In a sad, sick repeat of the sex abuse scandals of the Catholic Church, it appears another  venerable institution has put its own needs before the needs that should matter most — the victim of the worst kind of crime.

I like to think, since we’ve been told there are facts yet to be made public, that Mike McQueary didn’t turn his back and walk out after discovering that scene in the shower in March 2002. I like to think he burst in there and beat the crap out of the filthy pedophile and offered comfort to the child. Called the police and watched Sandusky dragged off to his rightful punishment.

Wishful thinking. It appears he made a call… to Dad for advice.

It’s possible that McQueary spent that March night in shock and soul searching, trying to figure out what to do. Confronted with that undoubtedly horrible sight maybe his first, panicked impulse was to get away. What he’d seen was a threat to something he’d long-held dear… maybe there was a struggle of conscience waged during a sleepless night. I like to think so. He was certainly disturbed enough to go and talk to people of power (thought not the police) about what he’d seen, sparing no detail. Eventually he was told that Sandusky would no longer be allowed to bring children on campus, and that appeared to be that.

Meanwhile other boys, other sons, other brothers, other friends of your own kids were put in harm’s way. Became victims too.

Why isn’t anyone protesting that?

Within the last month a sudden change in my vision has given me a whole new perspective on health care. As a family member of patients who’ve been hospitalized for very serious conditions a number of times, I’ve seen it all. Good, heads up medical care in fine facilities, and lackluster performance, less that sterile conditions, not to mention downright mistakes in health care settings trumpeted as some of the best in the world. Doesn’t make sense — you’d like to think the best hospitals would be the best in everything.

In my own case, I went to my local ophthalmologist first, to be examined and told that he couldn’t see anything but also couldn’t say what was causing my very definite vision loss. A symptom they could measure readily enough, but could not explain. Naturally being the informed patient and activist that I am, I took matters into my own hands and called on the best to be had… in Boston but known through all the world.

I was surprised how quickly I got that first appointment… just four weeks after my visit to my own eye care people. My relief faded as I can face to face with a the doctor (I’ll call him Dr. G.) who was undoubtedly brilliant, but abrupt and cold. I was told, point-blank that past medical decisions “had been a mistake”, the he too, could not see anything wrong with my eye, though there was measurable vision loss. I was sent for an ultrasound – after being curtly reminded that I had come to the wrong specialty and would need to see someone else. I hadn’t realized the importance of this when I made that appointment.

The ultrasound was by far the most pleasant and well run experience of the day. The technician was so warm and friendly — she made me feel comfortable. The procedure turned out to be quick and not very uncomfortable at all. I left for home feeling like I’d been proactive and would have my answer soon enough… but that certainly nothing serious was amiss. After all, I’d been seen by the best.

Two weeks and five phone calls later I had my answer in a hurried discussion with Dr. G. He launched right into what the ultrasound had found, that it was most likely a longstanding issue… until I interrupted to remind him that I’d only started having symptoms the month before. This seemed to catch him off guard, though Dr. G. maintained that the condition may have been there for some time and that while serious, hardly rose to the same level as it would be in a patient with normal vision.

You understand the ideas of priority in your head… it’s a whole different thing to hear it applied to YOU.

The conversation was over in less than five minutes… the task of getting me in with a specialist (“because of the word x, we’ll have to do something with you now”) left to Dr. G.’s secretary who would be in touch with me. When I dared to ask if there was anything I needed to be aware of, until I saw a specialist, Dr. G. was none too pleased to be kept on the line and asked two rapid fire questions. No, I told him, I don’t make a habit of standing on my head, and no I haven’t been skydiving lately.

Dr. G.’s very pleasant and hard-working secretary did get in touch later that same afternoon. She seemed genuinely concerned that the date and time she’d set up be good for me — the appointment a full month sooner than the one I’d been able to on my own. It was a rare moment of feeling as though someone in that big, well respected institution actually cared what happened to me.

Strange that so far, the only excellence I’ve seen from this oh-so-respected facility has come from the support staff who probably make a tenth of what the doctors do. Maybe the physicians get too caught up in showing how smart and skilled they are to be bothered very much by what mere patients think or feel.

It’s also the month that’s become inexorably linked with an incredibly devastating disease… breast cancer. When it comes to cancer, I can speak as both a patient and family member/friend to those who battle on, unsure but undaunted. I know the fear the mere word “cancer” can strike in the heart, I’ve waited the long, anxious days for the results of a biopsy on which everything rested. I’ve googled and researched and waited on specialists. I’ve seen first hand how our oh-so-advanced “treatment” works by ravaging the body (not to mention day-to-day life) of the patient in a constant attempt to stay one step ahead of disease… to beat it back, and beat it back again. It’s a suffering as intense and all-consuming as anything you might imagine.

