What The Night Can Do

Fortunately that Monday in early April hadn’t been a “Monday.” It had been full but fulfilling and productive. It had left me a little tired though so I decided to retreat to my room around 9:30.

I hadn’t planned to fall asleep right away. Pete, my husband, hadn’t yet come to bed, besides, I like a little chill time at the end of the day. Often chill time for me involves music. Now we listen to Pandora via our Alexa echo dots. Back in the day, we listened to the radio. As I lie in bed, I started to reflect on those nights when I used to lie in bed waiting for my favorite songs to come out of the speaker atop my clock radio.

On a whim I did a search for Alan Almond, Pillow Talk, an evening radio show broadcast between 8:00 and midnight that aired for almost 25 years between the 1970’s and 1990’s. I found some YouTube links, and I clicked on the one titled “Alan Almond Tribute RIP,” a reference to the June 2015 passing of the longtime host.

What happened next nearly took my breath away.

Those of you who grew up anywhere in the Metro Detroit area and listened to the show will know. As soon as I heard that velvet voice, I slipped into another place and time.

Immersed in the darkness of our room, lost in the sound of Kool and the Gang’s Summer Madness playing in the background, I listened intently as those long-forgotten yet so familiar words came through my earbuds.

“You’ve been listening to Pillow Talk. My name is Alan Almond, and it’s the witching hour. Time to turn out the light and say goodnight.”

In the darkness the line between memory and reality faded. I was back in my teenage room, in my twin bed with the matching sheet and comforter set, with splashes of the 80’s colors of deep but bright fuchsia. teal, and purple swept across them. The little nightstand between the head of the bed and the wall on my left held the phone, with the same color theme, and the clock radio. The red digital numbers shined in the dark telling me that maybe I had stayed up a little longer than was wise, just to hear that sweet and sultry sign-off.

“Once again I want to thank you very much for spending this time with me tonight, to thank you for being there when I need you, and to thank you for just being you.”

The words sounded perfect over the background of Summer Madness, the song Almond closed the show with every weekend night, and the final words listeners heard before the music faded, “Sweet dreams, angel.”

To be honest, I listened to the short YouTube recording more than once. The video that accompanied the brief tribute featured only a silhouette of the mysterious man whose voice we had heard throughout those years. It was said that no one really knew what he looked like. Clearly several people knew what he looked like, but most of us didn’t. I doubt that mattered to any of us either. I know it hadn’t mattered to me.

I wondered, as I began the shift back to my current reality, why I felt the things I had in those moments, how it was possible to come as close as one can to time travel – truly experiencing a place and time long past, and more so, why I had wished I could linger there for just a while longer.

As I started to read the comments on the YouTube post, I realized that I was not the only one who had been swept away to another place and time by the recording of the longtime nighttime radio show host, because I saw “sweet dreams. angel” in several comments. Then teenagers, now long past that point in our lives, we had been united for a moment in time by that sound, by those memories of a show with a host who had offered a little insight and advice, who had played songs “by request tonight” or sent songs of his choice to people who had called or written in, and who had lulled so many teenagers into sweet dreams.

As I think about that experience in the light of reality, I believe that I actually understand. Life wasn’t perfect for me as a teenager. I had my challenges as we all do, but I also had a good life, and I expect that in my soul and spirit I knew it. I had two parents who were dedicated parents and a sister with whom I shared life as we grew up.

Beyond those things though, I had ideas and thoughts about the kind of person I wanted to become, about the things I wanted to accomplish, about the way my life would look. If I were to be completely honest, I guess I’m going to be, I even wondered as I listened to the short anecdotes of love and heartbreak that Almond would share, if there would be someone in my life one day. Most of the time, that thought wasn’t a priority for me.

I remember even then wondering, what would really happen, how it would all play out.

I looked back on those youthful years, with so much of life ahead and with all of its possibilities, with a bit of envy. As a woman who has now lived half a century, I felt like the wondering, and even the wonder, was all behind me. I have seen how things have turned out, what I have accomplished, and what I haven’t. As I pondered it all, the envy became sadness.

Those days are gone forever, but those feelings, those memories, the joy that I felt reliving all of it for just a few minutes, that was a gift. It showed me something about who I was then, and it also gave me the chance to reconsider where I am now.

Many women consider this stage to be a time for new beginnings. In framing my 50s with that insight, I can indeed experience the wonder again. Though not everything in my life played out the way I had thought it would, or even hoped it would, I find myself in a position to truly live life one day at a time. Of course I have responsibilities and commitments, and a budget, but within reason, I can fill the time as I choose and can do and try things that interest me. As importantly, I can still wonder what I have yet to experience and how life will play out.

PS: I couldn’t end this post without this perhaps cliché but certainly sincere signoff so thanks for the memories to the late Alan Almond.

Just the Shadows

One of the first tells that autumn is approaching for me is the changing of the light and shadows. As summer draws to its end, the sun sits lower in the sky casting longer shadows throughout the day.

When I decided to return to college to pursue the exercise science degree, and after I completed that degree and worked part time at the community college, I always knew the time for my return to campus was near as those shadows fell longer on the green grass.

With that knowledge came an increasing desire to spend as much time enjoying both my relative freedom and the outdoors as possible. On those late summer days, I would always be accompanied on my ventures outdoors by Mitzi. I would often look and see the black and white border collie, wearing her classic red bandana, lying in the grass made darker green by those shadows.

On August 6, we said goodbye to Mitzi, but I haven’t been able to write her tribute.

When my Cali cat passed away, nearly six years ago now, I had her tribute completely composed in my mind. With Cali, I had known in October 2016, when the vet diagnosed her with breast cancer, that she would likely have just a few more months. We chose to make her comfortable and to enjoy our remaining time together.

I had promised her that I would not let her suffer, and I made the call to the vet in late December to keep that promise. I had a couple of days between my phone call and her appointment December 29, 2016, the last appointment of the day. I spent those days with her as much as she would allow, and I spent the final hour giving her a little milk and petting her caramel color fur.

After she passed, the post “One Dark December Night” poured out of me as my tears fell on the keyboard while I typed., but a fitting tribute to Mitzi has eluded me to this point.

Mitzi had been with us for 15 years. When my husband Pete and I adopted her, we had been told that she was about a year old or so. Since she was a rescue, they didn’t have a birth date for her. Regardless, Mitzi was an ol’ girl. Her passing should have come as no surprise to us, and though it didn’t – it did.

