Nurse Ratched is dead! Meet Nurse Negligent

If anything good can come out of what happened in Virginia, perhaps it will be that our government will stop being so incredibly shortsighted about the mentally ill.

A paranoid schizophrenic who drifted in and out of reality, in and out of hospitals, in and out of compliance with his medication regime, walked into the Capitol a year ago and killed two security officers.

Rusty Weston is now in a federal corrections unit in North Carolina. He awaits a court decision on whether corrections officials can force him to take his medication…

…What kind of system waits to invoke mandatory medication until a man so severely ill has killed two people? The kind that insists on presuming that an irrational man makes rational decisions about his mental-health care. The kind that then fails both the incompetent and the innocent.

‘Rights’ leave mentally ill families in legal limbo” by Beth Barber

If correction officials can’t force a mentally ill person—who is IN PRISON and who has KILLED two people—to take medication, then how does anybody believe that the administration at Virginia Tech could’ve done anything about Cho Seung-Hui?

As it stands right now, the PARENTS of an adult with schizophrenia can do absolutely nothing to help him when he goes out of control—except watch.

You can’t force your son to take his medication, you can’t force him to accept psychiatric help, and you can’t institutionalize him against his will. And our law works this way because?

Because our society was brainwashed into thinking that all mental institutions are run by Nurse Ratched.

Yes, it is true that in the past there were abuses; people institutionalized not because they were mentally ill but because they were inconvenient. My great uncle, for instance, had polio. When he became an adult he could no longer be cared for and he was committed to a mental institution. It was a disgusting travesty of justice and medicine.

God forbid that this ever happen again. It won’t, either, because now we have tough laws that prevent such abuses. But we have literally thrown the mentally ill patient out with that bathwater.

Modern drug therapies are much more successful than the treatments of the past, but sometimes in order to stabilize a patient you need to place him with an inpatient facility until the proper drug therapy can be determined and administered.

Translation: you have to commit them to a mental institution, because they are so far gone that they will not cooperate unless they are forced to do so.

And as you can see in the case of Rusty Weston, even if someone has killed two people as a result of delusions, the law does not allow anyone to force that person to take medication without a court order!

This hits very close to home for me. I know two families who were/are prevented from forcing their sons into treatment for schizophrenia, with disastrous results.

One of these young men was brutally murdered less than a day after the police detained and then released him—because he was “no threat to anyone.” He was a diagnosed schizophrenic and obviously very ill, but our current laws and lack of resources to treat the mentally ill prevented him from receiving the treatment he needed. Institutionalizing him would have saved his life.

The other young man is my nephew. What his family is going through is hell. He is suffering, they are suffering, and yet the law prevents them from helping him. Medication can stabilize him; in fact, he took his medication for years and lived a good, productive life, but the only way now to get him back on his meds would be to institutionalize him, because he is deep in the throes of his illness and will not voluntarily cooperate.

Virginia Tech is an aberration, a statistical anomaly. The mentally ill are much more likely to become victims of violent crime than to perpetrate it, and yet when they do, it becomes news.

Therefore it is the most painful of ironies that a larger majority of mentally ill is less likely to get what little help is available because they are of no threat to others. And that little bit of help still available is constantly being whittled away by proposed cuts and other bureaucratic stupidities.

We could have prevented the deaths of 33 people by forcing Cho to receive treatment, and yet we allowed our fear of resurrecting Nurse Ratched prevent us from doing so. It is another travesty of justice and medicine, but for some reason we are just too blind see it.

Monday Morning Mojo: Apocalypse Mojo

Mini image of the comic Mooch and Bucky are even more ticked off at Mojo than usual lately, seeing as how he figured out a way to get at their cat food.

Let’s just say that cat food doesn’t agree with Mojo’s digestive system. And while I run off to Costco to pick up several truckloads of air freshener, you can read all about the situation either by clicking on the image to the right or clicking on this link.

Super Sabado: Please, call him something else

We’ll begin our story when Squirt was 3.

