For the longest time I have not felt like writing much. Probably too worn out from all of the stuff life was, and had, thrown at us at the time I just walked away from this blog. I knew I would be back, I just didn't know when, which is now, today, and due to necessity my return will be short (until next time!) and sweeter than my egress.
The words have been returning, the music playing again in my mind, and I am eagerly awaiting the results as I have enjoyed writing so much in the past.
The future is still a scary place, but full of hope and anticipation, nevertheless. (I can hardly believe that's even a word!)
Back soon with more,
Izzlebug (aka. "Liz")
Wednesday, August 05, 2015
Monday, April 14, 2014
As Life Goes Ever On
As I sit and write this evening, my heart is with our niece. She awakens tomorrow to the battle of her life; a 6 to 16 hour surgery to try to remove as much of the cancer from her body as possible. The best news so far: the chemotherapy was effective at reducing and slowing the cancer. My significant other sees little use for prayer and does not believe in its power or efficacy. I mentioned the comfort it gave to those of his family who knew he had chosen to pray with our niece when the news first broke about her having cancer and he did not quite sneer at me, but that's ok, he still chose to pray rather than not when she needed him to do so. I also tried to mention how much prayer helps me also. Not quite as negative a response. I think he knows I was praying for him the entire time he was so ill when he was in liver failure and after his transplant. A lot of love is expressed through prayer and a lot of strength gained by those doing the praying. Peace can also be found there when it is no where else. That seems like a lot of power to me right there and that is just the very basic stuff, the really spiritual, "knock your socks off" stuff, only adds to what we all have access to 24/7 - God's ear, His heart, His mind, His Love.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Justice For Justina!
Wow! It doesn't seem like an entire year (almost) since I last logged in and sounded off but, here it is and here I am...late, but still some how on time in my own little space-time continuum.
It did, however, take the news of what that poor young girl, Justina, and her family have been going through to get me back here. The state of Massachusetts, the DCS, Boston Children's Hospital, and Harvard University have all joined together to commit an atrocity so disgusting and heinous in its execution I sincerely hope enough people WAKE THE HELL UP and scream their heads off in order to put a permanent stop to such things ever taking place again ever! How Boston Children's Hospital can justify defending their "experts" who obviously were, and are, NOT expert enough to know what they were doing to the point of severely compromising the health and well being of Justina to the point of endangering her life; torturing her family FOR NO JUSTIFIABLE REASON, and literally, trying to play god (and failing miserably),I just do not know.
My great grandparents graduated from Harvard Medical School and Radcliffe. My great grandfather died in 1932 as the result of lung damage sustained when he ran into a burning house to save a crippled child who could not make it out on her own. I will always feel proud of my great grandfather for having done that but I doubt I will ever look so favorably upon the school he chose to attend ever again. I also believe he would be shocked and ashamed at what Harvard has become: a bunch of blinged out hogs wallowing in their own muck, fondling themselves and thinking, "My, aren't we something special?"
My only hope and prayer this evening is that Justina get the immediate medical attention she needs for what sounds like a severe case of sepsis at her port site, that she be returned to her family's loving arms with all due haste and that the course of treatment proven effective be once again implemented in order to, hopefully, restore her to full heath.
Any hopes I have for the dismissal of doctors claiming expertise so sadly not in evidence and severely overdue reparations due to Justina and her family will have to wait for another day, another tirade.
God bless,
Izzlebug
It did, however, take the news of what that poor young girl, Justina, and her family have been going through to get me back here. The state of Massachusetts, the DCS, Boston Children's Hospital, and Harvard University have all joined together to commit an atrocity so disgusting and heinous in its execution I sincerely hope enough people WAKE THE HELL UP and scream their heads off in order to put a permanent stop to such things ever taking place again ever! How Boston Children's Hospital can justify defending their "experts" who obviously were, and are, NOT expert enough to know what they were doing to the point of severely compromising the health and well being of Justina to the point of endangering her life; torturing her family FOR NO JUSTIFIABLE REASON, and literally, trying to play god (and failing miserably),I just do not know.
My great grandparents graduated from Harvard Medical School and Radcliffe. My great grandfather died in 1932 as the result of lung damage sustained when he ran into a burning house to save a crippled child who could not make it out on her own. I will always feel proud of my great grandfather for having done that but I doubt I will ever look so favorably upon the school he chose to attend ever again. I also believe he would be shocked and ashamed at what Harvard has become: a bunch of blinged out hogs wallowing in their own muck, fondling themselves and thinking, "My, aren't we something special?"
