Where My Heart Lies

In August my high school class will celebrate our 50^th class reunion. I probably won’t be there. Instead I will be recovering from hip replacement surgery. In a way it is fitting. For one reason or another I have never been able to go to a reunion. I wasn’t at my high school graduation either. Instead, I was in Denmark, where I spent my senior year as an American Field Service exchange student. I didn’t miss being at my graduation, but I do wish I could have seen my Dad receive my diploma.

I loved being an exchange student. Missing the normal things American high school seniors do was, in my opinion, a small price to pay for living my dream of really getting to know a people, learn their language and customs, and become part of a new family.

            Every exchange student has her own story, and mine certainly was—and is—one of the best. I quickly fell in love with my host family, who adopted me as one of their own, sliding me into family activities as if I was just another cousin from Jutland come to a suburb of Copenhagen to study.

My host sister Grethe was in the second of a three year pre-university “Gymnasium” program.  I joined her class. On Sundays she and I often took long walks by the lake near our house. We talked about the usual things like boys, movies, music, and our dreams for the future.  And we talked about the differences in growing up in a county which valued self-reliance versus a country where the government supplied health care, insurance, and other necessities. We laughed about our teachers. I had a bit of a crush on one of the music teachers, who was still in his twenties, and Grethe railed against the English teacher because he thought she was picking up too much of my American accent for a student who was supposed to be learning British English.  When my younger sister Kirsten and I did the dishes together she’d coach me on my Danish pronunciation. I even got pretty good at saying rød grød med fløde (stewed strawberries with cream,) the phrase most Danes think is the hardest for Americans to pronounce. 

Because “My Danish Parents”, who I have always called Mor (Mother) and Far (Father), spoke no English I learned to speak Danish rather fluently. I can still handle small talk paa dansk but my accent is horrible.  By the time I left Denmark I was dreaming in Danish, and when my own parents called to tell me I’d been accepted into the college program of my choice I could barely express my glee. What came out was a mix of English and Danish, something that still occasionally happens.

            And then the day I dreaded finally rolled around. The day I had to leave. It was overcast and cool, a typical August day for Denmark, a country made up mostly of islands parked in the North Sea above Germany. My fellow Danish AFS students and I spent part of the day sliding along Copenhagen’s many canals on a tour boat while a guide described the sights: the statue of the then decapitated-by-vandals Little Mermaid (she really is little) who would soon be getting a new head, the King’s castle, the island home of the Royal Danish Navy.

From there we were whisked away to a reception at the home of the U.S. Ambassador to Denmark. I should have been impressed, but I wasn’t. I had seen these sites, including the US Embassy, many times. On Wednesday afternoons, when I got out of school at noon, I’d take the train from our suburb to the station nearest the U.S. Embassy. There I would borrow library books, then walk to the center of Copenhagen to board the train home.  My weekly Wednesday walks took me past the headless mermaid, the King’s castle, and more: the Royal Danish Theater, the Hotel L’Angleterre, which had been Nazi headquarters during WWII, a corner of Tivoli Gardens, and Strøget, the shopping district where no cars were allowed. I often stopped at one of the small bakeries that lined Strøget, sipping coffee and eating real Danish pastries.

 On that last day in Denmark I was allowed to leave my fellow AFS students and return to my Danish family for one final meal.  Grethe and I had already said our good-byes when she’d left three days earlier to go to a summer camp in England. After dinner I took one last look around the home that had been mine for a year, then drove to the train station with Mor, Far and Kirsten. Tears flowed. When at last I got on the train for Rotterdam, where I would then board a ship bound for New York City I found a fellow exchange student—he’d been in Sweden—as bereft as I. We consoled each other during the long train trip. We loved our own families, but neither of us wanted to go home.

            Once home in Pennsylvania I slid back into the social scene I’d left behind, going to parties, saying farewell to friends as one by one we went off to college, got a job, or joined the Army. But I felt a bit like an outsider. They could laugh about the dances, the proms, the jokes played, the songs sung while I’d been riding my bike to the Gymnasium. It was a relief when the calendar turned to September and I began college. The turning of this page meant I was just another college freshman, learning the ropes.

