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Archive for the ‘Death’ Category

The death of Leonard “Spock” Nimoy is sad in many ways. He was a fine actor and, from all accounts, a fine human being. He was a man of many talents, from his acting and directing to some of the beautiful photographs that he shared with us. For me, personally, it was sad because he died of what’s killing me, that is, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. While it’s, as you may have read, the third leading cause of death in the United States, Mr. Nimoy is the first ‘public’ figure of whom I have heard, who has died… and I’m frightened of how it may kill me.

The one thing I do not understand concerning Mr. Nimoy’s death is the number of idiots who feel they have the right to dictate who should or should not attend his funeral. Leonard Nimoy and William Shatner were close friends…for many years. The still-working Shatner had made a commitment that prevented him from attending the funeral. So what? Is it wrong that Shatner chose to honor the charity commitment he had made? Would Nimoy have done the same thing? We’ll never know, but just as Shatner’s children attended Nimoy’s funeral, my bet is that Nimoy family members will choose to attend Captain Kirk’s last stand.

Why am I harping on this? It’s personal and hits very close to home. A few years ago, my sister’s husband died; good guy; good husband; widowed before he met my sister; successful entrepreneur, and all of the other ‘good guy’ adjectives you’d care to mention. My sister asked me to fly to California for Chuck’s funeral, and I went. I went because it was the thing to do and because my sister – my only living relative – asked me to do so. It wasn’t a pleasant trip. In airports and of necessity, I traveled by wheelchair. My sister didn’t know it, and I didn’t tell her. It was a nice service and a nice reception, and a miserable trip back home…okay? It’s over and done with.

If my sister dies before me, I won’t go to her funeral, and should I die before her, I hope like the devil that she won’t try to come to mine…after all, she is three years older than I…no matter what she tells her friends. I fly to California and she introduces me as her ‘older’ brother…damn! It’s not that I wouldn’t want to say goodbye, and I’m certain she feels the same way, but there will be people, possibly some of my own children, who will think me wrong should she pass before me. It’s a crazy world. After all, neither of us is really going to ‘know’ if the other is present…what, I’m gonna lean into the casket and say, “Hey, I made it; how ya doin’? Ya look like shit.”  I mean, c’mon. Then some damned fool will ask, as they always tend to, “What did you whisper to her?” If you tell them, they get all pissed off, and if you don’t tell them, they think you’re a snob.

For those of you who are all pissed that Shatner was a no-show, how about Gene Roddenberry, did you see him there? I know he’s dead, but what difference does that make; he should have been there…and who is to say that he wasn’t. I think the only reason these idiots are criticizing Shatner for not appearing is that they weren’t invited to attend the services and they’re pissed off about it, so they have to express their displeasure and this is their way of doing so…it shows that they’re idiots, but it’s their way.

I’d like to believe, and to a great extent I guess I do believe…that somewhere down the line, Leonard Nimoy and Bill Shatner will get together again. I believe that in much the same way as I believe I will be reunited with my wife and family again. What do we really have if we don’t believe in the possibility of that? Kinda makes ya think, doesn’t it?

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The final epitaph

How strange. We go through life. Perhaps we have a moment of something that others might call achievement or fame. We help with the dishes, mow the lawn, maybe even add a new deck to the back porch, and then our name appears in the paper for three or four days…and we’re gone. Poof, that’s it; that’s the end of it. We appear with thirty, forty, fifty or more names, and that’s all. Well, no, it’s not quite that simple. If we have family, they grieve…for various lengths of time. If we’re without family; if our family pre-deceased us; if we died alone and unloved – except perhaps for a nurse or caretaker – we’re just a name in the paper, along with others, for three or four days…and we’re gone.

Life goes on. We’re not a part of it anymore, but life does go on. Our role is over; we’ve left the stage; we no longer drive the A48 bus along the same route we drove it for years. Some riders notice; most don’t care, just as long as the A48 transports them from point A to point B. That’s their role; go from point A to point B. Then one day one of the regulars is no longer on the bus, and their name appears in the newspaper for three or four days…and the wheels on the bus go ‘round and ‘round…new driver; new faces; new newspapers left behind on the seats; new names in the newspapers.

What a peculiar merry-go-round on which we live, this carousel of life and living. Some people jump off for a few precious moments of glory and fame, but then they jump right back on; go round and round until it becomes their time to leave the merry-go-round forever. Others will jump on, take their place, and the wheel will continue to spin.