When Squirt Was 3

Scene: our kitchen.

SQUIRT: What’s a nick-nack name?

BONNIE: A nickname, Honey Bunch, is when somebody calls you something special that is not your real name.

SQUIRT: Ooh! Call me “Tarzan!”

BONNIE: No, Sweetie, you don’t make it up—somebody has to GIVE it to you.

SQUIRT: Tarzan! TARZAN! TARZAN!!!

From that moment on, Squirt was nickname obsessed. He spent hours dreaming up monikers for himself and for his brother; creative, exotic sobriquets that were kind of disturbing in some respects.

About One Week Later

Scene: Inside the Burger King Moon Ball Pit. Hubby sits with the other parents, reading a newspaper.

KID: Hi!

SQUIRT and TIGER: Hello!

KID: Who are you guys?

SQUIRT: (pushes himself forward) I’m FLOWER. And this is JUICY.

TIGER: (looks a little confused but nods anyway)

(Parents look at Hubby, who rattles his newspaper.)

Looking back, now I think I should’ve obliged the boy by calling him Tarzan, or Flower or one of the many names he came up with, but the truth is that I couldn’t keep track of them all. And there was no way I was going to be caught at Vons shouting, “Squirt! I mean—Tarzan! I mean—JUICY! You put down that box of Noodle-Ohs right now!”

Anyway, it got to be that we never knew what to expect when engaging with the general public.

A Few Months Later

Scene: coffee hour at our church.

LADY: You are awfully cute, little one. What’s your name?

SQUIRT: (loud enough to drown out a jet engine) It’s MANIAC!

(Bonnie chokes on her doughnut)

LADY: (adjusts her hearing aid) Why, it’s nice to meet you, Maniac.

And why do I bring up all this ancient history? Because Hubby thinks that on this blog, Squirt should no longer be called Squirt. He thinks I should refer to our youngest son as “Rock Star” because the boy currently hopes to become an professional rock guitarist.

Of course, “Squirt” is not his REAL name. And I do wish I had picked a name other than “Squirt,” because you should see the odd and somewhat disturbing search terms that bring people to this site.

And yet the name stuck and now I’m not so sure about changing it. My main concern is that it’s going to be confusing to readers who’ve come to know the kid as Squirt, not to mention the writer of this blog, for whom old habits die hard.

I guess I could go with “the Rock Star formerly known as Squirt” but that sure takes up a lot of word count.

Eh, I’m going to have to think this over. In the meantime let us proceed to Super Sabado, where I found Continue reading “Super Sabado: Please, call him something else”

Badda bing, badda BLOONS

Screenshot of Bloons game

This game is driving me crazy! I CAN’T GET PAST LEVEL 15!!!

Somebody tell me how to wipe out most of the balloons with the boomerang, please, please, please?

Lovely side effects: a most satisfying popping noise that will pacify any bubble wrap addict. Yes. Bloons is fun.

BUT HOW DO YOU GET PAST LEVEL 15???

At least you can go back to the main menu at any time and replay a fun episode. I like this one best:

Screenshot of Bloons game

BUT SOMEBODY MUST KNOW HOW TO GET PAST LEVEL 15.

Monday Morning Mojo: Sir Barks-a-lot vs. the Fire-Breathing Metallic Creature from HELL

MOJO: BARK! BARK! BARK!

BONNIE: (stirs the pan of sausages she’s browning)

BONNIE: Mojo, no! Stop that!

MOJO: BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!

BONNIE: Boys! Go see what Mojo is barking at!

(no answer)

BONNIE: BOYS!

MOJO: BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!

BONNIE: (Realizes an axe murderer could be breaking into the house and the boys wouldn’t notice unless he bludgeoned the X-box first.)

BONNIE: Dammit! (Turns fire down on stove and goes into the living room to look for her dog. He’s not there. She follows the sound of barking and finds…)

(Note: this was originally uploaded to Revver, remember that? Talk about old school! When Revver shut down, I lost the video. I found it on an old hard drive and re-uploaded it to Facebook.)

