Marriage by Numbers: Bob and Me

I'm so glad I don't get what I deserve because I certainly don't deserve this.
Photo is taken in front of our beloved student housing building at Luther Seminary in St. Paul,
circa 2007, right after Bob's liver healed and right before moving to Iowa,
thanks to a generous call from the lovely people of St. John's Lutheran church
in downtown Des Moines. For some reason, after Bob's liver healed I got  my groove,
which didn't go over so well at my workplace. So you could also say that this picture was
the beginning of the end of my 15-year-old job. (Another story.)
Aidan, 2nd grade, Amanda 6th. Darn, they are cute.
Love you babe! (For Bob.)

April 30, 1994 - April 30, 2013

19 Years together.

18 Thousand or so silly jokes (mostly Bob).

17 Thousand or so regrets (mostly me).

16 Years with a daughter.

15 Countries of influence.

14 Sisters and brothers-in-law.

13 Years with a son.

12 Nieces and nephews.

11 Years of seminary coursework. (Three schools.)

10 Jobs. (One of us got fired.)

9 Lutheran congregations.

8 Trips to the emergency room.

7 Times seventy the forgiveness, frustration, patience, aggravation, kindness, disagreement, compromise, difference, similarity, like, dislike, potato, potAto, unity, discord, and above all wishing the very best for one another no matter what.  

 6 Homes (one row house, three apartments, two mortgages).

5 Vehicles.

4 Cities (New York City, Baltimore, St. Paul, Des Moines.)

4 Surgeries.

3 Cats.

3 Pregnancies.

2 Births.

2 Master’s degrees.

2 Lovely mothers and fathers (one-RIP).

1 Organ failure.

1 Cancer.

1 Amanda.

1 Aidan.

1 Beloved Bob.

1 Infinity of collective friends.

1 Lucky me.



Evolution of a scientific calculator

1.      Girl needs a scientific calculator. Cost: approximately $150.
2.      Girl manages thus far via borrowing a school calculator.
3.       Girl needs her own calculator for the ACT test.
4.       Mother hopes for a long lasting relationship between girl and mathematics; agrees to purchase calculator.
5.       Brilliant idea: Buy a used calculator from amazon.com, one in quote “excellent condition” end quote and save $20.
6.       Calculator arrives. The screen is cracked. If the crack doesn’t spread, it’s OK. If it does spread, the screen will be unreadable.
7.       Do screen cracks spread? And where’s the return paperwork?
8.       ACT test is at hand. Girl needs calculator.
9.       Cracked screen scientific calculator would probably do for the test, if only Girl hadn’t figured out that it’s actually the incorrect calculator, because it has some kind of functionality is not allowed at the ACT test.
10.   This was learned one day before the ACT test.
11.   Mother prepares to bite it big and purchase a brand new scientific calculator. Cost: an additional $150. (Total cost at this point: approximately $270.)
12.   But girl has cheerleading practice and so cannot join the shopping spree, to ensure the correct calculator is purchased.
13.   “Your ACT is more important than cheerleading,” mother exclaims!
14.   Girl says she has a plan. Will discuss at 8:30 p.m., approximately 12 hours before the ACT test.
15.   Apparently the plan is, “I don’t need a calculator for my ACT test,” according to the Girl, late on the eve of the test.
16.   Huh? The universe is confused.
17.   Mother doesn’t understand the plan. She only sees dollar signs going in the wrong direction in terms of dashed hopes for awesome ACT score, thus generous scholarships leading to a prosperous life, resulting in fulfilled dreams.
18.   Morning of the ACT test: Girl brazenly struts into the massive brick high school building as if she owns it, sans scientific calculator.
19.   Parents wish to mind-control their children, but what do they know?

 

Us, declassified

Please allow me this confession. My blog post from yesterday has bothered me all day and so I'd like to offer this quick addendum if for no other reason but to clear my conscience. When I brought up the evidence of clinical psychotic behavior -- I mentioned it not in judgement, but in a weird mixture of hope, sadness and fear. (Read the heartbreaking article that I link to). I am an ardent supporter of mental health programming, and one of my fears is that there isn't enough (in fact its one of my primary grant writing subjects). Plus, the core of my Christian belief system is based on the notion that people cannot be classified, whatsoever. I think the classification of people is one of, if not the most tragic human tendencies throughout the centuries. To me, the DE-classification of human beings is the main point of Christianity, although it's mostly overlooked (at least in popular culture and certainly in conservative and evangelical communities). On top of that, the basis of my Lutheran faith is we are all simultaneously sinners and saints. I'm pretty sure Jesus didn't classify people according to pathological traits and I'm also sure that its a big reason the establishment hated him.