Wasn’t it Puck who said, “What fools these mortals be,” blaming others for what he had done, but even without his magic potion, he was right. Our moment in the sun is brief and then, like the magician’s flash paper, our light disappears. Hopefully, we have left behind a memento or several, either in terms of progeny or achievement. If progeny, we hope they will achieve something greater than our own contribution, but we don’t know, nor, in the end, do we really care.

As I age, more and more I agree with Pogo; “We have met the enemy and he is us.” How prophetic was Walt Kelly’s little possum in saying that. What monstrous truth appears in those nine little words? Taken on a very broad scale, man is his own worst enemy. Certainly, he doesn’t play well with others. One or the other is always trying to destroy some other ‘man’ for whatever ungodly – or sometimes godly – reason or other. So we must thank you, Puck and Pogo for your exceedingly insightful look into this creation we call man; this package whose dismal epitaph appears for three or four days as a line in a newspaper, and sometimes not even that.

Many moons and more than a few sunrises ago, my youngest came to me. She had graduated college months before and was working as a therapist in a nursing home. “Is this it?” she asked. “Is this what life is all about? We work during the week; watch old people die; party on weekends or do something else for two days and then begin again? Is this it?” How does one answer a question like that? James C. Collins, author, lecturer, and student of how and why companies succeed, has an interesting approach: “We will all experience disappointments and crushing events somewhere along the way, setbacks for which there is no “reason”; no one to blame. It might be a disease; it might be injury; it might be an accident; it might be losing a loved one; it might be getting swept away in a political shake up; it might be getting shot down over Vietnam and thrown into a POW camp for 8 years. What separates people, James Stockdale taught me, is not the presence or absence of difficulties, but how they deal with the inevitable difficulties of life.” My answer, although not quite as erudite, was probably similar to yours. “If you’re not living your life as you wish, what would you do to change it? How can you make your life what you want?” It wasn’t a particularly brilliant answer, somewhat of a cliché I would imagine. By and large, my life has turned out as well – I think – as could be expected with the product with which I had to work. I’ve known manual labor; I graduated high school and college (twice); I had a job that I enjoyed immediately upon graduation; was married; fathered children; suffered the usual tragedies of losing parents and even a few friends before the ripe old age of 25; changed jobs and enjoyed the second more than the first; the third more than the second, etc; learned the agonies of being fired without cause – “We’re abolishing your position;” what a pisser that was;  rehired and spent the next twenty years loving every minute of each work day. There were many enjoyments and few painful experiences. There was vicarious enjoyment through the achievements of my spouse and my children. Yet, looking at everything in hindsight, it was just life’s merry-go-round; a nice ride, but it’s almost time to get off.

I figure I’ll beat the newspapers, however. You see, I’ve already arranged that the newspapers not be notified. Those who want to know will know. I don’t care to be a line in a paper for three or four days. I will defy Dylan Thomas and I will go quietly into that gentle night.

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“I’m dying,” she said. Simple, direct, no drama to it all.

“Yes,” I replied, “I’m aware of that.”

“Can you help?” she asked.

“A rather strange question,” I responded. “Help in what manner?”

“Can you ease the pain? There’s a great deal of pain, you know. I don’t really mind the pain, but if there was a manner in which it could be eased, I think I’d feel better about the dying if there weren’t quite so much pain.” Always the pragmatist.

“There are drugs. Is that what you want? It might be for the best if you took them. They’ll ease the pain for a while.” It always seemed strange to me that when the doctors know someone is dying, how so many of them still seem reluctant to turn the dying patient intro a drug addict even though it might just allow their transition to be easier. I wonder why that’s so?

“I’m not big on drugs, you know; never cared for them; always thought they messed up my stomach. Guess I’ll just have to make some choices.”

“Yes, I guess you will.” She’s always been somewhat stubborn about drugs…as well as doctors. Had she not collapsed in the store, we probably would have learned she was dying after the fact…rather, a fait accompli. That’s really not very nice. She’s been dying for several years now. None of us had the courage to confront her with that fact which she would have denied had we mentioned it. I suppose that, as her husband, it was my place to speak up, but why irritate a person who’s dying and who already feels badly enough about the whole thing.

“Do you still love me?” she asks.

“Yes, I still love you,” I reply.

“Not as you once did, however,” she queries.

