White Power

I went to the Gothic prison Monday to interview an inmate. I was dreading it and mentioned to Eric that I'd see this guy in cuffs or I wouldn't see him.

His records reveal that he's been in almost 20 years on this incarceration and he has spent almost every day of this incarceration (until very recently) in disciplinary segregation. He was locked up on a less than 20 year charges, but he's been caught multiple times with weapons inside the prison and the department of correctioins has filed charges which resulted in additional years tacked onto his index offense. He has a very colorful history of writing letters to the wardens, librarians, and other staff which he signs White Power. He refers to the people in terms that are not used in polite company--actually, those terms are not even used in impolite company. He threatens their lives and is verbally sexually inappropriate. (He tells me that he did that intentionally because he wanted to stay in Segregation because one does not have a "cellie" in Segreation.. He likes having a private room.) For years, he filled in forms with his first name as White and his last name as Power. Recently, he has decided to behave himself and has earned enough credit to get moved from maximum to medium security and out of segregation.

The man has been in some sort of prison since he was 15. The great majority of his crimes have been drunken brawling, battery, multiple thefts and robbery, some burglaries. He's in his 50's now and has only been outside of some kind of prison 6 or 8 times for 2 or 3 months at a time. Each time he gets out, violates parole with a new crime, gets arrested, tried and convicted again. Most of the times, it's 18 months or 3 years for some relatively minor crime like robbery or theft. But, the last crime (prior to the ones committed while in prison) was for a major sex crime. He abducted a teenage male, threatened his life, and forced the youth to perform fellatio. He's had no sexual misconduct in prison except for being caught holding his genitalia in his cell and telling a correctional officer that he suspects the correctional officer would be very good at performing fellatio based on his ability to write disciplinary tickets. That got him another ticket--for insolence.

His risk rating is off the scale. His actuarial scores are as high as they get. His PCL-R is nearly a 30--right at the top of the scale. But, he does not meet the mental health criteria. He does not have a paraphilia. Based on his official record, his behavior in prison, his risk scores, and his PCL-R, he'll commit some violent crime within 3 to 4 months of release. But, there is no way I can refer him for civil commitment. He does not meet the mental health criteria. This is a profoundly dangerous, habitual criminal and he'll re-offend in some way or another. But, if a paraphilia is not pushing or driving him to re-offend sexually I cannot refer him. It would be a misuse of the law.

This is a problematic case because I know the community is going to suffer if I don't refer him for civil commitment and I cannot because to do so would misuse the law.

EPHRAM

I finally broke down and called my son this morning. I've been trying to give him some space. He can't even get time to listen to his voice mails because there are so many of them. But, I didn't call yesterday and I wanted to know how Cassie is today.

While talking, Ephram crawled completely up on the kitchen counter to get something he wanted. Dean fussed at him. I had to remind Dean that when he was a little boy, he repeatedly crawled up on the kitchen counters and stole every single Ding Dong from the very top shelf of the cupboards. He then blamed the transgression on the dog.

The kids had bacon, eggs, strawberries and watermelon for breakfast. Historically, Ephram loves bacon and will not touch eggs. When he was an infant he ate eggs, but as a toddler he has firmly refused eggs. But, this morning it was all about the eggs. Turns out, Dean made a cake last night and Ephram had his first experience of cracking the eggs and adding them to the big stand mixer that his parents got for a wedding present. His interest in eggs was limited to the eggs that went into the cake, not in the eggs on his plate. His dietary preferences concern me a little--bacon and cake. But, at least his father prepares him proper food. In spite of his dietary choices, Ephram is not a little pork chop. Gideon tends to be a bit of a pork chop. Poor little Gideon was born hungry and his father says that if you put a steak in front of that 11 month old, he'll manage to eat it. He has four teeth and 2 more coming in.

Dean told me that he spoke with his father for an hour last night or nearly an hour. He said it was a good talk. I can think of nothing that has ever mattered more to me. They can't resolve the problem unless they start talking to each other. Their estrangement provided the perfect environment for stubborness to grow, feelings to harden and pride to take over. My heart has been broken and my soul suffered as a result of their estrangement. I pray to God that they will move towards softening, love and forgiveness. Dean came away from the conversation believing his father might be willing to come visit him. He sure is hoping. I would be more delighted than you can imagine. His father has never met Gideon. Ephram and Gideon need to know their grandfather. In fact, they need to go swimming with him.

With infinite wisdom, Colin Powell was able to recognize the destructive power of pride taking over, positions hardening, and people getting stubborn. So much wisdom in the old Secretary of State!

