Open your wallets, America-Health care reform

As published in The Commuter, Oct. 1, 2009

The American people have long been known to be some of the most generous in the world. Every year we give billions to charity, to the homeless, and to foreign countries in need after floods, earthquakes and other disasters. In fact, Americans are so generous that, according to the Giving USA Foundation, Americans gave $300 billion last year alone, enough to count as 2.2 percent of our Gross Domestic Product. In fact, drowning in medical costs of my own, I gave $5 to a man on the street in Portland whose sign simply read, “need money for space ship repairs.” I knew he didn’t have a car, let alone a space ship, but I said the money was for making me smile. And considering his hat full of spare change and dollar bills, I wasn’t the only one.

In a country so generous, I am having a hard time understanding what the fuss is over health care reform. Americans give, and give, and give. According to the U.S. Census Bureau records, we gave $700 billion to bailout the banks, more than $500 million to Israel, millions more to other foreign allies, billions bailing out the failing auto industry, and finally, last year alone we spent $1.2 trillion dollars fighting the war in Iraq. That’s enough money to make my head spin. So why are we handing over our tax dollars to be spent on war, bailouts and so-called foreign allies, and not our own friends and neighbors?

The cost of Obama’s health care reform does not include numbers we’ve never seen before, or spent on less important things. In fact, unlike our other expenses, Obama’s plan seeks to finance itself, relying very little on tax payer funding. According to the White House, the money comes from where it already exists in our system, among the top 3 percent of wage earners, existing profits from Medicare and Medicaid (two public plans already proven to be essential and beneficial to the American people), and from the decreased cost of all those previously uninsured people finally receiving early care instead of becoming so ill they must visit an overcrowded emergency room just for some antibiotics or blood pressure medication.

So where is all the hostility coming from? Who are these people that have suddenly emerged, so afraid that someone might come in the night and give health care to Americans in need? Where were these people when we gave billions to the banks, or spent trillions on war and countries they will most likely never visit? No, these outrageous expenses don’t seem to bother these people one bit. As one self-professed Republican friend put it, he “didn’t want to spend his money on people who weren’t his problem.” In other words, he doesn’t give a s**t about you, your sick grandma, or anyone else outside his selfish little circle. And that is who the opponents of health care reform are: the selfish minority who don’t want to spend money they will never have on people like you and me, and themselves, if they would stop waiving their “Obama=Hitler” signs long enough to think about it.

Obviously some complain about the top 3 percent having to shoulder the burden for the rest of us, but I don’t think they would miss that one new Louis Vuitton purse amongst all their others just because they had to give a little extra. And I hate to break it to you fellow students, but work as hard as you can, and you will still most likely never come near to being in the top 3 percent. No, you will be down with the rest of us who need this plan. So please, don’t worry about spending money you will never have. Instead, give what you have, and be thankful we have a country so great we (mostly) want to take care of all our people.

Americans, you are generous, good people. Every day we prove that we care about others, and that we know what is right. Don’t let the selfish minority waving their signs and spouting their nightmarish lies tell you that health care for all is not right, and not what this country needs. Americans should keep being the generous, giving people we are, and take this opportunity to keep a little of that good-will and generous spirit here in our own back yards.

Miyazaki makes waves with "Ponyo"

Despite the status of my bank account this week, I decided to go see the new film by Hayao Miyazaki. The master of Japanese film hit gold (again) with Ponyo (on the Cliff by the Sea).

A little "Finding Nemo" and a sprinkle of "The Little Mermaid", Ponyo is a delightful tale of a fish-girl who lives in the ocean. Naturally she isn't any goldfish, but the daughter of the ruler of the ocean, and a princess. Ponyo is discovered by a little boy who takes her home in green bucket, feeds her ham, and soon finds out she is more than a fish when she begins to speak.

Ponyo wants nothing more than to become human and finds she can control enough of her father's magic to sprout arms and legs and leave the sea behind. However, the balance of nature is upset by this and Ponyo must be returned to the ocean before the destruction of the planet.
Fans of Miyazaki will not be disappointed by this film, and parents will enjoy it as much as their children. Unlike Princess Mononoke, this movie is more kid-friendly than a Disney film. Never lacking in originality, Miyazaki's world is as colorful, bizarre, and hyperactive as ever. Each scene looks as though it has been filled in with color-pencil, a refreshing change from CG children's films.