After a tough Friday night in early August, we knew it was time. We agreed that we would call our vet on Monday morning. I went to yoga class that Saturday morning, and I had talked with my instructor about our poor border collie, and Pete, and about how hard it is to make the decision. She had agreed that it is so difficult with dogs because “they don’t always show us how much they’re suffering because they want so much to please,” and she said she would pray for peace about the decision.

By mid-afternoon, both Pete and I knew that we could not wait until Monday. Mitzi seemed to be declining by the hour. He called an emergency vet about 30 minutes away. He put Mitzi into the car, and we made what seemed like an extra long drive.

I felt unsettled. It was almost as if it had become a trauma situation, except we knew the outcome. We knew she was old. We knew she had a few health issues; she had been seen for those issues both in our former hometown and in our new one. We knew it wouldn’t be long, but somehow, she had kept surprising us, had kept wagging that black tail with its white tip whenever Pete got anywhere near her leash, had kept on walking even though the distances kept decreasing. Though we had been expecting it for literally a couple of years, it had come suddenly.

My emotions became dominated by anger once we arrived at the emergency vet. They made everyone wait outside. It was 93 degrees by time we arrived at 4:00 pm. They had a bright, spacious, air conditioned waiting room. Even if they couldn’t relieve everyone’s stress and sadness, they could have at least given us a break from the heat. They required masks for the people they did allow in; it just didn’t make sense to me to keep everyone out.

Finally, the time had come. A tech approached our Prius. Pete stood Mitzi on the blacktop. He coaxed her to walk with him one more time. She tried, but she couldn’t. He picked her up and carried her into the vet. We had been assured that we would be able to be with her in her final moments, and we were. Ours were the last voices she heard.

The tears were already falling as I reached for the door to leave. The stifling August air hit me as I walked through the door. I pulled at the cheap paper mask so hard it tore, its strap flying off somewhere in front of me. I was crying; I couldn’t breathe. A man was sitting on a bench just outside the door. The woman who had been sitting with him when we had gone in wasn’t there. He was crying too. I heard my husband say, “It never gets easier.” I heard the man respond, something like, “No, it doesn’t.” We got into our car, and I reached for the temperature controls as soon as it was running. I needed cool air.

I couldn’t write with all of that emotion: that strange disbelief that it was over – she was gone forever; that anger that had arisen at the way things were handled at the vet; and that guilt. Yes, as I thought more about everything later, I felt guilty.

Knowing that her time was short, even though she had kept on going, I had wanted her passing to be more like Cali’s, a scheduled date and time, time to spend those last few moments and to do those things “one more time.” I had wanted her to be able to go to our local vet, five minutes away. I had wanted it to be peaceful. Instead, the last mornings outside together and last walks just happened without us knowing they would be the lasts. The peaceful experience I had enjoyed with my cat, as our vet had done the best they could in making it easier for us, had been replaced by a long drive and 45 minutes waiting in a car, or outside trying to catch what little breeze there was that day.

I felt like maybe I could have prevented her life ending like that. I could maybe have prevented her suffering, if she was, or if she had that day. I thought maybe we had waited too long. I had seen the tiredness in her eyes before that day.

Though I couldn’t write for her, the Sunday after she passed, I changed my clothes after church and went into the garage, fought with the zip ties that held her house (the wire crate for a medium-sized dog) in the folded position, and set the crate up enough to retrieve her blanket, deep red with black paw prints. For some reason it had become important to me to wash and keep her blanket. I also washed all of her bandanas, 28 in total, each with a different memory of purchasing it for her, or with her.

At some point during that week, I also started to work on her memorial collage. I had done the same for Cali. As I started to look for favorite pictures of Mitzi, I started to remember not just the old border collie she had been, but the energetic, sometimes neurotic, young dog she had been.

She could run. Perhaps surprisingly, she did not enjoy running distances. When I was still a runner, I would run a mile or two with her, then drop her off at home and finish my mileage for the day. I’m not the fastest person either, but she really didn’t enjoy that kind of running too much. As a sprinter, she was stunning. When either Pete or I would throw the frisbee for her, much like a quarterback leads a receiver with a pass, she would run, but when she’d catch sight of the frisbee, she would get low, and she would fly on a straight line, dialed in to run under it, and jump to catch it. It was something to behold.

She was a loyal walking partner as well. She walked all over Michigan, and several other states, mainly with Pete, but sometimes with both of us. She escaped several times in her youth as well, in our hometowns, in northern Michigan, and in Canaan Valley, West Virginia. She was not a fan of the water, but her strong legs made her a good swimmer. She walked or swam in all five Great Lakes during her life.

She caused anger to arise within me on so many occasions, and yet she made me laugh – often at the exact same time. She was afraid of storms and fireworks, and she did some memorable damage during those events. She was athletic. She was smart. She was particular. She was picky. She was a homebody. And she was loyal, more than I ever realized, until her dying day.

The other day I had been working on a project, sitting in front of the computer for a couple of hours. I decided that I needed to take a break and get some fresh air. I stepped out the back door, barefoot as I often am, on to the grey paving stone steps that match our patio. I gazed at the blue sky, listened to the wind in the trees, and felt the sun’s warmth still in September. I walked down the two steps to the patio and surveyed the yard, a rectangle defined by the wood privacy fence. I noticed the long shadows cast by our tall trees. I didn’t see the black and white border collie in her classic red bandana. It was just the shadows. In that moment, it all felt so empty.

Rage Against the Dying of the Light

Those of you who are reading this blog post may recognize that the title I have chosen for this post comes from the poem “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas. The poem speaks not only of the subject of dying but also of living, of how we live.

The poem urges readers to live life while we have the opportunity to do so. It also reminds us that each of us has a purpose, a calling to impact the world in some way, and that we may feel tremendous regret if we realize we have not given our best effort to impact our world in some way.

It is for that reason, and for the power of the words themselves, that I have chosen this title for this post. In the words “the dying of the light” I find my calling to write again after a long hiatus from writing blog posts.

I now find myself living in a nation that I no longer recognize. I must rage against the dying of the light, by exposing the lies, by defending freedom, and by bringing light where there is darkness.

The lies are many. They are long-standing. They touch topics ranging from economic policy to equality of opportunity versus equality of outcome to the creation of categories of “others” by ad hominin attacks on law abiding citizens of this nation, attacks that are not only endorsed by several state and federal leaders but also engaged in by even the sitting President himself.

I am not, and will never claim to be, an expert on economic policy. Thomas Sowell writes extensively on socioeconomic topics and provides an abundance of empirical data to support each of the assertions that he presents in his essays and books.

