tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843307585901989292024-02-19T22:42:17.600-08:00::::::::::Becoming::::::::::The Soul still sings in the darkness
Telling of the beauty she found there
And daring us not to think that because she passed through such tortures of anguish, doubt, dread, and horror, as has been said, she ran any the more danger of being lost in the night.
Nay, in the darkness did she, rather, find herself.
--St. John, Dark Night of the SoulDr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.comBlogger229125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-29160396796419366912016-09-04T15:14:00.001-07:002016-09-04T15:14:06.383-07:00Ch, Ch, Ch, Ch, Changes...I'll no longer be keeping a blog here. Instead, visit me <a href="http://www.joannecacciatore.com/" target="_blank">here</a> to read my occasional cacophonous rants!Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-19634940075724555022015-11-16T19:31:00.000-08:002015-11-16T23:10:09.464-08:00Maggie's StoryMaggie "Mags" came to me on a crisp but sunny Fall day, her frail frame tenuously held together by her slight brindle skin. She walked with her back end curled nearly underside her body, her long lanky tail tucked between her front and rear legs. She was terrified. I was terrified too.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emaciated and unable to retain food or water</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sweater. She liked the color!</td></tr>
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I was going to help her, try to save her, from the horrors that other humans had foisted on her. For 14 days, day and night, I cleared my calendar and stayed with her, caring for her - taxiing her back and forth to emergency clinics after hours and to the vet at more civilized hours- more times that I can count. Cleaning up vomit. Staying up to comfort her fears all through many nights. Cooking five different meals for her until she would accept a mere bite or two of nourishment. Mags even had her own fort, though it took some convincing...</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doggie fort and coercion!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Success!</td></tr>
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We endured test after test after test. Finally, a barium study would reveal that Mags had been so starved by her previous owners that she ate a corn cob which lodged in her small intestines. It would have to be removed in order to save her life. She was so incredibly fragile. But... well, Mags was clearly a very special girl and she was so worth saving. No matter what uncomfortableness she endured, she would sit next to me, trusted me, and already loved me. Oh, to earn the trust and the love of an animal...what a gift.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mako very interested in Mags... maybe he saw his pain in hers</td></tr>
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I took her on four short walks every day. She and <a href="http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2015/05/two-souls-that-come-together-as-one-in.html" target="_blank">Chemakoh</a> liked each other. Very much. She even trotted, ever so slightly, at their first glimpse of each other, mesmerized. "Big dog," Mags likely thought. "Little horse," Mako may have surmised. Mags, a brindle English Mastiff, should have weighed 160-180 lbs. She weighed in at only 65 or so. </div>
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Mags endured surgery on the same kind of crisp sunny day on which she arrived in my care. The vet removed a large corn cob from her small intestines. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">IV fluids for a dehydrated girl</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Purple for our royal queen, post surgery</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The evil cob</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our poor baby</td></tr>
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We took Mags home the day following surgery. She was doing great. She came in and immediately began to eat and drink. We were so happy! She loved her red velvet KONG bed and she wore her princess tiger striped blanket beautifully!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet beauty</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In her queen bed</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visits from aunties </td></tr>
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Mags was obsessed with the reflection of herself in the mirror and spent hours that day and the next barking at herself. She was truly the sweetest dog I've ever known. </div>
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And I thought she'd be mine. It looked like we'd been able to save her.</div>
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But on the third day after the surgery, she became very sick. Her breathing, labored and rattled, concerned me. I was on a writing deadline but could not focus on anything but Maggie. We would return her to the vet that day where an X-ray would confirm that her lung had collapsed. She would likely not survive. I wept. Mags sat on the X-ray table draped in her queen's blanket. We would continue to try- oxygen, fluids, IV antibiotics... but her veins would not sustain the IV. We brought her home and tried all we could to get her through to the next morning. </div>
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Mags died early Wednesday morning at home, in her bed, her frail bones held together only by skin. My heart was shattered. It was her death and more that unhinged me... both my parents died in November. Too many new families. My own grief over the death of my daughter, Cheyenne. It was all mixed up in that single decisive moment of losing Mags. I was wrecked.</div>
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I spent most of Wednesday and Thursday weeping. That sweet dog worked her way into our hearts in a very big way. And I was saddened and angry at the humans who failed her. And the humans who, every day all around the world, fail the children and animals and elderly and other vulnerable who are in need of compassion and kindness but who do not receive such love.</div>
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Friday morning began much like the preceding two days. But I had an appointment so I very reluctantly put on my 'big girl' face and drove there, down the same road that took me to her vet, I'd driven many times with Mags. I cried. I had feelings of panic and distress. I cried more. I asked, in my head, the usual existential questions: What happens when we die? Does animal energy survive this realm? Did Mags feel my love? Did I do enough? <i>Is Mags with Cheyenne? </i></div>
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<i>Is Mags with Cheyenne? "</i>I don't know what I believe!" I protested!</div>
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Then, a car pulled in front of me as I was driving. It was a white Lexus but I hadn't really noticed as I was unperturbed by anything at this point. Then, a very large object was moving back and forth in the back seat. Suddenly, a head popped out the back seat window. I squinted my eyes to see more clearly. I thought I was seeing Mags. "Crazy," I thought. "I've gone mad." Then, the head popped further out the other window. "<b><i>What in the heck</i></b>?" I said to myself through my tears.</div>
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Now first, the English Mastiff is not a commonly owned breed. A brindle Mastiff even more rare.</div>
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I pulled closer to the car with skeptical curiosity. </div>
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I began to photograph the car. I was pretty sure my eyes were deceiving me.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snapped five pictures of the car</td></tr>
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"Could this dog be a brindle Mastiff? No way. Not here, not now," I shook my head in disbelief a few times, but kept snapping photos.</div>
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So, when the car ahead of me turned into a nearby neighborhood, I followed it. Yes, I'm officially an impulsive pup-stalker. But I had to see this dog. I <i>had</i> to...</div>
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Turns and curves led us to a driveway. I parked on the street and waited. The driver exited his vehicle as I stood on the street in front of his house.</div>
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"I'm so sorry to follow you, and I'm not crazy, but, but... is that an English Mastiff?" I stuttered trying to mute the weirdness of that moment.</div>
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"Yes," he said rather carefully.</div>
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"Brindle?" I furthered.</div>
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"Yes, she's a brindle," he replied.</div>
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"Oh my gosh, a girl too?!" I exclaimed.</div>
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I think at this point he was getting frightened, or at least considered the possibility that I was, um, not okay.</div>
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"Um, well, you see, my dog just died. I tried to save her. And she just died, and I'm so sad, and I was just asking about heaven or the afterlife or souls and dogs," I babbled and stumbled. "Please, can I just see your dog?"</div>
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"Of course," he said.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A serendipitous meeting</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cleopatra</td></tr>
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She jumped out of the car playfully. She looked <i>just</i> like Mags, her face, coloring and even her disposition. But she was, obviously, healthy and hadn't been abused. I bent over and stroked her. My heart hurt and I was so overjoyed to meet his dog, Cleopatra. </div>
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I explained more of the story to the kind and generous gentleman. I showed him Mags' photos and he was shocked by her condition. I told him how much I wanted Mags and how much she and Cleopatra resembled each other. I told him about the sleepless nights and vomit and medications and force feedings and cuddles. I told him how very happy I was that I got to meet his Cleopatra in this moment, how <i>very</i> much I needed this, how very much I needed to know that Mags <i>was</i> <i>mine</i> after all. </div>
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He listened sympathetically and then said, "I really admire you for trying to save her. Not everyone would have done what you did for her. Thank you."</div>
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Then he reached out his hand and said, "What's your name?"</div>
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"I'm Joanne, but my friends call me Jojo," I answered with grateful tears in my eyes.</div>
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"Jojo, its nice to meet you," he replied. "<i>My name is Cheyenne</i>."</div>
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And I just stood in the driveway, stunned, and grateful.</div>
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<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D984330758590198929%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D1963494007572455502&media=https%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-ma0wNM-IRt4%2FVkqfMOigUNI%2FAAAAAAAAEJ8%2FrIUcAak2hjQ%2Fs320%2FIMG_5694.JPG&xm=h&xv=sa1.37.01&xuid=uJL3UME146SJ&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 233px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 7117px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D984330758590198929%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D1963494007572455502&media=https%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-ma0wNM-IRt4%2FVkqfMOigUNI%2FAAAAAAAAEJ8%2FrIUcAak2hjQ%2Fs320%2FIMG_5694.JPG&xm=h&xv=sa1.37.01&xuid=uJL3UME146SJ&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 233px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 7117px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-12140188507543298202015-08-20T08:10:00.001-07:002015-08-20T11:33:50.874-07:00To overcome, struggle, grapple, beat, heal, and resolve...<h2>
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<i>Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer. The secret to redemption lies in remembrance.</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">-Richard von Weizsaecker</span></h4>
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<i>Overcome.</i><br />
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<i>Beat.</i><br />
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<i>Struggle.</i><br />
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<i>Grapple.</i><br />
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<i>Recovery.</i><br />
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<i>Resolve.</i><br />
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All words we would use to describe an enemy or an unwanted 'thing' in our lives. Yet, all words I've seen used repeatedly on the Internet in the context of grieving the death of a child, spouse, sibling, or parent.<br />
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Some cultures so desperately promote the idea of being rid of grief, of vanquishing it, causing it to evaporate as if it never was. Then, as the myth goes, once we've done that, we will acquire the long-sought happiness that rightly belongs to us. The preponderance of the time, our own culture is this way. We are obsessed with happiness and comfort and instant gratification. We advocate ways to 'beat' grief (overcome, recover, resolve, move on, etc) at the expense of <a href="http://www.missfoundation.org/content/miss-store?Iit=74&Ict=1" target="_blank">fully inhabiting</a> our authentic and <i>rightful</i> emotions associated with loss, sometimes at the behest of those who seek to profit from such 'interventions' or 'therapies' or coaching. But is this really the best approach for us in our quest to become fully human? The great philosopher Rollo May said:<br />
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<i>One does not become fully human painlessly.</i></div>
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For two decades, I've been working to teach the traumatically bereaved how to accommodate, befriend, and even respect their own grief, how to make room for grief in their hearts, minds, and souls. I've been teaching <a href="https://webapp4.asu.edu/programs/t5/majorinfo/ASU00/HSCTBGRCT/graduate/false?init=false&nopassive=true" target="_blank">students</a> and <a href="http://certification.missfoundation.org/" target="_blank">providers</a> how to <i>be with their own grief </i>in order to truly be present with the grief of another. It's working. I'm seeing a cultural shift in the attitudes toward grief, albeit slowly (and sometimes with a little help from a little boy who died and one of my <a href="http://rockstarronan.com/2015/08/20/never-in-my-wildest-dreams-did-i-imagine-taylors-special-guest-would-be-you/" target="_blank">beautiful grieving mamas</a> along with a celebrity named <a href="http://time.com/4002715/taylor-swift-ronan-cancer/" target="_blank">Taylor Swift</a>).<br />
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To try to overcome, beat, struggle with, grapple with, resolve or recover from grief feels like an extraordinarily exhausting feat, particularly when that grief is incited by the death of child. There is something perennial about child death in a family system. I can imagine, for me, if I'd spent all my time wrestling with grief, by now, 21 years later, I would be a mere fragment of who I am today. I would not be able to feel the depth of joy or meaning or compassion I experience now. <i>I know this</i>. And happiness? As Victor Frankl said, we cannot pursue it. It must ensue. It is an outcome, not a goal to meet or a quality to acquire. And it can be experienced only as a result of life, love, and grief well-lived.<br />
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<i>Simply put, I love my grief because it is a connection to my love. </i>I never want to recover, be rid of, resolve, wrestle with, or "move on" from grief. Does this mean I can still be joyful? Productive? Have a life of meaning? Of course. The same horizon that holds the sun also holds the moon.<br />
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What would happen if, as a culture, we could spend our energy learning to integrate our grief instead of beating, resolving, struggling with, or overcoming it? What would happen if, as a culture, we could share our pain with one another? Remember our dead together? Listen to expressions of sorrow everywhere we go without needing to run or change the feelings of the Other? Open our hearts to the suffering of other people, <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/sustainable-business/2014/oct/02/grieving-pathway-destructive-economic-system?CMP=share_btn_fb" target="_blank">animals, and the earth?</a> Truly connect as one with everything in all the beauty and all the pain?<br />
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My guess is that our hearts would expand, making room for more authentic friendships, deeper joys, more meaning and purpose in our lives, and most importantly deep and enduring compassion for others, for self, for all beings, and for the earth.<br />
