Society's Silence, Trust, And The Sexual Abuse of Minors.

Sexual abuse of minors headlines the news a lot these days. And those of you who know that my book, “Unforgiving” deals with child abuse are probably wondering why I have avoided the subject in this blog.

Sexual abuse is a difficult subject.  The victims are often seen as somehow guilty and believe me, they nearly always feel guilty even though they know that is unreasonable in the circumstance.

Some people treat sexual abuse of a minor as insignificant—something both society and the victim should just shut up about, and let everyone get on with their lives.  Why?  I believe society asks this of the victim to save the perpetrator and everyone else in general, embarrassment and discomfort. 

     Much of this desire on the part of our society comes from the mistaken notion that sexual abuse is something that just happens. Something no one, including the perpetrator could possibly have foreseen.  A lapse in good judgement.

But a man accused of sexually molesting children told me this:  "Men like this will always choose the kind of vocation that suits their need. They will get jobs as teachers, coaches, or boy scout leaders--anything that puts them in close proximity to children."

 A lapse in judgement?  Or a carefully conceived and executed plan?

Random Kindness

When the man in the black honda civic motioned me into the heavy stream of traffic ahead of him, I thought how few people are that polite.  With a wave of my hand, I slipped into the lane, feeling good about my fellow man. 

Isn't it funny how little it takes to restore our faith in humanity?  Think aobut that next time you have a chance to do something courteous, something kind, no matter how little.

Later, I saw a truck with a huge long trailer trying to get into my lane.  At first he was well ahead of me, and I knew the road merged into a single lane.  When he was just ahead of me (and still trying to change lanes) I slowed down and let him in. 

He didn't know he had another driver to thank for that--the guy in the little black Honda.  So make that kind gesture, and when you're the recipient?  Make sure you pass it along.

Hope Through Grieving: "Sit Down, Luvy".

My daughter, Sue, wrote this piece about something that actually happened to her when she was deeply grieving. 

Sit Down, Luvy.

My world came apart, not suddenly, as one who is stricken by natural disaster or personal attack, but gradually, as the emptying of an hourglass.

It was an excruciating end to a life, the way my Father went to
cancer, and six short weeks from his diagnosis, during which I nursed him and watched him die, he finally succumbed to the light.

Painful as it was to lose my mentor and best friend, I also lost the co-owner to the future site of my dream home, which held an uninsured mortgage and a great deal of construction debt.

Without my father's income, I hung on by my fingernails for several months, but just as fragments of light appeared far down the financial distance, layoffs became the order of the day, and a glacier rolled over the last burning embers of hope when I lost my job.

Feeling alone and defeated, I put my dream property up for sale and said goodbye to the small mobile home that resided there and was my home. My father's and my own labour had gone into it's finishing, and it was my last comfort, the final symbol of a dream held dear in my heart.

Knowing that I had to find a way to live, or else mock the memory of my father's strength, I went looking for a job in the nearby city of Victoria, B.C. After a few long days of uncertainty and fleeting hope, I went for a walk in the summer breeze along the waterfront downtown.

As I walked alone, pondering a minimum two-year sentence to heavy debt, I saw the bench. For no good reason, I read the brass plate: "Grandma Jean, 1898- 1998, 'Sit down, Luvy.'"

I had an inkling that someone who cared had invited me to sit, to take a load off. So I sat, feeling the companionship of one I'd never known, feeling the wisdom of one who no longer lived.

A hundred years, Grandma Jean, I thought. You lived in this world for a hundred years. What did you learn?

It took me some time to relax and imagine that she was there, to let her come into my mind to speak to me. "I learned," she said, "that two years is but the blink of an eye in a lifetime. Dreams die, and are replaced by new ones. I lived a hundred years, dreamed a hundred dreams.

I learned that pain does not matter, it is only something to be tolerated, something that quickly fades into a distant memory to be learned from and discarded, leaving only the joy to be lived, loved and cherished always.

All things are an experience, becoming a part of who we are. Dreams that are realized become that joy, remembered; dreams failed are left behind. That is the richness of living."

I rose and walked on with purpose, new dreams ahead to be discovered, facing my pain with a new perspective.

Thoughts On Losing A Loved One To Cancer

Grateful


by M.J. Florczak.


I’m grateful that we had the time to say goodbye,
Though mindful of the cost to you to linger.
Fragile moments and brief hours took us by surprise;
Every hope and every fear was triggered.

And in those fleeting hours and days, the question often came
How could we be so close to you and yet not recognize
Death stalking you, calling out your name?
We surely should have seen it, if only in your eyes.