Cancer, whether of the breast or another body system, has been called the emperor of all maladies, and it is most assuredly that.

Which is why it hits especially hard to witness the level of pinkwashing that comes along with the beautiful reds and golds of this beautiful month. Nothing, not even the toughest of the tough, pro football players, are immune. Too many companies seem to be slapping pink on anything and everything to sell to women rather than offer any kind of genuine support to the cause. Fortunate then that more and more of us are starting to wonder if all the pretty pink ribbons and pastel t-shirt clad walkers, runners and bikers are really doing all that much.

Making money off the suffering of cancer (or any disease for that matter) patients and their families in the name of research surely is a crime equal to murder in the eyes of man and God. It’s a slap in the face to every patient, health care provider, dedicated researcher and family member who’s ever dealt with the disease. Never mind the well-meaning people who buy thinking they are doing something, however small, to help a worthy cause. Nothing is more despicable.

A disquieting example of pinkwashing comes from the stink (sorry!) raised by the perfume commissioned by breast cancer fundraising giant Susan G. Komen for the Cure. Known as Promise Me, the new product has been found in independent testing to contain toxic chemicals that aren’t listed in the ingredients… a questionable offering from an organization that claims to be dedicated to women’s health.

Interesting too that Komen requires a minimum of funds raised before you can participate in one of their events. No money. No working toward the cure. No support. No chance to honor a patient struggling or a woman lost.

It’s hard to deny that a rather robust industry has grown up around breast cancer fundraising. All the soft, girlie, pastel pinkness is, according to some, working to keep women from getting as angry as we should be and demanding more support for research, better treatment options for a cancer that predominantly affects females.

Can’t help thinking there’s something to that last part.

If you’re wondering what you can do, your willingness to purchase (and spread the word) has more power than you think. Use it. Learn more about this disease and how you can protect yourself and the women in your life. Demand a second (even third) opinion. Be your own advocate.

And understand just how much money from those pink clad products actually goes to this cause. Ask:

• How much from each purchase goes to breast cancer?
• What’s the maximum the company will donate?
• What might you, as the shopper, have to do to be sure donation is made?
• What organization gets the money?
• What does the company do to be sure the product doesn’t have ingredients linked to breast cancer?

You might also check out the consumer education program of grass-roots advocacy organization Breast Cancer Action (BCA) known as Think Before You Pink. You can even send a letter directly to Komen with your thoughts about the perfume and pinkwashing.

Say nothing and nothing changes. Speak up and we have a chance.

When it comes to burnout, home-based creatives are at a distinct disadvantage as our companions are pets or children who have no interest in helping us. Drawing from my own experience as an at home creative, here are five ways to banish burnout and keep yourself motivated.

1. Don’t turn on the TV — as this is a time suck that’s irresistible no matter how much work you have waiting. You might think you’re immune (we all do, at first), but you’re not. It will start simply enough… you flip on the tube for the weather, the traffic, and end up an hour later watching a re-run of some forgotten 80s sitcom. Television is, after all, intended for entertainment.
2. Keep (or create) a “steal” file — as this will be your place to go when you’re stuck for an idea. Collect pieces that have appealing images, headlines, formats… things that worked and things that didn’t. Include alternative concepts from the past, just because they didn’t work once, doesn’t mean they never will. Use the Internet to keep a steal file from becoming mountains of paper — bookmark sites or online sources that interest or amuse you and visit them regularly.
3. Music sets the mood — so listen to whatever inspires you, intrigues you, or gives you a new perspective as you work. We all have our favorite tunes or talk shows, and today we can listen in complete privacy if we choose. Don’t focus on coming up with an idea, just sit in your workspace and be ready for one as you enjoy the music. Chances are you’ll be writing something before the song ends.
4. Think in the shower — or grocery line, office waiting room, in the car… in short, move away from the idea that you must work at your desk and no place else. As creatives, we have one of those professions that isn’t a 9-to-5 job, though we’re not saving lives or protecting the public, doing our best work calls for constant attention. So don’t limit yourself, use spare time to focus on your work… even if it’s just storing up observations for later.
5. Exercise — as physical activity gives your body a workout and floods your brain with beneficial chemicals and oxygen. The activity can be anything that gets you up and going — a session on the treadmill, yard work or snow shoveling, housework, walking the dog… the key is to get moving. Often you’ll find that either during, or directly after, the exercise an idea or inspiration will appear.

