Children, Drunks, Fools...and Russians?

Saturday morning: The report I got from the off-going nurse was that one of my patients was a big, hairy 50-something Russian man –let’s call him ‘Ivan’ - who’d been found wandering around the Charlotte-Douglas International Airport. He spoke no English, had an empty bottle of psych meds in his pocket but no ID, was supposedly from New York City but had disembarked from an incoming flight out of Tampa, nobody knew what to do with him and he was probably getting discharged today.  I got that twist of excited dread in my gut; excited because this sounded more interesting than the usual indignant drug seekers, dread because tracking down his back story was going to take a lot of extra time I didn’t have.

I made my assessment rounds, saving Ivan for last.  The report was right in that he had the size and pelt of a bear, wrong in that he did speak English – exactly three mushy words, “Yes”, “No”, and “Happy”.  I called the translator service, which involved the tedious process of asking them a question, handing the phone to him for them to translate, him responding, handing the phone back to me, them translating the answer.  The translator told me “I’m sorry, he’s not making any sense; he’s speaking Russian but the words are all jumbled - he did say the word ‘uncle’ a couple times.”  Grasping at this I asked the translator to see if my patient knew the uncle’s phone number.  “I’ll try”, he sighed “but I doubt we’ll get a real number”;  I handed the phone back to the smiling bear, who rattled off a long reply, sounding like his mouth was full of oatmeal.  “I think maybe…” the translator told me - “here, write this down….”  I jotted down what looked to be a genuine phone number, thanked the translator and hung up.  “I’m going to call this”, I said “I’ll be right back.”  He grinned hugely and nodded his bushy head – “YESH!”

I was thrilled to connect with ‘Abraham’, a kindly older man who spoke excellent English with a thick Russian accent.  He lived in Brooklyn and sounded tired, but was pleased to hear from me.  He told me he wasn’t really Ivan’s uncle, but was dating his aunt, who spoke no English, so he’d become a sort-of de facto guardian for Ivan whom, he said, was “like a young boy in a man’s strong body – he has, how you say, the schizophrenia.”   I explained how he’d ended up in my care.  “Yes, yes – he sometimes escapes the house and disappears for a time.”  I said, “Disappears to Florida!”  “Yes, well, not usually.  He’s not right, you see, so only he would know why Florida, but I tell you this - he knows no one in Florida!”  I asked if Ivan knew anyone in Charlotte – friends, family, anyone that would care for him after discharge and see him safely home.  “No, no one there; I am sure he got off the airplane because he thought he was home – he’s like a child, really.”  “If he’s that confused, Abraham, how did he get on a plane in the first place?”  “Oh, I wonder sometimes if perhaps God speaks to him, tells him what to do, you know. Ha-Ha - don’t be worried, my friend, he’s normally quite docile – if you tell him what you want, he will do it with a smile, until God tells him otherwise!” I swallowed, praying that God would tell him, in Russian, not to pull out his IV and wander the hospital halls, because I surely couldn’t. “Could you fly to Charlotte and pick him up?” I put forth hopefully. “Oh no, my friend, I am much too poor, plus I am almost 80 years old – I don’t fly, no, no”.  I knew Abraham driving down would take a full day, but tried anyway; “Oh no, my friend, Ha-Ha, you are not familiar with New Yorkers – we do not own cars!” Chagrined, I gathered what little information I could from Abraham and we exchanged e-mail addresses to save money on phone calls.  I started to really worry about how Ivan would get back to New York. I hoped he wouldn’t be discharged today and I could dump this hassle on tomorrow’s nurse, until I realized that tomorrow’s nurse wouldn’t care that he was just a giant child, would call Social Services to collect him and he would languish in linguistic isolation until Abraham could fly down to escort him home, which would be never, no, no.  It seemed, to my consternation, that no one else on earth understood the situation and could return Ivan home, but me.

The doctor discharged Ivan on paper that afternoon, unconcerned that Ivan had no money, nowhere to go and no one to take him there. If I wheeled him out to the curb, that’s where I’d find him at the end of my shift, sitting in the November chill in his shirtsleeves. Since I was in charge of his actual, physical departure, I could delay it as long as I wished, so I just turned up the TV and kept him fed until I could formulate a plan. “YESH!” he grinned happily, his beard larded with crumbs. I sent Abraham an e-mail, asking if he could wire money for a plane ticket; he replied “But you said he had no identification – how will he pick up his money?  How will he get to the airport? How will he buy a ticket?  How will he know where he is going – he could end up in Kansas!  No matter - I cannot afford it anyway.”  Crap.  Ivan was stuck until I could deposit him on whatever mode of transport we could finagle.  Planes were out, trains were too expensive, a cab would be ridiculous, what about… a bus?  I checked the schedules and prices online and sent the link to Abraham; an idea was beginning to germinate.  I told Abraham to wire the money for a bus ticket to me – I would cash it, buy the ticket for Ivan and get him on the bus myself.  It took a lot of faith for him to wire $200 to a stranger, but he did – Western Union confirmed the transfer 20 minutes before my shift ended.  I called my wife, Tammy, and explained the situation, inviting her along for the adventure – in reality, I wanted a witness in case the hospital took umbrage with me spiriting away a patient in my private vehicle.  But, I reasoned, he wouldn’t be a patient after I discharged him – he’d be a free man, and I’d be off the clock, a free man too!

Saturday night: My shift ended, I finished the discharge paperwork, discontinued his IV, helped him change out of his voluminous hospital gown, plunked him in a wheelchair and rolled him to the front door just as Tammy pulled up.  I bundled him into the van, tossed the wheelchair at the sliding hospital doors and we zoomed off to the nearest Western Union.  Tammy felt sorry for him in his short-sleeved shirt and wanted to stop at Kohl’s to buy him a sweatshirt. “Would you like a sweatshirt?” I shouted, hoping the volume would compensate for the language barrier.  “NO!” he grinned.  We bought him one anyway, triple extra large.  “YESH!” he beamed, spraying crumbs as his bushy beard sprang from the neck hole.  The money changed hands smoothly at Western Union and we hustled downtown to the Greyhound station.  We went in and Tammy sat with Ivan while I purchased the ticket. Bad news: Ivan’s bus wasn’t leaving until 1 a.m., which meant five idle hours for him to wander;  there was no way I was watching him till the wee hours after working a 12-hour shift. I pulled the young stationmaster aside and explained the situation: “He doesn’t speak English, and he’s a little slow, so someone is going to have to watch him to make sure he stays in the station and gets on his bus.  Also, I see there’s a stopover in Virginia – please inform the driver not to let him off the bus.  I can’t stress that enough – DO NOT LET HIM OFF THE BUS!”  The stationmaster sullenly agreed, but I was left with an uneasy feeling; I wasn’t convinced he understood the gravity of the situation, or really even cared. I called Abraham, gave him the ticket and travel information then handed the phone to Ivan for Abraham to translate; Ivan grinned and nodded as he listened.  I gave the stationmaster Abraham’s phone number for emergencies, tucked the ticket and his hospital paperwork into Ivan’s pants pocket, ridiculously explained once more to an uncomprehending Ivan what his itinerary was, pointed out the stationmaster as his go-to for questions, pointed out the snack machines as his go-to for food, pointed out the bathroom as his go-to for everything else, explained to all the other bored passengers sitting around Ivan what was happening and how much Ivan needed their assistance , slipped him $20 and a CLIF bar, gave him a hug, breathed a silent prayer, and left.  “HAPPY!” he yelled at my back.

