Women, Men, and Sexual Aggressiveness: My Experiences. Or why I peed in a coffee can for a year.

I have a good friend who is as much a tea party conservative as I am a liberal. He is in his 80s, I am pushing 70. In the midst of recent allegations about Donald Trump’s predatory behavior against women we got into quite a discussion over this sordid situation. In it, my friend wanted to replay the litigation and impeachment proceedings against Bill Clinton in 1998. In comparing Clinton to Trump he argued that both men should be held to the same standards, something with which I  agree.. If that's the case then Donald Trump needs to answer to a judge just like Bill Clinton did when impeachment charges were brought against him. He may not have been impeached, but he did pay a price. He payed an enormous fine and lost his license to practice law. But Bill Clinton isn't running for president, Hillary is.

Cutting Bill out of the discussion, my friend then tried to argue against Hillary because she had tried to get even with the other women while, at the same time, standing by her man.  While it may be wrong to have done so, she is not the first wife, nor will she be the last, who find themselves in similar situations. My friend and I live in a small town. We both know the stories of women who have sought revenge against their husbands’ infidelity, whether it was damaging a new little red sports car, or buying large ticket items with a forgotten credit card in his name. I am guessing that Hillary Clinton followed Ann Lander’s advice by asking herself if she was better off with or without her husband. And decided to stay married.

But, in writing this piece, my intention is not to add to the Trump versus Clinton argument, but to write about how it feels to be a woman victimized by sexual aggression. For I have been there twice in my adult life and I have a great deal of empathy for the women who are now coming forth accusing Donald Trump of inappropriate behavior.

The second incident occurred sometime between mid-September 1971 and May, 1972, while I was a 24 year old Captain in the Army Nurse Corps, stationed at Fort Knox, KY. At the time I was the head nurse of a three wing, 75 bed unit (or ward) for male surgical patients. Some of our patients had infections from wounds they’d gotten in Vietnam, others were young recruits in the midst of basic training who needed their tonsils or appendixes removed.

One day I was in the storage room, stocking the cart I used to carry sterile supplies around the ward as I went about changing patients’ dressings, a job I loved. The chief of surgery came into the room. Did he need anything? I asked.

His reply startled me.

“Can I look at your breasts?”

What. The. Hell?

Other than telling him “No,” I didn’t know what to do. Should I go to one of my ward masters –senior non-commissioned officers who were my administrative assistants and were well versed in the ways of the Army-- and tell him? Ask him for advice? Should I go to the Chief or Assistant Chief Nurse to complain about what had happened? To be honest, I was too afraid. Every single consequence I could envision from this encounter spelled my doom in some way. This was the Army, after all. Sexual harassment happened.

For the following few weeks every time I was found myself alone with this man he asked the same question. “Can I look at your breasts.”

Finally, in exasperation I unbutton the top three buttons of my uniform, and pulled up my bra. “See they’re boobs. Are you satisfied?” I honestly don’t remember if he attempted to fondle my breasts. I never told another person. I was too embarrassed. Twenty years later I discovered the doctor had asked the same of my good friend Carol. And her response was quite similar to mine.

“Why didn't I go to someone with greater authority than mine?” That was the question my friend asked during the heat of our conversation. Well, why didn't I? Because it was 1972, and it was the Army, where anything short of rape was often ignored. Because I liked my job and I didn't want to be transferred to another unit. Because it could happen again on another ward. Because it was the Army and it was 1972. Because I was getting out of the Army in the spring and would soon thereafter marry a fellow Captain whose respect for me was unconditional. Because I rose above the event, as so many women do.

Unfortunately, it was not the only time I faced sexual aggression and the first experience changed my life forever. I was 22, in Officers’ Basic Training at Fort Sam Houston, Texas in the middle of July. I lived in my own room, with two windows,  on the second floor of my dorm/barracks.. What I didn't have was air conditioning, and it was terribly hot.

My fellow female “medical officers:” nurses, doctors, physical therapists, dietitians and hospital administrators, had been warned repeatedly by our instructors that our barracks were not under lock and key, that there had been instances of sexual assault, and that we must keep our own rooms locked at night. In spite of this warning many of the women who lived on our floor disregarded our instructors’ advice and only engaged the security chain, leaving the door partially open, in hope of a cross breeze.

One weekend my friend Joanne and I partied with a group of friends. I’d left relatively early—about 2 AM Sunday morning. Joanne stayed. She and I lived across the hall from each other in rooms directly above the side door to the building. With a window fan blowing full force, I went to bed as usual, wearing only a pair of panties, covering myself with a sheet, after properly locking myself in.

Around 0630 I was awakened by the sound of the screen door on the main floor, below,  slamming shut. Wondering if the party had lasted all night I got up to check on Joanne. She was in her room, sound asleep, with only her door’s chain in place.