The smile never left my face during this film, all the way through the end credits, which features the movie's theme song, with some of the cutest lyrics I've ever heard, "Ponyo, Ponyo, Ponyo on the sea. She's a girl with a little round tummy!"
Delightfully cute and entertaining, Ponyo is a summer must-see.

To manicure, or not to manicure?

Today I have an interview at a local newspaper for one of their reporter positions, and I am thrilled. When the editor called me yesterday, I excitedly flew into a mock panic as I stared at myself in the mirror, noting my desperate need of a new dye-job and my short, stubby, picked-at nails.

I resolved to wake up early the next morning and find myself a cheap nail station to buy myself a sexy new set of nails to round out the physical being that would present themselves for hire at 3:30 this afternoon.
As I trudged out the door at 8:30 a.m., I found myself drowsily thinking, "Why the hell do I have to do this again?"

No, not the job interview, the nails. I find the whole business of walking in a place and sitting before someone I don't know for two hours while they file, brush, and paint my fingernails into a beauty they could never possess on their own accord very awkward. I also resent the fact I have to spend money to make myself presentable for a job, when I am drowning in debt, and could never dream of justifying an expense like nails otherwise.

However, it is Cosmo 101 to get your hair and nails done before an interview, or as a matter of course in your career. As I was told in school years before, "It makes you look clean, professional."

It would also empty out my abysmal bank account.

Plus, a male friend of mine is interviewing for the same job. Do you think he is going through all the stress of looking pretty? No, I doubt it. His professionalism isn't based on the length and polish on his nails, or his newly dyed hair.
And so, I decided to take a stand against this latent form of misogyny and NOT get my nails done. I will file and paint their little stubs myself, and perhaps get some nice nails if I get this job and can afford it. But beforehand, it's just not logical, or fair.

Plus, without the fake nails I can garden, play sports, play PC games, and a bunch of other things that get harder as your nails get longer. Let's be real, if I had fake nails, in a week they would look like the ones below. Missing nails and the gunk left behind when they break off is definitely not professional.


So off I go on the great social experiment of our generation: Can Lydia get a job with fugly nails?

A year in fundamentalist hell

As featured in The Commuter Oct. 27, 2008.

"What is this place? A school, a jail, some weird cult place? I would soon find out that it is all those places, and more..." recounts Michele Ulriksen in her book, "Reform at Victory", an account of her year spent as "girl #56" in an all-girl fundamentalist Baptist lockdown school in Ramona, Calif.

Ulriksen's harrowing story brings to light the mentally and physically abusive treatment used in many fundamentalist reform schools, operating under the guise of Christian values and a rehabilitative environment. It is this type of treatment that Ulriksen hopes to inform others about.

After spending 10 years writing her account with the support of former reform school students, friends, and family, Ulriksen says she hopes her story will make an impact. A single mother of a thirteen-year-old daughter, LBCC student, and owner of West Hills Communication, located in Corvallis, Ulriksen has come a long way since her days in reform school. Now she has the opportunity to share her story and inform parents before they make a misinformed choice.

According to Ulriksen, 38, "Parents are often so desperate to get help for their teen, that they just go ahead and believe what they are told and they don't think critically and question, and look logically about how an experience like this will affect their teenager. They don't think about it that way."

Ulriksen believes it is important to understand that "everyone who says they are a Christian do not behave that way."

Her parents, like many others, trusted the administrators of Victory Christian Academy, and signed over custody of their daughter for one year to the school, unknowningly trapping her in what would become a year in fundamentalist Baptist "hell."

The author describes the day of her arrival at Victory as a deception planned by her family, who tricked her into believing they were visiting the zoo together. Upon her arrival she was dragged away from her parents by unknown people, stripped of her possessions, and forced into solitary confinement for hours. In her account, Ulriksen writes about her arrival, "Whatever this sick place is, I'm going in against my will. I don't know who or what is in there. I turn to look at my family. They won't make eye contact with me. With black mascara colored tears streaming down my cheeks, the faces around me are now only a blur."

