Savannah Dietrich of Louisville, Kentucky, is now facing contempt of court carrying a possible 180 days in jail and a $500 fine for using Twitter to out her juvenile attackers after she learned of the leniency granted them in a plea agreement on June 26, 2012.  A hearing on the charges being brought against Ms. Dietrich is scheduled for July 30, 2012.

Naming her assailants on the social media site, Twitter, Savannah tweeted:

There you go, lock me up. I’m not protecting anyone that made my life a living hell.

Her story begins in August, 2011, when she passed out at a gathering and was assaulted by two acquaintances.  A few months later, she learned that photographs had been taken of the assault and were being shared she explained in an exclusive with a reporter from the Courier-Journal, with her father and attorneys sitting close by during the interview.

For months, I cried myself to sleep.  I couldn’t go out in public places.  You just sit there and wonder, who saw (the pictures), who knows?

After making a formal complaint to the Louisville Metro Police, the two juvenile male defendants were purportedly charged with first-degree sexual abuse, a felony, and misdemeanor voyeurism and later, plead guilty to these charges after a plea agreement had been reached without any input or involvement of Savannah or her parents.  While neither Ms. Dietrich, her parents or attorneys could discuss the actual sentencing recommendation, she and her family were very upset, felt it to be a slap on the wrist–”like they were given a very, very light deal.”

Following the hearing, Savannah indicated that she was very angry, perused the order against dissemination of what happened in court and the plea agreement, itself, and then reviewed the laws on confidentiality before setting about posting several tweets revealing the identification of her attackers and her feelings about the plea agreement and process.  Several of these tweets were reviewed and posted by the Courier-Journal:

They said I can’t talk about it or I’ll be locked up.  So I am waiting for them to read this and lock me up.  _____  justice.

Protect rapist is more important than getting justice for the victim in Louisville.

There was no comment by either the attorneys for the defendants or the prosecuting attorney but several free speech and victim’s groups weighed in on both sides of the issue.  Seems everyone had an opinion as to what Savannah should or shouldn’t have done.  One activist group proclaimed that one should not lose their rights to speak about something merely because it occurred in court while another from a victim’s group stated that Ms. Dietrich should have followed the court’s order, appealed it or minimally, asked the court to vacate its order freeing Savannah to speak, tweet and post.

Me…well I’m an attorney.  I am suppose to give deference and respect to the court’s orders and follow the letter of the law.  But I am not Savannah, nor was I sexually assault by two depraved rapists who then shared photos of the assault with others.  I am most certain that Savannah did not seek nor receive permission from her own attorneys prior to posting on Twitter.  In fact, they (the public defenders representing Ms. Dietrich) advised her that the interview with the Courier-Journal could be another violation of the judge’s order and stepped in and prevented her from revealing information that they felt was clearly sealed by the court’s order.

But that is of little import now.  This young lady has what the prosecutor lacked.  Courage.  Had the prosecutor included her in the plea agreement and allowed her to participate in the justice system—she wouldn’t have been assaulted again, this time by the system that was suppose to protect her and bring justice for the wrongs done to her.  Now her attorneys and the newspaper are seeking to have her contempt hearing open to the public and media as is allowed under state law, but are facing a battle as the attorneys for the defendants are seeking a closed hearing to protect the identity of the juvenile defendants, as is also Kentucky law.

You can find me on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/theBlueSquirrel.org; Twitter at theBlueSquirre1 (that’s a ‘one’ at the end) and here, at TheBlueSquirrelDiary.com.

Barry Davis has written, published and produced “(I’m Voting Democratic Because) I Have A Memory.”  But he’s taken it a BIG step further.  He is soliciting testimonials on your memories and the reasons you are voting democratic and for President Obama in 2012, putting together an “I Have A Memory” YouTube catalog to awaken the voters who may have forgotten.

The song “(I’m Voting Democratic Because) I Have A Memory,” sung by Sam Saletta, is available for downloading on iTunes and you may play it here as often as you like.   I have taken to singing it everywhere and play it loudly and proudly.

For those who would like to upload a short testimonial as to why you are voting democratic in 2012 and why your memory is still crystal clear, here is an instructional video to help you format your 15 seconds of fame, where to upload it on YouTube and where to send the URL.

Me?  I haven’t forgotten.  I have a memory…..many memories…..and I’m all in for Obama 2012.

You can find me on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/theBlueSquirrel.org; http://www.TheBlueSquirrelDiary.com and on Twitter at TheBlueSquirre1 (that’s a ‘one’ at the end).

My husband and dad showed up, dad gave a urine sample, had a rectal exam and I had sent dad’s prescription list and his medical history to be reviewed by the doctor and placed in his file.  A follow-up appointment was made to perform a cystoscopy (where they send a flexible tube attached to a camera through the urethra into the bladder) as standard procedure given the repeated occurrence of “flowers” in his bladder.  Dad called them flowers because his first urologist referred to the distinctive shape of one as a flower.  The rest of us called the growths cancer.  As long as they were caught in the early stages, they were easy to remove and the hour procedure was handled as an outpatient procedure with an epidural.

Sounds simple, doesn’t it?  I thought so.  My husband told me that dad had been given some samples to help with the incontinence and needed heart and pulmonary approval for the surgery.  I immediately booked both appointments.  Because of his recent broken back, the stress test by the cardiologist was handled with a chemically induced stress procedure and the pulmonary tests were passed with flying colors by a man who had smoked for 60 years.  And then dad started to have hallucinations.

These were not the same hallucinations as when he was left under the tarp at the hospital on a morphine drip but new ones.  He saw a “clock maker” who was winding the giant clock at the assisted living facility.  He claimed the clock maker spoke with him and told him that “time was slipping by” and my father had to do “something about it.”  I questioned Dad and asked him if he might have dreamed the clock maker.  He was adamant and angry that I was questioning, once again, his mental status and claimed that black ravens were attacking him in his sleep and were pecking his anus.  I had been told by the staff at the assisted living that dad had asked about the clock but overall, he was able to take care of himself and mother whenever we were off site.  Dad had a follow-up pre-surgical visit scheduled with Dr. Gale and my husband again attended the appointment.  Again, my father was given a free sample of the incontinence medication but in a larger dosage.  Within days of this visit, dad was unable to distinguish reality from fantasy.  He was beyond reasoning.

I emailed and then booked an immediate appointment with mother’s neuro-psychiatrist for dad.  He was placed on antipsychotics and I informed Dr. Gale of dad’s current status and the need to delay his surgery.  At that time, I also asked whether the drug that dad had been given, Vesicare, could possibly caused any complications.  I received a return call from Dr. Gale’s nurse that she had asked Dr. Gale and was informed that Vesicare had no side effects other than possible “dry mouth.”  I failed to discuss Vesicare with the neuro-psychiatrist as dry mouth did not seem to be a problem that dad was having.  But as the symptoms increased and the antipsychotic medications were being tweaked, dad was still suffering and he was entering a world similar to the one my mother was living in but his was also full of anger and agitation.  More importantly, he seemed to be battling it differently, as if he knew that something was terribly wrong but couldn’t wake up from this nightmare.

And then I sat down to the computer and started researching.  There was little information on Vesicare on the American sites that I checked, but it was the only thing in Dad’s life that had changed before the hallucinations had started.  I left the United States and headed for England in my research.  I discovered a few medical articles dealing with “BBB.”  Blood brain barrier.  Drugs that passed through to the brain.  And one article clearly indicated that the elderly should not be using this drug because as one post indicated, if the urine is drying up, so is the fluid surrounding the brain.  I immediately halted the Vesicare and informed the neuro-psychatrist and within a week or two, Dad was able to come off the antipsychotic and antidepression medications and although the memory of the clock maker and birds were still there, Bert was back.  After informing Dr. Gale’s office that he was ready to go and that the Vesicare had, in fact, caused the event, I was informed that Dr. Gale wanted dad to repeat all of his pre-surgical tests.

I was livid but didn’t have to stew about it for long as both the cardiologist and dad’s pulmonary doctor stated that no new tests were needed and dad was set to go for surgery.  I was warned by the cardiologist that dad was on a beta blocker for his heart and that he would inform Dr. Gale to maintain that before surgery.  I also located hospital protocols for several major hospitals in the area, and all indicated that beta-blocker medications should never be stopped and that a surgical patient should take the drug as scheduled with a sip of water.  Dr. Gale informed his staff to contact me and to tell me that he and his surgical team would handle the administration of the beta-blocker.

We presented ourselves, my father, husband and I, to the hospital on the day of the out-patient procedure.  Dad was in good spirits and wanted to get “the show on the road.”  I had my duties to handle.  I brought a copy of Dad’s Medical Directive and Durable Power of Attorney along with 3 copies of his medication list (and faxed one to Dr. Gale’s office as well) and a copy of his medical history.  I was given an unsigned medical consent form with the procedure clearly indicated on it:  Transurethral resection (TUR).  Basically, dad would have a cystoscope inserted into his bladder through his urethra and a tool with a small wire loop on the end would be used to remove the cancer.  He would receive an epidural and would be back home in the afternoon if all went as expected.

I left all the information with admissions including one copy of his medication list, and then when we were taken to the surgical waiting area, I gave a copy of the medication list to the nurse assigned to Dad.  I watched her put the list inside Dad’s black binder containing his medical information.  And then we waited.  And waited some more.  And then we were told that the surgery had been delayed.  And so we waited a little longer.  I repeatedly reminded the nurse that dad had not taken his beta-blocker and that I had been warned by his cardiologist.  She indicated that Dr. Gale would be handling this and had been informed.  And then I met Dr. Gale for the first time.