“No, not as I once did,” I respond. “I love you now without doubt, without fear, without any of those things that could call into question my love for you. I love you now with trust. Trust goes beyond the intimacy of youth, the molding of ourselves to one another; the attempt at altering the other’s opinions. This is, perhaps, the final stage of our love. Somehow, it seems more than appropriate, don’t you think?”

“We did have our times, however,” she says, attempting a small smile.

“Take this,” I say. Although she’s been on morphine for months, she appears to believe that what she takes is medicine. Perhaps this is some form of delirium, denial, or whatever. At least she’s coherent. Unfortunately, there are times when she’s not. Her milky eyes will stare at me and gibberish comes from her tongue. This is the time to stare back and nod. The tears have stopped; both hers and mine. Tears are useless at this stage. One might say, ‘all cried out,’ but that wouldn’t be quite right. I don’t think one can ever reach that point.

Her tongue comes out and the dropper releases its copper measure of relief. It won’t take long, but neither will it do much good. Should I continue to refill the dropper until the bottle is empty? Is that fair to her, to me?

Minutes pass; her eyes close; open briefly, and she is gone.

Too much?

 

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I don’t believe that anyone can ever know the feelings of true pain and agony until they have watched a loved one waste away to some horrible disease knowing full well that there is nothing they can do to stop or even slow down the horror of what is happening; I’m told that being kicked in the balls by a kangaroo might come in a close second, but I’m not from Australia and the only kangaroos I’ve ever seen have been on television. Therefore, it’s somewhat difficult to experience what the feeling might be like when it’s coming to you from a forty-two inch, high definition flat screen television set. There may be people with a better imagination than I who could double up and scream in pain upon seeing this, but they are, I’m quite certain few and far between.

Do I make light – or lite if one is a beer drinker – of watching a loved one die? Unless you’ve been there, don’t even think about criticizing me. One minute you think you’re doing all the right things to make them comfortable; the next minute you know that you’re just deluding yourself and you ask over and over again, “Why can’t I do more?” Another question that will pop up somewhere along the line, that is if you believe in a higher power, is, “Why are you punishing her this way, God? Why won’t you stop the pain?” All good questions, but you and I won’t learn the answers until we stand before whoever or whatever it is we will stand before in final judgment. I certainly hope it’s not a kangaroo.

I’m old. That means that I’m not only on the downhill side of the mountain; it means I’ve crossed the desert, forded the river, traveled the forest, walked the yellow brick road, and am well on my way to making that final turn into the homestretch and the checkered flag. It’s not the checkered flag that scares the daylights out of me, but that friggin’ homestretch. It may be long and painful or short and so quick that I’m gone before I even realize the pain…although I doubt that will be the case…just as long as it doesn’t consist of a mob, troop, or court of kangaroos doing their happy dance.

I have come to understand that it’s okay to joke about death…not to someone who is dying, of course – that would be rather crass – but I remember my late wife saying at one point, “You know, this really should be you laying here. It would be so much easier for me.” She still had a good sense of humor at that time. As many others, I believe, have wondered, “Why was it him or her? Why not me? He or she was such a good person. Why did it have to be…?” Maybe we learn the answers; maybe we don’t. Guess we just have to die to find out. Certainly, a kick in the balls from a kangaroo isn’t going to answer the question.

And don’t get me wrong; I have nothing against kangaroos…except…well…you know…oooh! Just thinking about it sort of freaks me out. I mean it’s not like camels; they’re just plain mean. They spit and bite and they smell. Ostriches can give you a hell of a kick, but not like a kangaroo…they take aim.

Is this supposed to be funny? Well, I’d have to think about that. On the one hand, yeah, yeah, it’s supposed to be a bit humorous, but on the other hand, there is very little humor in losing someone about whom you care deeply. It leaves a hole in your life; not in your heart necessarily…that’s the baloney that the poets push…but it leaves an emptiness in you that is always there. Sometimes, you can hide it; then, other times, it jumps up and punches you right in the gut. That’s the time when you just want to work things out by yourself…because I’m not gonna kid you, it hurts like a bitch. Somehow, you do manage to get through it…usually…but it’s like a tornado has passed by, sucking the air from you.

For those who haven’t reached the top of the mountain yet, don’t forget to stop and admire the view; it’s like nothing you will ever see again.  If you’re in the desert, fording the river, or going through the forest, slow down and look around. Absorb the beauty of all that surrounds you. Before you know it, you will have walked the yellow brick road and see that homestretch and the checkered flag. Before you reach it, soak up all of the good and beautiful you can…oh, yeah, and watch out for the kangaroos.