So begins the year Ulriksen spent in reform "school." Forced to take unknown medications, given no privacy, and berated daily by the staff, Ulriksen and other girls attending had to endure Biblical indoctrination and constant attacks on their self-worth meant to brain-wash them and break them into submission. Escape was impossible from the facility. A former FBI bunker, surrounded by a 12-foot electric fence a mile off the main road, Victory Christian Academy was completely isolated from the outside world. Ulriksen writes, "By the time we got to talk to our parents we were already brainwashed...into thinking that we would be left there longer if we told our parents."

According to the author, many girls who leave such facilities and report abuse are labeled "troubled teenagers" and "liars," and are often not believed because of their previous history.
"Authorities and social services won't go out there unless they received numerous reports. You have to go out of there with bruises, or evidence of sexual abuse, for them to do anything."

After the death of a young student the year following Ulriksen's departure, Victory Christian Academy was investigated and forced to close by California authorities. The facility was found to have numerous safety violations and deemed an "extreme fire hazard" by a San Diego fire marshal.
However, the program reopened in Jay, Florida under the same name, and is now operating under a different name with new owners.

Although Ulriksen's experience at Victory Christian Academy left her with emotional damage, low self-esteem, anxiety and depression, and caused her to attempt to take her own life twice, she recognizes that all private reform schools are not isolated and fundamentalist.

Ulriksen encourages parents to research the schools they are considering, check with the Better Business Bureau, and look for any complaints or lawsuits that were filed. She encourages parents to look beyond their religion and avoid any programs that do not let them speak to their children or, "that instills such a strong message of fundamentalist values, anti-choice, anti-female, old testament, hard core. These can be very damaging, and hurt a girl's self-esteem when she was already going through problems."
Instead, Ulriksen says to find a school that "teaches the love of Jesus and not the wrath of the Old Testament."

Shelby Earnshaw, Director of the International Survivor's Action Committee, says about the book, "Child abuse masquerading as religion is a very real and serious problem. Reform at Victory sheds light on an issue that is largely ignored by our society."

Although in the beginning writing Reform at Victory brought up bad memories, she says that she now "feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I have closure."

To the girl with "crack" in my geology class

Hello,
You sit in the row in front of mine, one seat to the left. The squeaky stools are uncomfortable to us all, and one most practically plan ahead to dress appropriately for the fashion faux-pas they threaten. But you, my geologist friend, have neglected to notice the full view the back-less seats offer.
The waist on your jeans are way, way too low. Each week your pants don't just creep lower and lower, they free-fall as soon as your butt makes contact with the seat.
And there I am, along with the rest of the class behind you, trying not to notice what even a plumber would find shameful.

At first I considered telling you, out of consideration for your feminine modesty, but as my shyness delayed any attempt, I decided you surely must know what you are doing. How could you not feel the cool air conditioning on your skin? Sixteen square inches is a lot of space to neglect feeling a breeze, and you show at least that.
A friend suggested your display was purposeful, that you might find the "coin slot" desirable. If that is true, take it from me, it is not. And the two guys behind you who snicker everyday. Be glad they haven't produced their camera phones.
You seem like a really nice girl, and we even have some things in common.
Like spinach in your teeth, or a booger in your nose, sometimes you just don't know when you're embarrassing yourself. So take this passive hint, and pull your pants up.

"The Shack" Where boredom meets eternity...

I recently received a gift card to Barnes and Noble and immediately endeavored to spend my $20 on the most worthwhile reading material I could afford. I browsed through hundreds of books, considered buying a couple from my favorite authors, Cormac McCarthy and Paulo Coelho, and then began to browse the New York Times best-sellers.
At the top of the list was The Shack: Where Tragedy Confronts Eternity

I was intrigued by the title, and even more so by the book's location, right here in Oregon. Deciding to try something new, and because the price was right, I purchased the book. By the time it arrived I was so excited to have something new to read, especially something that spent weeks at the top of the New York Times best-selling list. Within five pages of reading, I began to wonder what was so special about this story.
For one, the writing was incredibly amateur. I could hear my writing teacher's voice in my head, correcting the bad grammar and long, boring dialogue.
Second, the theological concepts presented in this book were neither difficult to understand or new to Christian thought. Sure, they are not widely accepted by modern Christianity, but neither are they new and profound. This books asks the same old questions, "Why is there evil in the world?" "Why do bad things happen to good people?" "How can I be closer to God?"