Not an hour later, Tammy and I were eating chili at Lupe’s when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number so I silenced it and we carried on with our conversation.  My phone gave a little chirp, telling me I had voice mail.  Curious, I logged in; it was the nursing supervisor at the hospital - my heart sank.  I felt what I’d done was right, but I knew, too, from an administrative view I’d bruised a few rules.  “Mr. Morris, I just got a call from a Mr. Abraham in New York, who had received a call from the Charlotte Greyhound station regarding a patient you recently discharged – can you explain the situation to me, so I don’t look like an idiot?”  Uh oh.  I called Abraham.  Ivan, it seemed, had come up to the stationmaster multiple times asking questions in rapid, mushy Russian, then had tried to board the nearest bus.  The stationmaster, unsure what to do, panicked and called Abraham, who then called the hospital looking for me.  The hospital switchboard operator transferred him to the floor Ivan had just left and Abraham found himself talking to a floor nurse with no idea what he wanted.  She found her charge nurse, who was just as mystified, transferring Abraham to the nursing supervisor, who spent twenty minutes in the computer trying to identify who Ivan was and which nurse had discharged him.  She then had to dig into my employee file to find my emergency contact number and by the time she got my voicemail she was, in a word, livid.  I told Abraham I wasn’t with Ivan anymore, that the stationmaster was aware of the situation but wasn’t that bright himself.  “Call him back and tell him to hand the phone to Ivan, then you can explain to Ivan, again, what the plan is”.  “Yes, yes, - I should have thought of that.  Ha-Ha - like the blind leading the blind, yes? Thank you so much, my friend; I will not trouble you again!”  I called the nursing supervisor, mollified her with an edited version of events, went home and went to bed.

Monday morning: 36 hours after telling Ivan goodbye I received an e-mail from Abraham – Ivan had just walked through the door, wearing a filthy Charlotte Bobcats sweatshirt and an enormous smile.  Abraham got a call Saturday afternoon from a Virginia state trooper. Despite my warning, the bus driver had let Ivan off the bus in Virginia; he promptly wandered away. Charlottesville police found him several hours after his bus had left, shivering on the sidewalk in front of the Blue Moon Diner.  He was placed on another bus, the driver given a stern warning, this time with some authority behind it.  He was allowed off the bus at the Port Authority in New York City late Sunday night - I imagine him peering around, grinning, and shuffling off into the dark.  It took him seven hours to walk the ten miles through Manhattan, across the Brooklyn Bridge to his aunt’s house, but he made it home, deliriously happy. 

Next time I’m lost, I think I’ll try Ivan’s approach: “YESH!” “NO!” “HAPPY!”  They say “God watches out for children, drunks and fools” – that’s true, but maybe He uses us to do the dirty work. 

(If you’re interested, Abraham is a master with stained glass - http://public.fotki.com/legr/ )

Tales From Trauma Bay 1

In an Emergency Dept., Trauma Bay 1 is where the medics drop off the most critical patients, usually hovering close to death.  They're swarmed by a seasoned trauma team, experts at pulling patients back from the brink; these stories are a few I remember vividly from my time there. 

The Boy She's Crushing On.
Two patients were brought in together, a boy and a girl, both 18 y/o.  The girl had minor injuries, cuts and bruises mostly, but the boy was a mangled mess - comatose, with compound fractures in nearly every bone on his right side and an open skull; he looked like he'd been run over by a truck.  The girl was hysterical, but eventually we got the story: she'd been driving along the interstate with her boyfriend; they were coming into town to see a concert.  Traffic was fast and heavy and he'd criticized her driving.  Tempers flared, the quarrel got heated,and in a fit of high drama she'd slammed on the brakes while doing 70 mph. Her light import stopped short, unlike the loaded semi-truck directly behind, which smashed into them at highway speed then tore up and over the passenger side, crushing her boyfriend but leaving her relatively unharmed. After hearing the story, his parents refused to even look at her. We were able to stabilize him, but he died a few hours later.  She will carry the crushing burden of her momentary temper tantrum for the rest of her life.

Those Who Live In Glass Houses....
A man and his wife got into a fight in their living room, which escalated into a shoving match. He pushed her, she punched him, he stumbled back, the glass coffee table caught him behind the knees, he fell backwards....  Medics brought him in strapped to a backboard in the fetal position, sloshing in a pool of blood, a two-foot shard of glass protruding from his left kidney. It took multiple units of blood, long runs of I.V. antibiotics and a month's stay in the ICU to save him. Of course, he lost the kidney, but he survived to fight another day.

Great Taste!  Less Filling!
The flight team choppered in a man who'd been shot in the head.  He was, of course, unconscious, intubated and mechanically ventilated, with the classic swollen, purple eyelids of head trauma patients.  He reeked of beer.  The medics said he and his son-in-law had been drinking all day outside their trailer.  As their intoxication levels rose, so did their passions regarding the proper dog food required to produce the best performance from their hunting dogs.  Exasperated, the man grabbed the rifle leaning against his lawn chair and shot his son-in-law's big toe off.  This got the son-in-law's dander up, so he limped into the trailer, grabbed a pistol, hobbled right back out and, as Southern men with wounded pride must do, shot his father-in-law in the face. The bullet entered just under his left cheekbone, tumbled along the inside curve of the cranial vault, coming to rest at the back of his brain, a brilliant white mushroom on the CT scan.  Discharged after two months in the ICU, he was back to his old self - using volume and violence to defend the bruised honor of his ignorance.  I expect it wasn't long before his son-in-law paid a visit to Trauma Bay 1, too.