            But my longing for Denmark remained fierce. There were no computers, no Internet, no Skype. I could not pick up the phone and simply call Grethe or Kirsten the way I could call a friend in another town. In 1965 a mere mortal had to make an appointment with an overseas operator to make a trans-Atlantic phone call. The Danes must have missed me as much as I missed them, for they came to visit at Christmas.

            For a while after I left Denmark Grethe, Kirsten, and my best friend Lone and I wrote each other frequently. But with the passage of time the letters became fewer and shorter. Yet somehow Grethe and Kirsten and I managed to cobble together a relationship that remains difficult for me to define to people who don’t know us. There is no blood or shared DNA between us. And yet we still consider ourselves more like sisters than best friends.

            It took 10 years for me to get back to Denmark. In the intervening time I’d become a nurse, spent three years in the Army, including a year in Vietnam, married a fellow veteran, gone to graduate school, bought a house and planned to start a family. Grethe and Kirsten had done much the same. By the time I took my husband Jim to Denmark in the summer of 1975 both Grethe and Kirsten had finished college, started careers, married, bought houses, and each had a child.  We added some more glue to our relationship, though we decided it was time to stop confusing people by calling ourselves sisters.

            Since then I have returned to Denmark many times. At last count it was up around fifteen. In 1990 I took my mother to see the places I had known so well twenty-five years earlier. In 2008 our eldest daughter Kirsten married a Dane in Denmark in a wonderful ceremony that combined the best of Danish and American wedding traditions. Grethe has been here several times, Kirsten once. This summer Grethe’s daughter Lise will bring her teenage children for a visit.

Grethe and I email each other every day. We talk on the phone once a month or so. We have already celebrated 50 years of friendship, but will do so again later in the year. She is one of the rocks in my life. A person who knows me so well she can tell if I am happy or sad just by my email. She can, and does, chastise me when she disagrees with me, but she also supports me when she thinks I am right.  She listens to me in a way few people do.

            Yet in spite of our frequent contact, or maybe because of it, I think about Denmark every day. I think about Denmark in little ways, wondering if Grethe’s spinach is ready to be picked, for example. I think about Denmark in big ways, using my nursing background to encourage Grethe to see a doctor when I thought she might have pneumonia in February. I think about Denmark in silly ways, wondering when the 2015 Georg Jensen Christmas mobile will be available, or if I might find a much desired Mads Stage print on my next trip, or hoping my bum hip will let me be able to walk to the new Ship museum near Hamlet’s Castle.  For a piece of my heart stayed in Denmark when I left 50 years ago. And it will always be there.

 My husband and I have made a wonderful life for ourselves and our children in Maine. Our hearts are well and truly here. He claims the only way he will leave our home of 36 years is feet first. Now, in tourist season, we repeat something we have done weekly for decades: walk around the Beach in the evening with nothing more in mind than perhaps a dish of ice cream. I love living where I do, but on long winter nights, when there is significantly less daylight in Denmark than in Maine I envision myself in one of the apartments near Grethe’s, the table set, the candles lit, enjoying a meal and the company, because no one knows how to make a long winter evening cozy like the Danes.

I spent my freshman year of college living at home, but in my mind’s eye I was already gone. I left my hometown the day I left for Denmark in June 1964. Gradually I lost contact with all but two friends, Linda and Ellie. Linda lives quite near to where we grew up, Ellie is in Wyoming. We exchange Christmas cards. Ellie and I are Facebook friends.

In fact I am Facebook friends with a lot of people from my high school class. About three years ago someone started a Facebook group just for our class. One of my close friends, someone I wanted to stay in touch with but hadn’t, found me through a google search. She invited me to join the group and I did. Pretty soon I was reading posts from people I hardly knew or didn’t particularly like in high school. I wasn’t interested in every post, but it was fascinating to see what we had—or hadn’t—done with our lives. My first boyfriend owns one of the big ole Victorian houses on the main street of our town. One of the cute football players I hardly knew occasionally messages me about silly stuff just because he can.

One of the most gratifying things about joining the group was learning how much my classmates admired my parents, especially my Dad, who frequently fixed friends’ cars long after I left home, and once built the backstop for the local Little League team.