MY PRECIOUS SON

On a regular day before Cassie got sick, my son worked two jobs, did a lot of housework, and did a much of the child care for two young sons. Now, my son is attempting to do all that he was doing before this happened and desperately trying to save his wife's life.

I spoke to him this morning. He was attempting to get her in the car and the two boys in their car seats to take her to the doctor again. They are seeing their regular doctor this morning and trying to get her in to a neurologist as soon as posible.

Ephram, the very independent 2 1/2 year old, was trying to help by getting into the car on his own and pinched his finger in the door. Thank God, he did not smash his finger.

I've talked to my boss and gotten approval to go to Texas as soon as possible. Dean asked me to wait. Right now, the hospital staff is developing a "round robin" list of staff to come to the house and help with the boys and Cassie. They also have a set of close friends and they and their families of origin have offered to come to the house and help with the children, housework, and Cassie. God Bless Texans!

As wonderful as Texans are and as wonderful as the hospital staff are in setting up the "round robin" of caretakers all those people have full time jobs, houses, kids, families and eventually they will get exhausted also.

Last night, right after Dean called me, I called his father. His father has every right to know that something horrible beyond imagination has happened to Dean. Dean and his father have been estranged for the last couple of years. It's heartbreaking because his father has always loved Dean with the same passion that Dean loves his own sons. In fact, when I observe Dean with his boys, it is like looking at his father with Dean when he was a small boy. There simply was and is no greater love. I know that Dean's father thinks about him every single day of his life. And, he grieves the separation that has occured between him and his only living child. Currently, he is as terrified and frantic as I am. I know he left a message for Dean on his voicemail last night. I don't know if Dean even got the message. Sometimes, I leave messages and he doesn't remember to stop what he's doing and pick up his voicemail. Sometimes, we play telephone tag for days on end. I know that on normal days, before he was needing to provide round the clock care, for his wife--he was working two jobs, providing round the clock care for two infants and trying to stay on top of housework. I hope and pray that he responds to his father. His father desperately wants to provide comfort, emotional support, and care for him. And, if Dean ever needed his father in his life, he needs him now.

Perejil

I've been reading Zakaria's book, The Post-American World, and I'm quite taken with him as a writer. He's a fine writer with a brilliant mind and he leads me through the tango of international relations with enormous skill and subtlty. Through him, I find clarity. I miss clarity.

He recounts one incident that struck me as very meaningful not just in terms of international relations, but in terms of basic human and family relationships.

There's a small island (tiny island) just off the coast of Morocco in the Straits of Gibraltar. It's called Leila. The island is totally uninhabited save for some wild goats who thrive on the wild parsley (Perejil) that grows wild on this rocky, barren island. In 2002, Morocco sent a small band of soldiers (about 10 or so) and they planted a Moroccan flag there. The goats could care have cared less. But, Spain and Morocco had long contested Leila. The Spanish government perceived this Moroccan behavior as "aggression". Nearly 100 Spanish soldiers were airlifted onto the island. They tore down the Moroccan flag, raised two Spanish flags, and sent the dozen or so Moroccan soldiers home. The Spanish actions were perceived as an "act of war" by the Moroccans and the government organized rallies where scores upon scores of young men chanted "Our souls and our blood are sacrifices to you. Leila!" in the streets. Military helicopters hovered over Leila and Spanish warships monitored the coast of Morocco.

The then Secretary of State Colin Powell was called to intervene. He worked late into a Friday evening and Saturday morning phoning the Moroccan king and Foreign Minister
because he decided "I had to push for a compromise fast because otherwise pride takes over, positions harden, and people get stubborn". He was under some pressure because it was already getting late in the day in the Mediterranean and his grandchildren were scheduled to arrive at his home for a swim with him. He managed to get the get the crisis resolved and got to go swimming with his grandchildren--which is precisely what a grandfather should be doing with his grandchildren.

The phrase "pride takes over, positions harden, and people get stubborn" struck me as so telling in terms of what happens not just in international relations, but what happens in families over equally absurd situations. Sometimes--almost without exception--it's far more important to forgive, compromise, love, and swim with ones grandchildren than to be "right".

Stubborn pride and being "right" are far oversold as values especially within the context of their price.

NOTES

Eric left very early this morning to drive to Wichita to visit Ann. On his way, he is stopping to pick up his younger brother, Joel, so they can both visit. Joel just visited while Ann was in the hospital, but I guess he wants to visit again and it will give Eric a chance to show off his new vehicle and some bonding time with his younger brother. I hope and pray they told Ann they were planning to visit. I strongly prefer visits and social activities by appointment. Eric is more informal than I am.