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And, that is the kind of world we'd all want. <br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=984330758590198929" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=984330758590198929" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=984330758590198929" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=984330758590198929" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=984330758590198929" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=984330758590198929" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-36542754052990044572015-06-28T12:11:00.002-07:002015-06-28T12:17:04.062-07:00The Thing About Compassion: An Aristotelian vista<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: left;">This is the entire story of a girl and her horse. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Some of you have read parts of it, not many know all of it. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">I'm sharing, through photographs, the full story of Chemakoh's rescue from the first day of his rescue to a recent and important ceremony to recognize so many people whose </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">love and compassion played a role in his rescue and his physical recovery.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Compassion, to me, has always felt like empathy in action.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"> So while this is the story of a girl and her horse, it's also the story of one of the most profound demonstrations of collective compassion I've ever personally witnessed.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">I want to thank all of those involved, even in the periphery. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">This was a collective effort that took more than a </span>hundred phone calls, sleepless nights, early mornings, days off work, rescheduled clients, medical bills, medication bills, and time and energy from so many who saw more deeply into the experience of Chemakoh's rescue.</div>
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This is the story of a girl and her horse, indeed.</div>
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More than that, it's the story of humanity at its best, the vulnerability of us all, and the capacity to heal from trauma given love, compassion, time, and space. </div>
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Deep bows to everyone pictured here and many not pictured. My heart is a wellspring of gratitude.</div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">(To read the history of this rescue, see this link <a href="http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2015/05/two-souls-that-come-together-as-one-in.html" target="_blank">here</a>)</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chemakoh on the day of his rescue</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Xs3vpH71p-Np_iBmALg72SaQFDNS5zlnZMRJYcGSu_M3wD4b1bCbmqEm2DjZvtSGpwqRrqLhmH2iKSJOWMVcNgYnJG4xKkVdB72FxPkuO6BXLH8GHLfI_-014v9QUvSf1TO62Mew4M0/s1600/IMG_6510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Xs3vpH71p-Np_iBmALg72SaQFDNS5zlnZMRJYcGSu_M3wD4b1bCbmqEm2DjZvtSGpwqRrqLhmH2iKSJOWMVcNgYnJG4xKkVdB72FxPkuO6BXLH8GHLfI_-014v9QUvSf1TO62Mew4M0/s400/IMG_6510.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His bones came through his skin, as he was so badly emaciated</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkqUCZuEeEFJ1iAR3Hcc4dA_atVaIqxs69z2W7um9NtK72isZm6G7VwLRjmQekTHy-diG1Ufyi_uh7p55g7GtrJSOwgKYYa20CYRwZCzFcaNjOV0B9LGV7_IrK9lGvyrlOsrmWJBZnT84/s1600/IMG_6509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkqUCZuEeEFJ1iAR3Hcc4dA_atVaIqxs69z2W7um9NtK72isZm6G7VwLRjmQekTHy-diG1Ufyi_uh7p55g7GtrJSOwgKYYa20CYRwZCzFcaNjOV0B9LGV7_IrK9lGvyrlOsrmWJBZnT84/s400/IMG_6509.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When he walked, he hung his head and slowly took his steps</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnYkYEpivlUPTq_NdVQpyTXzvSwgEKCA_Mm3QFO-9ZvnkNi-CwWAE7iRZpmyqhileXkiYlwDgRoKBvsdBIu8EiueuVQhRzOZL-EIvea6VLX4hORozzVuadQMfWijcbVeAsK2gNLTxWhxQ/s1600/IMG_6507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnYkYEpivlUPTq_NdVQpyTXzvSwgEKCA_Mm3QFO-9ZvnkNi-CwWAE7iRZpmyqhileXkiYlwDgRoKBvsdBIu8EiueuVQhRzOZL-EIvea6VLX4hORozzVuadQMfWijcbVeAsK2gNLTxWhxQ/s400/IMG_6507.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Both sides of his girth were open revealing flesh</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSTcrEv9qSmOYGktfuwRU1BYh5zpfBsoKtdPfX8CT0jVWBOcv_Cfxp6o5YV5nisTuKXKCVhjJanYsKU-2z50_kxBctdMZIZicA2CIVhHh4jnVkZpfKq-_fo3V6z8d8e_x27OLoDyd1jhU/s1600/U2AzJ4Z9gZ6AJkJ_cZx9y3zPlP5oL4k_NcejEsbEV9Q-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSTcrEv9qSmOYGktfuwRU1BYh5zpfBsoKtdPfX8CT0jVWBOcv_Cfxp6o5YV5nisTuKXKCVhjJanYsKU-2z50_kxBctdMZIZicA2CIVhHh4jnVkZpfKq-_fo3V6z8d8e_x27OLoDyd1jhU/s400/U2AzJ4Z9gZ6AJkJ_cZx9y3zPlP5oL4k_NcejEsbEV9Q-1.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He was not only badly malnourished and abused, but his wounds had not been tended</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh03MzeafKRC1wOOTWz-3vm2BM8yQIDMPKRvAgU__wiwft-ptclLSujlHimpniWZd1aKE-skzXwKOQgvtjE19N_lYemCJcPCYk8ZS9-uo3khBOxi7g2xBj0U9-eaFozvGE9czGnB4IQz0/s1600/IMG_4158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh03MzeafKRC1wOOTWz-3vm2BM8yQIDMPKRvAgU__wiwft-ptclLSujlHimpniWZd1aKE-skzXwKOQgvtjE19N_lYemCJcPCYk8ZS9-uo3khBOxi7g2xBj0U9-eaFozvGE9czGnB4IQz0/s400/IMG_4158.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only care we could provide for his wounds was a mud pack to protect them, initially, from flies and fly larvae</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtfG0mlp8UQ4NBJigGsjwn7d5D5EVrIDyWIisFP3PC8C-ePVd0szvzsppxRow1GmYem5QBB61xCSAUo1IKyOp4z1c01OLXZi9JgiqlIy2Prn7BqpfqlSxuyxaD-T7TDTXAB0t-luZpLZ4/s1600/IMG_4159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtfG0mlp8UQ4NBJigGsjwn7d5D5EVrIDyWIisFP3PC8C-ePVd0szvzsppxRow1GmYem5QBB61xCSAUo1IKyOp4z1c01OLXZi9JgiqlIy2Prn7BqpfqlSxuyxaD-T7TDTXAB0t-luZpLZ4/s400/IMG_4159.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The other side of the girth</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXFO0gNCAvUKT0do755WVPmVzB23iMJfTICtDVcWMECwiXvoQpk_o7Vqj3R-wqMW5DJDkMu5eazIfdsPjU2ckKSE5R5DQnEV7y26p_qkJD4CD5bA0yKFMSAHGNShaH3gJ9mwbiwLb0xg/s1600/IMG_4170.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXFO0gNCAvUKT0do755WVPmVzB23iMJfTICtDVcWMECwiXvoQpk_o7Vqj3R-wqMW5DJDkMu5eazIfdsPjU2ckKSE5R5DQnEV7y26p_qkJD4CD5bA0yKFMSAHGNShaH3gJ9mwbiwLb0xg/s400/IMG_4170.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Over time, the skin grew back over his hip bones. This took a few weeks of constant wound care.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCdtgRjEXSWtciqX6SmTi9MjWjMAbj1xER3lreYM2D0IuvkzdO8mCKT4MM-ZRl1rlJy_WH-_jYUgEsBOQ2zHAzX5aqt-_g7uIOdApkBs-V-q8kr_1FtU2tysl-q_NQ0Gm5LRChwJFqM9Y/s1600/IMG_4163.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCdtgRjEXSWtciqX6SmTi9MjWjMAbj1xER3lreYM2D0IuvkzdO8mCKT4MM-ZRl1rlJy_WH-_jYUgEsBOQ2zHAzX5aqt-_g7uIOdApkBs-V-q8kr_1FtU2tysl-q_NQ0Gm5LRChwJFqM9Y/s400/IMG_4163.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He had lots of love and attention, and friends from all over visited him. During an early Spring thunderstorm, I stood over him so he didn't get cold and wait. He appreciated the gesture.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILh6t7oDEsEjy7qTHG_QGDRvqh6bU_dPnnJV93soOqcPZdAhc3ztV111h7xYV0DCqSzIFcLlx2gXlaVYPuYlToKqiNXwyWrTNGyQkglg5nn6s4HS75ifq3_2AY4q4zkoFIYK1DdN9tWQ/s1600/2015-05-12+13.19.40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILh6t7oDEsEjy7qTHG_QGDRvqh6bU_dPnnJV93soOqcPZdAhc3ztV111h7xYV0DCqSzIFcLlx2gXlaVYPuYlToKqiNXwyWrTNGyQkglg5nn6s4HS75ifq3_2AY4q4zkoFIYK1DdN9tWQ/s400/2015-05-12+13.19.40.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His veterinarian Jim Bleak said that Chemakoh would have been dead in less than a week had we not rescued him. He didn't come to tend to him until a week after the rescue because we weren't sure Mako would survive.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQc1enjZQHYcbt-hhUSGUpI99l0oa7WdAwE2CY_Dc4vofd2ThExWcbYRgXib1A3xRX8dhbGEoRggG0umpJrcTFw3t6YpPCiYKJgQZiau9JPlnnV0QNa_MrSHOvaHv5br0k0eRArf4EWsA/s1600/IMG_4204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQc1enjZQHYcbt-hhUSGUpI99l0oa7WdAwE2CY_Dc4vofd2ThExWcbYRgXib1A3xRX8dhbGEoRggG0umpJrcTFw3t6YpPCiYKJgQZiau9JPlnnV0QNa_MrSHOvaHv5br0k0eRArf4EWsA/s400/IMG_4204.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chemakoh had access to hay 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We also slowly introduced ground, organic flax seed and coconut flakes so help him start to gain much-needed weight and strength. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowJcLPPy2s62iTQiVPJ7AvoEMLsyyifo-aspjHP7yx3rJbyFB7l9W73dOn0qi4e9b7WBkD6sVv3f1IOHaDFLEfefGQf1ahGY-mqdRRl5eeJ_HOv44NqZhjNr7TXx_nopzdZvPfs18gm8/s1600/2015-05-11+17.44.48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowJcLPPy2s62iTQiVPJ7AvoEMLsyyifo-aspjHP7yx3rJbyFB7l9W73dOn0qi4e9b7WBkD6sVv3f1IOHaDFLEfefGQf1ahGY-mqdRRl5eeJ_HOv44NqZhjNr7TXx_nopzdZvPfs18gm8/s400/2015-05-11+17.44.48.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A week later, we began the task of building a corral. Steve, one of Mako's initial rescuers, brought in 15 tons of dirt for the task.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDAvX4L_Vqc7EDLt0mN88z6EI7yychHDWGUz7dChyhumP8k4jSioUZs4MY1gJAaEz1mwMrAxh_RNS4LthVXyVFHdmMXytDBSB17TfqfS-8nRpEIMCfWonpH68yySxFDc8rBkJnZVHdSkI/s1600/IMG_4199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDAvX4L_Vqc7EDLt0mN88z6EI7yychHDWGUz7dChyhumP8k4jSioUZs4MY1gJAaEz1mwMrAxh_RNS4LthVXyVFHdmMXytDBSB17TfqfS-8nRpEIMCfWonpH68yySxFDc8rBkJnZVHdSkI/s400/IMG_4199.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All these little rocks had to be picked out of an area of about 1200 square feet before we could move the 15 tons of good dirt to the corral.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNKGbgA_A3nftHqIywM8CS2RMSM_3l7wdMQoESDQ8lj6Ln_rJcdrwto-99MLvRiD57rWRhsS9BSR6bs4IzDdAZdoAAM4LFzS4IHFxaqYEE8eWyd7CRm7vofWZTqvTHy-zbnigyAsxn00A/s1600/IMG_4224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNKGbgA_A3nftHqIywM8CS2RMSM_3l7wdMQoESDQ8lj6Ln_rJcdrwto-99MLvRiD57rWRhsS9BSR6bs4IzDdAZdoAAM4LFzS4IHFxaqYEE8eWyd7CRm7vofWZTqvTHy-zbnigyAsxn00A/s400/IMG_4224.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was laborious work to say the least.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCE6w-rDQBu-dG43FTxlqvx1Qb6k2EzoTHHG0JiuieJ-cFkDKvKjiH2eSuDVz4ke3kZr3Mk8dkW38wIzJPhtSWa5a9WmV6ERUVb5-uGhwg9vyANeBde_R7AHU3v71T6eEFv5vJS4X0RFE/s1600/IMG_4184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCE6w-rDQBu-dG43FTxlqvx1Qb6k2EzoTHHG0JiuieJ-cFkDKvKjiH2eSuDVz4ke3kZr3Mk8dkW38wIzJPhtSWa5a9WmV6ERUVb5-uGhwg9vyANeBde_R7AHU3v71T6eEFv5vJS4X0RFE/s400/IMG_4184.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meanwhile, we are measuring corral panels</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisovzhkx-8LShztc9NbtOqsUmUjE8_MbDqdIyVN3rBnlaazNNQ1OXW1O8RBC2OF2Ton7ZcAbZFNyBC4abTGk5ftUweZA7TB5prUqqKnGs9QR6WauDAnpnR0HvD_quD0D_KAO062W-nLvY/s1600/IMG_4210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisovzhkx-8LShztc9NbtOqsUmUjE8_MbDqdIyVN3rBnlaazNNQ1OXW1O8RBC2OF2Ton7ZcAbZFNyBC4abTGk5ftUweZA7TB5prUqqKnGs9QR6WauDAnpnR0HvD_quD0D_KAO062W-nLvY/s400/IMG_4210.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And Mary's dad, Larry, is helping dig out scrub oak and cutting low limbs from trees.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjibXTRQRAvB1Jo46-FI3XKd6UlOcky6RYRDVntGDpVZUC5xwTpKsTF6lF5gorjcwgI066vCl9MEAXMn3hEyR4OvwBaFvaLvuOiD7BN4wtbMZ4tXuprG7J4436nFdgIzOzeNg92XrPpGsw/s1600/IMG_4218.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjibXTRQRAvB1Jo46-FI3XKd6UlOcky6RYRDVntGDpVZUC5xwTpKsTF6lF5gorjcwgI066vCl9MEAXMn3hEyR4OvwBaFvaLvuOiD7BN4wtbMZ4tXuprG7J4436nFdgIzOzeNg92XrPpGsw/s400/IMG_4218.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cam, Wyatt, and Dawson are helping relocate boulders.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjgoOGcYWxYwG65YpJXf2MW_12vSnb2J5gTQg2kz_WT7ftgPRfns_TzvGh51BGkNf-mMTABY1euDD9b6LcDQaqKpT4xsuzSfweVuMz1kRaAmqVwbJGb7L77TvP7I4KbFJDkteZTAg2-CY/s1600/IMG_4209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjgoOGcYWxYwG65YpJXf2MW_12vSnb2J5gTQg2kz_WT7ftgPRfns_TzvGh51BGkNf-mMTABY1euDD9b6LcDQaqKpT4xsuzSfweVuMz1kRaAmqVwbJGb7L77TvP7I4KbFJDkteZTAg2-CY/s400/IMG_4209.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Man vs. Boulder</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAbjgdYUMJ8QRtjxdxpI9CnXaOpwyE7fxltS_Z4-pfntoVo2VufFXOnF0FjBdfgp_ommd3QJ7Gh-gJqVgV4x4q2WCH5Du8NvrSykAOLkxeWumDlgOKIR43EyPbAJTscw04oXZo8_5FoQw/s1600/2015-05-12+16.05.58+HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAbjgdYUMJ8QRtjxdxpI9CnXaOpwyE7fxltS_Z4-pfntoVo2VufFXOnF0FjBdfgp_ommd3QJ7Gh-gJqVgV4x4q2WCH5Du8NvrSykAOLkxeWumDlgOKIR43EyPbAJTscw04oXZo8_5FoQw/s400/2015-05-12+16.05.58+HDR.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">8 tons of dirt now relocated, wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX3gsNJceICD5QGg7y-AnQTq0ac_e3LvFXPU3npvf56HazYKvY_s3TzSxkRkUe4DRZWKLIGglai2tmqJ2uGG2oqmOAL11at2PKDmmlVkT4PXgogmEABNq8VLSh-50cl2RBEsJozmnWvSY/s1600/2015-05-11+19.14.43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX3gsNJceICD5QGg7y-AnQTq0ac_e3LvFXPU3npvf56HazYKvY_s3TzSxkRkUe4DRZWKLIGglai2tmqJ2uGG2oqmOAL11at2PKDmmlVkT4PXgogmEABNq8VLSh-50cl2RBEsJozmnWvSY/s400/2015-05-11+19.14.43.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birds eye view of the progress.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUy6zfwkmG_8zqMA3k3WAx5F4E99cLYCZXJAH5P3nqQbfN6zwmEkH3oSRX2tJOSvcRneURZUOftQcrGPnlH-24HCRn-BcXms4611hp2nS0hqBRXumHGwzgIePiy6TRAjOnGK-CCMuZtXg/s1600/2015-05-12+18.01.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUy6zfwkmG_8zqMA3k3WAx5F4E99cLYCZXJAH5P3nqQbfN6zwmEkH3oSRX2tJOSvcRneURZUOftQcrGPnlH-24HCRn-BcXms4611hp2nS0hqBRXumHGwzgIePiy6TRAjOnGK-CCMuZtXg/s400/2015-05-12+18.01.26.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the corral is done! And Chemakoh gets to come home two weeks to the day after his rescue.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZNmLcptRKaqs1rHy-8pM8-3lS1g5az4zubluyYooebsQ6q8MiihGb6zC15MgHu4FqGb8qu4EmtxacDGdKc9oS2OwKgTITAwZMtZ8v1Q6DMxcRj7V1yhB0XStOP0X9459tElDF_sTSvs/s1600/2015-05-13+16.24.01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZNmLcptRKaqs1rHy-8pM8-3lS1g5az4zubluyYooebsQ6q8MiihGb6zC15MgHu4FqGb8qu4EmtxacDGdKc9oS2OwKgTITAwZMtZ8v1Q6DMxcRj7V1yhB0XStOP0X9459tElDF_sTSvs/s400/2015-05-13+16.24.01.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking him home, to the place he's always belonged.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0DDxp-fnPzKSBuYZSMtUE3HSqPv34-3niNcN_1Z-TzYUTDjhVyF_wI6NoU8napqwPX1G8uAAZDmwtPiNrNP3Ahr0BNqdhzuCAlxyYl3GgdlSVlIMyaz7f4TMRIYbkwArfX6HFwe5IAI/s1600/2015-05-14+10.00.42+HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0DDxp-fnPzKSBuYZSMtUE3HSqPv34-3niNcN_1Z-TzYUTDjhVyF_wI6NoU8napqwPX1G8uAAZDmwtPiNrNP3Ahr0BNqdhzuCAlxyYl3GgdlSVlIMyaz7f4TMRIYbkwArfX6HFwe5IAI/s400/2015-05-14+10.00.42+HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He lays for the first time ever. He is home, he is safe and loved.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihDCHQJc2xxtRkd-Z2Kh2N0H_FZYU6WfxuGM_RtaQg7D_MXkc3UE7GQ_l5VXWsetR0lRHfZHlajKr571WrJh-MEb0E6eKzID8B45BqifCi4Sy5MOtOd1iuqgQ3o18_wm3ZkdpNEbkveF8/s1600/2015-05-13+16.53.40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihDCHQJc2xxtRkd-Z2Kh2N0H_FZYU6WfxuGM_RtaQg7D_MXkc3UE7GQ_l5VXWsetR0lRHfZHlajKr571WrJh-MEb0E6eKzID8B45BqifCi4Sy5MOtOd1iuqgQ3o18_wm3ZkdpNEbkveF8/s400/2015-05-13+16.53.40.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Josh, self-appointed "favorite brother" watches Mako eat.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy9znZLtQZwpVtEwiVXAlEoG5kDgmVULQh8L49PaPn0KB9HYTPyNPPlU07UPurIXYBkedqYzzs5Av-x1_LIvimDUwEpFn1m-a7WAAbJcR61bQ9gU4jPQ-jmeKEMRxLBdgqa1z-rSto2y0/s1600/2015-05-16+09.07.27+HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy9znZLtQZwpVtEwiVXAlEoG5kDgmVULQh8L49PaPn0KB9HYTPyNPPlU07UPurIXYBkedqYzzs5Av-x1_LIvimDUwEpFn1m-a7WAAbJcR61bQ9gU4jPQ-jmeKEMRxLBdgqa1z-rSto2y0/s400/2015-05-16+09.07.27+HDR.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He is happy. This day, he trots for the very first time, watching me to make sure I'm looking. I wept.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDE7xkgiDJ5FZjXGIdJTqeDQ4TQcwU8vWKKEa1MrEKAqa7aBM0LZPs1tMA-q4FOkPslegDGjpNqwv9bMCryWnTeUR5qo_4Ex3WzfeRnghUhWwAH_jEYANQ7aYxdQ8o4dmw4W0-7qFl3NI/s1600/2015-05-16+09.07.50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDE7xkgiDJ5FZjXGIdJTqeDQ4TQcwU8vWKKEa1MrEKAqa7aBM0LZPs1tMA-q4FOkPslegDGjpNqwv9bMCryWnTeUR5qo_4Ex3WzfeRnghUhWwAH_jEYANQ7aYxdQ8o4dmw4W0-7qFl3NI/s400/2015-05-16+09.07.50.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't I look fine in red? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3v-F3qon13-GluX_o7pATj5kEdpv5dFG4Uf4dVFFFcH2eCuL4HZPs43bK3wmqcc4l88ez-564JauE_61CyrKLlch_uPWf8oxd-vc_I04pKYwvx8quz4fM1Xbu9gHZJduzNDZXsvgP40g/s1600/2015-05-13+18.11.06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3v-F3qon13-GluX_o7pATj5kEdpv5dFG4Uf4dVFFFcH2eCuL4HZPs43bK3wmqcc4l88ez-564JauE_61CyrKLlch_uPWf8oxd-vc_I04pKYwvx8quz4fM1Xbu9gHZJduzNDZXsvgP40g/s400/2015-05-13+18.11.06.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More visitors, Michael & Anthony's mom. Mako is now a therapy horse.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzf4pqQlms4F28jn6MguDOy2XL7KwBwN50Z0UbQTxrIa4CwWcgNE0NcWtG6VBUZiyvl4ICxgZAn3ao6MbuppHWW844pRfCQH8V44KagMaduM0jTm2mQdCV1QWFcv_aM5TzecMrKQQNqNE/s1600/2015-05-13+16.57.10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzf4pqQlms4F28jn6MguDOy2XL7KwBwN50Z0UbQTxrIa4CwWcgNE0NcWtG6VBUZiyvl4ICxgZAn3ao6MbuppHWW844pRfCQH8V44KagMaduM0jTm2mQdCV1QWFcv_aM5TzecMrKQQNqNE/s400/2015-05-13+16.57.10.