Staying motivated is tough in any field, but for creatives it’s that much harder… we use up ideas and are always called upon for more. After a time the well runs dry. The good news is that burnout doesn’t last forever. You wouldn’t be in this line of work if you weren’t an idea person.

Today there’s also an article on another set of victims in all this — Jared Lee Loughner’s parents. Reports say they’re devastated, wondering where they failed and truly grieving for the Tucson victims. These two people are hurting in the worst way a parent can… living a nightmare that has no escape… ever. While you might be mad at them, wonder why they didn’t do something about their son, remember we don’t know that. You can at least admire the Loughners for NOT being out there making public statements until now… they’re going through a painful personal hell and are only today facing down cameras and up to the minute coverage.

It’s also become clear in the days since the shooting that while Loughner scared a lot of people and caused a lot of trouble, he never set off just the right combination of bells to be stopped. He was someone who needed help in a desperate way yet went unnoticed. Neighbors and classmates sensed something wasn’t right, but you can’t lock someone up for being difficult.

Interesting that according to the National Institute of Mental Health, 20% of U.S. young people are affected at some point in their lives by serious mental disorders, but a mere 36% of them get any kind of preofessional intervention.

Most likely because services aren’t available or readily accessible. Have you ever tried to get in with a counselor? It’s not an easy process and it takes time. All the while an unstable individual is living with the misperceptions and biases our society holds against mental illness.

Something to think about.

One of the most bothersome parts of the coverage of the event is the increasingly popular battle cry, which the Reuters article shares, that the shooting in Arizona last Saturday has “fueled a national debate about whether the heated rhetoric seen in recent U.S. political campaigns was a factor leading to violence.”

No… it hasn’t. If anything the shooting has brought attention to undiagnosed mental illness, the guts and grit of Gabrielle Giffords and the other lesser known wounded, the excruciating sadness of those who lost loved ones in such a horrible way, and the simple heroics of ordinary people at a supermarket on a Saturday.

It’s made me think, a lot, about the irony of being targeted and in the sights of a madman… and surviving, as Representative Giffords seems to be. Even cynics agree that is miraculous. While he took the lives of six innocent souls, Loughner didn’t get the one he was after. There’s no small bit of satisfaction in that.

As usual, most of the media (not to mention the political establishment) is missing the point… going for the easy answer, the quick sound bite and ignoring what’s right there in front of them. Thankfully m of us (57%) seem to see the reality — there’s a lot more to pushing a troubled person off the deep end than a symbol on a map or some incendiary comments by an ambitious political figurehead.

Nothing is that simple.

So let’s all calm down and stop with the gun control rhetoric and the calls for more civilized political discourse. Fair speech resolutions or enhanced background checks (not that they wouldn’t help) are not going to stop the next unbalanced person from taking a stand.

People like Loughner (and others who pursue such crimes) always seem to find a way around… a reason why… without any help from the rest of us.

But it wasn’t until yesterday that I had the misfortune to experience one of the absolute worst parts of being a parent… watching a child you love with your whole heart be hurt by the world. And though a part of me longs to join the ranks of “helicopter parents” out there… I can’t. It’s just not in me, and my practical, world-weary self can only hope that my child will be better off in the end if I resist the impulse.

Still it’s so hard to watch and be able to do nothing.

When they’re little you think being a parent is the hardest thing you’ve ever done… you’re stressed and sleep deprived and utterly responsible for this little soul who depends on you for absolutely everything. You travel with a small baggage train and your schedule is dictated by something not much bigger than a Thanksgiving turkey. Everything you ever thought about yourself and your role in the world is changed. You’re convinced you’ll never worry more or work harder for anything in your life. You know you’ve never loved like you love this beautiful child and you hold on tight to those little hands.

Surely there has never been a more beautiful, more remarkable, more accomplished child in all the world?

Then comes the time when they let go… they have to it seems, but you wish those fairy tale years could go on forever. Suddenly they can do for themselves… they don’t need you in that same way anymore, they bound down the driveway to the school bus without looking back and you’re glad for that. You take pride in it. Your baby has become a charmingly innocent little person who sponges up knowledge, experiences and all the best of possibilities.

They believe what you tell them. They think you have all the answers.

