Her brother would constantly call the nail salon where their mother worked long hours six days a week, just to hear her voice and ask when she would be home. “When I think of those immigrant children now being separated from their parents at the border . . .” Park began . . . but she couldn’t finish the sentence.

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Calvary Pastor Joann Lee welcomes the Dream Riders

Some of the Dream Riders and their supporters entered the U.S. via harrowing journeys through deserts or wading across the Rio Grande river in the middle of the night. Some came long ago on tourist visas and simply stayed. It was very hard to meet these bright, funny, energetic young people and go home to PBS NewsHour’s report of the latest characterization of “illegal aliens” by some leaders of our country.

The Dream Riders are being sponsored by NAKASEC (the National Korean American Service and Education Consortium,) HANA Center, nd the Korean Resource Center. Any of them would welcome your support.

What do they want? Just a chance to live freely and to contribute to their community. (NAKASEC works for, among other things, Youth Empowerment, Education Access and Adoptee Rights.) What precepts do they follow? Live Right, Know Your Roots, Live Strong, Live Together.

The framers of the Constitution couldn’t have put it better,

Gun Rights? How About No-Gun Rights?

This column is about guns, and the fact that I do not like them.

Guns1I wrote about all this once long ago, on the late lamented news aggregate site True/Slant, and the vitriol that landed upon my page in response made me very glad that my T/S readers didn’t know where I lived. I mean, it was if the NRA had put out a worldwide hit on me. I’m now counting on the belief that most of my current readers are kinder and gentler – since you can sure find out where I live if you don’t already know. And I’m satisfied that most of my angry T/S readers long ago quit following this blog. We’ll see.

What has my dander up is the recent ruling by the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals that somebody’s right to carry – and show off – guns in public overrides my right to live in peace without having to worry about people swaggering around with their guns in my face. Say what?guns2

I have a lot of gun friends whom I love and admire. They use their guns to hunt legal game, and I think that’s good and proper. As far as I know, none of them feel compelled to strut around their local Starbucks with pistols on their hips.

My dislike of guns could be more correctly defined as fear. I’m not afraid of guns in the holsters of law enforcement officers, believing that their carriers are properly trained (and having grown up white I never had to fear police.) I’m just afraid of guns on the hips of unknown macho guys. If they’re swaggering around at Starbucks, I will definitely throw up my latte. Do I not have ANY right to drink a latte in public without throwing up?

Guns3When I was a child of about 12 someone broke into our home – well, nobody locked their doors in Ashland, VA in 1945 so he probably just opened the door and walked in – and made his way to the second-floor bedroom of my oldest sister Jane, who let out a mighty scream. The intruder left multiple hand prints on the newly painted walls as he swiftly descended the stairs (and left by another door.) But by the time the Richmond police arrived they pronounced the fingerprints too dim to be of use, so our nocturnal visitor was never identified. My family (4 girls + parents) that night morphed from 6 people in five beds to 6 people in two beds – Jane in between my mother and father; the other three of us in one double bed. (It took us several weeks to expand back into our individual beds.) The next day, our father bought a gun. It went to reside on a shelf in the closet of our parents’ bedroom. We all knew where it was; once or twice my sister Mimi and I stood on a lower shelf and looked at it. But instead of making us feel safer and protected, the thing created more fear. Despite all his stories about working on somebody’s ranch in Texas as a boy, my sisters and I (and our mother, I regret to report) feared our father’s probable ineptitude with a gun more than we feared another intruder. We had belatedly also begun to lock the doors. All five of us – mother + 4 daughters – also feared the fearsome instrument on the closet shelf more than we feared anyone who might be confronted by it. Overruled by us all, my father soon (I think it took less than a couple of weeks) took the gun back to wherever it came from.guns4

I had one more encounter with a gun. Working as a reporter for local newspapers in Decatur, GA in the early 1960s, I was convinced by some misguided other newsperson to go to a shooting range, in conjunction with some sort of story. The people there convinced me everything was just fine and I would see how easy it was to hit the target. Eventually I fired the stupid thing, and the noise, jolt and whatever nearly frightened me to death. I probably missed the target by more miles than was ever before known.

I submit the above only as argument that people who fear guns should have SOME rights to balance whatever the “Open Carry” (read: people who want to strut around showing off their representative lethal weapons) Second Amendment rights purportedly are.

Guns5 You need to swagger manfully around with a pistol on your hip? Fine. Swagger somewhere else – like, on a shooting range. Just stay out of my Starbucks. All I want is to drink my latte in gun-free peace.

Take that, Ninth Circuit. I only wish you would.