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every day, he is getting stronger and stronger, his (physical and emotional) wounds slowly healing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_mV9p9vwVMjhKmQaSatRI6u2zDOX2rMm_FaWF4ZY1mVKpVXhy0wjesHt9o_dY0IcLTfUW5NUkVs70Bqj-JW882ACalASm914opRGcE6RHKi8tfukIG5fAbCI86MsqLB6xfyGWF6WxLRw/s1600/IMG_4178.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_mV9p9vwVMjhKmQaSatRI6u2zDOX2rMm_FaWF4ZY1mVKpVXhy0wjesHt9o_dY0IcLTfUW5NUkVs70Bqj-JW882ACalASm914opRGcE6RHKi8tfukIG5fAbCI86MsqLB6xfyGWF6WxLRw/s400/IMG_4178.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Javelina visitors</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcLLybpZg_L-fZYjlt7UBvyyhQIq45Lqwoeg8sYxLIeg2NBylx5HQYjz7tZNmx0ZRZXtxzkhFguHLzixTLmHteC7UOXEPfxf0MObDiuGOeu27Kt_ExEiHVim9N3mkcuaNEYmGnotgUok/s1600/2015-05-14+18.13.19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcLLybpZg_L-fZYjlt7UBvyyhQIq45Lqwoeg8sYxLIeg2NBylx5HQYjz7tZNmx0ZRZXtxzkhFguHLzixTLmHteC7UOXEPfxf0MObDiuGOeu27Kt_ExEiHVim9N3mkcuaNEYmGnotgUok/s400/2015-05-14+18.13.19.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some Mbug mama love for Mako</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho-ILKpUxjdlC3QGWifDt4jSiYB7T9a-w3yzvDap5EwoTCNpJ7W2brAuittmRsSWWLt2y5SbM3zw69vusavvKFvu8pDKKyPtsbh5FnQjcZMJRlWYuZf5Xd6EhO8YSfvZ8bBjJjBIfqwvg/s1600/2015-05-20+13.19.04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho-ILKpUxjdlC3QGWifDt4jSiYB7T9a-w3yzvDap5EwoTCNpJ7W2brAuittmRsSWWLt2y5SbM3zw69vusavvKFvu8pDKKyPtsbh5FnQjcZMJRlWYuZf5Xd6EhO8YSfvZ8bBjJjBIfqwvg/s400/2015-05-20+13.19.04.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New skin!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZ93aj_kNDnPJ66QmfxRV11Cbc2YutBDMiF1JsDFz-pFEALTXjFIER2i6yqtOAad2FlRC3DNREp7Ve6HcZUkiOvOzqJNuSB5RbXYfvqWNpWXOsYAE0Vhf3S7yO2BZZA7IYVjZd9-TaIE/s1600/2015-05-20+13.19.07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZ93aj_kNDnPJ66QmfxRV11Cbc2YutBDMiF1JsDFz-pFEALTXjFIER2i6yqtOAad2FlRC3DNREp7Ve6HcZUkiOvOzqJNuSB5RbXYfvqWNpWXOsYAE0Vhf3S7yO2BZZA7IYVjZd9-TaIE/s400/2015-05-20+13.19.07.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hips are almost healed, week 5</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8hBKgzQyXZRkx0v4UPBo6c7i6oOAnx3QKMoC8ojAuUqn3vlfWp8iVPLZ8NKY4H4J0eL0O8qJbzEw-OuFKSBFQJkpRYxk3stCQYZh5NCT_j3kznCCuXqFrSkQ1Mq_TNkVoemwM9qytm-Y/s1600/2015-05-14+10.02.27+HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8hBKgzQyXZRkx0v4UPBo6c7i6oOAnx3QKMoC8ojAuUqn3vlfWp8iVPLZ8NKY4H4J0eL0O8qJbzEw-OuFKSBFQJkpRYxk3stCQYZh5NCT_j3kznCCuXqFrSkQ1Mq_TNkVoemwM9qytm-Y/s400/2015-05-14+10.02.27+HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The look of gratitude for all the love and compassion in his eyes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHc1UiuYwbnSQg1AQNPO8bgK4QYuQBhE4VA4NrjwvmH_adLl43mAc4V15Ko_B_Uaq0XDtQyqsrVCLRS6LfUdL4wEAhV7H2gy0NkZ5xyl9PlyaNAadmE7oXCqv8_RheQkjEirwC6FOR-B0/s1600/IMG_4780.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHc1UiuYwbnSQg1AQNPO8bgK4QYuQBhE4VA4NrjwvmH_adLl43mAc4V15Ko_B_Uaq0XDtQyqsrVCLRS6LfUdL4wEAhV7H2gy0NkZ5xyl9PlyaNAadmE7oXCqv8_RheQkjEirwC6FOR-B0/s400/IMG_4780.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seven weeks after his rescue and I get to meet the officer who helped me rescue him. We held a private ceremony to honor him and all of those who played a role in his rescue and recover, those who embodied compassion.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcJSUlXqldQdFqCF0Gkb-XL9orcBW27BnNhupoj-g_9f8GI2nq-SrvLR1yAb_TRhF4Dy5DB7BSCE3zGqGfnn6CTB507fXF6UEKjJD88SGg0xYCT_P-V0OHa9UWV4MAXP6qHxanQDfu-nw/s1600/IMG_4788.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcJSUlXqldQdFqCF0Gkb-XL9orcBW27BnNhupoj-g_9f8GI2nq-SrvLR1yAb_TRhF4Dy5DB7BSCE3zGqGfnn6CTB507fXF6UEKjJD88SGg0xYCT_P-V0OHa9UWV4MAXP6qHxanQDfu-nw/s400/IMG_4788.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rick of High Mountain Trail Rides, JJ's dad, who along with his partner Eddie provided the driver, truck and trailer.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzQldosyQ-wrBgFjv_f6KBaDVkiux4WfhuDGSbQZmJeqSFCTkboUASMZdDsZ9-cUmklO6XCxihmHTWS62v45M03oGhVSLp1zppiCFSzTOjHnf0cNWZcb2M6zi29KX3UfMAqIZ1iHHQM0/s1600/IMG_4746.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzQldosyQ-wrBgFjv_f6KBaDVkiux4WfhuDGSbQZmJeqSFCTkboUASMZdDsZ9-cUmklO6XCxihmHTWS62v45M03oGhVSLp1zppiCFSzTOjHnf0cNWZcb2M6zi29KX3UfMAqIZ1iHHQM0/s400/IMG_4746.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reception guests meeting one another</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_1cRVdBWhNIYNCGoyqV5uv4KlypaWuc9KvogIcloDhmVfQ31h7DMF85ssPDGTzMz30NO0f4gBoiO_L7wETGR0MdN5yNG2qg6aoe6nHqDD08dMrLnOD-rKIvfHwYinaybVl8m0usV7fCw/s1600/IMG_4747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_1cRVdBWhNIYNCGoyqV5uv4KlypaWuc9KvogIcloDhmVfQ31h7DMF85ssPDGTzMz30NO0f4gBoiO_L7wETGR0MdN5yNG2qg6aoe6nHqDD08dMrLnOD-rKIvfHwYinaybVl8m0usV7fCw/s400/IMG_4747.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helpers meeting each other</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3Ik_K-aHsOfEpSctfx-LUTZ3wIXD32xZcOFadBFjdIl-jnl-buA6E3bqcnYpjxBlqN_0CrKGrwjnebYKRAFITa9P5LyuDSoSt0znajYBGieqdCXxRKdPrkWAVL8ydMRQkDBCTDcG4X0/s1600/IMG_4749.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3Ik_K-aHsOfEpSctfx-LUTZ3wIXD32xZcOFadBFjdIl-jnl-buA6E3bqcnYpjxBlqN_0CrKGrwjnebYKRAFITa9P5LyuDSoSt0znajYBGieqdCXxRKdPrkWAVL8ydMRQkDBCTDcG4X0/s400/IMG_4749.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Auntie Adele's care was crucial in the early days, and Samantha's support and guidance so helpful!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoV0koGogJLBduUzrLL8zVYJWUDwvZk8S1MuiVgyx87htuE7ckGQqoJSCFcdErWY0ZYpW7A39whO9Ba6QbdtlX4OMZO4ZYIVx7n6O9h1XtnKHWlhz4aWdPXhpo1wMmiNYtlDtuosR95EI/s1600/IMG_4748.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoV0koGogJLBduUzrLL8zVYJWUDwvZk8S1MuiVgyx87htuE7ckGQqoJSCFcdErWY0ZYpW7A39whO9Ba6QbdtlX4OMZO4ZYIVx7n6O9h1XtnKHWlhz4aWdPXhpo1wMmiNYtlDtuosR95EI/s400/IMG_4748.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lisa's mom and little girl - because we know Lisa helped with the rescue from where she is!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisMzx8Job-u5jKoAjvboD33eM41nL1EV6nnFA7MVViq5ftVxxeSzDBwfeK4zuvql4PawAwkK3-8WC8pzTLGzh66GhHbFe6Zqjqh-EnzS2A4ZBG01BGL4u-5YVLZo44PfnIrzjSxxGhj6I/s1600/IMG_4750.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisMzx8Job-u5jKoAjvboD33eM41nL1EV6nnFA7MVViq5ftVxxeSzDBwfeK4zuvql4PawAwkK3-8WC8pzTLGzh66GhHbFe6Zqjqh-EnzS2A4ZBG01BGL4u-5YVLZo44PfnIrzjSxxGhj6I/s400/IMG_4750.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rick and Lisa, and some Charlotte, in spirit, too</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5z88Nyl8Od3JEiI9AGNsHvZt3UCp8L3itqp2ze-6gjlwN0MovgB75dcXXdOUMf0LwsUF3HLsQTAjV35cAqcqyL3uMgam9r36435PxiOTOn1MNRDA0lZgXx06BUFhmauyLzcRa2FqOGg/s1600/007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5z88Nyl8Od3JEiI9AGNsHvZt3UCp8L3itqp2ze-6gjlwN0MovgB75dcXXdOUMf0LwsUF3HLsQTAjV35cAqcqyL3uMgam9r36435PxiOTOn1MNRDA0lZgXx06BUFhmauyLzcRa2FqOGg/s400/007.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The very important people in Chemakoh's life</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1vkPkCeZGTPel-8VD8O4x5LiFn13tOnpaNnnUw5W1KQt9hQRXLlRWOgA8hk-s1_qFHIR7rg3D_1mPhp3B9XoK5ISBU08youOn0boodQsfAknf6sZBIgcCFWlyt-AKMdtdn13H-O0BA0/s1600/042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1vkPkCeZGTPel-8VD8O4x5LiFn13tOnpaNnnUw5W1KQt9hQRXLlRWOgA8hk-s1_qFHIR7rg3D_1mPhp3B9XoK5ISBU08youOn0boodQsfAknf6sZBIgcCFWlyt-AKMdtdn13H-O0BA0/s400/042.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Children represented on the memorial wall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwWENJvzlw9t8oMYlRahg8Z66DAH2zfqUYIQ_sLm_sHlGKYeMlvnJGsjQ3IybPiXXYXFCqvb9cLA3uGSJYhTHCbmtQp0AmhESDhUpVEJizZOoftKmhS8b2N5aBdoFi-8W2zfu0lQaE50M/s1600/043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwWENJvzlw9t8oMYlRahg8Z66DAH2zfqUYIQ_sLm_sHlGKYeMlvnJGsjQ3IybPiXXYXFCqvb9cLA3uGSJYhTHCbmtQp0AmhESDhUpVEJizZOoftKmhS8b2N5aBdoFi-8W2zfu0lQaE50M/s400/043.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A reminder to us all: Love + empathy=compassion</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga8Px8QPb1DyQJvDoHt0fqX8JcazY_7tCBo99aXeA9mpGVMGGv2qMLUd8BKtOR28_Ep7PgKNk90YzIG2eRLY19RdOVtzilXmCA8Mm3IU7VdIKKAvp1U5L4MWM6TGWlJs7UGTW_u7wy-Qw/s1600/IMG_4789.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga8Px8QPb1DyQJvDoHt0fqX8JcazY_7tCBo99aXeA9mpGVMGGv2qMLUd8BKtOR28_Ep7PgKNk90YzIG2eRLY19RdOVtzilXmCA8Mm3IU7VdIKKAvp1U5L4MWM6TGWlJs7UGTW_u7wy-Qw/s400/IMG_4789.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank you Rick, thank you Auntie Lisa!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAIN7-3g7uUwvNOKN8ifyMWoulbokr1XTdNF1gFXsAg8pVTXSg1UztPFch6BirdBaWoDoD_c3V-cYuX6Q8FZV4XMoO834y6gmbPGzl-C3K6Ft4NhP1_QyxkH64GUCzViWdSkXr-rKyv94/s1600/014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAIN7-3g7uUwvNOKN8ifyMWoulbokr1XTdNF1gFXsAg8pVTXSg1UztPFch6BirdBaWoDoD_c3V-cYuX6Q8FZV4XMoO834y6gmbPGzl-C3K6Ft4NhP1_QyxkH64GUCzViWdSkXr-rKyv94/s400/014.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I presented an award, first, to Officer Parnell, but as you can see, I was having difficulty with the words.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJxP7PX6BPuuC_0Wwx2EYX3lDiI1lnaLLUMOb4CG4WsSonxYpQLFbljt27lssgKRc0p8Z6azuOkTnVfufZNTso1H8jyvT0cg3G2rh588aDEzZM_Om9Nfna0e6MSwnQtM7kpiofGCb6XU/s1600/016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJxP7PX6BPuuC_0Wwx2EYX3lDiI1lnaLLUMOb4CG4WsSonxYpQLFbljt27lssgKRc0p8Z6azuOkTnVfufZNTso1H8jyvT0cg3G2rh588aDEzZM_Om9Nfna0e6MSwnQtM7kpiofGCb6XU/s400/016.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Recalling that day, on the trail, when I looked into Mako's eyes and promised him, <br />
"I'm going to get you out of here, baby."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmUaHOUbvwev0d336mdfD7Acm5XGQt0inVF_utDM_oFp3QT3OIm8WzWFKd_i1iOimCGuJwNsHGN-IKW-2dQbe1Fdcht-H4MhJxOfBww-sywK9CvmGmYcz33Eiyg6gyh02KafpzLW-7Vws/s1600/025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmUaHOUbvwev0d336mdfD7Acm5XGQt0inVF_utDM_oFp3QT3OIm8WzWFKd_i1iOimCGuJwNsHGN-IKW-2dQbe1Fdcht-H4MhJxOfBww-sywK9CvmGmYcz33Eiyg6gyh02KafpzLW-7Vws/s400/025.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giving him his award, representing Mako and all the other horses who need our help.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-wdTXXbjJ9sXZWXSzFf68j5yEaKKIrRdiopl7UTE_3vXPi0WP9Jq4gndph88qHrLjohcJxfcCHuM08Qhy3XvU4GqO8PfTvIvcGROKKBTts9oNtxKunZzcNxOaB70fI3MIvDKbTtigYs/s1600/030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-wdTXXbjJ9sXZWXSzFf68j5yEaKKIrRdiopl7UTE_3vXPi0WP9Jq4gndph88qHrLjohcJxfcCHuM08Qhy3XvU4GqO8PfTvIvcGROKKBTts9oNtxKunZzcNxOaB70fI3MIvDKbTtigYs/s400/030.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Officer Parnell's boss from Washington D.C. giving him the Director's Award for his compassion.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-uotTc47g3_e_GhP5L2AH9FiazVdM8_rY4-cikVyImQrS3s-BVZGNCBq9XIEckhBDhzWf6LGj4MD9WdexEmN20xHiCpAkkUk0fCKlE2oIxzuXoyu3yMUU_hd2UU-TE8iiU0eiV06Yecc/s1600/031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-uotTc47g3_e_GhP5L2AH9FiazVdM8_rY4-cikVyImQrS3s-BVZGNCBq9XIEckhBDhzWf6LGj4MD9WdexEmN20xHiCpAkkUk0fCKlE2oIxzuXoyu3yMUU_hd2UU-TE8iiU0eiV06Yecc/s400/031.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Explaining the meaning of the award, and that its an award he's never previously given.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoSNXnSpjrSDpAGqiB7QQJSXuqGX2bFIxcqD5nOZB9qNgPJzQiNwfFt206zl-X7HCC5_lIkPLWMu6q0KnWjyNyfJ7yV9Ns9S2iQ4X4_a3fwROvMsq_XUOrVpcvtlrczHTxKDS4muQ4FH8/s1600/036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoSNXnSpjrSDpAGqiB7QQJSXuqGX2bFIxcqD5nOZB9qNgPJzQiNwfFt206zl-X7HCC5_lIkPLWMu6q0KnWjyNyfJ7yV9Ns9S2iQ4X4_a3fwROvMsq_XUOrVpcvtlrczHTxKDS4muQ4FH8/s400/036.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emotional for us all.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqy7SeZk1dJomh2q6cMT1ZJOSCtrDusXphFSXN0CVqBNeQW0mvDaJ6hVgMsN4pNnVT3ECPdLKUvZGlCWgVx1I5ts6EfkO1KsVMXcWZA5FQx9j7apjPGtVJSqn1VCE9KXSdxognDg9nFHQ/s1600/037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqy7SeZk1dJomh2q6cMT1ZJOSCtrDusXphFSXN0CVqBNeQW0mvDaJ6hVgMsN4pNnVT3ECPdLKUvZGlCWgVx1I5ts6EfkO1KsVMXcWZA5FQx9j7apjPGtVJSqn1VCE9KXSdxognDg9nFHQ/s400/037.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing gratitude for his commitment to helping me.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HlCMtld_51Oz_IpjVT8PclOzuxhJeFk11kfoG60sQNyJBGDWusJDAuLA8Gu710X6KZj-kbhFWoXWpGhBU8iKYGoKTVbAX7xqHth2s6ZLdRhesqNfJRRang4HvFS8RUru6XtXY1mJ5NI/s1600/021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HlCMtld_51Oz_IpjVT8PclOzuxhJeFk11kfoG60sQNyJBGDWusJDAuLA8Gu710X6KZj-kbhFWoXWpGhBU8iKYGoKTVbAX7xqHth2s6ZLdRhesqNfJRRang4HvFS8RUru6XtXY1mJ5NI/s400/021.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Director's Award</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimdvP2OApEaY0We1Eqw4bkq7yP5SanTfGJaZqIXuRgWMFHgLbqrYZ20g4qp6h4vs7A_VNKklGENifV2PMnCovhPzbQDLIIkYRj24J-eHNQ63eWJOe1p_xemanfKFd1y4Ck1RvSlJ6_HBM/s1600/047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimdvP2OApEaY0We1Eqw4bkq7yP5SanTfGJaZqIXuRgWMFHgLbqrYZ20g4qp6h4vs7A_VNKklGENifV2PMnCovhPzbQDLIIkYRj24J-eHNQ63eWJOe1p_xemanfKFd1y4Ck1RvSlJ6_HBM/s400/047.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adele gifted me with the most beautiful silver horse pendant I'd ever seen.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkFhTKxIjXXffyB9RfKLOl_u4PJiSv4NqsZDYzpxXu-xwazuDGM6yKJKBOvHwy_rQjMY5WGHfhFIanTPhBU_Yvi5liC7DtB3Da0uU1Dm7yR_GBHEhJJ5ZZAUJBN0h1AsT-w5VUQT3dMRw/s1600/045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkFhTKxIjXXffyB9RfKLOl_u4PJiSv4NqsZDYzpxXu-xwazuDGM6yKJKBOvHwy_rQjMY5WGHfhFIanTPhBU_Yvi5liC7DtB3Da0uU1Dm7yR_GBHEhJJ5ZZAUJBN0h1AsT-w5VUQT3dMRw/s400/045.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am very grateful for all her help!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve, Coya Renee's dad and Mako's original rescuer, saying a few words. I'm still crying.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Office Parnell and his cousin with Mako</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two willful people who wanted to save a horse!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rick with Mako, their first meeting.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve and Nanci</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jacob's mom, Nowch, visiting with Mako</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rick gets a kiss</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What a loved version of Chemakoh looks like.</td></tr>
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<br />Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-22490231374251565182015-06-23T16:17:00.001-07:002015-07-03T18:33:10.934-07:00Be Like the Little Children: An Open Letter to Pastor Joel OsteenDear Mr Osteen,<br />
<br />
When my daughter, Cheyenne, died in 1994, easily some of the kindest and most tender words of solace were offered by the young, sometimes very young, children. They seemed to understand the pain of a baby's death. Some children, often of my friends or neighbors, learned of the news with their parents; the children's faces contorted with sadness, their heads dropped, they hugged me, a few cried.<br />
<br />
Years later, even now, when I tell a young child that one of my precious children died - many years ago - he or she will often respond the same way. An old friend's 8-year-old daughter, whom I just met, said, "That's the most sad thing that could ever happen isn't it? You must still be so sad."<br />
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Indeed, I am still sad that she's dead. I will be an old woman, sitting in a chair, looking out a window, and wishing she never died.<br />
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It's a concept that is simple enough for a child to understand.<br />
<br />
But apparently it is a concept that seems to be far too complicated for subsets of adults. Not just <a href="http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2012/03/relativity-applies-to-physics-not.html" target="_blank">"grown ups"</a> with plenty of letters after their names and copious industry funding sitting around a table deciding who's "mentally ill" and who's not "mentally ill" but also for <a href="http://www.theblaze.com/contributions/why-megachurch-pastor-joel-osteen-owes-an-apology/" target="_blank">spiritual leaders</a>, who want to use the Bible, or any other holy book, as a weapon to emotionally assault those who are the most vulnerable.<br />
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Mr. Osteen, instead of chiding those who mourn the death of a child, telling them that they "<a href="https://www.facebook.com/862675497152160/photos/a.862676580485385.1073741825.862675497152160/862676593818717/?type=1&theater" target="_blank">like the attention too much</a>" (shaking my head in near disbelief) and castigating them because when others "tried to lift their spirits", they were not as responsive as you - or others - believed they should have been... perhaps, instead, you and others should join them in the abyss. <br />
<br />
Allowing mourners to be in their pain, without trying to make them change how they feel (often to make yourself and said others feel better), would actually be a more compassionate and more Christlike response. Why? Because trying to force a grieving person to feel better is like telling a double amputee to get up and run before she is ready: its insensitive, lacks circumspect, and certainly doesn't even remotely resemble compassion. And Jesus seemed intent on compassion for the weakest amongst... didn't he? Are we talking about the same guy?<br />
<br />