Larry Elder is also proficient in his inclusion of empirical data in addressing socioeconomic issues, but more so in addressing social issues, such as parenting, policing, and education. Dr. Carol Swain writes and speaks on the topics of social issues including women’s issues, particularly as they relate to women of color, from her own experience. She also addresses issues in education ranging from K through the university; Dr. Swain was a professor of political science and law at Vanderbilt University. Readers may find that she knows whereof she speaks on these topics.

Searching out truth in complex areas like economic policy, public education, and even public health policy takes effort. It takes recognizing our own biases and being willing to challenge them. The practice of challenging, of questioning, is currently viewed as problematic.

What is truly problematic is the forbidding of thinking, of questioning, and of arriving at conclusions other than those imposed by the party in power – whichever that may be.

Another current trend that is problematic is the categorizing of people as “others.” What is disturbing, and outright maddening, to me is how willing people are to accept the categorization of the others. It is as though we have learned nothing, absolutely nothing, from history.

Tell me, who were the others at one time in this country? Were they the slaves? Were they the black men and women trying to live in the south? Were they the Japanese after the tragedy at Pearl Harbor? How many of the same people who are abhorred by the treatment of those groups of people are more than willing to wish illness and death on people who choose not to cover their faces in public, or choose not to take a vaccination, or who voted for someone with whom they disagree.

Have we learned nothing from the wrongs committed in this nation’s past? I had thought we had learned a great deal, but now I see that I was wrong. Many people are completely willing to marginalize groups all over again just because they disagree with anything from their healthcare choices to their voting decisions.

Dehumanizing people remains just as wrong now as it was centuries or decades ago.

Dehumanizing the people with whom one disagrees makes it is easier to believe it when one is told that the others are racist, insurrectionist, ignorant, enemies of the state. It frees those who have been told and who believe that they are in the right from the effort that they would otherwise have had to put forth to become curious enough, interested enough, or empathetic enough to understand the other person, to understand why they made the choices they made, or why they voted the way they did, or why they live the way they do.

Sectarianism frees people to sit in their moral superiority, completely devoid of self-reflection and of any willingness to assess their own flaws or biases. Challenging our own biases is difficult, because we all have them – no exceptions. But challenging our biases is necessary if we wish to see beyond the lies that have led to the creation of a category of “others,” and to once again see the beauty in “E Pluribus Unum.”

It is at this point in the blog that I will admit that I am by now likely considered to be an “other.” If you have read my post in the past, you know that I reluctantly chose to get vaccinated. It is not for that reason that I am likely to be placed in the other group.

I support the requirement of identification for a right and responsibility as important as voting for those who will represent us in governance. Still. I am not a racist. No one can so recklessly lay that label on me, because I know who I am.

Not being able to drive due to visual limitations, I have biked to my poling location on warm breezy days, and I have biked or walked to my poling location on cold, wet November days. I share this fact not because I need accolades for my dedication, but rather to reassert a point that seems forgotten. People generally ascribe value or worth based on cost. Voting rights were gained for women and for people of color at a cost. How dare many of our current leaders disrespect their struggle and sacrifice by cheapening the voting process. How dare they insult the effort invested by immigrants who worked to become citizens and to be afforded the opportunity to vote by handing it out to anyone who happens to be around at the time of an election.

I am an “other” because I support freedom, and because I have fought and will continue to fight for freedom, for freedom from government overreach and freedom to live according to the conviction of conscience.

Incidentally, but importantly, though I fight for freedom – or more accurately stated work for freedom – I am not a domestic terrorist. I have been involved with Stand Up Michigan, a grass roots movement that has created change through such avenues as petition campaigns and other legal means only. I have never once seen anyone from Stand Up who has rallied or demonstrated pick up and throw anything, nor am I aware of anyone setting a single fire.

As I listened to a Stand Up Michigan livestream update in the fall, I heard the presenter mention an upcoming rally against vaccine mandates that was scheduled to occur on site at Consumer’s Energy. The presenter directed those who were planning to attend to view the list of guidelines both for appropriate behavior and for appropriate signage prior to participating in the event. Though I was not at all surprised to hear those instructions, I also know that those opposed to the petitions and initiatives of Stand Up have lied publicly about the methods of this group.

Again, I know who I am, and I know that the domestic terrorist or insurrectionist label are more lies that are intended to frighten the gullible and uninformed.

I am not opposed to a government that operates within the roles that the constitution ascribed to each branch thereof. Though it is cliché, government is a necessary evil. The government that delineates and defends its nation’s borders, that effectively maintains its nation’s, states’, and local municipality’s infrastructure, and the government that provides for services now accepted as necessary, such as emergency services and utilities, is appropriate for without it chaos is a likely result. However, the government that seeks to bore its way into every aspect of the private lives of its citizens is heedless and self-focused and needs responsible citizens to remind it of its roles, and of its limitations.

I unapologetically support people’s rights to live their lives as free from excessive control by a government as is practical, and in so doing, I – we the freedom fighters, support the rights of those who disagree with us as well, even though those who disagree with us seem to be unable to comprehend that truth.

Ultimately, I need to remind myself that no government in existence can provide the peace and stability that humanity seeks. It is only the truth that sets people free. As a woman who sees the wrongs of the past and present, I can become very angered by the wrong that I see – by the lies, by the othering, by the capitulating, but I also need to remind myself that the truth must be shared in love.

I need to be cognizant too of the words that appear earlier in this blog. I choose to strive for a nuanced view, rather than a binary view, of complex issues. I choose to seek to better understand the people with whom I may disagree. I choose to rage against the dying of the light.

When I Saw The Flag

In our home it has become a tradition to watch the National Memorial Day Concert that is broadcast by PBS every year on the Sunday evening prior to Memorial Day.

Through music, often accompanied by documentary film footage playing in the background, and through dramatic readings, performed by professional actors often on behalf of a family member or a veteran who is in the audience, viewers are drawn in and challenged to experience in as real a way as can be achieved through media the experience of veterans and their families. It is always a moving performance, and sometimes tough to watch.

It is difficult to comprehend the level of sacrifice that our fellow citizens have chosen to tolerate on our behalf while we sit in comfort in front of our large TVs. It is impossible to comprehend the horror that those who have experience combat have endured while many of us live in relatively quiet neighborhoods. To see the images and to hear the stories is to experience a swirling wind of emotions that can change direction in a moment, from sincere appreciation, to amazement, to patriotism, even to guilt.

The things that humans have done in order to defend freedom for their generation and for those to come cannot be overlooked, diminished, nor disrespected. To be American is to understand the incredible investment into protecting and preserving the things that have made this country the greatest nation in the world, the country that has been available, and able and willing to defend freedom abroad.

