The Webmaster

I am old.  Bordering on ancient and senile, in fact. Depends on how old you are, as to how old I am.  You know how it is...  I live in the twentieth century. Trust me, it was a better place, a better time.  Sure, not as many doo-dads and conveniences; certainly, technology was a stick in the mud compared to what it is, today. However, people talked with one another in complete, un-abbreviated, grammatically correct, and meaningful sentences; what's more, they took the time.   Yep, they took the time to care, to listen, to understand, and maybe to offer a few kind words of advice, admonishment, or praise.

Today, a kid who is five years old, is exhausted at the end of the day. Not enough time.  It used to be that when we were young, the days crawled by, and we could hardly wait for them to pass so that we could grow up.  Now, girls in kindergarten are wearing black velvet with leopard collars and high heels. Time flies by with so much to do, people merely pass one another like strangers, albeit they even may live in the same house. Who has a meal together?  Who shares the day's events?  What happened to family, to quiet time alone, or with friends...?

Into this milieu I have been thrust, through no fault of my own: The twenty-first century.  The reality is that either I have to cope and get on with things, or lag behind and find myself even more lost and ostracized than I already am.  The Hallmark Channel can only take a person so far... Thus, in order to save myself, I found a webmaster.
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My webmaster has been such, since 1997.  He was a senior in college when he started with me.  A wise woman, to whom I am forever indebted, suggested him because she knew his mother.  One of those things. Dumb luck--or God's Will, if you prefer.  It is now 16 years later.  We're still surfing the 'Net. (How awesome do I sound?)

What can you say about a fellow who behaves like Dick Van Dyke, and is built like a dress-zipper with ears?  He is 6'6"+, and maybe weighs 165 pounds.  I come up to his rib cage. Go try to hug him.  He comes with instructions that require a Pogo stick, for any kind of physical familiarity.  I gave up long ago. If I want to give him an endearment, I rest my head just above his belly button, and go from there.

Here's the thing: He's terrific: A mensch.  When he was 21, he was that way; he's the same, now--he's humble and patient, has a sense of humor, is smart as can be, centered, responsible if a little absent-minded or too busy, and he's focused--all prerequisites if you're going to be in my corner.  The only differences are that now, he's got a lovely wife and two kids; he's smarter, wiser, and makes a good living. Otherwise, he's the same familiar old shoe--size 15.

He went through my website with me, back then.  It was like pulling teeth, for all that I needed, and what he had to do while he dragged me along with him: My ideas, his know-how and in-put. He got it done.  His first official website.  Mine, too, come to think of it...  It's still up and running, and attracts its own visitors. It's been through re-decoration and additions; it's just fine, thank you.

Currently, my webmaster has led me through Linked-in, and Facebook (oy...); now, we've pretty much finished this very blog. Can you believe it?  Can you believe I put an entire blog together??? (Well, of course, with the webmaster's huge help).  If I don't do this Stuff constantly, of course, I can't remember half of it. But, we won't go there.  When he and I are done with this project, it's on to Twitter. Oh!  For the record, I can also text--tra-la.

We meet for over an hour, once a month for lunch--usually eggs of some sort; my treat.  He teaches; I scramble--my brains, not the eggs.  Anything in-between our monthly sessions:  I either luck out, learn on my own, or cope.

Sometimes, fairytales do come true.  The webmaster is one of them.

I want to say, that if I had had to do any of this Stuff alone, I think I would have stuck to my Big Chief tablet and #2 Eberhard Faber yellow pencil. Longer to process, yes; but infinitely easier. Really.  I honestly get it, with the technological goodies.  It's incredible.

I also get it that the hours and hours and hours it takes to process all of it; fix it when it crashes or breaks down; call multiple "technical support" people--most of whom can barely speak English or can't think beyond their prepared, scripted instruction manuals; crawl around on the floor while they ask me to re-check what wires and buttons I've already checked; and remember on the side, how to relate to people as human beings rather than as mobs of pixels: All are hazards of the technological age. I don't think it's so hot, just between us.

Still, I want you to know that my webmaster is just the Best--no doubt.  He has even managed to make all this learning sort of interesting and fun.  I feel like I'm about six years old, in terms of know-how and capability; in truth, I'm older than his mother! Understand that I'm not hardwired for anything other than my bra.  So for this guy to hang in with me: I am so lucky.