I have no explanation for what happened next. After checking on Joanne I went back to bed, but I failed to lock the door. I was just falling back to sleep when I felt the sheet being pulled off me. It was odd. At first I thought I must have kicked it, or maybe it was from the fan, but as it continued to slide, exposing my naked torso I sat up, and saw a man standing at the bottom of my bed. I screamed and he ran.

 My screams woke up a number of women on our floor, and one of them called the MPs. They parked me in the front passenger seat of their squad car while they—we—went to answer someone else’s call for help. They had had a busy night, breaking up several fist fights, getting between husband and wife in a domestic dispute, and responding to two reported robberies. They took my report while they drove. When I asked them what they intended to do about it their reply was, “Nothing.” They were not unsympathetic, but they had far more serious concerns, laughed off my fear, and took me back to my barracks.

            I had grown up in rural western Pennsylvania, ridden my bike alone many times, studied in Europe, walked through some unsavory neighborhoods in Pittsburgh during my first two years of college, and never felt threated. That night I was still frightened; so terrified I slept on a couch with the lights on in the living room of an apartment where one of my friends lived.

            Those 30 seconds changed me forever. I stopped walking outside alone at night. If someone on the street, even during the day, came up behind me I quickly crossed the street. Unusual sounds in the middle of the night terrified me. When I came home to an empty house after working a night shift I patrolled the house, looking for predators, with a butcher knife in my hands.

My first duty assignment was Letterman Army Hospital in San Francisco. When the Zodiac killer struck a mile from the apartment complex where I lived I had a full blown anxiety attack.  I saw a psychiatrist who explained I was not going crazy, but having a normal reaction to frightening event. He taught me self- hypnosis to ease my anxiety. The next year, in Vietnam I peed in a discarded three-pound coffee can at night because I was afraid to leave my room to use the toilet.

            After my husband and I married, I relaxed, but during my final semester of graduate school Jim took a job in another city. I lived with him Thursday evening through Monday morning, but on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights, I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow, in our cute apartment near the university. On Monday evenings I usually had dinner with a friend whose husband was working on a PhD at a university in another city. When it was her turn to cook she walked me across the street to my apartment. I was that scared.

When I began to read about PTSD I could tell that what I was going through fit the pattern, especially my hyper-vigilance and sensitivity to noises. But PTSD was for men who had been in combat, wasn’t it? How could those 30 seconds have caused me to feel so vulnerable?

  For a long time afterward I blamed myself. My carelessness in not locking the door was at the root of my problem.

And that is the point. Women who find themselves in the company of sexual aggressors or predators often feel as I did: “If only I hadn’t made eye contact in the elevator, if only I had crossed the street, if only I had called 911. If only I had not answered the door, or accepted a ride from a stranger when my car broke down.” The list is endless.

Fortunately, in the decades since my experience our society has come to see experiences like mine as part of a pattern of sexual aggression against both women and yes, sometimes, against men. Yes, the predator is obsessed by something sexual, but at its heart, sexual aggressiveness is less about sex and more about power. And it is for that reason women—and abused men-- often don’t report an inappropriate sexually charged encounter. We do not believe we will be heard or taken seriously. Or that anything other than a “good ole boy” slap on the back will happen to our tormentor. Or, worse yet, deprived of his good name, our tormentor will find a way to get even.

If nothing else our society’s recognition that the sexual victimization of women goes far beyond rape,  allows women to come forward to talk about their experiences. But it takes guts, especially when the predator is someone famous. And that is why we cannot dismiss accusations against Trump. There are now too many women telling similar stories that happened in different cities and different years for this to be some sort of plot, depriving him of the presidency, as he currently asserts. It took one brave woman, former Miss Universe winner Alicia Marcado, to tell her story for the floodgate to be open. Not just for women abused by Trump, but also for women like me to tell our stories.

Happy Birthday Togus, Maine VA--and thank you

This week Maine’s Togus Veteran's Administration Hospital celebrates its 150th birthday. It is the oldest VA Hospital in the country, purchased by President Lincoln for $50,000 in 1861 for the purpose of housing seriously wounded veterans just as the Civil War was beginning. The 150 acre property was built by a Maine granite dealer who had a grand vision for turning the property into a spa resort. But when his plans failed to come to fruition the government stepped in and bought the property. Its name Togus comes from an old Indian name meaning “place by mineral springs.” I always thought it was a weird name for a VA facility until I actually became acquainted with Togus.

I joined the Army to pay for my college education and spent three years on active duty in the Army Nurse Corps. At my final duty assignment in Ft Knox, KY I met, fell in love with, and married a fellow Vietnam Veteran, recovering from wounds he received as a medical evacuation helicopter pilot. He received a disability discharge from the Army that gave us access to military hospitals or out-patient clinics and use of the commissary. So needing the VA rarely crossed my mind.

