Thanks to DADT I met my spouse

Well sort of. She got kicked out the Army for being gay before Don't Ask, Don't Tell (DADT), but it's true on principle. Her plan had been to have a life-long career in the Army. But at the tender age of 23 she was told "no thanks, you're gay" and discharged.

She had just graduated from college and decided joining the Army was a good idea because it would give her a career. While in basic training, she met a woman who would go on to be her partner for over ten years. They were discreet and careful. But a private in their unit knew about them, thought it was wrong, and planted a faked love note between the two of them in a waste basket for sure discovery. Later they admitted to being "bisexual" to avoid a dishonorable discharge.

My spouse went on to a career in the restaurant industry and made her way to Minnesota, where she met me seven years ago. Three years after that we got married. So thank you military for your homophobic and discriminatory ways. Ironic, isn't it?

(And yes she is my spouse -- we were legally married in Massachusetts and are legally recognized in seven other states and the District of Colombia, but that's a whole other topic and post.)

 Getting hitched, 2007

But our love story aside, I have no conflicted feelings about the House vote yesterday, which moves our country one huge step closer to the repeal of DADT. A similar bill is moving through the Senate. DADT must become history.

Because I am part of the large GLBT community here in the Twin Cities, I know at least a dozen women who were kicked out of the military pre- and post-DADT for being queer. Each one had joined as a way out of where they came from and a way into a career. Each served with pride and many planned to be lifers. What a waste of talent, military.

My cousin's (straight) son is just home from a second tour of duty in Afghanistan. He was seriously in harm's way and put his life on the line many times for his country. Whatever your feelings are about that war, or war in general, he chose to serve, and was allowed to serve and be fully open about his wife and child back home. Did the open support of his spouse and family help him get through his tour?

Without a doubt.

And what about the estimated 66,000 gay men and lesbians in the military, many who are in harm's way right now. They all chose to serve their country. Don't they at least deserve to carry photos of their partners with them? And to share that support openly and proudly as they put their lives on the line?

Without a doubt.

~~~

Some quick facts about DADT - full report is here.

• An estimated 66,000 lesbians, gay men, and bisexuals are serving in the US military, accounting for approximately 2.2% of military personnel.  
• Approximately 13,000 LGB people are serving on active duty (comprising 0.9% of all active duty personnel) while nearly 53,000 are serving in the guard and reserve forces (3.4%). 
• While women comprise only about 14% of active duty personnel, they comprise more than 43% of LGB men and women serving on active duty. 
• Lifting DADT restrictions could attract an estimated 36,700 men and women to active duty service along with 12,000 more individuals to the guard and reserve. 
• Since its inception in 1994, the “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” policy has cost the military between $290 million and more than a half a billion dollars. 
• The military spends an estimated $22,000 to $43,000 per person to replace those discharged under DADT.

Glee!!!

I love, love, love Glee -- making me a bonified Gleek. Each episode, amazingly, is as rich, funny, and profound as the rest. How can all of that fabulousness happen in one TV show? Whether it is sheer comic entertainment, like the scene when Jane Lynch did her own fabulous version of Madonna's "Vogue," the great music, or the continuing affirmation that the geeks, the freaks, the queers, and the out-of-place are not only normal, but awesome, Glee breaks new ground like no other show before it.

But this week something truly profound happened. The "regular guy" father of the openly gay (and fabulously flaming) Curt took a stand for his son. That soliloquy by a father for his gay son is the song of parent/child love for our time. Millions of queer teens were told, on national TV, that it's okay - no it's great - to be you. And millions of parents were told to get behind their queer kids.

There was nothing in popular entertainment that affirmed anything remotely queer for my generation. The next generation had Will and Grace. And Ellen (we still have Ellen). But this.... well just watch:

(If the clip gets disabled, here are a couple of links to catch the full episode.)
Episode 20: "Theatricality" (Lady GaGa episode)
HULU
Yidio

Young women get heart attacks, too

On April 21, I received a call that my very good friend Millicent had just had a heart attack, driving to work on a freeway in south Minneapolis. I couldn't believe what I was hearing! She is in her early forties, in shape, and eats right! I knew heart disease is a serious health risk for women, but I just didn't think someone so young and healthy could get one. I was very wrong. Here are some sobering facts about women and heart attacks:

• 435,000 American women have heart attacks annually; 83,000 are under age 65; 35,000 are under 55. 
• 42% of women who have heart attacks die within 1 year, compared to 24% of men.
• Under age 50, women’s heart attacks are twice as likely as men’s to be fatal.
• 267,000 women die each year from heart attacks, which kill six times as many women as breast cancer. Another 31, 837 women die each year of congestive heart failure, representing 62.6% of all heart failure deaths.

The full fact sheet can be found here.

The wonderful news is that Millicent survived her heart attack and is doing fine. I asked her if she would write about her experience to educate women about needing to know the symptoms of a heart attack (they are different than the symptoms for men), and ways we can all make lifestyle changes to reduce our risk of having one.

Millicent agreed and here is her post:

