Cry, the Beloved Country: The First Installment of My African Journal

I've been back a little over two weeks from what I've dubbed my family's three weeks, three continents tour. The latter half of the trip we spent in Cape Town, visiting my son who is doing a study abroad semester at the University of Cape Town.  He's an English major, minoring in International Education and  Education Policy--loving the literature like Alan Paton's famous novel and the work he's doing in class and in the townships.

I've seen poverty right here in America. And in Peru, where people were living out of puddles on highway medians. But something about the gestalt of Cape Town remains inherently disturbing--clearly the after effects of apartheid and its devastating effect on the Blacks and Coloreds (those are terms used in South Africa, not mine) who were uprooted from their homes and tribal lands and plopped down in townships that still exist today. And in those townships, one of which we spent an afternoon touring, there are many people living in overcrowded tin shanties, with dirt floors, little if any running water let alone hot water for sanitation. One woman recounted that when it rains hard, snakes get washed into the house along with the mud, slithering across the same floor her kids put their mattresses down to sleep on every night.

What makes this so disturbing is the curious juxtaposition with million dollar homes, wine estates (that have in the past paid their migrant workers with wine, leading to an epidemic of alcoholism and fetal alcohol syndrome), luxury beachfront resorts with high rise buildings that destroyed the natural landscape,  and upscale shopping malls. Poetic justice that the gorillas are wreaking havoc along the Cape of Good Hope, breaking into homes and cars, venting fury that their natural habitat is gone along with the now extinct black lions, and the waning populations of Cape zebras.

At times I could have been in London, Paris,  New York City or Montreal, with the fusion cuisines and ubiquitous British, French and West African influence until I looked up and saw Table Mountain, The Twelve Apostles, Devils Peak and Signal Hill--then turned a corner to find groups of men hanging out, begging, hawking souveniers. or screaming out windows of mini vans promising us the cab ride of a life to city center or back to the suburb of Mowbray, where we were staying.

Needless to say, Americans are not blameless when it comes to our past treatment of minorities and Native Americans. And parts of our country have pockets of poverty as well. But I'm still struggling to reconcile my feelings about being a "have" as opposed to a "have not" in a land where there are three classes: rich, poor, and destitute.

On a chilly, gray winter day, the residents of Langa welcomed us into their township, their home and their schools-and yes, a shabeen where I drank beer from a communal bucket (even though I hate beer) to show solidarity. And we sprang for the entire tab R20.00, which is about $2.00 US for enough home made brew (it wasn't bad) to intoxicate about fifteen adults.

No one knows what will happen to this fragile, lopsided democracy when Nelson Mandela dies. There is conjecture, fear, and resignation that, without the moral compass that he and other political prisoners and exiles set will be spinning aimlessly when he is not lying in that hospital bed and the daily prayer services and tributes have ended. They're trying hard to build houses on top of the rubble of shanties at townships like Langa, just outside of Cape Town, but more spring up, tacking themselves onto every spare piece of land even if a dirty river with pigs  and chickens wading through it laps at the sides.

My daughter and I will be starting a Girl Scout project to send book bags and school supplies to the children of Langa, so stay tuned. And, as if I don't have enough to do, I'm going to try and organize some sort of nursing, dental, and medical team to go down to a township for a special project focused on women's and children's health needs.

We did spend some time in Europe (Italy, Vienna, and Amsterdam) en route to Africa and on the long road back--hence the three continent reference. And from Johannesburg to the Numbi Gate to Kruger National Park. It was an incredible family journey with multiple flights, train, bus and van rides, reminiscent of the TV show The Wild Thornberries. When we cleared customs at Kennedy, the officer asked how long we'd been away surveying bags full of dirty laundry and souveniers,  including four bottles of wine and an African drum from Mamanapusa.

"Three weeks." I said at 9 p.m. EDT in North America  in our 36th hour of travel, at what felt like 3 a.m. in Africa.

He stamped our passports, each in turn, then pushed them across the counter with a smile. "Welcome home."

Indeed.

The Un-Answerable Question

            Last week at this time, I was hunkered down finishing a mid term assignment for my ongoing doctoral studies on a real life quality management project. Buried deep in abstract organizational and management theory, I struggled surprisingly hard to pull real life quality metrics and benchmarks out of the literature and a myriad of government and accreditation agency publications. Got it done. On time. Over the page limit (as usual). Irritated.