He entered the room and I couldn’t believe there was enough room for him and his ego with the rest of us present.  I introduced myself and attempted to speak with him about the beta-blocker and he told me that he had a cardiac-anesthesiologist that would be handling dad’s medications and epidural and dismissed my concerns.  I then attempted to discuss the Vesicare issue and he again, dismissed me and actually turned and left the room in the middle of my question to him.  I was stunned.  But then the nurse came and took dad off to surgery and we were told to wait.

A few hours passed and I began to worry but then Dr. Gale reappeared and said the surgery had been a complete success and that dad would now be able to urinate freely.  I told him that dad was urinating ‘too freely,’ and again he ignored me.  He said that he was going to hold dad overnight as a precaution.  I asked about his heart medications and he told me that the anesthesiologist had handled everything and that he would see dad at his post-op visit.  And away he flew.  Once again, I was in the middle of a question.

Time passed and they took us to see dad in post-op where we caught him flirting with the nurses.  The anesthesiologist met with us and said dad was fine and that while he had tolerated the surgery well, he was having a bit of a problem getting the feeling back to his legs post-epidural and they would be monitoring this.  And off he flew.  We went with dad to his room where he begged for coffee and received chipped ice and apple juice.  I took my last copy of the medication list and gave it to the nurse who taped it to the outside of dad’s black binder.  There.  I had done my job.  We stayed until dad was tucked in for the night and headed over to be with mom.  After she went to bed, we headed home knowing that tomorrow would be a very busy day.  Little did we know.

I was giving mom her bath and my cell phone went off.  I climbed out of the tub dripping wet and answered it when I saw “West Hills Hospital” on the caller ID.  Dr. Gale was on the phone and he was screaming.  “You need to get over here immediately.  Your father is refusing to take his medications and his heart is acting up.  He claims we are poisoning him.”  What?  I looked at mom, at my wet clothes and told him I was 10 minutes from being there and not to move.  I then helped mom out, called for assistance to aid her in getting dressed and headed over to the hospital.  Brian, dad’s 6 foot, 6 inch nurse, was standing next to dad’s bed with a Dixie cup of pills shouting at dad.

“What’s going on, Brian?  Where’s the doctor?  Are you okay, Dad?”

“They’re trying to poison me.  Those aren’t my pills.”

“What about that Brian?  And where the hell is Dr. Gale?”

“He left and these are his pills.  We had to put him on a monitor.  His heart has been all over the place and he needs these pills.  We have also put in an emergency call to his cardiologist.”  Brian stated in a sing-song voice as he placed the Dixie cup in my outstretched hand.

“Take a look at dad’s medication list, Brian, and confirm that these are his pills.  And Dad, what makes you think they are trying to poison you?”

Dad’s skin was clammy and clearly he was in distress.  He told me that the pills didn’t look like the ones he normally takes and I queried Brian who was looking at his computer on wheels that listed dad’s medications.  He was doing some mental checklist and then confirmed that all the pills in the cup were on “the list” and that they looked different because in many instances the hospital uses a different manufacturer and the pills do not look the same as the ones we might purchase through a pharmacy.  I asked dad if that was satisfactory and he took the cup and swallowed all the pills at once.  He then laid his head on his pillow and appeared to fall asleep.

At that moment, the cardiologist entered the room and was extremely agitated.  He said that he had reviewed the file and that dad had not received his beta-blocker as “we had discussed.”  I explained the numerous times I had given the information to the staff and doctors and he set about with intravenous medications to bring dad’s heart under control.  He couldn’t wake dad and I explained the recent events and he then turned to Brian and told him that he had left specific directions an infant could carry out and questioned whether Brian could handle it.  The tension in the room was palpable.  Brian nodded and the cardiologist left.  Dad looked like he was having the best sleep of his life, so I headed out informing Brian that I could be reached by cell.

I returned in the late afternoon to find Dad in the exact position as I left him except there was a halo of sweat staining the pillow and bed sheets around his body and head.  I screamed for Brian when I couldn’t wake dad and he slowly sauntered  in as if he hadn’t a care in the world, including my father or me.  He told me that dad’s heart was fine and I asked him about his inability to wake up.  He looked totally unconcerned.  I told him I wanted to know exactly what pills dad had taken.  He told me he would get to it when he “had the time.”  I demanded them now.  He laughed.  I followed him and he actually approached a nurse’s aid and loudly said:  “Is SHE still behind me?”  And then laughed again.

“No Brian, SHE is leaving and will find help from some place else,” I responded through clinched teeth as I headed for the elevator.

He chased me and I screamed for him to leave my father and me alone.  I headed down to the main floor and to the administrators’ offices.  It was locked but I could see a group of people in suits sitting around a conference table.  I knocked and when the door was opened, the woman who answered asked if she could help me.  I explained that my father appeared to be comatose and that I was concerned he had been overdosed with the wrong medications.  I then said, “Contrary to my outfit and the way I look today, we should all be on the same playing field.  I am a medical malpractice attorney and I do not come here with claims of malpractice lightly.”  Every single person at the conference table stood up.  The head of the hospital introduced himself and also informed me that the head of nursing was who had answered the door.  They listened and then the head of nursing accompanied me to the 5th floor.

She called an emergency and sought the doctor on call.  He eventually would be the doctor who ushered both dad and then mom from this life to whatever roads they were set to travel.  He arrived at the same time my husband arrived.  The room was spinning in my head and I just wanted to see the list of pills that dad had been given.  My husband followed Brian to his station and demanded them.  I looked at the list and bile rose in my throat.  They were not my father’s medications.  They were massive doses of antipsychotics, antidepressants and other drugs that were not present on any list I had brought or faxed.  They had been sent by Dr. Ian Gale’s office and were placed in the computer superseding all drug lists that I had brought to the hospital.

Dad didn’t wake up until the next day.  When he did, he wasn’t the dad that had been brought to the room.  He couldn’t focus, his hearing, already poor, was non-existent and he was unable to speak coherently and would grunt.  Dr. Ian Gale never returned to see what he ‘had created.’  He sent a sub who stood in the doorway to authorize a weekend discharge of a man who couldn’t walk or talk and asked me whether he had urinated.  I explained that dad was wearing a diaper and he indicated that was enough information and signed his discharge papers.  It listed follow-ups with the cardiologist, the pulmonary doctor, Dr. Gale and dad’s whiny family practitioner.  We took dad back to the assisted living and placed him on the couch.  He never slept in his bed again.

I made the appointments all for the same day in the same medical center area.  I went from doctor to doctor with Ian Gale saved for last.  It was clear that the man slumped over in the wheelchair drooling was not the man who they had met prior to surgery.  No one could look me in the eyes.  Simple instructions regarding medications but nothing else.  Certainly no hope.  The family doctor stated in a flat tone as if ordering cold cuts from a butcher that the elderly in dad’s condition rarely lasted 6 months although he had seen some last for as long as 2 years–but that was rare.  No one spoke to dad who was hunched over and looking off into space, somewhere we couldn’t reach.

Dr. Ian Gale.  I sat with dad and my husband in his office as Dr. Gale’s nurse entered and said she needed a urine sample from dad.  I explained that dad would not be giving a urine sample but she could wring his diaper.  She wheeled dad away with my husband and then they came right back.  Shortly thereafter Dr. Ian Gale entered the room.  He spoke to dad in a jolly voice asking how he was and did he have any questions.  My head was about to explode and I only prayed that I would have enough self-control not to hit the shit-head.  I explained that dad wouldn’t be talking today and then Gale turned and told my husband about the 6 month plan of chemotherapy that he had scheduled for dad.  Chemo once a week in his office for 6 weeks and then once a month for the 6 months following.  I told him to “talk to me.”  He looked at me and I then got up close enough for the spittle on my lips to reach his face and stated:  “We are not here for chemotherapy.  I brought dad here so you could see what you did.”

He just went on talking about the treatment and why he recommended it, completely ignoring the obvious fact that dad wasn’t actually present in the room with us.  I then told him again, we would not be having any chemotherapy and that I was there to fire his sorry ass.  And he responded that he thought I might be angry but hoped I would reconsider.  I told him I would not be reconsidering.

As dad’s condition began to improve it was only by baby steps.  He needed someone with him to change him, take care of his skin, help to change clothes and aid in his feeding.  The assisted living facility would provide the help but our bill would increase by $800 a month.  Dad continued to sleep on the couch and finally they had to move them downstairs to the first floor for safety reasons.  Dad could never help himself in case of a fire and was too large to be carried by the staff down the stairs.  We handled the move ourselves.  It was backbreaking but we no longer could afford any extras, like a moving company.  Dad had good days and bad and I had my husband contact Dr. Ian Gale and ask that he voluntarily pay for dad’s extra care in lieu of a lawsuit.  He informed my husband that he chose door number two:  A medical negligence lawsuit.  So I filed one immediately. I didn’t want to disappoint the man.

Mom had an action pending against her orthopedic from Crazyville and now dad had one against Dr. Ian Gale.  His attorney called and said there would be “no settlement.”  He claimed Gale wanted to clear his name in court.  I then obtained the medical records—and what do you think I found?  I discovered that Dr. Ian Gale had NOT simply performed the TUR procedure as signed off on by me, he had performed two additional surgeries, a TURP (a transurethral resection of the prostate) and a bladder neck reconstruction.  Neither consented to by me or my father.  Upon presenting these documents to Gale’s attorney, I received a call from my husband who said he had just received the most amazing settlement request in his entire legal career.  Dr. Gale’s attorney claimed that Dr. Ian Gale had gone to India and returned after he had “a religious epiphany” and was hoping that the offer of settlement was still open.  We settled immediately withOUT a confidentiality agreement.  I wanted the world to know, on behalf of my father, exactly what happened.