Petty differences are long forgotten. Now we sometimes disagree in discussions about politics and religion, but are, for the most part, respectful of our differences. We share pictures of our children and grandchildren. And we ask for—and receive—prayers, and good wishes, or expressions of sorrow when someone is sick or dies. To me, the woman who willingly cast herself out of this group of then young people from Western Pennsylvania in 1964, it is remarkable.

So deciding to forgo the reunion was not an easy decision, especially when Ellie wrote she had bought her plane ticket. I came close to rescheduling the hip surgery until after the reunion, but was dissuaded by a husband who knows me very well, and has watched me struggle climbing the stairs, getting in and out of cars, or participating in activities that require a lot of walking or standing. But I know I will be in good hands when I have that hip replacement: I have an excellent surgeon, even if he is the same age as Kirsten. And I have an entire high school class of friends who will be praying for me.

Give me my "Townie"

On Wednesday morning nine of my friends from the Woman Tours 2013 Southern Tier Cross Country trip (CCST 2013) will set off on THE ride I have long wanted to do: along the Atlantic Coast from Florida to my home state of Maine. Given the orthopedic problems I've struggled with the past year I knew being able to actually ride would be a challenge.Or to paraphrase my husband I have so many orthopedic issues I have subscriptions. But I needed a goal, and perhaps more so, I needed some hope. So  I signed up to ride. I figured if I couldn't ride I would lose the equivalent of buying two pair of shoes I never wear. In other words, I had little to lose because I already have a closet full of shoes I rarely wear. 

By mid summer I knew I was not going to be able to get into the shape needed to ride, and thus, reluctantly withdrew from the Atlantic Coast Trip, allowing Woman Tours to replace me with someone on their waiting list. I did give myself a consolation gift: March at The Villages in Florida, where I rode my bike almost every day and got to spend some time riding with a couple of CCST friends who are about to embark on the northbound journey. I rode with other friends, many from the CCST. And I rode by myself, testing out replaced joints, figuring out new ways to get on and off the bike so I wouldn't fall. In all, it was a terrific month.

During the days I struggled with my decision to withdraw from the ride I questioned my ability to bike at all-- until my 6 ft tall sister, who has legs long enough to lift over any bike frame, suggested I try getting a step-thru bike with upright handlebars. My cross country bike is a road bike with 700 C tires and a carbon frame. My back up bike is a 12 year old Trek Hybrid I still love to ride. There just seemed something wrong about chosing a "comfort bike."  Yet listening to Laura talk about her spin around Freeport in just such a bike from LL Beans convinced me to give it a whirl.

I am so glad I did. The comfort bike I wound up purchasing, a 21 speed Electra Townie, cost one quarter of my cross country bike. It has a much heavier frame than my road bike but weighs no more than the hybrid. It has brakes I can easily maneuver, unlike the brakes on my road bike, which forever seemed to be broken.  At first I thought that might be a problem, but it has turned out to be a blessing. I feel solidly stable on that bike. I have actually had to get used to the fact I can slide my foot off the pedal and onto the ground. No fancy footwork or madly made jumps because a tourist failed to look in my direction before stepping into the cross walk. There are just enough changes in elevation at The Villages for me to experiment with changing gears. And they worked.

Then I started reading an interesting little book by Grant Petersen called Just Ride. In it Petersen writes about people who ride bikes for a living versus those who don't. He even has a name for us: unracers. His point is a lot of the "must haves" currently marketed to average riders including gloves, fancy shirts, and biking shorts might be required for racers, and useful for my Cross Country friends, but are probably not necessary for people who ride less than four hours a day.His comments about biking for pleasure made a huge amount of sense, especially when I realized that once I got rolling I could bike as fast on my Townie as I could on my road bike. 

And then I got home from Florida. Piles of snow still covered huge sections of our front yard. Others covered the shoulder along my most favorite route. Worst yet, when I took my bike to the shop for a minor adjustment I discovered somewhere along the way the bike had been hit, its frame bent. I have no idea what happened. My guess is someone in a golf cart didn't realize he backed into the bike rack in one of the town squares where I'd parked my bike. But I will never know. 

So tomorrow of the next day I am off to buy another Townie, or perhaps its cousin. My biggest concern is no longer "is this a good choice?" but "should I get the ocean blue or the hot pink?" Both would look pretty good with my neon green basket.