            The next day, the real-life process of quality improvement continued at a late afternoon meeting. Anxious to get home, get my head out of academia and work related problems, I flipped on the radio for a traffic report and instead heard breaking news about the bombs at the Boston Marathon. Zap. Back to 9/11/01 with my heart racing, my mind struggling to comprehend the reality, listening for every tidbit that would indicate it wasn't as bad as it sounded. My mind wandered back to what it was like on 9/11/01 working in the hospital, waiting for the casualties that never came because there were no survivors. The fear, the grief, the helplessness, the anguish. The big question-Why?

            I, along with a lot of my colleagues, have PTSD related to the events of that day. We go into health care to be heroes, to save people, to run toward the screams and the danger—not away from it. But that theoretical desire collides with reality big time in disasters—and my heart goes out to the first responders, doctors and nurses in the Boston emergency rooms who had to deal with all that—plus their own grief and horror as they pronounced the dead and made life and death. decisions in minutes on whose leg needed to be amputated and who got to go to the OR first.

            Coincidently, I am working on a Moth Storytelling based event about my experiences on 9/11 to commemorate National Nurses Week. And I made my home in Boston during my residency, not far from the big Citgo sign I see on all the pictures of Kenmore Square, deserted while the good people huddled in their basements and maniacs lobbed a bomb out their car window and shot anything that was moving. I've always said if there was another city I could live in besides New York it's Boston—and now both have their own sad legacy of terror and its aftermath.

            This has infused even more emotion and reality into my oral re-telling but it re-opened the wounds. It's hard to concentrate, focus, complete anything. I refused to make my son an airline reservation for his European trip that goes through Moscow, wishing he wasn't going at all. I'll pay more, much more, for what seems like a less risky itinerary but who would have thought watching a running race was risky? Who would have thought going to work one day in the Twin Towers would have involved mortal peril?

            One tidbit I do remember from the chapter on management of complex systems is to make some changes, no matter how small. So, I got on the subway yesterday to go to ballet class. The trains were packed with weekend construction disrupting several train lines and routes. I read my book, moved like a robot across the platform from the local to express, one eye on all the bags and backpacks around me. Walked from 86^th and Lexington up to 93^rd instead of from 96^th and Lexington down. No choice—the Number 6 was bypassing my usual stop.

            I danced till my legs hurt more than my heart and got back on the train, sipping water from a bottle, scanning the faces, the bundles, the baggy clothes, the hoodies, looking for anything amiss. Got home and went to see "42" with my family and munched popcorn (loved the movie).

            Meanwhile, Bostonians held vigils for the dead and injured, celebrated the capture of the surviving suspect, and the death of the supposed mastermind. They took back their civilized and cultured city. They will recover. We will all recover. But we will never forget. We can't. We'll keep asking the un-answerable question: Why?

Holiday Gifts from Sweet and Inspirational to Irreverent

Signed copies of all my new and re-releases are available for holiday gifts. Contact me for personalization and details about which anthology would best suit your intended recipient. I can also gift bag any combination of the books and send them directly if you'd like.

Grandma might not like Not Your Mother's Book: On Being a Woman, but then again, maybe she would. It's gotten five star reviews on Amazon as hysterical and a great present for all your (girl) friends.

"A Catholic Schoolgirl's Primer" is an excerpt of my memoir Someday I'm Going to Write a Book: Diary of an Urban Missionary.

For the less intrepid, a tribute to my dear Grandma Clo, who died on November 18, 1999, appears in A Quilt of Holidays, an anthology of sweet, inspirational stories. This one, along with other excerpts of Someday in Thanksgiving to Christmas and This Path, are work and family safe.

My new fiction: urban fantasy stories set in the world of my novels, featured in the Ten Tales Series Anthologies edited by Rayne Hall are very easy to gift since they are ebooks in all formats. And I can send you personalized gift cards.

Carole Ann Moleti is a nurse-midwife in New York City, thus explaining her fascination with paranormal and urban fantasy that infuses everything she writes. Her newest fiction is featured in Beltane: Ten Tales of Magic. Excerpts of Carole's memoir, Someday I'm Going to Write a Book: Diary of an Urban Missionary range from the sweet and inspirational in A Quilt of Holidays to the edgy and irreverent in Not Your Mother's Book: On Being a Woman.

New Nonfiction-From the Sweet and Inspirational to the Edgy and Irreverent

Here is the official press release for my latest publications. Publishing Syndicate is planning a book tour for authors featured in the debut book in the Not Your Mother's Book Series.  I don't have details as yet, but will let you know where and when I will be reading and signing.