And while Dad made a few more baby steps, he never was able to tend to his personal needs with the exception of crudely feeding himself with his hands.

Dad was amazing–even as his body was shutting down.  My husband and I were speaking to both he and mom and told them that their depositions were set.  I didn’t think he could pull it together and then he looked at me and said, “I want my deposition taken.”  And he gave the deposition of his life–literally.  He expended all the energy he had left.  We took him to several specialists afterwards but no one even called us back after they completed their series of tests.  Painful tests.  His body was shutting down and he was living in a shell that no longer provided him with any natural movement.  His head listed to the side and his muscles tightened and he only felt pain.  Pain when we attempted to move him.  Pain during the tests and once, he tipped over as I was moving him from the car to his chair following an appointment, and he fell.  My arm got tangled in the seat belt and I could feel the weight of him breaking it.  I begged him and we were inches from each other…”Please daddy, you have to help.  My arm is breaking.”  And I could see tears in his eyes and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t help.  And then an angel (with her baby) appeared, parked the stroller and grabbed my dad from the other side and helped.  His time was near.

I received a call in early June, 2010, in the early morning from the assisted living staff.  Dad was having problems breathing.  When I arrived Dad was laying in his bed, completely relaxed, and breathing easily.  The fire department and paramedics were there and I knew that this was dad’s last ride to the hospital.  I asked them to step out of the room.  I brought mom in and told her she needed to tell dad good-bye.  She was in her own world and laughed.  “He’s not going anywhere.  Wake up, Bert.  Quit kidding around.”  But daddy didn’t wake up, not then.

We met the ambulance at the hospital and the same doctor that had helped us after the medication overdose was on duty.  So was a nurse I had never met.  And we had met most of the ER nurses after the numerous visits we’d made with mom and dad.  Over Thanksgiving in 2009, my son with a rare bowel infection, my mother with pneumonia and dad, who was attempting to help mom and forgot he couldn’t walk, fell out of his wheelchair and split his head wide open, were all in the ER and on the 5th floor together for the entire holiday week.  Everyone knew us.  But not this nurse.  She whispered:  “Have him admitted.  Then tell them no more tests.  Demand hospice.”  She showed me a list of tests that they had scheduled for dad.  It was a cruel list.  But mom and dad had Medicare PLUS a private insurance and everything was covered 100 percent.  Dad was an ATM machine.  And they were going to make a withdrawal.

I followed her instructions to the letter.  And they stopped everything and admitted him to the 6th floor hospice.  Just before they moved us to his room, dad woke up.  He looked at my husband and then at me and said, “Psst….over here.”  I leaned down to hear his once booming voice whisper:  “How big of a check do I have to write to get out of this joint.”  My husband and I actually laughed.  It was such a Bert moment.  And then he looked at my husband and said, “Are we at the hospital or in a hotel?”  My husband responded, “At a hotel Dad and they are taking you to the penthouse.”  Dad never regained consciousness again.  He passed 3 or 4 days later, it’s a blur.  I played country and western songs for him and my husband soaked Q-tips with really expensive bourbon and wiped his lips.  He seemed to really enjoy that.  I know if he had his druthers, he never would have been sick a day in his life and always hoped that he would die in his sleep or have a sudden heart attack while gardening–and be dead before he hit the ground.

He left us on June 9, 2010.  Dad’s journey here was over.  But he never let me forget that Mom still needed someone and that someone was me and I certainly needed her.

To be concluded:  Part VI-Mom and Dad, together again.

Mom had announced that they were now “divorced,” and proclaimed she had flushed her wedding rings down the toilet.  This was the night before we drove her to the mental hospital.  I felt such relief–for him.  While the rings were but a symbol of their marriage of almost 6 decades, he viewed finding them as a chance that all would right itself in his world–a world that was crashing around him.

He had taken a side-trip with me to an assisted living facility near our home–a one bedroom.  He found it incomprehensible that after living all of his adult life in homes with 3 or more bedrooms, living rooms, dining rooms, two or more bathrooms and a den, he was downsizing to a two room studio-like apartment with no kitchen, a bathroom so small that one had to turn and straddle the toilet to shut the door and a combo living room, dining area, and den.  More shocking was the cost:  $5,000 per month but meals and medication management were included.  More importantly, he could remain living with his wife.

I had set out early each morning for a week visiting local assisted living facilities capable of handling Alzheimer’s or residents suffering severe dementia and potentially aggressive behavior—behavior we had witnessed from mom during the prior month.  We were still under the belief that mom would need lifetime care for her mental breakdown and would never be able to live in any other type of environment.  The one bedroom unit was the only one I found that entailed more than a 12 by 12 solitary room and was by far the cheapest.  Cheapest?  I had already visited units costing upward to $100,000 for mom alone and more if dad came as part of the package deal.  We had already discussed the desperate need to sell their home, furniture, most of their household goods and access a home equity line of credit on our home of 20 plus years.

Mom continued  recovering from shoulder surgery and had been placed back in lock-down following a weekend in the hospital wing.  Her surgery had been delayed to late evening the night after her admission and her doctor performed a ‘miracle,’ saving her arm but warned us that given her current mental state and the extensive damage she suffered from the failure to promptly treat her injury, things did not bode well for a successful long-term outcome.  This orthopedist, unlike Dr. Stephen Chow (her prior ‘treating’ doctor) spoke calmly, repeatedly touched my mother, was unafraid of her mental status and gently walked us through her future with this new shoulder he was going to have to build.  He observed the incessant talking and manic mood preceding and following the surgery and was well aware of the conditions in the mental health ward not the least being the staff who was unable to do more than simply maintain the status quo and patients that we observed wiping bodily fluids on the walls upon our first visit.  The surgery took place on a Thursday and he made sure she stayed in the hospital wing with a ‘sitter’ through the weekend to protect her and his work.

Leaving my husband in charge of mom for the following weekend, I returned to help dad.  I had spent hours online begging people to take Mollie, their dog.  We had finally accepted that the closest no-kill facility that was willing to take her with her medical issues was in Utah and we began planning that three-day round trip when I offered a facility located miles north of Lancaster, California, $600 and they agreed with the understanding that we would donate as many things off of their online wish list as we could find in my parents’ home as we were getting ready for a mega garage sale.

And so it began.  We sold his prized tools, shovels, a life-time of equipment that he cherished for pennies on the dollar.  Hammers–a dollar, no matter the original cost.  Table saws, grinders, refrigerator, new freezer, buffet, china hutch, formal dining table and kitchenette as well as two sets of bedroom furniture, keeping the smallest found in one of the guest rooms for their new abode.  Stereos, television sets, mixers, coffee mugs, silverware, formal china–everything was on the tables for sale.  We had no more room for items that he wanted us to “store” just in case.  My father looked as tired as I had ever seen him—and as defeated.  His life had Post-it note price tags attached to it. And the prices continued to go down as few people showed up in a community that was hit hard by the economic failures of the country at large, even more so in this community 100 miles north of Los Angeles with little or no industry to keep it on the map.  And then we were done and that which we couldn’t sell, dad had us donate to the local mission.  My husband arrived and he and my dad took Mollie for her last ride to the no-kill farm, a few hours drive away.  Dad returned with tear stained cheeks telling me she hadn’t even turned to look as she galloped off to play with a goat.  Mollie was gone.

Following mom’s release the next week with a bandaged arm/shoulder, we had already begun to notice many changes in her personality.  She was no longer manic but suffered from extreme short term memory loss.  She could not tell you why her arm was in a bandage nor why she had been hospitalized.  She would ask if she had been in a mental institution but had no memory of our response.  She remembered no response.  She no longer wanted a cigarette or a drink.  She had no desire to return to Crazyville, nor did she have any real memory of it.   She remembered Mollie and seemed happy that Mollie had found a farm to move to but didn’t comprehend that Mollie had been her companion and friend, just a ‘nice dog.’  She was surprised by the new facility and quite fearful of strangers.  Unlike Dad, she was content to stay in the two room apartment and was terrified of trying to fend for herself, depending on dad to take her to every meal and depending on me to arrange and handle all medical care and transportation as well as her hygiene.  Both were now dependent on me to handle their finances and the sale of their home.

As days turned to months and we made our way through the post-operative physical therapy and arranged and met their new doctors, I continued to visit Crazyville to oversee the sale of their property (not even a nibble for months) and the upgrades needed to compete in the horrific real estate market.  I watched as our own bank accounts took a beating, hemorrhaging with every carpet that needed replacing, wall that needed painting, monthly mortgage on an empty house and the rent on the assisted living facility that came due.  They had no assets to speak of except that house and it was losing value daily and we were forced to drop the already low asking price even lower.  Finally, a HUD buyer put in an offer, all hopes of equity gone by this time and the house remained in escrow well beyond the original closing date.  In addition, HUD required fees and repairs unlike any other lender and we were also required to purchase special and very costly insurance for a non-occupied residence.  Even that was a challenge as most insurance companies do not participate in that service and we were forced to use Lloyds of London.  All papers were signed and the nightmare of selling their home concluded in late July, 2008.  I have never been back except to appear in court in the action we filed against Dr. Stephen Chow for medical malpractice.

Dad was building a new life for himself and his wife in their two rooms and his depression was etched on his face.  An attempt by his internist to prescribe an anti-depressant left him agitated and he had the doctor change and then discontinue the medication.  His high blood pressure was still a concern and we always worried about the possibility that his bladder cancer would return, but he had beat it back twice and he had no concerns about it being a problem.