I suspect the psychological responses of the couple to whom you make reference in your book were exacerbated by judging others who, like you, are likely terrified to imagine what it would be like to see your own child's dead, cold body laying in a casket. I do understand. That's not an image you want in your mind is it, sir?<br />
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So instead of joining them in imagining that horror, one you really can never fathom until it is happening and, even then, the brain does all it can to protect itself from the utter atrocity of the experience, you - and others - use spiritual bypass to "lift up" - only for many, these pushes toward premature healing don't lift up grieving parents- they tear down and alienate and ostracize those who most need comfort and solidarity.<br />
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By joining them in the abyss, rather than "lifting them (forcibly) up", they see that others have stood by them, borne witness to their suffering, not averted their gaze, have offered their nonjudgmental heart and compassion, slowly, ever so slowly, integration comes.<br />
<br />
No, they do not "like the attention." No they are not slathering in what you call "self pity." <i>Their child is dead. </i><br />
<br />
At what point in your ministry did your heart turn to stone?<br />
<br />
This attitude, sir, is the reason that many grieving parents with whom I work turn away from religion, perhaps, even from God. Does Romans 14:13 mean anything to you? Your words may become the very stumbling block about which the Apostle Paul admonishes. And I assure you, there is no one more vulnerable than a person who is traumatically bereaved, particularly a parent who has lost a child.<br />
<br />
So, two things. I invite you to participate in my training on traumatic grief where I cover the issue of spiritual bypass and religion, and where we explore findings from a survey of bereaved parents I conducted that found pastors and spiritual leaders scored lower in satisfaction with compassionate caregiving than doctors, nurses, social workers, mental health providers, funeral directors, first responders, and investigators. <i><b>I'll even pay your tuition. </b></i> You can register <a href="http://certification.missfoundation.org/" target="_blank">here</a>. You will learn more in these four days than you did at seminary, if you attended seminary, I promise.<br />
<br />
And two, I encourage you to re-read my opening paragraph and refer you to Matthew 18:3: <br />
<br />
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<i>Truly I tell you that until you change and become like the little children, </i></div>
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<i>you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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You can begin that change with a swift and open apology to all those so deeply hurt by your words. I hope that your Christ moves your heart to see, to truly see.</div>
<br />
I look forward to hearing from you. Of course, you can email me Dr_Joanne@me.com.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah, P.S. "Jesus wept." Ironically, he knew he was going to resurrect Lazarus. That Jesus - maybe he just wanted attention and was wallowing in self-pity?<br />
<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
Update: I have invited Mr Osteen to either apologize, publicly, to the bereaved, showing a little Christlike humility, explain himself publicly for his statements in Chapter 17 of his book which were so offensive to so many, and/or publicly debate/discuss/discourse about this issue with me.<br />
<br />
Sadly, in response, Joel Osteen and his ilk have blocked me on Twitter. To see the photo of the book excerpt that hurt so many, view <a href="https://www.facebook.com/862675497152160/photos/pb.862675497152160.-2207520000.1435160253./862676593818717/?type=1&theater" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Seems I may have triggered a little passive aggression from the Joel Osteen Ministry Team because apparently this issue isn't important enough to "matter."<br />
<br />
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And all this talk about this issue may be evidence of extraordinariness:</div>
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Yeah, a special kind of extraordinary, apparently. As an aside, those folks who sit around that table and make those decisions I talked about earlier? Sorry, but they'd have a number or two for you.</div>
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**************</div>
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Update 2:</div>
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<a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/joelosteen?source=feed_text&story_id=920078641366816" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl" style="color: #627aad;">#</span><span class="_58cm">JoelOsteen</span></a> continues to block every bereaved parent who implores an explanation or an apology. He blocks and then deletes the stories of their children who died. He takes down their photos from his wall without so much as an "I'm so sorry you endured this." I'm trying very hard not to judge. But this, to me, not only feels like a devastating violation of what it means to be a spiritual leader but, more importantly, it feels like a devastating violation of what it means to be deeply human.<br />
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I want to extend my heartfelt apologies to all the families with whom I've worked and with whom I have not worked. I apologize for the blocks and deletions and for the untrue and uneducated words he published in that book re-published in 2014, Chapter 17, that acted as a psychological weapon against so many already so wounded by the death of a child or a sibling or a spouse or a parent.<br />
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As a scientist, as a counselor, and as a bereaved mother, I assure you that the issue of grief, particularly when traumatic, is something that should not be irresponsibly discussed by those who lack the training, experience, education, and compassion to do so: not in a university, not in a book, not in a coffee shop, and not in a church. If you do not know, just listen. If you cannot understand, do not judge. And certainly, never vilify and humiliate someone who has been hurt with a hurt so deep that "not even the depth and breadth of eternity can fill it" (Charles Dickens) the way he did with Phil and Judy in Chapter 17. They represent us all, any person grieving for longer than Mr Osteen deems appropriate and any person who does not appear to respond to the "lifting up" of others.<br />
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Let me explain for a moment why I feel so strongly about this. Scholars have found that bereaved parents, in particular, are at increased risk for suicidality and premature death (Sanders, 2006; Qin & Mortenson, 2007; Cacciatore, et al., 2014). Countless studies and common sense tell us that social support is one of the most salient predictive variables in protecting those who are traumatically bereaved.<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Conversely, social constraints, like others refusing to talk about our grief, failing to remember our loved one, and pressuring us to move on, are "significantly associated with more depressive symptoms, perceived stress, somatic symptoms, and worse global health" (Juth et al., 2015). What I read in his book is about social constraint. Not just harmless foolery in my opinion but also dangerous.<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
This is an exceedingly high-risk population, fragile, and they (we) need and deserve love and compassion and patience and humility from those around them (us). Most do not need want to be forcibly 'lifted up' or expected to "move forward" in a few months or even years. Most do not need or want others to judge them. Most want others to accept what they feel in that moment, be it sadness or despair; guilt or regret; or even peace and nostalgia. Given the space, compassion, and dignity it deserves, their grief will slowly change over time. Not give the space and compassion, and dignity it deserves, and ... therein lies the problem. What happens in the spaces between people matters.<br />
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Most grievers simply want others to care and remember with them, to allow them to be authentic in whatever that moment brings. In the wise words of Robert Hall, M.D., "I help them be with what is true. The healing comes from that."<br />
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A person of influence who misunderstands and declares war on grief not only harms individuals and families. He or she also influences unrealistic expectations and, thus, hostility toward the bereaved in society.<br />
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I leave you with the words of Walt Whitman: “Re-examine all you have been told in school or church or in any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and joint of your body."<br />
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Update 3:<br />
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If you follow this blog and you're upset by this, I understand. But please do not heckle Mr Osteen in church like <a href="http://abc13.com/religion/video-hecklers-escorted-out-of-joel-osteens-lakewood-church/812485/" target="_blank">this</a>. I support peaceful, nonviolent, and respectful protest. Stay outside his church and hold signs or write a blog. But please don't go into the church and heckle him. Thank you. And I'm sorry - very very sorry - he hurt so many so much.</div>
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<br />Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-27457891085685349382015-05-25T15:59:00.001-07:002015-05-25T15:59:53.773-07:00What Love Can Do...<div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheTJfr2S9UkVlbrubIrQJWWixwao0tysCBdpCR71bsQqr4tjR-6ErgRXfhZ_FxseEnc9OI7US8xQPn8CT6HKw257BiHoRgF8KEvj_TSzw59GR0Rlj2h3692ccGkH59coAu9H817_cR_cU/s1600/IMG_6511.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheTJfr2S9UkVlbrubIrQJWWixwao0tysCBdpCR71bsQqr4tjR-6ErgRXfhZ_FxseEnc9OI7US8xQPn8CT6HKw257BiHoRgF8KEvj_TSzw59GR0Rlj2h3692ccGkH59coAu9H817_cR_cU/s640/IMG_6511.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chemakoh on the day of his rescue</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOPEg15B3YhpOkaU1VxNw7diUti6sXzsL60B6dFOUquTQzlW5BtjDu-TvdzE_zAueV8y7GUDZn2Z0CQXCqlqVXBZeVtkkamYW2bIaIaumu2tX5TVFB59TxC31ISd7Lh_ibBuIV1FU1_AU/s1600/KIMG0114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOPEg15B3YhpOkaU1VxNw7diUti6sXzsL60B6dFOUquTQzlW5BtjDu-TvdzE_zAueV8y7GUDZn2Z0CQXCqlqVXBZeVtkkamYW2bIaIaumu2tX5TVFB59TxC31ISd7Lh_ibBuIV1FU1_AU/s640/KIMG0114.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chemakoh, not even one month after his rescue, thriving</td></tr>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">If you haven't read the story of Chemakoh's rescue, </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">please <a href="http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2015/05/two-souls-that-come-together-as-one-in.html" target="_blank">read this.</a></span></i><br />
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Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-16526872553664485112015-05-07T15:15:00.000-07:002015-05-07T20:54:10.129-07:00The Hardest Job of All: Mourning Mothers and Mother's Day<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsIa1OiG6s4evd0QIlyEKk-FrjnsWliDUYxZJp2TEktQeTpbdQ0FvT5UJGYhFxyOvXzWioLtjXWwTmGGr7clXW5funTl76eIIMpnHQ8K18qIbToLu__NDCCudYHOrt6y3jAomTWScMCE/s1600/2012-mothers-day-gifts-facebook-timeline-cover-photo,1366x768,66549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsIa1OiG6s4evd0QIlyEKk-FrjnsWliDUYxZJp2TEktQeTpbdQ0FvT5UJGYhFxyOvXzWioLtjXWwTmGGr7clXW5funTl76eIIMpnHQ8K18qIbToLu__NDCCudYHOrt6y3jAomTWScMCE/s640/2012-mothers-day-gifts-facebook-timeline-cover-photo,1366x768,66549.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Mother's Day, 2013</td></tr>
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<br />
Welcome again, Mother's Day... A time of year for celebrating all the wondrous love of moms.<br />
<br />
Yet, Mother's Day can be an excruciating experience for mothers whose children have died.<br />
<br />
Instead of braiding her daughter's hair, the bereaved mother strokes her once-used blanket that still smells of her little girl.<br />
<br />
Instead of going to her son's soccer game, the bereaved mother brings flowers to his grave and brushes away the dirt caked into the capital "B" for Brandon.<br />
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Instead of saying, "<i>I'll see you later</i>," she says, "<i>I miss you so much</i>."<br />
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Instead of washing her children's clothes and helping them with homework and cooking their meals and giving baths, she spends her days wishing for one more moment, one more memory, one more touch, one more chance to whisper, "<i>I love you.</i>"<br />
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Like other mothers she thinks of her child, worries about her child, talks to her child, and walks with her child. She recognizes, like all mothers, the boundlessness of her love, only she sees it at a much deeper level, one that extends beyond the material realm. She welcomes when others ask about her child, compassionately, and when others remember her child. <br />
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But the bereaved mother does all of this with an unrelenting pain and longing in her heart that is unimaginable, unfathomable to most. <i>And this makes being a bereaved mother the hardest job of all.</i><br />
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Still, she is a mother. Then, now, and always.<br />
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And she is as worthy as <i>any other</i> mother, if not more, of recognition this Mother's Day. Sadly, many will overlook her or be too fearful to tell her that the love she holds so close to her broken heart is seen and revered by others.<br />
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Please, take time to send a card, some flowers, or even just a simple email to a grieving mother you know this Mother's Day. <br />
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******<br />
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<i>I wish all our bereaved families a gentle Mother's Day, recognizing the agony and the pain, the beauty and the love, the unique and irreplaceable relationship between you and your child/children. My mother's heart to yours...</i></div>
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<br />Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-45930359637358490742015-05-04T22:19:00.002-07:002015-05-25T16:00:33.234-07:00Two souls that come together as one in destiny: Chemakoh<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><span style="color: purple;"><b><i>“Until he extends the circle of his compassion to all living things, man will not himself find peace.” </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: purple;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">-Albert Schweitzer</span></span></div>
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<br />
Two weekends ago, I went to the <i>one</i> place on earth- a seriously <i>remote</i> place- I'd <i>always</i> wanted to visit. Because I'm not ready, yet, to speak of this specific location, I'm going to forego details about the area... it's not a significant factor in this most amazing story.<br />
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To make a very long story short, with my camping gear in tow, and after months of preparation for the 10 mile hike that would take me to this long-awaited location, with 120 ounces of water, food, a few garments, my sleeping bag, and bandaids, I (and friends) began our journey. <br />
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This is important: I waited decades for this trip.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2oAnZ55Lq9fKcVRG4JR0X5bn4O5XYZD4ISEh5ZYeGAtUX-yBT1rWGK8bUy9BKPHwob4hjjtskGHhprDDHkGWTeNYauTXeFrOInKDphIIFbADQPPN4yUe2k-3BqzLTCr4QFS9f0uMpAGw/s1600/IMG_4056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2oAnZ55Lq9fKcVRG4JR0X5bn4O5XYZD4ISEh5ZYeGAtUX-yBT1rWGK8bUy9BKPHwob4hjjtskGHhprDDHkGWTeNYauTXeFrOInKDphIIFbADQPPN4yUe2k-3BqzLTCr4QFS9f0uMpAGw/s400/IMG_4056.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With friends, moments before the hike began</i></td></tr>
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Within five minutes on the trail, I came upon a scene I will not soon forget.<br />
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This particular trail uses mules and horses to help humans carry their packs. I knew this was not something any of us would do, but I also knew many others would opt for this.<br />
<br />
But, as we turned the very first corner, I witnessed a scene that will remain ensconced in my mind and my heart, probably, for many years to come. <br />
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A horse - carrying many packs tied to a frame on its back- had fallen to the ground. <br />
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A young man was treating him very poorly, trying to get him back on his feet.<br />
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I yelled. Loudly. He stopped. I started to cry, and my heart was pounding.<br />
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He took his other four or five horses back up to the top of the trail.<br />
<br />
Our group stayed with this horse as he lay helplessly on the ground. He was bleeding from his head and legs, as they buckled under him. I saw this majestic creature, limp and terrified...<br />