Not only was the dialogue poor and the writing amateurish, but the story itself never completes itself. The end of the book drops off like a poorly written soap opera that is out of ideas. There is so much talk of "the little lady-killer," that by the time he is exposed in the story no details are given. This book is all theology and only wannabe crime drama, with little to offer the reader who wants to know the whole story.

"The Shack" is an OK book for anyone interested in serious literature. It is a GREAT book for the serious Christian, who I imagine are the ones that shot this thing straight to No. 1 on the list.

What really gets me about this story are the amount of Christian authors who are making a fortune just writing about it. For instance, a search on Amazon.com of the book's title brings up "Finding God in The Shack," and "The Shack: Unauthorized Theological Critique." What's most amusing is that these books, which attempt to explain the already simple, are selling for more than the actual book.

Go ahead and read it if you are still interested, I think I'll be passing this one off to the very first person who wants to take it off my hands.

"If I read that headline one more time..."

A few weeks ago I had the rare opportunity to visit my older sister in Portland, who was visiting with her new beau, Mark. As we walked down SW Park, sun shining down on us and the noise of cars and passers-by in our ears, she asked my why I was not writing anymore.
I actually had not considered it deeply before, and it only then occurred to me that it had been a few months since I had posted anything.

"Oh, I've been writing," I told her self-consciously, "it's just all on paper at home and I don't feel like sitting in front of my computer to type it up. There's no feng shui in that corner of the house..."

My sister told me she checked my page all the time, and was tired of reading the same headline again and again.
"Besides," she told me, "I like your writing. It's clever and funny."

"Hurrah! Yes! Awesome!" Every word of pleasure and satisfaction came streaming into my head.

I vowed then and there to keep writing. I know it's been a few weeks since that point, but I did some thinking and decided where I want to head with everything I put to paper. I want to be clever and funny, I want to say what's on my mind, and I want to be a little more "out-there" than some might recommend for a budding reporter.

So thanks for reading after all this time, even if it's just you after all this time off, dear older sister.

Wait, your name is Lydia, too!?

On the first day of class this term, my geology teacher called my name and I answered as nonchalantly as usual. I was never expecting to be interrupted by a second hand going up in the air, that of the girl next to me. As I slammed my hand down in confusion over this interruption, my teacher informed me,
"Lydia, there is another Lydia in this class."
"No way!" I thought to myself, "I never meet other Lydias!"
On the few occasions when I have met someone with the same name, they have always shared the same excitement as me, I expected the same from this girl, who even looks a bit like me (freckles, light skin, thin).
"Wow! This is weird!" I exclaimed to her, "How do you spell it?"
She gave me a weird look, rolled her eyes and said, "L-Y-D-I-A. How ELSE would you spell it?"
I proceeded to tell her that I have had my name spelled all kinds of weird ways, including "Lideah," "Lydea," and the more common version, "Lidia."
This version of my name just smirked at her friend and didn't seem interested.
My sisters always joke that people with the same name often share characteristics. All three of us know never to date a guy named Josh, he's going to be full of himself. And Steve, well he's going to be a manipulative a**hole. It's just the law of the universe.
Meeting this bitchy, eye-rolling version of "Lydia" was a little much for me. I wonder if she's a reflection of me in some way, and all the previous Lydia's I have met were a reflection of a much happier, better me.
Bull-shit. I was totally nice to her, some girls are just bitches.

P.S. Maybe I will give the next Josh I meet a chance, too.

Dr. Google?