My only hope and prayer this evening is that Justina get the immediate medical attention she needs for what sounds like a severe case of sepsis at her port site, that she be returned to her family's loving arms with all due haste and that the course of treatment proven effective be once again implemented in order to, hopefully, restore her to full heath.
Any hopes I have for the dismissal of doctors claiming expertise so sadly not in evidence and severely overdue reparations due to Justina and her family will have to wait for another day, another tirade.
God bless,
Izzlebug
Friday, April 19, 2013
More Grief We Do Not Need
As Bostonians lock their doors and police break out their heavy gear, going from street to street in search of a 19-year-old Chechnian(?) young man of Muslim persuassion armed with guns and bombs, those of us in relatively nearby towns sit and wait for further news. Perhaps because I live in one of the towns with a great big prison in it, this does not seem quite so odd, but it must be terrifying for most people who have not had time to develop some sort of psychological callous to it over the years. I do not feel the fear of it so much as a great deal of grief.
These two brothers deliberately targeted children and women in their efforts to bring their religion's problems into our nation's borders. These men are not heroes, they are merely cowards and murderers of the lowest and vilest degree. You cannot shame such as they have become because they are no longer capable of feeling shame. They lost that ability when they gave up their humanity and chose to kill and slaughter and maim in such heinous fashion. It is to the credit of God and humanity that the younger brother is being offered a chance to reclaim some vestige of his soul by those who persue him; being called upon to surrender before he kills again for no other reason than the unadulterated hatred that has become his only religion and will, ultimately, bring about a miserable and vainglorious, tragic and pathetic end to a life barely lived. I hope he surrenders and deprives that which drives him of its blood lusting feast on the tortured remains of his soul.
It was on a beautiful day such as this that the Twin Towers came down.
Somehow, may you know true peace, true love.
Izzlebug
These two brothers deliberately targeted children and women in their efforts to bring their religion's problems into our nation's borders. These men are not heroes, they are merely cowards and murderers of the lowest and vilest degree. You cannot shame such as they have become because they are no longer capable of feeling shame. They lost that ability when they gave up their humanity and chose to kill and slaughter and maim in such heinous fashion. It is to the credit of God and humanity that the younger brother is being offered a chance to reclaim some vestige of his soul by those who persue him; being called upon to surrender before he kills again for no other reason than the unadulterated hatred that has become his only religion and will, ultimately, bring about a miserable and vainglorious, tragic and pathetic end to a life barely lived. I hope he surrenders and deprives that which drives him of its blood lusting feast on the tortured remains of his soul.
It was on a beautiful day such as this that the Twin Towers came down.
Somehow, may you know true peace, true love.
Izzlebug
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Bright Spots
Last autumn we acquired two "new" kitties from a local animal shelter to help refill our empty, or almost empty, home with love and life again and to give our Fluff cat some company; she kept wandering around yowling as if to call poor Sammie back from beyond and it seemed like we would lose her too unless positive measures were taken. Although the kittens and younger cats were adorable and fun to watch and play with, I chose a pair of ten-year-old sister kitties named Binx and Snowball. I chose well.
With the distractions of concern and distress over my Grandmother's failing health, as well as other family matters and personal troubles, I am only now getting around to sharing this little poem with you who happen upon my blog. I hope you enjoy it.
BINXIE
My idiosyncratic cat
Who chatters on about this and that.
The birds, the food, the fresh,
Bright air,
Her sister Snowball's blue-eyed stare.
She chirps and purrs when its time to sleep
And flips and flops
And mews and squeaks
Until the one spot of rest is found,
Then soft silence becomes her song.
With the distractions of concern and distress over my Grandmother's failing health, as well as other family matters and personal troubles, I am only now getting around to sharing this little poem with you who happen upon my blog. I hope you enjoy it.
BINXIE
My idiosyncratic cat
Who chatters on about this and that.
The birds, the food, the fresh,
Bright air,
Her sister Snowball's blue-eyed stare.
She chirps and purrs when its time to sleep
And flips and flops
And mews and squeaks
Until the one spot of rest is found,
Then soft silence becomes her song.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Gram
I received word from my Dad this afternoon that my grandmother had passed away earlier today. She was 94 years old. I was trying to get an afghan made for her to use on her bed, but was not able to finish in time for my grandmother. Someone else will receive it instead and I hope it will remind them of the wonderful person it was originally intended and designed for when they use it on their bed, or where ever. It will be pale, Spring green and covered with white and pink hearts. I may also make two or three throw pillows to go with it and add a ruffle around the edge - I don't know for certain yet, it is a work in progress.
Gram is the one who taught me to crochet.