The Great Subversive Mail Mystery

The third or fourth time it happened, I began to be seriously suspicious. Not ordinarily a conspiracy theorist, I was starting to wonder about mysterious outside forces. In my mailbox (I live in #704 in a condo building with some 90 units) there were appearing pieces of mail not addressed to me, but to someone who lived in #704 somewhere else. Names and addresses following will be changed to protect the innocent, but I promise the basic truths are unaltered

MailI am (as you may know) Fran Johns, a fairly simple name that has worked for me since 1992. I live in Apt 704, 2400 Miller Street in San Francisco, CA 20020. I began to get mail addressed to Stephanie Yamamoto, who lives in Apt. 704, Two Cascade Hills Blvd, San Francisco 20020. OK, the ZIP codes are the same too – but still. Johns v Yamamoto? Miller St v Two Cascade Hills Blvd? You can’t mix these up unintentionally.

For a year or so I scribbled “Please Deliver As Addressed” across envelopes and put them back into the mail. I quickly learned that unless I inked out the little digital thingies USPS had affixed at the bottom very carefully they would come straight back to me. I took to indignant all-caps:

DELIVERED IN ERROR TO 2400 MILLER STREET. I hoped Ms Yamamoto would not be too distressed at the late arrival of her mail, and would perhaps understand that I cared. Occasionally I took something to the local post office and handed it to the person selling me stamps or whatever. It was, at first, mildly distressing that no one seemed particularly concerned. It was way more distressing when I picked up my mail while the mailman was still putting stuff in other boxes and there was more Yamamoto mail. “Sir,” I said as I handed him the errant letters (more than once,) “will you try to get this woman’s mail to the correct address? – and he took the letters without comment. I mean, I thought an “Oh, sorry!” would’ve been nice.ZIP Code

Once or twice, when I got something that clearly had financial implications (such as: “Check Enclosed,” or a brokerage house return address) I totally skipped the USPS and delivered the mail myself to Two Cascade Hills – which happily is only 4 or 5 blocks from my building and has its own cordial front desk person. I should note that the cordial front desk person in my own building on multiple occasions contacted the local post office people to explain that the woman in #704 was going nuts with mis-delivered mail. Nothing seemed to work.

Some weeks ago I boiled over. Dug up the mailing address of the CEO & Executive Vice President of the US Postal Service – no easy task, but I persevered. (If you want to write him, it’s 475 L’Enfant Plaza SW Room 4012, Washington DC 20260-2200.) Copied the District Manager of the Pacific Region (I’ll be happy to share that name & address if you like.) I laid out the whole sordid story and asked if he could please, please get Ms. Yamamoto’s mail delivered to her instead of to me. Within a week I had a phone call from Alexander, the guy in charge in San Francisco who, I have to admit, was polite and concerned and promised to fix the problem.

But in the meantime I had boiled over again. I received an important-looking packet addressed to Ms. Yamamoto, mailed from an address in Hawaii that was by now familiar. I took it to her building and left a note saying, “Can we talk?”

Mail1We met for tea. The very charming Ms. Yamamoto is not my new best friend, but close. The packet from Hawaii which the U.S. Postal Service would have sent floating around ZIP code 20020 forever contained essentials needed for a trip to meet her mother (the Hawaiian addressee) overseas, where she does remarkable nonprofit good work – but that’s another story.

This story is about the U.S. Postal Service. It turned out not to be about conspiracies, but probably about one incompetent (Dyslectic? Lazy? Mean-spirited? Who knows?) employee who presumably is still employed by the US Postal Service. Several weeks passed without my getting anything addressed to Ms. Yamamoto. Last week, though, we got a BevMo coupon for $10 off any $50 purchase. Knowing she is overseas and unable to use the coupon before its expiration, I purchased two large bottles of gin, a few weeks’ worth of martinis for my husband. Such a deal.

 

 

Weird Times and Guardian Angels

“I don’t know where I am,” I said. “I don’t recognize this place.”

“Well, you did get here. Where’s your car? Did you drive?”

“I don’t know how I got here.” And since I also didn’t know where I came from or where I lived, it was not going to be easy to get home.050910-F-MS415-009

My short-term memory had totally, inexplicably vanished

I had just told the story of my long-ago (1956, to be precise) back-alley abortion at a fundraising event for nonprofit TEACH (Teaching Early Abortion for Comprehensive Healthcare) in a San Francisco theater. One five-minute speaker followed me, and the program ended. When we got up to leave – I was on the second row next to my young friend Alexa and her visiting aunt and uncle – I didn’t know how to get to the lobby. Since I had met with other speakers onstage before the event and had led my guests to our seats, something was obviously weird. We finally did get to the lobby, where we had met and visited before the event, and the above exchange took place. At that point something weird turned into something frighteningly wrong.

