As a Landmark Birthday Approaches, A Blast From the Past

 

Reprinted from July 18, 2013

40 Years of Running on the Hamster Wheel

Greetings to all of those 1973 High School graduates out there. Ours is a class that graduated at the dawn of the Information Highway and many of us helped pave the first miles of the road. Some of us took other roadways and now look at the proliferation of electronic mayhem in confusion and distrust. However, the classes behind us have increasingly embraced this new world and fly around in cyberspace like the Jetsons in their space car. For me, grabbing onto the tail of this dragon has allowed me to put a roof over my head and food in my stomach for many years, despite the best efforts of the American economy to starve and de-shelter me.

In the 40 years of my adult life so far, the amount and cost of consumer goods and living expenses has accelerated at an exponential rate.  And I know that I cannot be the only one who feels she has been on a giant hamster wheel all this time, running at top speed and getting nowhere.

It is true that we have an “embarrassment of riches” in this country. I own a house and a car (well, as long as I keep making the monthly payments). My house is an electronic playground that includes several computers and a large television. My smart phone is my constant companion, and I am entertained by an assortment of music players, eBook readers and digital cameras. In many ways, I am living in the bright, shiny future portrayed at the 1963 World’s Fair. Yet, not too far from my front door chronically jobless people are hanging out on a corner, there are transient homeless people in the woods that border my town, and the abuse of drugs and alcohol continues to destroy lives right in my neighborhood. To complain that, at 58 years old, I am still living paycheck to paycheck does pale in comparison, and I cannot even comprehend the more horrendous conditions in other parts of the world.  But aren’t there big, important people who deal with that? Great minds focused on improving life for all? More often, it seems that those in powerful positions are fighting with each other like, Godzilla and Mothra, and we are the tiny people on the streets of Tokyo, trying our best to not get stepped on.

My children are grown, and having children of their own. They are embarking on their own years of adulthood.  I wonder, after 40 years, will they look back, wondering where the time and money went and worrying about the next 40 years. Will they have broken out of the hamster wheel existence or just traded it in to become drones in a giant hive of worker bees?

Yes, it sounds like doom and gloom, and we can give in to that.  We can, and will, bemoan the fact that life is difficult, plans don’t always work, bad things happen on a daily basis and the money is never enough.  It is therefore, incongruous to see people smiling, to hear them laughing, to watch them dancing and generally acting happy. Or is it?

Look at it this way. That hamster wheel is the only one you are going to get. You can paint it black and let it squeak until the noise drives you insane. Or, you can decorate it with shining moments of your life, open it up to family and friends, and laugh in the face of its unproductive movement. You can run on and on, waiting for happiness to fall down on you from the sky, or you can actively seek and create happiness. You may have to start off by fooling your brain by acting happy before you actually feel it. You may have to smile even though you don’t feel like it. You may even have to find some other people to help you wrench that happiness back up from the hole it has fallen in, but do it.  The future generation of worker bees is depending on you to show them the way.

Using Humor At Your Peril

What is humor anyway? just something silly to make us laugh, or can it be biting satire the reveals that the Emperor has no clothes? Here is a previous article I wrote, published by 360º Nation.

 

 https://www.bizcatalyst360.com/using-humor-at-your-peril/

Finally, a Mystery May be Solved

 

 William Johnston Braman 1931-1955

 

 Tomorrow, documents will be sent to the Brooklyn Veteran's Administration Office, to finally start an investigation about my father's death. I am hopeful that records will be found, and we will know if he died for his country.

 

 

 

 

 

Memorial Day - 2024

As Memorial Day approaches, I realize that it is 69 years since the day in May when my father died. A USMC Corporal, who served his country in several places, including Camp Lejeune, who died mysteriously at age 23. He left behind my grief struck grandmother, my devastated newlywed mother, a brother, a sister, and me, a 3-week-old baby. The pain and trauma was so deep that I grew up learning very little about my father, and what little came my way was mostly inaccurate. I was told he died from inhaling airplane exhaust. I was told he died from tonsillitis. I was told he died from a cat scratch.

I found a drawer full of memories when my mother, then my stepfather, passed away in 1988. The drawer had photo albums, receipts from a young couple’s married life, wedding cards, and many, many, cards expressing sadness and grief over William Johnston Braman’s untimely death. His death certificate, typed on paper so thin you can see through it, revealed his cause of death – Uremia. The dictionary definition is “a raised level in the blood of urea and other nitrogenous waste compounds that are normally eliminated by the kidneys.” The origin of the word means “urine in the blood.” The National Institute of Health states that uremia “develops most commonly in chronic and end-stage renal disease.” Those words would become important to me.

But Uremia was not a final diagnosis. Below, as a contributing factor was written “pending chemical.” No matter how much I searched, I found no report of what those chemical tests revealed. I closed the box, confused, but I was a busy young mother, with 3 active children who would all have to deal with our own trauma in the years to come.

But when I began to see solicitations by lawyers, looking for persons harmed by contaminated water at Camp Lejeune. I submitted a request to the Veteran’s Administration. Yes, he had been at Camp Lejeune in the 50s. His death occurred at the Brooklyn VA hospital. His death certificate was incomplete. Something felt wrong.

I asked the City of New York for another copy of his death certificate and checked the box to included cause of death paperwork. What I got back was a clearer version of what I already had. No chemical testing reports.

The TV lawyers were not interested in helping me figure this out. Did my father die from contaminated water? Renal failure is listed as something caused by this contaminated water. Did he actually die from serving his country? How in the world could anyone ever compensate me and his last remaining sibling for his loss?

I called and called the Brooklyn VA Hospital. Calls were misdirected, voice mails never returned. As a government hospital, it could be possible that records from the 50s were still in some rusty file cabinets. But no one even called to say those records had been destroyed. Nothing.

I approached my Congressional Representative, sending copies of everything I had, service records, death certificate. No answer, no answer, no answer. Finally, in late 2023, I was told that a request had been made to the Brooklyn VA Hospital, and to allow 30 days for a reply. No answer came. Not from the Hospital, not from the Congressional Office.

Meanwhile, there is a timeline ticking down to make the government aware of those who were harmed by this contamination. Currently, staff at one of my state senator’s offices has stated they will try to get info from the VA, to find out if the records still exist. And if they don’t, what does that leave?

Should I go on without ever knowing, or should I start believing that the words on his death certificate are proof enough that his death had a “chemical” cause?

I was born in April 1955. My father died in May 1955. Thanks to his 14-year-old sister, who snatched me out of the baby carriage while my mother argued with nurses who refused to let a baby into the hospital, my father was able to hold me. He wept uncontrollably and died soon after. My eyes fill with tears as I write this, just as they filled with tears when my father’s last remaining sibling, his sister, told me this story, just a few months ago.

And now I am desperate to fill in the blanks. To pass on the story of a man who died young, but whose genes live on in me, my three children, and my seven grandchildren. A man who may have given his life for his country.