When I was in officer’s basic training at Ft Sam Houston, TX, I was the victim of a near rape. Although I was physically uninjured by what happened on that Sunday morning in the summer of 1969, its result developed into what we now recognize as PTSD. I was always on guard when I was in public places after dark (and sometimes during the day;) I went through the house to make sure all the downstairs windows and doors were locked before going to bed at night, and when Jim was out of town on business I shoved tables against doors and slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. Logically, I could see that these behaviors were signs that something was wrong. I knew it was some form of PTSD, but I didn’t do anything about it. After all the source of my stress disorder was not from being in combat.  

Over time I stopped moving tables or sleeping with a knife, but if I came home to an empty house after working an overnight shift and heard a weird noise I would use that knife to walk through the entire house, check under beds, inside closets and bath tubs. It didn’t matter if the house felt empty. For me to get any restful sleep I had to check to see if I could go to bed safely.

And then, in 2012, our family went through a crisis that bore absolutely no relationship to sexual assault. My anxiety over our family problem, which eventually was resolved in a positive manner, seemed out of proportion to the actual events. Something was definitely wrong with my behavior. At the same time the news media was focusing its attention of the high rate of sexual assault against both women and men in the military. When both the local and national news pointed to the Maine VA as having the best practices program for people who suffered from MST (Military Sexual Trauma) my husband suggested I get help.

And so, I entered the VA system. A phone call to the MST hotline was a godsend. Once the staff determined I was not suicidal they referred me to the counseling program at the Portland, ME clinic. But before the appointment could be made I had to get into the system. An appointment was made for me with one of the Portland clinic’s primary care providers, Dr. Renate Medrano. I missed my first appointment. I wasn’t expecting to receive such a quick response and opened the letter telling me of my appointment at the precise time I was supposed to see the doctor. Once I finally saw Dr. Medrano, I got my referral to meet with a therapist in a week.

I don’t remember what the counselor and I talked about. But she was great. She might have only been able to see the weakest of connections between my MST and current events, but she was quite certain I had PTSD, which can result from any traumatic event, and not simply war. It is even possible to develop PTSD simply from seeing the results of a traumatic event such as the Boston Marathon bombing. She reminded me to use the coping mechanisms a kind psychiatrist had taught me a few months after the MST. She encouraged me to attend some group yoga sessions, which sounded interesting, but the time of and the distance to the classes were inconvenient and I demurred.  

Then about two years ago I was encouraged to join the “Agent Orange Register.” This database compiles lists of veterans who were exposed to dioxin, usually in Vietnam, but also during a few specific times on the Korean DMZ. It consists of a questionnaire, some basic health assessments like a chest x-ray and blood work. Some of my friends from Vietnam have illnesses thought to be caused by Agent Orange, and so on a sunny afternoon in the fall of 2014 I joined the Agent Orange Registry, not for my own sake but for that of my fellow veterans. To do this I had to drive to Togus (near Augusta,) about 90 minutes north of where I live.

It was an absolutely glorious early fall day the first time I saw Togus, and I was blown away. Yes, there were the conglomeration of red brick buildings that made up the hospital’s in-patient division, and I got lost three times trying to find the right building. But that gave me a chance to drive around the campus. I saw a chapel, a pond, well- groomed lawns and flower beds, a couple of mansion like buildings, and some of the small cottages that housed veterans in the late 1800s. It was gorgeous. Yes, the room where I was to be examined was standard industrial ugly, but the people were nice, helpful. The person who examined me was a nurse practitioner. We compared notes about going to graduate school. He, too, went to Vietnam-- as a medical corpsman, and we compared notes.

I had not expected to return to Togus because I have excellent health insurance, thanks to Jim’s disability. But then I started having significant tinnitus. Someone suggested a hearing test at Togus because the VA apparently assumes all veterans have been exposed to some sort of loud noises, and thus, willingly supply veterans with state of the art hearing aids. And so two more trips to Togus, one in the early spring of this year, the other a month or so later. Yes, I have a mild hearing loss, yes I qualified for hearing aids. I chose ones with sapphire blue microphones. In all the hearing aids cost me $100.

The main hallways of the hospital at Togus looked worn, but I was also surprised by what I saw. The receptionist at the front desk could not have been more helpful. There was coffee and water set out on a table near the elevator. The hearing test room was state of the art. So were the hearing aids. As I waited for my appointment to get my hearing aids I was astounded to see a robot patrolling the halls carrying charts from one place to another. When I remarked about that to the audiologist she laughed. Yes, the facility looked like it badly needs a face lift, but it is the care that is important. And I got good care.  

According to an anniversary publication from Togus, its staff has been able to significantly reduce the number of outstanding veterans’ claims. Improvements to the hospital’s physical plant, building a new Fisher House, and other improvements, including a nursing home, are being planned.