Much of the world owes this nation for the freedom and progress that it enjoys. We here certainly owe those who have and who are now working at home and abroad to defend this inspired form of government and the kind of life that it allows each person to live.

In America the opportunity exists for each of us to exercise our personal rights and to practice personal responsibility to make the most of what we have been given. Certainly there are obstacles. Challenges do not discriminate based on any of the standard factors, race, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation – none of those things. Each person has challenges because life is not without its trials even in this relatively stable and free nation.

It is imperative that we never forget the price that was paid so that we can live in relative peace and freedom today. The National Memorial Day Concert is a somber, annual reminder, but I believe we all may need to be reminded not just annually but perhaps daily.

The point was made by General Colin Powell during the concert that for the Gold Star Families every day is Memorial Day. We cannot allow anyone in a position of leadership to dishonor the memories of those who gave their lives by treating this nation and its freedom with the disdain that some openly hold and boldly share. We must choose carefully. We must be wary of people who would distort this nation’s history.

This nation has a flawed past, as nations have since the beginning of time. It is a past from which we have learned, and from which attempts have been made to right the wrongs wherever possible. It is a nation that is a work in progress, and I hope it will always be moving toward a better version of this beautiful experiment in governance. It is a nation built on principles that many believed were worth dying to defend.

We must be wise in electing and appointing people who will continue to work to defend it and to make it even better, not people who will make every effort to tear it apart.

As we were out running mundane errands earlier this week, I saw a large flag blowing in the hot afternoon breeze against a blue sky, lined by thunderheads off in the distance.

The flag caused me to think back to the concert of Memorial Day weekend. It caused me to once again wonder how people who hold such disdain for the flag, for everything it represents, and for everyone who has sacrificed and who is sacrificing to defend it – how people like that can be in positions of leadership throughout our nation.

When I look at the flag, I will always remember not only how great this nation is, but also how great the sacrifice was that protected it and protects it still today.

A Surreal Space

My obsession began when I was in my teens unfortunately. A doctor, whom I liked a great deal, added to that obsession, certainly with unintended long-lasting consequences.

In my early teens I had begun to have some incidents of extremely high heart rates, 175bpm at one doctor visit.

That scared me of course, and the fear only worsened the problem. When that doctor who I had been seeing suggested that I seek psychological assistance, my family rejected that notion. Their intention was not to harm me but rather to protect me, perhaps from long-standing stereotypes about mental health issues, but more so during that period of our lives likely from the negative light in which the church we were attending viewed seeking “counsel from the world.”

The doctor we chose next, based on a friend’s recommendation, was a good man, kind, sincere. He ordered a 24 hour Holter monitor and an echocardiogram for me, and he suggested that I monitor my heart rate for one week as well, recording my pulse whenever I felt that my heart rate was becoming rapid. It was at that point that I began to focus intensely on my heart and what it was doing.

The Holter monitored showed PVCs, what he described to me as “the extra beats you feel.” He told me that nearly everyone experiences them, and some of us have the misfortune of noticing them. He also said that the echocardiogram was normal. It didn’t show mitral valve prolapse the primary concern of his as it causes palpitations. My heart was basically healthy.

Throughout my life, that news has never reassured me to the extent that one might think it would, nor to the extent that I would have thought it should.

I was monitored again in 2009 after another round of intense and frequent palpitations with much the same conclusion, basically a healthy heart, PVCs that are inexplicable and just part of my life.

I had another memorable bout in 2013, during a very stressful time in my life while finishing the Bachelor’s degree in exercise physiology at EMU. My doctor suggested a stress echo and monitor, but since she wanted to do the stress echo first, I declined. I had just spent a week doing observation as part of my course work at EMU. Every time someone had a stress echo, they finished their testing session by vomiting. One patient was even taken immediately to the cath lab. No, I decided; nothing good comes from having a stress echo.

I continued to notice the PVCs, skipped beats, or “extra beats” on and off throughout the years, as I have nearly all of my life.

During the last month, they have become worse again, and more recently they began to seem to change a bit. Whereas I used to be able to get them to stop by breathing consciously or changing positions, I could no longer make them stop.

On a recent Saturday afternoon, I found myself walking close beside my husband through the sliding doors of our local emergency department.

The last time I went to the emergency department, we weren’t even married – so over 15 years ago. It was the weekend then as well, and I had a UTI, and I knew it. I just needed the meds. Now, if one has a UTI one can likely do a virtual appointment and get a scrip called in for the antibacterial, no need to go sit at urgent care or the ED.

As I went through check in and triage this time, I kept wondering what I was doing in the emergency department. Last time I knew, this time was different. I believed I would be released that day, but as the triage staff discussed doing an ECG and took me immediately back, I knew that this could go several different ways.

Enough of my family members have had heart issues, serious ones like heart attacks, that I knew that I would have an ECG and a blood draw.

The ECG was done immediately. The blood draw came after the doctor was in, but I saw that troponin had been ordered STAT when I later looked at my lab results in my patient portal.

The nurse who had been assigned to me told me a chest x-ray had been ordered. Transport came to get me for the x-ray. As we wound our way through the dim and deserted corridors of the hospital to the imaging area, I became afraid for the first time during that visit.

I was alone then. I was placed into a curtained area, though for a very short time. I didn’t know when I would get taken back to the room where my husband was. I didn’t know if the doctor had ordered anything else that would call for the need for me to be wheeled through those sterile and lonely hallways to some unknown destination in the windowless world of diagnostic and treatment areas.

But I was returned to my room quite quickly, and for that I was grateful. I was also discharged after about three hours.

The doctor said that I had “checked out quite well.” Several incidents of PVCs registered on my monitor, some even with the monitor alarming at their frequency or pairing. The doctor affirmed that they are real, but they are something that will once again need to be monitored “out in the world” during the course of my normal daily activities.

Soon I will be wearing a monitor again. We will see what comes of that. Often, there is no explanation for PVCs when the heart is determined to be otherwise healthy As one heart rhythm specialist put it in a column I read, “It’s best not to try too hard to understand PVCs. We often don’t know why they come, or why they leave again.”

As I lie in bed that night after having been released from the emergency department, I thought about the emotional toll it had taken. It was not as though it was traumatic. It was much more subtle.

Both my dad and my mom have been in the ED, mom fairly frequently for a time. I thought about them. I have thought that they are braver than am I, and I believe I found my assessment to be correct as I remembered those dim and desolate hallways that I encountered on the way to imaging, how lonely I felt, and how out of my control my life felt in those moments. I wondered how they did it.