The Heart Has Reasons, Which Reason Knows Not Of.
He was a big guy and he was swinging mad, so the medics had strapped him to the backboard - tight. Aside from a small bloodstain on his t-shirt nothing looked seriously wrong with him except his evil temper and foul mouth.  Dodging his fists and feet, it took forty-five seconds to cut his clothes off, which is how we found the slim 1-inch gash just to the left of his sternum.  He cursed and howled and lashed at us while the x-ray tech swung her overhead gantry into place for the chest picture, by which time ninety seconds had passed. Medics stood in the background explaining that he'd been savagely beating his girlfriend in front of her mother, who'd defended her daughter by stabbing him in the chest with a paring knife.  The lack of external blood was troubling - it meant the bleeding near his heart was internal and unchecked.  Sure enough, within two minutes of arriving, his violent agitations abruptly stopped, he fell unconscious, and immediately turned blue.
Trauma bay 1 is purposely chosen for its proximity to the surgical suite reserved for emergencies; we didn't even bother with chest compressions, just dropped what we were doing, grabbed his stretcher and ran him to the operating room, trailing IV tubing and EKG cables behind us.  Locking the stretcher under the lights, we scrambled out of the surgery team's way while they dumped a gallon of iodine over his chest, dispensed with the scrubbing, and slashed an opening between ribs four and five under his left armpit.  Four minutes from rolling into the ED a surgeon was attaching a rib-spreader, whirling the crank like he was starting an old tractor, the ribs parting wide with a dull crunch.  A second surgeon slit the faschia containing the thoracic cavity, then plunged his gloved hands under the lung and grasped the man's still heart, pulling it halfway out.  It looked like an enormous, wet, wine-grape, the sac surrounding it stretched to bursting with blood.  A third surgeon used a scalpel to open the sac causing two double-handfuls of clotted blood to tumble out; the heart lay naked and gray in his hands. Freed from its suffocating constriction, it slowly stirred to life - twitching irregularly for a second, then gathering momentum and resuming the life-giving lub-dub that had faithfully borne the man right up his moment frenzied rage.  We walked out of the OR with mixed feelings; we were elated at seeing the heartbeat return, but troubled by the violent abuser it was returning to. If he survived, would the experience change him for the better, or would the lives of those two women be in danger; if he died, would the woman who stabbed him go to jail for murder?
He died, three weeks later.  I never discovered what ripples his death made in the lives of his girlfriend and her mother - by then I'd had a hundred more stories like theirs roll through my hands. That's just how it goes, in Trauma Bay 1.

Valiant Hymn Of Crippled Heroes.

Bursting toward a bright tomorrow, lightly skipping stones of hope,

shedding bitterness and sorrow, grinning like we’re smoking dope,

knitting bones and mending flesh, breathing, crystalline and fresh,

sturdy striding, head held high, eyes alight, despair denied,

open arms and out-flung love, serpent-wise but pure as doves,

brilliant joy blasts outward from our sybaritic core as we internalize the message that we’re made for something more than just a crippled, blind existence wrapped in rags of selfish lust and that by leaping off the edge in what is best described as trust then we can soar among the dreams of life the way it’s meant to be and join our souls in peace with Him who is the true reality!

Unbending from our fetal ball, we stoutly vow to not play small,

Instead we’ll seek the darkest spot, filled with filth, disease and rot,

 Hold our flame high, banish shadows, illuminate like Colorado’s

brilliant sun-filled azure blue restores the thrill of living true

to wisdom, boldness, kindness, grace, focused onward toward the place

of wine and laughter, peace and rest,  triumphant that we passed the test,

following wherever He goes, a proud platoon of crippled heroes.

Right Here, Right Now, Right Where My Feet Are.

I've spent a lot of time wishing I lived in Colorado; I still wish to die there. My fondest memories take place among those purple mountains, with my favorite friends.  I imagine people there rising every day with a smile, greeting the sun with joy as it crests the mountains and beams happy rays through their open windows; I’m certain they burst into song.  I know in my head that this is fantasy, that even in my memories people were occasionally lugubrious or angry, but my infantile heart leans hard toward the West, anyway.

                Instead, I live in North Carolina, which has charms of its own, but like C.S. Lewis’s dwarves, even the sweetest days here taste like straw compared to days in my imagined paradise.  When people ask me how I landed in Charlotte I jokingly tell them “through a series of terrible choices”, which is true.  I live in Charlotte because I thought the grass was greener down South, only to find sticky red clay; I stay in Charlotte because my wife and boys have dear friends here and cry in despair when I hint at moving.  I took them to Colorado a few years ago, hoping to infect them with its charms; they liked it, but it wasn't their home, which is how I feel about North Carolina.  We’re at an impasse, and as the patriarch, it’s my responsibility to see to their best interests, not mine. 

                I live right here, right now, right where my feet are, because I was tired of the military and my friend told me he needed help with his mortgage business and I could make a ton of money.  My wife’s family also lives just two hours away and she’s quite fond of her family.  The mortgage company folded and the years passed on, filled with church, and scouts, and homeschooling co-ops, which the rest of my family threw themselves into while I held back, unwilling to tie myself to a place I didn't want to be. I tried my hand at running a bookstore for a few years then returned to the medical field for lack of better things to do.  Now I find myself with a house, two cars, a cat and boys who have no connection to anyplace other than this upstart, tree-filled city on the banks of the Catawba river, half-way between the mountains and the ocean.  I find myself deeply entrenched in a profession that I seem to be made for, yet loathe for its pious-cloaked gluttony.  Every day I ignore the saying, “if you find yourself in a hole - stop digging” and scoop my pit a little deeper, until I can barely see my beloved Colorado over the rim.

                To be fair, though, I have achieved a small modicum of success as a nurse, and my profession shows the occasional glint of compassion under the film of greed.  Did I learn nothing from longing for that greener grass?  Maybe I should leave Colorado to my misty memories, and appreciate this forest-city with the its red clay right here, right now, right where my feet are.

History & Adventure!

A date that will live in infamy.

Finished Charles Mann's 1491, a meticulously researched exposition of the American continent prior to European discovery. It's riveting!  The inhabitants, Mann argues, were not quite the savages we supposed.  He makes a strong case that until Europeans stumbled in bearing the surprise gift of ravaging disease, native Americans were older, more numerous, and more advanced than almost anywhere else on earth.  If you're looking to have your mind blown, 1491 is your dynamite.

I feel a sore throat coming on.  Oh, you too?  It's probably nothing.

A tale of two men, trying to get ahead.

What a delicious little snack!  Kipling is a master storyteller and makes the adventure all the more engaging by basing it on an amalgamation of true, historical "gentlemen-at-large". There's a reason writers like Kipling and Hemingway are renowned for their masculine short stories - in just a few pages they capture the romance, hubris, brilliance, and foolishness of men. Amazon offers the e-book for free - download it today!  Or check out the film starring manly-men Sean Connery and Michael Cain.

"Not gods, but men!"

Praying, Upside-down.

Yesterday's writing assignment, "Pray how you can, not how you can't" based on the following poem:

After Reading Dom John Chapman, Benedictine Abbot

by Jack Ridl

"Pray as you can; not as you can't."

My prayers will sit on the backs

of bedraggled donkeys, in the sidecars

of Harleys, in the pockets of night

watchmen, on the laps of widows.

They will be the stones I walk by,

the smudges I leave on anything I touch,

the last place the last snow melts. They

will be brown, weekdays, potato pancakes.

They will stick to the undersides of porches,

docks, dog paws, and carpets. When I'm sick,

my cough will carry them. When you leave

in the morning, they will sink into the bed,

the sofa, every towel. I will carry them

in the modesty of my feet. Everything

will be praying. My dog will be petitioning

for mercy when he stops to sniff a post.