Why Vaccinating Matters

When I was a kid it seemed as though my sister Laura, with whom I shared a bedroom, and I were always getting sick in the summer. Three adults (my parents and great grandfather,) and four children lived in a three bedroom farmhouse. I don't remember how we squeezed in before my father built two sets of bunk beds for my sisters and me to share in one bedroom. What I do remember is a series of summer illnesses in which Laura and I were confined to one of the bedrooms with the shades pulled tight. My parents' fear--at the time thought to be correct-- was because bright lights hurt, our vision might somehow be damaged. And so one of my strongest memories of those days is of my Dad moving the TV into our sick room, where our great grandfather had first dibs--to watch the Saturday night fights.

One other thing about those childhood summers was the way in which my parents rapidly forbade our visiting the local lake as soon as the first confirmed case of polio hit our town. I vividly remember standing in line at the local elementary school, one of hundreds of frightened children and relieved parents, awaiting my turn to receive my first polio vaccination.

Polio was, and remains, a truly frightening disease. In the year before the first vaccine became available over 50,000 people across the United States, many of the them children, died of polio. When the virus attacked the diaphragm and respiratory system people who survived often spent the remainder of their lives confined to iron lungs, Today, people in their 60s and older who survived the initial infection relatively unscathed often suffer from Post Polio Syndrome, which includes problems with walking, muscle spasms, and balance.

When I was growing up there were very few illnesses against which people could be vaccinated. Most vaccines were developed between my youth and my children's childhood. Our parents remembered children dying from polio and measles. People in our 40s, 50s, and 60s have unforgettable memories of spending hours stuck in bed--or at home-- thanks to chicken pox or the measles. So vaccinating our kids made sense on several levels. First, we understood  that if enough people were immunized against a specific childhood illness chances were the chain of infection would be broken. Second, we recognized we needed to keep our kids healthy if we were to keep our kids in day care, and by extension ourselves in our jobs.

From my perspective one of the major problems associated with the current argument to vaccinate our children or not is we have forgotten the potentially devastating consequences of being infected with  a common childhood illness, especially in adults. Here are two that are very much worth remembering.

RUBELLA. Rubella is also known as the three day measles or the German Measles. The names come from the fact that Rubella was first identified in Germany, and that the rash generally lasts about three days. It is the R in the MMR vaccine offered to children at 18 months. Thus it is part of the vaccination which recently has caused parents considerable concern. Kids get fevers from both Rubella (3 day) and Rubeola ( 9 day measles.) Rubeola can cause pneumonia and brain infections--one of the top reasons to vaccinate a child. But here is a lesser known fact about Rubella. If a non-immune pregnant woman contracts Rubella she is at great risk of miscarrying during the first trimester. If she carries the pregnancy to term the baby may be born prematurely, have cardiac, auditory, or ophthalmic defects. In fact the risk of damage to the mother or the baby is the main reason why the Rubella vaccine was developed in the first place.

CHICKEN POX. There was no vaccine against chicken pox when my children were little. Since it is so contagious if one child in a family gets it his siblings are likely to get chicken pox too. Before the vaccine was developed it was not unusual for parents to purposefully expose their children to kids with chicken pox. Why? In kids it is mostly an annoying disease. Kids itch, they are miserable, and they can't go to school or daycare if they have the rash. Not so in adults. Chicken pox in adults who have never had the disease, including people with compromised immune systems can, and do, suffer significant consequences. It is even more complicated when pregnancy is involved. Babies born to non-immune mothers often are born with the chicken pox and a whole host of complications like hearing damage. But the most frightening problem, to my way of thinking, is if  a non-immune pregnant woman gets chicken pox during the final trimester of pregnancy she is likely to have a stroke. I have only seen this once in my years as a maternity nurse. But once was more than enough. The Mom lived, but she had brain damage, and it was months before she could hold her healthy baby.