I took Dakota in to the VET this morning and she got her stitches removed. The wound has to be checked next Wednesday and then the following week she can start chemo--I hope.

I received a piece of that hate mail by email recently. It was quite disturbing. I recognize that it was authored by an angry, hate filled, venon spewing, blowheart who shoots off his mouth instead of actively working productively for the political candidate of his choice. I suspect that he is so much of a loose cannon and so intellectually dysregulated that no political candidate would risk allowing him to volunteer. This man was spewing hate, lies, gossip, spreading rumors, name calling. My impression is that he's an intellectually and psychologically small man who is desperately attempting to present himself as an intellectually and psychologically big man with his lies, gossip, name calling and rumor spreading. His verbalizations remind me of the verbalizations I've seen so very often in chronic mental patients who have been forensically or civilly committed to state hospitals. He's a pitiful man. Unfortunately, I fear that he may also be a dangerous man. But, as of yet, he has not communicated any direct threats. His entire five page rant was indirectly threating--not to me personally--but threatening.

While reading his rants disturbs me greatly, it can be important to keep track of the thinking of dangerous people. Right now, I'm focused on staying as far away from him as possible. In comparison, he makes right wing conservatives look like far left wing liberals. There's no doubt in my mind that he is a seriously disturbed individual.

FLOODING

Drove up close the the Iowa/Wisconsin border Monday. I needed to do an evaluation up in that neck of the woods on Tuesday.

The flooding is unimaginable. The rivers are flowing violently, churning, almost volcanic in their churning. It's going to take months, if not years, just to clean up the destruction. The rivers are full of sofas, mattresses, cars, hot water heaters, farm equipment, bloated rotting corpses of wild animals, domestic animals, and livestock. The larger items get caught on the pillars holding up bridges and then other items get caught on the caught items. While there is no barge traffic, the river is so full of dead animals and destroyed household and farm property that it reminds me of when the barges are gridlocked. To make it even worse there are thousands, if not millions, of acres of fertile farm land--some already planted in multi-thousands of dollars worth of crops that are lost. I don't think I'll ever complain again about the acres and acres of corn and soybeans again.

The water is supposed to get to St. Louis on Monday. Because some of the northern levees overtopped or were breeched it has probably lessened the flooding that we will see. It's already bad enough here and to the south of here. Nevertheless, I am greatly saddened by the price our northern neighbors have paid.

I'm scheduled to return to the Gothic prison some time next week. Hopefully, I'll go before the water reaches them. Place is bad enough as it is without having to park the car miles up the bluff, hike down to the water and take a boat to the prison. It would be a terrible inconvenience for me although nothing compared to what the men who must live in that rotting hole every day and the men and women who must staff it around the clock go through. The prison must be staffed 24-7-365 so when the floods come, some of the staff just live there until the water recedes.

The trip up Monday was stressful. It's always a difficult drive. Five hours of driving is very uncomfortable and I'm always so stiff I can barely get out of the car and walk when I finally arrive at the hotel. The wind farm helps because I always pull over and just allow their meditative swoosh, swoosh, swoosh to soothe my soul.

Then, when I got to the hotel, I quickly pulled on my swimsuit and submerged myself for about a half hour in their wonderful clean, very hot whirlpool and just let the pounding hot soothe some of my cramped muscles.

The prison up there is a nice one--old, but well maintained--clean, with friendly, competent, helpful staff. It's the prison for special needs prisoners--either very medically ill or severely psychiatrically impaired inmates.

The inmate I interviewed presents as problematic. He's a relatively young man (mid 50's), but he is so very ill medically that I question if he should be referred. I have to score his interview and actuarials today. He certainly has been plagued with deviant sexual urges and behaviors for most of his adult life. There is no doubt that he carries a diagnosis of Pedophilia, Female Children Non Exclusive, Exhibitionism, and Frotteurism. Five years ago he had to have two major surgeries and had large sections of his bowel removed. Currently, he is on the waiting list to be sent to the closest university hospital (a very good one) because he has bowel incontinence and each evacuation is filled with dark black red blood. He has a history of colon cancer in his family. He clearly is in significant pain and had to leave the interview room about every 10 to 15 minutes to empty his bowels.