Dad’s main concern was keeping busy.  He was angry that the staff would gently knock and then enter his room, even when he was in his ‘skivvies’ as he would explain.  They needed to give mom her medications and couldn’t wait outside the door hoping he’d eventually hear them—so as with all others in the facility, it was a knock and enter policy.  This drove him to the brink of exasperation.  He would take daily walks to the local area shops but the neighborhood was rough and we worried about his safety.  The facility itself was locked down but it sat in a gang area with graffiti on every surface capable of being spray painted.  He didn’t seem to see it or perhaps he didn’t care.  He certainly wasn’t afraid.  He just wanted to get away—to work in his garage—to toil his garden and plant his vegetables.  But he couldn’t.  That part of his life ended and this new chapter had begun.

Dad asked me to take a walk with him.  We looked at the roses in the garden and he told me he had volunteered to take care of the grounds but that the administrator had said that he was not able to because of liability issues.  I could see his heart was breaking off a piece at a time.  He then put forth a suggestion, one I knew he’d been contemplating for months.  “How about Mom and I get ourselves a real apartment and we try living on our own?”  I threw all my objections at him but he was determined that I think about it and help him make it a reality.  I crunched numbers, called food delivery agencies, found automated medical devices with alarms that helped those with hearing/memory issues, found a picture phone so that mom could call me by simply pushing one giant button with my face located on it as well as my husband’s cell and her grandchildren.  We could cut the costs significantly if we found the right place.

I took Dad around to several places all located within a couple of miles of our home and within walking distance of shopping malls.   Then we found the one we were looking for—across the street from the mall, restaurants like IHOP and Chilis, clothing stores, a Wal-Mart, and while the apartment was small, it had a washer and dryer and a full bedroom and living room, an upstairs patio and deck and full kitchen.  I told him the only way I would agree to this was if he had the gas range disconnected and agreed to use the microwave only.  I was afraid with mom’s memory issues, she would forget the stove was on and well, I simply couldn’t live knowing that would be an hourly concern.  He agreed.  We placed a down payment and first month’s rent on the unit to save it.  I purchased the phone and medical device, reserved the parking with the management to make it easy for me to pick them up for their medical appointments and Mom, Dad and I had an outing at Home Depot to buy the only thing that didn’t come with the unit, a refrigerator.  I then stuck around a week later to accept delivery.  We gave notice to the assisted living and I took a deep breath.  This might work.  For Dad’s sake, I so hoped so.

Then IT happened–a week later.  He was helping mom out the door of their assisted living unit and a staffer was blocking the path.  Dad was forced to back up suddenly and fell.  He broke his back.  I was called and informed that he had been transported to Valley Presbyterian and I needed to get to the ER.  Upon arrival, Dad was “missing.”  No one could figure out where he had been placed.  After hours of searching the hospital, I informed them that we should call the police.  We had even checked the morgue.  A construction worker inquired as I sat in a chair exhausted, angry and scared if I was looking for an elderly man.  He then pointed to a gurney covered in a blue tarp.  I rushed to it and Dad was under the tarp having been covered to protect him from ceiling debris while the construction workers were working on it and then, he had been forgotten.  He was on a morphine drip and hadn’t a clue where he was or why he was there.  He explained he’d been on a “submarine under water” all day.  I was so relieved I actually laughed—the blue tarp and the noises.  A perfect storm for what turned out to be a life-long memory that he never was able to shake.

He was finally moved to a room and I made sure he was directly across from the nurses’ station because he was a bit delusional given the earlier problems.  Now,  Mom needed my help.  My husband headed for the hospital and I headed for the assisted living down the road.  She was alone, she hadn’t gone to dinner, no one had come to get her and she was so frightened.  She had no clue where Dad was or why and was waiting….simply waiting for someone.  I made myself very clear to the staff and administration.  For the price we were paying, someone needed to make sure she was taken to her meals and helped if need be with daily issues that might arise.  I told them I would split my day between the hospital and mom but I couldn’t be both places at once.  I had been informed by the orthopedist that Dad was going to have a long recovery period and our lives were once again taking an unexpected turn.  There was no apartment in their near future.  The apartment manager was wonderful, rented the unit to someone else and I sold them the unused refrigerator for half what we paid so that I wouldn’t have to haul and store it.

Early the next morning, I arrived at the hospital and entered my father’s room on the fourth floor.  He was sleeping.  I leaned down to kiss him and a stranger looked back up at me.  That man in that bed was not my father.  I had frightened both of us and headed out to the nurses’ station.  “Where’s my dad?”  “Who’s your dad?”  “He was the man in that room but that isn’t my father.”  “Well that is the only person that has been in that room since the shift change and we don’t have a clue where your father is.”  “Then FIND OUT!”  And they did.  It seems he had a ‘cardiac event’ in the late p.m. and no one thought to call me.  They simply moved him to the cardiac floor one story up.  Things were going pretty rough at this institution and they only got worse before they got better.

The internist assigned to his case refused my repeated demands that they take him off of Dilaudid.  Dad was becoming more delusional as the days turned into weeks.  The internist would agree, show me the order, and then upon my arrival in the early mornings I would find my dad hallucinating and ask to see his chart.  Each and every time the chart showed that the evening shift had administered Dilaudid.

I ran between the hospital and the assisted living facility numerous times throughout the day and found mom sitting in her own waste with that confused look each and every time I arrived.  She would ask the same questions as before and I would give her the same answers.  I had hit the wall when I had the administrator come to their room.  We came to an understanding immediately.  One more event and not only would my mother be moving, but I would sue the facility for all moving expenses and any extra costs that moving her entailed including a private nurse, if need be.

I also informed him that a young staffer was to stay 100 yards from my mother.  I had witnessed her pulling my mother’s injured arm and speaking to her in harsh tones that many would consider abusive about urinating on herself.  When I told the young lady to step away from my mother, she stepped towards me in a threatening manner.  That was her last mistake.  Not only did I outweigh her by 100 pounds, but my IQ was at least that much higher than hers and she never approached me again.

My husband and I decided that the only way to ‘protect’ my father was to set up house in his room and sleep there.  We blocked all staff from entering his room and I checked every pill he was given.  Slowly he made his way out of the stupor and was ready to be moved to rehab.  I then visited the administrators of the hospital at that time to inform them what had occurred from admission in the ER to the current date.  Instead of sending him to a off-premises rehab facility, they suggested that my father be the first patient in their new, state-of-the-art facility which wasn’t opening for a month or so.  He could be their sole patient with everyone practicing on him and at his beckon call.  I visited the facility and agreed.  While dad continued to have daily hallucinations, they stemmed from past events and no new ‘memories’ were created by the move.  While problems arose, like an attempt to discharge him while we were out-of-town for the weekend, we left the facility with dad walking with a walker and wearing a brace.  And while many things rose to the level of medical negligence, we chose not to pursue any additional action other than the meeting I had participated in with the administration.

Dad returned to the assisted living realizing that his dream of apartment living and being on their own was impossible in the immediate and seemed content to enjoy those friends that he had in the facility who cheered his return.  Shortly thereafter, we decided given the treatment that mom had received or hadn’t received as the case maybe, we would move them to the assisted living across the street from the ‘apartment that almost was’ which was smaller, but slightly less expensive, closer and in a great neighborhood with a better facility and dining area.  Once again I was back on duty.  They now required all new doctors and all those things that go along with a move of any kind.  I had long ago stopped taking care of myself or my own family but was just in survival mode.

As we were adjusting to all the new doctors, their office requirements and the like, mom watched the Animal Planet and Dad watched baseball and golf and tried to fit in again to a life he didn’t ask for and certainly didn’t want.

During one of these “meet the new doctor” visits we found out that Dad’s cancer returned and while the cancer didn’t kill him, the doctor did.

PART V:  To be continued–Dad’s journey ends, a settlement is reached on behalf of mom and Dr. Stephen Chow and we are forced to sue Dr. Ian Gale for Dad’s nursing care after he negligently prescribed the wrong medications and performed additional unnecessary surgeries without consent on my father while treating his cancer.

I was exhausted and we still had over 30 miles before we would arrive.  I dreaded the moment we would walk in that house.  She had broken me.  Every hour was filled with drama.  As soon as I would hang up, Mom would call again pleading one moment, screaming the next claiming Dad was stealing her pills, accusing us of colluding to keep her from her nightly drink, her medications and swearing on her life that dad was abusing her by pretending to give her the pills as posted on the pill chart but in actuality was stealing them for himself.  She had placed numerous calls daily to her family doctor begging for help.  Dad had spoken to the doctor and was completely lost.  His world was collapsing in on him and he had little strength to continue.  We were coming as reinforcements–to help him–to help her.

My cell phone rang and my hands shook as I answered—caller ID confirmed it was coming from my parents’ home.  Dad’s voice cracked as he responded to my “hello.”  “They just took your mom and honey, she wasn’t breathing.  I think she had a stroke.  I think your momma is gone.”  Stop.  Think.  Ask the right questions.

“Dad, who took mom?”

“The ambulance.  I was in the garage and when I came into the house, she was lying on the ground and she wasn’t breathing.  I think she fell out of the chair and her neck was bent and she may have hit her head on the corner of the wall.  Her arm was still attached to the table.  I can’t drive, can you pick me up?  Where are you?”

“We are about 25 minutes away Dad.  We will come and get you.  Where did they take her?  What did the paramedics say?”

“They said that they got her to take a breath and put oxygen on her and told me they would be taking her to St. Mary’s ER.”

“Be ready, Dad.  We will be there as soon as we can.”