And when we knew that you would leave us
For that place of no returning,
We fought to keep our bitter grief at bay
To be brave as you through
The final leg of your last journey.

We lived in the sterile confines of the room
Where you lay dying,
Us hanging on and you learning to let go,
Death defying all our dearest hopes.

And, now, stars dance in the river,
Voices of children, rueful laughter
And singing float on the air
With our grief and your ashes.

You have found peace
in the place we call ‘forever’.



Mf.

The First Watch

First Night Watch:
10:45 p.m.  He gets up to pee.

I have rehearsed this in my mind.  First, I need to extricate myself from the somewhat dysfunctional recliner chair the nurses dragged into the room for me to sleep in. 

Next, a stumbling dash to the other side of the bed in time to unplug his medication "tree" and help him out of bed, first wrapping up the cord, and moving his bedside table to just the right angle so that he can easily get up.

What am I saying?  Easily?  Nothing is easy for him any more.

When we get him back into bed, I stroke his head.  That is when I feel the shock of the tumour.  My heart stops.  I kiss his forehead.  I draw the flannel sheet up to his waist, the way he likes it.

And then I pray, silently, intensely.  Please God, make a miracle, or take him quickly home.

Cancer, Complications, And A Lonely Night Watch.

Sometime after or during his first radiation treatments, pneumonia sets in to complicate his cancer.  And then a heart arrhythmia was detected.  It wasn't hard to note; the pulse below his diaphram beat with alarming rapidity.  This puts him in ICU and results in the prescription of more drugs.

That night he experiences frightening hallucinations.  Fiercely anxious, he watches as the hospital room transforms into a vast warehouse with stacks of papers, all of which he realizes to his dismay,  require his immediate attention.

He relates to us in his shallow breathless voice, how much these nightsweats upset him:  "And I had nobody, see?  I had no phone, no cell.  I couldn't even call anybody to come."  Just recalling the incident clearly leaves him shaken.

Fortunately, he was alert enough to go to the patient lounge.  Here he kept a lonely watch as the clock slowly tracked the time from 2:30 to 9:30 a.m. .  Sooner or later, he believed, someone he recognized, knew and loved would come and rescue him.

If only our rescue could have been complete!

The Colonization of My Brother by Cancer.

My brother, Jack, was diagnosed with lung cancer on June 3, 2011.  He passed away on July 1.  These are notes from my journal during that time.

I want them to give my brother oxygen, but everyone says his oxygen levels are fine. I don't care about "levels".  I just know he breathes easier with the oxygen.

And it is terrible to hear his laboured breathing; to see his diaphragm, stomach and chest labour with every shallow breath, to watch as he poufs out his cheeks with his exhalations like a jogger in a marathon, this man for whom sleep is now an exhausting undertaking.

There are cancerous tumours on his lungs, close to his heart, on his ribs.  Within days of those discoveries we learn the cancer has invaded his lymph nodes and liver.  This gives us some idea of how aggressively the cancer is colonizing his body.

If only there are no complications, he might have a chance.  With cancer, they say, you can never tell, so we remain hopeful, the family coming and going, sitting restively by his bedside, then getting up to leave and give someone else the privilege for awhile.

Canuck's Third NHL Playoff Game: A Fitting Denouement.

Funny how the Canuck's/Bruin's NHL playoff games fit into everyone's life in one way or another.  Even if it's just having to deal with the excess traffic.  This week, for me, it was entirely different.

In our family we have three brothers.  Two have been battling illness or some form of physical deterioration for years. 

My oldest brother had his knee and hip replaced.  One of my younger brothers has been battling a rare viral disease.

But our other brother has been healthy all his life.  And about six weeks ago he had a complete check-up.  Because he was a smoker for a long time, they did a lung x-ray.  The result?  All clear. 

He was pronounced in incredible health for a man his age.

He worked right up until last Wednesday, when he started coughing up blood.  On Sunday night I got the phone call.

I drove up the next morning, an eight hour drive.  I wasn't sure he'd want to see me.  Sometimes you need time to absorb the shock.

There were tumours in his lungs and on his ribs.  And I knew it would be near impossible to see him once he started treatment.

At Kamloops I stopped to phone him.  "I'm coming up to watch the hockey game with you,"  I said.  I knew he wouldn't miss it no matter what.

When I got to his house, his family was all there, sons and daughters and grandkids had come out to support him and his wife.  We were all still in shock.

The Canuck's 1-8 loss to the Bruins seemed a fitting denouement to the news.

Falling Divorce Rates: Love Or Economics?