These are the days that you work to give that child (or children) a safe, fertile place to learn what they must to make their way in the world. You can still manage things for them… set up play dates, coach teams and insulate them from the worst of the world even as you cringe at every tragic story involving children of the same age. While a part of you grudgingly accepts that you can’t protect them 24/7, you hang on and work to control what you can, while you can. These are the days you try to expose this growing little person to as much as possible… give them education and experiences that will help to ease them into the adult world.

Except there’s nothing easy about that.

Turns out, the hardest parenting times are yet to come, for as we all know, the teen years are tough and the adult world sucks. It has mean people and fruitless effort. It’s often unfair. There’s a need for conversations about sex and drugs and racism. Classmates die, trust is broken as reality creeps in despite your efforts to the contrary.

Before you know it, the best you can hope for is to provide a safe haven for them to come home to. Be a person they can confide in. These children bear half your genes, have had the best of your parenting efforts and the life you can give, and they want nothing more than to be different from you.

So you sit back and watch them take those tentative steps into adulthood, holding your breath the whole while, praying they make the team, get into the school they want, have enough friends. And sometimes they don’t… coming home beaten and broken by that big, bad world out there. You bleed for them… more still because you know in your grown-up head that there’s nothing you can do to change it, to make it better. So you hug them (if they’ll let you) and try to find a valuable lesson in the bitter blow.

If you’re lucky that lesson inspires, or the setback sets their feet on a path they might never have walked otherwise. Maybe they even get to experience some of the best of the world, or a person, in the process.

Still it’s cold comfort, to me, and to the sweet, still vulnerable child I love so well.

Assuming that you believe in a higher power… if you were ever given the chance to have a sit down with the Almighty (or whatever name you prefer), an undisturbed bit of time that you might use in any way you wanted, what would you do?

The answers are probably as different as the people reading this. Being the nosy Nellie that I am, I’d be asking questions. Only when I started writing them down as I waited for my flu shot a few weeks back, did I find I came up with twenty… at least to start.

Here they are in no particular order of priority:

1. why do good people suffer?
2. why is there evil?
3. why does evil seem to flourish?
4. why did you make this world?
5. what happens when we die?
6. why do the good die young?
7. what if we don’t believe in you?
8. do you always hear our prayers?
9. can sin really be forgiven?
10. why do different religions fight?
11. are you sorry you made us?
12. is suicide/assisted suicide/abortion a sin?
13. what’s one thing we can do to make you happy?
14. why are churches needed?
15. is the world in trouble?
16. can we change our fate along the way?
17. does everything have a purpose?
18. do animals have souls?
19. are there angels/demons/ghosts?
20. do people who purposely hurt others pay for their crimes?

So what did I forget? These are only the general life questions I’m curious about… I’d have a slew more about history and figures of the past.

At some points on the trip they were the only English-speaking people about, and my Mom was taken aback by the language skills of everyone they met. As soon my parents were identified as Americans, the speaker would switch to flawless English… one of several languages they could speak. As someone with absolutely no faculty for languages (even pig latin), this is cool.

But then the distances in Europe are so much smaller. Imagine if different languages were spoken in Massachusetts and New Hampshire. We’d all speak both too. We’d have to.

And while my Mom and Dad were treated like royalty aboard ship, they both commented on the way the average European lives compared to how most people live here in America. Average homes here are considered villas over there. Our public restrooms are free. Costs for everything from food to fuel are higher… sometimes obscenely so. The gulf between rich and poor is wider.

Sometimes we forget how really good we have it in this country.

In the midst of all the election day foolishness, a ratings-hungry media’s utter lack of objectivity on any issue, and the average person’s frustration with the way things are going, it’s easy to forget. To get mad, maybe join in on the rampant America-bashing going on out there, while secretly hoping some all-powerful hero will rise up and solve the many problems we face, with little or no effort on our part.

You and I both know it doesn’t work that way. It never will.

So rather than whining and complaining… a fruitless exercise that’s gotten us nowhere, let’s do something more constructive. Vote and send a message to Washington… to the media and our President. Maybe to ourselves. And if your candidate loses, don’t give up. Keep in touch with your representatives and senators to let them know what you think… what’s important to you… and most important of all, that you’re watching what they do.

In the end, we need to remember that this country… as troubled and tempestuous as it can be, is still so much better than any other place out there. If it wasn’t, why are an endless stream of immigrants so intent on coming (and staying) here?

Because it’s great here. I think maybe Winston Churchill had it right…

“Democracy is the worst form of government
except for all those others that have been tried.”