If you are interested in reading about childhood illnesses the easiest place to find accurate information is wikipedia. Go to www.wikipedia.org and type in the childhood disease you're most interested in learning more about.www.wikipedia.org www.wikipedia.org

The Great Whooping Cough Epidemic

In my first blog post I wrote I had some experience with caring for a group of people stuck in the midst of an epidemic. In my case the villain was whooping cough, a highly contagious bacterial infection caused by the bacterium Bortadella Pertussis. Once whooping cough was a common childhood illness, causing high fever, and persistent cough that can last up to four months or longer.  It is called whooping cough because of the whoop-like noise made by children who have whooping cough, or Pertussis, when they cough.

Fortunately there is a vaccine for Pertussis. It is the P in the DPT vaccination children begin getting at two months. But there are problems with the Pertussis vaccine. It does not impart life-long protection against whooping cough (in fact these days people in need of a tetanus booster shot also get Pertussis too.) And when my children, who are now in their 30s, were toddlers parents were often afraid to give the Pertussis vaccine to their children because, in some infants, the vaccination itself causes a high fever. The problem with this is infants who contract whooping cough usually don’t cough, but go into respiratory arrest.

My first encounter with the seriousness of whooping cough was in 1973, when I taught nursing at a hospital in Cincinnati, OH. One of my students had a newborn too young to be vaccinated and that baby died of whooping cough at a month. I can’t imagine the pain this must have caused her family.

My second encounter with whooping cough was as a camp nurse at Camp Hawthorne, a residential camp for about 150 kids ages eight to fifteen on the shores of beautiful Panther Pond in Raymond, Maine. I had the privilege of being Camp Nurse at Camp Hawthorne for the first summer session from June 1997-June 2004, an eight summer stint I remember with great fondness. The story I am about to relate happened around 2000. I don’t remember the precise dates, only the events.

            It started on July 6^th, a chilly, gray Monday morning. Not the kind in which any child in her right mind would voluntarily jump into a lake and swim 100 yards to pass a swim test. So when fourteen -year old Natasha came to me after breakfast, complaining of a sore throat, my initial response was to dismiss her complaints. Nevertheless, I took her temperature. It was 99.1°F, not high enough to qualify as a fever (>100.4 F.) Her throat was not red. She didn’t even sound stuffy, nor was she coughing. But two things kept me from completely dismissing Natasha’s complaints: I had never heard her grumble about anything before, and, she just didn’t look right. The nurse in me told her she was fine. The mother made her a cup of tea with honey and excused her from the day’s activities.

            At dinnertime Natasha felt about the same, but Chelsea, an asthmatic girl in the same bunk was using her rescue inhaler more than usual. Yet, Chelsea felt fine, blaming her need for the inhaler on pine pollen lying so thickly on every surface you could write your name in it.

 

            That evening I followed my usual routine, making the rounds of each of the five bunks for girls and five for boys, passing out bedtime medications, dispensing band aids and Tylenol, and, I hoped, a calming assurance that all would be well at Camp that night. Then I returned back to my own cabin, which also acted as the infirmary, where I sat on the screened-in porch knitting while listening to the Red Sox on the radio.

            A little after midnight Diane, the Camp Director’s wife, pounded on my door. “Barbara, can you get up, we’ve got a crisis.”

            I immediately snapped to attention, found my bathrobe, shoes and glasses, unlocked the screen door, and invited Diane inside. I expected her to have a child with her, but she was alone.

            “What’s up?”

            Diane handed me a sheath of papers. “Natasha’s parents just faxed these to Ron. And he just off the phone with them. Oh my God, what are we going to do?”

            A quick perusal of the papers showed they were an official notification from the Brookline, MA Board of Health informing Natasha’s parents that two weeks earlier Natasha had unwittingly been exposed to Pertussis-- whooping cough.

            “It’s nothing, right?”

            “I doubt if it’s a problem, Diane. Most kids were vaccinated against Pertussis when they were babies. It’s 1 AM. There’s nothing I can do about it now anyway. But I’ll call Brookline in the morning.”

            “Natasha’s not sick?”

            “Ah, that’s a problem,” I prevaricated. “Natasha is sick. Just a sore throat, not even a fever. She’s so OK she’s back in her bunk, not here with me. Let’s worry about this in the morning.”

            But after Diane left I pulled out my “advanced” pediatric nursing textbook and looked up Pertussis.