This is problematic because the law was not written to be used as extended punishment. These men and women have already served their time. The law was written to allow these men and women to get the treatment they so desperately need so they can learn and apply the skills to not offend in the future and to protect the community against further sexual offenses. Public monies pay for all the court hearings, trials, and treatment. If this man is going to die before we can even get through the trial, it is a terrible waste of public monies to take him to trial. These trials are unbelievably expensive. The tax payers could pay for a road or a bridge for what one of these trials costs. So, I need to stall my decision until I can get the results from his tests at the university hospital. Very problematic case because his probable cause hearing must be done by mid-August.

WIND FARM

I'm headed way up north today, near the Wisconsin border.

I'm very embarrassed about a dreadful mistake I made yesterday. I went to my office yesterday evening (quite late) to start getting my evaluation book and data ready for the trip today and discovered that my hotel reservation was scheduled for last night. By that time, I'd already missed late check in by several hours.

In my head, I thought I was scheduled to travel today and evaluate tomorrow. But no, I was scheduled to travel on Sunday and evaluate today. Routinely, I do everything I can to avoid traveling on Sunday. Sunday has always been a family day and I attempt to keep it as such. But, I made an error and told Catherine to schedule it for today. I went back and checked the email to see who made the error. It was me in big bold black email. It was an issue of me assuming that Catherine could read my mind and know I was making a mistake.

This sounds like a simple problem, but it is not. Not only will they be charged for a hotel room I didn't use, but we'll have to contact the prison to explain to them that I will be there tomorrow for the evaluation not today. This is a major inconvenience for them. Further, Catherine will have to get a second hotel night approved from the travel office. It's just a lot more work for poor Catherine (already significantly overworked) and a lot of confusion for the DOC. I'll end up paying out of pocket for the night missed at the hotel. The problem will be that all the dates will be confused.

Just a total mess and I'll look like a disorganized fool. But, there's nothing to do but admit the error and go on. Fortunately, I have been relatively good about not making errors at work (especially not stupid ones like this one). Hopefully, they will understand and forgive me.

I'm actually looking forward to the trip. This specific prison is one I enjoy going to. I like the little town, I like the hotel, I like the prison. It's Ronald Reagan's boyhood home town and the whole town has that feel of a quieter, friendlier, safer time to it.

It's a long long drive, but there is a gigantic windfarm stretching over many acres along the highway just before the town. The gigantic windmills going swoosh, swoosh, swoosh are such a soothing, pleasant, meditative, comforting sight. When they first come into sight, it's like an oasis opening up in the distance. I look forward to seeing them each trip and my heart always soars a bit every time I see them. Of course, there is no noxious smell of fire and oil like the smell of the awkward skeletons of oil rigs that I often have to pass in other parts of the state.

I often wonder why the citizenary doesn't embrace more and more wind farms. It's such a simple, intelligent solution to some of our major problems. And, the farmers can plant their crops remarkably close to the bottom of the windmills. The windmills reduce crop production by so little. But, the local papers are filled with articles about how the presence of the windmills cause children in the community brain damage. It's a scare tactic that has taken hold in that community. Now, it makes no logical scientific sense, but sometimes in the countryside logical scientific sense is totally ignored. Our lives could be so much better if we would simply embrace and invest in the power of the wind and the sun. But, of course, we would have to stop clinging to the old ways. Even more, the very rich oil barons would have to relinquish part of their control and windfall profits.

FATHER'S DAY

Today is one of the toughest days of the year.

My father died over ten years ago and my sister and I have had to go on without him. The truth is that he lives inside of me. Not just in my genetic material, but in memory, example, and values.

There are memories that still overwhelm me. He was an utterly "innocent man" and his never ending kindness to all humans and all animals mark him for all time.

He grew up the eldest child of many children. By the time he was grown, he was the eldest of 7 sisters and 3 brothers. But, in truth there were a total of 23 siblings. Back in those days, infant mortality was much higher than it is now. When he was 13, he needed to quit school and go to work in a fish market to bring in cash to help his mother as she struggled alone against abject poverty with all those children to feed. He never got a chance to finish his education.

Then, WWII came. He and Mama married March 2, 1942. He left for Europe 2 days later. He went to England first. Later, he parachuted into France where he got lost. Many of the men got lost and were separated from their comrades. Had it not been for supportive French citizens who hid him and fed him, he would have been taken by the Germans. There were many Germans about. Daddy was a grunt and front line cannon fodder. Towards the end of the war, he and other American soldiers walked into concentration camps and cleaned up the remains. He never forgot. It changed him forever! It was important that no one ever tried to tell him the holocaust was a hoax. He saw it with his own eyes. He saw and smelled the piles of rotting corpses. There were still remnants of human beings in the ovens. He smelled the cooked and rotting flesh with his own nose.