"A Catholic Schoolgirl's Primer" is an excerpt of my memoir Someday I'm Going to Write a Book: Diary of an Urban Missionary.  It appears in Not Your Mother's Book: On Being a Woman, which was released on October 9 and already has five star reviews on Amazon. Not for the easily offended, this book will make you laugh out loud and is a great gift for like minded girlfriends--and guys who really want to understand the down and dirty details of what being a woman is all about.

For the less intrepid, a tribute to my dear Grandma Clo, who died on November 18, 1999, appears in A Quilt of Holidays, an anthology of sweet, inspirational stories. This one is work and family safe.

The press release also contains links to my new fiction: urban fantasy stories set in the world of my novels, featured in the Ten Tales Series Anthologies edited by Rayne Hall.

I have copies to sign for anyone who'd like them so please email caroleATcaroleannmoletiDOTcom for details.

Carole Ann Moleti is a nurse-midwife in New York City, thus explaining her fascination with paranormal and urban fantasy that infuses everything she writes. Her newest fiction is featured in Beltane: Ten Tales of Magic. Excerpts of Carole's memoir, Someday I'm Going to Write a Book: Diary of an Urban Missionary range from the sweet and inspirational in A Quilt of Holidays to the edgy and irreverent in Not Your Mother's Book: On Being a Woman.

A New Endeavor

Today was back to school day. For me! I logged on early this morning, worked out the technical glitches, and started my on line doctoral program at Walden University.

I have this coffee cup sitting in my closet, chipped, broken, stained.

It shows a harried woman in a business suit, holding a briefcase, baby hanging onto her ankles and toys scattered all around her.

The sentiment:

I am working woman

I hold down a job

I am nuts

Only now I have three jobs plus a husband, three kids,  a dog, a cat, a garden and a car sporting three bumper stickes: Peace, Not a Republican, and I'm in the 99%.

The black one with flashy red letters proclaiming "This IS My Brilliant Career"disappeared from the office I shared with about fifteen other people. Either someone stole it or broke it--but it doesn't matter. Fact is, I stepped off the fast track in 1990, when I was pregnant with my first child, knowing I could never do it all. And that a career is never as important as family. A lesson learned the hard way when my first marriage ended in divorce.


It's all in my two memoirs Someday I'm Going to Write a Book: Diary of An Urban Missionary and Karma, Kickbacks and Kids.

So, my am I going to spend the next 15-18 months researching and reading the most boring, dense, and academic material one can imagine then re-synthesizing it into my own theoretical framework for clinical research?  Because I know that my fledgling theory of management of psychosocial risk can help clinicians like me take care of the toughest, most vulnerable patients--and help them get off a path that leads either nowhere or to self destruction. And unless I prove it, no one will pay any attention to it.


So in about two years, I will be Dr. Carole Ann, and still be doing what I love: taking care of patients., focusing on creative writing, and reading for pleasure instead of work.  It goes by in the blink of an eye, especially when you're back on the fast track.

In the meantime, fiction sales are humming along. More about that on my other blog. I just got back from Chi-Con, the World Science Fiction Convention where I met up with many of my like minded writer friends

And non fiction ain't doin' too bad either.

Two of my favorite essays, "The Dance Class" and "Endless Possibilities" are in This Path, just reissued as an e book. And a tribute to my grandmother is coming out in A Quilt of Holidays in the next couple of weeks. Sometime this fall, an excerpt of Someday, "A Catholic Schoolgirl's Primer" is due out in Not Your Mother's Book: On Being a Woman. Not for the shy or easily offended, but I've never been one to sugar coat things.

Time to sign off now and get to that 150 pages of reading and two papers due by next Friday. I still owe my editor two short stories. It will all get done. It always does.

This Path: Free Today

This Path is a collection of essays that was just re-released today. It contains two of my favorites: "The Dance Class" and "Endless Possibilities."

If you'd like a free copy on Kindle, you can download it today only. If you have a Nook, contact me.

And please let me know what you think.

I have two new essays coming out this fall, so stay tuned.

Ten Years Later-Tread Lightly On Our Memories, The Pain Is Still Great

I knew this weekend would be difficult and it is. I am physically sick today, and do not believe that my (minor) case of PTSD is not to blame for this otherwise unexplainable pain.


View my photo scrapbook: 9/11, Then and Now here


Please go to my other blog for my thoughts on the tenth anniversary of the 9/11/01 attacks


Here is a retrospective on The Twin Towers and The Lowly Parking Meter that I wrote last year.


And here is part of the 9/11/01 chapter of Someday I'm Going to Write a Book:

It was pleasantly busy. A few women in labor, triage was quiet. I got coffee

from the food cart, Starbucks, with a shot of French vanilla. I made sure to get skim milk because I treated myself to a scone.  They have almost my whole day’s allotment of calories. That Starbucks has enough caffeine to jazz me up for 12 hours.