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Okay, here we go. Let’s get all of the members of the Asia and Hispanic communities across the country to protest the assassinations of Wenjin Lieu and Raphael Romero to get out there and protest. We can smash windows and loot stores and have Lieu’s new wife and Romero’s widow and children appear on television screaming, “Someone has to pay, and it has to be Black people because a Black man killed our husband and our father.” Then the President has to weigh in and say something like, “Wait a minute; these were police officers. They’re expected to go out and die for the city. Then Al Sharpton can get a few more minutes on the boob tube telling the public about what a great big, jolly fellow Ismaaiyl Brinsley really was and then the Blacks in Bed/Sty and other cities, particularly in St. Louis will have a reason to go out and break more windows and loot more stores and…ah, fuck it, this whole thing is just getting completely out of control.

Michael Brown was a thief and robber; Eric Garner was selling cigarettes illegally and resisted arrest; Tamir Rice was waving around a toy gun from which he had removed the orange cover denoting a toy. What the hell was the crime that these two police officers committed? Were they involved in the Garner takedown? I don’t think so. Was it because they were sitting in their patrol car in Bed/Sty trying to keep peace in the streets? Wouldn’t surprise me in the least.  I’m told that Brinsley had a long criminal record so what the hell was he doing with a gun? Answer that one for me NRA. I’m told he had an “undiagnosed mental illness.” What, in the name of God does that mean? If it was undiagnosed, how do we know that he had a mental illness? Behaving like an asshole does not necessarily qualify one as having an undiagnosed mental illness. I have an undiagnosed brain aneurism. Does that mean I have one or not. Well, I get these headaches so that’s what it must be. Now, if you swallow that one, I have a bridge in the Bed/Sty section of Brooklyn that I’m going to sell on the cheap. If you’re interested, drop me a line.

Seriously, the Michael Brown case is over. To Mom, Dad, and Step-Dad, the kid could do no wrong. The video of him shoving the store clerk shows a different side. To the family, he was just a big kid. To Darren Wilson, he was a credible threat. Eric Garner was a big man. He didn’t want to be arrested; wasn’t going to be arrested without a fight. The police jumped him. As I watched the video again, I heard him keep saying that he couldn’t breathe. If he couldn’t breathe, how come he kept saying it? Did the police overreact? Possibly, but why didn’t they just taser the guy and drop him like a sack of flour. “You’re under arrest” means put your hands behind your back after you’re down on your belly. It doesn’t mean, “Fuck you; stay the hell away from me.”

We’ve lost perspective in this country when it comes to law enforcement and how to react when people in law enforcement attempt to do their job to the best of their ability. “Put wings on pigs,” my ass. To me that mean that it was open season on Ismaaiyl Brinsley, and it’s just too damned bad that he got to fire the first shots.

I’ve got news for you Mr. & Mrs. Black America. Too many of you aren’t paying close enough attention to what your kids are doing. Those who are see their kids accomplishing great things. They see that because they are on top of their kids activities from the moment they leave for school in the morning. They pay attention to the report cards; they go to the meetings with their children’s teachers; They encourage their kids to do the right thing. How involved were you Mr. & Mrs. Brown? How involved were you Mrs. Garner? What was Tamir Rice doing out at night playing with his toy gun, waving it around in the park, and where were his parents?

Please, stop trying to excuse the actions of you and your children by telling me I’m white and don’t understand. That has been the bullshit excuse for decades. Just because the color of your skin is different from mine doesn’t mean that you “deserve” greater consideration or that you have “permission” to do things that would get my ass hauled into jail. We are people; you owe me nothing; I owe you nothing. What I do understand is that I know a hell of a lot of Black people who are smarter than I am, and I have great respect for them. I know a hell of a lot of white people who are dumber than I am and I say the same thing to them that I’m saying to many of you…”Get off your ass and do the best with what God gave you. Stop bitchin’ and start thinkin.’ Berry Gordy, Jr. was a prize fighter who was known as “Canvas Back.” He saw the light; borrowed $50 from his mother and if you don’t know the rest, go look it up.

Years ago, after being beaten to a pulp by some true idiots in the Los Angeles Police Department, Rodney King asked, “Why can’t we all just get along?” I don’t care about “getting along” with the Browns or the Garners or the Rice family. They screwed up…and they won’t take responsibility for screwing up. Wake up Black America. There are some fantastic role models out there for you to emulate. Get with the program and start emulating them.