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I bent down slowly, reaching out to caress the horse. He flinched.<br />
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I wept. Openly. Loudly as others hiked past us.<br />
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This horse looked in my eyes, and I looked in his. <br />
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He finally allowed me to stroke him, and I felt like he knew: <i>I </i>was that horse many years ago. I, too, had suffered as he was suffering.<br />
<br />
As people passed us, some asked if I was ok. I said, <i>"This horse, this horse is hurt! He's been abused!"</i><br />
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But there was no one to call - no cell service - no police - no one because of the remoteness of the location.<br />
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We removed the heavy packs from his weary, sweat-drenched back. I can only imagine the relief. Then, we removed the saddle and the wooden frame used to tied the packs. <br />
<br />
Underneath, revealed open and bleeding wounds that covered his back, his knees and legs were bleeding, he had lacerations on his belly and around his trunk, and he was horrifically emaciated. I stood up and my head spun in circles... it was one of the most terrible things I have ever seen.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Only one of the injured areas revealed beneath the saddle</i></td></tr>
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We didn't know what to do.<br />
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So we sat with him for about an hour as he rested on the ground, and as people passed by, looking up and looking down but few looking at the horror of the scene, and I plucked scarce grass from the mountainside to offer him. I held his head and he rested in my lap. We could not leave without him, could we? This precious life, my brother horse, child of earth, just like me... how could I leave him? How does a person see this and not do something? What would Jesus do? Or Gandhi? Or Mother Teresa? Or Siddhartha? Or Chief Seattle? My heart literally <i>hurt</i>. Sobbing uncontrollably, I told him how sorry I was, over and over again, that humans did this to him. I vowed: "<i>I'm going to help you, I promise</i>..."<br />
<br />
We offered to buy him from his owner, twice and vociferously. He declined. Abruptly.<br />
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Our trip was over. We could not hike and camp now. We had to leave, and my heart broke as I stared at the horse, walking away, fearing I'd not be able to help.<br />
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I cannot describe this feeling.<br />
<br />
It would be nearly two hours before I could get cell service to make calls. And I made many calls. I called the forest service, the sheriff, the FBI, local police, animal control, legislators, congress leaders, horse rescues, animal protection groups, superintendents, police chiefs, lawyers, an animal activist colleague, friends, neighbors, strangers, this specific community's police, and their governmental leaders. For two days, I stayed in my pajamas, made nearly 100 phone calls and sent more than 100 emails. I felt hopeless but I <i>had</i> to keep trying. This animal's life mattered. I had to exhaust every possible means to rescue him and get him the medical care he so desperately needed. I was told repeatedly that there was "nothing (anyone) could do." <i>Repeatedly</i>.<br />
<br />
But, I was not going to stop. I couldn't. I saw into this animal's soul, and I loved him.<br />
<br />
Then, my holy grail... I am unable to give specifics as to who helped me right now, but one person heard my plea and a team of governmental leaders got behind this effort.<br />
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Seven phone calls with him and six emails... and finally, three days later... I got the call.<br />
<br />
"Dr. Cacciatore," he said, "how soon can you get here?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"What?" I asked. "What, really, really? Seriously?"<br />
<br />
"Yes ma'am..."<br />
<br />
Around 4pm last week on a Tuesday we got that call, and by 10pm we had a trailer and a truck with the help of a bereaved father, JJ's dad, and his amazing friend, Eddie. And, at 2am in the morning, three heroic men headed for the long five hour drive - then descended by foot many miles to rescue and rehome this horse. I prayed from 2am until 5am and waited.<br />
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And waited.<br />
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I knew it would be a very long day so I (tried) to work on my writing and research... but I knew there was something big happening and every part of me anticipated the moment: Four hours later, I would receive a text that said, "Trail Rider reports that they made it out..."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEVGVrtSjHd83IgXxuVH9Dzcb3AsB2P5gAjnzBnAPBMxLkuyHV3xusn55RVCZSukgdpj8iwHcB4Rye5sltu8NdX35z1AniD4DwseQoB_NprmQ_mc7Uq_HfZ-wDWF0eAR9wNZroZmO7v4Y/s1600/IMG_3940.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEVGVrtSjHd83IgXxuVH9Dzcb3AsB2P5gAjnzBnAPBMxLkuyHV3xusn55RVCZSukgdpj8iwHcB4Rye5sltu8NdX35z1AniD4DwseQoB_NprmQ_mc7Uq_HfZ-wDWF0eAR9wNZroZmO7v4Y/s1600/IMG_3940.PNG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The two amazing officers who helped me to help this beautiful being</i></td></tr>
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Three deeply compassionate men drove ten hours, and two of them hiked 16 miles, to bring this horse home. As they hiked out with the horse- very very slowly toward the rescue - members of the community nodded at them, as if to say, "<b><i>Yes</i></b>." Tourists, shocked by his appearance, thanked them for saving him. Step by step, they came closer to his liberation.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Three heroes, thank you all!</i></td></tr>
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Most of you know I cry easily, usually for grief and trauma related reasons. This time was different. My heart... overflowed with gratitude and relief. I named him Chemakoh, Pima meaning '<i>two souls who came together as one in destiny.' </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
All my life, I've wanted to hike in this place. I waited and waited and waited for the right time. <br />
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As fate would have it, I never did hike in this place where I'd always wanted to visit... but I now know why my heart always longed to go there... because I was in that place at just at the right moment to meet - and rescue - Chemakoh. Two souls that came together as one in destiny. All these years for just this moment in time and so well worth the wait.<br />
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It's been five days since we brought Chemakoh home. The first day was rough. We didn't know if he'd make it. He moved very slowly and was badly dehydrated in addition to the emaciation. His wounds were deep and some infected.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Chemakoh coming off the trailer</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>His first walk in the corral</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A little unsteady</i></td></tr>
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To our surprise, in the first 48 hours, we witnessed a <i>dramatic</i> improvement in his health with the help of a wonderful neighbor who agreed to allow us to board him there until we are able to stabilize him and bring him home.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Tender eyes</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Getting stronger every day!</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Right side, healing nicely</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Left side, growing some new skin</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Filling out a little</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lots of visitors and tons of love!</i></td></tr>
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And by yesterday, we knew he was going to make it. I knew I'd made good on my promise to him on the trail... I was going to help him. We have a <i>very long road </i>toward rehabilitation of body, mind, and spirit.<br />
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But with the love and support of many, we are well on our way.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Chemakoh with Nowch Hasik, the bereaved mama who helped me to name him</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Himalayan salt lick, thank you Adele!</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The sweetest, most gentle being...</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqYSob2R51TAQYRpx9odFld0r5o0Rol4xQgYiSDjt9NiUH-bdf5U1jkYTYa_jsLpUc4nHGIioj8i4CUWv2wVQf31xERc2LNsvwNEGndty1V8exEW6gMGB51yYaOUt7rRmhEvgJJufIz8w/s1600/IMG_4146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqYSob2R51TAQYRpx9odFld0r5o0Rol4xQgYiSDjt9NiUH-bdf5U1jkYTYa_jsLpUc4nHGIioj8i4CUWv2wVQf31xERc2LNsvwNEGndty1V8exEW6gMGB51yYaOUt7rRmhEvgJJufIz8w/s320/IMG_4146.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Getting stronger every day, he fell asleep in my arms. Love.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A promise made good...</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Covering him in the rain until his shelter is built... he's very happy!</i></td></tr>
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In an effort to reduce animal abuse and neglect there, the officers told me that the local government decided to institute<i> "a scoring system for animal control to use, to determine whether or not an animal is fit to pack." </i>Many people had to come together to make this happen. Many. And for every single contact, every nuance, every point of a finger, every small effort, I am grateful, grateful, grateful.<br />
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And now, my heart is at peace. I think Chemakoh's heart is too... he is home.<br />
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*******</div>
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Please, first:<br />
<br />
If you see a child, vulnerable adult, or animal being abused, do not avert your gaze. Please, with prudence, take action. And not just one phone call. Keep calling, persist in corrective action. Don't give up. Don't let anyone placate you. Be sure you are making a change. If you are a Christian (as the majority religion in America and as someone born into the Christian faith), I implore you to act as Christ would. He would <i>not</i> walk away from such a scene. Christ is love, and he used righteous, non-violent anger when necessary to right a wrong. Please, do not allow others to harm God's creatures, the two-legged or the four-legged! Do not allow fear to get in the way of love and doing the right thing. I realize it takes time. I realize it takes effort. Please, do it anyway. Take responsibility. Be the light. Without human compassion and action, we will never find our way.<br />
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Please, second:<br />
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If you are renting an animal for work or leisure, be <b><i>certain</i></b> that the animal is treated well. Do not hire an animal if it looks malnourished, overheated, and is without adequate access to water. If the animal is not well-cared for, don't use it and report the abuse or neglect. And keep your eyes and ears open. Don't be so concerned with having a 'good time' that you miss obvious crimes against the vulnerable, be it a child, adult, or animal.<br />
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Please, third:<br />
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Recognize the effects of trauma and abuse on others. You can take right action whilst being compassionate. And don't wait... help others who are less fortunate. Recognize historical wrongs. Be willing to sacrifice for others as a way to convey compassion. If you are able to donate to aid families at risk, or volunteer your time, do so. Demonstrating compassion may help others cultivate compassion.<br />
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Some people reading this may feel much anger about the abuse of this beautiful creature. I understand that. I felt it too. Many ask: "How can this happen?" That is, how can humans abuse animals?<br />
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Well, the same question applies, historically, to humans abusing humans.<br />
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The 19th and 20th century American Indian genocide nearly eradicated entire tribal cultures, and it is a historical abomination that few living today, outside of tribal people and their governments, want to remember, acknowledge, or recompense.<br />
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Transgenerational, or historical, trauma is a very real and exceedingly potent phenomena. The deep psychological wounds and near obliteration of tribes, the killing of countless Native children and adults, the subjugation, oppression, involuntary diaspora, and the kidnapping of children from their families and tribes is an unforgettable calamity that has imprinted in the minds and hearts of those who suffered at the hands of European occupiers.<br />
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Dr. Maria Yellowhorse Braveheart delineates the effects of this trauma in her work: traumatic stress, depressive symptoms, exceedingly high premature mortality, poor physical health, alcohol abuse, and domestic violence against women and children, even <a href="http://www.examiner.com/article/fbi-to-classify-animal-abusers-same-category-as-murders-beginning-2016" target="_blank">animal abuse</a>. And these all link <a href="http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S014521340600055X" target="_blank">together</a> in a dangerous web of enduring risk, perpetuating the cycle of suffering once only inflicted by outsiders. In "Phase 1" of her 6 Phases of Unresolved Historical Grief she notes "no time for grief"...<br />
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<i><b>No time for grief.</b></i></div>
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<i><b>No time for grief.</b></i></div>
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<i><b>No time for grief.</b></i></div>
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No. There is no time to grieve when such horrors are systemic, en masse, and unrelenting.<br />
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Yet, there is a price to be paid for this circumvention. Grief commands to be seen. It demands to be heard. It insists on a channel of expression. I've seen countless examples of chronically avoided, suppressed, deflected, silenced, and internalized traumatic grief. It's effects are stunning. This counts for individuals, and for families, and for entire cultures.<br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>The effects of "no time for grief" are stunning.</b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>And these effects often manifest against the vulnerable. </b></i><br />
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We must recognize and stop all abuse, human to human, human to human child, human to animal, human child to animal... We must remunerate and apologize for the suffering caused in the past and change our ways. We must enact both our love and our grief for the past, the present, and the future.<br />
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Otherwise, we will <i>never</i> have peace.<br />
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We must reach out to others less fortunate and show compassion, because to receive compassion, even if over time and slowly, is to know compassion. And to know compassion is to be able to show compassion.<br />
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We cannot give what we have never received.<br />
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Update on Chemakoh <a href="http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2015/05/what-love-can-do.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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*******</div>
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<span style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: inherit; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>From the window I saw the horses.</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #373e4d; font-family: inherit; line-height: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>I was in Berlin, in winter. The light
had no light, the sky had no heaven.
The air was white like wet bread.
And from my window a vacant arena,
bitten by the teeth of winter.
Suddenly driven out by a man,
ten horses surged through the mist.
Like waves of fire, they flared forward
and to my eyes filled the whole world,
empty till then. Perfect, ablaze,
they were like ten gods with pure white hoofs,
with manes like a dream of salt.
Their rumps were worlds and oranges.
Their color was honey, amber, fire.
Their necks were towers
cut from the stone of pride,
and behind their transparent eyes
energy raged, like a prisoner.
There, in silence, at mid-day,
in that dirty, disordered winter,
those intense horses were the blood
the rhythm, the inciting treasure of life.
I looked. I looked and was reborn:
for there, unknowing, was the fountain,
the dance of gold, heaven
and the fire that lives in beauty.
I have forgotten that dark Berlin winter.
I will not forget the light of the horses.