I wanted to entitle this post, "Do psychopaths go to heaven?" And then propose why we probably wouldn't like the answer to that question. And then explore why it's probably an irrelevant question. And then ponder why there's such a urgency to "charge" someone with a crime, even if they're perfectly innocent. But I don't have time and I just needed to attempt to get this off my mind. Anyway, I'm not trying to get all heavy, and there seems to be no good way to clear this up succinctly, so I'll leave it at that.

If that made no sense, please disregard.

My sincere thanks to everyone who sent me nice messages about my post yesterday. I really appreciate you and your consideration.

Time to find me some Tina Fey material. Feel free to post jokes. I promise to write something funny next time.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

The one percent perspective

This sign is down the gravel road from my parents house
 in Dexter, Minnesota, and I find it no help at all when I'm
out on walks and seeking solutions to the big questions.

It was a windy September day in a city park  outside of Rochester, Minnesota, when a man’s throat closed up as he sat in his car in the parking lot. Apparently he was having an allergic reaction to a bee sting. There were about 40 of us gathered there for a family picnic and the only reason I knew something was wrong was this: while I remained under the pavilion of tables splayed of potluck food, oblivious to the crisis at hand, at least a dozen of my family members ran towards the man whose face turned blue. They RAN. It was a group run, like they all knew instinctively what to do.

That’s when I realized how many first responders were in the Mork family (my dad's family). As I recall, I can count at least five nurses. A cousin who had his EMS radio on him called in the ambulance. Two of my brothers did CPR, one a paramedic, the other a volunteer fireman. (Proud and impressed sister, here.) Seems like there were even more helpers who ran to the parking lot, rendering their first aid know-how. (Feel free to correct me, if any of you dear readers happened to be there that day.)

As for me, I stood by the jello salad. I stayed as far away as I could because I have a fear of killing someone while trying to save them. I’ve been trained on CPR more times than I can remember and at one point I was a certified EMT, but I’m too scared to provide assistance in medical emergencies. (I know these days they say just push on the heart, don’t worry about the counting and the mouth to mouth. Still, I pray I never have to do it.)

A friend of mine’s dad is a retired physician at the Mayo Clinic (the employer of many of my family members). He said he dreads the thought of being on an airplane and hearing on the loud speaker, “Is there a doctor on the plane?” and then he’d be compelled to identify himself as an MD even though he’s not trained to handle emergencies. Instead, what they should request is this: “Is there a first responder on board?” That’s what you really need in a medical crisis – a nurse, a paramedic, an EMT, a firefighter.

I thought of that family picnic today when all the stories came out about the people in Boston running towards the epicenter of the bombing to offer assistance, and not away from it (as I would’ve done).

As always after a tragedy, there’s a lot of discussion about the nature of humanity – are we all going to hell in a hand basket or will the heroes prevail? If you know me, you know I believe in the latter. I believe goodness is stronger evil. I believe there will always be the first responders – both literal and metaphorical – who will be there to help, whatever the crisis.

Here's the proof of the family picnic.
It was a glorious day and at leat one life was saved.

However being the good grant writer I am these days, I’d like to back up my assertion with evidence. I am calling it “the one percent perspective” and it goes like this. One percent of the population can be classified as clinically psychopath. I’ve seen this statistic in several other places, but here’s one compelling source I found today, a fascinating article from the New York Times Magazine by Jennifer Kahn. (May 11, 2012, “Can You Call a 9-Year-Old a Psychopath?”)

Kahn writes: “Psychopaths are estimated to make up 1 percent of the population but constitute roughly 15 to 25 percent of the offenders in prison and are responsible for a disproportionate number of brutal crimes and murders. A recent estimate by the neuroscientist Kent Kiehl placed the national cost of psychopathy at $460 billion a year — roughly 10 times the cost of depression — in part because psychopaths tend to be arrested repeatedly.”