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I am so goddamned sick and tired of hearing how Michael Brown was just a great big jolly kid who didn’t deserve to die that I want to puke.

The way this kid is being portrayed by members of the community, most of whom are probably like me and didn’t know him, is that he was just so wonderful, laughing, the life of the party, etc., and he was shot by that white son-of-a-bitch who was out to get him. That’s what I’m hearing; that’s how I’m interpreting what I’m hearing. Now that white son-of-a-bitch is going to go free, just like that white son-of-a-bitch in Florida who killed Trevon Martin. All the white sons-of-bitches are going to go free because it’s open season on Black people.

What a crock of shit! Michael Brown robbed a store minutes before he was shot to death. He threatened and pushed a clerk or someone, perhaps the man who owned the store and who was so small he wouldn’t stand a chance against someone of Michael Brown’s size and obvious disposition. Give me a break, folks. Michael Brown was killed because he was a punk who thought he was bigger, badder, and the meanest son-of-a-bitch on the street. Evidence says he got two punches into the face of Darren Wilson before Wilson started to shoot.  In my mind, from all that I’ve heard, Michael Brown got exactly what he deserved.

That being said, I don’t believe that Trevon Martin got what he got. I do believe that George Zimmerman should be sitting in jail for murdering that particular 17-year old. I toss that in here just to placate those who have reached the point where they would like to shoot me.

Fact: If you are told to stop by a police officer, stop!

Fact: If you are told to put your hands up by a police officer, get your damned hands in the air!

Fact: If you are told by a police officer to get down on the ground, hit the deck with your arms and legs spread!

These are the facts. I’ve been there; I know this. If a cop tells you, “Stop or I’ll shoot,” you better freeze in your tracks and hope your bladder and bowels don’t let go. I’ve been there; I know this. If you are acting suspiciously – and we were – and a cop comes toward you with a gun, you are well advised to do what “the man” says, regardless of the color of your skin or the size of your body! My personal experience happened in South Boston many years ago. It was a mistake, but it was a very frightening experience.

Had that cop shot and killed any of us, I find it difficult to believe that a large group would gather and burn down businesses in Southie. Being Irish wouldn’t have helped me or my friends in that Irish neighborhood. In Ferguson; in Detroit; in many other cities around the nation, if a Black person is shot, that seems to be time to riot, burn businesses – many owned or franchised to  Black entrepreneurs – and otherwise cause trouble…because “the man” hates Black people.

I read an editorial in the Boston Globe this morning. In it the writer notes, “Being black in America means trying to heal wounds that feel like they’ve been left raw since long before you were born.” I’m sorry but for me, many of these wounds have been self-inflicted. Most of us, Black or white, can only speak anecdotally about our experiences with people of the opposite color. Most of my experiences have been good; some have been extremely unpleasant. When I walked into a Black bar in the Mission Hill section of Boston, I was the first white face in there. Until the members of the Boston Patriots football team walked in behind me, I was terrified. Why, because a group of Black men were already on their feet and coming toward me and from the expressions on their faces, they did not have handshakes on their collective minds. Had we not been previously invited by the bar’s owner, things could have gotten ugly. The writer goes on to say, “Over and over he (St. Louis County prosecutor Robert McCulloch) repeated two themes: That the loss of Brown’s life was tragic; that Wilson was justified. This reinforces a message that gets whispered and shouted from black parents to their children and all along the family tree: Your life is not your own, your body is all you have, and even that guarantee can be voided in this country. Wait a minute; that’s not a Black thing; that’s true of every single one of us. Our lives are not our own. Our lives are governed by the environment in which we live. Our body is all any of us have, and it can be snatched from us with the snap of one’s fingers. Don’t you dare go attaching color to something that is universal. Yes, if you choose to live in a violent neighborhood, your chances of survival go down, but please don’t tell me that you are required to live in that neighborhood. There are  many people who manage to get out of those neighborhoods by hard work and an understanding of why they should move.

I am sick to death of this “Woe is me” attitude that I’m hearing from people like Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, and the protesters in Ferguson. Stop blaming all of your problems on the white man. Burning out businesses and turning over and burning cars is not the answer. Organize; run your own candidates for public office; work to get out the vote and vote yourself. Stop bitching and start building opportunities.