In January, 1945 he finally came home. I was born October 5, 1946. For a long time, he sufferred acutely from what we now call PTSD. In the 1940's, we didn't even know what PTSD was. He was unable to go to the side of town that housed the slaughterhouse. The smells overwhelmed him and flooded him with memories of those concentration camps. For years, he and Mama could not eat in a diner or restaurant near a factory. The lunch whistle and quitting time whistle would cause him to take cover under any available table.

He took a job on the assembly line in a factory. It was the same factory where Mama worked during the war. Mama was one of the original Rosie the Riveters. She worked inside of tanks being constructed for the war effort. After the war, the factory went back to constructing refrigerators and that's what Daddy did for several years.

Later, Daddy finally was accepted into the union for Operating Engineers. He had operated heavy equipment during the war and help construct landing fields and runways for American planes in France and eventually Germany. Work was not slow, but Daddy was low man on the totem pole for many years and had to work himself up to being a man that was routinely sent out on jobs. It was back breaking, hard dirty work with very long hours. It was also seasonal with little heavy construction work done during the long cold Indiana winters. Many winters were hungry ones for us.

I remember one winter more clearly than any of my life. There was no work and it was brutally cold with snow thigh high. We had so very little. Daddy and Mama took jobs for the telephone company walking the streets of Evansville, Indiana delivering telephone books--house to house. They got 10 cents for each telephone book delivered. They earned enough for my sister and I to have food and a meager Christmas. I'm 62 and I still cry when I think of their dogged loyalty and commitment to providing for my sister and I. We had food that winter. Looking back, they went hungry.

Over the years, things got financially better. Then, Mama died at 62 and Daddy went on to live another 18 years without her. He did the best he could.

I was a rebellious, stuck up, prideful, stubborn, ungrateful, arrogant little brat in my youth. I didn't tell him enough how much I loved him. I didn't say I was sorry when I should have. I didn't recognize what an incredible human being he was. I didn't appreciate his sacrifice and his loyalty and his love. There are so many things I should have said and so many things I should have done. There were so many times when I was disrespectful and unkind.

Now, I live with the grief every day. He's dead and I cannot ask his forgiveness or tell him how wrong I was. I cannot say I love you. I threw away my opportunities. Every day is hard, but Father's Day is the hardest day of the year. Daddy, I am so sorry. You deserved so much more from life and you deserved so much more from me.

The grief from the death of loved ones is horrible, but the grief of my own mistakes--of my unkindness, of my disrespect-- I will carry with me to my grave. I made my bed. I must lie in it.

TIM RUSSERT

Like many people, I was stunned, shocked and saddened by the sudden death of 58 year old Tim Russert. Other than watching him on TV, I had no knowledge of him. I was impressed by his work, but did not make his show appointment TV.

His sudden death has brought home to me something far more important and something I already knew at some level of consciousness. It brought home to me how important it is to keep those people we love very close to us because any moment could be the last. There may not be the chance to say "I love you" or "Goodbye" or "I'm sorry" or "I forgive you".

And, if we don't say those words, if we don't repair relationships with those we love------we live for the rest of our lives with our grief at not repairing the relationships.

GOTHIC PRISON

I drove way down south today to evaluate an inmate in a very old maximum security prison. It's a massive old gothic style--looks like a midevil castle with small turrets and little openings mimicking those little holes that midevil folks used to shoot arrows through. The place was built in the mid 1800's. It still functions as a maximum security prison--no air conditioning in summer, always damp and musty, little--sometimes n0 heat-- in the winter. So, it's always cold and damp in the winter and hot, sticky, and humid in the summer. Miserable place.

To reach the place you drive far to the south on a two lane highway interrupted every five or ten miles by towns of 300 people. Every now and then, the speed limit gets up to 55. Just when you get the car up to 55, the speed limit immediately drops back to 35. Takes forever to get there.

On the way, I have to pass an old maximum security mental health center where I worked many years ago. Even passing the place on the road gives me chills and shudders. Nothing by bad memories! Absolutely nothing, but bad memories and nightmares.. I dread going to do evaluations at this prison because there's no way to get there but pass the old mental health center. The memories and nightmares of the place just flood back over me. The memories and nightmares do not have to do with what was done to me--although plenty was done to me--the memories and nightmares has to do with what was done to the patients by staff. But, in the end, I blew the whistle and a number of staff went to prison.