Not only did I feel like I wasn’t all that brave, or as brave as I would have liked to be, I also felt like I had left a great deal undone. I started to think about what would happen if didn’t get cleared to leave that night.

Once we had decided to go to the ED, we just left the house, me assuming I would be back in a few hours. But what if I hadn’t come back after a few hours?

We have finally made it to our new town, settled in our forever home. I wanted to go home, to be with the family, and my pets, who would be there without me if I got admitted.

Worse yet, I had started to think just a little bit about the big “what if.”

I certainly wasn’t ready to die, not after being so close to seeing all of the pieces of the puzzle finally coming together like we had hoped, with not only us settling into our new place, but also with my husband’s family and my family having done or about to do the same.

I want to enjoy all of what we hoped was ahead, more time with the people we love, more good memories to make, more success to be found.

Then I thought about the pressure I had been placing on myself, not just recently but really all of my life, and I began to wonder if all of this was my fault. PVCs, like so many health issues, are made worse by stress. What if I was in this surreal space in a strange hospital because of me!

As I tried to sort those things out in the darkness in my bedroom that night, I was grateful that I was able to be back in my own room, but I was also saddened and somewhat confused by the thoughts and emotions that had arisen based on a relatively benign visit to our local emergency department.

As I sort this out through writing, I have no cathartic revelation to share. I suppose I have more sorting and thinking to do. Perhaps my thoughts will lead to some action – and likely – some changes.

I am a person of faith. I am working with a therapist both privately and in group to better my mental health. I continue to work to address my physical health through exercise, nutrition, and this year weight loss.

Perhaps it’s not change but continued progress that I seek, because after all, as long as God grants me time in His broken but beautiful world, I will be a work in progress. Perhaps giving the best I can is all I can ask of myself.

Atheism, An Easier Path?

Do people of faith lack intellectual prowess? Do they lack the capacity for reason? Have they surrendered their discernment to doctrines?

Many people believe that these statements are true of people of faith. Critics commonly call out Christians in particular for believing in “a sky fairy,” liken faith to that of a child who believes in an Easter bunny, or just simply write off the entire population of believers as unreasonable, if not uneducated.

Though there are certainly people of faith who allow someone in a position of authority to make their decisions for them (at one time I lived among that group of people), the vast majority of people who live a life of religious faith are intelligent, educated, wise, bright lights in this world.

Given that many people of faith are thoughtful, reasonable, successful people who live in this world and contribute to it, why then the bias and the stereotype?

Are there no areligious people who allow someone to do their thinking for them? Certainly some people who would never heed the words of a spiritual leader will turn on their favorite news channel and ingest without questions every word that their favorite anchor or news show host has to say, and even worse, some people hang on every word, every endorsement, or every critical response that their favorite celebrity spits out.

Religion, or lack thereof, is not a determining factor in whether or not people allow themselves to become intellectually lazy.

Then what leads to the disdain of the religious by many in the secular realm?

As I have read and listened to what people have had to say throughout the years, many cannot reconcile the “good God” with the suffering in the world. Having been a Christian for a very long time, I personally find that I tire of that argument. But the Spirit reminds me that their crisis of faith – or the lack of faith – is valid. It’s valid because people with that particular dilemma are either experiencing great pain or have seen significant suffering.

Even the most devout have reported experiencing their own crisis of faith due to the harsh realities that we see day after day in this world. It is widely known that Mother Teresa experienced some challenging circumstances given the mission to which she was called and the people who she served. She found though that doubt led her to prayer: “If our bones were not sending whispers of doubt to our hearts, there would be no need for prayer at all.”

For people who view doubts like Mother Teresa, the doubts serve the purpose of bolstering the search for answers within their faith. For those who are not yet connected through faith to God, the doubts and questions could drive them further from making a connection at all.

Beyond the sincere questions, that often do arise from a painful place, I believe that much of the disdain for faith, and for those who adhere to a religious worldview, comes from a place of hubris.

Those who do struggle to reconcile our worldview, that is centered on the Bible and the teachings of Jesus, truly do struggle daily with living in a physical and tangible world while trying to reconcile our beliefs and actions with a spiritual ethos.

We too wrestle with the suffering in the world. We try to discern truth in a world where lies are becoming more acceptable. We try not to fall prey to the culture that allows for lowering the standard of behavior to that extent. We work to figure out practical things, like what it means to obey those who God has placed in authority over us, especially when they lack discretion or abuse their authority, taking away our God-given rights.

We even wonder how to best care for our health and for that of the people we love. We care about putting the needs of others first, but we try to strike a delicate balance between meeting those needs that others have while not neglecting our own to the detriment of our wellbeing.

Living a life that would be pleasing to God in a world that He left with the free will to choose Him or not is work.

Living a life without having to think about God’s point of view, His requirements, or His leading seems to me to be an easier path.

To whom does an atheist answer? Clearly we all have to live to some extent by the laws within our state, territory, or nation, or we will face the consequences associated with breaking the laws or violating the ordinances or codes of conduct.

But beyond that, with whom does an atheist really have to reconcile his thoughts, his opinions, his choices, and his actions? Looking at atheism, I see that the only truth possible for a person who chooses that belief system is not an absolute and timeless truth, but rather a relative and fluid truth – a “my truth” mindset.

Given the criteria that an atheist, whether affirmed or by default, can think what he wants, can formulate his opinions, can make his own choices, and can do whatever he believes is right, and all of that can change at any point based on something as significant as a shift in cultural norms to a change in his own temperament.

Given that criteria, I believe that atheism, at least as it relates to the ideological and philosophical, is an easier path.

What say you?

Midland’s May Day

For several years my husband and I had been talking about moving to the Midland area. Some of our family members already resided in the general area, and we had talked with others about the possibility of moving closer, making the mid-state area something of a family hub.

In May of 2020 that was still in the planning phases. With the state, as well as parts of the country and the world, enduring COVID lockdowns, we were making some progress, but we had no idea what the next several months would bring. The people of our future hometown likely didn’t either.

On the evening of May 19, 2020, after heavy rains throughout the state, the Edenville Dam, located north of the city of Midland, failed. About an hour later, the Sanford Dam failed.

According to coverage of the dam breeches by Chemical City Paper the day following, the City of Midland’s website had issued this warning to its residents: “residents should seek higher ground as far east and west of the Tittabawassee River as possible, as the National Weather Service projected the river to crest at 38 feet today. That is about five feet over the current record-setting flood in 1986, which crested at 33.89 feet and was deemed “the worst natural disaster in the state’s modern history.'”