“Wow, you have to see this,” said Janine the unit clerk. “A plane just hit the World Trade Center.”

A few of us went into an empty patient room and saw live footage of the gaping hole and the smoke.

“Someone must have lost control of a small plane, there have been a few helicopter crashes recently,” I said. “I hope not too many people got hurt.”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth when we saw, live and in living color, the second plane crash into the south tower. Flames exploded, debris and what we now know were people were flying out. Even the news commentators were stunned, stumbling over their words like drunkards.

“Ohmigod!”

“What the hell just happened?”

“Someone just flew a second plane into the other tower!”

“Shit!”

“It’s terrorists!”

I don’t remember who said what. One hand over my mouth to hold back the vomit, I held onto the wall as I walked, my knees like rubber. External disaster codes were activated. Bells clanged and the operator called out instructions.

“THIS IS NOT A DRILL!”

“Blue team to basement.”

“Red team to lobby.”

“Green team to ER.”

Automatic fire doors slammed shut. Strobe lights flashed.  Footsteps pounded in the hallways. Panic bars clicked on the doors as they smashed open against the walls then slammed shut. People ran around like an uncovered nest of roaches.

 “The phones are down!”

“The pagers aren’t working!”

“Make sure all emergency equipment is plugged into red outlets in case we lose power!”

“My husband is in that building!” screamed someone, falling to her knees.

“My father is down there,” said Janine through tears, trying in vain to get a cell phone, any phone to work.

“Joann, let’s get you into the lounge. Turn the TV’s off in the patient’s rooms!” I tried to help her to her feet and ease her out of the hallway.

“A plane just went down near Philly. It was supposedly headed for the White House. There are 8 planes missing from the flight controllers, they are going to shoot them down, the US is under attack.” Josie read the CNN headlines to us but she spoke like she was the President.

Of course, when planning an attack the enemy knocks out communications first. The World Trade Center is very close to here. We have no phones…

The fear, not for myself, but for my country was so profound I was beginning to panic myself. Outbursts and screams from staff that had relatives in lower Manhattan  reminded me that my job was to help others, not to dissolve under pressure.

Our Father, who art in heaven hallowed be thy name…

“Joann, just because he’s not answering his phone doesn’t mean anything, they aren’t working.”

 Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…

“Here have a drink of water.”

“Lisa, your husband works blocks away, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us…

 “I know Denise’s husband is a fireman, they know what they’re doing, in 1993 very few people got hurt.”

 And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For the kingdom, the power and the glory are yours now and forever, Amen.

 “She wants to push? OK, I’m coming Josie.”

“Carole, the south tower just collapsed. It’s gone.” Josie whispered in my ear as she tied my surgical gown for me. The splash guard on her mask fogged up with her warm tears.

“Push mommy, the baby’s coming, don’t be afraid. Everything is alright, nothing bad is happening to you.”

Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee, Blessed are you amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus…

“You’re doing great, see the baby’s head? I know it feels terrible but really, nothing bad is happening. Just push.”

“One more push, you can do it, you’re strong. The baby’s almost here, soon you’ll be done. Great, here comes the baby! It’s a girl!”

I dried the baby and gave her to her mother. I helped her father cut the umbilical cord. They took pictures. I

delivered the placenta, did some suturing. Josie whispered to me as we cleaned up and got the baby to nurse.

“Carole, both towers are down.”

Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

Hurricane Irene is Just Another Memory--Which Conjures A Lot More

The latest storm has come and gone, just like the other ones in my life, but the memories will be with me until the end. Having grown up on the Bronx waterfront, high water and high winds were something we dealt with all the time--as a family.


The storms that did the most damage were the ones we never expected--two of them were winter Noreasters with tidal surges augmented as the water flowed down the streets over the snow. But two hurricanes in particular, come to mind every time one takes aim at New York and I immediately go into prep mode.


In 1976,  I was the only one home while the rest of the family vacationed in Cape May, New Jersey. I got up for work at 6:00 a.m. and heard the first warning that Hurricane Belle was on the way later that afternoon (weather forecasting was not as advanced as it is today). I called in 'sick' and got to work securing my Dad's Larsen Lapline, anchored behind the house in Long Island Sound, and 'evacuating' his pigeons from their waterside abode a block away to my cousin Dennis' coop. 