I found it difficult to find my voice.  It was coming out of my mouth but I didn’t recognize it.  Adrenaline pouring into my bloodstream so quickly that I could feel my eyelashes on my cheeks when I blinked and wondered if I had just lost my mother.  My husband started to pass an 18 wheeler on this back-road two lane highway and I shouted for him to get back in his own lane.  “Pearblossom Highway is called ‘Death Alley’ for a reason,” I shrieked.  By damned, I was going to get to my father and safely take him to the hospital.  I honestly felt in my soul that he would die if we didn’t show up to help him.

We pulled into their driveway and he met us at the door.  I ran past him to use the facilities and told him to go on out to the car and I would lock up and put their dog inside.  We were back on the road to the hospital within 3 minutes of our arrival.  Dad repeated the story we had heard but filled in a few details.  She had peed herself and he had cleaned it up before the ambulance arrived because he didn’t want her to be embarrassed.  Dad had gathered all of her medications and had given them to the ambulance driver.  I swallowed all emotional responses and went on auto-pilot.  I questioned him on every minute detail from the time they awoke to the time the ambulance pulled out of the driveway.  I knew that when we arrived, if she was still alive, my job was just beginning.

We poured through the ER doors and I headed to find my mother.  They told me that she was talking and was in bed 3.  It was just past the admission desk and it was empty—no bed, only a table with a bag of pills.  Another nurse indicated that she had been taken for testing and would return.  We could wait outside.  I declined her suggestion, sent Dad and my husband out to the waiting area and I sat down in a chair near the spot where her bed had been.  And then she appeared, sitting upright in a bed talking with the attendants.  She was beautiful and laughing.  She spotted me and turned and told the technician, “That’s my daughter, Debi.”  And turning to me she asked, “What are you doing here?”  She seemed at peace with her world.  No rantings, just concern etched on her face for me.  I must have looked like hell, because she became immediately concerned about me.  Then she asked about Dad and my husband.  It was so surreal.

A young doctor approached the bed and I introduced myself.  He then told me that he had no idea what had happened, “perhaps she hit her head,” but she did not have a stroke.  She did, however, have a dislocated shoulder and they would be putting it back into place but wanted to observe her for awhile.  He then said we could take her own in a few hours.  He left.  I immediately went to the waiting room, informed Dad and my husband of the miracle and headed back in with both of them.  The roller coaster of emotions Dad had been on led me to suggest that my husband take him back to the waiting room and I would monitor mom in the confined area of the ER.  She had no memory of any events except she continued to say she thought it was evening and she could see herself being taken out of their home on a gurney.  The nurse came and took a history and as I gathered her bag of pills, it was apparent that someone had ‘lifted’ the Vicodin.  They had recorded the Vicodin coming in with her, but it was no where to be found.  I wasn’t surprised but it bothered me.

I sat and found myself speaking to my mom.  Not the woman that had called dozens of times during the past week, but Mom.  She was smiling….she was beautiful….she was alive.  After we had been there for about an hour, she started to turn her head and her eyes rolled back, her teeth clinched and her facial muscles became taunt changing the actual structure of her face.  Her left arm was holding the rails of the bed and she started flopping and twisting. I knew she was having a seizure and screamed for help.  Two assistants wandered over as I watched my mom’s lips turning blue.  They continued talking about what they were going to do later that evening and one shook mom’s toe.  She continued to flail as the seizure continued to overtake her.  I screamed at the two imbeciles to get a doctor.  “NOW!” I shouted.  The doctor  heard me and came over on his own.

He asked me a number of questions about her seizure history (none) and what I had observed.  I told him I observed her not breathing and she still hadn’t taken a breath–a few minutes seemed like hours. He called her name.  He shook her.  He used his knuckles on her chest and then he hit her and she took a breath.  She was back but out of it.  He then quickly explained that she had suffered a “tonic-clonic” seizure (one we would have referred to as grand mal) and that she was “postictal” (the state of disorientation following a seizure of this kind) and he wanted to try to set her dislocated shoulder while she was basically unaware of what was happening around her.  He attempted to set the arm and broke it.  I heard the snap and he indicated that this was “bad,” and then left to order another x-ray.  As she came around, the pain was enormous.  They sedated her with morphine and an anti-seizure medication.  Instead of sending her home as originally indicated, he informed me that he was looking for a doctor to admit her for observation given the seizure and shoulder issues.

Mom was admitted late Saturday afternoon.  She was completely out of it and all of us looked like we had been through the ‘wringer’ as mom would have said had she been conscious.  But she wasn’t.  We took Dad home and went back early in the a.m.   We were told she had a peaceful evening but she was still so sedated she hadn’t spoken to anyone.  Dad spoke with her orthopedist who arrived as soon as I had left her bedside for my only 15 minute break of the day.  I saw him talking to dad and examining mom from afar.  She was unconscious but he proclaimed that her shoulder looked good and the break was a chip that would float around and eventually attach itself–most importantly, it was “nothing to worry about.  I see nothing that would indicate that she needs any surgery or physical therapy.”

He left and my husband came and took my father to lunch.  I was alone with mom when a woman in blue jeans accompanied by two young boys entered the room.  She had long hair and it was pulled back in a pony-tail.  I figured she had the wrong room.  She went up and started talking to my mother (mom was still unconscious) and the children stood at the foot of the bed looking on.  I asked if I could help her.  She glanced up from her black notebook and informed me in a very unfriendly manner, that she was Dr. McKinney and that Christine was her patient.

If sparks can fly between two people, we just set the room on fire.  I testily told her I was Christine’s daughter, the daughter who had spoken with her on the phone on September 7, 2007.  I then told her she could stop talking to my mother because they had her so sedated she couldn’t speak.  I was terribly offended by the children in the room although I didn’t verbally express it, my body language was a ‘tell.’  Who were they?  They were NOT family.  I mentioned that they might be more comfortable outside and she explained that HER patients liked when her sons visited.  But then she turned and told them to wait in the hall.

I told her what had happened from the time dad called to the visit a while ago by the orthopedist.  She told me she would be adjusting mom’s medications, ordering an attendant to sit with her at night (in case she was ‘sun-downing’ or agitated as she had been prior to the stroke-that wasn’t), and that she had ordered an anti-psychotic for her the night before and thought that might be the reason for her current condition.  She couldn’t explain the seizure I had witnessed, the initial stroke-that wasn’t, but indicated that she had contacted mom’s neurologist and that I should speak with him.  She stated that she was mystified but he should be able to help us fully understand her mental condition.  She told me that Dr. Chow was an excellent orthopedist and that mom was in good hands.

Throughout the next two days, Mom’s arm was taken in and out of its brace by the nursing staff and aides for just about every reason except allowing her to use the restroom.  They told her to “pee yourself.  You are wearing a diaper, just pee!!”  This caused not only terrible consternation to mom but later, became a major issue, like when potty-training a child.   As a nurse told me later, once you give them permission, it is hard to take it away.  I questioned the removal of her brace and they indicated that the orthopedist had not placed any restrictions on the removal and would have, had it been of any import.  Mom’s mental state deteriorated more each day.  She was angry and shouted at everyone.  She looked and acted witch-like, her voice shrill and her anger palpable.  Her roommates were all moved after short periods of time because of her incessant rantings.  I was thrilled to meet her neurologist on the evening of her second day and was told that he was sending her home and she would remain on anti-psychotics and many of her past drugs, would need oxygen, would need to quit smoking and was currently on a nicotine patch, had ordered an EEG and would speak to me about the results at our first post-hospitalization office visit.  I thought he said he was “going to the opera.”  It may have been the outfit.  He flew in dressed like a character out of a Lon Chaney movie—with a tuxedo and cape like outfit—and flew out.

The EEG turned into a nightmare, taking twice as long, because of mom’s agitation and inability to stop talking.  The nursing staff seemed relieved that she was being discharged.  I questioned whether she was ready for discharge citing her personality changes.  They indicated “doctor’s orders.”   She screamed for pain medication claiming she had pain “everywhere” but I was informed that they could not administer any on the day of release.  Instead, I would be getting her prescriptions.  She screamed for hours of the pain.  She spit on aides that tried to touch her and her eyes were no longer focused and she acted like a caged animal that was trying to escape. They told me that it was her ‘mind.’  She was suffering some break with reality.  Everyone that entered her room for the first time would utter:  “Is she always like this?”  “NO!”  I repeatedly told everyone that this “wasn’t my mother.”  It landed on deaf ears.  I was repeatedly told her pain was in “her head.”  They would check her chart and tell me she was on anti-psychotics and that this might help.  Maybe.

The discharge nurse was attending a meeting so another named ‘Rainbow’ discharged mom.  Mom screamed of her pain all the way to our car.  It was just Dad and Mom and me.  I had driven my husband home and returned the night before.  Mom’s last words to the nurse’s aide were, “If you send me home, I will die.”  The nurse’s aide began to cry and asked me if it was just Dad and I to take care of her.  I shook my head in the affirmative and she asked God to take care of us.

A home-visitation nurse came to the house but after looking around and taking a history, left without doing much else.  Others came and went, sometimes taking her vitals, sometimes not and some to explain equipment that was being dropped off.  A woman would come by once or twice a week and offer Mom a bath.  Mom would rant that she didn’t need a bath and dad wasn’t really keen on this slightly disheveled woman who wore a “Gilligan’s hat”  either.  Her husband would sit in the car.  It was weird, creepy and everyone was on edge.

Dad looked like something the dog dug up.  He had aged years in a matter of weeks.  Mom could no longer smoke as she was on oxygen and would rage at him that she smelled cigarettes on him and wanted one.  After smoking for 60 plus years, my father went cold turkey and borrowing some of her nicotine patches, handed over several cartons for us to ‘donate.’  “Those cost more than gold.  Don’t you dare throw them away,” Dad told my husband.  My husband gave them to our “bum-friend Dave” that loved the Lakers and lived in an alley near our local post office.  He smoked some–and used the rest to barter for cheap liquor and food.  We told dad and he smiled—first time in a month.