In the wake of Prince William's marriage and the Schwartzenegger/Shriver split comes an article on CNN by Lamar Clarkson stating that since 1996, divorce rates have been  dropping dramatically.

This leads me to conclude that historians really know us better than we know ourselves.  But first, about the study.

Reasons cited for the decrease in divorce numbers include getting married later, that is at ages 26 and 28 instead of 20 (women) and 23 (men).  Another factor, the study "Number, Timing, and Duration of Marriages and Divorces: 2009," reports is increased education. 

Apparently divorce among those with only a high school diploma  is higher than among college educated couples.

And a final factor is the stubborn singles--those persons aged 25 to 29 who have never married.

The bad news?  For women aged 60 to 69, the divorce rate has actually gone up.

All of this brings to mind a statement once made by historians Will & Ariel Durant in their book "The Lessons of History".  I was in the throes of my second marriage when I read it, so I suppose that's why this particular statement so impressed me.

Regarding divorce the Durants observed that throughout history whenever the economy was bad, the divorce rate went down.  In cases of economic strength or stability, the divorce rate went up.

In this time of economic downturn, then, regardless of all other statistics, based on the Durants' observation alone, we could anticipate the kind of statistics found in the report. 

Oprah Poetry Contest--And Outrage

The Oprah Poetry Contest has got me thinking about the difference between poetic styles. 

My sister writes with hope.  I write with outrage.

I judge.  Point fingers.  Look for failure and injustice and shine a spotlight on it.

Once a professor asked me, "Do you only write poetry when something happens?"

No, but it can certainly set me thinking.  I wrote about the young man who hanged himself in a staff bathroom after spending three days parked in a hospital hallway. 

I write about homelessness. Bad marriages and endings that are also beginnings. 

I write reality.  I don't try to make it nice; I just report it.  Sometimes my anger gets in the way.

Rita Chretien:The Importance Of Books In The Survival Kit.

The other day I was in a hospital cafeteria reading to pass the time.  My husband was in surgery.  He was supposed to be out in half an hour, and an hour had already gone by. 

Time flew by when I had my nose in a book.  When I stopped reading and took to pacing, time dragged like an unpopular bill waiting to pass through parliament. 

Reading must have been a great help to Rita Chretien, the woman stranded alone in the Nevada backroads, her van stuck in the mud, out of gas and the battery dead.  She survived 49 days on prayer, a little trail mix, water and by reading books.

Reading probably helped her break those maddening cycles of futile thought we all go through in desperate situations. 

It must have taken her mind off the horror of it all; a woman stranded, with only God and a minivan as her refuge. 

I know one thing for sure--from now on, I'm keeping a few good books in my car.  Ones I like a lot, or ones I've never read but always wanted to.  Ones I'm curious about, and ones that have been recommended to me by friends. 

Mrs. Chretien had a Bible along, too.  That makes for a lot of hours of reading.  Especially when you get in the beget section.  They tend to be pretty long and tedious. 

But D.H. Lawrence once said he loved the Bible; it was like a long series of stories, all passionate and powerful, full of sex, violence, intrigue and adventure. 

That's the human side of it.  But there's something else there, too.  God's eternal love and infinite patience with the human condition.  I'm sure that most of all, that one book helped Mrs. Chretien survive.

The Winning Team

Tonight the Canucks put the Predators to bed.  It wasn't a pretty win; they should have won by a much larger margin.  That fact alone makes the Predators a team to watch next year.

I watched slices of the game from St. Paul's cardio out patient ward.   Here, a different kind of team operates under Dr. Ron Carere who oversees approximately 50 life saving angiograms and angioplastis a day. 

Thirty years ago we could not have concieved of a person going into a hospital in the morning, having their arteries cleared and expanded with stents and going home the same night. 

The procedure would have been like something from "The Twilight Zone".  Let alone the whole process leaving no scar other than a small slit in the groin area.

Yeah, the Canucks saved their chance to win the Stanley Cup today.  And like the crowds on Robson Street, I'm delighted. 

But what I'm even more thankful for is the other winning teams out there.  Teams who make a life saving difference every working day.

Canucks, Mrs. Mike Fisher's Guitar And The Predator's Win.

The morning of the fourth game in the Canucks/Predators series, Mrs. Mike Fisher AKA Carrie Underwood got on CKJR radio and publicly bet that her husband's team would win the series.  A pretty bold suggestion since this is the first playoff series the Predators have played in.

Not only did America's darling, Mrs. Carrie Fisher say they would win, but she BET they would win. 

Ms. Underwood took up JR Country's challenge saying she would present JR Country with a signed guitar if the Predators lost.