Dennis helped me with that, as well as moving all the patio furniture and my Dad's ten thousand houseplants summering outside to safer haven. Then there was the matter of the shed-moving the lawnmower and other electrical equipment, all the bicycles and loose flower pots. And the cars, which needed to be moved about a half mile away, to higher ground. I had to walk back, twice. God, I wish I still had that picture my high school sweetheart (soon to be first husband)  took of me, sitting in the dining room facing the sound, surrounded by the contents of the backyard and shed, holding an umbrella.


The family arrived home after a harrowing drive home from Cape May in evacuation traffic to find it all done, and honestly, I don't remember anything about the storm except that we came through it with minimal damage from the storm surge, even though the boat had dragged its anchors quite a distance and was beached about 50 feet from the bulkhead in our backyard.


In 1985, I was living a block away when Hurricane Gloria threatened, separated from but trying to reconcile with my first husband. Due to the strength of the storm, the shoreline, including my childhood home was under mandatory evacuation. My parents and younger sister went to stay with my grandmother--the first time they'd ever left for a storm--but I was not under the same advisory and stayed behind. The storm blew by in what seemed like a few minutes, and I waded around the corner through thigh high water to find water lapping at the back door of the house, but no major damage.


My ex stayed with me to help that time, and we celebrated with friends by going out for Mexican food with our good friends Jerry and Liz, at Don Emilio's in Larchmont. I'll never forget the plate glass window in the shop next door, still boarded up and spray painted in red "Gloria, Be Gentle."


I'd called in 'sick' that day too, and unfortunately the reconciliation with my ex was as short lived as Hurricane Gloria.


I was not scheduled on duty in either of my jobs for Hurricane Irene, but after my house was secured and I'd assured that my Mom, spending her first hurricane without my Dad, was tucked away and riding it out with a friend, contemplated calling to see if they needed me.


Nothing illustrates the schism between my professional and family life better.  I learned, by being part of a family that stayed together and played together, that nothing else matters. But then again, the pull to help with disaster services both in the streets and in the hospitals is very strong.  I feel guilty, for just a little while, that I'm not doing my part.


Maybe when the next hurricane threatens New York, things will be different and I'll ride it out with co-workers instead of cooking dinner, playing Zhu-Zhu pets with my daughter, and helping my (second) husband mop the basement and clean up the downed tree limbs.  And I don't even feel guilty about it.

Why I Should Be The Next New York City Sanitation Commissioner

I know. You're thinking "how could she be qualified for the job just because she throws out the garbage?" And I say to you "like Mayor Bloomberg and Cathy Black think she's the best candidate for the job of Schools Chancellor because she once attended school."

Actually, I could do that job, too. My three kids went through or are currently in a New York City public school, and I run a health center in a New York City public high school. I have put in real life classroom time. But I digress--she hasn't screwed up yet so her job isn't at risk.

So, how would a nurse practitioner and midwife run the NYC Sanitation Department? Why do I not aspire to replace the embattled chief of Emergency Medical Services since I am a health care provider and administrator, trained in provision of disaster services, and have ridden ambulances and done my share of night shifts in NYC public hospitals? Nope, don't want that job. I already have one that holds me responsible for acts of nature and other things totally out of my control.

The sanitation commish didn't see that his people got the streets cleared, and the OEM didn't issue snow emergency orders. How is it his fault the ambulances got stuck and the poor firefighters and EMTs couldn't schlep all their equipment through the drifts and carry the patients on stretchers to the nearest hospital?

You might not know I have a longstanding connection to garbage. My ex-husband's father worked for the Sanitation Department and kept us up to date on all the doings. Three of my neighbors were garbage men. The father of one of my college buddies was in charge of snow removal in the days when Mayor Koch ruled the roost and I heard, first hand, how he figured it all out when the legendary storms of yesteryear threatened.

I live within sniffing distance of the Pelham Bay Landfill, and my father was on the New York City Planning Board trying like hell to get it capped and closed before it leached any more toxins into Long Island Sound. I studied environmental sciences, including solid waste management, while doing my MPH. My then father-in-law was so thrilled that I was studying the Betz Avenue incinerator where he worked. To quote: "Ya see, that here Columbia University is sending their students to learn from me. Who says there's no future in garbage?"

I learned well, which is why I am such a rabid recycler and a member of organizations such as Save the Sound and The Nature Conservancy. I also learned a lot from the sanitation men in my life. They are a hard working bunch of people, albeit a trifle sexist and rough around the edges. But they handle garbage, which most of us really don't want to.

My current garbage men are a lot more dedicated than my current mail carrier, who tosses mail into the bushes when the steps are too icy. By the way, how come I only got two deliveries of mail between December 24 and December 31? What happened to "Neither rain nor sleet, nor snow nor dark of night...?" There I go again, off topic.