Before I retired from nursing I taught the basics, such as how to take a blood pressure, to new students. The last time I was at the clinic in Portland my blood pressure was a little high. Not surprising since I had just driven in bad weather for 45 minutes, and the nursing assistant was using an electronic blood pressure cuff. Before he would deem me fit enough to go another year without seeing him Dr. Medrano insisted on taking my blood pressure the “old fashioned way,” with a cuff and stethoscope which is more accurate. He did everything correctly. So I jokingly told him he was one of my nursing students I would have given him an “A.”

Meanwhile, Jim, who has a partially paralyzed right foot from his wounds, began to experienced problems walking. He believed, rightfully, that his best choice for treatment was the VA. Because we live closer to the VA Hospital in Manchester, NH than Togus he chose to enter the medical part of the system in Manchester. By then he had already seen a civilian podiatrist who had dismissed the problems with his foot as not needing much of his attention. Not the VA podiatrist. One look at Jim’s foot and he was able to make several suggestions, such as ordering special orthotics, to help him cope with his chronic foot pain. And it may seem crazy, but the podiatrist was happy to care for someone who needed his expertise. Since then Jim has seen the podiatrist several times and been happy with his care.  

I used to think we no longer need the VA. That its system of care was outmoded. But I was wrong. Pinned to the cork board in the audiologist’s office was the picture of one of Maine’s most well regarded Veterans. His name is Travis Mills, who lost all or part of both arms and both legs in Afghanistan when he was 24. And he is not alone. There are, sadly, hundreds more men and women like SSG Mills who will need significant care related to these, and other serious wounds, in the coming decades. So I hope the VA continues to improve and continues to provide outstanding care, especially to older veterans like me and younger ones like Travis Mills. So happy birthday Togus VA. And thank-you.

         Travis Mills with his son

Important Links:

https://www.travismills.org/foundation/

https://www.fisherhouse.org/

https://va.gov/togus

www.mentalhealth.va.gov/.../mst_genera...

In Defense of Hillary: What's It is Like to be Dehydrated on a Hot, Sunny Day

I have had the good fortunate to bike in six "Maine MS Society 150" bicycle fund raisers. My first ride, of 100 miles divided into two days, was in 2002, when my first hip replacement was only nine months old. But I had my doctor's blessing, even though the ride, over the back country roads of York and Cumberland Counties in Maine had some fairly hilly terrain. I was reasonably well trained, albeit a slow rider, and my only problem was flying over my handlebars when I over-braked to avoid colliding with other bikers at the beginning of the ride. I had a little road rash but otherwise was fine, The hardest part of the day was not falling, but a hill at about mile 35. I call the "the hill from Hell," because just when you think you have crested it, you discover there's a left turn to take you up the other half of the hill.

We had so much fun we rode again the following four years, including one where my two daughters were stuck riding a rented tandem.  But in 2009 and 2010 Karen, several co-workers, and I abandoned the bike ride in favor of walking a total of 50 miles over 2 days to raise a lot more money for the MS Society. For me the walking was harder. So I was happy when, in 2012, my biking friend Nancy suggested we use the MS 150 as training rides for our planned cross country bike ride the following spring. Not wanting to stress the third person in our biking trio-- a woman with MS in her 50s-- we decided to limit the ride to 50 miles each day, rather than the full 150, or for the truly crazy among us, two days of consecutive "century" rides of 100 miles each.

These days the MS 150 is held on the second weekend of August, but in 2012 the ride was scheduled for the first weekend in August, often the hottest weekend of the summer here in Maine.That Saturday and Sunday the temperatures were supposed to be in the mid 90s with humidity also in the mid 90s. I wanted to start early so I could get in as much riding as possible before it got really hot, but I was dissuaded by our team captain, who wanted team pictures. Yuck. I am a good 50 pounds overweight and posing for a picture in a typical biker's garb of lycra shorts and top was not exactly my idea of the best way to show off my astounding physique.

By the time we began riding it was already 90 degrees with not a cloud in the sky. In years past I'd ridden a hybrid bicycle with road tires, but my new cross country bike was a road bike with narrow tires. At the very least I hoped to be a little faster than in years past. Not so, I still biked at a steady 12 mph on the flat, and between 7 and 9 mph on hilly terrain. [I am now convinced my inability to ride much faster is related to having that artificial hip, but I digress.] I was wearing a pair of padded lycra bike shorts, a bra, and a sleeveless top. Oh, and lots of sunscreen. I also had a camel-back filled with 2 liters of cold water, and two water bottles filled with Gatorade.