The governor, who still had the state on lockdown and hotels closed to all travelers with the exception of “essential workers” issued the following statement as recorded in Chemical City Paper: “We are anticipating a historic high-water level. This is unlike anything we’ve ever seen in Midland County,” she continued. If you have a family member or loved one in another part of the state, go there now.”

Though rains contributed to the situation to an extent, the dam breeches that occurred that day were much less a natural disaster than a man-made problem, and a problem that had been passed off for quite some time, the proverbial kicking the can down the road.

Unfortunately, the end of the road was closer than some wanted to believe, even though warnings such as the following, reported by the Detroit Free Press in 2017, had been issued:  “The Michigan Department of Environmental Quality oversees 88 potential high-hazard damns in the state, and all but six of them are approaching or past 50 years old, the average engineered life span for a dam. Overall, more than 90 percent of Michigan’s nearly 2,600 dams will reach or exceed their design life by 2020, the American Society of Civil Engineers (ASCE) stated in a 2009 report.”

Warnings more than 10 years old were issued, but went unheeded, at least in the case of the Edenville and Sanford Dams. The estimates state that as many as 150 homes were a total loss while around 1,650 were damaged, and still about 640 more were deemed “otherwise effected.” Total damage estimates range from $175 million to $200 million.

It was in June of 2020, barely a month after the disaster, that we began to look for a house in Midland.

Crazy? Maybe.

As we drove around the city one June weekend after attending an open house for a small but nice house located outside of the flood area, we saw the piles and piles of soaked carped rolls, damaged furniture, and warped drywall sitting along the curb awaiting removal by a DPW that worked for months to remove the debris.

As we looked at listings throughout the summer, trying to find our forever home, we saw listing after listing of the gutted houses that were in need of almost complete rebuilding. We weren’t interested in renovating a flood-damaged house, but one realtor we had met the first day of our search, at an open house, had told us that all of those houses would need to meet not only city codes but also FEMA codes for flooding before they would be deemed to be habitable once again.

After we sold our house in our former city – surprisingly quickly – in August of 2020, we had settled in a nice apartment on the dry side of Midland. It was in October that we found the one. We’ve been living in our new home since December of last year.

As we sat in church this Sunday, May 16, 2021, we were reminded that it was one year ago this week that our now hometown experienced that devastating flood. The worship pastor prayed for residents of the city, still in recovery in many ways, committed to continuing to be involved with the recovery efforts, and joined the worship team as they sang “Goodness of God.”

Having settled here in the aftermath of the flood, and knowing that many of the people in the church had endured all of it, I experienced two specific thoughts about the events of last May.

First I felt proud of the church we now call “our” church.

When we moved into the apartment on that warm August morning, it would have been just my husband and me were it not for two younger and stronger assistant pastors from our church. They didn’t know us then, but they responded to my husband’s request for anyone willing to help us move in, for a decent pay per hour. They came and helped, declining any compensation. They told us that they had plenty of practice moving over the past several months as they did the physical work needed to help people clean out their damaged homes.

Not only has our church been helpful in contributing to the physical labor needed by residents to clean up after such a destructive event, but nearly every church in the area was involved in some way with helping residents through providing grab-and-go meals to household items to making monetary contributions.

I was reminded of something that Tim Keller, pastor and founder of the Redeemer Presbyterian congregations throughout New York City, says. He encourages churches to be so involved in helping with the tangible needs in the communities in which they are located that their departure would cause the local government great concern were they to have to leave the community, because of the void they would leave in meeting the needs of the community.

Though I have read that organizations such as United Way and the Red Cross were certainly involved in helping the residents of Midland, Sanford, and surrounding areas to recover after the flood, it seems to me that churches in the area also shone through in the way that Tim Keller described, based of course on the scriptural description of the way the church should demonstrate God’s love to a community in need.

Second, I thought about how fortunate we are to be where we are now.

It was the pandemic to a great extent that advanced our plan to relocate, by about a year. Yet the flood happened and could have threatened our plan. Instead we found ourselves in a community that has not only survived the flood, but it also seems to be thriving once again, just a year after the flood within the COVID response.

Following our anniversary dinner downtown just last week, we drove past the Tridge and along the river. My husband commented that it was hard to believe that the very parking lot through which we were driving had been under water just one year earlier. And the restaurant where we had dined was threatened by the water but was spared, though just barely, as it sat on higher ground.

If you look at the picture, you will see the green “ring.” That structure is located in the parking lot of the park where we drove last week after dinner.

Following “Goodness of God” the praise team led the church in “Do It Again.” The entire song is so appropriate, especially as they acknowledged a bit of somber anniversary, but part of the lyrics say, “You made a way where there was no way, and I believe I’ll see You do it again.” Indeed He did make a way, not only for the community, to a significant extent through believers, but He also made a way for us to become part of this dynamic community.

Dogma In Disguise

I was 13 years old, and I had found out we would be moving.

I had so badly wanted to try out for the JV basketball team or the soccer team, but I never got the chance. I never played a JV or high school sport.

The parochial school I had attended after we moved didn’t offer any intermural sports. I didn’t go to high school dances, didn’t go to prom – we didn’t have those things.

We didn’t go to movies with friends. We didn’t go roller skating. Some people didn’t even go to bowling alleys. And the most devoted people definitely didn’t go to the beach.

Sports was a distraction, and one where we might encounter teenagers from other schools who didn’t believe the way we were told we believed.

Dances were not at all part of the social scene (we really didn’t have a social scene). Dances would lead to thoughts of sex.

We weren’t allowed to go to “Hollywood movies” because there was something wrong with each and every one of them, even the rated G ones. Trust me, there was always something.

Roller skating rinks were off limits when the public skated because of the rock music, among other things, but on the rare occasion (once I believe) that the church did arrange for a church members only event at the rink, it was organ music all evening.

The more pious avoided bowling alleys because alcohol is often served there, and at one time people could smoke in bowling alleys. The smoking was actually the only good reason to avoid bowling alleys.

Words like cool, man, dude, shoot, and bogue were banned from school and youth group activities because they weren’t just teenage nonsense slang, they were worldly words.

Girls weren’t allowed to wear jeans, or denim jackets, or anything else that would have been considered current fashion. Make-up that was too dark was too punk. Too much make-up was too suggestive.

Jewelry was potentially okay, but too much jewelry, or earrings that were “too big,” was considered tawdry.

The peace symbol, the circular one that has long appeared on everything from t-shirts to necklaces, was banned as a symbol of the hippy movement.