Poor John Doherty seems like one of the goodhearted sanitation man giants of my past, boasting on December 26 that his snow removal teams were the envy of those near and far. He steadfastly defended them even though the only plows I saw during the blizzard and weeklong aftermath were either double parked in front of restaurants or running up and down the streets with the plows up. Come to think of it, that could be one of those "men" things, like forgetting to put the seat down and swearing they wiped off the rim of the bowl.

I guess Mayor Bloomberg wasn't out in the storm while he continued with his snotty nosed bluster (ever heard of tissues and decongestant?), blaming us for shoveling snow into the streets (now really), abandoning cars in snowdrifts (because we had nothing better to do after we dutifully shoveled walks so the City didn't issue us summonses), and that we shouldn't call EMS unless it was a real emergency, not because we were sick, trapped, or freezing on a stranded NYC subway train without food, water or a bathroom.

Mother Nature cleared the snow by allowing temperatures to go above freezing. Most of it has melted--at least enough so that cars can park catty corner on top of the mounds, which are now mostly ripe, rotting holiday leftovers, gift wrap, boxes, and Christmas trees.

So, if I were Sanitation Commish here's what I would do:

Immediately reinstate alternate side of the street parking. Send a plow, with the blade LOWERED, to scrape away the icy remnants. Behind it should be a sweeper to collect the schnibles of garbage and recycling blown about in the wind. And behind that, a truck collecting garbage.

I would have to consult about the feasibility of the plow being down while the workers tossed garbage into the back of the same truck to maximize manpower and clean up a two week backlog. There might be technical issues that I, as a non garbage man, am not aware of. That's what my second in command, who should be a veteran sanitation worker who has made his way up the ranks, is for.

But the cynical administrator in me believes that the real rules against doing double duty aren't in place for worker safety or because of the limitations of the trucks themselves, but rather union rules which would insist on double time if the men were doing BOTH garbage collection and snow removal at the same time. Remember, my father-in law and neighbors were garbage men and shared a lot of insights.

Anyway, slapping myself back on track again, on the second round of alternate side of the street cleaning, all the snow will be gone and the recycling, including the Christmas trees, should be collected. In one week it will all be done and there will be no football games at Yankee Stadium and New Year's Eve Times Square Cleanup to distract attention from any other areas in The Bronx or Manhattan and the entire boros of Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island.

But in the event we get another big snowstorm, any remaining garbage will be encased in ice and snow, thus minimizing the stench, rat and raccoon raids, and loose schnibles of paper, plastic and metal being bandied about by gale force winds. The Christmas trees can be propped upright in the drifts, indicating there is indeed garbage under there to be addressed, not some irreverent New Yorker's carelessly abandoned vehicle. A nice touch would be to hang birdfeeders from the branches for the poor pigeons and sparrows.

Plan B would be, after discussion with my second in command, to plow the garbage and snow at the same time and deploy manpower with shovels and brooms to deal with the remainder, before resuming Plan A. Having a background in environmental safety and infection control, I will insist my men be fitted with masks, gloves and the proper personal protective equipment, and get hazardous duty pay.

All hyperbole aside, I think that Mayor Bloomberg should, in the future, get out there with a shovel and ask "How am I doing?" like former Mayor Ed Koch did whenever the City was faced with a crisis. Instead of insisting that we're all just cry babies, using something besides his mouth would enlist all of New Yorkers in a united effort to take care of each other as well as clean up the City.

That would be a lot more effective than blaming the victims and demonizing his commissioners who had lapses in judgment or, like him, over exaggerated their omnipotence, were out of the City or out of touch with the National Weather Service, or caught off guard from all the holiday cheer.

Arrogance and apathy trickles down from above, which is why I really don't want the job. But thanks, anyway.

'Tis the Season for Compromise, And to Stand Up for Moral Choices

'Tis the season for compromise. Or political oneupmanship. Or staging. No matter what you think, and what your beliefs, it's hard to deny the past year distinguishes itself as one of the most egregious examples of party politics and special interest pandering in recent memory.


I'm really happy Don't Ask Don't Tell has been repealed, but did we need a big ceremony to flaunt it? You'd think the Democrats learned some lessons after the circus performance when the Affordable Care Act (one of the biggest betrayals the President Obama has executed and thus imposed on his former loyal supporters and the American people) was signed. You remember, the Vice President's Big F-ing Deal.

Does the sludge trickle down from the President, who, along with the cabinet and advisers all share the same lack of focus and leadership and accountability? Or does the stench waft up from below, from a pit of legislators who have just spent too much time filling seats with lead bottoms and campaigning for their own re-elections?