 

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The Ebola epidemic in Africa appears to be creating a panic on the part of certain people in the United States. The talking heads seem to be putting on their “disaster” faces when talking about the death of Thomas what’s-his-name in Texas and the two health care workers who are currently showing symptoms of the disease at the hospital. It’s not that I don’t remember Mr. Duncan’s name; I just don’t give a damn about it. He can probably now be called “US patient zero” for bringing a disease which I believe he knew he had contracted into this country. You don’t give a damn about us; we don’t give a damn about you.

Ebola is a terrible disease. Doctors in Nebraska and several other states are knowledgeable about it and how to prepare to receive anyone with symptoms. It has become all too apparent that the staff at Texas Presbyterian Hospital in Dallas cannot be rated as knowledgeable, and that is unfortunate. It is also clear that Dr. Thomas Friedan of the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) is tap dancing faster than Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire in an effort to demonstrate how poorly prepared the CDC was for what has taken place. Training does not mean sending out a bunch of instructions that you hope hospital personnel will take the time to read. Whenever he said, “We have a team ready to go anywhere to train hospital staff,” I damn near pissed my pants laughing. Excuse me sir, but we have nearly 320 million people in the United States. In addition, we have 5,273 hospitals in the country…and you have “a team;” what turnip truck did you just fall from?

Ebola kills people…but…it doesn’t kill everyone. Ebola can be treated and steps can be taken to prevent the spread of the disease. The CDC and nearly everyone else in a position to know say that Ebola cannot be spread other than by contact with an infected person’s bodily fluids. So, if an Ebola patient sneezes while I’m inhaling, can I become infected, or, if it happens to be a woman, do we have to “swap spit,” so to speak?

New diseases seem to crop up on a regular basis, and Ebola seems to fall into that group. Notably, it has chosen to arise in some of the poorer countries of Africa. This doesn’t appear to be unusual. From Africa, it will normally descend on Europe and then on to North and South America. We have faced many epidemics or pandemics long before Ebola. We have conquered the majority of them without too much trouble, and doctors have shown that the fight against Ebola can also be won.

When Europeans first arrived on the shores of the New World, they brought with them something called smallpox. It wiped out entire tribes of Native Americans during the 1633-1634 periods. According to Healthline, “…the native population in New England dropped by over 70 percent.” The last reported case of smallpox in this country was in 1949, and that was someone who had never been vaccinated.

If you’re looking for something a bit more recent, how about the Spanish Flu that infected soldiers fighting in World War I and who were from any number of countries. This epidemic/pandemic left 20 million dead in a matter of months before its spread could be stopped. In the United States, this flu killed an estimated 675,000 men, women and children. Today, a flu shot is available that will prevent or ease our chances of catching the flu in one of its many forms.

The peak of the polio epidemic in the United States was around 1952. “The first major polio epidemic in the United States had occurred in 1916. In the 1940s and 50s, polio outbreaks created frenzy, frightening parents and prohibiting travel from city to city within the United States. Some towns were quarantined to protect the public from affected individuals. It reached a peak in 1952 when over 58,000 cases were reported, including 3,145 deaths.” One of those deaths was a kid I had been working beside on a Saturday. By the following Tuesday, he was dead. Thanks to Jonas Salk, we no longer worry too much about polio.

There have been many other epidemics in America’s more recent history. The one with which we have the greatest familiarity is perhaps the AIDS epidemic that started in 1981. “…the epidemic we now know as HIV began to appear as a rare lung infection characterized by a weakened immune system. It remains the leading cause of death in the United States among people age 25 to 44. Research has found many ways to put AIDS into remission and I, for one, have no doubt that the time will come when a cure will become possible.

There is, of course, one disease against which we are continuing to fight with only moderate success. Cancer is the most insidious of the diseases we fight; yet, that’s not fair. Multiple Sclerosis, Muscular Dystrophy, Cerebral Palsy, and a ton of other diseases that could be named are still out there to be fought and research is ongoing. However, I don’t believe there is a single person in the United States who has not been touched by cancer in some way. Whether it was a member of the family, a friend, colleague, teammate, or the neighbor across the street, we all know the tragedy of cancer. It killed my Dad, my wife, my grandparents, and too many other non-family members for me to count. Just when the researchers think they’ve found the answers to a particular cancer, it mutates, and they have to begin their fight all over again.

Ebola is not cancer. A cure will be found. The big question mark becomes how will the manufacturers of the vaccine to cure Ebola get into the hands of those who need it? Countries such as Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea are too poor to be able to afford the price of the cure. Here’s another opportunity for the world to show its humanitarian side and not be concerned about the bottom line.

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