Even though I was wearing next to nothing the heat was unbearable. By the time I reached the first rest stop at the 10 mile mark I had gone through a bottle of Gatorade and more than half the water in the camel-back. One is required to check-in with each rest stop, even if it is just a salute to point to the rider number on one's helmet. And boy was I glad to see that rest stop. Part of me--the part that hates the heat--was ready to throw in the towel. But the other part--the never wants to give up or give in part--wanted to continue.

 I must have looked awful as I got off the bike because suddenly one of the volunteers was beside me asking if I was OK.

I started to say "yes," Then I fessed up. I was a little dizzy. Then I started to shiver. As a nurse I knew I was in trouble.

 The body's first defense against overheating is to perspire. If you are still sweating but feel cold or are shivering you are definitely dehydrated. If you stop sweating, are nauseated, or have cramping you are suffering from some form of over-heating, and  you must get out of the heat, cool off, and consume significant quantities of electrolyte rich fluids like Gatorade or Emergen-C, which has a similar quantity of electrolytes as Gatorade but also has vitamins and some minerals.Failure to recognize and respond to dehydration, whether it's from a stomach virus or the heat, can ultimately lead to death. And if you can not drink enough fluid fast enough you must have an I.V., even if only long enough to get a liter or two of fluid.

Fortunately the other person manning the rest stop that day was an EMT. He ran to his car, got his stethoscope and blood pressure cuff and took my blood pressure. It was 90/60, the blood pressure of someone in shock. Someone grabbed some ice packs and asked my to hold them under my arms. I started guzzling Gatorade. The EMT called for an ambulance. Fortunately my blood pressure was starting to rise so I did not have to go to the hospital for intravenous fluid. When we got back to my dorm room an EMT stayed with me until I had to pee--after consuming 32 ounces of cold water, and another 32 of Gatorade. At  dinner that evening almost everyone knew  I was the woman who had had to be rescued. It was a little embarrassing but at least I was at that dinner to get embarrassed.

I'd like to say I've never gotten a heat related illness again, but I came close this summer. It was mid July and Washington DC was in the midst of a terrible heat wave. Nevertheless my Danish friends were undeterred. They wanted to see our wonderful capital. We had te plane tickets in hand. What else were we to do? I stayed out of the sun as much as I could. I sat near a bubbler while my friends explored the Lincoln Memorial. We walked along the Wall. But when one of my young guests and I started to shiver, we found a cab and went to Union Station. By the time we finished lunch we'd had a great meal and lots of water. Everyone felt fine.

Heat exhaustion or heat stroke can happen to anyone at anytime or any place. Add pneumonia into the mix and it is amazing Hillary Clinton was able to go to the 9/11 ceremonies at all. But I guess, like me, she has a stubborn streak that won't let her give in, especially when the media has practically written her obituary.

If You Want to Know What a Trump Presidency Might Look Like Come Stay Awhile in Maine

When New Jersey governor Chris Christie took himself out of the running for president, Maine’s governor Paul LePage, endorsed Donald Trump. In doing so he claimed “he was more like Trump than Thump.”  So if you wonder just what it would be like to live with a leader who paints himself in a similar vein read on. For this is a bit about what life has been like for Mainers over the past six years.

In 2010 five people ran for Governor of Maine in the general election: a republican, a democrat, and three independents. Thus, the vote for governor was split five ways. When the dust settled the tea party republican, Paul LePage won with 39% of the vote. Eliot Cutler, an independent came in second with 20,000 fewer votes than LePage. I thoroughly disliked LePage, but, as a good citizen I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Whether or not he was my choice, he was still the leader of the state in which I live, and where I intend to die and have my ashes (or at least some of them) interred.

            On paper Paul LePage appeared to be an ideal candidate. His parents were French Canadians who came to the United States to work in the manufacturing mills in Lewiston. He was the oldest of 18 children. As a child he spoke only French. His father was an alcoholic who regularly beat Paul, and so at age 11 Paul LePage ran away from home. For two years he lived on the streets until eventually someone took him in, gave him food and shelter and saw to Paul’s education. His mentor even went so far as to persuade the officials of Husson College in Bangor to let Paul take an entrance exam in French, after doing poorly while writing in English.

            In this rags to riches story LePage, with help, pulled himself out of poverty, graduated from college, because fluent in accent-less English, married, had children, and steadily rose the corporate ladder through a series of jobs in both Maine and eastern Canada. He was hired by Marden’s, a Maine institution (“I should have bought it when I saw it at Marden’s”) that sold salvage and surplus material at drastically reduced prices. Eventually, in addition to his role as the CEO of Marden’s, LePage served as a selectman and mayor of Waterville, ME.