I love Google. If I can’t spell a word, I Google it. If I need to settle a late-night argument about the biological difference between dwarves and midgets, I Google it. Video game walk-throughs? Google. News? Google. The options are endless for the every-day Internets user. But what about doctors caring for patients? Is using Google appropriate then? I hardly think so.
Recently I took my seriously ill husband in to the Benton County Health Department, located in Corvallis, where he was being seen for Grave’s Disease and hyperthyroidism. After three months of treatment I expected the doctor who had seen us each at each visit to have some knowledge of my husband’s disease and treatment options. I expected the doctor to be familiar with my husband’s symptoms and even (gosh!) the medication he had been prescribed at this very clinic. I was wrong. Instead this doctor stared blankly at my husband, turned to his computer, and before our very eyes, he Googled my husband’s disease.


After three serious minutes of clicking on random links and staring for perhaps thirty seconds at a page from WebMD.com, our doctor was a verified specialist in Graves. Or so he thought. He told us my husband’s symptoms weren’t an issue (his skin was yellow and he was bleeding from his ears…) and to get some counseling to deal with stress. He then went on to say he couldn’t find any substantive information and dealing with this disease was “above his pay grade.” Or maybe he just realized his own incompetence and that Google, as useful as it is, was not going to help him be a good doctor.
When my husband was diagnosed I too used Google to find information on his disease. I spent countless hours late at night reading any information I could find. Medical reports and journals, WebMD, entire books published by endocrinologists about Grave’s Disease. The amount of information found on Google was overwhelming, and would take even the fastest reader more than three minutes of searching to come up with consistent and accurate information. Anyone with a writing class on campus knows you can’t believe everything you read on the Internets, it is what our teachers tell us on day one. So why was this doctor I was paying $300 a visit using Google, and seemingly nothing else, to find information?
As patients we need to demand more of our doctors. We need to demand the best care possible, and that includes having informed doctors who are prepared to disseminate, organize, and find the facts in the information we, the patients, find on Google. Everyday people can use Google to find information, but doctors need to be held to higher standards. These people make decisions that can affect our health, and our lives, and must be prepared when we seek their help and advice. Google doesn’t cut it.
Next time you make a visit to your doctor’s office, take a look at what he or she is doing on their computer. Be prepared to question the source of their information, and the extent of their knowledge. I checked with an endocrinologist in Portland, and it turned out everything the doctor at the Corvallis Health Department had told us was wrong, and down-right dangerous. So don’t leave your health and the health of your loved ones in the hands of Google, I am glad I didn’t.

P.S. Cartoon courtesy of Clagnuts Cartoon Blog
If you created this and don't want it used, please let me know.

I've lost it

Yup, it's gone. The "it," that which gave me a flair for writing, is gone. I'm not sure where it went, but it disappeared somewhere after my first disastrous Geology midterm and a bout of insomnia.
It's not like I don't have ideas. I have so very, very many. I even wrote one short entry entitled, "To the girl with "crack" in my Geology class," but it just didn't seem to have the humor I was looking for. I just didn't "feel" it.
I had personal dilenmas I could discuss, politics, family, my life has actually been very interesting the last couple of months. Definetly not fun or exciting (unless you like disaster and retribution stories).
I have, in my defense, written stories and produced photos for The Commuter. Here is my article about the college's decision to close the photography lab
And I even offered up my opinion on illegal immigration, which actually made me think hard about it for the first time.
So, I am not entirely brain-dead, I've just lost my spark and I am fishing around in the dark trying to find it.
As my fingertips hit each key, I can feel them inching closer to finding "it".

The Commuter Does San Diego

Last weekend I traveled with the rest of the Commuter staff to San Diego, California, to attend a college journalism conference. Despite my anxiousness at leaving my family and other responsibilities behind, it turned out to be a trip I will never forget, and for all the right reasons.

I always wanted to drive through the Siskiyou Mountains and see Mt. Shasta. The brilliant red soil, green ferns, and towering trees that lined I-5 were much different than the clay-packed flat landscape that surrounds the Willamette Valley. We stopped for a break in the amusingly and ambiguously named Weed, California (a logging town named for it’s founder, Abner Weed). The view of Mt. Shasta covered in snow and surrounded by brilliant blue sky was unforgettable.

Sixteen and a half hours after leaving Albany, we arrived in San Diego at 3:30 a.m. Too exhausted for sleep, the occupants of our van crawled out into the 70-degree air to look at the landscape of palm trees and skyscrapers silhouetted by the city lights and nighttime sky.