My grandmother also taught me to make a mean loaf of banana bread, make jam and jelly, tend a garden, knit, and stitch quilt squares. She taught me the value of patience, determination, self-reliance, and how to kick an idiot in the backside when needed (though that last one may have been communicated inadvertently). She loved me when I was unloveable and was my friend when I thought I had no friends left. She held me up as long as she could and let me go when it was time - the absolute best kind of grandmother for any person to have.
Neither of us was perfect and there were hurt feelings and arguments now and then, but they were learning experiences for me and helped me get to know my grandmother in ways nothing else could have managed.
For eighty of her ninety-four years she was a mother-to-be, wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and finally, great-great-grandmother. When my grandfather passed away after forty-plus years of marriage, my grandmother chose not to remarry, not because there were no opportunities for her to do so, but because her entire life to that point she had always been told what to do by someone else and she decided she wanted to make some decisions for herself. Gram excelled at making her home warm and welcoming for all of us over the years and took many of us under her wing when we were floundering in a world we were not quite ready to navigate on our own. I always wondered if Gram ever had a chance just to be a girl until I saw her with my aunts one day and realized that she found her girlhood in her relationships with her two daughters - at least a part of that girlhood. I may be wrong about that but that is how it seemed to me at the time.
Despite having known my grandmother my entire life there is so much I never found out about her. I know I will learn more in the days to come as I, and all of my family, deal with the grief of her passing.
Ninety-four. Wow! What a life! What a grandmother!
Gram is the one who taught me to crochet.
My grandmother also taught me to make a mean loaf of banana bread, make jam and jelly, tend a garden, knit, and stitch quilt squares. She taught me the value of patience, determination, self-reliance, and how to kick an idiot in the backside when needed (though that last one may have been communicated inadvertently). She loved me when I was unloveable and was my friend when I thought I had no friends left. She held me up as long as she could and let me go when it was time - the absolute best kind of grandmother for any person to have.
Neither of us was perfect and there were hurt feelings and arguments now and then, but they were learning experiences for me and helped me get to know my grandmother in ways nothing else could have managed.
For eighty of her ninety-four years she was a mother-to-be, wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and finally, great-great-grandmother. When my grandfather passed away after forty-plus years of marriage, my grandmother chose not to remarry, not because there were no opportunities for her to do so, but because her entire life to that point she had always been told what to do by someone else and she decided she wanted to make some decisions for herself. Gram excelled at making her home warm and welcoming for all of us over the years and took many of us under her wing when we were floundering in a world we were not quite ready to navigate on our own. I always wondered if Gram ever had a chance just to be a girl until I saw her with my aunts one day and realized that she found her girlhood in her relationships with her two daughters - at least a part of that girlhood. I may be wrong about that but that is how it seemed to me at the time.
Despite having known my grandmother my entire life there is so much I never found out about her. I know I will learn more in the days to come as I, and all of my family, deal with the grief of her passing.
Ninety-four. Wow! What a life! What a grandmother!
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Adam Lanza's Family
There apparantly has been some flap about a woman who wrote on her blog, "I Am Adam Lanza's Mother." I am assuming this woman is someone with a mentally ill son who has had to face issues very similar to those faced by Nancy Lanza in her struggles with Adam which culminated in this past Friday's tragic, terrifying result.
Please try to understand this woman's perspective because, as I was thinking about what I had heard, I realized I could have been Adam Lanza's older sister.
When my brother Mike first started showing the most obvious signs of his mental illness/schizophrenia, there were times when it could be quite frightening, although mostly it was just really, really sad. It got so bad for a time that my parents barricaded their bedroom door at night in the fear that Mike might try to harm our Mom to whom he would make insinuative threats, verbally and via gestures. At one point (and this is not to imply that no buttons were pushed as I was not always the most gracious of older siblings...) Mike picked me up bodily and threw me upon the floor. This was after we were both full grown adults, at least physiologically speaking. Thank God Mike never had the access to guns that Adam Lanza was allowed, as this may have been the only significant difference, at times, that prevented my brother from acting out in a similar way, although I would like to think Mike would never have done anything so vicious even in his worst and most violent moments.
What, we might wonder, was Nancy Lanza thinking and doing by allowing this son of hers access to guns? In Nancy Lanza's world guns were recreational, used primarily for target shooting and, perhaps now and again for hunting. These weapons were not fired at people - or not supposed to be - and this was what she would have taught her son. What was Nancy Lanza doing? She was trying to give her son a life, trying to help him find his way in a world he was ill-suited to navigate on his own, trying desperately to do what those six educators died for last Friday - protect her child as they wanted to protect the children under their care.