            You might think that with this background LePage would have empathy for the poor of Maine. Not so much. He ran for governor on a tea party platform that relied heavily on welfare reform, reducing the size of government, and, cutting taxes. He has succeeded in cutting the number of able bodied single people on welfare, offering job hunting, job training, and even volunteering to get them back into the work force. And that is good. (This program does not include women with small children, nor does it include our ever-graying elders.) (Maine has one of the highest percentage of residents who are 65 or older.) And it ought to be of aid to former paper mill workers whose plants have closed down.

I also applaud LePage for reimbursing the hospitals of Maine the millions of dollars in Medicaid funds the state had received from the federal government during his predecessor's administration. It was meant to repay hospitals for care already given but LePage's predecessor and the legislature kept spending it on other programs.

   

Unfortunately, it is almost impossible to see the good because of all the bombastic behavior coming out of the governor’s office. Here are just a few examples:

·         Within a few weeks of taking office LePage was asked if he would join other newly elected governors in meeting President Obama. His reply, “Obama can kiss my butt.”

·         Three months after being sworn in LePage ordered the removal of a large mural from the Maine Department of Labor offices because he thought it too pro-union, rather than simply factual. The way in which he did so was dictatorial with absolutely no insight into the way it might be perceived by the people who painted and donated the mural.

·         He has absented himself from more than one regional governors’ conference.

·         This summer he did not attend any of a four day working visit from various private and government organizations looking at creative ways to make Maine’s timber industry vital again.

·         In June 2013 LePage refused to sign a budget created by a bipartisan group of state legislators. In doing so he accused his major detractor of “trying to stick it to the people of Maine without the use of Vaseline.”

·         When trying to repeal the bill prohibiting the sale of plastic bottles with the chemical BPH he commented he didn’t see a problem with BPH other than some women would “grow little beards.”

·         Following his reelection in 2012, LePage  has followed through on his promise to veto every single bill proposed by a democrat in the state legislature, beginning in 2013.

·         Also, since 2013 he has done or said:

Allow 12 bills he didn't like to become law because he misunderstood his role in vetoing those bills.

Refused to meet with the legislature. He communicates with the people of Maine through a series of town meetings now.

But wait, there’s more, and it is these two SNAFUs that have caused many people in Maine to wonder if he is fit to lead the state for two more years.

            The first erupted as a result of LePage’s plans to create charter schools in Maine. Unfortunately, he and the speaker of the house, Democrat Mark Eves tangled over the details, especially whether or not virtual schools should have a place in the charter school program. Meanwhile, Goodwill-Hinkley, which until a few years ago was an orphanage or home for displaced children, closed. Goodwill Hinkley has a beautiful campus near Skowhegan and with the charter school concept in mind Maine educators went forward with a plan to create the Maine Academy of Natural Sciences, a residential charter school for students in grades 9-12. Mark Eves was among the people who applied for, and then was ultimately appointed as its first director. ( If there was ever a serious attempt to ask Eves about his change of heart, and how he might use that to the betterment of Maine people, I've not seen it-and I read the Portland paper faithfully.)

            LePage was incensed. How could the board of trustees of the Maine Academy of Natural Sciences have chosen Mark Eves? He didn’t ask. Instead he threatened. And then he threatened again, until finally he threatened to rescind the state’s financial support of the Academy as long as Eves was at the helm. This he did in a letter addressed to the chairman of trustees for the Academy. Eventually Eves resigned and the Academy got its funding. However, in threatening to withhold state money LePage broke the law. Lawsuits and impeachment were threatened but the latter was tabled indefinitely by the republican held senate.

            Which at last, brings me to the reason for the “Welcome to Maine, Our Governor is an Idiot” sign posted on Facebook. Like so many other states Maine has a serious addiction problem. Rather than seeing addiction as a medical problem with, at minimum, some mental health components LePage has tended to look at the problem as a crime. He was reluctant (still is) to make the opiate antagonist Naloxone widely available to the general public, insinuating that addicts’ lives are not worth saving, especially since, with Naloxone, an addict can shoot up, get high, and then be resuscitated again and again. He has failed to provide sufficient funds to social service agencies to treat addicts  and help them get clean.

            But what has really put him in hot water were claims made at a town hall meeting earlier this year, and then again last month: that all drug dealers are people of color who come to Maine to impregnate innocent white girls. (Maine is the whitest state in the country and most people of color are Native Americans.) He later restated his concern of drug dealers impregnating Maine girls. That he has been keeping track  of the ethnicity of drug dealers (and bragging about it) is an impeachable offense. But Maine has no methodology in place for impeaching a governor who no longer seems to have his citizen’s best interests at heart.

            There was a time when LePage was a source of humor. "Did you see what the Governor has done now?" Those days are long over. Whether or not any of the actions of Paul LePage have been useful to the state, whether or not he is correct, LePage does what Trump does: opens his mouth, shoots off, and then apologizes. His behavior is so like Donald Trump’s he remarked, when endorsing Trump, he was like Trump before Trump was like Trump.