If you had athletic talent and just wanted to participate in sports, that didn’t matter. There were more important things. If you liked to roller skate because it was fun, that didn’t matter. Find something more saintly to do. If you weren’t a girly-girl and liked jeans, you needed to get right and dress more modestly. If you liked bright, fun colors or funky earrings, you needed to tame your wild spirit.

One’s intent did not matter. No questions were actually asked about one’s intent. The leadership didn’t need to ask; they knew the intent, not only of teenagers who may seek to dissent from the expectations that were being imposed, but also of the adults who dared challenge it as well.

If after reading this you think that this kind of life would have been stifling, repressive, and even oppressive, you would be correct. It was.

It created a false narrative of who was good and who was evil based on the often arbitrary rules set by those who had assumed positions of power, and who had created the constricting expectations.

Quite often when the word dogma is used, the word religious precedes it. Dogma is not subject to religion alone though.

Everything from activities, like eating at Chick-Fil-A, to legally owning a gun, to going bowling, or even choosing whether or not to get a vaccine is now subject to some arbitrary labeling. Such choices can be considered homophobic, transphobic, nationalist – even white nationalist, and science denying.

Even words are deemed phobic, racist, nationalist, or any other “ist.” The intention of the user does not matter to those who have assumed some sense of power/ Usually that power is spurious at best.

Unfortunately it is the case that some of the unwarranted, fabricated accusations have led to actual incidents of everything from harassment on social media to loss of jobs and to even more serious attempts to ruin the life of the “offender.” The self-righteous outrage mob angrily chants “crucify them” at everyone who violates their bizarre and maniacal expectations of behavior.

Many people who strongly oppose the imposition of religious dogma upon a society are the very people who are waring to impose a dogma upon the society. Many people who believe there is no absolute truth, except their truth, are attempting to impose their truth, however manipulated it may be, upon a free nation.

The scripture tells us that “So if the Son sets free, you will be free indeed.” (John 8:36) In my soul, I somehow knew that. The Spirit must have given me the gift of that knowledge.

I had then dared to question, even in that religiously oppressive environment. It was the only way to become free indeed and to live the life that God had intended for me to live, in the church (though clearly not that church) and in the world as a whole.

The same is true as it relates to the dogma of the woke. In order to be free, you have to question the agenda of those who are trying to manipulate and to gain power and control over you.

Do not allow the mob to ascribe intent where they have no insight. Do not allow them to exercise control when they have no conscience. Do not give them power when they have no wisdom.

Dogma is defined as “a principle or set of principles laid down by an authority as incontrovertibly true.” Be careful to check the source of the dogma that is being presented to you as truth. The truth can only set you free if the truth has a foundation in the One who is not only the same yesterday, today, and always, but in the One in whom there is no self-interest, no manipulation, and no evil intent.

I Am the n of 1

Are you getting the COVID vaccine?

That decision was made for some people well in advance of the release of the vaccines. Some people heard what the needed to hear from corporate media outlets, while others heard the directives from state and local government officials. Once the vaccines were released, they did what the needed to do to find and secure their doses, even if some of the tactics used might be considered by some to be questionable. I would never “out” anyone, but I have, between my husband and I questioned the tactics of some people we know.

Many people did what I have done and spoke with their primary care physician, or a specialist, who has provided personal care for them. Ideally those doctors have done their due diligence as medical professionals and have looked at the available date regarding vaccines and can make appropriate recommendations to their patients. Several of my family members sought input from their primary care provider. My doctor gave me her feedback on the subject and answered one particular question I had asked her regarding antibody testing.

For some getting the vaccine was never a question. Many people were eager, if not desperate, to be vaccinated. For others, the vaccine is out of the question. For many of us, the vaccine is a difficult question without a satisfactory answer.

Even though I spoke with my doctor, with whom I have had a professional relationship as her patient for more than 15 years, and even though I have done a great deal of reading, even though I have taken the time to do a risk benefit analysis, I still have not come to a conclusion that I find to be convincing.

People would wonder why I could possibly do anything other than step in line and roll up my sleeve. Techniques vary between near bribery, like a promise for a return to all of the things we love and miss if we get our shots, to berating the questioning. The Detroit Free Press recently ran an article in which a nurse who works at St. Joseph Mercy Hospital in Ann Arbor angrily chided local residents guaranteeing that they will either choose the vaccine or end up on her floor with the virus.

For me, bribery that comes from the government, especially the government of this state, is just another lie, or at best another goal post that will ultimately be moved, just as goal posts have been moved since “two weeks to flatten the curve,” now well over a year ago.

The threat of an angry nurse, well I don’t want to be too judgmental. She is likely very frustrated. I volunteered, completed observation hours, and even worked for a short, dark period at St. Joe’s in Ann Arbor. I was a central monitor tech, watching assigned monitor pods of patients who were on telemetry units throughout the hospital. I know that CMTs and nurses alike work 12 hour shifts with only one 30 minute break. I found that to be ridiculous then, and I still find it to be ridiculous. Do you want the people who are responsible for your care to be walking around half awake: Probably not.

Even understanding that level of fatigue and frustration, the morality associated with getting, or not getting, this virus, and now with getting, or not getting, the vaccine is bizarre. People don’t direct the level of animosity that they direct at people who get the virus or reject the vaccine, even temporarily, toward people who get any other infection, even an STI!

Still other people wonder how I could even consider taking the vaccine, based on everything from my faith to my libertarian-leaning political philosophy.

My worldview does call me to consider everything in light of the faith to which I adhere, but I rarely find that faith is in conflict with modern medicine. Those instances are rare, though they would be significant should they arise.

I am aware of the of the PerC6 cells that were used in creation of the Johnson & Johnson vaccine that are not components of the mRNA vaccines. Those for whom the components, mechanisms of testing, or any other consideration, are a matter of conscience should take those things seriously and should have the freedom to follow their conscience and to make the choice that they believe to be morally correct.

I have personally taken vaccines and shots since I was young. I used to go weekly for a shot to treat my seasonal allergies, and I quite frankly would do it again as successful as that treatment was.

My libertarian philosophy, that is a challenge. After having evaluated much of the evidence surrounding the government’s response to the virus, note that language – not the virus itself, but the government’s response especially in states like Michigan that are still not open and still mandating behavior, I have come to the conclusion that many government officials are not remotely following the science but are making random decisions that are at best inept and at worst sinister power grabs. Evidence is emerging in our state in court that this was indeed the case in Michigan.