Twentieth century lifestyle and values, absolutely.  Still, I cruise in the twenty-first, with the webmaster as captain of my technological ship.

Bully for You...Written for the Colorado Cross-Disabilties Coalition

People go into professions that suit their personal psychological needs as well as their physical and mental abilities.  A pediatrician, for example, usually has his own more childlike view of the world and enjoys children; a physician who treats only adults, will be more comfortable with patients and people who are over the age of 18.

Those who relate well with others, do just that in their workplaces--they enjoy the camaraderie of their colleagues, and their customers.  Folks who are more task oriented, preferring to involve themselves with skills rather than customers, orient to occupations that are duty-focused.  Individuals who would rather control or direct, are most often selected for leadership positions, not wanting to be confined to the day-to-day tasks, nor having to "relate" to folks as their primary goal.  These are your three types of workers: "Taskers;" leaders; "relaters."

It generally works this way.  Sadly, workers who are in the wrong jobs for their psychological needs, either don't remain there very long, or aren't very effective in terms of performance--let alone occupationally fulfilled.  Career preferences chosen according to an individual's psychological needs are as important as any training, schooling, or experience that one encounters.
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The world of disabilities is enormous.  Today, people are living longer, managing to survive terrible ordeals, illnesses, and deficits. When an infant or child is too immature to advocate for himself, when a person's physical, mental, or emotional abilities are compromised, when aging takes those properties from people who were at one time, able to function independently but no longer can, there is a dis-ability to participate adequately within the mainstream world.

Providers are called in: Caregivers in all varieties; social workers; healthcare professionals; medical support personnel; educators; job coaches;therapists; advocates; nurses along a wide spectrum of expertise re: special needs; agencies for this function or that.

One of the tragedies, yet all-too-frequent realities for the more "helpless victim" and the "rescuing caregiver" or provider, can be a blur between professional and personal needs on the parts of the caregivers and/or the people who are in charge.

The primary role of the caregiver, in any capacity, is not meant to be a personal one, but a professional one. There are boundaries or limits between client and caregiver; there are duties or executive orders that lie between them. While a caregiver must be compassionate and understanding in his job, the role of a provider primarily is not about being a people person, so much as it is about being a task person.  Get the job done, provide comfort and proper care, above all. Duty first.  Or the patient can be injured or die. Nurturing, protection, enabling, have their places; however, the caregiver's focus must be objective, and separate from the client or patient, before all personal involvements.

What can happen, when an individual who is primarily a people person (who wants to be friends, pals, a parent or sibling) is placed in the caregiver's dutiful role, and that professional is truly not suited for properly performing regimented tasks and executing details, lines get crossed.  The caregiver who is more personally people oriented instead of distanced, disciplined, and objective enough to perform and organize in an exemplary manner, ends up re-focusing his or her own "duties" so that they become more about controlling the patient, rather than seeing to those elements that surround the patient, and support his wellbeing.  A kind of guardian effect may occur, where the healthcare professional decides that a personal relationship with the client is more important than the tasks this professional was originally hired to perform: Father knows best? Mother knows best?  Nope.  Support person knows best. And, that's not okay.

Caregivers, providers, support people, or agencies of any type, can easily slip away from the tasks at hand, and become instead, very people oriented or personally involved with the patient.  Thus, the priority of the caregiver is no longer about objective care, but subjectively about the patient needing care that seemingly only the caregiver can provide; that only the caregiver knows how to provide.  It creates a dependency, and it validates the caregiver's psychological need to be personally connected, in order to be of value.  The tasks the caregiver was originally hired to perform for the patient, become secondary to the caregiver's own psychological needs.

What is potentially worse is the same scenario but where the caregiver becomes a leader, or puts himself in charge of the patient; a role of importance and control, not through a personal relationship, but rather through a kind of executive decision made by the caregiver, himself.  This healthcare provider or caregiver, legislates the needs of the particular client or patient to the exclusion of others--including the patient, himself.   Control gradually becomes absolute.  It is no longer about the patient's receiving objectively evaluated care from a competent task person; all else is subordinated to the caregiver's need to control, commanding others to do what was once the caregiver's actual task-oriented job of scheduling, organizing, and executing specific duties.