Once past it, I drive on until I get to a road where I make a sharp right and immediately start dropping down a frighteningly steep hill. The hill is so steep that it has one of those runaway truck braking areas. At the very bottom of this hill is a narrow road that runs directly beside a railroad track and then suddenly drops off into the Mississippi River. The runaway truck braking area exists in the hope of keeping folks from losing control and plunging into the Mississippi. I make a right and drive down a very narrow road directly beside the railroad track to the prison. Once I reached the prison today and parked the car, I noticed that the officers had stacked sandbags well above my head in an attempt to keep the river from flooding the prison. If it does flood next week, as is expected, the flooding will cover the railroad tracks, the narrow road and invade the prison grounds (unless the sandbags hold the water back). I'm scheduled to go down again next week.

After parking the car, I walked to the building normally used as the gate house. The door was permanently locked. I wandered about until I found a non-inmate and asked how one gained admission. He thought it was down by the flag. So, I hiked the mile down to the flag and found the new gate house. One of the correctional officers told me that the old gatehouse has been condemned because the Governor approriated the capital improvements money and had a 1 1/2 million dollar drive way built at the Governors Mansion. The Governor does not live in the Governors Mansion. Neither does his wife or children. They all live in a big city way up north and he flies to work down in the center of the state when he goes to work at the state capitol.

After an hour of dealing with the people in the gatehouse, I gained admission. Even though they had been informed that I was coming none of the people in the gatehouse could find the memo or knew I was coming. I had my badge with me that is imprinted with 1/2 tall red letters saying "LEGAL", but that didn't help. I had printed off a copy of the notice informing them of my arrival and gave it to them, but they wanted their original memo and wouldn't accept my copy. Every single time I go to this prison, the problem is the same. No matter how many times they are informed an evaluator is expected, they lose the memo and it takes a least an hour to get in and usually several phone calls to DOC headquaters to get orders for them to let me in. It's just the way this prison runs. Sometimes, you just have to accept the things you cannot change.

Then, once in and back in Master Records, I was informed that I could review the records but the inmate had been moved to a different prison. Fortunately, it was just up the road a bit. But, I had to go through the same nonsense from the front gate a second time from the second prison.

Once I finally got to interview the inmate, he was one of the most polite cooperative people--not inmates--people I have ever interviewed.

PATHOLOGY REPORTS

Dakota got two tension stitches removed this morning. She'll get the rest of her stitches out next Thursday--hopefully. This assumes we can keep her in a T shirt and keep her from licking the stitches. She's actually been very good about wearing her T shirt and she even keeps them remarkably clean.

Her pathology reports came in from the University of MO. I had hoped for a Grade 1, she got a Grade 2. Grade 2 is much better than the Grade 3 she got the last time she had cancer. Even better news is that the pathology reports said that Terri was able to get all the cancer cells. They remove a full two inches of tissue around the tumor in the hopes that the edges of the removed tissue will be free of cancer. The edges of the removed tissue was free of cancer. Last time, Terri was not able to get it all because the cancer had spread beyond the two inch margin and she had been forced to remove a substantial amount of muscle. Dakota still has a "dent" from her surgery in 2006. We had hoped the chemo she had in 2006/2007 would kill everything that Terri could not surgically remove.

I don't know if this current cancer represents cells that survived the prior chemo or if it is a genetic vulnerablility that Dakota has, but she'll start her second round of chemo later in the month after the stiches are completely removed.

I am just so thankful that Eric found the tumor during one of his nightly massage sessions with Dakota because it was too small to see with the naked eye. I'm sure that it's early discovery is a major reasons that it didn't get a chance to make it to Grade 3.

VET VISIT

Dakota had to have her stitches checked today. They aren't ready to come out and she has a tiny bit of serum buildup. Terri said to keep her on the Benedryl and the antibiotic, but that the stitches looked really good. There are two tension stitches that may be able to come out Thursday. The remaining 45 will come out in about two weeks.

The pathology reports have not come in yet. I wanted Terri to do Dakota's blood work today and start her on chemo Thursday. But, she refused explaining that we had to wait for the pathology report because all cancers are different and require a specific chemo recipe. She doesn't want to be giving Dakota chemo that is not going to do her any good.

I'm eager to get it started as soon as possible because this is her second cancer episode and I want to do everything possible to kill the cancer as quickly as possible. But, we're going to have to wait.

This was the kind of VET visit Dakota likes. They looked at her stitches, but didn't do anything to her. She got lots of love from all the staff, got lots of pets, had a nice car ride and got treats, but they didn't do anything to her. She likes to go visit, but doesn't enjoy having stuff done to her.