All our elected officials allowed a deeply flawed health care reform bill to pass. No one without insurance due to job loss or other financial difficulties will see any relief until 2014 while health care insurers rig up new exchanges that meet their needs, not those of patients.

Second, instead of calling out Republican special interests in repealing tax cuts for the rich, those concessions were made to allow extension of unemployment benefits. How are those two issues linked, except in the world of politics?

At the eleventh hour, my two New York State Senators, Schumer and Gillebrand, who caved on the Affordable Care Act, stood up for the rights of first responders in desperate need of assistance due to life threatening illnesses they are suffering after doing their public and civic duty in the aftermath of 9/11. How can anyone who lived through that day, and the succeeding events deny the unprecedented sacrifice those men and women made, and deny them the needed medical care they deserve? Republicans, it seems, are not human. Or reneged on the vow to "Never Forget."

How does this game playing affect real people?

A 35 year old single mother and police officer confided with me December of 2001 how the horror of 9/11 had seriously affected her, physically and emotionally. "It's far from over," she whispered, sadness and fear in her eyes as well as her voice. In February of 2002, she was dead of a lung ailment no one yet understood, her ten year old son an orphan, in the care of an aunt, devastated.

Another police officer friend is battling lung disease, trying valiantly to stay on the job to support his wife and three kids. He's losing.

Women have already had their constitutional rights trampled by the express prohibition of abortion services in any exchange plan, a precedent likely to be adopted by all insurers.

Now, women are at risk of having their access to birth control severely limited clearly a measure that prevents the expense and possible adverse health effects of undesired pregnancy, taken away. A bunch of celibate old men on the Conference of Catholic Bishops has expressed their opinion, yet have not weighed in on treatment for erectile dysfunction. This is blatant sexism, blatant disregard for our Constitutional Rights, and Separation of Church and State.

To see how absolutely devoid of reason the Bishops are, consider that one believes a hospital's decision to allow an abortion of an 11 week pregnancy in a dying woman was grounds for removal of the Blessed Sacrament from the hospital's chapel. It seems that if the mother had been allowed to die along with her 11 week fetus, they would still be able to celebrate Mass and receive Communion on hospital grounds. Hmmm. What would Jesus do? What would He say about that?

Congratulations o the doctors, nurses and administrators who did the right thing in that horrible situation--one which I have found myself involved in many times. In my opinion, there is no moral grounds for allowing someone to die for the sake of a religious belief, turning a tragedy into a travesty.

Kudos to all of us who went to the polls on Election Day and jettisoned the worst of offenders in Washington, as well as those in City and State government. But there are still more that need to be called out, and thrown out. Here in New York City we saw how close Mike Bloomberg came to being booted, after he flaunted term limits and declared himself too important to be allowed to step down as required by law. Bill Thompson might have won, if more disgusted voters had cast their vote.

We need to stay vigilant and in control. Credo has organized a campaign against more indignities being perpetrated against women, and it can't be any easier than one click to send a message, and one click to post the message to Twitter and Facebook about keeping birth control available to all women under the Affordable Care Act.

I suggest subscription to their newsletters with timely legislative action updates.

All the greetings of the season , no matter what you celebrate!

What I'm Thankful For Today: Endless Possibilities

A long thread running through Someday I'm Going to Write a Book: Diary of an Urban Missionary is the story of my great grandmother, Jacinta, a/k/a Jenny Bruno. She was as a midwife, and I have the license and instruments to prove it, in the early 1900s (her certificate is dated 1911 which makes next year her centennial), tending to the women (and their families) of the Southeast Bronx, not coincidently, the same ones I am tending to right now.

There are many similarities between us so I feel comfortable concluding Jennie probably didn't love running out of the house at all hours of the night, leaving her eight kids (our of the thirteen she had) to fend for themselves, though I'm sure leaving her purportedly abusive husband and providing for them was driving her along.

My husband isn't abusive, in fact, I'm more likely to hit him someday than he is to ever hit me. Money is what keeps me in this insane business--three kids to put through college, my daily coffee, their daily bread, and some sense that there is a mission in all this. Some overlying need to persist despite the anguish and frustration.

The brick walls I run into day after day, erected by a broken health care system, big government and big institutional barriers, insurance companies, the economy, poverty, racial and ethnic discrimination, and yes, the patients and their families as well, show no signs of coming down. I chip away at the mortar; look for ways to sneak through, over, and around. Am nabbed from time to time for what Mark Legnini, DrPH described as "doing the right thing" instead of "the right thing to do." Get a leg up now and then, so I can climb over, pulling my charges along with me, though some can't hold on or aren't willing to take the risk of falling.