~ Pablo Neruda</i></span><br />
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<br />Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-14207361897210843142015-04-12T19:36:00.001-07:002015-04-12T19:53:40.805-07:00Dying of Cold: Growing in the Darkness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<strong style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kindness</span></strong><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">Before you know what kindness really is</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">you must lose things,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">feel the future dissolve in a moment</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">like salt in a weakened broth.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"></span></span>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">What you held in your hand,</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">what you counted and carefully saved,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">all this must go so you know</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">how desolate the landscape can be</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">between the regions of kindness.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">How you ride and ride</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">thinking the bus will never stop,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">the passengers eating maize and chicken</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">will stare out the window forever.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">lies dead by the side of the road.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">You must see how this could be you,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">how he too was someone</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">who journeyed through the night with plans</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">and the simple breath that kept him alive.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">You must wake up with sorrow.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">You must speak to it till your voice</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">catches the thread of all sorrows</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">and you see the size of the cloth.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">only kindness that ties your shoes</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">and sends you out into the day to mail letters and </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">purchase bread,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">only kindness that raises its head</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">from the crowd of the world to say</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">It is I you have been looking for,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">and then goes with you everywhere</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">like a shadow or a friend.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">― </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: inherit;">Naomi Shihab Nye</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">, </span><i style="background-color: transparent; font-family: inherit;">Words Under the Words: Selected Poems</i></div>
</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">
</span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></i><span style="line-height: 18px;">She died almost 21 years ago now, on a hot summer eve, as the intoning locusts and wingless nymphs sauntered in their nests. It was a lonely time for me because grief, by its very nature, is disconsolate for a very long time.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">I was thinking about the moment I closed her casket as I kissed her for the last time. I remember speaking to myself in my mind, "This cannot be real, this cannot be real" over and over until the funeral director at </span><a href="http://www.messingermortuary.com/" style="line-height: 18px;" target="_blank">Messinger's</a><span style="line-height: 18px;"> gently put his hand on my back. I turned toward him with a desperate plea in my heart that connected with his. He said nothing. There was nothing to say. But I could see tears swelling his eyes. He stopped and said, "Take your time." That was the first act of compassion I can remember. And I am grateful.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">I had many horrible encounters with others after her death. Western culture is prepossessed by the idea of "moving on" - </span><i style="line-height: 18px;">furor sanandi</i><span style="line-height: 18px;">, as Freud once said: </span><i style="line-height: 18px;">the rage to cure</i><span style="line-height: 18px;">. Sadly, it is precisely this attitude that adds suffering to suffering, trauma to trauma, for the bereaved. My colleague, Vanessa Juth, PhD, found that social constraints on grievers, primarily women, the young, and the poor, increased the risk of depression (not grief, depression), stress, somatic symptoms, worse "global health", and poor adjustment to loss (Juth, Smythe, Carey, & Lapore, 2015). Surprise, surprise. Simply put, this study confirms what common sense tells us: pushing people toward "healing" or "moving on" or narrative constraint is the most salient predictor of poor outcomes after loss.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">But while many encounters with others were disavowing and invalidating, I also had explicable moments of compassion and love and connection with others, like:</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">... the nurse at John C. Lincoln hospital who, just after the birth of my subsequent son three years later held my hand and let me feel both the happiness and the sadness that lived together right then. Like the stranger who saw me crying in the baby aisle at the grocery store and just stood beside me and said softly, "<i>I don't know what happened but I'm so sorry.</i>" Like a friend of a friend who asked me her name and didn't recoil when I spoke it. Like my best friend Kelly who, even though she couldn't be there for the funeral, showed up a few years later and apologized for abandoning me and asked my forgiveness. Like </span><a href="http://health.usnews.com/doctors/guillermo-gutierrez-calleros-828019" style="line-height: 18px;" target="_blank">Dr. Guillermo Gutierrez </a><span style="line-height: 18px;">who validated the worthiness of her life over and over again, becoming an advocate for the MISS Foundation. Unbeknownst to him, his beautiful young son, Nicolas Gutierrez-Cantin, would die in 2008 and he would reluctantly join our unwished-for-club. Like the late </span><a href="http://01f21cf.netsolhost.com/FM_GP/andy_nichols.htm" style="line-height: 18px;" target="_blank">Senator Andy Nichols </a><span style="line-height: 18px;">(D-Tucson) who, when he heard the story of Chey's death, broke down in tears and said he "<i>couldn't imagine a harder pain.</i>" Like Kim Parrish and Jim Gregory, two strangers turned friends who have never forgotten to email, or send a card, or call on the anniversary of Chey's death. Like my once-neighbor, Amber, who always remembers her in my child-count. Like Dr. Larry Bergstrom, one of the physicians I met at the Mayo Clinic in 2013 when I was having some health issues who said how heartbroken he feels when he meets someone who has lost a child. Like my dog, Francis, who came up and leaned on me when I was struggling on prom night, 2012, cognizant of what I was missing. Like Katie and Zack's mom who, after losing both her children in a horrific car crash, will reach out one-broken-mother's-heart to another, to ask what I feel like Chey, Katie, and Zacky are doing together. Like Mbug's mom who will handmake beautiful cards to comfort other parents like her, missing their kids. Like KD and Doug, two very special people who have tirelessly contributed to the </span><a href="http://www.missfoundation.org/" style="line-height: 18px;" target="_blank">MISS Foundation</a><span style="line-height: 18px;"> to help families whose children are dying or have died. They haven't lost a child but they see the devastation, and they open their hearts to help support others. Without their consistent generosity for the past five years, we would not have been able to help countless families through life's darkest times.</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">How fortunate am I to have encountered such kindness along the path of such despair? For the simple, fleeting glance of compassion from a stranger to the most benevolent act of generosity, I am grateful.</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">These synchronous moments with others epitomize agape, a kind of love for our fellow humans, and this is the kind of <a href="http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2015/%E2%80%A6/150410083508.htm" target="_blank">space</a> that allows grievers to feel connected and to slowly begin to adapt and integrate loss. </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">And as Naomi Shihab-Nay said in her poem, </span></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">Before you know kindness as the deepest thing </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">inside, </span></span></i><br />
<i><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.</span></i></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><i style="background-color: transparent;">You must wake up with sorrow.</i></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><i style="background-color: transparent;">You must speak to it till your voice </i></span></span></i><br />
<i style="color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">catches the thread of all sorrows</i><br />
<i style="color: #181818; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">and you see the size of the cloth.</i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">It is knowing sorrow, deeply knowing sorrow in all its darkest places and with all its most harrowing faces, that brings us to a place of unparalleled compassion for others and, perhaps one day, for ourselves. The road of sorrow is not a wide and well-paved road. It is a road riddled with stones, gorges, and barricades. It is dark, uncharted, terrifying. We meet others along the road who offer sustenance: some water, a morsel of food, some direction, a small candle to light the way, a hand to climb out of the hollow when we fall. </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">It is these very people who will give rise to our kindness because they have helped us "speak to it", to be with our loss and the darkest moments of sorrow. Their courage and kindness, even in the most infinitesimal of encounters, enkindles </span></span></span><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">within us the ability to grow, from the seed buried deep in the bowels of earth, into the majestic tree of compassion we shall, one day when we are ready, become. And we will shade another.</span></span></span><br />
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And our cloth, wet with tears and worn from too much handling, will provide warmth and solace to another. "Man dies of cold, not of darkness..."</span><br />
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And this is how our world will change.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-8558181162020361782015-03-06T23:09:00.001-08:002015-03-07T07:09:06.788-08:00Grieving Savagery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span class="bqQuoteLink" style="line-height: 26px; text-align: left;">Barbarians always think of themselves as the bringers of civilization.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">-Pierre Schaeffer</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px;">I went on a long walk in the sun today, contemplating many things in my usual heliotropic style. I started thinking about the ways in which </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">imperialistic reign has harmed and exploited countless others in the name of "civilized" society. For example, many North American native peoples were once thought to be barbarians, their ways savage, out of control, "wild" and they needed to be "tamed". The "savages" were described as "animals" for their unseemly ways of being in the world (Schwartz, 2008). They ate when hungry, they let their children play, they worshipped different gods. Rather, the proper way of the imperialist was scheduled, sternly calm, tamed, controlled, and, yes, civilized. And of course, the imperialists, the "bringers of civilization", alway know best. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">Then, I started to think about a concept I'll call 'psychological imperialism'. Psychological imperialism occurs, much like sociopolitical imperialism, to dominate, control, and "rule over" the emotional experiences of others perceived to be savage, uncivilized, and abnormal. It's a type of psychocentrism; that is, the proclivity to judge one person's emotional experiences with an arbitrary standard set by another; and then to coerce that person into a more socially acceptable, civilized, way of being. The collective ego of those in power of the standards intimates, "I am better than (smart than, more normal than, more controlled than, more ... than) you, and thus, I will subjugate and appropriate psychological dominance over you (enter systemic egoism) as noted by W.H. Auden: </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">“In most poetic expressions of patriotism, it is impossible to distinguish what is one of the greatest human virtues from the worst human vice, collective egotism.” </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">Indeed, the word civilized, etymologically, has fascinating roots:</span></div>
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<dt style="background-color: #fffbec; font-family: Georgia, Garamond, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; margin-left: 0px; padding: 0px 0.5em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><a href="http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=civilize&allowed_in_frame=0" style="color: #800020; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">civilize (v.)</a> </dt>
<dd style="background-color: #fffbec; font-family: Georgia, Garamond, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; margin-left: 0px; padding: 0px 0.5em 0.5em; text-align: -webkit-auto;">c.1600, "to bring out of barbarism," from French <span class="foreign" style="font-style: italic;">civiliser</span>, verb from Old French <span class="foreign" style="font-style: italic;">civil</span> (adj.), from Latin <span class="foreign" style="font-style: italic;">civilis</span> "relating to a citizen, relating to public life, befitting a citizen; popular, affable, courteous" (see <a class="crossreference" href="http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=civil&allowed_in_frame=0" style="color: #800020; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">civil</a>). Meaning "become civilized" is from 1868. Related: <a class="crossreference" href="http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=Civilized&allowed_in_frame=0" style="color: #800020; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Civilized</a>; <span class="foreign" style="font-style: italic;">civilizing</span>.</dd></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><span style="background-color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px;">There are, perhaps, few places wherein </span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;">behaviors are not befitting a citizen in public life such as grief. Grief is oft out of control. Grief is barbaric. It makes others crawl in their skin. It is savagery, distasteful, animalistic. And systemic psychological imperialism is used to quell grief, to force people into dark corners of hiding with their pain, to silence a g<a href="http://www.madinamerica.com/2014/01/bereaved-parents-prescribed-meds-early-stay-long-term/" target="_blank">rieving mother's wailing</a> with mind-numbing pills, to forcibly calm and control that which cannot - and should not - be controlled. </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">It may be time to consider rejection of this parochial practice. </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">There is no place for egoism and psychological dictatorship in grief. There is no place for tidy, neat, presentable, or civilized. Grief is, often, rather raw, oozing, subversive, chaotic, writhing, and most certainly uncivilized. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">And, like those who fought political imperialism throughout history, seeking to reclaim rights and land and culture and language, we- grievers- can fight </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">against what my friend Dr. Robert Stolorow calls the psychological '<a href="https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/feeling-relating-existing/201402/the-war-grief" target="_blank">war on grief'</a> and </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">reclaim our right to mourn, whether civilized or more often uncivilized, primal and primitive, uncontrolled and untamable, and certainly savage:</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=savage&allowed_in_frame=0" style="color: #800020; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">savage (adj.)</a><br />
<dd class="highlight" style="background-color: #ddd9ca; font-family: Georgia, Garamond, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; margin-left: 0px; padding: 0px 0.5em 0.5em; text-align: -webkit-auto;">mid-13c., "fierce, ferocious;" c.1300, "wild, undomesticated, untamed" (of animals and places), from Old French <span class="foreign" style="font-style: italic;">sauvage</span>, <span class="foreign" style="font-style: italic;">salvage</span> "wild, savage, untamed, strange," from Late Latin <span class="foreign" style="font-style: italic;">salvaticus</span>, alteration of <span class="foreign" style="font-style: italic;">silvaticus</span> "wild," literally "of the woods," from <span class="foreign" style="font-style: italic;">silva</span> "forest, grove" (see <a class="crossreference" href="http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=sylvan&allowed_in_frame=0" style="color: #800020; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">sylvan</a>). Of persons, the meaning "reckless, ungovernable" is attested from c.1400, earlier in sense "indomitable, valiant" (c.1300).</dd></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Our</i> grief cannot and should not be governed by <i>others</i>. </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">Revolt, with loving kindness when you can, against that which seeks to take what is yours. Listen to that sacred <i>knowing</i> deep in your soul that tells you this pain has its place and time, and that your Beloved's absence calls for such protestations. </span><br />
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When others try to force 'normal' and 'civilized' upon us, when others try to steal from us the grief we have or rush us toward a cure, when others coerce us away from tears and toward something for which we are not yet ready, remember the words of Pierre Schaeffer: those who seek to tame and civilize are, themselves, the barbarians. Who else would foist such psychological harm on a vulnerable other but a barbarian?<br />
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So hold your heads high and, listen to the admonition of Walt Whitman to reject that which "insults your soul." Hear the words of Thoreau, "all good things are wild and free", and know that the most valuable grief is precisely that: wild, wild, wild and free of imperialist influence.<br />
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Take back what is yours. Take back what is yours.</div>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px;">“We take off into the cosmos, ready for anything: for solitude, for hardship, for exhaustion, death. Modesty forbids us to say so, but there are times when we think pretty well of ourselves. And yet, if we examine it more closely, our enthusiasm turns out to be all sham. We don't want to conquer the cosmos, we simply want to extend the boundaries of Earth to the frontiers of the cosmos....</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #999999; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px;">We are humanitarian and chivalrous; we don't want to enslave other races, we simply want to bequeath them our values and take over their heritage in exchange. We think of ourselves as the Knights of the Holy Contact. This is another lie. We are only seeking Man. We have no need of other worlds. We need mirrors. (1970 English translation)”</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #999999; font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px;">― </span>Stanisław Lem<span style="background-color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px;">, </span><i style="background-color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px;">Solaris</i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;"><br /></span>Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-62831339315500921042015-02-19T15:11:00.001-08:002015-03-18T18:19:09.846-07:00Complicated Grief "Disorder"? Really?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is some hullabaloo going on about "<i>prolonged grief disorder</i>" aka 'complicated grief disorder.' Yep, another grief-related 'mental illness.' According to a NEJM blog it is "condition is characterized by intense grief that lasts longer than would be expected according to <i>social norms </i>and that causes impairment in daily functioning."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ha! Social norms? Around grief? Talk about pathology! Western culture's social norms around grief are as abnormal as you get. The average bereavement leave is three days, many bereaved parents are medicated within days or weeks after a traumatic loss (even in the presence of data to suggest these medications can be harmful and iatrogenic), and mourners are expected to get back to 'life-as-usual' often within weeks or mere months even after traumatic death.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">The same blog continues:</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"The hallmark of complicated grief is persistent, intense yearning, longing, and sadness; these symptoms are usually accompanied by insistent thoughts or images of the deceased and a sense of disbelief or an inability to accept the painful reality of the person’s death... the urge to hold onto the deceased person by constantly reminiscing or by viewing, touching, or smelling the deceased person’s belongings... often feel shocked, stunned, or emotionally numb, and they may become estranged from others because of the belief that happiness is inextricably tied to the person who died. They may have a diminished sense of self or discomfort with a changed social role and are often confused by their seemingly endless grief."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've had many emails and calls about this. So, I will say, and those who know me can predict this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I think certain groups are at risk of - again - being diagnosed and "<a href="http://www.newswise.com/articles/the-science-behind-commonly-used-anti-depressants-appears-to-be-backwards-researchers-say" target="_blank">treated</a>" for absolutely normal feelings and experiences after an excruciatingly painful and traumatic loss. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For example, I worked with a mother who lost her three children in a fire. Why would she not have persistent and intense yearning? Why would she not long for her children? Feel sadness? Experience an inability to accept their deaths? Why would she not feel shocked... emotionally numb? Why would she not experience a diminished sense of self? And let's not underestimate the power of being surrounded by cruel and insensitive others while in our grief.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Please consider that when others promote 'treatment' for a 'disorder' related to grief, they are asserting that these are aberrant - somehow abnormal - reactions. They are medicalizing what it means to be human, to love and to, rightfully, mourn. Um, sorry, no.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When the overwhelming majority of a population feel the same way, experience the same emotions, and contradict what others, on the outside looking in, assert are "normative", then I'm going to defer to the *real* experts to establish the Gaussian curve for that particular population.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I reject this idea that, somehow, a mother whose three children die in a fire or a mother whose two children are murdered or parents whose baby dies during birth or whose son died at three of cancer or whose daughter is raped and murdered are "disordered" for feeling the aforementioned symptoms. No way I will be convinced of that. Rather, a world wherein those horrific events can occur is deeply flawed and the tendency for our culture to pathologize the pain and suffering they expectedly would endure is a sickness. Of *course* they experience an 'impairment in daily functioning'. No shit Sherlock. This is a NORMAL reaction to ABNORMAL tragedies. Come on, let's use our hearts and our minds about this. What happened to basic common sense? Of course grief is complicated. So is love. Heck, life is complicated. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19px;">So here's the question: Do some people need support through traumatic grief? Oh yes, yes indeed. Many do. And here's the next question: Need we medicalize and </span><span style="color: #141823;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">pathologize traumatic grief in order to provide aid? No, nope, no we don't. And we shouldn't. It is trivializing and dismissive and an offense to our humanity.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The best support and care we can offer is nonjudgmental loving, compassionate space to be with what is... others to remember and speak their names... unconditional respect for our emotional state... a place of safety... time to mourn a profoundly important and utterly irreplaceable relationship, time and space and kindness as we integrate the loss, and eventually, support without coercion, as we find meaning and purpose in life again if and when we are ever ready.</span><br />