So get out there and V-O-T-E. Send the message. American’s have died to give you this right… don’t throw it away because you’re too busy, too lazy, too certain nothing will ever change to bother getting yourself to the polls.

Do nothing and it won’t change. Guaranteed.

Unlike other parts of the world, the biggest threat you’ll face as you approach your polling place in this country is the gauntlet of sign-toting campaign die-hards who are convinced the sign they hold is the one to win your vote before you cross the threshold. Just smile at them, avoid eye contact, (unless you’re up for a political discussion with all the finesse of a used car sales pitch), and be about your business.

I’m reposting the text of the toast here, in case my parents would like to read it in a moment of leisure. Of course anyone who finds themselves in need of an anniversary toast for a unique couple who’ve stood the test of time, feel free to copy and adapt to your needs.

So here it is…

Hello everyone, we wanted to take a minute to thank you all for joining us tonight to celebrate the 50th wedding anniversary of our Mom and Dad.

It’s true, 50 years ago today Carol Ann Cronan was the bride of Frank Donlan at St. Francis de Sales church in Charlestown. On that day, they promised to love, honor and cherish each other, and they certainly have done that over the years.

When we were growing up we used to hear a lot of stories from when our parents were first married. One of our favorites was about how Dad decided that Mom really needed to learn to drive now that they lived in the wilds of Billerica.

She was a city girl, in a time when you didn’t get a license at 16. No one she knew had a license, and she was none too keen on the idea. But he insisted. He was brave, or crazy, enough to think he was the one to teach her. And she loved him enough to let him.

That first driving lesson barely lasted an afternoon before it was agreed that driving school was the way to go. You see our Dad knew Mom would be better off once she had that license. And she was.

He’s always wanted the best for her. Once we got older and didn’t need her at home so much anymore, it was our Dad who encouraged her to break out again. To go to college and get a degree in nursing. He knew she’d be better off with an education and a career. And she was.

Anyone who knows our Mom knows the place our Dad has in her heart. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for him. Whether it’s supporting his own career or keeping him faithfully on the treadmill and watching his cholesterol, she’s always focused on what’s best for him. She’s encouraged him to pursue his interest in art. She’s the first to agree to a trip to the Apple store for some new gadget he has to have for his home office.

And she’s more than willing to be his traveling companion now that he has time to see all the places he’s always wanted to go.

Of course there have been some hard times along the way. But no matter how tough, how scary things got, Mom and Dad faced what came together, and came through it together. Today they can look back on 50 years and be very proud of all they’ve accomplished, and the incredible journey we’ve all been lucky enough to share with them.

As a tribute to our Mom and Dad, and this special day, we’ve put together a video that captures all the best of the last 50 years. All the fun and family and friends. Lots of precious memories. And lots of love.

Let’s have a look, and at the end drink a toast to our anniversary couple… Congratulations Mom and Dad on 50 wonderful years together. Cheers.

The email is said to be the work of Dr. Emanuel Tanay, a psychiatrist of some standing and respect and is titled A Germans View on Islam. In case you have yet to see it, the essay makes the point that pre WWII, the majority of German people viewed the Natzis as “fools” and without knowing it, stood aside while the fools took over everything. By the time the population realized… it was too late and the end had come.

The reader is encouraged to make the comparison to today’s Muslim, the “religion of peace” as we’re often told. And while many people (myself included) agree that the vast majority of Muslims want to exist in peace, we also must recognize that there are fanatics, a vocal and determined minority, who have taken over positions where they speak for the silent, peace-loving, majority.

They’re the ones burning flags and chanting the anit-American slogans, raising suicide bombers and refusing to be dragged into the 21st century even if life would be better for them. They don’t care… they simply want to murder… to maim anyone who is different.

Ignoring them, belittling them, pacifying them will not make them go away.

As the essay points out, loving peace means nothing if you don’t speak out against the positions and behavior of the fanatical few. If we go by the lesson of history (harsh as they are), all those peace loving Muslims will wake up one day and find themselves in the midst of the end of everything. The lessons of Communist Russia, China and mot recently Rwanda, prove that the silent, peace loving, majority soon become the victims of the fanatical few.

While a quick check online reveals the powerful essay is really the work of Canadian Paul E. Marek — a blog post from early March 2006 titled Why the Peaceful Majority is Irrelevant it hardly matters. The acorn here is the message… the time for being passive… accepting what we’re told and gong on about our lives is over.

It has been for a long time, only now perhaps the silent, peace-loving majority, is finally ready to listen. To act.