~~~~

My heart attack was nothing like I thought it would be. No “I’m coming to see you, Elizabeth!” like Fred Sanford used to say. No lightning bolt of pain in my chest that made me fall instantly unconscious. No numb left arm or tingly fingers (until much later).

My heart attack was a gradual increase of pressure and pain that was unlike anything I ever felt before. Sort of like a strong, painful strumming in my chest. Think of the vibration a guitar string makes when you pluck it. That vibration is the sound you hear. I felt one long, painful, pressurized note that got progressively louder (more painful) as the seconds ticked by. It felt like a deep, strong vibration.

Toward the end, when I decided to call 911, is when the fear set in. I’m only 44, I’m pretty fit, is this really a heart attack? Am I going to die today?

FEAR is what made me call 911.

And FEAR is what saved my life.

If I hadn’t been afraid of dying too early of some ailment or disease, I wouldn’t have paid much attention to the symptoms of HEART ATTACK and STROKE for women. If I wasn’t afraid of getting stiff and out of shape in old age, I wouldn’t have tried to keep myself in reasonably decent shape all these years. And if I wasn’t afraid of passing out and having a wreck on the highway, I would not have pulled over when I did and called 911 for myself.

We women have to start being afraid again.

Be afraid to get out of shape!

Be afraid to die of some horrible disease!

Be afraid to become old and feeble.

These things are NOT INEVITABLE!

Please.

Eat LESS SALT! Our heart, kidneys, brain and liver can’t take it.

Eat LESS FAT! Our bodies aren’t made to carry it all.

Get more EXERCISE! Our bodies fall apart without it.

We can only take care of ourselves; no one else can do it for us.

I’m still afraid.

Are you with me??

~~~~

Related links:

Symptoms of a heart attack in women

Things women can do to reduce their risk of a heart attack.

Helping Hands

Every time we pass an ambulance from Hennepin County Medical Center (HCMC), whether or not its sirens are on, my five-year-old granddaughter exclaims, "There goes my ambulance!" Or if we pass the hospital, she says with pride, "There goes my hospital!"

It's the colorful four-hands HCMC logo she recognizes.

 

Her sense of ownership of HCMC is understandable. Last summer, the doctors, residents, students, nurses, and specialists that make those HCMC hands come to life saved her life.

Here's how the story read in various news accounts:

"Today, a four-year old girl fell from a third floor window in her north Minneapolis apartment and was taken to HCMC for treatment. Her injuries are not life threatening and authorities say it was a tragic accident."

That was my family being splashed across the headlines, reduced to a sound bite.

Here's what happened, non sound-bite version:

I couldn't understand my daughter through the hysterical sobs and screaming coming through my cell phone, but I knew something was desperately wrong. Finally, she choked out, "SHE FELL!!!! MY BABY FELL OUT OF HER WINDOW!!!! WE'RE IN THE AMBULANCE ON THE WAY TO THE HOSPITAL!!!! SHE'S HURT REALLY BAD!!!! COME FAST!!!"

I don't remember my crazed, terrifying drive to the hospital, nor where I left my car.

To be precise, the bedroom window from which she fell was in a newer north Minneapolis apartment building, three floors up, but 40 feet away from the pavement below. Pavement where my grandchild landed, having somehow fallen through the screen on that hot summer night. Her mom, in the next room cooking supper, heard the screams and ran to find the open window, looked out, and saw her daughter screaming on the ground below.

I can't imagine.

Within minutes, they were in an ambulance on their way to HCMC. I remember racing through the ER doors, grabbing hold of my sobbing daughter, who was covered with her daughter's blood. We waited in a room with a hospital chaplain until a doctor came for us and told us she was stable but badly hurt.

Miraculously, she had arrived at the ER alert, and was talking to the doctors, telling them where she hurt. A very good sign, they said. She had a major broken bone in her leg, multiple fractures to her face, a bruised lung and heart, but no immediate evidence of brain injury. She was being moved to the pediatric intensive care unit (PICU), the place we would call home for the next month.

We got to see her a few hours later. That lively bundle of life was sedated, breathing tubes in her mouth, and IV's stuck into her everywhere, or so it seemed. Her face was bruised, scraped, and swollen almost beyond recognition. Her leg was in the first of several casts.

Over the course of the next four weeks we stayed with her day and night. I watched teams of specialists care for her, one team per injury. She had surgeries, MRI's, CAT scans, x-rays, blood work and lots and lots of drugs. The amazing PICU doctors and nurses coordinated all of her care.

But as her leg, face, and heart healed (her brain was fine all along), her bruised lungs got worse. We worried (so did they). She had to stay in that drug-induced coma until her lungs could breathe on their own. She got an infection. It was taking too long. But finally, with some serious medical strategy and the willful spirit of a girl determined to heal, she improved. The chest x-rays got clearer. Some number on a monitor about blood to oxygen ratio was moving to a life-sustaining level.

Nearly four weeks after her fall, they finally removed her breathing tubes, and she kept breathing (insert large, collective sign of relief). Then, in slow increments, they reduced the heavy narcotics that had kept her unconscious and she was allowed to "wake up."

A week later she was discharged. Diagnosis: full recovery.

Nearly ten months later she is back on the block. She's learning to ride her bike without training wheels (helmet on, of course), beginning to read and spell, and is ready and raring to go to kindergarten next fall. She and her mom thankfully moved to a first floor apartment. Life has returned to our own private "new normal" and let me assure you, it is oh so very sweet.

So back to the four hands. Those HCMC helping hands. My point in telling this story is this: HCMC, one of the nation's foremost level one trauma centers, also serves more poor people than any other hospital in the state. Its tagline says, "Every life matters." But it's not a marketing gimmick. They mean it.

My daughter works full time, but her income is so low that my grandchild is eligible for Medical Assistance (MA), which mostly paid the bills. What this means is that you and me, through our tax dollars, were in some way part of the team that saved her life. But understand this: had she been rushed to the ER uninsured, HCMC would have treated her - medically and figuratively - in exactly the same way. That takes state and federal dollars, too. Every life matters.

During those terrifying weeks in the PICU and at all those visits to specialty clinics in the months that followed, I saw the "world" at HCMC. I observed each and every patient being treated with respect and surely being offered the best medical care available.

So this year as I watched the debates surrounding funding for health care (especially for the poor) both here in Minnesota and in Congress, and the virulent attacks on President Obama and supporters of his health care reform plan, I had to wonder what to make of us, we the people. Do we believe one life is less deserving than another? Should only the wealthy get decent medical care? Why is this a debate at all? In these financial hard times, all but the very rich are struggling. But among us all, there is plenty to go around. Shouldn't our priorities be to first help out those in greatest need? To make sure all get a seat at the health care table? Where is our common decency and good will?

Let me ask the naysayers this: Is my grandchild's life worth less than yours?

I think not.


(To learn more about health care funding/health care reform and its impact on HCMC, check out their "Will You Lose" campaign.)

Arthritis (Grandma's Hands)

Arthritis you scourge. You twisted my grandma's hands and destroyed her hips. And now you've found me.

But the ache of you this morning makes me think of my grandma, gone now for over 25 years. She was the one person who loved me for me -- the willful, sensitive, smart, adventurous girl I was (and still am) -- she adored me unconditionally. My grandma helped me get through. The ache of her absence is stronger, still, than any pain in my hands.

On this hot and humid morning, my sore hands evoke my grandma, which evokes Bill Withers and his haunting, soulful "Grandma's Hands."

My grandma holding my son a year or so before she passed.
  

Grandma's hands...

Here is a fabulous live performance of that song at Carnegie Hall (with an unfortunate negative comment relating to same sex love before he sings, but go on and listen to the song anyway). For all of us with grandmas who changed our lives for the better. Love.