Ultimately, even though I have done my due diligence, that I do whenever I am prescribed anything new or hear or read about anything new – even natural products, I am wary. I am wary like I always am before accepting or taking anything new because I am the n of 1.

No one else, not politicians nor virtuous, vaccination proponents nor angry nurses nor my doctor herself, however well-meaning she is, knows exactly how the vaccines would affect me.

If the decision regarding the vaccine was easy for you, either for or against, you are among the fortunate ones in some ways.

Understand though that whatever your decision, the most important thing is that you have the right to make your decision, to do your own risk-benefit assessment. Each individual should maintain that right, whether or not the decision that another person makes is the one that you would make, and no government agency should compel an individual to choose as you would have them choose.

Not only is there no government entity in existence that is capable of making a risk-benefit assessment for each of its citizens, but also there is no government entity that has the moral foundation from which to make those kinds of choices for the individual.

If you took the vaccine but were hesitant, or if you haven’t taken the vaccine and may do so at some point, or if you have declined it after much consideration, then you too understand the conundrum of being the n of 1.

A Tale of Two Women

They have experienced the worst of times, and they have enjoyed the best of times.

Their lives have been similar in ways as they lived through turbulent times in our nation and have seen, and have experienced personally, some of the wrongs that were committed during times of racism and oppression in our nation. They have also witnessed, and have worked in different ways to bring about the changes that have taken place in our nation as it has moved to right the wrongs of the past. At times during their lives, they would have had a great deal in common as it related to their worldviews.

At some point though, it seems that their lives diverged.

Maxine Moore Waters was born in St Louis in 1938. In 1971, she graduated from the California State University, Los Angeles with a degree in sociology. She began her career as a legislature representing California’s 29th district in 1991. She has since continued on that course as a congresswoman representing the Democratic party in California’s 43rd congressional district.

Perhaps many would choose Waters as a person to emulate or recommend as a person to whom their daughter could look for direction or inspiration.

But if one were to listen to the words of Waters in the recent past, one would hear anger directed toward many of the people of this country, including some of the people who she has been elected to represent, and one would hear contempt for the constitution that she has sworn to uphold for the past 30 years, as well as for the country that has ultimately given her the opportunity to live the life she has chosen to live.

In June of 2018 Waters was filmed making the following remarks to her supporters gathered at the Wilshire Federal Building: “Let’s make sure we show up wherever we have to show up. And if you see anybody from that Cabinet in a restaurant, in a department store, at a gasoline station, you get out and you create a crowd. And you push back on them. And you tell them they’re not welcome anymore, anywhere.” Her reference to “that Cabinet” was directed toward members of then President Trump’s administration.

Her most most recent comments, once again on film, gaining public attention came just prior to the verdict in the Derek Chauvin: trial “We’ve got to stay in the streets, and we’ve got to demand justice,” she urged the crowd, who earlier had been chanting. We’re looking for a guilty verdict” in the Chauvin case, Waters said. “And if we don’t, we cannot go away, we’ve got to get more confrontational.”

In both cases, Waters’ comments were considered by many as irresponsible at best, and inciteful on a level unbecoming for a nearly lifelong government official. In both cases, her words are available for the listening.

Waters will continue to represent her district as she won reelection in 2020. Her current term will end in 2023. Perhaps she will retire at that time as she will be nearing, or past, her 85th birthday, and she can truly appreciate the good things that her career has brought her.

Carol Miller Swain was born in Bedford, Virginia in 1954. Swain attended Roanoke College, Yale Law School, and University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Dr. Swain has recently retired from her career as a professor of political science and law at Vanderbilt University. Now listed in searches as a “conservative commentator,” Swain has said “the world is my classroom.”

During an interview with Candace Owens, Swain shared some of the details of her life including growing up in a “two room shack” with nine siblings, her mom, and her stepfather. Swain spoke of the kind of poverty she experienced in rural West Virginia during her youth, living without plumbing in that shack with walls that were basically “cardboard with wallpaper over the top of the cardboard.” She spoke of failing a year of school after having missed 80 of 180 school days during a particularly harsh winter; the family had neither the clothing nor the boots to protect them from the elements should they have attempted to make the trek to school.

Swain married at the age of 16. She pointed out during her interview with Owens that she was not pregnant at the time of her marriage, wanting viewers to note that even then she believed it was important to be married prior to beginning a family. By the age of 20, she was the mother of three children. She then shared that she had suicidal ideations in her early 20s, taking pills, but always planning and desperately hoping to be “rescued.”

Swain told Owens, “I should have died of all of that, except God had a plan for my life that was bigger than me.”

Swain’s life progressed from those difficult times to a successful undergraduate experience at Roanoke College and continued on to graduate school.

Swain recalled one encounter with a professor while she was attending grad school: “One professor screamed at me one day: ‘You’ll never be able to change the fact that you’re a black woman.'” Swain continued with her reflection on that incident: “The message was that you’re black; you’re handicapped; and there’s nothing you can do about it. It was graduate school, and the theories of oppression was when I learned you’re poor; you’re black; you have children; you’re female; you’re oppressed. By then I was already successful. It was too late, but had I gotten those messages as an undergraduate, I’m just not sure how I would have dealt with it.”

It is quite likely that Swain has been deemed a “conservative commentator” due at least in part to her battle against many of the theories that are now being taught at universities throughout the country. She is a proponent of seeking out varying ideas and of challenging one’s self rather than falling victim to the mentality of victimhood that she encountered during graduate school. For several years Swain has publicly expressed her concerns about the Marxist nature of BLM, and more recently she has been openly critical of critical race theory.

Ultimately, Swain was indeed successful by the time she entered graduate school and encountered those messages of that might have led another person, perhaps a younger person, down a very different path. And regardless of her critics both past and present, she continues to be successful now.

As she concluded her interview with Owens, Swain offered the following guidance: “You need to hang in there and watch your life unfold. Life is a journey. It took me 40 years to figure out who I am and what I was meant to do. It doesn’t have to take you that long. That’s my message. Be encouraged. Be Yourself. Be strong.”

The lives of each of these women are intricate stories from which not all conclusions can be drawn based on the few chapters that have been revealed publicly. I know less about the story of Maxine Waters than I do that of Carol Swain. Honestly, I was drawn to Swain’s story because hers is the story of a victor, and hers is the message that could inspire others to live the life of a victor.

Still, it is not my place nor my intention to pass judgment on these woman, nor to create a villainess or a heroine. However long it has taken them to find their voices, both women continue to use their voices. It is based on their own words, as heard by thousands of people, that I have drawn my own personal conclusions. You are free to draw your own conclusions.