Alexa left her aunt and uncle to find their own way back to their hotel, summoned a cab and gave the driver my address. Later I would have a dim fragment of memory about being in the cab, and another fleeting memory of entering our building, going up to our condo and then seeing my husband.

“Something’s wrong,” I said. “I need to go to the hospital.” He and Alexa had long since come to that conclusion. She had been texting with one of my children on the east coast and on the phone with my husband since the exchange in the theater lobby. Finding my car safely in its garage space, she had already called a cab to get to the emergency room.  But after that moment of seeing my husband, the next four or five hours are lost to me forever.

Its official name is Transient Global Amnesia. If you have it, it’s a good idea to be among friends.

Since I come from a long line of stroke victims, that had been the immediate fear. But it only took a few tests in the Kaiser ER to rule out stroke, a few more to rule out other serious afflictions and arrive at the diagnosis of TGA. Sometime around 2 AM my conscious memory swam back to the surface of reality, which was Alexa sitting on the side of my bed. Then, with a little help from some drug they gave me, I fell asleep.Guardian angel

Fewer than one half of one percent of people in the U.S. experience episodes of TGA every year. It is most common in people between ages 56 and 75, with the average age being approximately 62 – unless I’ve now upped that by a decade or so. For the victim, TGA is really no big deal. You don’t remember anything anyway; but there’s no pain, no suffering, no after-effect and no permanent damage. All I do remember is the comforting vision of my lovely friend, who is known as my West Coast Daughter (now additionally Guardian Angel), sitting on the side of my bed. I was visited by numerous concerned physicians and nurses, several of whom said they’d never heard of TGA.

But now we all have! Before sending me home the next day the very cautious Kaiser people did an MRI of my head, and lo, my brain was still there. Actually, it was functioning on remote even while I was malfunctioning. When posing the traditional questions about what year it was (Nope, didn’t know) etc the ER doctors asked if I could say who is the president of the U.S.

“Noooo,” I said, “but I know I don’t like him.”

 

On Preventing the Worst from Happening

The following is offered as a very small and personal side commentary, on the occasion of the leaders of the U.S. and North Korea meeting in Singapore.

Have you met the Ploughshares Fund? If you’re not anxious to see the planet blown away in a thermonuclear flash, the Ploughshares folks are good people to know.

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by Snoron.com

Ploughshares was founded in 1981 by the indomitable sculptor/activist Sally Lilienthal, who was also a friend of my good husband. When I met her, soon after arriving in San Francisco in 1992, I became an instant fan.

1981 was the height of the Cold War, and Russia and the U.S. were on the brink of thermonuclear confrontation – each having enough nuclear weapons to obliterate this beautiful planet. Ploughshares set about the work of reducing those dangerous threats and has been remarkably successful. Stockpiles have been dramatically reduced – we’re down from the nearly 55,000 worldwide total in 1980 to the current figure of approximately 15,000. Over 90% are in the US and Russia; the rest are in China, France, India, Israel, North Korea, Pakistan and the United Kingdom. There may be fewer nuclear weapons, but there are plenty around to destroy life as we know it.

Which is why the world watched with some apprehension as two of perhaps the most erratic and unpredictable leaders of all time met to – we hope – find a way to avoid nuclear war.

Fran w Joe Cirincione 6.4.18

With Joe Cirincione

I was privileged to hear Ploughshares Fund President Joe Cirincione and Executive Director/Chief Operating Officer Philip Yun talk about the situation in general and North Korea in particular recently with a group of longtime supporters.

“We have a very simple philosophy,” Cirincione says: “prevent the worst from happening.” Re North Korea and the recent summit, “There might be some surprises. Trump could stumble into a good deal.” Pointing out that “we support policies, not presidents,” he said Donald Trump “could give North Korea something that Democratic presidents could not.”

This group, progressives to the core, swallowed hard. If you want not to see the planet wiped out in a thermonuclear frenzy, keeping North Korea from starting such an event trumps all distaste for our president.

Yun offered some history lessons and insight; he is a scholar of Korean affairs who has long been involved in U.S./N.Korea negotiations. “The North Koreans like symmetry,” he said. Any movement toward denuclearization “is going to have to be phased. (But) there are a lot of moving parts that could make us safer right now.”

Those were just several snippets of a conversation that was wide-ranging and in many ways encouraging. The fact that the Ploughshares people, and the people with organizations it funds, are working every day to keep the worst from happening is encouragement enough for now.dove of peace

So this writer, who watches in horror the environmental destruction and loss of human rights going on every day thanks to the policies of our current administration, swallowed hard and wished Mr. Trump & Mr. Kim every success in avoiding a thermonuclear planetary disaster.