They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings. I am the Doubter and the Doubt, and I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

Thoughts on my day, about 3 people who's lives intersected with mine today.

Kathy, my paralegal, had her surgery this morning. Her husband (a brother) called me and reported that the doc said that she was "doing as well as can be expected." What does that mean? Why do all professionals (myself included) become all mealy-mouthed when talking about the people whose lives we touch? What's wrong with "She's OK," or "There's a problem," or something that's not a fucking cliche? She will have another surgery, minor by comparison, next week, to install a subclavian "port" for long-term administration of chemotherapy. This may sound corny as hell, but I'd MUCH rather that the doc (who is a friend of mine) was doing the cutting on me instead. Then at least I could DO SOMETHING. It's very difficult to stand helplessly on the sidelines. Kathy has been thrown into the maw of this impersonal medical machine monstrosity and will emerge, I hope, healthy but affected by the terrible experience. I almost said "scarred" by the experience, but I don't know that. Perhaps she will be able to make something constructive of this. Why does the body suddenly "decide" to start manufacturing cancer cells? Who decides? We can talk about decreasing the incidence of cancer (and other diseases) through preventive things, but that statistical phenomenon means NOTHING to the person whose turn it is to be the target.

My son Tim has been working a lot of hours at his rescue company. For the past couple of weeks, he's had a bad run of suicides. He came home a couple of mornings ago, and wanted to talk to me about a call he had during the night. A 30-something woman suicided by pills, mostly psychotropic stuff, a very nasty way to die. We talked the EMS-philosophy thing about getting some distance from the impact of the call. In "my day," we used to kid that the first thing you should do at a cardiac arrest is check your own pulse, because that gives you perspective. He also wanted to talk about the clinical decision to not "work the arrest." See? It's not whether this system attempts to save a PERSON, we talk about whether to address the THING. I'm very, very rusty on clinical stuff, but it was very clear to me from certain findings (that I will not inflict here) that they made the right choice to listen to Mr. Reality, call it a night, and call the medical examiner. Tim didn't tell me the deceased's name. And that was that, end of story. This morning, I got to No. 3 by 7:00, put on the coffee and sat down to read the paper. I always read it from back to front, because I figure that the comics will be the high point of most days. I got my usual chuckle out of Dilbert and Hagar, and felt good following the lives of my friends in For Better or For Worse. Then, toward the front of the paper was an obituary of a friend who died suddenly, a 30-something woman. I called Tim, and he was somewhat miffed that I woke him. You guessed it. She was a dear person, committed and caring and intelligent and funny. I last talked to her in Court a couple of months ago, and we had a pleasant if largely irrelevant chat. My God, what was going through her mind that night? What caused her to take scads of meds which put her through Hell before they killed her? Why didn't she call somebody, anybody? We weren't intimate friends, but I know 20 people me included who would have gone over to sit with her in a heartbeat. We are so damned cocky, me included, thinking that we have the power to eliminate pain in this world, but we don't, and good and worthwhile people have their lives swept away, and by this time next week, she will be a fading memory. She died alone and lonely. Think about that - not alone like when your family goes out shopping and you stay home, alone like there is NOBODY IN THE WORLD who gives a shit about you. Christ, I am so sad.

Then I drove down to a neighboring town to talk to a client, Tina, because she has absolutely no transportation. We met at a McDonald's, went over a plea agreement, signed it, and talked about what happens now. Her history is relevant for the sentencing, which will take place around November. We had talked before, and she filled in some gaps today. She was born into stunning poverty. At age 9 and for several years thereafter, her father habitually molested her. To escape, she got pregnant, left high school, and became addicted to booze and drugs. She had 3 children, who were taken from her by the Welfare Department over the years. To feed her drug habit, she became a prostitute. Along the way, she developed Type II diabetes, but because she has no medical insurance nor any way to get medical care, it is untreated and out of control. She described today symptoms which lead me to suspect that her vision is deteriorating and she is developing peripheral neuropathies. In recent years, she became addicted to crack. She was indicted for distribution of more than 50 grams of "cocaine base," i.e., crack. That's a lot of crack. With that drug quantity, she is looking at a mandatory minimum sentence of 10 years, and in the federal system if you get a 10 year sentence, you WILL serve 10 years, no parole. At least she will get medical care in prison. She wasn't a "drug dealer" in the movie-character sense, where they seem to drive BMW's, wear lots of jewelry and carry wads of cash. Normally, she took her "profit" in the form of a rock or two, plus a little cigarette money. She has existed in a life that you and I can scarcely imagine, one of hopelessness. Of course, we read about people who have "risen up", from poverty and drugs, and we piously condemn those who don't have the gumption or the character to do that. But that life is all that she has ever known.

I know that I'm pretty negative this evening, but that's the truth of what I'm feeling tonight.

R