The inappropriate shift in roles, in order to fill personal psychological needs, warps a caregiver in whatever capacity; the thrust of that individual toward his client, student, or patient, is no longer a clear, distanced evaluative focus, but rather one of superiority.  It's all too easy when tending folks who are challenged in one way or another, to forget about respect, empathy, distancing, boundaries; and to slip into the role of ruler, surrogate parent, or boss.   Providers and caregivers, remember, come in all sorts of ancillary job descriptions, when networking the world of healthcare.

People who are caregivers or providers in agency work or on their own; who have more psychological needs than their particular job placement may provide; on a day-in-day-out, year-by-year kind of schedule (particularly with the same clients for extended periods of time); are most susceptible when it comes to slipping out of their assigned duty-oriented careers; rather, they ease into an orientation of control.

Certainly, there are practical reasons that exist for caregivers to have a certain amount of supervisory influence, when people are disabled or challenged; these professionals are presumably trained accordingly, they have experience, and they are familiar with the patient's history in one way or another.  It is true that patients often need direction from others, in order to guide and assist themselves.

However, direction is one thing; bullying is quite another.

Simply because a person or agency has done a job for years and years and years; has expertise in his field; has taken responsibility in various areas of his vocation; it does not give him a green light when it comes to taking charge of another person's life, to the exclusion of that individual's personal rights or the rights of others. When it comes to contribution, input, or care that is of significant benefit to a patient or client, there must be shared responsibility between all parties; the professionals must stick to the job descriptions they were meant to carry out.

When any caregiver or support person takes over the rights of a particular individual; when that individual becomes manipulated or less independent as a result of increasing control on the part of that caregiver, what is referred to as "for your own good," is more aptly  labeled "ego trip."  It speaks to the psychological needs of a healthcare professional or agency gone awry and who has turned away from the tasks that are his responsibility;  instead, twisting his job to suit himself, either by creating a too dependent relationship with the client, or by legislating what the client needs or ought to do:  Not only so that it ostensibly suits the client, but primarily so that it suits the caregiver's needs to control, as well.

Either way, it's about personal psychological needs trumping job-description. It's about bullying rather than advocating for the patient's right to be treated as normally as possible, and with as much dignity and respect as possible, given his special situation.

Five Finger Exercise

I would like to say that I come from a long line of Fingernails.  Every woman in our family has had Fingernails since I can remember.  Generations of Fingernails.  Manicured, buffed, polished to the nine's.  Deep reds, wines, and burgundies.

It all started with Cherries In The Snow--Charles Revson's, and Revlon's, very first shade of adapted automobile paint--helping women to buck up during the Depression and War effort.

Always, Fingernails.  It was never an issue among us.  Since I was six years old, I had long nails.   I learned to take care of them myself, albeit I didn't start wearing red polish for years and years:  A family tradition. One wasn't human, let alone a female or feminine, without Fingernails.  I was convinced that they possessed some bit of magical power, in order to make a woman complete.  I had to have them.  Inwardly, I knew this.

When I was ten, I made the fatal mistake of taking piano lessons. Who knew? I was the bane of my teacher's existence.  Why?  The long fingernails.  Did you know that in order to play the piano, one has to have Short fingernails?  Yes.  I took lessons year after year, and it was an ongoing battle about the fingernails. Clickety clack, clickety clack, upon the keys.  My teacher, who was petite, tremulous, dressed in flowered silks without a brassiere, and with eminently blue hair, wanted--nay, demanded--my nails be short; to round the hand, curve the fingers, hit the keys with the soft pads of the quiet fingertips.  Power to the upper knuckles and carpals. A fair request.

I, on the other hand, wanted to look utterly gorgeous from the wrists down, even in the fifth grade.  Why not?  Everyone in my family was gorgeous in the very same way.  Long, luscious nails upon even longer, artistic and beautifully sculpted fingers and hands. Do you have any idea how refreshing it is, when doing arithmetic assignments, or a social studies paper, to absentmindedly take a break, and gaze down at such elegant, slender, appendages?  My hands were so lovely that when I injured them, nothing could give me greater pleasure than to dote on the ethereal beauty of their X-rayed poise.  Think of it.

After all, I only "tickled the ivories" a few hours a week; yet, I reasoned, I had to look at my hands, 24/7.  It was obvious.  Materialistic and empirical piano vs. spiritual, eternally beautiful hands.  What's to discuss?