            Much of what I read I already knew: Pertussis, also known as whooping cough, is a bacterial respiratory infection. It earned its name for the distinctive whoop-like sound infected children make when they are coughing. Once a frightening childhood illness with the potential to cause serious complications or even death, Pertussis is no longer the scourge it once was. Today, thanks to the use of Pertussis vaccinations and the antibiotic Erythromycin or its grandchild Azithromycin, Pertussis is no longer to be feared. Satisfied the situation was not out of control I went back to bed and back to sleep.

            The following morning, after talking to Ron, the Camp Director, Natasha, her parents, and the Brookline Health Department, I felt less in control of the situation, even if I did have a plan.

            The first complicating matter was Natasha’s childhood history. Born in Russia she’d come to the US when she was five or six. Like most Russian children she had not be vaccinated against common childhood illnesses, including Pertussis. Nor had she contracted the illness as a very little girl. The second complication: although more than 10 days had passed since she’d been exposed I could not assume Natasha just had a cold. She needed to be tested for Pertussis. The third complication: neither Natasha nor Chelsea was any better.

            The final concern was the State of Maine. Should I tell them or not? Would they close the camp down, or not? And what would happen to the children whose parents were counting on us to be there for their offspring while they worked long hours or took well deserved vacations?

            With a great deal of anxiety I located the appropriate phone number for the health department in Augusta (I was rather hoping that since it was Fourth of July week everyone would be on vacation) and dialed. A kind person on the other end reassured me camp could stay open, and insisted I have the Natasha tested.

            By then I had been at Camp long enough to have convinced Ron that, as its only nurse, I ought to stay on site while one of the counselors trained in Emergency Medicine took the kids to the closest hospital in Bridgton. But this was no ordinary emergency. I had to go. And so, with the hope of speeding our time in the Emergency Department that happens to be the closest one to Sebago Lake (one of Maine’s most popular vacation spots) I called the E.D. to forewarn them of our arrival.

            Two hours later we were back home, after having spent our time at Lakes Region Hospital in a room by ourselves. Chelsea got a breathing treatment, which considerably helped her asthma. No other treatment was necessary since neither girl appeared impressively ill. But the staff also took the necessary throat cultures from both girls.

            That was Tuesday. At noon on Friday one of the counselors ran to my little house to breathlessly inform me that the Maine Department of Health was on the line.

            Both girls had tested positive. Both girls. How could that be? Chelsea had not been to the same party. She and Natasha had been bunk-makes just long enough for the incubation period to have been realized.

             The person with whom I spoke assured me Camp could stay open, but he was not at all sure what to do next.  

“What does Brookline say for antibiotics?”

“Erythomycin one to two grams per day for 10 days. Or a Z-pack,” I said, referring to a five day pre-packed container of Azythormycin.

“Who else has come into close exposure?”

“One or two other girls in the bunk next door, two of my friends—both nurses, who were visiting over the holiday—and me.”

“Do you have a doctor who will prescribe for you?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll call Bridgton. They know the story.”

“You’re going to have to send the two sick girls home for a few days. They can come back once the antibiotics have taken effect.”

The young doctor on duty in Bridgton’s E.D.  was unnerved. “Read me again what Brookline says about antibiotics.”

“One to two grams of Erythromycin a day. [We had ruled out the Z-packs as being too costly  for people who might not have good health insurance.]

I should have done a little more research. All medications given to children (and adults too for that matter) are weight related. Instead of prescribing a dose appropriate for a thin, athletic 14 year old, the doctor prescribed the maximum dose. One sufficiently large to treat Vince Wilfork. It was way too much Erythromycin for my campers who would have been much better with a gram a day, given in divided doses.

But I didn’t figure that out until after the first girl started throwing up.

That the girls threw up was a combination of their size, that stomach upset is the number one complication of antibiotic therapy, and that it happened to be particularly warn that July day. Not even the promise of freshly sliced watermelon any time they wanted it was sufficient enticement to get the girls to continue with the Erythromycin. Because the camp session was at its end the State turned a blind eye on the situation with the admonition to make sure parents knew their daughters needed continuing treatment.