 At least Maine doesn't own any nuclear weapons.

             

The Throw Down

The Throw Down

            One of my friends issued a challenge on Facebook a couple of weeks ago: “if you truly don’t want to see Donald Trump become President of the United States say so.” I have been a rather timorous poster of opinions on Facebook. My reason: why annoy someone I otherwise care about. I probably won’t change anyone’s opinion, or decision at the polls, so why risk destroying a valued relationship? Would my opinion matter anyway? But I was reminded  of the old saying about the pen being mightier than the sword. And then Donald Trump and one of his admirers crossed, what for me, is an intolerable line in the sand, or perhaps the elephant grass. So fair warning: if you don’t want to read my opinion stop reading now.

 “I’ve Always Wanted a Purple Heart”

            During the Democratic National Convention Gold Star father Khizr Khan spoke eloquently about the loss of his son, Captain Humayun Khan, a Muslim America who was killed by a suicide bomber in Iraq in 2004. By all accounts CPT Khan acted bravely, saving many lives. He was awarded the Bronze star and the Purple Heart posthumously. His actions, in my opinion, deserve more than a Bronze Star. A Distinguished Service Cross, or even a Congressional Medal of Honor seems more appropriate to me. Maybe that’s because I have a Bronze Star and all I did to earn it was show up for work every day for a year at an Army Hospital in Vietnam.

             The Khans spoke in defense of Americans of the Muslim faith who love this country as much as Americans of other religious faiths, or no particular religious beliefs at all. In an especially dramatic moment Mr. Khan held up his pocket copy of the Constitution, and asked Trump if he had ever read it. For me it was an especially emotional moment. In a few short statements Mr. Khan and his wife stood as witness to part of what makes America great: freedom of speech and freedom of religion.

            Mr. Khan’s actions, as one might expect, angered Trump. He wondered aloud if Mrs. Khan, who did not speak during the couple’s time on stage, was even allowed to speak because of her faith. It was as if he had to have something, anything to find fault with this grieving couple.

            Then just as this drama seemed to have worked its way through the news cycle, an admirer gave Trump the Purple Heart he’d received. Trump was in awe, saying “I always wanted to get one of these. This is much better.” I was disgusted.

            The Purple Heart is awarded to people in the military for one reason and one reason only: that person was wounded—or killed—in defense of the United States. It is not an award anyone wants to earn. Ever.

            I am quite sure of this because I was an Army Nurse in Vietnam; my husband, who I had yet to meet, was a medical evacuation helicopter pilot. On March 18, 1971 he earned his Purple Heart when he was shot through both legs on the last night he was scheduled to fly before going home. We can joke that I have a bronze star, an award given to nurses and doctors for doing our jobs in Vietnam. We can even joke about the Air Medals Jim received for flying into harm’s way to rescue the wounded. But we never joke about his Purple Heart. Ever.

 If Donald Trump always wanted a Purple Heart, why did he obtain five deferments then claim to have bone spurs to avoid the draft? I get it. Avoiding the draft was a sign of the times. Vietnam was not a fun place to be. But to accept the gift of a Purple Heart he didn't earn, no matter the admirer’s intent? I just can’t stomach it. As the old saying goes, “you must be present to win.” If Donald Trump really wanted a Purple Heart then he should have taken his chances with the draft, like so many men of our generation did. If he always wanted a Purple Heart, he should have had the guts it took to get one.        

On Memorial Day

I don’t remember when I stopped enjoying Memorial Day. For most of my life it was the unofficial start of summer, and as a kid growing up in Western Pennsylvania, where the school year ended the first week in June, it carried with it the knowledge that school would soon be over.

            I don’t suppose I gave Memorial Day much thought. It just was. I am old enough to remember when it was called “Decoration Day,” a symbolic day in American history in which family members decorated the graves of their loved ones killed in the Civil War. In 1966 the name was officially changed to Memorial Day, and in 1971 it became a national holiday.

            I spent seven years in the Army, the last three as an Army nurse. In May 1970 I spent Memorial Day doing what I did six out of the other seven days of the week: working on a neurosurgical intensive care unit at a hospital in Vietnam. I don’t remember pausing to think of the men who had given their lives in this seemingly useless cause. We were in the middle of “The Cambodian Incursion,” a joint military operation involving South Vietnamese and American soldiers, in a failed attempt to eradicate the North Vietnamese from neutral Cambodia. We were too busy.

I doubt I have ever worked as hard as I did the two months we were in Cambodia. My hospital was one of the closest to the Cambodian border and the “whomp, whomp, whomp” of helicopters bringing the wounded to our hospital seemed endless. But we must have done a good job; the appropriate panel of “The Wall” bears the names of only ten men killed in action in May 1970.