The next 3 weeks consisted of around the clock care by dad and I (with a four day visit by my sister who never returned and made it clear that this was simply too much for her to deal with) that can only be described as a trip into the bowels of Hell.  I explained during a deposition that my mother had fallen into Alice’s rabbit hole and came up in another place.  The house was never quiet.  The alarm monitoring the oxygen was continually going off as she refused to wear the nose cannula and would toss the 50 foot of cord aside as she made her way down the hall with her walker.  Mom was either moaning, ranting, raging or begging us to kill her and get “it over with.”  One afternoon, when she had screamed herself to exhaustion, she laid on her bed and fell asleep.  I quietly laid down on the other side of the bed staring at her face.  It was beautiful and so peaceful.  Less than an hour later, she open her eyes and softly spoke my name.  “Debi….where’s your dad?”  “He’s in the living room taking a nap, Mom.”  She was so calm.  “Sweetie, I had the weirdest dream.  I dreamed that my arm was way across the bed and the only thing holding it onto my body was my skin.”  And then she smiled.  A tired, sweet smile.  “It’s okay Momma, it was only a dream.”  Then she attempted to sit up and whatever peace was ours for an hour, was gone.  She fell back into the rabbit hole.

One theme that she never let go was the repeated cries that we were trying to kill her.  She would throw things with her left arm and the most distressing character change was that she no longer had any filters.  We took her to repeated doctors’ visits where she lashed out and insulted people about their weight, their smells, their nationality, their clothes—anything and everything that popped into her head, came out of her mouth.  I had never heard my mother in my entire life speak an unkind word to another.  Now this was her ‘new normal.’  We went to her family doctor on two occasions and the doctor came to the car to examine her as mom was unable or refused to get out of the car claiming she was in too much pain.  Her neurologist informed us that she had epilepsy.

On October 4, 2007, her orthopedist, after keeping us waiting two hours, sent us away to obtain x-rays and told me to tie a dish cloth or a piece of gauze around her arm and neck as she was now refusing to wear the brace.  She begged him for pain medication.  He told her she had enough pain medication. She had covered her body in little white patches that she placed all over, including her genitals.  They looked to be the patches that one gets over-the-counter for sprains.  She hovered in a corner and begged.  I told him we would get the x-ray and be right back.  He stopped me in my tracks with his response.

He told me he was too busy to review the x-rays and would see her next week before he was scheduled to leave on vacation.  He had a lobby full of sweaty teens with broken bones and the waiting room was 100 plus degrees because his air conditioner had broken.  Everyone was edgy but the mothers in the room looked at me with pity and several spoke as dad left to take  mom to the car.  They told me to go immediately and get the x-ray–that the place would be empty (and it was) and they all had stories about relatives with mental illnesses.

I took mom for the x-ray, received a CD and returned to their home.  From that time until the time I drove her to a mental institution was a blur.  I wrote letters begging for her neurologist and family doctor to help.  I called everyone in the Valley to help.  I told them what I was told.  “She had lost herself.”  “She was mentally ill” and then I told each person that I spoke with that my mother had disappeared into this shell that was now peeing in coffee cans in the living room.

“She will never live on her own again.”

“Your mom needs around the clock care.”

She has entered a new phase of Alzheimer’s and the mother you knew is gone.”

“You aren’t equipped to take care of her.”

“She needs a lock-down facility.” “She needs a lock-down facility.”  “She needs a lock-down facility.”

“Dad, we need to talk.  Momma isn’t ‘coming back.’  I know you promised each other that you’d never put the other in a ‘nut house,’ but she’s no longer the person you made that promise to.  No, Papa, we can’t take Mollie.  She’s too big and she needs medications and she needs a big yard and lots of time–and we have none of that to give her.  I will find a no-kill shelter, a farm, someone who can take good care of her.  We need to take care of momma.  We need to sell your house.  You don’t have long-term care insurance and Medicare doesn’t cover this.  I’ll call a realtor.  What a god-awful time to be selling–we’ll be lucky if we can sell it at all.  Don’t worry dad, we’ll take a second on our house.  You can move in with us—it’s all about Momma, now.”

After calling dozens of people on Monday and Tuesday, October 8th and 9th, 2007, I was thrown a lifeline by the Encino-Tarzana psychiatric hospital with a lock-down mental ward.  I was told to bring her in—they would send an ambulance if needed–that she was now a danger to herself and others, including dad and me.  She had also hidden a handgun.  God help us.

The admission was horrific—they took her screaming down the hall—”Don’t do this to me,” all the while claiming she wasn’t crazy.  I drove dad immediately back to Crazyville as we had left their large dog locked in the house.  By the time we arrived my phone was ringing and it was an orthopedic doctor that had been retained by her admitting neuro-psychiatrist.  He indicated that upon Mom’s initial exam, the psychiatrist had immediately noticed that her arm was out of socket.  He indicated that he, personally, could visually see the deformity and her TB x-ray prominently showed the dislocation.

I told him of our visit the prior week with Dr. Chow and asked if she had been attacked by any of the locked down patients.  He said he had no knowledge of any attack but that her arm would need immediate surgery and that successful healing would depend on when it had slipped out of joint.  I told him I had brought the CD of her x-rays taken at her last visit with the orthopedist on the 4th and had left it with the intake personnel during her admission.  He called me back after his review of the x-rays.  He said he had “bad news.”  Mom’s arm had never been set.  It had floated and attached itself to her clavicle and that there was terrible damage to her ligaments, tendons and muscles.  He didn’t sound like he had much hope for saving her arm, but minimally, he was willing to try and he was scheduling surgery for the earliest possible time.

“Dad.  Mom needs surgery.  Now.”

“This isn’t good, is it, baby?”

“No Dad, it isn’t.  Get Mollie, her cage, her food, her medications.  Get your medications, clothes and don’t forget your hearing aids, batteries and C-Pap machine.”  We are headed home.  Momma needs us.  The surgeon will be meeting with us tonight.”

PART IV to be continued.

[The x-ray was taken on October 4, 2007, 11 minutes after leaving Dr. Stephen Chow's office following mother's 'exam.'  It is clear, even to a layman, that the shoulder is dislocated and a large piece of bone is broken off and is floating in the area.  While we were unable to view this initially as it required a special viewer for the CD we were given, a report was sent to Dr. Chow by the radiologist shortly after these x-rays were taken.  Dr. Stephen Chow declared in his deposition that he did not see the report but did indicate that he suspected her arm was dislocated at the time he sent her home and rescheduled her appointment for the following week.]

Article after article has critiqued Verrilli and his opponent as if they are actors quoting Shakespeare—and in some ways, they should be able to deliver their message with perfect pitch and be able to roll with the questions, the interruptions, the spotlight.  But that didn’t happen.  Why not?

We could blame it on stage fright–it possibly being the biggest case of his life.  But the explanation is probably much simpler.   He was appointed to replace Supreme Court Justice Kagan and had excellent credentials as a superior COPYRIGHT attorney.  I am certain that when arguing the intricacies of copyright law (a subject that could bore paint off a wall), he’s spectacular or at least it is of no matter if he suffers performance dysfunction (PD).  But here, he was putting forth the argument for millions of Americans without health care—in a civil  trial-like atmosphere.  And he failed to deliver what the media hoped to be a knockout punch.

But does that mean that his performance or lack thereof  is the be all–end all?  No.  Not even of much import at all.  Oral argument is mostly for show—-each Justice has read hundreds of pages prepared by their clerks of documents summarizing thousands of pages of submissions by all sides including amicus curiae (friends of the court).  The argument is SCOTUS’s show case for themselves—and the attorneys unfortunately are props and in some cases punching bags but they wouldn’t even be eligible for a supporting actor nod come Oscar time.

Don’t let the performance of one attorney be what you hang your hat on—these men and women were merely positioning for the cameras, the media and  you.  They know exactly how they intend to rule on this matter.  Never let the media tell you otherwise.

Her body was betraying her in her 7th decade on this earth.  Scoliosis was ravaging her back and we were told she was probably born with it, but had controlled its eventual development with her extraordinary posture required of all the young girls of her generation.  Pain pills (Vicodin), pain patches (Lidocaine), too late for any surgical intervention.  Her toes gnarled from pointy-toed heels she wore daily to work and evenings to political functions.  And as if that weren’t enough, chronic shingles and COPD from years of smoking with just a touch of anxiety that comes on some seniors as they are left to ponder if this is the best of the Golden years.  But more prescriptions for the shingles (“itch pills” as mom called the Neurontin), codeine syrup for that irritating cough and Xanax to calm the nerves was just what the doctor ordered to cure the day and night ills.

And what better way to wash down those pills than with one or two early evening chasers of Seven-Seven (for those non-drinkers, this was my parents evening cocktail for as long back as my memory can pull up images.  Seven-Up and Seagram’s Seven in a tall glass chilled with ice).  And this is the portrait of my mother’s retirement.  With one notable exception—her kind and generous heart and enormous love for her family, her daughters, her grandchildren, her skilled baking creations, her garden, her hummingbirds and whatever wildlife that roamed the area where she had put down roots. And while these ailments were irritants, she no longer believed she was going to die young and was planning for a long life with a ‘few aches and pains.’

Her roots started in Kansas, married on April Fool’s Day at the beginning of her 17th year, had her first child 10 months, 6 days later (contraception on your wedding night was unheard of) and she is probably the only person that can tell you the date she began smoking and with my help, the day she quit.  Hours after she delivered my sister, she informed the nurse she was bored and couldn’t comprehend that she would be staying at the hospital for a week (required in those days) and the nurse promptly brought her a pack of menthol cigarettes and a package of matches and told her to “learn to smoke.  It will keep those hands busy.”  Yes, they smoked in the hospital, around babies and with the blessing of health care providers.  Those were the days.