There isn’t a lot more to tell about my first, and I hope only, encounter with whooping cough on a grand scale.  Later that summer there was another whooping cough scare at camp at about the same time there was an outbreak among the staff on the pediatric unit at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in New Hampshire. Soon thereafter the CDC added a Pertussis booster to the Tetanus vaccine people get whenever they’ve experienced a deep cut. I sometimes think our experiences at Camp helped the CDC make that decision. 

Why another blog?

I am a wife, mother, mother-in-law, grandmother, retired nurse, sister, cousin, woman of faith, singer, bicyclist, knitter, Vietnam Veteran and writer. I have published a book about my year in Vietnam and am working on another memoir and some fiction--- just for fun. How to find my book "When I Die I'm Going to Heaven "Cause I Spent my time in Hell." (Also available on Amazon.)

I care deeply about my family, my faith, and my friends. I'd like to keep them.  But recently I have found myself posting long-winded, sometimes convoluted comments on Facebook that have bordered on being angry or ridiculous--or both. It dawned on me what I really needed to do was start a new blog in which I could share my thoughts and opinions without necessarily getting into an argument with someone I hardly know, love a lot, or haven't seen in 50 years. I tried, I really tried with another well known blog publisher, (where I actually do have 1.5 functional blogs) and as often happens, their attempts to make getting  a new blog started has had the opposite effect on me. So I decided to go back to where I first learned to blog from my friend Christine Halvorson who does this crazy stuff for a living. Here is .a link to Christine's business where you too can learn to blog! I am a word person. I doubt I will be posting tons of pictures, so this seems like a much easier path to saying what I want to say. So here goes.

Recently three posts or events have really grabbed my attention, In no particular order:

vaccinations

the Pledge of Allegiance

New England's awful  winter weather

Additionally, fifty years ago I lived in a northern suburb of Copenhagen, Denmark as an exchange student.I love Denmark and its people. My oldest daughter is married to a Dane, a classmate of my host sister's daughter. The Valentine's Day terrorists attacks in a city I love, aimed at wonderful people, who in my opinion, have the ability to see all of life's peculiarities with a somewhat sardonic and self deprecating sense of humor kept me awake last night. And it is that humor, poking fu, in this case,  at a religious group which apparently takes itself and those who don't agree with its extremist members that cause this attack gives me more fuel for my blog fire.

I have decided to start writing about vaccinations first.

An old high school friend posted a picture of a child who had died of influenza even though she had been vaccinated against it. Another friend, who, in general holds a low opinion of mainstream medicine posted another article about the evils of the preservatives in vaccines. Both screamed "Don't get them." 

But here's my view:

According to the national record of vital statistics kept by the Center of Disease Control,  the top 10 leading causes of death in 1900 were:

1  Pneumonia (all forms) and influenza.

2  Tuberculosis (all forms0

3  Diarrhea, enteritis, and ulceration of the intestines 

4.  Diseases of the heart 

5.  Intracranial lesions of vascular origin

6.  Nephritis (all forms) 

7. All accidents 

8. Cancer 

9  Senility

10. Diptheria

Of these there are vaccines against pneumonia, influenza, and some diarrheal diseases, There is a vaccine for TB but we don't offer it to people because TB has been pretty much eliminated in the US except in certain populations (those with compromised immune systems from things like AIDS or IV drug abusers.) Nephritis is often a complication of bacterial infection. And take a look at number 10: Diptheria. That is the D in the DPT immunization children begin receiving at age 2 months. 

Now take a look at what the top ten killers of people were in1998:

1. Heart disease

2. Cancer

3. Stroke

4. COPD (Emphysema)

5. Accidents

6. Pneumonia

7. Diabetes

8. Suicide

9. Nephritis

10. Cirrhosis 

Quite a bit different. And a lot of the difference can be attributed to vaccines and antibiotics. But to prevent than to treat!

Having been in the Army I have been vaccinated against just about everything including the plague. But what convinced me to vaccinate my children was something that happened the first year I was out of the Army. I was teaching nursing at a hospital school of nursing. It was about this time of the year. One of my students had a brand new baby girl. An adorable little girl who died from Whooping Cough (the P in the DPT vaccination) when she was three weeks old. Too young to be vaccinated. I vowed then my kids would be vaccinated. 

My nursing career has given me opportunities to care for people in the throes of some of the above mentioned diseases. I'll share them in another blog post!