This is deliberately vague, for privacy as well as a myriad of privacy and compliance regulations. But this is a time of year to focus on what we have and give thanks. This article is very long, but its description of the overall mission of the hospital I work for made me proud to be a long time member of its staff. One of the very small dots on the southernmost point of the map is the health center in which I toil, day in and day out. And I've worked in several of the other hot spots over the years with some of the most talented and dedicated doctors, nurses, patient care techs, and other support staff on the Earth.

As an overview, the worker bees aren't acknowledged in the Commonwealth Fund Report. As usual, only the doctors are championed though much of what being done is accomplished by those of us without MD degrees. But coming at a time when I often wonder what it's all about, this affirmed I'm in the right place.

So I'm thankful for my health and family, without which nothing else would matter. But also my job, my co-workers, the patients who continue to place their trust in me and for the knowledge that I've made real difference. And to Jennie, who I have to believe is the little voice that guided me to where I am supposed to be and straightens me out with a kick the ass when I'm ready to give up.

This tribute to her, an excerpt of Someday I'm Going to Write a Book, was published last year in This Path.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The night seemed full of endless possibilities, like life thirty-five years ago. I stood in the lobby of the posh Marina Del Rey at the 75th anniversary of the Saint Frances de Chantal grammar school, Bronx, New York. The '50s vintage dress that called to me at an antique show fit like it had been custom made. I thought I looked pretty good with the gray dyed out and six pounds lighter than last year. Those anti-wrinkle creams seemed to work. They sure cost enough. 

The dawn of the AIDS epidemic and the horror of working in the hospital on September 11, 2001 book ended a career during which time speaking up made me part of the enemy camp, not the liberating forces. 

Video clips of domestic violence deaths, child abuse, infanticide, rape, incest, and the degradation of women played over and over in my mind. My theoretical model for dealing with families in crisis was of little use at 2 a.m., standing in between the guy who just beat up his pregnant wife, the woman bleeding to death, and the clerk getting insurance information before we could get blood for transfusion.

I had bargained with the gods to keep the demons away but no good deed goes unpunished. They stole my soul and reneged. Divorce from my high school sweetheart, the inevitable loss of beloved family members, and my own personal health challenges gave me pause to ponder the endless impossibilities of life.

I focused on my family, thankful for the second chance at marriage and motherhood. I once battled sexism, racism, conservatism, and elitism. Well into my third life and tired of fighting, I moved past activism into escapism.

I'd never attended a high school reunion but instead was drawn way back to my grammar school days. I remember only a few names and faces, most notably, Marianne. We don't see each other often, but just like tuning into a soap opera you haven't watched in years, we easily pick up the story line and move on.

I waited for her, watching the lights of the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge glimmer like tiny beacons over cold, dark Long Island Sound. I moved across the bridge to Queens seventeen years ago. I still work the streets of the Bronx but death, distance, or the ravages of time have broken all ties to friends and family. Alone, mesmerized by the tinkling fountain, I held back tears remembering when this neighborhood was an innocent idealist's only view of the world.

 The cell phone bleated. "Sorry, I'll be there in a minute, got stuck in traffic." Marianne rushed in from the parking lot and gave me a hug. "You look fantastic."

 We studied the collage of old class pictures. Marianne picked me out: the girl with a headband and hair in a pony tail, tights, uniform dress with a bow tie, and a big smile. We sipped drinks, nibbled hors'd'oeuvres, and found the "Class of 1971" table.

John, one of the two "boys" who had been my close friends, smiled when he saw me. "Hi, Carole Ann. You haven't changed a bit."

Sister Mary Lucille, at least eighty, peered at me and waved a gnarled, bony finger. "You're one of the Moleti girls, and none of you took French." Nuns never give up.

"That's right, Sister," I said, "but Spanish serves me well."

George suggested we take the few surviving sisters for a boat ride in the dark and dump them overboard to get even for all those bruises. We laughed, reminisced, and tears flowed on my way home in the pouring rain as I crooned Streisand's tune "The Way We Were."

I drove over the bridge, from my first life, past the second, and into the third. I let the dog snooze on the couch and walked through the dining room where Jennie was still smiling at me. The kids were tucked in; the cat warmed my side of the bed. I snuggled next to my sleeping husband and lay there in the dark and quiet thinking about all the stories still to be told.

"Get back to work," Jennie said.

And I did.

Copyright 2009 by Carole Ann Moleti