That night the Canucks won game four of the series, and it seemed a pretty safe bet that Jimmy Pattison who owns the radio station would soon have a guitar signed by the very popular country music star hanging in the studio.

But last night when the Canucks should have been ready to seal the deal, the Predators hit the ice with all the zeal of knights errant out to win their lady's favour. 

So I ask you--is the guitar, and Mrs. Fisher's honour the reason the Predators have suddenly come to life?  And will they be able to maintain this fire on ice intensity that they exhibited in defeating Vancouver 4 - 3?

The Door That Oprah's Poetry Contest Opened

When my sister found Oprah's Poetry Contest on the internet, she found a door that had long been closed in her. At least, that's what I think.

For some reason, my sister stopped writing poetry and songs about ten years ago. 

And finding the contest site for her was like something inside of her guiding her to it, egging her on to open that entry form, to fill in that box.

And that little poem she dashed off?  The Oprah Poetry Contest people sent her a copy of it.  She read it to me.  It's damned good.

Sometimes you hear about songwriters who have a big hit and when they're interviewed they say they just jotted it down while they were driving.

It doesn't make the song any less a hit.  And because my sister thought up her poem quickly--after attending an emotional event--doesn't negate her ability to reach out and touch others.

I think the Oprah Poetry Contest was probably somewhat cathartic for her.  It opened a door she had long since closed, and let her creativity, like sunlight, flood the room.

A Chance Encounter With Oprah's Poetry Contest Changes A Life...

So my sister's a semi-finalist in the Oprah Poetry Contest.  Now that I remember about her song writing, I'm not surprised.

But why did she stop writing?

I remember the last time I was visiting her in California, I suggested that when the guys get out their guitars and start singing, she should sing that Jack and Jerry song.  I just love that song. I said.

No you don't, Margaret.  You hate it.  You told me you hated it, she said with some emotion.

I was taken aback.  Well, yes, I had to admit, there was something about me in it that upset me.

What she had put in the song was true, but only due to circumstances beyond my control.  And it made me look bad and that upset me. 

But over time, I realized that's just how it was.  And the more I thought about that song, the more I liked it.  What I could remember of it, anyway.

I hurt you with that song, and I would never ever deliberately do that, she went on.  So I stopped singing it.  I stopped thinking about it.  I don't even remember the words, she said.

And then I realized that was the last song she ever wrote.  And suddenly I knew the power of our words--the power to touch and change people's lives, to create results we are sometimes unaware of, and the care and responsibility that brings with it.

I'm glad my sister's a semi-finalist on the Oprah Poetry Contest.  I hope she makes it all the way to sitting next to Oprah in a comfy armchair.  Because she cares about what she writes, and how it affects the lives of others.  And that, my friends, makes for powerful poetry.

To Be Or Not To Be A Poet In Oprah's Poetry Contest...

When I stop to think about it, saying that my sister isn't a poet isn't exactly the truth.  It's just been so long since she wrote anything...

She used to write songs.  Songs are poetry.  And not just the lyrics, but the music, too.

She wrote songs about us kids growing up.  Like: 
Jack and Jerry and I start runnin'
Runnin' through the cornfields, runnin' through the grass,
Dad's still hollerin' but he can't catch us!

And naturally, she wrote songs about love.  How did that one go?
You don't have to say how it is,
I already know.  I can read between the lines.

And songs about loss.  My sister knows a lot about loss, although you'd never know it.  Her outlook is so positive.  But she has written about loss:
Jesus, you have my son. 
Hold him till I can come.

Not a poet?  What was I thinking!!!!!!

My Sister Really Screwed Up In The Oprah Poetry Contest.

My sister is amazing, beautiful and inspiring.  But she's not a poet.

But one day she is cruising around the Oprah website and she finds a poetry contest.  On that page, it asks for your name and particulars and she fills that in.  Then there is a little white box all empty and pristine, and waiting for a poem.

But my sister doesn't have a poem, because she's not a poet.  So she thinks for a minute.

Then she types something in.  Takes her maybe thirty seconds.
She looks at it--it looks good, so she pushes "submit" and she's done. 

A little while later she starts thinking about the poem and wondering what she wrote in that little box exactly.

She goes back to see, but, oops!  It's gone.  Oh well, no big deal, nothing's ever going to come of it anyway.

Until a few weeks later, I get a phone call.  It's my sister.  "Guess what?"  she says, "remember that little poem I sent to Oprah's poetry contest? 

"Well, they sent me a letter, and guess what?  I'M A SEMI FINALIST!"