DYLAN'S PONY TAIL

Tomorrow, Eric and I are scheduled to meet Barry at a prison up Northeast of here and transfer six gigantic boxes of data and evidence from Eric's vehicle to Barry's SUV. He'll take the boxes back to Chicago where it will be safely sorted, cataloged and stored forever. Normally, I just load the car I drive up with the boxes and do the transfer myself, but this time there is too much data and too much evidence to go in the car I drive. This time we actually needed a truck!

We're not just transferring the boxes. I have a case to evaluate and Barry has records to review. Neither of us are driving that far just to transfer boxes. I appreciate Eric doing this for me and I'll fill his truck with gasoline because it's a 2 hour drive one way. Gasoline is a very real expense in my work even though I'm reimbursed for a part of it.

The boxes represent the leftovers of the work I've completed in the last six months which must be carefully stored forever because we never know when the tables may turn and we may end up back in court with one of these guys. We work very hard to prevent "lost evidence" and a damaged "chain of custody". I have quite enough frustration with the issue of "lost evidence" during my investigatory process. I don't want anyone else to have those difficulties because I was careless.

Personally, transfer day is always a day of celebration for me--this time especially so! Right now, there are so many huge boxes and they are taking up so much floor space that it's difficult to move around in my office. Plus, the dogs can't find a comfortable spot to plop down. I put a pillow under my writing table for them, but they don't like the pillow or that it's under the table. I think they prefer their backs in a corner so no one can sneak up on them. Or, maybe that's just me. I always prefer my back in a corner or against the wall so I can see the entry and the windows in restaurants.

Additionally, two of the cases were such heinous crimes that I almost experience the data, the records, and the evidence as somehow tainting my office. There will be the unfinished cases still in the credenza awaiting trial, but much of it will be out of my office. Unfortunately, I still have Dylan's pony tail. Dylan is a victim who was 5 years old at the time and his pony tail was taken as a trophy. I have it in a sealed plastic evidence bag, stored in a locked safe, so I can use it at trial. You would think any criminal would realize that Dylan's parents would notice their child's pony tail was missing and realize that "something" was amiss. But, criminals don't think exactly like non-criminals.

CHICKEN PICCATA

I love Chicken Piccata. It's an unbelievably wonderful, very light chicken dish made with flattened chicken breasts in a light lemon, butter and white wine sauce.

There's a wonderful section of town called "The Hill" that still has aged Italian people who own and run some of the best Italian restaurants you'll find in the United States--probably some of the best you'll find outside of Italy. And, the streets are still peopled with aged women wearing the traditional widows garb of elderly Italian women. The streets are crowded with old shops overflowing with fresh herbs, fresh vegetables, and specialty Italian meats. There are also shabby little shops selling antique furniture. The outside of the churches are usually shabby old South St. Louis brick--keeping secret the inside of the churches--so beautiful they take your breath away.

The first place I ever had Chicken Piccata was in one of those small restaurants on "The Hill". It literally melts in your mouth. So today, I am headed out to the grocery to buy the ingredients and tonight I shall try my hand at making Chicken Piccata. I'm going to serve it with Buttermilk Mashed Potatoes and Oven Roasted Red and Yellow Onion Wedges that have been marinated in oil, vinegar, and herbs prior to cooking. I could also make the Pear and Apple Crisp that usually goes with it, but I probably won't. The Chicken Piccata and veggies should be more than enough for tonight.

We shall see if it lives up to my expectations and my memory.

BLOGGING

I've been trying my best to encourage Eric to set up his own blog. I've had no luck so far. It's a shame because he is such a wonderfully talented writer.

It would also give him a place to vent his anger at the news media. As all of you know by now, I value the fourth estate above all else in this country and believe strongly that if we did not have a free press that our form of government would be in very serious trouble (if it continued as we know it at all).

Eric knows that when I left for college at 18, I went to Indiana University on a full journalism honors scholarship. While I took another road later in life, my heart and soul have always been with investigative journalism. I think his long held rage at the news media interferes with any ability he may have to recognize how disrespectful he is of my most deeply held beliefs.

I don't know if this anger he has at journalism has been with him throughout his entire life or if it started during Viet Nam. I know he's very angry about what he believes was the news coverage during the Viet Nam war. He was in Viet Nam and I was here watching the news with even more interest than I have today. I can assure you the media was NOT disrespectful to the men and women who fought and died in that war. They did report accurately on the mishandling of the war by our leaders, but reporting accurately on the misdeeds of politicians is not the same as disrespecting the men and women who fought and died in that war.