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<br />Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-16053519541278901132015-02-02T15:32:00.002-08:002015-02-03T07:08:51.705-08:00When the Media Utter the Words: Child Death<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljFcXcFeNjbn4-iGYjH-ItOmtjkdhb2zBzu-qIKLiRmz2WqCLUduiGcA3PuW38O8M-NBVzb_ZzYKDGzUPKV7UlHpsHLOltZzvCN10jYwv0a3aQz4En6tEmxEE4LuzxCdEVCPehrtGmss/s1600/Fearful+thing+to+love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljFcXcFeNjbn4-iGYjH-ItOmtjkdhb2zBzu-qIKLiRmz2WqCLUduiGcA3PuW38O8M-NBVzb_ZzYKDGzUPKV7UlHpsHLOltZzvCN10jYwv0a3aQz4En6tEmxEE4LuzxCdEVCPehrtGmss/s1600/Fearful+thing+to+love.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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When the media utter the words 'child death'... all hell breaks loose. Especially during a party.<br />
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<i>So this blog is not going to be popular. </i><br />
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I can feel it. I'm in the minority, perhaps, but I'd like to offer a dialectical view on the big event during yesterday's football game.<br />
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My email and phone exploded during the Superbowl. As many now know, the Nationwide ad about children dying sent many of the non-bereaved into a tearful frenzy. Bereaved parents around the world who contacted me were split, though the majority supported the ad, especially those whose children died at home from accidents. <i>Most</i>, however, do not represent <i>all</i>.<br />
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And not everyone will agree, particularly about such an emotion-laden, censored topic in our culture.<br />
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So, many want to know how <i>I</i> feel. I rarely respond to these types of things but - literally - my emails have amassed to the point where I am unable to respond to each one. Therefore, the blog.<br />
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First, I <i>know</i> the non-bereaved were not expecting this commercial. People may tolerate commercials about domestic violence. Feminine hygiene girl power. Even alcohol related sentimentality. But something to awaken them from their delusion that, somehow, their child will never die? Nope. That is absolutely unacceptable. A "buzz kill" to quote one blogger. "Debbie downer" to quote a news reporter. "What were they thinking to air that ad?" to quote another.<br />
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And thus, many non-bereaved took to social media about the ad:<br />
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<i>"Morbid," "somber," "horrific</i>," <i>"I cried!" </i>"<i>Why would they talk about children dying?</i>"<br />
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Well, if you think it's morbid and horrific to watch an ad, imagine that <i>this</i> is your life. Oh I get it. Everyone watching was in a party-with-Katy-Perry-on-a-pretend-lion-with rainbows and unicorns-leather and tights mode. But <i>that</i> isn't reality.<br />
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Reality? Well, children can- and do - die everyday. And a certain percentage of parents watching the Superbowl's controversial ad yesterday- yes, some of their children will die. Some died today. And some will die tomorrow. And for that, my heart breaks.<br />
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Tragically, <i>that</i> is the real outrage: the fact that every single day, parents lose their children, not just to accidents but to cancer, newborn death, illness, SIDS, homicide, suicide, non-preventable accidents, fires, medical malpractice, and the list goes on and on... How do I know? I've been a bereaved parent for two decades. And, I am a counselor to them every day, mostly seven days a week, for the past 18 years. Then, there is the research professor piece. I assure you, from someone who is immersed in this field of practice and study- as hard as it is to see an ad like this, to live as a bereaved parent is exponentially - unimaginably - unfathomably more painful.<br />
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Now, the bereaved who strongly disliked the ad... well, everyone is different. A few said their friends feared the ad was a reminder of all they lost... but really, there isn't a day when we are not reminded of all we've lost. Many parents I read on the net cited feeling 'triggered' as the main reason for their dislike of the ad. Interestingly, however, most MISS Foundation parents, told me they appreciated the ad, even if they didn't "<i>like</i>" it, and even those whose children died in home accidents: "<i>If it saves just one life</i>..."<br />
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I was, personally, not triggered and most parents I work with were not triggered because 'triggered' often comes with experiential avoidance. And our group promotes integration, accommodation, making room for all the dark places that grief is in the aftermath of this tragedy.<br />
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Still, I recognize and honor that for some parents, the ad was simply- not ok. And that is to be expected to some extent. I'm saddened and sorry that some felt hurt by the ad. And Nationwide has its responsibility too...<br />
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Now, here is where I question them:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Did you consult with anyone <i>on the inside</i> about this ad?</li>
</ul>
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<ul>
<li>Do you realize that, while accidents <i>do</i> cause children's deaths, many if not most accidents are not preventable? Why not say that? Why not say, "<i>While not ALL child deaths are preventable.</i>.." in your ad? "Make Safe Happen" doesn't always work, you know? Even the most diligent and abiding parents lose their children to accidents. And do you realize how the parents feel after their child dies from an accident? Maybe there could've been some acknowledgement of that in your ad?</li>
</ul>
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<br />
<ul>
<li>Did you consider the ways in which the ad might affect parents whose children died? And, if you did, what did that discussion sound like? Because I'd have liked to see Nationwide pay for a moment of silence to honor these children and their families, to bring awareness, not just to child death, but also, to the grief suffered in the aftermath of such unimaginable loss.</li>
</ul>
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<br />
<ul>
<li>Did you consider asking an actual family to share their story with the public instead of using actors to dramatize that which needs no dramatizing? Oh - too painful? I'm thinking your ad couldn't have gone more south than it did so why not invite a real family to share the story of their real child who is worthy of recognition and acknowledgement.</li>
</ul>
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In sum, this is clearly a polemic issue for so many. </div>
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<div>
I am neutral on the ad. I didn't like the presentation, yet, I think the concept was brave- I've never heard a company speak on this issue. Yet, raising awareness is crucial, not just to prevent other deaths but also to open the door, even if objectionably and distastefully presented, to dialogue.<br />
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So, I want to express cautious gratitude to Nationwide for getting an otherwise-apathetic general public off their asses to face this tragedy. </div>
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We <i>can</i> discuss this. We <i>should</i> discuss this. We <i>must</i> discuss this.</div>
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<div>
Children can and do die. It happened to me. Maybe it happened to you. It happens to more than 200 new families every month who join the MISS Foundation. </div>
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And you- non bereaved person: It can happen to you. You are not exempt. Terrifying? Yes, we know. Morbid? Somber? Horrific? </div>
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Yes. Yes. Yes. </div>
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So, go home and kiss your children and spend time with them and be sure they know how deeply you love them. Why? Because death is inevitable for us all, and because even children die. Remember that every moment with them is a gift. </div>
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We are all vulnerable creatures holding tightly to that which we love.</div>
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-----</div>
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Deep bows and appreciation to those who have allowed me to share my heart.</div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=984330758590198929" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=984330758590198929" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=984330758590198929" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=984330758590198929" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-92174394235175897672015-01-29T07:41:00.002-08:002015-01-29T19:22:03.791-08:00Why Grief is Sacred and Personal...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjak2lP6MABH-ZwSybKSBuHYE_FfkKli6v6CksT6fXaV0ZKetr6Yg1rs0pYgIMQXImYmAGh9j9LqgZ9Sc5meAXYpCrB0MQ-JygsLtejQc_gTD5QGFne29KazgcFX85QonL0XxKawdh8M8o/s1600/10314590_10205034128672988_4830969109181907662_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjak2lP6MABH-ZwSybKSBuHYE_FfkKli6v6CksT6fXaV0ZKetr6Yg1rs0pYgIMQXImYmAGh9j9LqgZ9Sc5meAXYpCrB0MQ-JygsLtejQc_gTD5QGFne29KazgcFX85QonL0XxKawdh8M8o/s1600/10314590_10205034128672988_4830969109181907662_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a>Grief is a deeply intimate and personal journey. It is sacred ground upon which we fear to tread, yet something in us calls for us to enact that which we know is rightfully ours: grief.<br />
<br />
And the experience of loss can also be very layered. We have the primary loss- the death of our child, our children, a partner or spouse, a sibling, a parent, a grandchild, a niece or nephew, an uncle or aunt, a grandparent, a friend, a pet... and then, sometimes, the loss, particularly in traumatic death, comes with peripheral losses: the loss of naiveté, the loss of a parent group, the loss of innocence, the loss of trust in the world, loss of safety, loss of other relationships, loss of a home or a job, the loss of our minds or even what I call a necessary and temporary loss of reality, of our minds - and hearts - as they once were... and, the list of secondary losses can be unending. I am going to briefly share my own experiences of traumatic death and the layers of loss.<br />
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Some may be able to relate. Others may not. But this is my truth, and it's important for me to tell my truth. This truth isn't something I've publicly discussed, but its been in my heart for nearly 21 years. Yesterday, I had a conversation with another grieving parent who shared this truth. She felt shame for this truth, and it made me wonder if there were others like us...<br />
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When my newborn daughter, Cheyenne, died in July of 1994, the juxtaposition of unmedicated childbirth and then death, kicking in the door where He most certainly was not welcomed, for me was traumatic beyond my own imagining. I cannot describe, in mere words, the horror of that day when death violated the inviolable: a mother and her baby. Every cell in my body was programmed to nurture and mother my child. Yet, I had no where to enact that evolutionary drive. Hormones raced through my veins, messengers of mothering, so I would pace the hallways at night, pangs of distress screaming in my head, my arms burning for her, and milk burning at my breasts for my dead baby. Yes, I was losing my mind. This I knew. Why wouldn't I?<br />
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Three months after Chey died, I began to experience what those in the medical field might call 'hallucinations.' They lasted for about seven weeks, and were primarily tactile or somatic, but on several occasions they were also visual, auditory, and supernatural in a terrifying way. I didn't understand what was happening to me. I was disoriented and filled with dread. And I told selective few about these experiences. I wondered if my mind was irretrievably lost in the trauma of her death. Would I ever be the same again? Really, just as there aren't words to describe the loss, there are no words to describe what happened in my home for nearly two months, from October 5, 1994 to November 20, 1994 as I teetered on the precipice of reality. I do know that, from the moment of her death to the moment the incidents began, I felt alone, lonely, terrified, despairing, and isolated.<br />
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And primarily, the ways in which others interacted with me mattered. Many avoided me altogether. Some cited scripture or holy books (nonplussing because I was, at the time, a secular humanist). Social support was scant. Psychologists I encountered wanted to run from me, perform some 'intervention' to diminish my "symptoms" of grief and make themselves feel more powerful in the face of the unfixable, or focus on my marriage: psychiatrists wanted to medicate me. Neighbors told me to focus on life, you know, unicorns and rainbows, or just "choose happiness" (right, Megan?). Pastors wanted to proselytize and convert me. But exceedingly few, if any, were willing to really sit with me in the middle of the grief's fire and allow me to just be, bearing witness to the deep abyss of my despair. I could sense their own fear and trepidation. Might their children die, too? <br />
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So, really, it was the existential loneliness, sense of disconnection, and invalidation for the worthiness of her life and death that was unhinging me, not my grief itself. I could barely parent my older three children, whom I deeply loved and over which I felt tremendous shame (adding shame to shame to shame) because of my changed ability to parent. And then, there was what John Lynch, M.D. calls the 'toxic talk.' Platitudes. All things happen for a reason... G-d has a plan... Time will heal... Aren't you glad it wasn't one of your older children... And all the 'at leasts'...<br />
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Many - in fact countless - others told me that I was young. I could have another baby. They assured me that I hadn't lost my motherhood with her death. Yes. All true. I was young, only 27. And yes, I could have likely conceived again.<br />
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As an aside, this last bit <i>really</i> distressed me. I didn't care about losing my motherhood. I didn't care about losing a 'pregnancy' <i><b>because I didn't </b></i>lose a pregnancy. My newly born daughter <i>died</i>. And yes, I was young and could have another baby.<br />
<br />
But... I did not want <i><b>another</b></i> baby. I wanted <i>her</i>.<br />
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I was not mourning just <i>any</i> baby. I was mourning <i>her</i>. <br />
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Another child would not satiate my longing for <i>her</i>. <br />
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I did not want to be <i>a </i>mother. I wanted to be <i>her</i> mother.<br />
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I needed people to understand that she was not and would never be replaceable. Another child would not assuage my grief because I did not desire another child. I desired only her, my child who died. <br />
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This is precisely how I felt.<br />
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I would have another child, born nearly three years later, unplanned. A son. Beautiful beyond words. He was not her, and she was not him. They were unique people, different children, whose identities were not enmeshed for me. I was very clear in my head and in my heart; I am so glad he is here. I am so sad she is not. I love them both - <i>all</i> - equally. <br />
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Off my 'soapbox' and back to my state of mind...<br />
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The strange occurrences ceased one day, as suddenly as they began, and I can't explain why or how. I never accepted that I was mentally ill or "deranged" as was inferred. What happened to me was powerful, beyond this world, and I suppose my brain was reacting to the extreme stress and trauma. As Eleanor Longden profoundly noted in her inspiring and insightful <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=syjEN3peCJw" target="_blank">TED talk,</a> its not about what's wrong with a person. It's about what <i>happened</i> to a person... and then there are the vast and lasting effects of others' attitudes toward us and the way that influences us- the trust or mistrust of our own hearts, and whether or not we are able to integrate and adapt in the face of traumatic experiences...<br />
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I remain in awe and wonder about the horrifying phenomena during my acute grief, but, intriguingly, it hasn't reoccurred since November of 1994. Research is clear that traumatic experiences can create reactions in the brain, sometimes in critical ways, even if temporarily. As a researcher and as someone who has direct experience, this interests me. I know that feeling so disconnected from the world, existing in that liminal space between the living and the dead, though frightening, may have been essential for integration and adaptation.<br />
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And I also wonder the role of others in our emotional and mental health.<br />
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Specifically, did the desperate angst and loneliness I felt lead to the psychological distress that would later manifest as visions or terror-filled encounters with what felt like the supernatural? I'm uncertain, but I am curious.<br />
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So, recently, I connected with a Harvard researcher and we are considering a study to explore these types of 'visions' or hallucinations or seemingly supernatural experiences for mourners. <br />
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If this resonates with you and you'd like to share your story with me, please, email me informally. I'd like to hear from you. Dr_Joanne@me.com<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=984330758590198929" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=984330758590198929" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><br />
<a href="" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-18788760963408197882014-12-01T07:38:00.002-08:002014-12-02T06:24:56.072-08:00Charlotte's Precious Life<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNehSey4pPwC1pEIrxdZONCFeCz14P7inFHfQor1aSYiEhP9Cg23NMYCdAxTmdkhlShE2IbukGUaKn9ISPRbdxzSnWf1UsXS5ZFW5k0ypol14MaXEifSdasm79UcnXBO3tCBi2NI1yf4Y/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-12-01+at+8.17.16+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNehSey4pPwC1pEIrxdZONCFeCz14P7inFHfQor1aSYiEhP9Cg23NMYCdAxTmdkhlShE2IbukGUaKn9ISPRbdxzSnWf1UsXS5ZFW5k0ypol14MaXEifSdasm79UcnXBO3tCBi2NI1yf4Y/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-12-01+at+8.17.16+AM.png" height="267" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlotte Helen Bacon, always loved, always missed...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Dear Readers,<br />
<br />
As many of you know, the <a href="http://www.missfoundation.org/support/kindness" target="_blank">Kindness Project </a>started in 1994 (officially in 1996) after Cheyenne died as a way to honor both her life and her death and to remind people to act with compassion toward others, including - or especially - strangers. Since then, approximately two and a half to three million kindnesses have been done around the world in memory of a child, brother or sister, parent, aunt, uncle, cousin, spouse or other Beloved one. <br />
<br />
This is a very special call that I hope you'll share with many others:<br />
<br />
With permission from her parents, I am tragically privileged to introduce you to a most amazing, beautiful, spirited, and precious little girl, Charlotte Helen Bacon, and her <a href="http://www.newtownkindness.org/" target="_blank">legacy of kindness</a>. <br />
<br />
If you know of any <i>children, </i>grieving brothers and sisters or other children, participating in the Kindness Project, please feel free to submit their stories of compassion and <a href="http://www.newtownkindness.org/charlotte-bacon-act-of-kindness-award/" target="_blank">nominate a child</a> for the <a href="http://www.newtownkindness.org/" target="_blank">Charlotte Bacon Act of Kindness Award.</a><br />
<br />
To her family: I will never forget the little brown haired girl in piggies who loved all animals (especially dogs and especially pink poodles) and who had a zeal for life that surpassed her far-too-few years here on Earth. Thank you for entrusting me, again, with her life, with her love, and with the profound chasm of her physical absence.<br />
<br />