Every window in our house will be

an offering for supplications. The birds

at the feeder will be twitching

for my forgiveness. I will say my prayers

are bread dough, doorknobs, golf tees,

any small and nameless change of heart.

When I forget my prayers, they will

bundle up and go out on their own

across the street, down into the basement,

into a small town with no mayor where

there is a single swing in the park. When

I forget, they'll know I was watching TV,

the sky, or listening to Basie, remembering

the way my mother and father jitterbugged

to the big band station, he pulling her close,

then spinning her out across the green kitchen floor.

-

Pray As You Can, Not As You Can't.

One. More. Pull.

I don’t really pray anymore - not like I was taught to pray, anyway.  I don’t bow my head and clench my fingers together or scrunch my eyes shut and pour forth a torrent of pious petitions and pleas for mercy.  Not like the old days when I believed in a celestial slot-machine, with prayers like quarters, only paying off if I slipped enough in and punched the Max Bet button.  Oh, I still perform the ritual at holiday meals, but as an expected formality, like adding “How are you?” on the tail of “Hi!” – without real sentiment .  I couldn't tell you when I finally abandoned the one-armed bandit schema; years of wide-eyed, breathless faith exposed to the harsh glare of experience gave me a squinter’s crow’s-feet, I guess.

Really?

After so many years of earnest, formulaic prayers lost to the Ether followed by so many years of hustling to fix broken humans all mewling the same words and getting the same silent response, I just kind-of naturally drifted toward informal foxhole one-offs, befuddled metaphysical brain-bursts, and a stoic’s acceptance of whatever followed.

Respectfully requesting immediate air support!

 I’ve seen blind faith crushed with disappointment so often I feel vague pity for the frowning faithful; they gather in somber circles anointing with oil and droning supplications while I dodge around them doing.  Perhaps I’m fixed on Martha’s frenetic feeding efforts when I should be modeling Mary’s quiet meditation, I don’t know.  Experience tells me scientific discipline trumps senescent dogma, but that may be backwards.  That’s why I really stopped pulling the formal prayer jackpot lever: I’ve concluded we’re all praying for the wrong things.

Can't make it out - is it stop, or pots?

When St. Paul said we see through a glass darkly, I think the translators forgot to mention that the image is also inverted: what we consider “blessings”, and plead for with all our gritted might, are actually, in the upside-down paradigm of our Creator, obstacles to communion.  What we celebrate as love is, like the C.S. Lewis analogy, a mud puddle compared to the ocean.  Death and brokenness we naturally revile - they’re seen as enemies almost unconsciously, as though we’re created to pursue pleasure and avoid pain when really, only through pruning can we fully blossom (“…for I shall never be chaste unless you ravage me…” - John Donne). 

"What is done, cannot be undone!" - John Donne

 If we’re so trapped by our infantile understanding that we can’t envision what’s true, real and good, how can we possibly beg the proper boon?  What remains, it seems to me, is to pray how we can:

“Our Father, who’s in heaven or wherever, I can’t even assume to speak your name, because I’m not sure how that works, you’re so totally other.  I sincerely hope Your kingdom, as it may be, assumes its rightful place, is filled with who or whatever you wish it to be filled with, and performs according to your will, not only in the human realm but also wherever.  I hold out the self-absorbed hope that I will be granted today the hierarchy of needs delineated by Maslow, and that my open heart and counter-intuitive kindness will be reciprocated.  If it aligns with your vision I respectfully request not to give in to my natural inclinations and, if it drifts in the general direction of your destination, I prefer not to be preyed upon by those who have.  Ultimately, though, I submit to your unknowable plan because I trust you, and anyway you have all the power and glory (as I understand glory), until the end of time (as I comprehend time).  Amen.” 

"I've got a nice little place in Florida...." - St. Augustine

This is chanted in my head while I’m engaged in doing things that I think are glorifying to Him and reflective of my understanding of His love: binding up the broken-bodied and brokenhearted without gagging, giving a percentage of my income to those less fortunate while suppressing a paternalistic attitude, not succumbing to rage at the confused humans surrounding me who make decisions I’ve decided are foolish, devoting my energies toward those whom I’ve committed to devote my energies to, and striving always to improve (“What you are must always displease you, if you would become that which you are not.” - St. Augustine).  I confess that, in my befuddlement, I probably have it all upside-down and I should be true to myself - a fixed, gagging, paternalistic rage-ball, so I “canst not then be false to any man.” – Shakespeare.  Opinions fly and are, as the saying goes, ubiquitous and odiferous.  I’m just going to keep rolling out of bed, doing the best I can, crying from my heart:“I believe! Help me in my unbelief!”

"I knowest something of the cri de coeur...." - William Shakespeare

River Tug Reminiscence

Looks like a cookbook, reads like A Prarie Home Companion.

I needed a palate cleanser after The Metaphysical Club so I pulled a thin volume off the shelf and dug into Dotsey Welliver's Every Meal A Holiday.  This is charming, well-written nostalgia of her mother's adventures as a Mississippi tug boat cook, but more than that, it's a slice of family life in the American South when hitchhiking was safe and toilets were in a spidery wooden shed out back.  It makes a perfect nightstand book, every chapter a different tale told in Ms. Welliver's rollicking, delicious style and peppered with wisdom and recipes, reserved for dipping into while wrapped in a cozy blanket, savoring a few bites then saving some stories for later.  I'll be making her mother's banana cake this weekend and you're welcome to join me - just hitch a ride on down! 

Johari Window

What frames the window - Nature or Nurture?

If you're concerned that your lower-left quadrant is too big and you're only as "sick as your secrets", perhaps you're just introverted and shy.  It's when you vomit up your secrets in an attempt at catharsis that you highlight them in sharp relief against an imaginary normal and allow smug, "healthy" people to slap you with a "sick" label.

Maybe it's more accurate to say you're only as sick as your revelations: before they discovered bodies in his crawlspace, John Wayne Gacy wasn't a "sick clown" - he was just a clown.

Of course, this begs the question of why you felt it necessary to keep things secret in the first place.  You, yourself must have projected them onto "normal" and believed they fell short.  Where did this belief come from - Within or Without?  "Within" aligns with the Kantian philosophy of a priori knowledge, "Without" would line up with William James's Pragmatism - it just depends which belief you bet on.

Oh. My. Goodness.

I finished The Metaphysical Club yesterday - I haven't made so many margin notes since Atlas Shrugged!  It's no wonder it won the Pulitzer Prize - it leads you through some rare air, what Robert Persig would call "the high country of the mind".  Like Persig, you might want to suck your thumb and wet yourself after a such prolonged venture above the treeline.  It'll make you want to throw a rock through the Johari Window just because you can.  Find it.  Read it.  You'll be buzzing with new ideas, but it's probably best to keep them secret - the "normal" people will think you need help.

Sitting

I’m sitting in my office chair,

wishing I was anywhere

but sitting in this damn hard chair

and staring out the window.

The phone is ringing off the hook,

it’s not for me – don’t even look.