The next morning it was difficult for those of us who made it to the keynote speech to stay awake. After lunch my friend and co-worker MaryAnne played guitar by the pool. The weather was better than I remembered it could ever be in my birthplace, warming my skin as I closed my eyes and listened to MaryAnne’s beautiful voice carry across the breeze.


After attending a series of classes about the future of journalism and the importance of developing new ways of communicating in our Internet-charged society, I learned a few important things:
There is little to no money in journalism, i.e. get a side job.

There is no set future for journalism, and few ways to pay for it.
The Commuter has the least-paid staff with the best newspaper in the country. Hands down.

I have more confidence than ever in our newspaper. We were original, the others were cookie-cutter. We had magazine-style covers, the others were generic black and white. We also generated all of our own content, and never rely on other news outlets for material. For our under-funded newspaper and barely compensated staff, we have a lot to be proud of. This trip proved that to all of us.

After four days of learning about our future careers, unpaid or not, it was time to come home. Some of us were ready for our own beds, or missing our families. I was ready to stay forever. Having grown up in southern California, I realized how much I missed the palm trees and sun. I missed the fancy cars and well-manicured landscape. I missed the authentic Mexican food. I missed everything about California. Ok, not the traffic, it’s true. I also wish my fellow Californians would learn how to use their blinkers when driving, because I never saw one used once the entire drive each way.

After arriving home at 4 a.m., I was too tired to sleep. I looked at my photos and regaled my husband with stories. When I finally woke up the next day, I missed my friends who had been on the trip. I wondered where they were and if they wanted to go to the pool or the Mexican restaurant across the street. I wondered where my assistant was and why she hadn’t made me coffee yet. Then I remembered that I was back home and this was my real life. I put on my make-up in the mirror and smiled at all the memories I had from this trip. The Commuter staff grew closer as friends and co-workers, and we became better journalists. Although the return to reality was tough, the thought of applying everything we learned to our paper, and our newfound confidence in what we do, is exciting and fulfilling.

Chinese acrobats aren't just for kids

My new-found photographer friend, who works for a local newspaper, invited me to tag along on one of his assignments. I was thrilled to find out it was a performance by a group of Chinese acrobats. Not since I traveled to China have I watched a performance so thrilling and downright fun. A pleasure for adults and children alike.

Oh! Possum!

I came home the other night and these guys were sitting on my fence. I love animals (especially Opossums), and grabbed my camera from the backseat. I slowly opened the door and began creeping towards them.



Then I noticed something weird. They weren't running away, but just staring at me forlornly. I started talking to them and they perked up and tried to move towards me, but only fell off the fence instead.

I wanted to put them in a big warm box and care for them overnight, but my husband wasn't about to let two opossums in the house, the insensitive jerk. These little guys had lived underneath our house for years and now they needed us, or at least that was how I saw it.

I called the local veterinarians, and despite the fact that every website said they cared for wild animals, each doctor told me to call animal control.
Well, I hate the police. A lot. And anyone associated with the police.
And I wasn't about to let animal control come to my house, take my (yes, my) opossums and potentially euthanize them. All on the American tax-payer's dollar. They were in my hands only, it seemed.

So I spent the next few hours with two sick opossums, trying to make them feel a little better and giving them food and water. After a while they crawled off on their own.

Two days later, no noxious smells are coming from anywhere near my house, so I assume they made it home and are recovering. Hopefully in a few days they will be lounging on my back porch with my cats, like usual.

Oh, and for anyone who is afraid of opossums, check out the website of the National Opossum Society, which states they are relatively harmless and friendly animals. And they are also America's only marsupial.

Life brings challenges and lessons in equal measure

Recently my husband became very ill with pneumonia and bronchitis. On our second trip to the doctor, blood samples were taken to see if any unknown condition was causing him to have a prolonged recovery. He recently lost a considerable amount of weight and is currently, according to the doctor, "severely underweight."

Shocked, and knowing how much my husband eats, I knew something was wrong. We discussed two previous events my husband had endured where he experienced full body paralysis, numbness, heart palpitations, and breathing problems.