Ultimately, I quit the lessons, and my fingers were at peace.  I quit for other reasons, too--like ongoing migraine headaches every Monday on the spot, about four hours before lesson-time. The nails were a part of the pain.  I assure you.
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Life came, and life has gone by.
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Now, don't drop your drawers, but I'm taking piano lessons, again.  Same piano.  Same practicing only a lot more, same everything.  Different teacher (the old one died years ago). Same Fingernails.  Only, this time, with the red polish: The true family tradition remember, from generation to generation. (L'dor v' dor.)

Wouldn't you know it?  Here we go again.

This time, the nails are eminently shorter--down to the nub.  The style has changed:  Computers, touch-screens, and smart phones are the name of the game.  Short nails are a prerequisite for survival in the information age. However, I would like to say, they are not short enough for my piano teacher, and this one doesn't even have blue hair!

So help me. I clip, I file.  The nails are Below the fingertips!  But, they click. I have tall cuticles; I have long nail beds.  No matter what I do, I still click rather than tickle, the keys.  My own rhythm section.

I've taken to giving myself a manicure the night before the lessons.  I hope this will do the trick. Maybe she won't notice.  I have painted them a neutral color so that the teacher can see how stubby and minuscule these nails are, relative to their potential.  My nails short, are longer than many women's, long!  It's the way God made me.  I'm stuck.

What can you say about a woman who has three pianos--including a baby grand that substitutes as the dining room table under a chandelier-- in a living room/dining room area that's maybe 10'x15'?  There is a heavy, Victorian jacquarded tapestry of a sofa with antique gold fringe hanging all about, two over-stuffed chairs, a disc-player, and two mammoth felines. Definitely, a room out of necessity, that commands absolute order and control; everything must be in its place. Including the Fingernails. Or Else.

There you are.  I am caught.  I love the music, discipline myself to the practicing, thoroughly enjoy the teacher, delight over the charmingly petite house--fringe and all.  What to do, what to do...

Um, maybe I should tell you that my teacher had her cats de-clawed.  Do you think this is in the back of her mind?  Naaaaah, couldn't be.  Or could it?

A God Story #1

Do you believe in God?  I do.  He keeps popping up on me.  Or, maybe it's His angels--my angels.  Anyway, I don't mean to get mushy on you, or mystical.  It's just that I have empirical God stories.  I'm going to tell you one of them.  It just happened, yesterday.

I have a password book.  Dumb.  Lose the book, and lose my life.  You know how it goes.  In the meantime, I have the book.  Hundreds of passwords.  I've done a lot of re-arranging and moving lately, because I moved my office home.  (We'll talk about that another time.)  

As things began to finalize/be finished up, I began to relax and to get comfortable.  Hundreds of papers, books, new items and doo-dads, everywhere. I'm not used to where everything is yet, because I'm not used to having all this Stuff in my house to know that it's here; let alone where it is!

Time passed. Maybe a couple of weeks.  Very hectic in the meantime, with company, the holidays, getting caught up with the business, my daughter's care, etc. 

Then, last week, I focused on Facebook--figured I'd make my mark there.  It had been months and months, and it was time to catch up. 

I went to look for the password book:  Absent and unaccounted for.  Odd, I thought.  I know it's' here...

I wasn't so worried, because I knew it had to be Somewhere.  Slowly and methodically, I began to look. The days went by.  I looked harder.  At first, it was topical.  Then, beneath and into and under. Oy...  

I was reminded of the little story, Where's Spot?  Is he here? No.  Is he there?  Not there.  Is he over in the other place?  Nope.  Not in the other place, either... 

Uh, oh...

After a week, I recruited my daughter's nurse.  Search, search. search. Under furniture, in drawers, throughout closets; peculiar places that it couldn't be--but might.  I checked, cleaned, and swept the spots in the garage; every where in my three offices.  The trash, the shredded papers.  I called places I thought maybe I took it and left it.  The good news is that it had been about a month, and no one had tried to log in as me: Another reason to think the book was at home.  

Nevertheless, no password book.  

It wasn't just the newspaper or the stock market check-up passwords, you understand.  It was serious: Social Security, insurance, the computers, banks--you know, important things.  It occurred to me to get frantic.  Yet, I still and all, couldn't fathom that I had lost that book.  I kept looking.