Ignoring it is all it took,

to reinstate the quiet.

My butt feels like it’s breaking down,

squashed into a sideways frown.

Alone, despite my great renown,

I contemplate my options.

If this is all life has for me,

I think it’s better not to be

wasting time – I need to flee,

this torturous office  chair.

The Final Straw - Suffocating In The Hospital System.

Working in the hospital brought a great many rewards.  I loved the variety of patients, the high level of skills and critical thinking required plus the sharp people I worked with.  I was discontent, however with the amount of time I spent satisfying regulatory requirements (there are at least 90 regulatory agencies monitoring hospitals, just at the federal level, and they don't communicate with each other very well), the dangerous nurse-to-patient ratios, the time constraints not allowing me to truly communicate with my patients (I'd easily spend 60% of my 12-hour shift charting on a computer) and the unsubtle push to maximize profits. I'd work three days in the hospital and three days in home health every week and looked forward to the home health days as vacation days from the stress of the hospital.  Home health felt like the model of what healthcare should be. It also didn't pay nearly as well.

Three closely-spaced events inspired me to finally leave the hospital, take a 50% pay cut and work in home health full-time.

1.) I worked as a weekend float nurse in a smaller 100-bed hospital that was part of a massive non-profit system.  This hospital prided itself on having a 26% profit margin, the highest of any hospital in NC (depending who you ask, most hospitals have anywhere from 5% to 12%).  As a float nurse I spent the majority of my time working in the Emergency Dept. (ED) treating everything from gunshot wounds and drug overdoses to asthma attacks. When someone would come in with an asthma attack, the standard of care is to start them on a breathing treatment (inhaled nebulized medicine that opens the airway) immediately.

Nebulized mist of life-giving medicine.

The word came down that nurses would no longer give breathing treatments - it must be done by a respiratory therapist (RT).  On the weekends there was only one RT in the hospital, and they were typically busy with the vent patients in the ICU; calling them to provide a treatment (a common occurrence) delayed care by at least 10 minutes.  The patient would sit in the exam room, whistling and struggling with every breath, while the RT tried to find a free five minutes.  This seemed so ludicrous to me that I asked the RT why the change was made.  He told me that when nurses give the treatment the hospital can only charge for the medicines, but when an RT is present the patient can be charged an extra $175.00 for a "specialty consult".  It seemed, from my limited perspective, a bald attempt to bump that precious 26%.

2.) Part of the Affordable Care Act (ACA) financially penalizes hospitals that have poor patient satisfaction ratings. To increase this rating my hospital leadership enacted a mandatory program entitled "Just Say Hi!"  We were to greet everyone we met with a cheery "Hi!", even if they'd just spent 4 hours writhing in the waiting room. Participation was non-negotiable and there would be "spies" (their word) on the lookout for sullen rebels. Punishment would entail a verbal warning for first offense followed by termination for the second, skipping the traditional step of a written warning.  It was like 1930's Germany.  I felt worse for the "spies" more than anything.

Big smiles!  Big smiles!

3.) I read Stephen Brill's "The Bitter Pill", a Time article detailing the mystery and insanity of how hospitals charge for health care.  It was the longest article I'd ever seen in Time, and by far the most disturbing because I was inside the system seeing the madness first-hand.  

 Not for the faint-of-heart.

These events were the final straws for me.  I didn't have time to provide good care for my patients and what I was providing was largely placebo and costing them far more than they could afford.  I wasn't proud to be a hospital nurse anymore.  I put in my notice.

I don't regret my decision, although there are times I miss the intellectual rigor of the ICU.  If possible I'm even more disgusted with hospitals now, two years later.  They whine in the press about how the ACA is forcing them to slash their budgets and lay off nurses.  They find small sympathy in the legislature; I was speaking with one of my senators about it last year and he said, "they're gonna scream, alright, but they've been riding that gravy train long enough!"   

I admit I was a bit taken aback at his venom - as much as I'd like to see hospitals charge reasonable fees for a job well done which is exactly opposite of what's happening now, they do still play a vital role in society.  If you're interested in the fascinating tale of how America went from house-call doctors getting paid in eggs and potatoes to today's slick, investor-driven mega-systems, I recommend Paul Starr's The Social Transformation of American Medicine.  Perhaps we can't turn back the clock, but perhaps, with soft hearts, sharp minds and a handle on our greed we can dial back the insanity.  No one should be suffocated for a profit margin.

Covered In Glory

Courage under fire in Vietnam.

Just finished the Vietnam in HD series on Netflix.  My reaction to the highlights of instinctual heroism is reflective of my deep, pessimistic insecurities - would I be the guy to fall on the grenade? Most men, I think, wonder the same thing.  It's why we do stupid things, hard things, vision quests, and rites of passage. It's why we're fascinated by war and why we bestow honor on those who've been through it, who've proved that yes, it's possible to crush the ogre of fear and violently tear ourselves in the opposite direction of our primal instinct for survival. Because we want to know how they did it.

Acquired from where?

I think back to a night of naked camping in the Pike National Forest with my friends Jeremy, Bill and Eric. That's right, naked camping.  In our early 20's, hiking around the remote wilderness wearing only our backpacks felt like a carefree expression of daring and freedom.  We'd strap on our gear, enter the forest, then strip down and hike to our destination unencumbered by social constraints, laughing and cavorting like idiots which, looking back, was apropos.

Pike National Forest, Colorado.

On this occasion, while scampering around Breakfast Rock in our birthday suits, we attempted to start a fire, with poor results.  As we gathered in soft, pink consternation around the recalcitrant brush heap I arrogantly unlimbered my red MSR container of white fuel and without thought or hesitation dumped half of it on the smoldering logs.

White fuel is a petroleum naptha distillate popularly used for camping lanterns and stoves, famous for its low flash point. In a split second the fire came roaring to life, the fuel justifying its fame by igniting the bottle in my hand with a dull whoosh.

The fire dancer's favorite.

My brain vapor-locked, time expanded to slow-motion. I had a bomb in my hand, was surrounded by naked men, all in equal measures of danger, so I instantly responded with instincts honed by a lifetime of interactions with hornets and spiders, - I frantically flicked it away from me as far as I could.  That wasn't far, it turned out.  

Burning Man.

My trajectory was too low and in my panic I'd spun it away with the open end outermost.  Centrifugal force sent the remaining fuel blasting through the blue flame that wreathed the rim, igniting the spray into a crackling crescent of bright, white fire that splattered all over my friends.  Nearest me was Jeremy, hitherto my most hirsute companion, who began a frantic, high-knee, arm-slapping dance after observing his nether parts aflame. To to my everlasting shame, I had scrambled in the opposite direction, surprisingly agile for the barefoot conditions, while howling with inappropriate mirth at the image Jeremy presented.

The danger is real!