The last event, one week ago at work, resulted in him leaving work in a wheelchair, and being lifted by his boss and placed in the back of my car. For the rest of the night he was unable to move well, in extreme pain, and unable to even put a spoon to his mouth.

We were told we would get the test results the next day.

Two days later I received the call.
"The results show the symptoms of Grave's disease, or hyperthyroidism. We've made him an appointment for Tuesday morning, and we will need him all day for testing."

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"Malignant nodules." The doctor answered.

I didn't like the word malignant, and it was ringing in my ears.

Panic was pounding the inside of my skull. I didn't know what I would tell my husband, I didn't want him to worry too much. I thought about the tests needed and dreaded knowing what they would cost us. I worried about missing school and work, and wondered if my husband would even be well enough to attend school this term.

Luckily I had some wonderful people give me some great advice. One of them was my music instructor, James Reddan.

"Be with your husband now. What's more important Rock N' Roll or your husband?"

"Duh!" I thought. "It's time to stop worrying about the little stuff and take care of what's, or in this case who's, important."

After a little more encouragement from Mr. Reddan, I was feeling a lot better.

I took my husband to his favorite restaurant, and I didn't worry about the $20.

I didn't worry about the slow traffic, and I didn't worry about how much gas was in the tank.

I realized I can't worry about what the doctors will say next week, or what the test results will determine.

What I can do is have a positive mind-set and be there 100 percent for him.

Because he is what is most important to me.

Home Depot has no humanity

I have never had a job that expected me to come into work when sick. Any boss with sense knows that a person who stays home gets well faster and doesn't infect other employees. But not Home Depot.
The local Home Depot, where my husband unfortunately works, allowed an employee to return to work despite the fact she had bronchial pneumonia, and was told by her doctor to stay home for two weeks. She was not asked by management to inform others of her condition, or to wear a mask. Instead, she used my husband's desk phone, worked closely with customers, and handled computer equipment available to all employees.
Two days later my husband was sick, and shortly after that he was diagnosed with pneumonia and bronchitis. He was so sick he cried in his sleep, and couldn't get out of bed for almost a week. He ended up going to the hospital, and because we have no health care (HD's is a joke), we will be paying for it for a long time.
Finally, because he had no sick time and we were hemorrhaging our remaining funds, my husband returned to work. Soon after his arrival he was brought to the office and told management was revoking his holiday pay (from New Year's) because he was sick, even though he was not sick on New Year's.

Rationally, my husband explained that he got sick from BEING at work. You don't contract pneumonia out of thin air, but Home Depot thinks that you do. He was forced to apologize to the woman who had pneumonia first, because she felt the way he looked at her was accusatory. But wait, there's more.

Our local Home Depot HAS NO HEATERS. That's right, a few weeks ago our high temperature was 12 degrees, and it was hardly any warmer inside the store. Each day I watched my husband leave for work wearing layers of sweaters, jackets, scarves, socks, and hats. Employees were not even allowed to mark down heaters off the shelves to keep warm.

And so, my husband sat for weeks shivering in the cold, exposed to a highly infectious illness, and...lo and behold...he came down with it. But Home Depot punished him for it. They punished him by revoking his holiday pay, the punished him by forcing him to apologize for looking angry (he just looks sick to me...), and they punish all employees by offering little or no sick time.

My husband receives four hours of sick pay a month, in exchange for working full-time. What a pathetic "benefit." Sure, those 4 hours he had will help on his measly paycheck, but it would take ten months of saving sick hours to make up for this sudden, Home Depot induced illness and the week of work it caused him to lose. And it isn't like they are going to help with the medical bills.

The heart of this problem is employee benefits. My previous job gave me two days a month, and more if I had a doctor's note. Whatever I needed to be healthy and happy. My husband's co-worker would not have come to work with pneumonia had she any sick time available to her, then no one else would have become ill.

Bob Nardelli, former CEO of Home Depot, resigned in 2007 with a $210 million severence package after he tanked the company's stock. Despite this, the company can't reach in it's deep pockets to help out it's real employees. Home Depot is worse than Wal-Mart, and the managers, executives, and CEO's should be ashamed, but that would take humanity.

Snow, snow go away...

As close as I wanted to get...






I don't think I'll be using this pumpkin for pie...