She moved when Dad changed jobs as Chief Investigator at a sheriff’s department in Colorado.  They were still very young, Mom with two daughters now and in her mid-twenties, Dad just entering his thirties.  When they retired and left Colorado  some thirty-plus years later, she again set up house in Nevada–Dad’s lungs needed the dry weather from all his years of smoking and they were a couple–both strong willed, stubborn and private.

We did not discuss their finances with them and one never asked salaries–this was forbidden.  By the time I convinced them to move into the sunshine state, closer to my family, they had finally allowed me to know where they kept their important documents, but made sure to tell me that they were the parents and I was the child–something that would change as their lives unraveled.  And even though I practiced law with a focus on medical cases, they never shared their medical information and the drug list above was information they kept between themselves and their doctors.  “We are fine.”  “Worry about yourselves—we can take care of our little problems.”

The problem was I had noticed changes, significant changes, in my mother over the past two years and was convinced that mom was suffering from paranoia (she thought the mail person or others were stealing mail) dementia (I found a sandwich stuffed in the silverware drawer) and possible onset Alzheimer’s as had her brother and mother before her.  She had on a few occasions called and had me send her Xanax (the drug of choice for anxiety for many of us it would seem) and as I had ‘extras’ because I still take them when needed and not like Tic-Tacs and she had been ‘shorted’ or had misplaced hers; it seemed insignificant at the time but I began to see it as a possible problem.  No longer.  It was now a major problem along with the alcohol and the memory issues.

It was the last day of  August 2007 when I received a call in the early a.m.  Mom and Dad were both on the phone, one on each extension.  Mom’s legs were swelling to an enormous size and she thought she needed to go to hospital to have them checked for blood clots (something she dealt with in her forties after a fall and a dislocated knee cap).  Dad was proclaiming he was more than capable of taking care of her while she emphatically stated that he would wander away, was currently ‘walking in circles’ and she needed my eyes and ears.  It was agreed she would call an ambulance and I dressed and three hours later was making my way down the halls of St. Mary’s Hospital.  Her name was on the board–but I had to do a double check because Mom had always used her middle name, Christine, while Medicare and Social Security required her to use her given name, Shirley.  When I went to the ER admissions desk, they sent me back to bed 5.  Bed 5 was empty.  A nurse approached me and told me that the ultrasound had found no clots, Mom sought a prescription of Xanax for her ‘nerves,’ which was ignored and they were attempting to determine the cause of the swelling when Mom announced she could take care of her own legs and she and dad left shortly thereafter.

I headed over to their house not the least bit happy and exhausted.  Mom was sitting at the table, cigarette in one hand and an early morning cocktail in the other.  Alcoholism is a funny family secret in most homes.  My parents and their political and work friends all drank daily.  Fully stocked bars in rec rooms were a common feature.  They would tell you that they were not alcoholics, that they could quit whenever they felt like it (usually pursuant to some new diet) and could easily change from the hard stuff to beer and wine if they so decided.  Children didn’t argue with their parents and they did not tell them when and where they could drink—until that morning.  I was furious.  Her legs were as large as tree trunks and she had  electrode stickers that the hospital technician attached to her forehead, chest and legs still on her.  A big white circle with a metal nipple was looking at me as if a third eye had been attached.  I removed them as she continued to smoke and drink—telling me that the nurse told her that she had permission to drink to calm her nerves in lieu of Xanax.  She asked Dad to confirm her story and he sadly shook his head in the negative.  She was oblivious to his response.

I walked with Dad to the garage and he began to leak information that was normally sealed in their ‘personal vault’—Mom was taking her pills at all times of the day and was forgetting things more and more with a large dose of paranoia to boot.  I had previously discussed her Xanax intake with him as she and I had gone around a bit on that subject in the past so while I wasn’t surprised by the information he was imparting to me, I was very concerned by his observation that it was time to help her.

As I re-entered the kitchen, I saw mom reach into her pocket, remove a pill and swallow it.  “What was that, Mom?”  “One of my itch pills.”  I had no idea what the hell an itch pill was or did.  She had no idea what it was actually called.  I went to the cabinet with the vitamins and prescription medicines but there was no rhyme or reason to what or when a drug or vitamin was scheduled.  I questioned what pills, besides Xanax and a pain medication she was taking.  I found an empty bottle of Neurontin and was told that this was “it,” her itch pills.  The prescription showed that she should have had more than half of the 30 day supply left.  Yet, the bottle was empty.  She claimed the pharmacy shorted her.  Dad again shook his head in the negative.

I had been preparing their Medical Directives and Durable Powers of Attorney “just in case” and the documents had been ready for months in the trunk of my car.  I retrieved them, called a mobile notary and signed them that hot and windy August day.  If there is a God, it is the only thing he helped me handle without a hitch until the day they both died in 2010.  Signed and later recorded.  Done.  And little did I know that it would be about two weeks later when I would be using them until they were frayed and copied more times over the next 3 years than any document I had ever prepared.  Now, how to get them to lock up their hand guns that they kept for protection….

As she slept the afternoon away, I told Dad to put up the bourbon, gather all the pills that he could find and we would set up a pill chart to regulate her prescriptions pursuant to the instructions of the doctor.  At this time, I had no idea of the amount of prescriptions, the quantity or dosage and never knew that she had prescription Lidocaine patches and codeine cough syrup in large bottles until much later.  I was looking for pills.  And she was a tricky one.  Her jacket and pants’ pockets were filled with Kleenex and each tissue had a few little pills stored safely inside.  Hoping we had gotten them all, I presented her with our “plan,” the pill chart and that Dad would be monitoring her prescriptions.  She became extremely angry, accused me of siding with my father and accused him of stealing her pills.  She accused him of being the alcoholic and the nightmare began.  I knew I needed help.  Professional help.  I hadn’t a clue what I was dealing with and lived 3 hours away.  I took down all the information about Mom’s primary caregiver and headed home knowing that a fight was brewing in the high desert.

The phone was ringing as soon as I entered the house—Mom accusing Dad of hiding her medications, refusing to give her the pills and ‘forcing’ her to drink.  Hourly phone calls all through the night and the next days–screaming, crying, begging for her drugs, claiming to be a prisoner, threats of calling the police and in my head, Victorville, California, became Crazyville, California from that day forth.

I sat down and wrote this entire saga to her family physician leaving nothing sacred or secret.  Embarrassed for them, for me, but knowing this was something that we needed to get a handle on immediately before she overdosed on pills and alcohol.  I tried calling the physician before I sent the letter but no response.  Dad encouraged me to keep trying and he set up an appointment for September 7th, a Friday.  Could we survive that long?  After the first letter was faxed on September 3rd, I tried calling again.  And again, no response.  I sent another facsimile on September 5th and again, no response.  I was petrified that Dad was going to have a heart attack from all this drama.  I knew I was exhausted and drained.  And she was still begging, screaming and threatening—with no end in sight.  I wondered whether this was hell and if this was what severe withdrawal looked like.  We needed the doctor’s help—now.  I informed the doctor that I thought she was going through withdrawals from her medications being regulated—there were so many.

September 7th came and my phone rang.  A voice identifying herself as my parents’ family doctor was on the line.  “Thank God, Doc.  I am so glad to speak with you.  Did you get my facsimiles?”

“What is all this jibber-jabber?  Your parents are a nice older couple and I have seen nothing of anything you are blabbing about in these letters.  I find that when relatives get this involved in their parents’ care, it is because they are trying to steal their house or money.  Your dad and your mom are with me right now and she looks fine.”

And so began our family’s descent into hell with their physicians lighting the way.

TO BE CONTINUED:  PART III Mom’s journey to the hospital, to the mental institution, to assisted living and ultimately to her death.

No sudden heart attack or tragic car accident.  And while the death certificates indicate that one died of a cerebral event and the other by complications of pneumonia, both should or could have read, Death by Physician.  Long, slow and ugly deaths brought on by medical negligence.  And while I remained at their bedsides for dozens of hospitalizations over a 3 year period, many times for months without a break in their care, leaving only to shower and catch a few hours of sleep before my day began again in rooms poorly lit with fluorescent lights and linoleum floors, a woman educated in the law, specializing in medical negligence, I couldn’t prevent their deaths by those who took the Hippocratic Oath to do no harm.

I loved my parents.  I still do.  My children were blessed to have been loved by them and my husband was the son they never had.  I had a good childhood.  Both my parents worked hard for a living.  Dad was a police officer.  He started out as a young patrolman in Kansas and later was elected Sheriff.  After term limits sent him looking for another job, we moved to Colorado where I grew up in a middle class neighborhood, Mom working at the local gas and electric company until she retired and Dad was brought aboard as Chief Investigator and later was again the elected Sheriff.  They died with only my immediate family at their bedsides–no friends–no other family members–no one knowing our grief and their loss of dignity and our family’s loss of privacy.   As they lost control of bodily functions and were flipped, cleaned, wiped, poked and prodded by strangers, I spent hours every day asking questions, reading charts, researching medical issues and swallowing the urge to shout at nurses and shake doctors until ‘their teeth rattled.’  (As my mom use to say.)