The fuel burned too quickly to cause any lasting damage to my friends, but my psyche remains scarred from my cowardice.  The incident replays in my head from time to time, causing a wince and another round of self-castigation.  Darwin, I think, would argue that self-preservation is a virtue in the grim struggle for survival of the fittest - 'better a live dog than a dead lion', etc.  Why, then, do we celebrate and venerate the dead lions? Because, in defiance of their deeply programmed instincts, they loved something or someone more than themselves, not merely theoretically but ultimately, instantly.  The balance we maintain between fear and courage will, when called upon, squeeze down fear and open toward courage from love, if we have been bold and vulnerable enough to allow it in.  Ask any soldier why he fights: it's love for the man next to him. Knowing this, maybe I'll get it right next time.  There is, a wise man once said, nothing greater.

  

Love, over easy.

Shirley Goodness, and Mercy.

          Shirley Goodness loved books.  Every day she was surrounded by them.  But the Christian bookshop didn’t pay worth beans and standing all the time made her back hurt. On occasion, red-faced fundamentalists would try to convince her of the exclusive veracity of the 1611 translation of the King James Version, but mostly the customers were OK.  She’d wanted to work in a bookstore since she was a little girl, imagining rapturous conversations with fellow bibliophiles, snuggled deep into sofa cushions sipping strong coffee.  Reality was 16-hour days on her feet, tidying end-caps with loss-leaders like The Parent’s Guide to Preventing Homosexuality or Secrets of the Vine 30-day Diet Program for Kids.  There were entire sections devoted to one author (“How can one person sell so many books that say the same thing?” she puzzled) next to endless reams of tepid fiction mixed with the ravenously popular End-Times genre.  There were a few gems on the shelves: Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz, Dave Ramsey’s Total Money Makeover, the biographies of Keith Green and Rich Mullins.  But, until she won the lottery (“fat chance”), this job paid the bills. So Shirley Goodness sold some books.

-

Of the two highlights on her average day, the best was sharing her lunch with James.  He was the homeless man who’d parked himself on the bench in front of the store.  His coat was filthy, his thick, dark hair matted, his beard bushy (but thankfully crumb-free), his boots had no laces and his hands were lined with grime but his smile was easy, huge and genuine.  He greeted her cheerfully each morning, calling her ‘beautiful’ and not in a creepy way but like he truly enjoyed the way she looked.  She never really felt beautiful, but when James’ deep voice boomed she felt the tiniest bit pretty.  He got a kick out of her name, starting sentences with “Surely, Shirley” when he was making a point, or sighing “Oh my Goodness” while pretending she was a dense child.  For her part she was always bringing him food, or socks or gloves.  Once, with her Christmas bonus, she bought him a nice new tent and a water-proof hat over which he beamed and exclaimed until she was embarrassed.  A week later she took the trash out and noted that he hadn’t put up the new tent - the same, neat, olive-green poncho was pegged out in the pine grove behind the store as always.  He proudly wore his new hat every day until it was as dirty as his coat but she never asked him about the tent; a gift was a gift.   And Shirley Goodness valued gifts.

-

James had shown up on his bench not long after she started at the store.  At first she was uneasy with his constant presence and cheery greetings.  The store owner was rarely there but when he was, he would imperiously order James to leave the premises or face the police.  James would nod, smile a little and stride off.  The owner would strut back in looking smug, muttering about the “undesirable element” driving away business.  It was because her boss was such a jerk that Shirley first took pity on James and shared her lunch with him.  It wasn’t much and the sandwich was stale, but he was so grateful and such a good listener that she began to eat with him regularly.  They stood under the dripping eaves on rainy days and basked on the bench when the sun shone.  They talked of life and love and money and books and God and people and fun and evil, or rather, she did.  After her initial shyness she opened like a flower, prattling on while he listened intently, smiling his benevolent smile, radiating warmth and understanding, his crinkled grey-green eyes never leaving her face.  She didn’t know much about him - he was reticent to discuss his personal life and after a few futile attempts she’d quit asking.  Every day at noon they could be found sharing food and conversation, interrupted only by his joyful greeting to the coiffed, yoga-toned suburbanite women.  Their stilettos, in turn, would click hastily while their eyes slid sideways, lips compressed into thin red lines, knuckles white on Coach bags.  Shirley quietly smoldered at their haughty dismissal of him for his appearance, and her by association.  She felt like throwing rocks at their imported sedans but she settled for glaring at them until they looked away with a sniff.  James just chuckled.  And Shirley Goodness grew fond of chuckling.

-

Shirley’s second-best part of the day was stopping at the gas station to buy a microwavable burrito and a lottery ticket.  She knew playing the lottery was a ridiculous waste of money – Dave Ramsey had done the math for her – but for the next few hours the tiniest spark of hope glowed in her chest, although she conceded that might be the burrito. If she won, she could quit her paltry job, move from her dingy apartment and put her loneliness behind her.  She would dream for hours about trips and homes and clothes and cars – but lately her dreams had been centering more and more on James: she realized, as improbable as it was, that she really had feelings for him - a lot of them. Well, if she won the lottery she’d see to it that no self-starved, hypocritical housewife would ever sneer at him again!  And Shirley Goodness discovered she was fiercely in love.

-

One Friday, Shirley made up her mind to ask James home for supper. She got paid on Fridays, so she planned an elaborate spread, including a whole baked chicken with potatoes and home-made cookies.  She’d drive him back to his tent after, let him keep the leftovers.  She asked him as she unlocked the store that morning and he agreed instantly, looking pleased.  Of course, he always looked pleased. She was so excited about sharing a normal evening with him that time seemed to drag.  As closing time approached she was hurriedly packing her things when she was interrupted by an imperious woman decked in gold and leather looking for the newest T.D. Jakes.  Coming impatiently around the counter she led her to the self-help section but the woman also ordered her to find just the right New King James for Women, then just the right Joyce Meyers commentary, then just the right accompanying book on Apostolic miracles.  Finally, 30 minutes past closing time, Shirley frantically counted out the register, grabbed her bag, hit the alarm, scooted outside and locked up.  She turned to find James.  He was gone.  She called for him.  There was silence. She ran around behind the strip mall to the grove of pines.  She stood panting, her breath coming in clouds under the orange sulfur street lamp, staring in heartbroken disbelief at the empty spot between the trees.  “James?” Her small voice trembled in the stillness.  “JAMES!”  No answer.  And Shirley Goodness started to cry.