She also cites a source who suspects Bernie Madoff is psychopathic. (I also found several sources citing research that says there’s a higher incidence of psychopathic tendencies among CEOs and politicians, but that’s not my point for this blog post. I shudder to consider the link between psychopaths and domestic violence, but I digress more.)

I find the idea of 1 percent of the population being psychopathic both chilling and hopeful.

Hopeful because, obviously, that means 99 percent of the population is not psychopathic. Most people will want to help. Most of us 99-percenters have our own issues, but will feel empathy for others when we know about their suffering. (Our biggest problem is ignorance.)

Chilling because, well, do the math. That would mean there are 2,065 psychopaths in the city of Des Moines alone. If that’s not a case for rule of law and strong regulation I don’t know what is. Consider what happens when you blend the one percent psychopathic population with a failed state – you got yourself a Somalia, Afghanistan, sadly now, Syria, and/or the perfect breeding ground for international criminal activity.

I wonder if those who have suffered most
feel the most empathy.

My heart bleeds for the losses in Boston. The story of that little eight-year-old boy who died is too much to absorb and my thoughts and prayers go with that family. And my heart bleeds for the losses every day, everywhere. For all the chest thumping we do for “not enough guns” and “too many taxes” and name your complaint, I wish we could all get passionate and run like first responders towards the 25,000 children who die each day from simple, preventable diseases due to lack of daily food. Run towards all the little girls who get sold into slavery. Run towards all the women who die in basic childbirth. Run to all the young boys who get conscripted into armies. (In fact there are many people who are "running towards" those issues and I feel priviledged to have met some of them, and see their work up close.)

Oh yikes, this post started with a nice little family picnic and ended with global catastrophe. (You might understand why Bob deserves extra gold stars.) This got quite rambling and if you’re still here, I thank you; you also deserve gold stars. I’ll end with a paraphrase of Stephen Stills – even if you’re not a first responder and can’t do CPR and save people’s lives, at the very least, love the ones you’re with. Make your son popcorn, listen to your daughter's cheerleading adventures, give thanks.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

Those Boots

This student came to my class with her spurs on. You could hear her clacking all the way down the hall before her arrival into the Monday night Composition I classroom. Once she asked if she could bring her pet hedgehog to class and I said sure, we'd make it into a writing prompt. For this picture, I asked her to pose with the bane of our collective existence, "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy. The book you hate to love because it's so good yet so depressing yet so hopeful, you realize only after reading it about five times.

I have a theory that if I write about teaching, I'll become a teacher.

If I identify as a teacher, I'll become a teacher.

If I take pictures of the boots of my students, I'll become a teacher. (I mean the kind of teacher where they give you so much money you can pay your monthly bills.)

I've been thinking about horses lately too. Especially the one I used to ride. I've got a picture of that somewhere. Me sitting up tall on the back of a sturdy Morgan named Red; sitting up tall on this cattle-cutting steed while wearing white Madonna-inspired sunglasses (it was the '80s). I asked Bob if he knew where that snapshot was. I know I've seen that picture laying on a random household pile somewhere, fairly recently. But where?

"You trying to relive your youth?" Bob asked.

"No, just some research," I lied. Yes, of course I'm trying to relive my youth. I'm thinking of those days when I wore boots like that, and rode horses freely across the prairie so well even the local ranchers were impressed. Not to brag, but they were. Not to be a drag, but I haven't ridden a horse since. Not to drag this out, but I keep asking myself: why?

It probably has something to do with the monthly bills and/or other obligations whether real or perceived.

Anyway, when a student shows up in Composition I class with spurs, I get it. The part I get the most is this: what a complete privilege it is to teach writing to a young woman in cowboy boots. Cormac McCarthy, and your white space and your lack-o-punctuation and your questioning of civil society -- meet my student. (I'm working on my presentation for next week, if you can't tell, with topic being of course, "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy, which I swear I will never read again.)

“ 'The Road' would be pure misery if not for its stunning, savage beauty." That's what Janet Maslin wrote in her New York Times review of the book. I quite agree. After next Friday, when I present my workshop, I will put "The Road" to rest and think about other things, such as finding that picture.

At which point I will relive my youth furthermore and post it.

For now, I wish you all a lovely farewell. Thanks so much for coming over to my blog.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart