Golden Ticket
I smell the freshly cut grass and kick nervously at the ground. I’ve been training for this day a whole year now. John, my trainer, says that even though I’m still young, I’m a sure winner. He told me he’s put a lot of money on me to win. “You’re my golden ticket,” he whispers in my ear. I know how much this means to him and I’m nervous; I don’t want to let him down. He leads me out of the stable. The excited buzz from the crowd gets louder as we walk to the starting point.
Nearby, another trainer is leading Lil’ Bandit out from his pen. I nod to him; we’ve raced each other before, but nothing as important as this. He’s got the advantage though–he’s been around this track before. Came in a close third. It was incredibly close, apparently. Lil’ Bandit is real fast; his father was a champion–won three Grand Nationals in a row until he was forced to retire. He’s somewhere else now, living out his final days in a field of glory.
Lil’ Bandit kicks the ground and snorts at me. The competition is fierce and we all want to win, so I understand. John says something to the other trainer, who laughs. Then we walk on; no time for idle chitchat.
There’s a cluster of horses in front of me. I see a few faces I recognize. Clotted Cream, Wisp o’ Air, Denny’s Dozen and The Package are stood next to each other, jockeys on their backs. Lady in Red whinnies at me from the other side of the throng, and I shake my head back at her to say hello.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Will, my rider, appear beside me.
“Y’alright there John, how’s he looking?”
“Ah sure he’s grand Will, not a bother in him. Raring to go I’d say.” Will nods, pleased. John pats me affectionately on the neck, tells me to ‘give ‘em hell!’ and I reassure him by stomping my foot on the ground.
“What did I tell you? He’s ready for anything this one.” He laughs and walks off to watch the race from the stands. Will rubs my nose and looks me over one last time before putting his foot in the stirrup and pulling himself up onto my back. He’s small, much smaller than John, but I still notice the weight. He tugs on the reins and I trot obediently towards the other horses, all waiting anxiously for the race to start.
BANG. The gun explodes and the crowd roars. Will digs his heels into my sides and I burst into action, mud flying out from behind me. I hear the deafening sound of the other horses’ hooves as they pound the ground beside me, muscles flexing. My vision is focused straight ahead, but on either side I can just make out Folan’s Folly and Ban the Bomb looking determined, their legs pumping.
I see someone on the track, waving a flag—get out of the way!—but he quickly scrambles out of sight as the first horses stampede towards him. Almost immediately the first fence is in front of me. I feel Will’s legs grip tighter as he braces himself for the jump. I worry for a split second that I won’t make it, that I’ll be the only one who can’t jump the first fence. But I leap, pushing back into the ground with my hind legs. Will leans forward and I stretch my hooves out and over… and over…and I’m down again! A flawless jump!
No time to celebrate though; the next fence is right in front of me. I fly over it, and the next, and the one after that. My heart is pounding in my chest. Will is shouting encouragement in my ear. We’re squashed between Paddy Kierans and Folan’s Folly, both galloping fiercely, staring straight ahead, their riders standing on the stirrups and rocking forwards and backwards with the motion. It’s difficult to concentrate with them pressed so closely on either side, but I persist, and clear the next fence too, with only a slight stumble on the landing.
There’s a stretch of bright green grass before the next jump, the dreaded Bechers Brook. Will knows too, and he whips my rump with the riding crop to urge me on. I gather speed, focusing on working my legs, faster and faster. Paddy Kierans has spread out giving me more room on the left, but Folan’s Folly is still knocking into me, distracting me. I hear Will shout something, but neither the horse nor the jockey can hear him. We’re closing in on Bechers Brook. I see Lil’ Bandit in front, who just skims the top of the fence with his belly. At the last second, Will lifts himself higher in the stirrups and I feel a little bit lighter for that crucial moment. I jump into the air–it’s not enough! I’m not going to make it!
But I do, just.
My back legs kick through the brambles and the sensation of it and the panic means I misjudge the landing and stumble, causing Will to fall down heavily in the saddle. Folan’s Folly veers off course and she falls chaotically, throwing her rider to the ground. I’m shocked. I hear a voice booming across the track.
“..And Folan’s Folly is gone! Folan’s Folly is gone at Becher’s!” I recover quickly though and so does Will.
We race to the next fence, horses clustered all around me. Up and over and down.
“Cherry Garcia is down! Cherry Garcia is down! And he takes out Maroon Skies with him!” yells the voice. I don’t see the fallen horses. I’m ahead.
But Lil’ Bandit and Paddy Kierans are still out in front by a long way. Ban the Bomb, another ex-champion, is gaining on them fast. Behind me, I can hear the hooves of the other horses ploughing into the grass. Me and The Package are nose to nose, but Will whacks me with the crop and I steam ahead. I clear the next seven fences effortlessly, and hear Will shouting encouragement after each one. I hear the voice call out the names of the three leaders and am thrilled to hear mine called out next. Fourth place, I think. I can do this! The track turns and narrows, forcing us all closer, but my confidence is soaring and I breeze over the next fence.
The crowd is cheering; I’m halfway through. We’re coming to The Chair and the track is narrowing. Lil Bandit, Paddy Kierans and Ban the Bomb are closing in ahead of me, lining up for the jump. The Package and Lady in Red flank me and increase their speed. Their enthusiasm is pushing me out of line. I’m falling behind! Will anticipates the problem too, and we fall back ever so slightly. I brace myself; it’s so high! I push my back legs into the ground and kick as hard as I can off the ground.
I’m over!
“Ban the Bomb and Lil’ Bandit in the lead!” screams the voice. I don’t hear my name. I am lost amongst the other horses.
The Water Jump is fast approaching. Will whacks my rear end again with urgency; he knows we need to pick up speed. The hedge is in disarray from my competitors’ enthusiastic leaps but I clear it, although my legs feel the splash of icy water on the other side.
I am ready for what comes now. We turn the corner at full speed, Will rapping the reigns against my neck. We manage to make room for ourselves on the next stretch–I see Jacky Boy and Clay Feat slowing down and I overtake them. They’re not as fast as they used to be. This may be their last race, I think.
But there’s no time. Becher’s Brook is ahead again. But what’s this? A black curtain looms up from the other side, and a flag man is waving frantically at us to go around. I’m uncertain, but Will knows what to do and turns us down a bypass lane. As I speed past, a corner of the black curtain flap opens in the wind and I see a hoof attached to a thin brown leg. It’s not moving.
Will whacks my rear again, harder. I oblige and vault over fences twenty-three and twenty-four, narrowly avoiding collision with The Package on the sharp turn.
My legs are starting to ache, my heart is on fire. My muscles are screaming. Will shouts in my ear, but it’s lost in the din from the crowd and the other riders and the deafening sound of the other horse’s hooves. The Package stumbles on the approach to fence twenty-five and veers into Lady in Red, sending them both plummeting to the ground, but I miraculously miss the pile up and land safely.
“…and it’s Lil Bandit and Paddy Kierans in the lead, followed closely by Ban the Bomb…”
I hurtle over the next two fences. Ban the Bomb loses his footing and throws his rider off his back. Will loses all abandon and unleashes the crop on my rear. My vision is blurring, but I force myself forward, closer and closer to Lil Bandit and Paddy Kierans. You’re gaining on them! But Lil Bandit’s rider hits him with the crop and he surges forward, soaring over fence twenty-eight. I’m neck and neck with Paddy Kierans on the grassy straight and we jump in unison, but I land straighter, giving me a sudden advantage. Paddy is left behind.
The finish line is just two fences away…one fence…it’s just ahead! My eyes are watering, my legs are throbbing and my backside stings where Will has slapped it repeatedly. The crowd is thick and heavy, screaming, cheering. I fly past yellow bibbed officials; Lil’ Bandit is so close I can almost smell him. I pound the ground. My nose is level with his rear. His rider whips him furiously. We’re neck and neck. I think of John, my trainer. I think of Will. I lower my head and charge.
American Civil War Atrocity: The Andersonville Prison Camp
Of the 45,000 Union soldiers who’d been held at Andersonville Confederate prison during the American Civil War, 13,000 died. During the worst months, 100 men died each day from malnutrition, exposure to the elements, and communicable disease.
Restoring unity in America after the Civil War was never going to be easy. Too many Americans felt they could never forgive wrongs committed by the enemy during the conflict. Southerners could point to the destruction wrought by General Sherman’s army on its destructive march through Georgia and South Carolina. And Northerners could point to Andersonville.
This Confederate prisoner-of-war camp, which opened 150 years ago this week, was built in southeast Georgia to hold the Union prisoners who could no longer fit into Virginia’s prison camps.
Its stockade, in which prisoners were detained, measured 1,600 feet by 780 feet, and was designed to hold a maximum of 10,000 prisoners.
The prisoners arrived before the barracks were built and so lived with virtually no protection from the blistering Georgia sun or the long winter rains. Food rations were a small portion of raw corn or meat, which was often eaten uncooked because there was almost no wood for fires. The only water supply was a stream that first trickled through a Confederate army camp, then pooled to form a swamp inside the stockade. It provided the only source of water for drinking, bathing, cooking, and sewage. Under such unsanitary conditions, it wasn’t surprising when soldiers began dying in staggering numbers. The situation worsened as the camp became overcrowded. Within a few months, the population grew beyond the specified maximum of 10,000 to 32,000 prisoners.
After 15 months of operation, the camp was liberated in May of 1865. Of the 45,000 soldiers who’d been held at Andersonville, 13,000 died. During the worst months, over 100 men died each day.
News of the conditions at Andersonville came slowly to the North. The name wasn’t even mentioned in the Post until the following March, when the notices on page 7 announced the death of Robert Price “at Andersonville, Ga.…of chronic diarrhea.” A member of the 118th Pennsylvania Volunteers, he “was taken prisoner by the rebels, May l5th, 1864” and managed to survive just three months in the camp.
As news of the death camp reached the newspapers, Northerners were newly enraged at the South and its army. Hearing of the miserable conditions and high death rate in the camp, Walt Whitman wrote, “There are deeds, crimes that may be forgiven, but this is not among them.”
Andersonville’s reputation was widely known when its name next appeared in the Post. In 1865, the Post’s front page featured a poem by Miss Phila H. Case, “In the Prison at Andersonville.” In this sentimental ballad, a narrator and his brother Ned are captured and shipped to Andersonville, where the brother soon sickens.
“He faded day by day—a prayer
Upon his lips for one sweet breath—
What wonder when the reeking air
Was chill and dank with dews of death.
But why delay my tale—he died
And careless hands bore him away,
For what was one when, side by side,
Hundreds were dying every day?”
In July, 1865, the Post reported “the former Rebel commandant [Jeff Davis] of the Andersonville prison is to be put on trial at Washington this week before a court-martial.” It adds no further comment, but an item just a few lines lower on the page reflects the bitterness many in the North were feeling. “Jeff Davis is reported, by the latest advices from Fortress Monroe, in the best of health and spirits.”
Many Northerners had expected the Federal government would hang the president of the Confederacy once he was caught after the war. But Davis, though indicted for treason, was never brought to trial. At the time the Post item above appeared, he was, in fact, living in leg irons and gravely ill. At the end of two years, the federal government released Davis on a bail of $100,000. The money was donated by Southern supporters as well as former Northern adversaries.
Andersonville’s commandant, Major Henry Wirz, didn’t fare quite as well. He was brought before a military tribunal in August of 1865 and charged with actions intended “to injure the health and destroy the lives of soldiers in the military service of the United States.” The court also charged him with murder “in violation of the laws and customs of war.”
There was no doubt Wirz allowed thousands of Union prisoners to die from exposure and malnutrition. Hundreds of ex-prisoners testified to his brutal punishments. But his defenders, both then and now, have offered several arguments in Wirz’s defense.
The federal government was partly to blame, they said, because it had halted its prisoner-exchange program.
By 1864, the Union army no longer believed it would win the war by a decisive strategic victory on the battlefield. It would have to win by attrition; that is, by wearing down the number of Confederate soldiers by death or capture until the Southern army could no longer fight. This strategy could work because the North had a greater population, and could replace the soldiers it lost, which the South couldn’t.
But the attrition strategy only worked if the Union refused to let its Southern prisoners return home and back into the Confederate army. In return, it meant Union prisoners would have to wait out the war, gathering in growing numbers in Southern prisons that barely had enough resources. However, the policy put a strain on Union camps as much as on those in the South.
Defenders of Wirz also point out the standards of hospitality were low in all prisoner-of-war camps. At the Union army’s camp at Rock Island, IL, for example, 1,300 Confederate soldiers died from an outbreak of smallpox. However, the Rock Island garrison eventually built barracks and a hospital to halt the smallpox epidemic. There were no similar improvements at Andersonville, where the death rate was four times higher than at Rock Island.
Others argued that the Confederacy couldn’t provide for its prisoners because it could barely provide for itself. The South was plagued by shortages because of the Union navy’s blockade of its coast, and the exorbitant costs of supporting its military, which left few resources for feeding or sheltering its prisoners.
These costs, however, were the unavoidable consequence of starting and continuing the war. Union soldiers had given themselves into the Confederacy’s care with the expectation of reasonable safety. Yet the soldiers who marched into Andersonville had less chance of emerging alive than the soldiers who marched onto the battlefield of Gettysburg.
The questions of guilt were troublesome. Obviously it took more than just Henry Wirz to make Andersonville possible. But once a court starts appointing guilt in wartime, it’s hard to tell where it ends.
In this case, it ended with the hanging of Major Wirz in November of 1865. The federal government was so reluctant to appoint blame that he became one of only three Confederates executed for their atrocities during the war.
Fiddling With Time
In 2006, the governor of Indiana, Mitch Daniels, switched our state to daylight saving time, which caused everyone to faint dead away. More than a few Hoosiers predicted the end of the world, which hasn’t happened yet, but we are patient, so we are willing to wait.
Spring forward, fall back. We’ll move our clocks an hour forward on March 9 at 2a.m., though I will probably hurry things along and move our clocks forward just before I go to bed. This is no small undertaking. We have 13 house clocks, four car clocks, four wristwatches, a stove clock, a microwave clock, a garage clock, and a clock on my motorcycle. Since I only change my car clocks twice a year, I have to look up how to do it each time. Daniels is no longer governor, so he presumably has to change his own clocks now that he doesn’t have a butler to do it for him. I find it deeply satisfying when politicians have to live under the same burdens they place on us. I bet two days a year, Daniels rues the day he fiddled with our time.
Despite my twice-yearly struggle, I’ve become a fan of daylight saving time. In the fall I get an hour’s extra sleep the day we change clocks, and then there is a stretch of summer days when the sun doesn’t set until well after 9p.m. The parents of small children hate daylight saving time because it’s impossible to get a kid to bed when it’s still light outside, and then they’re up at midnight when the sun rises. The owners of drive-in theaters don’t like it either. By the time it’s dark enough to show the movies, most people are in bed. It’s rumored Arizona rejected daylight saving time because its senate majority leader in 1967 owned a chain of drive-in theaters, though I’m sure that had nothing to do with his decision.
Since I’m a fan of daylight saving time, I was surprised when it repaid my appreciation by giving me cancer. Basal cell carcinoma, to be precise, which is caused by too much sun. It doesn’t take a genius to see the connection. For 45 years, I breezed along, healthy as a horse, never sick a day in my life, but then we went on daylight saving time and the next thing you know I had to have a chunk of my right ear lopped off. At this rate, I won’t have any body parts left by the time I’m 60.
No matter the sleight-of-hand we perform with clocks, we’ve been unable to achieve the one thing most of us want, which is more time. When you think how long the 24-hour day has gone without a promotion, it doesn’t seem unreasonable to bump it up to 26 hours. In fact, it’s way overdue. That would give us one extra month a year. I would like my extra month in the summer, please, right between June and July.
Keeping alive the tradition of naming months after gods, emperors, and obscure foreign words, I would name the extra month Philip, which in Greek means “lover of horses.” Horses have done a lot for us, and it’s time we named a month after them. It just occurred to me that is my name, but I assure you that had nothing to do with my choice.
New York City adopted daylight saving time in 1918, 88 years before Indiana. Why is it things always start on the coasts and take forever to reach the Midwest? Electrical power began in New York in 1892. Not even our storms had electricity then. It was the same thing with hot dogs. People in New York City were enjoying them in the 1870s, but I didn’t even get to taste one until the 1960s.
They now make household clocks that are linked to the cesium fountain clock at the National Institute of Standards and Technology facility in Boulder, Colorado. The clocks automatically adjust to daylight saving time. The cesium fountain clock measures time by the vibration of a cesium atom and is accurate to one second every 100 million years. We don’t even have atoms in Indiana, but when we finally get them, I’m going to buy a clock I won’t have to adjust twice a year.
Ice Cream is a Dish Best Served Cold
Hello? Oh, hi, Julie! You’ve landed already?
. . .
Oh, the kids are fine, just fine. We all had a lot of fun this week. How was the cruise?
. . .
It was? That’s wonderful! I’m so glad, honey. You and Roger deserved it, with how hard you both work. We can’t wait to see you and hear all about it. And you got lots of rest, I hope?
. . .
Good. The kids are so excited. Sarah made you a welcome home card and Adam picked some daffodils from Dad’s flowerbed for you this morning. He said they’re your favorites.
. . .
Yes, they are really sweet. Little angels, really. Just like you were at their age.
. . .
Speaking of that, darling, do you remember when you were in 4th grade, and you insisted I was the meanest mom ever? Forcing you to do homework, eat your vegetables, use your manners, get to bed at a reasonable hour?
. . .
I know, I know, but it’s probably a good time to tell you that now, after all these years, your Dad and I have come around to your way of thinking.
. . .
Really? No, I think you were right. So while you were gone, we let the kids eat ice cream and candy for breakfast, watch lots of TV, and stay up extra late. Last night they looked up all kinds of funny YouTube videos.
. . .
Inappropriate? I don’t think so–at least most of them. South Park is just a cartoon, right?
. . .
It’s not? Well, it looked like one. Speaking of appearances, just so you’re aware, Sarah decided to trim her own hair. It’s very punk, a fun look for first grade.
. . .
Now, don’t fuss, dear, it’s just hair, it will grow out. And because Adam was feeling a bit left out, Dad taught him how to belch his A-B-Cs and to make that funny farting sound with his armpits. They also came up with eleven different words for ‘snot.’
. . .
Of course we made it clear that type of talk isn’t appropriate at school. At least, not in the classroom. Oh, and the kids have another surprise for you.
. . .
Tell you? I can’t…all right, but make sure you act surprised when you get here. You remember that puppy you begged for when you were eight? Well, there was the most adorable black lab at the pet store this week and I just couldn’t help myself. The kids have named him Booger and they can’t wait to take him home. He’s not housebroken yet, but I’m sure that won’t be a problem.
. . .
What’s that? It is? Oh, dear. Here I thought you’d be happy your old Mom finally agreed with you. Booger’s quite well-behaved for a puppy, though he did chew up one of Sarah’s tap shoes.
. . .
Yes, the leather ones–
. . .
You had to order those online? Oh, that’s a shame. Hopefully they still have her size in stock. Her performance is next week, right?
. . .
No, we can’t possibly keep him. Dad’s allergic, but he’s happy to take some Benadryl when we come visit you.
. . .
Darling, you’re breaking up or the lines are crossed or something, there’s a lot of noise. I’ll hang up now, but can’t wait to see you. Drive safe, the traffic from the airport can be a real pain. Love you, sweetheart!
Silas
The first time he was caught, it was by his mother. Anne heard the sounds of bare footfall on the kitchen tiles late that evening and dressed herself in the hallway outside her bedroom, careful not to wake her husband. In the kitchen she found the screen door cracked open, a pair of jeans clumped in the yawn of the door. Stuffed down inside the jeans was a pair of her son’s underpants. Outside, on the first two steps, lay a pair of dirty socks, and on the last a wadded T-shirt.
She turned off the light in the kitchen and then went into the living room. She looked out behind the house into the dim grove, and there was nothing. The deep rows of pecans fell away and converged farther than her eyes could follow. At the front of the house she put her face to the window, cupping her hands against the cold glass, and for a moment saw nothing. And then, out by the road, outlined in the scant moonlight, was her son, standing there without a stitch of clothing on.
Anne watched as if spellbound, feeling a strange warmth move across her skin as the boy ran between the trees, reaching out his hand to touch the trunks, circling one after another. She watched him until his motion, from tree to tree, took him out of her sight; it looked like some unworldly ritual, and it stirred her heart. She felt the urge to remove her own clothing and join him, to hold him against herself for a long time. Who are you? she thought. Can you tell me who you are?
THAT NIGHT SHE folded her son’s clothing neatly and left it for him on the top step of the kitchen stairs, as if to say, This won’t sit well with your father.
A week later she woke in the middle of the night to find her husband standing by the bedroom window. His chest and arms blanched in the weak light that fell between the stiles.
“James?” she asked.
“Thought I heard something,” he said.
She had hoped that the boy would go through this phase, this behavior, undetected. Or maybe she hoped her warning–an offering of folded clothes–would put an end to this before her husband found out.
“You were dreaming,” she said, patting the sheets beside her.
“I wasn’t,” he said. “Now hush.”
A long moment passed, and Anne filled it with the image she knew would soon appear, of Silas running barefoot in the season before the shake, when there was no husk of crop on the ground. James tilted his head to one side and moved his face even closer to the window. “What in God’s name?” he said. He went to the foot chest and stepped into his pants and pulled on his shirt and was out the door before it was buttoned.
The boy was retrieved back into the house and examined in the kitchen before being given a chance to put his clothing back on. James wanted to quote a scripture to his son–a custom in their house before punishment of any kind–something about nudity or nighttime or both, but he could think of nothing that applied. Instead he looked hard at Silas and said, “Do you see any deer, cattle, or hogs living in this house with us?”
“No, sir,” Silas said, following the logic with care.
“Do you want to go out to live with them?”
“No, sir,” he said again.
“You’ll keep your clothes on in and out of this house unless you’re bathing. You understand?”
Silas’ eyes crept up the arch of a long switch resting loosely in his father’s right hand. There were slips of ripe green along its shaft where his father had shaved off the new branches. For a reason he could not name, maybe nervousness or because he had no explanation, Silas began to smile. He felt the smile creep into the muscles of his face, a tightness, as if his face had been plunged into cold water, and he knew he couldn’t keep the smile from arriving and that it was a horrible thing and that fact only made the smile determine itself. He was stark naked, standing in the dim kitchen, and now, to his horror, he was grinning at his father.
“This won’t be funny,” his father said. He put his large hand on the narrow shoulder and turned Silas against the refrigerator and brought the switch down on the fair thighs and legs, invoking dark purple welts on the skin.
SILAS WAS MORE careful the next time. He performed his rite farther from the house, deeper in the avenues of the grove. He was caught a second time but only because James had gotten into the habit of wakening up in the middle of the night and walking down the hall to the boy’s room. That night, after finding his son’s bed empty, James went out into the grove like a fury, calling the boy’s name. It seemed for a while that Silas would remain in the cold, waiting out his father.
James continued to call–assuring the boy that he would wait for him all night and all morning, for as long as Silas liked–and after several more minutes Silas appeared, again completely nude, summoned from the trees like a ghost. It was late November, and the breath from the two bodies, one clothed and one bare, one breathing heavily from exertion and the other from pain, poured out in thick clouds that hung around them and slowly dissipated. The switch went to work again on the boy’s legs and back. This time it moved faster than before, fast enough to open the skin where it was most tender, behind the knees, across the lower back. It was the last time Silas went running in the grove undressed, and they never mentioned it again as a family.
James understood that night that his son was something he would never completely comprehend. There were, of course, some things in the boy that reminded James of himself, his willfulness especially. But there was another side, he realized, a hemisphere waxed always away from him, an unlit landscape he couldn’t map or reckon with.
Exclusive Interview with the Cast of AMC’s Mad Men
Mad Men has fanatic fans that talk and tweet about every episode, and, even if you don’t watch, it’s hard to escape the cultural impact of the acclaimed AMC series. It has created a flashback of fascination with the way things were in the ’60s—from fashion and design to the storm-tossed lives of hard-drinking men, without a hint of political correctness, and their glamorous women, all surrounded by clouds of cigarette smoke.
The show has brought to life the pre-feminist ’60s in the most raucously id-propelled environment—the win-at-all-costs world of advertising. While male bad behavior hasn’t diminished as the seasons have rolled by, the women in the cast have started coming into power and wreaking havoc of their own.
Don Draper is at the heart of this intoxicating mix of drama and comedy exploring the human condition as it feeds on success and descends into self-destructive failure. Portrayed by the impossibly handsome Jon Hamm, Draper is the linchpin of every episode. He forges ahead driven by the mantra “You’re born alone, and you die alone, and this world just drops a bunch of rules on top of you to make you forget those facts.” Hamm admits that six seasons of exploring a fascinating, often enigmatic and frequently unpredictable character has left its mark on him as well as every member of the cast. Whatever angst they portray on screen, they insist they are really sort of like members of a winning football team crossed with a loving family.
To find out more, The Saturday Evening Post invited key members of the cast along with series creator, Matt Weiner, and our West Coast editor, Jeanne Wolf, to an intimate get together of the Mad Men team.
JEANNE WOLF: I just learned that Executive Producer Matt Weiner recently held a cast party at which he showed your original audition tapes. Tell me how you’ve changed.
Jon Hamm: All of us have gone through seven years of life and when you add on top of that the experience of being on a show that has become as popular as this one has, it just amplifies everything. You can’t be seven years on the planet and not change.
John Slattery: You watch yourself on the audition tape and flashback, “Oh my God, I started out and my kid was six years old, and he’s in high school now.” You change, especially physically. I feel like I’m 100 years older than when we started. [Laughs.]
January Jones: Mad Men has been this stable background for everything else that has happened personally, and I’ve felt like I have a family around me to support me. Maybe the one negative thing in my life is that I’ve become more guarded as a person. But I’m not guarded on the set. I feel protected enough and safe enough to give everything I can every day.
Christina Hendricks: When I saw my audition played back, I could tell that I was that girl who hadn’t booked an acting job in a year. Having a job is a huge thing. You get to wake up and not be terrified.
Vincent Kartheiser: On the day I auditioned, I thought I nailed it [laughs] because Matt asked me if I would be willing to change my hair.
Slattery: You mean “fix that haircut.” It looked like a hat.
Kartheiser: You guys are evil! Seriously, I was thinking, Isn’t there some good actor they could get to try out? I was very nervous because I loved the script. That makes it so much harder to audition.
Wolf: Let’s go back even further. How did the way you grew up affect who you are today?
To read the rest of Jeanne Wolf’s interview with the cast, pick up the March/April 2014 issue of The Saturday Evening Post on newsstands, or
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Be a Hero, Save a Life: Michael Guglielmo at TEDxUMassAmherst
“I didn’t have a regular job,” says Michael Guglielmo, “My job was beating, extorting, and robbing drug dealers, gang members, criminals, bookmakers. That’s what I did. I was a bad guy.”
Bad indeed. When he was 23, he was arrested and convicted of eight counts of attempted murder of a police officer. But bad guys can change. Today, Guglielmo—whose story is told by Chris Benguhe in our March/April 2014 issue—is one of the top recruiters for bone marrow donations in the U.S. and works with the nonprofit Delete Blood Cancer DKMS (deletebloodcancer.org), the largest bone marrow donor organization in the world.
How did he go from bad guy to model citizen? “The most amazing thing happened in my life: I had Giovanni, a beautiful baby boy,” Guglielmo says. “He changed my life.”
Click here to learn how to become a registered bone marrow donor at Delete Blood Cancer DKMS.
To read Michael’s story, “Breaking Good,” pick up the March/April 2014 issue of The Saturday Evening Post on newsstands, or purchase the digital edition for your iPad, Nook, or Android tablet:
Dying Naturally, Without Extreme Measures and Prolonged Suffering
My mother died shortly before her 85th birthday, in a quiet hospital room in Connecticut. One of my brothers was down the hall, calling me in California to say, too late, that it was time to jump on a plane. We were not a perfect family. She did not die a perfect death. But she died a “good-enough” death, thanks to choices she made earlier that seemed brutal at the time.
She slept in her own bed until the night before she died. She was lucid and conscious to the end. She avoided what most fear and many ultimately suffer: dying mute, unconscious, and “plugged into machines” in intensive care; or feeling the electric jolt of a cardiac defibrillator during a futile cardiopulmonary resuscitation; or dying demented in a nursing home. She died well because she was willing to die too soon rather than too late.
Don’t get me wrong: My mother, Valerie de la Harpe Butler, loved life. She was descended from Swiss-French and Dutch Calvinist pioneers who “trekked” with their ox wagons into the dusty interior of South Africa in the mid-1800s. She and my father, Jeffrey Butler, left their African homeland in their early 20s, bursting with immigrant vigor, raised three children (all of whom ultimately moved to California), and built a prosperous life in the U.S. My father became a college professor. My mother, an amateur artist, photographed Wesleyan University faculty for their book jackets, practiced Japanese calligraphy, and served tea at four without fail.
When she got breast cancer in her 40s, she did not hesitate to undergo medical treatment at its most brutal and effective. After two mastectomies and radiation, she put up her blonde-streaked hair in its classic French twist and returned to the world as the beautiful woman she’d always been. Even as she approached 80, she hiked 2 miles a day, sewed elegant blouses on her Swiss sewing machine, weeded her garden, and even stained her own deck.
She also spent six years as a family caregiver, after a crippling stroke destroyed my father’s independence when he was 79 and she was 77. A hastily inserted pacemaker forced his heart to outlive his brain, and she watched him slide year by year into dementia and misery. His medically prolonged dying made her painfully aware of healthcare’s default tendency to promote maximum longevity and maximum treatment. It wasn’t what she wanted for herself…
To read the rest of the excerpt from Katy Butler’s book Knocking on Heaven’s Door, pick up the March/April 2014 issue of The Saturday Evening Post on newsstands, or
Purchase the digital edition for your iPad, Nook, or Android tablet:
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Famous Midlife Career Changers
Changing careers in your 30s, 40s, 50s, or even 60s can seem daunting or downright foolish to some. But for a Nobel Prize winner, a legendary female comic, and more, risky—and often multiple—midlife job swaps led to their success.
Toni Morrison
The Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Beloved and the first black woman to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature, Morrison started her professional career as an English professor in Texas, and then taught in Washington, D.C. In her 30s, she moved to New York to become an editor at Random House (first working on textbooks and then moving on to a senior editor position). She published her first novel, The Bluest Eye, at age 40.
John Grisham
Though he’s spent most of his adult life writing best-selling legal thrillers such as Sycamore Row and The Pelican Brief, Grisham spent the first part of his life as a lawyer and political figure. He published his first book, A Time To Kill, at 33, but the 5,000 copies printed received little-to-no recognition. His big break came four years later when he sold the film rights to his second novel The Firm to Paramount Pictures, before it was even published.
Rodney Dangerfield
Salesman Jacob Cohen had been moonlighting as a standup comic since his early 20s. He finally “got some respect” after his debut performance—under stage name Rodney Dangerfield (left)—on The Ed Sullivan Show at age 46. After long-awaited success, he began acting in his 50s and opened Dangerfield’s Comedy Club, whose stage welcomed little-known comics such as Jerry Seinfeld, Roseanne Barr, and Jim Carrey (right).
Kathryn Joosten
The two-time Emmy Award-winning actress decided to take acting classes at the Steppenwolf Theatre in Chicago in her 40s while she was working full-time as a psychiatric nurse. Joosten moved all the way to Buena Vista, Florida, for her first acting gig as a Walt Disney World performer.
Harland Sanders
Before he convinced the world that 11 is the prime number for a “finger lickin’ good” spice blend, the honorary Kentucky colonel was the ultimate career changer. Army mule-tender, railroad worker, and gas station operator were just a few jobs he held before buying a restaurant in his 40s. There he perfected his Kentucky Fried Chicken, but Sanders really got cooking at age 65 when he was put out of business and turned his recipe into a franchise.
Martha Stewart
Although the homemaking mogul has experienced some legal trouble, Martha Stewart’s career-changing power is inspiring: The former model turned stockbroker in her 20s, and then homemaker to caterer in her 30s. After her catering company was established, she wrote her first book (on entertaining) and began selling her first line of home-goods in her 40s. Nearing and into her 50s, the famous merchandiser became a TV show host, an editor-in-chief, and the billionaire CEO of Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia Inc.
George Foreman
The boxer-turned-minister made a heavyweight comeback winning the world championship at 45—after a 10-year hiatus. Following his win, Foreman was asked to endorse several products including the Lean Mean Grilling Machine (which he helped develop) and Meineke Car Care Centers. Since his midlife victory, Foreman has become an entrepreneur launching a line of cleaning products, shoes for diabetics, a restaurant franchise, and more, and he continues to preach at the church he founded in 1980.
Al Franken
After the former Saturday Night Live producer, writer, and cast member left the sketch comedy show, Al Franken went on to write three books of political satire that hit No. 1 on the New York Times Best Seller list. And he moved to radio, hosting a progressive talk show on Air America. In 2007, Franken (in his late 50s) chose to leave talk radio to pursue (and later win) a U.S. Senate seat. Franken is up for re-election this year.
Ronald Reagan
Another actor turned to politics, Ronald Reagan, is the oldest of our mid-life career changers, having been inaugurated at the age of 69. However, the 40th president of the United States took his first step from Hollywood limelight into the political spotlight in his early 50s when he became governor of California.
Ken Jeong
For comedic actor (and doctor) Ken Jeong, laughter won out over medicine. Jeong was a practicing physician performing medical checkups by day and standup routines by night in the early half of his life. He became a full-time actor in his late 30s when, oddly enough, he landed a role playing a doctor in the Judd Apatow film Knocked Up.
Phyllis Diller
Legendary comedian, actor, and author Phyllis Diller quit her day job at age 37 to pursue standup before she had even performed her first comedy routine on stage. Two years after she handed in her notice, Diller appeared on The Tonight Show and became America’s first female comedienne on tour.
The Midlife Career Change
Today, the very notion of a career that goes in a straight line for 30 years and ends with a gold watch and a polite retirement party is so rare as to be almost a joke. The average person born between 1957 and 1964 held 11 jobs from age 18 to age 44, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics.
Let’s say that again. Eleven. Some change jobs for money, some seek greater satisfaction, still others realize that their present career is headed toward a dead end. “Because of the rapidly changing economy, even those with good jobs are forced to look around these days,” says Amy Conlon, Ph.D., L.P., co-director of the University of Minnesota’s department of psychology Career Counseling and Assessment Clinic.
Whatever the reasons, at any given time, as many as 55 percent of people are attempting to change careers, according to a recent Monster.com survey.
Which puts you in good company if you’re thinking about making a change. But how does it work? What does it take? Will you make more money after the change? Be more satisfied? Every case is different, but our profile of five Americans who made the swap will help you get a feel for moving on to your own career 2.0.
THE LIFESTYLE UPGRADE
Art Burns wasn’t happy with his career at a Madison Avenue advertising agency, even with a salary in the stratosphere and top-shelf clients…
SEEKING A FRESH START
Elizabeth DiFebo felt stuck. She’d gone as far as she felt she could in her career as a graphic designer…There were further rungs on the ladder, but she realized she wasn’t inspired to climb any higher.
BOUNCING BACK
53-year-old Joseph Brodell worked in a sales support job for a construction company. He survived two rounds of the company’s layoffs–but not the third.
READING THE TEA LEAVES
Rob Sherwood, a 44-year-old NASA engineer, knew he needed to explore other avenues. During his 17-year career, he’d been on the team that supported seven flight missions, including the Mars Observer.
STARTING OVER (AGAIN)
At a mere 26 years old, Juliana Lutzi started Fire Solutions Inc., a company that teaches finance and insurance regulation. From its inception in 1999, the company grew to be a multi-million dollar business. She sold it in 2004, ran it for another two years, and then found herself looking for something else to do.
5-Minute Fitness Video: The Cobra Pose
Watch the video and follow along as fitness instructor Molly Tittle from Invoke Studio in Indianapolis, Indiana, shows you how to get the most out of the Cobra Pose (instructions follow).
In this demonstration, you will need a yoga mat. There are several variations to the Cobra Pose, and this variation targets the same muscles–the back, neck, and shoulders–but offers a stronger emphasis on the upper body.
1. Kneel on mat with toes hanging off one edge.
2. While facing the mat, lean toward the ground, supporting your weight with your arms.
3. Keep hips touching the ground and push up with arms.
4. Lift neck and keep shoulders locked.
5. Return to the ground slowly, exhaling as you go.
6. End in child’s pose.
Mary Ann Esposito’s Fava Bean and Parmigiano-Reggiano Cheese Cylinders
Fava beans, both fresh and dried, are a Mediterranean staple and have been for centuries. And even though they are associated with humble cooking, they take on gourmet significance when wrapped in easy-to-make Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese cylinders that make a great presentation.
Fava Bean and Parmigiano Reggiano Cheese Cylinders
Timballini di Fave e Parmigiano Reggiano
(Makes 6 servings)
Ingredients
- 2 ½ cups grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, plus shavings for garnish
- 4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
- 2 tablespoons white balsamic vinegar
- 1 clove garlic, minced
- 1 large shallot, minced
- 2 tablespoons minced tarragon
- Salt and pepper to taste
- 2 pounds fava beans, shelled
- 2 ribs celery, thinly sliced
Directions
- Heat nonstick medium size sauté pan.
- Spread ½ cup of cheese in pan to form rectangular strip that is 2 inches wide and 6 inches long. Allow cheese strip to melt, then carefully remove from pan and wrap strip around glass and allow it to cool. Make five more and set aside.
- Whisk olive oil and vinegar together. Add garlic, shallot, and tarragon and whisk again. Season with salt and pepper (to taste) and set aside. (Can be made ahead of time and refrigerated overnight. Bring to room temperature to use.)
- Bring pot of water to boil and add 1 teaspoon of salt. Add fava beans and cook them until you can easily slip off outer skin. Drain and transfer to bowl. When cool enough to handle, slip off outer pale green skin to reveal a bright green bean beneath.
- Add fava beans and celery to olive oil mixture and toss well. Allow to marinate for 30 minutes.
- When ready to serve, place one of each of the six cylinders of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese on each of 6 individual salad plates.
- Carefully divide and fill center of each cylinder with some of fava bean mixture. Top each one with few shavings of cheese.
- Any leftover fava bean mixture can be scattered around each plate. Serve at room temperature.
Mary Ann Esposito’s Chunky Roasted Vegetable Soup
Mom made her version of a “kitchen sink soup” with vegetables she cleaned out of the refrigerator that had gone limp. And while her soups were always delicious, I introduced her to a new way of getting more flavor by roasting the veggies first. The natural sugars will caramelize as they cook and provide a greater depth of flavor. It’s a nice feeling when you can teach your mom something new.
Chunky Roasted Vegetable Soup
Zuppa di Verdure Arrostite
(Makes 8 servings)
Ingredients
- 4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
- 4 cloves garlic, minced
- 1 large leek, white part only, well washed and thinly sliced
- 1 ½ teaspoons coarse salt
- ¼ teaspoon coarse ground black pepper
- ½ teaspoons celery seed
- 2 teaspoons dried oregano
- 3 small red skin potatoes cut into chunks
- 3 large peeled carrots or parsnips cut into chunks
- 2 cups broccoli florets
- 4 ribs celery, cut into chunks
- 1 large red onion, peeled and cut into chunks
- 4 cups tomato juice
- ½ cup white wine
- 1 small bunch flat leaf parsley
- 2 sprigs fresh thyme
- Juice of 1 lemon
- Crusty bread
Directions
- Preheat oven to 400°F.
- Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in large soup pot (4 quart); add garlic and leeks and cook over medium high heat until leeks are very soft. Turn off heat.
- Combine salt, pepper, celery seed, and oregano in large bowl. Add potatoes, carrots, broccoli, celery, and onion and toss veggies well in mixture. Add remaining 2 tablespoons of oil to veggies and coat well.
- Transfer veggies to baking sheet in single layer. Roast veggies for about 30 minutes, turning them once or twice.
- Add roasted vegetables to soup pot with tomato juice and wine. Tie parsley and thyme together with kitchen string and add to pot.
- Bring mixture to boil, then lower heat to simmer and cook for 25 minutes. Remove and discard parsley and thyme.
- Stir in lemon juice. Correct seasoning, adding more salt if desired. Serve piping hot with crusty bread and salad.
Boat Show
“A penny for your thoughts,” Linda Gibson said to her husband, Don. She had looked up from the evening paper to see him, sitting in his lounge chair with his feet up, gazing off into space. He swiveled the chair to look at her.
“A penny?” he asked. “Are you kidding? Allowing for inflation from the first time that expression was used, my thoughts are worth, at the very least, ten dollars.”
Linda snorted. “Ten dollars? How do I know they’d be worth ten dollars?”
“You don’t,” he said. “It would be like commissioning an artist to paint your portrait. You trust you’ll like it when he’s done, but even if you don’t you still have to pay him.”
Linda went back to the paper, saying, “No deal. One, you’re not an artist, and two, I know you–you’ll tell me anyway.”
Don sighed. “Have I become that predictable? Okay, since you’re pressuring me I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking. I’m thinking it’s time to buy a new boat.”
Linda raised her eyebrows and put the paper down, giving him her full attention. “A new boat? Why? What’s wrong with the boat we have?”
“The boys are growing up. They’re not content to just fish and putz around the river any more. They want to learn how to water ski and our motor’s not powerful enough.”
“Why not just get a bigger motor?”
“Because a bigger motor would shake our old boat to pieces. No, we need a whole new outfit.”
“I’m suspicious. Does the fact that there’s a boat show at the mall this weekend have anything to do with your thinking?”
Don shook his head in denial. “Pure coincidence. I’ve been toying with the notion since last summer. What do you think?”
Linda shrugged. “It’s certainly a good way to spend time with the boys. I leave it entirely up to you. You’re the one who’ll have to work to pay for it.”
“Maybe I’ll go to the mall this weekend and see what they have to offer. Do you want to go with me?”
“No, I wouldn’t be any help, I wouldn’t know one boat from another. Don’t take the boys, though, they’ll want the biggest and most expensive one they see.”
Don laughed. “How do you know I won’t?”
“Because, as I already said, you’re the one who’ll have to work to pay for it, and I happen to be familiar with your finances.”
On Saturday, Don waited for Mark and Matt to leave the house with Linda to visit her parents, and then got in his car and drove to the mall, finding himself excited at the prospect of looking over the shiny new wood and fiberglass boats and the sleek and powerful motors that would be on display. He could almost smell and taste the spray in his face, and hear the boys’ excited shouts as he heeled the new boat over in sharp turns. He began to whistle, “Cruising Down the River.”
The mall parking lot was so crowded that Don had to drive around a while before he found a space, just beating someone else to it but not closely enough to provoke a one-finger salute. He parked his car and went in. The boats were scattered in clusters throughout the east end of the mall, grouped by dealers. There were many people milling about, most of them, not surprisingly, Don noted, men.
Since he wanted to see all of the offerings before zeroing in, he spent over two hours looking, touching, and reading the price and information placards. Finally, he found himself returning for the third time to an outboard that he felt would fill his wants. It was open enough for fishing, but streamlined enough for speed. The boys, he was certain, would love it. More importantly, the price was less than he had expected it to be.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
Don turned to his right where a man sat at a table loaded with brochures, printed forms, a credit card reader, and a phone.
Careful now, don’t appear too eager, Don cautioned himself. “Yeah,” he agreed. “It’s nice. I’m not sure it’s what I’m looking for, though.”
“Why don’t you sit down over here and let’s discuss it,” the salesman said with a broad smile, indicating an empty chair.
Don lowered himself into the chair slowly, to appear reluctant. He pointed to the boat. “What’s the show discount price?” he asked.
“I knew it!” the salesman said, slapping his hand on the table. “You have the look of a man who knows how to drive a bargain.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a friendly, confidential tone. “That is the discount price. We’re only making a hundred bucks a boat, but we‘re counting on volume to keep us in business.”
Don got up and walked around the boat again, keeping a frown on his face, then relaxed it, making his decision. “Okay,” he said, returning to the table, “I’ll take it.”
“You won’t be sorry,” the salesman said. He held out his hand. “Bill Jameson,” he said. “And you’re…?”
“Don Gibson.”
Bill Jameson opened a drawer in the desk and took out a contract. After Don had answered all his questions, produced the proper identification and bank information it appeared to be completed, but before Bill pushed it over for Don to sign he looked up and said, “I forgot to ask you…do you have a motor?”
Don was startled. “Doesn’t the one on it go with it?”
“Wish I could say it did, but no, the motor is separate–$3,200.”
“$3,200?” Don repeated, almost choking.
“That’s cheap,” Bill said. “We’re way lower than our competitors. Evidently you haven’t been keeping up with prices lately. Tell you what, I can put it right in with the boat and your payments will be only be about $60 a month more.”
Don did some swift calculating. He was disappointed, but could still handle it. “Okay,” he said, “add in the motor.”
“Fine,” the salesman replied, changing the figures. “By the way, do you live on the river?”
“No,” Don replied. “Why?”
“I just thought you might want a trailer.” He pointed to the boat. “The one it’s sitting on is $1,100.”
“Can’t do it,” Don said. “I assumed that one came with it. I have a trailer, but it’s too small for this boat.”
“Tell you what,” the salesman said, “I’ll allow you $100 for your trailer, sight unseen. And since we used this one to bring the boat here, I’ll put it down as ‘used,’ and let you have it for $875, bringing the total cost down to $775. Don’t tell my district manager I did that, though.”
“Oh,” Don said fervently, “I wouldn’t dream of ratting on a pal.”
Still smiling, Bill looked up from his calculations. “Are you planning on using the boat in the Niagara River?”
Don cleared his throat with an effort. “Why, yes,” he said. “It’s kind of handy.”
He found himself starting to wish he’d stayed home and cleaned out the garage or mowed the lawn.
“Well,” the salesman said heartily, “In that case you’ll want a fire extinguisher, anchor, life preservers, oars, a distress flag, and running lights so you can go out at night. Coast Guard regulations, you know.”
“I already have all that,” Don said. “Everything except the running lights, but I thought they were built into the boat.”
“Actually, no, they’re removable,” Bill said. He looked around, as if to make sure his district manager wasn’t watching. “Tell you what…I’ll throw them in.”
“Gee, thanks,” Don said.
“No problem,” Bill said heartily. “You’ve been a good customer. If everyone was as easy to work with as you, I’d enjoy my job even more than I already do. By the way, do you live in Buffalo?”
“No,” said Don. “Why, does that cancel the deal?” he asked, almost hopefully.
“No, no,” the salesman assured him. “I will have to charge you $50 for delivery, though.” He made a notation and pushed the contract at Don, offering his pen.
“How much will it cost me for the use of your pen?” Don inquired.
Bill laughed. “My, you have quite a sense of humor. Tell you what, you can keep the pen.”
“Oh, goody,” Don said. He took the pen and caressed it lovingly. “A Silver Streak. Beautiful. Wait till I show it to the guys at the hospital. They’re already going to be jealous because I got out to come here.” He leaned close to Bill, his voice confidential. “I followed a group of visitors onto the elevator, down to the lobby and out the front door.”
“Hospital?” Bill repeated, eyes wide and worried.
“Yes,” Don replied. He looked around, as if to make sure a supervising nurse wasn’t watching. “You know, they won’t let us have pens. They’re afraid we might stab ourselves.” He tested the point of the Silver Streak against his thumb.
Bill Jameson pushed his chair back and stood up, stuffing the contract into his pocket as he rose. “I just remembered, I have to make an important phone call.” He began edging away. “I’ll be right back.”
As Bill disappeared into the crowd Don called out, “There’s a phone here on your desk!” but Bill kept going. “Guess this one isn’t working,” Don mused. He looked at his watch. It was near to the mall’s closing time, and he’d lost interest in looking any further. He went home.
Linda was in the den. “How did you make out?” she asked.
“I found one I liked, but the salesman didn’t seem too interested in selling it to me,” Don said.
“That’s too bad.”
Don shrugged. “Oh, well, maybe next year.” He started to leave the room, but then turned back. “It wasn’t a complete waste of time, though.” He reached into his shirt pocket, took out the Silver Streak, and held it up to show her. “I got a nice pen out of it.”
Hospice Girl Friday | Planning for ‘After’
Devra Lee Fishman’s dear friend and college roommate, Leslie, died from breast cancer one month shy of her 46th birthday after a four-year battle with the disease. Being with Leslie and her family at the end of her life inspired Devra to help care for others who are terminally ill. Each week, she documents her experiences volunteering at her local hospice in her blog, Hospice Girl Friday.
Most of the conversations I have with hospice patients or their family members are focused on the past and instigated by me. I like to learn about the patients, and I want family members to remember who their loved ones were before the shadow of disease began to darken their lives. Recently I had a surprising conversation about the future with the husband of a patient who was admitted at the end of my Friday morning shift. The patient was Bernice Scott. Seventy-one years old. Heart disease.
Mrs. Scott’s husband Robert came in with her, toting her favorite red-striped crocheted afghan and her medical records. I greeted him at the front desk.
“My wife is in pain and needs medicine right away,” he said as he watched the stretcher carrying his wife disappear into room one.
“The nurses are with your wife right now. They’re going to do an assessment and talk to the doctor about medication right away,” I said, trying to sound assuring.
His brow did not unfurl. “Where is the doctor?” he asked, looking around.
I walked around the desk to guide Mr. Scott to the sofa. “The doctor is with another patient right now. May I get you a cup of coffee?” He shook his head no as he lowered himself onto the sofa. I tried to warm him up with small talk, but he was too far away to respond with anything other than single syllables. I could tell he did not want me there.
Most patients come to the hospice in crisis. And while hospice is meant to make dying patients comfortable at the end of their lives, one of my roles is to help make their family members and loved ones comfortable as well. Unfortunately, at that moment there did not seem to be anything I could do to ease Mr. Scott’s emotional pain, so I sat down next to him for just a moment and said, “Your wife is in good hands. I’ll let you know when the nurses are finished, and if I can help you with anything in the meanwhile, please ask.”
Once the nurses finished in room one I gave the Scotts some time to get used to their new surroundings before knocking on the door. When I walked into the room Mrs. Scott was lying flat with her eyes closed. She must have heard me come in because her eyes popped open and she asked for peanut butter and marmalade. She must have been feeling better if she was asking for food.
When I came in the following week, I asked the nurse for an update on Mrs. Scott and was told that she was sleeping a lot and had stopped eating the previous day, which is usually a sign of impending death. When I walked into her room, Mrs. Scott seemed to be comfortable, taking long, deep breaths as she slept. Mr. Scott was sitting in a chair next to the bed with a book on his lap, which he closed when I walked in. This time he was ready to talk.
“Coming here was the best thing we could have done,” he said. “My wife is much better, out of pain. Now it is just a matter of nature taking its course.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “How are you doing?”
“Also better, but I am going to miss her.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Forty-two years. All of them good. Great, in fact,” he said, smiling. “I retired in 2005 so we could travel and go to museums. But five years ago my wife got sick and encouraged me to consider working again in some way, so I went back to school for a teaching degree. Now I teach college classes Monday through Thursday, which will keep me busy. I will go to a museum or a lecture on Friday. Weekends will probably be difficult at first, and I am not looking forward to the quiet that will greet me when I come home and turn the key in the door. Also I have a friend who is a widower and likes to travel, so I said I would go wherever he’d like. And I’ve been seeing a psychologist, which has been very helpful.”
Instead of talking about the past, it was important for Mr. Scott to explain to me–and possibly reassure himself–that he was prepared, that he would be okay after his wife passed. In the hospice we never know when death will come, we only know that it will. That moment often defines ‘before’ and ‘after’ for the people who are left behind.
I have talked to many family members who have told me they can’t imagine a different life or will not be able to go on without their loved one. I try to help them conjure positive memories that might help temper their dreaded grief. Mrs. Scott’s husband knew that she would pass away first, leaving him to forge a new routine and fill the silences her absence would bring. I admire the way he looked to the future and systematically put together a plan for ‘after,’ which also seemed to help him cope with his beloved wife’s last days and moment of death.
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Hospice Girl Friday | ‘Staying True to Yourself In the Face of Illness’
Devra Lee Fishman’s dear friend and college roommate, Leslie, died from breast cancer one month shy of her 46th birthday after a four-year battle with the disease. Being with Leslie and her family at the end of her life inspired Devra to help care for others who are terminally ill. Each week, she documents her experiences volunteering at her local hospice in her blog, Hospice Girl Friday.
The first time I brought Hazel, my brother’s Guide Dog Foundation puppy, into the hospice with me we visited several patients at the nurse’s request. One patient in particular responded so positively that I brought Hazel in again a few weeks later. This time I was looking forward to introducing Hazel to Lizzie Goode-Hart, a 30-year-old patient with pulmonary fibrosis–someone with whom I was becoming friendly and who I thought might enjoy Hazel’s company.
Most patients only stay in the in-patient unit for a few days before they go home or pass away, but Lizzie was becoming one of our rare long-term patients. I had several conversations with Lizzie and always left my shifts feeling uplifted and impressed by her positive attitude and ability to live her waning life so fully. Normally I try to maintain a compassionate distance when interacting with hospice patients in order to avoid getting close to someone I would only know for a short while. With Lizzie, I was drawn into her positive energy right away and knew that I could learn a great deal from her about living and dying gracefully. Early on I made the decision that I would rather risk the grief that would come from losing her than deny myself the gift of getting to know her.
The fourth week of Lizzie’s stay I knocked on her door and walked in with Hazel. “I brought someone to meet you,” I said. “This is Hazel. My brother is raising her to be a service dog.”
Lizzie was sitting up in bed with her computer and two cellphones on her lap, just as she was when I left her the previous week, but her room looked completely different. The bed was covered in a turquoise and coral comforter and Lizzie was leaning back on large matching throw pillows. A geometric print rug covered the floor and on the shelf above the bed were several framed photographs, a dried flower arrangement, and a 12-inch tall wooden statue of smiling Buddha. A floral scarf covered the shade of the single floor lamp which now bathed the room with a cozy, warm glow. I felt like I was in her bedroom at home.
Hazel walked over to the bedside so Lizzie could give her a big hug. “What kind of service dog will Hazel be?” Lizzie asked, looking at Hazel. I quickly ran through my mental checklist: Lizzie’s voice was strong; her eyes were bright and clear; her breathing quiet. All green lights for me to stay and visit with her.
“Probably a seeing-eye dog, but she might be a companion to a veteran. Depends on how her training goes.”
“My cousin is raising a service dog,” Lizzie said, “a German Shepherd. When I first got sick and wasn’t breathing well on my own, my cousin brought the dog over to stay with me. Do you know, that dog slept on my bed and whenever my breathing slowed to a dangerous pace, the dog woke me up so I would start breathing again?” Lizzie was petting Hazel as she talked. “It’s so great that your brother is raising Hazel. I’m sure she’s going to help someone who needs a companion like her, just as my cousin’s dog helped me.”
We continued to talk for several minutes about a wide range of topics–Lizzie asked question after question–before she glanced at her watch and said, “I’m so excited. My hairdresser is coming in a few minutes to color and style my hair. I don’t know how long I’ll be around, but as long as I am I want to look good, you know?”
I nodded, but I was thinking, ‘Why bother?’ Then I decided to continue the conversation that Lizzie started since she talked so openly about the fact that she was dying.
“I have often wondered, when would I stop caring about how I look? If I were terminally ill, would I keep getting my hair cut every three months? Would I say ‘yes’ to dessert more often? When would I stop flossing my teeth?”
Lizzie laughed at first and then said, “I decided I am not going to let this disease kill my soul. It is killing my body, but no ma’am, not my soul. So I am going to do everything I can to still be me while I go through this.”
“Well, you go girl! You’re an inspiration to me and to all people living with a lousy disease,” I said.
This exchange was unlike others I have had with hospice patients in the past. I encourage most people, including the patient Hazel helped previously, to talk about themselves so they can remember who they were before they became hospice patients. Lizzie had a unique way of making a conversation much bigger than herself, as though she wanted to broaden her world as much as she could.
Lizzie was about to say something when we heard a tap on the door. A woman about Lizzie’s age walked in carrying a small tool box and a blow-dryer.
“You must be the hair stylist we’ve been waiting for,” I said, tugging on Hazel’s leash and leaning over to give Lizzie a hug goodbye. “See you next week,” I said.
As I drove home I wondered if Lizzie seemed different to other patients I’ve met because I decided to approach our relationship more openly, or if it was because she actually is unlike any of the others. Either way, I am still glad that I have let my guard down to make this personal connection, which I hope is enriching Lizzie’s life as much as it is mine.
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