On Wednesday, I went for luncheon with a friend.  Delicious belated birthday, at a swell Italian restaurant. Maggiano's. (Ever been there? mmmmmmmm...  The one I like best is downtown, and old in feel--lots of photos of historic Denver.  Leather booths, checkered table cloths...  Black and white parquet floors in the bathrooms.  Dark wood trim and wainscoting with white striated marble walls.  Brass trim.  Perfect.  But I digress.)

My friend and I eat.  It comes time for dessert. The waiter brings it, gratis, for the special occasion, and with the skinniest pink birthday candle I've ever seen.  Twine dipped in wax and straightened.  About 6" tall.  He lights the wick, and I make a wish.

Wishes over birthday cakes, at least for me, don't mean much; I don't take them seriously.  (Just between us.)

This time, however, in all the years of wishing, I figured I really had a good, legitimate wish.  Instead of saving the world, or the environment, or the poor and starving--wishes that couldn't come true in a million years from my or anyone's birthday candle--I had a serious thought.  Not just a wish--a fervent request.  In fact, a prayer.

I'm not one to ask God for things.  I figure He's got a lot on His mind with the weather, wars, and all; and the best I can do is to have Him grant me the strength to help me help myself.  That's my usual petitioning prayer. With a "Thank you" up front.

I think, OK, this is a birthday wish, and By Golly, I'm going to take advantage of the occasion.  I'm desperate. (I hope God doesn't mind the imposition, too much.)  

My wish had become a prayer, and I asked for help to find the password book.  (Of course, you guessed this.)  I say "Thank you" first--up front--as I prayed.  

From the birthday candle fairy, I had transitioned to God:  "Upper Management."

Losing a password book is serious business.  I needed to rely on Someone more powerful than I.

I wish, I pray, I hope and hope and hope.  Omain.

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Five minutes later, as my friend and I begin to start in with the dessert, Hillary's nurse calls me at the restaurant. No kidding.  No. Kidding.

"Hello!" she says cheerily.  "I have something to tell you."

I smile inwardly.  I know what it is.  "You found the password book," I return, quietly.

"How on earth did you know?!"  She is stupefied.

"Because I asked God to find it just minutes ago, and He did,"  I said.

Our nurse of 29 years, 77 years old, whose husband was pastor of their church, is abashed.  "When did you ask God to help you find it?" she queried.  

"About 5 minutes ago," I said with a smile.

The nurse didn't question for a moment.  She knew this was right.  The book had been stuck in the couch, under the cushions.  I had searched the couch twice.  The nurse had searched the couch herself, a few days ago.  For whatever reason, today, she went back and looked in the couch, again. Bingo.  There was the book.

So you go figure.  But I figure God found it.  I figure He knew right where it was, and when I asked Him, He couldn't refuse.  So He found it for us.  The nurse got the credit.  Albeit, she refused the promised monetary reward. Her reward came from Heaven.  She was humbled to be the servant of the Lord, as they say.  You can just bet that she saw the entire procedure as a testimony to God's existence, which she has known all along.  

She's right.

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And, there you are.  One of my God stories.  You might say, "Aw, that's just a coincidence."  

My response to that:  Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous.  

"If I Am Not For Myself, Who Will Be For Me? If I Am Only For Myself, What Am I?" ...Rabbi Hillel (Essay)

The biggest problem facing humanity today:  Its own inhumanity--hubris. 

Before technology began to replace human interaction, science overtook religion to explain unknowns, secularism eradicated the notion of God, the family unit imploded; there was a bottom line--Morality.  For over 4,000 years, Judeo-Christian ethics--(Do unto others as you would have others do unto you) have been the watchwords by which people have treated one another fairly, supervised by a morally supreme being. 

Far from perfect, mankind nevertheless has done its best to live by these moral precepts, with recognition that one's fellow men, and the past/present/future, all have bearing.  

Today, we live only for the present:  What feels good for me, now;  not what I think is best for the greater good, over the long-term.

Our world swirls around us faster than we can comprehend; we are losing our way. Without morality to guide our actions and behaviors, and a moral being more knowledgeable and powerful than we; we cannot survive. We are without responsible leaders, heroes who respect laws or one another; someone to guide us/set standards/or point the way.  The biggest problem facing humanity today:  The naively arrogant belief that we outrank God.