Was every medical provider on this path to their death incompetent and complicit in their ultimate demise?  No.  Some days I would see a special nurse or two or three and celebrate.  A substitute doctor who, without knowing my parents, made better decisions than those assigned to their care.  They felt my parents’ pain, they wiped my tears and while most did not engage in provider-bashing, many nodded and understood my frustration as it was theirs as well.  They were professionals and knew their responsibilities and the care that was necessary to help my parents heal.  So what went wrong?  How did a 30 year plus practicing medical malpractice attorney lose both her parents to medical negligence?  And perhaps more telling, did all medical negligence committed on these two seniors lead to their death?  The answer to the latter question is easy.  No.  There wasn’t too many negligent-free days in the three years they were under the care of ‘professionals.’  I laugh when I hear someone proclaim we have the best medical care in the world.  Bullshit.  (That would be my father talking now.)  To sum it up for Bert (my father), the medical profession and our current hospital system is a clusterf**k and if one gets out alive, then good karma to you.

My parents passed in purportedly sterile rooms on the hospice floor of one of the hospitals they repeatedly found themselves taken to during the last years of their lives.  Had I not asked for a change of rooms, they would have died in the same room and with the same bed number but we simply couldn’t take looking at the same cracks in the ceiling and same torn curtain tabs.  The same….the same.  It was too much.

Dad died on June 9, 2010 and Mom at the stroke of midnight on the day before/the day of my birth in early November 2010, just 5 short months after Dad in the 58th year of their marriage.  Did you know that you can’t die at midnight?  At least your death certificate can’t reflect that time of death as it belongs to neither day and to both days.  And thus, even in death, the doctor, hospital and staff continued to cause suffering to our family.  For days, until they were able to round up the vacationing doctor and change the time of death, my mother was kept in a freezer unit, waiting to be cremated. (And it continued for weeks until they were actually able to cremate her because of the Thanksgiving holidays).  Each night I would flip my pillow, wet with tears, and wonder if she would be released from the cold the next day.  She hated the cold.  She left Colorado and headed for the desert of Nevada to escape the winters of Colorado after my father retired.  And here she was, in death, suffering just a little bit more.

TO BE CONTINUED:  PART II  Christine….My Beautiful Mother

Oh well, such is my luck on this day of mischief, green beer, corn beef, cabbage and parades.  Pat Robertson was my first choice for a variety of reasons and so he shall remain my St. Patrick’s Day companion on this special holiday.

Many find Pat too much.  An evangelical–and not just any evangelical–but perhaps the most recognizable and influential of the lot.  He plays the role of preacher without the scary fire and brimstone and can be quite engaging.  To me, he embodies everything nutty and squirrelly about the Tea Party movement wrapped up and delivered with a neat little bow—with a glorious exception:  He cleverly crosses the political lines, knowing the power he wields, dropping little juicy tidbits of ideas defined mostly conservative until they move to just right of liberal and finally take a turn to just south of Tea Party crazy.

This past week he openly answered a silly question posed to him on the Christian Broadcasting Network (CBN) about oral sex and he set about answering it by patiently framing it around sin and what is in one’s heart.  When he was finished, the young lady questioning him looked relaxed and at ease with his response.  Pat is a genius. His answer deflects his crazy rantings about homosexuals and allows the world to believe he is genuinely in tune with his sexual being, unlike Santorum who has become the national pervert on all social sexual issues.

As a devout advocate of Christian dominionism (a belief that Christians have the right to rule), how does he go about bringing down Mormons without appearing to attack Romney?  He comes out for legalizing marijuana.  Brilliant.  Where Romney supports the tenets of Mormonism and stands personally against drinking and publicly against the legalization of weed, Pat comes off as the even keeled wise man as he does an aside about Jesus in a New York Times interview:  “I don’t think he was a teetotaler” and announces that he is in favor of legalizing marijuana.  A political bulls-eye?  You be the judge.  I am shouting hallelujah—not for Pat, per se, but for legalizing weed.  And that is what Pat is betting on.

It isn’t as if this octogenarian hasn’t had his problems.  Historically, his claims of faith healing,  doomsday predictions, attacks on feminism and the endless list of bat-shit crazy, off the wall ideas and quotes have made him infamous as well as famous.  But never underestimate the power of Pat.  Who could speak of legalizing marijuana on a Friday and chat about oral sex on a Sunday while presidential candidates seek his endorsement?

And who is Pat endorsing?  Well, in October of last year, he indicated that he wouldn’t be endorsing any candidate in the November 2012 election.  But as recently as January 2012, Pat told his audience on the 700 Club broadcast:

I think He showed me about the next president, but I’m not supposed to talk about that so I’ll leave you in the dark – probably just as well – but I think I know who it’s going to be.

Pat has confided in all of us that President Obama is not his choice.  Maybe after a few pints, he’ll tell his new blue squirrel friend.  I’ll be getting back to you when I find out.

And before I go, lest anyone be confused, I am not a Pat Robertson cheerleader.  I find his positions on just about every topic to be polar opposite to my own, including but not limited to, his opinions on women, gay marriage, homosexuals, religion, life, death and everything in between.

As my inaugural post:  Left Nuts Unite–Election 2012

I have read article after article written by liberal pundits and “experts” in the fields of economics, sociology and politics criticizing and dissecting every word uttered by President Obama and it brings angry hot tears to my eyes.  Why?  Because we are failing to get our message to the people.

This past several months, women have been taking a beating in almost every state house and senate and have fared no better in our Congress.  Our ability to control our own bodies is under attack.  And the result of that attack:  Unification.  Women are crossing the aisle to join forces against those that dare attack us, our mothers, our sisters and our daughters.  Women are bringing men along with them for the fight.  We are speaking with one voice and that voice is shouting:  Unite Against the War on Women.  That simple.  The message is clean.  Our position is understandable.  We united against the attack on Planned Parenthood by Komen and then again we united against the attack on women by Rush Limbaugh.  We were ferocious.

Now, let’s take a look at how we are doing getting the word out that President Obama is the only choice for 2012.  [Silence---crickets.]  We are failing miserably.  And it shouldn’t be that difficult.  There are websites that list the accomplishments ad nauseum and yet, the message is muddled and the grassroots campaign chants of “Hope” and “Change” are silent.  What is going on?

A well known liberal talking head spoke about how the Republicans keep their party unified by blasting anyone that attempts to walk outside the talking points. And it is this lockstep march that has kept the minority in control of our Congress. One word by McCain on the floor of the Senate against the Tea Party, and he is taken to the woodshed where he is beaten into smiling like a jackass on Hannity telling him he has no idea why anyone would think the Tea Party was less than brilliant. “Hobbits? You misunderstood me. I never said anything about Hobbits.”

Many say women are their own worst critics and that is why we haven’t formed a stronger coalition to “take over” a political agenda because we do NOT stick together through thick and thin and cat fight over issues like whether Hillary should have left Bill. But when the attack was directed at women, we have roared with one voice and one message.  Why can’t liberals use that template and put together a national plan to elect the only electable Democratic President?  Because liberals need to show how liberal we are. We need the world to see all of our warts. “Look at me….I see Obama made a mistake when he didn’t push hard enough for the American Jobs Act….for  Universal heath care….for the repeal of DOMA. He gave up too much ground before the debate began. He showed his cards and his weaknesses.”

Truth is, he is making his way around this country, from one city to another, getting the word out.  Can we do less?  Can we throw him under the bus when he’s working so hard?  My conservative friends believe us to be stupid, not intellectually stupid, but politically inept.  I don’t want to be stupid.  So I am changing my approach to how I respond to my liberal friends and liberal sites.

When liberals beat up on their own, (and it should be noted that there are degrees of how liberal one is and thus how liberal ones expectations might be), we expose our weaknesses to a group of badgers (the conservatives). They will posterize us during this upcoming election season with the crap that is being heaped on Obama by his own team. The editorials from some of our most respected liberal brainiacs will be the talking points for the Republican machines. They now have plenty of ammunition to shoot us in our foot with our own gun.

Having worked on many campaigns as I made my way through high school and college…nothing is more potently destructive than your own peeps spouting your shortcomings. We need to get off our liberal soapboxes, stop judging out loud, roll up our sleeves and get to work helping. If we need to discuss the issues or concerns of our own party, then we should talk to the horse, him/herself…call our representative….talk privately to each other.   More importantly, we need to find OUR VOICE.

Listen to Elizabeth Warren.  She speaks from the heart with intelligence and ONE VOICE.  Now, listen to the protestors in the Occupy movements (although admittedly some are not liberal and do not wish to speak on behalf of the liberals).  Many voices and few were being heard.  BUT there are thousands of liberals at these protests looking for their voice and we need to come together as blogging activists and find the unifying themes that will take us to and through Election 2012.

The trolls or whatever you may call them, scan through our daily messages and sites and look for our confusion, our in-fighting, our disagreements.  They magnify these and make them talking points.  Rather than attacking another liberal by chewing up and spitting out his concerns, massage them and make them more palatable by your response.  And stop over-reacting.  We hyperventilate before we fully understand an issue.  This needs to stop.  We can find that place where we agree on most issues that will allow us to elect a Congress with enough votes to overcome future filibusters….if…..we UNITE.

Does this sound unfaithful to the idea of liberalism? I don’t think so. It’s hard fighting the fight when the infighting fractures us and the losers of this fight are: Social Security recipients, Medicare recipients, Medicaid recipients, health care, collective bargaining, safety regulations, consumer protections, the homeless, our educational system, the environment, our unemployed, the infrastructure, the planet, the people. Corporate America will do just fine watching us eat our own.  The Koch brothers, Rove, Norquist and others are sitting back waiting to let the Super Pacs unload truckloads of money to support the biggest losers ever to have run for the presidency.  Romney?  Santorum?  Gingrich?  Paul?

The party of “HELL NO” has taught us a thing or two about politics even if I don’t agree with the message behind their method.