That she was reaching the point of being unable to continue caring for Adam is not testimony to any fault in her parenting, but to her humanity; not one of us is perfect and Adam's mental disorder was too involved, too deeply entrenched, for his mother to be able to continue to care for the adult her son had grown into - the violent, angry, raging, jealous child-man he could not escape from except through death - at least in his own mind where he blamed everyone of the people who loved him, everyone of those children, everyone in his life except himself, for the hurt and anger he felt and the pain he was determined to inflict.
That's a lot of speculation on my part. I did not know Adam, his mother, or any of the people murdered so brutally last Friday. But I do know the fear of not knowing if you're going to receive some stridently demanding phone call telling you something unimaginably horrible has taken place, changing your life and that of your entire family forever; the fear of not knowing if your younger brother will survive the night without his coat after he disappeared into one of the worst snowstorms within recent memory; the fear of wondering if the sweet, wonderful brother you grew up with will ever get to reappear when thisterrible mental disease has run its course or if it will run its course. It is living with your heart always breaking or constantly broken. It is a life of constant emotional pain and fear.
Adam Lanza's mom loved him. He was her child; her little boy. She knew him when he was six-years old and as sweet and beautiful as each one of those little ones whose lives he so callously took six days ago.
Dear God,
Our hearts are so broken. We are so much in need. Please, God, help us; love us; be our protecting and loving parent and hold us in your arms now and in the days to come as more children are laid to rest, more questions surface, more emotions make the way into our hearts and minds. Please God, be especially kind to those families of the children who died, they each lost more than just a loved one - they lost each of their childrens' entire lifetimes as well.
Amen
Please try to understand this woman's perspective because, as I was thinking about what I had heard, I realized I could have been Adam Lanza's older sister.
When my brother Mike first started showing the most obvious signs of his mental illness/schizophrenia, there were times when it could be quite frightening, although mostly it was just really, really sad. It got so bad for a time that my parents barricaded their bedroom door at night in the fear that Mike might try to harm our Mom to whom he would make insinuative threats, verbally and via gestures. At one point (and this is not to imply that no buttons were pushed as I was not always the most gracious of older siblings...) Mike picked me up bodily and threw me upon the floor. This was after we were both full grown adults, at least physiologically speaking. Thank God Mike never had the access to guns that Adam Lanza was allowed, as this may have been the only significant difference, at times, that prevented my brother from acting out in a similar way, although I would like to think Mike would never have done anything so vicious even in his worst and most violent moments.
What, we might wonder, was Nancy Lanza thinking and doing by allowing this son of hers access to guns? In Nancy Lanza's world guns were recreational, used primarily for target shooting and, perhaps now and again for hunting. These weapons were not fired at people - or not supposed to be - and this was what she would have taught her son. What was Nancy Lanza doing? She was trying to give her son a life, trying to help him find his way in a world he was ill-suited to navigate on his own, trying desperately to do what those six educators died for last Friday - protect her child as they wanted to protect the children under their care.
That she was reaching the point of being unable to continue caring for Adam is not testimony to any fault in her parenting, but to her humanity; not one of us is perfect and Adam's mental disorder was too involved, too deeply entrenched, for his mother to be able to continue to care for the adult her son had grown into - the violent, angry, raging, jealous child-man he could not escape from except through death - at least in his own mind where he blamed everyone of the people who loved him, everyone of those children, everyone in his life except himself, for the hurt and anger he felt and the pain he was determined to inflict.
That's a lot of speculation on my part. I did not know Adam, his mother, or any of the people murdered so brutally last Friday. But I do know the fear of not knowing if you're going to receive some stridently demanding phone call telling you something unimaginably horrible has taken place, changing your life and that of your entire family forever; the fear of not knowing if your younger brother will survive the night without his coat after he disappeared into one of the worst snowstorms within recent memory; the fear of wondering if the sweet, wonderful brother you grew up with will ever get to reappear when thisterrible mental disease has run its course or if it will run its course. It is living with your heart always breaking or constantly broken. It is a life of constant emotional pain and fear.
Adam Lanza's mom loved him. He was her child; her little boy. She knew him when he was six-years old and as sweet and beautiful as each one of those little ones whose lives he so callously took six days ago.
Dear God,
Our hearts are so broken. We are so much in need. Please, God, help us; love us; be our protecting and loving parent and hold us in your arms now and in the days to come as more children are laid to rest, more questions surface, more emotions make the way into our hearts and minds. Please God, be especially kind to those families of the children who died, they each lost more than just a loved one - they lost each of their childrens' entire lifetimes as well.
Amen
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