Super Sabado: Confessions of a Geena Wannabe

This cute little blonde salesgal in the coffee bean store was looking awfully upset. I asked her if she was okay, and she almost started crying right then and there.

“Oh, er, uh!” I added quickly, “I’m, um… sorry!”

She waved frantically as she tried to compose herself, as if to say, “No, it’s not you,” but then I realized she wanted me to follow her over to another part of the store where she could fill my order. She did some deep breathing as she measured out my coffee beans and after a few moments she faced me again.

“I have something to tell someone.”

“Oh.”

“And I don’t communicate my thoughts very well.”

I hastened to reassure her. “You’re communicating fine!”

“No, I don’t. And this is important!” She teared up again.

I started telling her how she should take a break and maybe talk things over with a friend, or maybe even go home and light some candles and take a nice, soothing bubble bath, and I was well on my way into the wonders of lavender salts—when she suddenly peered at me.

“Hey! Do you know who you look like?” Geena Davis: younger

Now this is a loaded question for me. When I was in my early twenties, people used to tell me I looked a little bit like Geena Davis, which always made me very happy, of course, but which I always pooh-poohed as modestly as I could fake.

I’d say no, really, they were being too kind, bla, bla, bla, all the while thinking Woo Hoo! I look a little bit like Geena Davis!

During the same time period people were stopping Hubby on the street because they mistook him for John Cusack. “Mr. Cusack, may I have your autograph?” “Mr. Cusack! Hi!” or even “Wow! Look! It’s JOHN CUSACK!” Note that they never said, “Wow, John Cusack is dating Geena Davis!”

Which just goes to show you he really looked like John Cusack whereas I only slightly resembled Geena Davis and honestly, who cared? Geena Davis was way hotter than John Cusack.

(And by the way, if you got John Cusack to sign an autograph in Orange County, California in the late 80s, you might want to have it checked to make sure it was really signed by John Cusack. I’m just saying.)

At any rate, I haven’t heard the Geena Davis thing in years. But you can bet my little forty-something heart leapt at the idea I might be hearing it again from the coffee bean salesgirl. And even if she thought I looked like an older, pudgier, middle-aged Geena Davis, well, that would’ve been all right by me, too.

So I got a little ahead of myself and prepped myself for a believably modest protest.

“Why, you look just like… just like…”

Oh, I was going to be SO believably modest, once she actually spit it out.

“…just like MY MOM!”

For a moment I thought I’d need a Heimlich Maneuver to get me breathing again.

“I cough cough hack hack do?”

She couldn’t have been more than 25, could she? Good grief, I hope she wasn’t more than 25. Dear Heaven, please don’t let her be older than 25!

“Yeah!” She said. “And I…” She teared up again, “… and I… I could really use a hug from my… my mom!”

Definitely under 25. And what Geena Davis wannabe wouldn’t melt at that little outburst?

Geena Davis: olderI hugged her and asked her what her name was and we talked a little bit about the problem she was having, and I guess I did okay, too, but only because I’ve spent longer being a mom than I’ve actually spent looking a little bit like Geena Davis.

On the way home I kept thinking, well, maybe she has a really YOUNG-looking mom. Maybe she even has a mom who gets told all the time that she looks like Geena Davis, or possibly how she looks like a pudgy, middle-aged Geena Davis. Somehow that made me feel a little better, but not by much.

So today’s Super Sabado is a little bewildered Continue reading “Super Sabado: Confessions of a Geena Wannabe”

Tone Memory Game

I figure the years and years of waiting for piano lessons to finish have given me an edge on this game. Or maybe it’s the ton of money we poured into piano lessons. Or maybe it’s because I’m sticking with the simple 4 x 3 version.

Screenshot of Piano Game

Either way, it’s kind of like “Concentration”, only you try to match up notes rather than images.

Yowza, I just tried the Super Hard version. Somebody tell me they can’t do it, either!