-

                Six months later, Shirley Goodness, wan and thin, was disinterestedly showing a genuine leather-bound The Book to a bearded hipster seminary student who was waxing rhapsodic about the future of “seeker churches” when she heard the ‘beep-beep-beep” of the door chime.  The blustering owner was there that day so she’d spent the morning skulking in the children’s section, re-arranging Veggie Tales videos, trying hard to stay out of his way.  She heard him greet the customer with unusually effusive false bonhomie.  “Must look rich”, she muttered to herself.  “What’s that?” said the hipster, breaking off in mid-sentence.  “Nothing - sorry.  You were saying…?” The hipster found his groove again; “Yeah, the business model Rob Bell created, I mean, buying a mall - are you kidding me?  What a step of faith! Talk about rich, he’s making more money than he knows what to do with!  Oh, he’s bringing the lost sheep into the fold by the truckload!”  Shirley tuned him out.  She was going to give her notice today.  Not that she had anything else lined up.  She just couldn’t stand to peddle one more pious pastor’s grab for glory. Maybe she’d get a job at the gas station.  Would that increase her chances of winning the lottery?  Her train of thought was interrupted by the approaching voice of her boss.  “Ah, here she is.  Shirley, someone to see you!” he said, motioning with his eyes toward the expensive Bibles,  reminding her to upsell the good stuff.  He dodged a few feet away, fingering price tags on some resin crucifixes, pretending not to listen.  The man behind him stopped.  He was silent.  Mildly curious, Shirley’s eyes travelled up from the buffed leather shoes to the razor creased pants, the gleaming silver buckle to the crisp white shirt, the fitted suit coat, the open collar framing a strong, tan neck, the chiseled jaw leading to the wide grin (I’ve seen that smile before) to the…. her heart flipped hard… crinkles fanning from grey-green eyes.  “Hello, beautiful”, James said.  And Shirley Goodness melted right into the floor.

-

                She woke up with her head in James’ lap, looking into his dancing eyes and brilliant smile.  The owner hovered close by, shuffling from foot to foot, torn between reprimanding Shirley for causing a scene and fawning over his obviously wealthy customer.  It was plain he made no connection between the vagrant he’d repeatedly chased off and the Arrow model sitting on his floor.  “Ahem, sir, may I help you in assisting my flighty employee to her feet?  Shirley,” he glanced briefly at her, “if you’ve recovered from the vapors perhaps you could collect your constitution and get on the register?  There’s a line forming.”  Shirley saw James’ smile tighten, but his eyes on hers never wavered.  “I think your employee needs an extended recuperation”, James said easily, but his tone was crisp.  His thighs bunched as he sat Shirley up and stood to his feet. His eyes turned bleak as they slowly swiveled to the obsequious owner, fixing him with a glare.  His strong hand grabbed hers and smoothly lifted her upright.  “Say goodbye, Goodness.”  The owner swallowed and his face turned red.  “Fine, fine, but be back early tomorrow, Shirley – we need to get inventory done before Easter, you know.”  James approached the owner, loomed over him.  “She won’t be back tomorrow,” he said firmly.  “She’s sold her last book for you.  If you don’t like it maybe you could call the police.” He leaned forward, right in the owner’s face, and pointed toward the bench in front of the store - “You must have them on speed dial after rousting me that public bench so often.”  The owner swayed back against a shelf.  His eyes squinted, then widened in recognition and shock. He put a fat pink hand to his chest. “I… I meant nothing personal, of course,” he stuttered, “it was just bad for business, is all – I think the customers felt uncomfortable with your … good cheer…”, he trailed off, recognizing how ridiculous he sounded.   James put his hand low on Shirley’s back and walked her toward the door.  “I’ll be praying for you!” called the owner, from behind a stack of Bible dictionaries.  And Shirley Goodness laughed out loud.

-

 That night, over baked chicken, potatoes and cookies, James told her he’d been in love with her from the moment they met.  “The best part of my day was our lunch dates – you’re so full of life and laughter – I couldn’t get enough your happy voice! I’d listen to you chirp about how you loved winter citrus and spring dresses, how you’d worry over the stray cat behind the store, how excited you’d be when you discovered a really outstanding author, your crazy dreams about winning the lottery.  When you asked me to dinner, I was so thrilled I thought I’d throw up.  But then, I realized I wasn’t fit company to be in your home.  Nor was I convinced your invitation wasn’t pity, and I couldn’t stand for you to see me that way.  I had to go. I had to start over. I had to become a man you’d be proud to be with.”  “James!” she exclaimed, “I was always proud to be with you!  I would have…” – he held up his hand, cutting her off.  “Surely, Shirley, you can see why a scruffy, homeless, destitute man would feel unworthy?  I mean, look at you!  You’re a princess, straight from a fairy tale!”  Shirley looked.  Hmmm? She looked back at him.  Reflected in his ocean-colored, smiling eyes, she saw.  And Shirley Goodness was a princess.

-

.               “When you left, James, where did you go?”  They sat on her couch, sipping strong coffee, James’ strong, warm hand enfolding hers.  “I sold the tent you gave me, bought a bus ticket to Asheville and got a job building houses all winter.  I lived with the crew boss and saved what I could, hoping someday I could come back to you with something more than a dirty beard.”  She smiled and stroked his smooth-shaven cheek; “Your beard was never dirty! Trust me, I was looking.”  He grinned at her and continued, “In the evenings, I missed you so much I started writing a story about us, how we met, what life would be like if things had been different.  I finished it in February.  I let the crew boss read it and he liked it so much he insisted I send it off to a high school friend of his who made it big in publishing.  It went on sale last week.  It’s number one in the New York Times.” He said it so matter-of-factly that it took a moment to sink in. “WHAT!” she yelled, jumping up.  Her coffee spiraled across the carpet.  He lounged on the couch, grinning from ear to ear.  She stared at him, hand to her mouth.  “A Merciful Crust is YOURS!” she shouted, the beginnings of a smile fighting with her incredulity.  “EVERYONE is talking about that book!” she exclaimed, “I’ve been waiting for it to go on sale!”   “Don’t bother”, he said insouciantly, “I’ve got oodles.”  She burst out laughing, spinning around the small living room. He watched her, eyes filled with joy.  She caught herself mid-whirl, flung herself at him, grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him up into a hug so tight it made his coat pocket rustle.  “What’s that?” she asked, backing away an inch.  “Oh, my Goodness, I almost forgot”, he chuckled, producing a sheaf of lottery tickets.  “I got you a present.  The Powerball’s up to three hundred-ten million.  I thought it would help you forgive me for leaving if you had that spark of hope you always talk about.”  Later that night, snuggled on the couch, they watched the lottery drawing together.  And Shirley Goodness hit the Jackpot.

What You Don't Know Can't Hurt You.

This week's writing assignment. There are so many levels to this prompt, 30 minutes felt too short.

We don’t know who fashioned the Olmec heads.  We haven’t ascertained with any certainty what happens when we die.  There’s no consensus on what lies beyond the speed of light.  Turning lead into gold has flummoxed alchemists since the first human ground chalk and mare’s milk into heartburn medicine.  When bees cross-pollinate tassels from popping corn with corn that has a sweet carbohydrate load, does that constitute a GMO?  Do angels watch over me when I’m driving? There are countless things we don’t really know and perhaps never will, yet we can still sleep peacefully at night.