Right now, even if they are covering the weather in the southestern United States, he's angry because they aren't covering the local weather. He seems to forget that when we are having severe weather locally that it is covered.

He gets angry every time something comes on about Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. He considers it "publicity" for the democrats and always manages to miss the extended coverage of John McCain's speeches and campaign stops. I suspect that Obama and Clinton would love for the media to just stop covering them quite as closely and as in depth as they have been. The kind and intensity of coverage they have been getting no one in their right mind wants.

What Eric fails to understand is that our citizens (right now) are very taken with (possibly lost in) anything that has to do with celebrity. It's the reason we are so inundated with information about the Spears woman and Angelina and Brad.

Right now, this issue of an African American man and a female at odds with each other is what people are interested in watching. It's our peoples way of feeling "involved" right now. This fascination with Spears and Brad and Angelina is a way for our people to feel involved with famous rich people who live lives the rest of us could never even imagine. It speaks to the need for our people to "get a life" of their own. None of this helps the Democrats. All of this coverage of this unfortunate situation certainly helps the Republicans.

Anyway, I have been hoping he'd start a blog and spew some of his venom through the blog. For now, I've more or less taken up residence in my office where I can watch the news if and when I want to. I'm one of those incredibly blessed people who can simply tune out nonsense and chatter on the news and pick up the important tidbits that I want or need to retain. The election will eventually be over and then maybe it will be safe to venture into the main part of the house again.

Dakota's in surgery

Dakota, our Kentucky rescue dog, is in surgery. I should be able to go pick her up at 3:30 if everything goes well. Then, her tumor gets sent to the University of MO and in a few days we will be informed of the "grade" and the efficacy of trying chemo again. This will be her second time around.

Everybody pray it is Grade One. She's only 8 years old. Of course, to us it would make no difference if she was 25 years old.

Since she's under anesthesia anyway--I don't like putting the animals under anesthesia if I can avoid it--we're having her teeth cleaned. The last time she was in for a check up the VET said she had some tartar beginning to form. Tartar can be very bad for their health.

ANNIE PHONED

Actually, Lori phoned because Annie is not well enough to make her hands work yet. But, last night Annie talked on the phone. She only talked about 1 minute and you can tell it is a major effort. She's talking with her trach which means she has to put her finger over it and get what few words out that she can before she needs to take a breath. She sounds a lot like Darth Vader, but none of that matters. She's feeling enough better that she wants to make contact and struggled to make the effort. That's what matters.

The muscles in her chest are very sore from all this breathing stuff. I doubt that most people in the world understand how much energy and effort it takes to breathe.

She's better and for that I am deeply grateful to God and her excellent medicaal providers.

HILLARY CLINTON

I wasted part of my evening and watched Hillary Clinton's speech last night. She finally lost the nomination, but it was "her night". Without any doubt, that entire family (and Hillary more than her sad excuse for a husband) suffer debilitating, deranged, delusional narcissism.

CANCER RETURNS

Saturday night, Dakota had just finished eating supper--lightly dusted with Parmesan cheese--she'll refuse to eat and simply sit quietly by her food bowl starring at us until we dust it with Parmesan. Eric was giving her the routine nightly massage. Dakota is just a tad spoiled.

He found a small lump on the opposite side from the site of her original tumors. I called the VET at 8:30 am on Monday and got her in to see the VET yesterday. By the time, she saw the VET it was already much larger than on Saturday. She has cancer again. They were able to do a slide in the VET's office and it's for sure. She has surgery Thursday, her labs get sent to the University of Missouri, and as soon as the results come back she will start chemo again. The University of MO results will tell us the grade and give some guidance on the dosage of the chemo.

And so, we start the battle again. There's no other reasonable choice.

ERIC'S SISTER

We got wonderful news this morning. Ann's husband (Dan) called to tell us that Ann is recognizing people. She recognized him and all three daughters. Further, she is following simple commands to wiggle her toes, open her mouth, etc. Dan also told her that during her time in ICU he's been cleaning the cat box every other day and her response was a shocked looked. So, we are thinking she not only recognized her husband and daughters, but understood what he was saying to her.

The hospital is considering transferring her to a specialty rehab facility where she will get PT, OT, and weaned from the vent. Apparently, she probably is always going to have to be on oxygen at night.

Dan has given Joel permission to visit her later this week which I believe is incredibly important for her recovery. I know that Ann wants to see her siblings! Hopefully, permission will be forthcoming for her remaining siblings.