I have always been proud I served in Vietnam. It was the worst, the best, and the longest year of my life rolled into one. I had no idea how disastrous the accident aboard “Apollo 13” was until I saw the movie. A serious sports fan, I could not tell you who won either the World Series or the Super Bowl. They simply were not on my radar screen. Young men with devastating wounds were.

When I came home I was not treated as a pariah. I was more a curiosity, if that, and a month after my plane touched down in San Francisco I was at Ft Knox, KY, where being a war veteran was nothing special.

Once in the 1990s, in a rather “in your face” response to the VFW’s refusal to welcome women veterans into its regular ranks, I marched, at the invitation of the post commander, with the men in our town’s very short but nevertheless touching Memorial Day Parade.  The parade was so short no one could figure out why I was with them and not with the women’s auxiliary, or the Vietnam Veterans of America, a group I have never been particularly interested in joining.

So why, do I feel the way I do about Memorial Day? Somehow, in a way I don’t entirely understand, I have come to dislike the “juice” of Memorial Day. It is not a day for fly-overs, or baseball teams wearing camouflage uniforms, or people hyperventilating while singing “God Bless America.” It is a day to remember, not just any Veteran, but those who died because of their war service. Men like NFL Player Pat Tillman, or my high school classmates Freddie Highberger and Ed Ginter, or the brother of my classmate Puddie Stratka, who died of Agent Orange exposure, or the father-in-law of another classmate, Marcie Woods, who died somewhere in Europe in the spring of 1945, a few days before the man who would become her husband was born.

If we really want to honor those who gave the ultimate sacrifice we will stop asking them to give it. We will find a way to settle our differences, no matter how just warring may seem. We will remember the dead with more than parades and picnics. And, I suppose, a lot of people like me will cry.

            

On Memorial Day

I don’t remember when I stopped enjoying Memorial Day. For most of my life it was the unofficial start of summer, and as a kid growing up in Western Pennsylvania, where the school year ended the first week in June, it carried with it the knowledge that school would soon be over.

            I don’t suppose I gave Memorial Day much thought. It just was. I am old enough to remember when it was called “Decoration Day,” a symbolic day in American history in which family members decorated the graves of their loved ones killed in the Civil War. In 1966 the name was officially changed to Memorial Day, and in 1971 it became a national holiday.

            I spent seven years in the Army, the last three as an Army nurse. In May 1970 I spent Memorial Day doing what I did six out of the other seven days of the week: working on a neurosurgical intensive care unit at a hospital in Vietnam. I don’t remember pausing to think of the men who had given their lives in this seemingly useless cause. We were in the middle of “The Cambodian Incursion,” a joint military operation involving South Vietnamese and American soldiers, in a failed attempt to eradicate the North Vietnamese from neutral Cambodia. We were too busy.

I doubt I have ever worked as hard as I did the two months we were in Cambodia. My hospital was one of the closest to the Cambodian border and the “whomp, whomp, whomp” of helicopters bringing the wounded to our hospital seemed endless. But we must have done a good job; the appropriate panel of “The Wall” bears the names of only ten men killed in action in May 1970.

I have always been proud I served in Vietnam. It was the worst, the best, and the longest year of my life rolled into one. I had no idea how disastrous the accident aboard “Apollo 13” was until I saw the movie. A serious sports fan, I could not tell you who won either the World Series or the Super Bowl. They simply were not on my radar screen. Young men with devastating wounds were.

When I came home I was not treated as a pariah. I was more a curiosity, if that, and a month after my plane touched down in San Francisco I was at Ft Knox, KY, where being a war veteran was nothing special.

Once in the 1990s, in a rather “in your face” response to the VFW’s refusal to welcome women veterans into its regular ranks, I marched, at the invitation of the post commander, with the men in our town’s very short but nevertheless touching Memorial Day Parade.  The parade was so short no one could figure out why I was with them and not with the women’s auxiliary, or the Vietnam Veterans of America, a group I have never been particularly interested in joining.

So why, do I feel the way I do about Memorial Day? Somehow, in a way I don’t entirely understand, I have come to dislike the “juice” of Memorial Day. It is not a day for fly-overs, or baseball teams wearing camouflage uniforms, or people hyperventilating while singing “God Bless America.” It is a day to remember, not just any Veteran, but those who died because of their war service. Men like NFL Player Pat Tillman, or my high school classmates Freddie Highberger and Ed Ginter, or the brother of my classmate Puddie Stratka, who died of Agent Orange exposure, or the father-in-law of another classmate, Marcie Woods, who died somewhere in Europe in the spring of 1945, a few days before the man who would become her husband was born.

If we really want to honor those who gave the ultimate sacrifice we will stop asking them to give it. We will find a way to settle our differences, no matter how just warring may seem. We will remember the dead with more than parades and picnics. And, I suppose, a lot of people like me will cry.