                There are, at the same time, countless things we’re sure of:  I feel confident that if I stick a flat of sparking Black Cats in my mouth, I will be permanently disfigured.  Assuredly, if I angrily and sincerely tell my boss to go pound sand, I will no longer have a boss, or a job.  When force is applied in one direction, another force will be applied in the opposite direction.  London was wiped out by a fire in 1666, exactly 50 years after Shakespeare died.  Drinking an entire bottle of white-cake flavored vodka will make me quite happy for about an hour and quite sad for two days.  These are just a few things I know.  As long as I know these things, I can skirt their consequences by not doing them or I can recite them to fascinated audiences at parties.  The saying would inversely apply in such cases.

Come to think of it, taken literally, this saying is a bunch of hooey! Imagine that I didn’t know drinking a bottle of vodka would have those effects and I proceeded to drink three Dos Equis, one bottle of root beer schnapps and then a bottle of vodka alternated with orange juice, in that order, all in the space of an hour?  Then I would be on a boat in Dutch Harbor drowning in my own vomit. Or think for a moment on the consequences of believing sincerely that my boss would pound sand at my vitriolic recommendation – I would be slumped over my steering wheel weeping with a box of office necessities on the seat next to me.  Also, I’ve worked in the trauma intensive care unit – I don’t need imagination to visualize the results of firecrackers releasing their energy while surrounded by ignorant human flesh.  What you don't know can absolutely wreck you, forever.

So this must be one of those esoteric sayings that applies largely to idiots and fools, who, another esoteric saying says, God watches out for.  It must apply to the young, the drunk, the brave, the ditzy, the cuckold, the citizen or soldier who trusts his leaders implicitly.  I think I’ve sufficiently established the inherent hooey factor in such tired platitudes.  So does natural selection.

We chuckle “Ah, the innocence of youth” when we see how boldly and foolishly they dream, because we know they will only learn from experience, and experience brings pain, which directly contradicts this vacuous aphorism.

It runs through my mind that ignorance is bliss, but honestly, I don’t know.  Can that hurt me?

Rage.

I'm reading a book called The Metaphysical Club by Lous Menand.  It's fantastic.  Also, quite chewy. The obviously erudite Menand synthesises the history and the philosophies of Oliver Wendell Holmes, William James and Charles Sanders Pierce into a deliciously readable tale of the shifting and rather subjective thought process regarding humankind's place in the universe.  Their theories, if you've grown up in a religious tradition, feel bleak.  They remind me of this story:

 A fisherman down on his luck drags up a stoppered bottle in his nets.  When he uncorks it, an enormous, angry genie appears.  The genie glowers at him and tells him to choose how he wants to die.  Shocked, the fisherman asks why, since he freed the genie from his prison, he should be marked for death.  The genie replies:

"During the first thousand years' imprisonment, I swore that if anyone would deliver me before the thousand years expired, I would make him rich, even after his death: but that millenium ran out, and nobody did me the good office. During the second, I made an oath that I would open all the treasures of the earth to anyone that should set me at liberty; but with no better success. In the third, I promised to make my deliverer a potent monarch, to be always near him in spirit, and to grant him every day three requests, of what nature soever they might be: but this millenium ran out as well as the two former, and I continued in prison. At last, being angry, or rather mad, to find myself a prisoner so long, I swore that if afterwards anyone should deliver me, I would kill him without mercy, and grant him no other favour but to choose what kind of death he would die; and, therefore, since you have delivered me to-day, I give you that choice.'

This tale afflicted the poor fisherman extremely: 'I am very unfortunate,' cried he, 'to have done such a piece of good service to one that is so ungrateful. I beg you to consider your injustice and to revoke such an unreasonable oath; pardon me, and heaven will pardon you; if you grant me my life, heaven will protect you from all attempts against yours.'

'No, thy death is resolved on,' said the genie, 'only choose how you will die.'

The fisherman, perceiving the genie to be resolute, was terribly grieved, not so much for himself as for his three children, and the misery they must be reduced to by his death. He endeavoured still to appease the genie, and said, 'Alas! be pleased to take pity on me, in consideration of the good service I have done you.'

'I have told thee already,' replied the genie, 'it is for that very reason I must kill thee.'

'That is very strange,' said the fisherman, 'are you resolved to reward good with evil? The proverb says, "He who does good to one who deserves it not is always ill rewarded." I must confess I thought it was false; for in reality there can be nothing more contrary to reason, or to the laws of society. Nevertheless, I find now by cruel experience that it is but too true.' 

The thinkers in the metaphysical club came to the conclusion, through an amalgamation of the writings of Darwin, Kant, Emerson and others combined with experiences gleaned from the Civil War, the Great Reformation, global markets and world travels, that universal truth is a bet: we bet that we're right but there's no way to actually know.  Humanity, they determined, came about by completely random chance and is infinitely trapped in the fallibility of  the human condition which, the deeper they dug, seemed quite fallible indeed.  Everything that humans consider to be truths are filtered through the lens of subjectiviy, a product of nature, nurture and, it was looking more and more like, statistical probabilities.

This infinite entrapment idea reminded me of the rage the genie experienced, impotent for three thousand years, finally free to express itself.  It didn't matter that the focus of this animosity was completely unrelated to its source - it must be vented, more's the pity on the nearest victim.  

That made me think of the current state of global affairs - really no different from the global state of affairs since man walked upright, lost his family to a sabre-cat, was infuriated by his neighbor's sabre-cat loin cloth and hefted a stone while squinting at the back of his neighbor's head.  The conflagration sweeping through the hearts of humankind might simply be the inevitable backlash of rage against the cage of being a human.  Of feeling powerless.  Of our ballooning egos coming up hard against our mortality. I'm watching Vietnam in HD on Netflix and I see that ego-deflating recognition of powerlessness against random death in the thousand-yard stares of men returning from combat.

When we witness looting in Ferguson, it's the genie finally freed from his prison, lashing out in random directions after feeling futile for so long.  Trying to establish an Islamist caliphate in the Fertile Crescent has less to do with the glories of life under Muhammed 1000 years ago and more to do with rage against the fact that none of us know what we're doing and all of us are going to die and there's nothing meaningful I can do about it, but if I have to suffer, someone else will suffer MORE.  So we come up with inventive excuses to vent our spleens and smash the windows and set fire to things and cut off other human's heads in a desperate attempt to exert some power, any power, over our cell-mates - saying, in effect, "I'm going to die, but at least I out-smashed, out-burned, out-lived you!  Enaging with these vibrating rage-balls with the intention of reformation or repentance rarely fares well for the kindly ambassador.

For me, the story of the Genie and the Fisherman superimposed on the paradigms presented in The Metaphysical Club provides an explanation behind Alfred's sage reply to Bruce Wayne, which perplexed me but rang unsettlingly true: "Some men just want to watch the world burn."  

Humankind's rage against the inevitability of our deaths would be quite rational if we are indeed a random accident: we've simply evolved to hate what we fear and we strike out in a blind frenzy, furious that no one can save us. 

 Now, I'm probably just a product of millions of years of natural selection, my ability to reason simply a trait that slipped through the gene pool.  The history of humanity surely must be a "tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing", right?  Still, I can't help wondering, What if there was someone who could save us....? 

I'm betting there is.