Please, hold Charlotte, her parents, and her older brother in your hearts. <br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">~~~~~~~</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 30px; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">Newtown Kindness and the Charlotte Bacon Act of Kindness Awards were founded in memory of Charlotte Bacon, a victim of the Sandy Hook Elementary School tragedy. It was established to foster a kindness mindset in children and recognize special kids who complete acts of kindness. </span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 30px; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">Leading up to the first and second Charlotte Bacon Act of Kindness Awards events, we saw participation from thousands of children around the world. All children are to be recognized in some fashion, but the top award winners have been announced on </span></i><i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">Charlotte Bacon’s birthday, February 22nd.</span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 22px; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;"><b>The 3rd Annual Charlotte Bacon Act of Kindness Awards event will be held again on February 22, 2015. We invite you to tell your stories of kindness and inspire others to do the same! Please send us your story of how you (or someone) has had the courage to Think Kindly and Act Boldly! before January 15, 2015! No kind act is ever too small! Read about last year’s winners on our blog!</b></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 22px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 22px; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.newtownkindness.org/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">www.newtownkindness.org</span></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">~~~~~~~</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-33951073534884875262014-11-25T19:59:00.000-08:002014-11-26T06:41:59.171-08:00What grief and a torn rotator cuff have in common...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjI8V586264fj5LLd6dvbBqcu0NdBsH_1kuoRyZ5HaxSCAeEMZem5b40Qb1SfmhSUVMQWZkl6rvHgzhrh9fURRPF-8UX59BdtXf8za3kvz66k-5bX4nZRB3G9yyVQ2nxiZlGaAAeNuU14/s1600/FullSizeRender+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjI8V586264fj5LLd6dvbBqcu0NdBsH_1kuoRyZ5HaxSCAeEMZem5b40Qb1SfmhSUVMQWZkl6rvHgzhrh9fURRPF-8UX59BdtXf8za3kvz66k-5bX4nZRB3G9yyVQ2nxiZlGaAAeNuU14/s1600/FullSizeRender+copy.jpg" height="282" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Side plank with the right arm, finally!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In February of 2014, I - in all my gracefulness - took a hard fall on the ice (note to self: cowboy boots are not appropriate footwear for slick surfaces), landing directly on my right shoulder as my feet reached toward the sky. Think a "no-hands" headstand.<br />
<br />
Yes. Ouch.<br />
<br />
And there we were. Me and pain. <br />
<br />
For a few weeks, I walked around in a state of denial. Maybe if I ignore the pain long enough, if I pretend it isn't there, it'll just ~~**~~ p o o f ~~**~~ go away. Like magic.<br />
<br />
Only, it didn't work.<br />
<br />
Three months later, my entire arm was immobilized. My yoga practice ceased. I was unable to complete the tasks I'd once done with such ease. I couldn't use my computer, at least not as easily. I was not <b><i>me</i></b>.<br />
<br />
And my frustration and fear were building, culminating in a visit to the most wonderful doc in Sedona (Steven Johnson, M.D., the most amazing and compassionate PCP I've ever known!).<br />
<br />
He checked my range of motion.<br />
<br />
"Let's get an MRI," he gently suggested, knowing full-well I would resist.<br />
<br />
"Uggggggghhhh," I groaned. Predictable me. "I don't have time," I grumbled.<br />
<br />
"Umm," he paused, "you are preferring the alternative?"<br />
<br />
Fast forward two weeks, when I could finally get in for the MRI.<br />
<br />
When the report was released, the news was grim. Significant tear and plenty of other damage I'd done not properly attending to the injury sooner.<br />
<br />
Wonderful Dr Johnson called to deliver the bad news.<br />
<br />
"... You're going to have to see a surgeon, you know?" he, again, reluctantly said, knowing, again, I'd resist.<br />
<br />
It's a rare occasion when I obey, but my range of motion had declined significantly enough- and my quality of sleep was dreadfully impaired- that I acquiesced. Fast forward two more weeks...<br />
<br />
"What are my options here... I have options, right? I said, firmly, to the surgeon. He explained that my torn rotator cuff was exacerbated by "frozen shoulder"... that is, I was so protective of the wound, that scar tissue, a capsule, formed around the injury that precluded any movement whatsoever.<br />
<br />
I threw my head back and laughed out loud, immediately seeing the metaphor for grief.<br />
<br />
"Of course, oh my gosh, of course!" I blurted loudly.<br />
<br />
"What?" he asked, looking at me with furrowed, questioning brows.<br />
<br />
"Nevermind," I said seriously, coming back to that moment.<br />
<br />
Surgery - and the successive 4-6 month recovery - was clearly <b><i>not</i></b> an option for me, even if it meant I could circumvent some pain.<br />
<br />
But by this point, literally, I could not lift my arm two inches. He did say that on occasion, these tears seem to be able to heal with physical therapy and time... now there's a thread of hope to which I can tie myself. And tie I did.<br />
<br />
I left the surgeon's office frustrated and disappointed but with a gaunt taste of optimism. Time and some hard work. I knew the path.<br />
<br />
Fast forward yet again. The first few sessions of physical therapy, I wanted to quit. I wanted to run straight into the operating room. The pain of every movement, every stretch... oh goodness, just thinking of it now brings back that acute pain. Had it not been for the compassion, patience, and support of a wonderful PT named Dave, I might not have made it.<br />
<br />
But I trusted Dave. I trusted my body. And I trusted my capacity to hold the pain. <br />
<br />
Slowly, slowly, slowly - week after week - my body released itself to the pain. It surrendered. The muscles, once paralytic, were finally thawing. Dave would press into a muscle that was tight, gripping me. He'd hold his fingers in the very deep place of the pain. Tears would fill my eyes. He'd remind me to breath. I'd say, "I can't. I can't." Yet, I did, I did. And then moments later, the muscle would release, relax, and let go.<br />
<br />
Every week I went to therapy, I felt like I was in an intensive course about grief.<br />
<br />
Fifteen weeks into physical therapy, I regained 90% of my range of motion. But it wasn't without a great deal of suffering.<br />
<br />
Now, it's ten months post fall. Without surgical intervention, I've managed, somehow, to heal this broken shoulder. I'm back to all my old tricks- wheel, down dog, even side crow, headstands, and a four-minute plank, longer and better than before the injury! And I can use both hands to put away the dishes. <br />
<br />
Beyond that reward, though, my sage body had given me the gift of insight, circumspect, and validation.<br />
<br />
Pain, as Rumi said, is the great messenger, and it had sent the message. My body and my heart, the great receivers of the message, listened.<br />
<br />
It took a long, long time to heal a simple injury, one that was purely physical. How much longer, then, would it take to heal a shattered heart? The death our Beloved is an inviolable, hallowed injury. Yes, it is, and it is an existential wound that surely takes a lifetime and beyond...<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"The healing from the pain is in the pain."</i> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
-Rumi</div>
<br />
<br />Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-13681093205799084662014-09-21T19:57:00.003-07:002015-12-15T12:07:56.317-08:00Remourning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr3AtJrj_HMznUp9kG7A5pTQtS4GDMjR4qShiJn8CLVoU_U3X6DYsXnRlhHpOidQZ2N3ZOGSMHhB31ki2BEVsSFDNOaCWwKm3sjER7hpvW7XnlHzdh-VQ6ZfatHGJ8btp4VslKBoifV6w/s1600/done28099trunorleavetheroom0awhenispeakhername0aholdmyhandand0asharehermemory0aandremember3a0alovedo-default.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr3AtJrj_HMznUp9kG7A5pTQtS4GDMjR4qShiJn8CLVoU_U3X6DYsXnRlhHpOidQZ2N3ZOGSMHhB31ki2BEVsSFDNOaCWwKm3sjER7hpvW7XnlHzdh-VQ6ZfatHGJ8btp4VslKBoifV6w/s1600/done28099trunorleavetheroom0awhenispeakhername0aholdmyhandand0asharehermemory0aandremember3a0alovedo-default.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
On July 27, 1994, my world fell silent.<br />
<br />
And on July 27, 2014 I fell silent.<br />
<br />
I did not blog about what it was like to be the mother of a child dead for two decades.<br />
<br />
I won't be blogging about it much today.<br />
<br />
What I wanted to share is that twenty years is a long time to miss someone. Twenty years is a long time to feel and think and wonder about someone you cannot touch, or hear, or see.<br />
<br />
Yet the love I have for her, my dead daughter, has not waned.<br />
<br />
And on special occasions, death anniversaries, and sometimes on just an ordinary day when the sun is shining and the birds are singing and the clouds are floating - sometimes on a day like any other - a pang will strike at my heart, and I feel the collapse of a moment around me. <br />
<br />
No, not often as in the early days. No, not lasting as in the early days. Now I realize that every day on earth is a day closer to seeing you again. And that keeps me going.<br />
<br />
Still, grief comes. It is how I remourn her.<br />
<br />
Remourning. Yes, a made-up word, as I often like. <br />
<br />
Here's what people don't often know about traumatic grief: That long past the early days, grief's shadow still remains. It lurks and lingers. It seduces and drags. It is the feared enemy, the beloved companion, that never leaves.<br />
<br />
It calls for us to have a moment with Him. To remember. To relieve. To reclaim. To remourn.<br />
<br />
And for all those things, even when they sting twenty years later, I am thankful.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-40259540923356447132014-08-14T09:20:00.000-07:002014-08-14T12:21:56.524-07:00The Well of Grief: Public Loss, Private Tragedy<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDkPvv06uPSp0OBe7WTBswm3Sz9tSUySZMaU3B-n5YJ7DoULyGPq4hZWq8HCgQ5kj1ceV8zU08JJ0MJCPXWT7KF3vWZIq1TqHapaVCbffKLnFtLMXcGtQlg2PsSSfaQvvQIZogAtON5Q0/s1600/22a627f3c52e569b12ae8a4dd4c357f7-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDkPvv06uPSp0OBe7WTBswm3Sz9tSUySZMaU3B-n5YJ7DoULyGPq4hZWq8HCgQ5kj1ceV8zU08JJ0MJCPXWT7KF3vWZIq1TqHapaVCbffKLnFtLMXcGtQlg2PsSSfaQvvQIZogAtON5Q0/s1600/22a627f3c52e569b12ae8a4dd4c357f7-1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit Jane Ray Frog Prince</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Those who will not slip</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Beneath the still surface of </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the well of grief</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Turning downward into its black water</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
to the place we cannot breath</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Will never know the source from which we drink</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the secret water, cold and clear</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Nor find in the darkness</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
glimmering</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the small, round coins thrown away</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
by those who wished for something else.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>-David Whyte</i></div>
<br />
There are many despairing people in the world. And sometimes, those despairing people complete suicide. It's a hard thing about which to speak- suicide- unless, of course, a celebrity dies. Then, everyone is an expert.<br />
<br />
I've been watching social media commentary recently, and I'm reticent to speak about Robin Williams, a man I never knew personally, except to extend my most profound compassion and empathy to him, to his family, and to all those who do know and love him.<br />
<br />
Since 1996, I've spent more than <i>35,000 hours </i>working directly with traumatized and grieving parents, grandparents, siblings, and children, one of the most vulnerable populations in the research. Many, at least initially, feel hopeless and desperate. Their children and spouses were murdered, they lost 2, 3 or 4 children, sometimes in one tragedy, their much-loved babies died suddenly, their precious children endured months or years of painful cancer treatment, their children died as a result of an unintended accident, sometimes caused by a parent. Oh the anguish! They sit on my couch and share things with me that they cannot - and would not - share with anyone else. They bare their souls, the innards of their suffering and despair.<br />
<br />
We turn toward the blackness, together, we speak honestly with one another, we explore the existential and axiological questions about mortality and angst. We review details of their chid's death (and sometimes their child's dying process), we look at photographs together, sometimes of a death investigation scene, we go through baby clothes and locks of hair, and many, many, many tears are shed in the corner of my off-white, agreeable couch.<br />
<br />
And, some of those with whom I sit have experienced the death of their precious, beloved child or spouse to suicide, one child as young as eight years old.<br />
<br />
I've also spent a great number of hours for the past eight years researching and publishing empirical studies on traumatic grief. Both my role as a professor and as a counselor have cultivated within me a sense of wonder about how one endures this loss, and other losses, integral to the human experience.<br />
<br />
What do we do when we cannot understand another person's actions? We talk. Too much. About things we cannot possibly comprehend. And we make guesses, postulations that often hurt.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Yet, another something strange happens as a culture when a celebrity dies, particularly traumatically, or in the case of highly publicized tragedies. Many are mesmerized. <i>Now</i>, we are able to talk about trauma and death, at least temporarily, and there is often a public outpouring of attention and shared grief. Why don't we stay engaged, continue to talk about death, loss, and human suffering, and continue to extend our compassion beyond our brief attention span? Becker tells us why <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ernest_Becker" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
I remember, explicitly, Princess Diana's death and the millions who watched her funeral as it was recorded for television viewing. Oddly, the same week a concerned woman called me, desperately meaning well, because her sister - whose baby died during birth - wanted to video tape the funeral. She felt it macabre, abnormal, and wanted me to convince her not to do it. I, very gently, inquired, "<i>Did you happen to watch Diana's funeral</i>?" It an instant, she got it.<br />
<br />
This is the occasion where the public invokes a false sense of interpersonal connection to a stranger whilst disconnecting from the one they actually know and love. Strange.<br />
<br />
And this is why there are countless 'experts' and laypeople judging the recent tragedy involving Mr. Williams from behind their windows. Meanwhile, many other, non-celebrities, are also being judged from a distance every day, their families subject to ridiculous banalities people tender about loss, particularly when disenfranchised. These commentaries are likely to help no one, not those who are in a <a href="http://www.betterlisten.com/blogs/news/15049289-reflections-on-suffering-with-ram-dass#.U-xeflZOgQ4" target="_blank">moment of suffering</a> and contemplating suicide and not families who, themselves, have endured this particular type of traumatic grief.<br />
<br />
When we are frightened and in pain, we need others with whom we can be <a href="http://beyondmeds.com/2014/08/14/suicide-prevention-2/" target="_blank">honest</a>. We need others who can enter the abyss with us. We need to reach out to someone who is safe, who will not judge, who will not shut down or shun our pain. We need someone there for the long-haul to slip beneath the well of grief, with us, and let us, <i>when we are ready</i>, find our glistening coins at the bottom. And, when we are hurting this much, we may need to borrow, muster, or scrape the courage to actually <i>reach out </i>to others. But please, let's not foist blame on anyone. This is complicated, and <i>many</i> variables beyond our knowing need to be considered.<br />
<br />
If you want to help, you need not be a therapist. You can <i>listen deeply</i>, non-judgmentally. You can offer an open and compassionate heart, giving them a place to be honest about their pain. You can share in their suffering so they do not feel so alone. You can help them feel that they belong. You can invoke minute amounts of hope <i>just by loving them</i>, without being patronizing.<br />
<br />
We cannot, certainly, save every life. What we can do is be kind, really <i>see</i> one another in this lost and busy world, and consider the ways in which we publicly speak about traumatic death, those from suicide, homicide, baby/child deaths, and premature conjugal deaths.<br />
<br />
This is someone's Beloved One. This is someone's Beloved One. This is someone's Beloved One.<br />
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For more information about suicide intervention and education</div>
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you may contact <a href="http://www.casper.org.nz/" target="_blank">CASPER</a></div>
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or to talk with someone immediately in the U.S.</div>
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1.800.273.TALK</div>
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<br />
My new book on traumatic grief now available <a href="http://www.missfoundation.org/content/miss-store?Iit=74&Ict=1" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
If you cannot afford it and need it, please contact me.<br />
<br />
If you are looking for a clinician or paraprofessional<br />
trained in our method of traumatic grief counseling, please visit <a href="http://certification.missfoundation.org/" target="_blank">here</a><br />
<br />
To become trained, also visit <a href="http://certification.missfoundation.org/" target="_blank">here</a></div>
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<br />Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-14360989368128136582014-07-08T06:42:00.001-07:002014-07-16T10:33:03.592-07:00The Paradox of Suffering Take II<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjasiauC7xdNgC5VBZcCuPF24NT9dgV24mIy7zkQsbt8mCBdzHkCSCDpoms9ayhA7zTGSRzPFeg-VyyKQxvCKTJZ00bBRYvdjyuraJ5dXIsagleplTuNn218YE8r_pQsUUqyctj2unCJs/s1600/theysaytragedycanbreakyou0aanddestroyyou0aorthatitcangiveyou0abacktoyourself0aisayitdoesboth0a0a0a0a-default.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjasiauC7xdNgC5VBZcCuPF24NT9dgV24mIy7zkQsbt8mCBdzHkCSCDpoms9ayhA7zTGSRzPFeg-VyyKQxvCKTJZ00bBRYvdjyuraJ5dXIsagleplTuNn218YE8r_pQsUUqyctj2unCJs/s1600/theysaytragedycanbreakyou0aanddestroyyou0aorthatitcangiveyou0abacktoyourself0aisayitdoesboth0a0a0a0a-default.png" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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The day <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/jul/05/can-parent-get-over-death-of-a-child?CMP=fb_gu&commentpage=2#start-of-comments" target="_blank">this article</a> was released, my colleagues Megan Devine of Refuge in Grief and Dr. Geoff Warburton and I had a little discussion about it. <br />
<br />
First, we felt the person who wrote the story and interviewed Dr. Turner needed to operationalize what she meant by "get over"... second, while we may not have presented the article in the same manner, Dr. Turner makes a great point, previously supported by my own research: How we are treated by others in acute grief - and in the aftermath -can impact our long-term outcomes. <br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">On her acute crisis: </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">Denise felt angry with the paramedic for trying to tell her he knew best. "I was furious. I said to him, what are you going to do? Stop me from leaving the house?" What she now knows is that the professionals bereaved families have to deal with, and the wider community, have a very narrow frame of expected behaviour and outcomes for those who are bereaved when a child dies. A</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">nd about her surviving children on scene, "... </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><i>they are treated as an irrelevance, when in fact they could be being psychologically harmed by the arrival of police response teams and social workers and the fact that the finger of suspicion is pointing at their parents. It's undermining at the very time families most need support</i>."</span><br />
<br />
Yes.<br />
<br />
Yes.<br />
<br />
Those who are "privileged" enough to have never experienced prior trauma and to have had <a href="http://certification.missfoundation.org/" target="_blank">supportive medical teams</a>, investigators, partners, friends, co-workers and others through an experience of traumatic death seem better able to cope with the trauma, particularly in the long term. Whilst those with a history of trauma, those who were treated poorly by providers or in the community or by partners, and those whose children die in ways wherein society has judged value or worth (marginalized deaths in the literature) for example death during or before birth, AIDS, drug overdoses, suicide, homicide, or gang-related violence- may not garner as much social support and validation. The empirical literature is clear: these aspects of the meso-social system matter for grievers. The reductionistic and individualistic view is myopic when it comes to grave challenges of the human experience.<br />
<br />
My three year long research on the <a href="http://baywood.metapress.com/app/home/contribution.asp?referrer=parent&backto=issue,1,5;journal,17,270;linkingpublicationresults,1:300329,1" target="_blank">Hutterite colony </a>demonstrated the power of community, connection, and social support: It is increasingly difficult to endure traumatic grief alone and how others respond- with compassion or disdain or detachment or tenderness- matters. In fact, there is solid research showing that providers, professionals, and community members may mitigate the trauma around loss and set the tone for the entire experience of loss. And, sometimes five, six, or twenty years later, even other grievers forget the hell of acute traumatic grief and want to play cheerleader to the newly bereaved far too soon, often prematurely, <i>furor sanandi</i>. So the question: Can you "get over" the death of a child (or any precious one?)? Well, here is the paradox...<br />
<br />
I spoke of the paradox of suffering<a href="http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2011/11/paradox-of-suffering.html" target="_blank"> very carefully in 2011</a>, and noted that I am wildly happy in my life despite Chey's death, my parents' early death, and the many deaths I've endured. Happiness, however, is not my goal, it's not something to pursue, because the more I seek or grasp at happiness, the more elusive it becomes. In a Franklian sense, happiness must ensue as an outcome of a life well and authentically lived. So if we are operationalizing "recover" or "get over" as laughing, feeling joy and happiness again, reconstructing and adapting to a new life without them, then of course, yes I believe that for most people it is possible. For me, in some ways I'm even happier and certainly more content and fulfilled than ever. <br />
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Ah, but, now we have to discuss the Western <a href="http://www.ramdass.org/acknowledge-suffering/" target="_blank">dualistic mind</a>.<br />
<br />
Because to be happy <i>does not mean </i>we do not feel the pain of grief or sadness, sometimes simultaneously. For me, often simultaneously. This is a huge mistake in Western thought. In fact, much of my work has been devoted to shifting that view to a more accepting, non-dualistic one: Beauty and pain, happiness and sadness, <a href="http://onstillness.blogspot.com/2014/07/check.html?spref=fb" target="_blank">grief and joy</a> can coexist. And we move in and out of both states. We need <a href="http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2014/07/my-grief-theory-black-holes-and-novas.html" target="_blank">both states</a> in order to transcend our place in the world. One needn't decry grief or pain in order to be happy. One needn't decry happiness or joy in order to prove grief or pain. So the invitation is to be willing to feel both the pain of grief and the beauty of love. Whilst sounding paradoxical, those are not mutually exclusive constructs in mindful cultures. This thinking is a trap of the West as we are often uncomfortable with uncertainty, pain, and paradox. And it is life limiting. My happiness is not contingent on things going my way, having no losses, no disappointments, and no more deaths. No, my state of mind, equanimous, is accepting of whatever I feel and experience, moment by moment, without trying to change it. This is my only guarantee to a content and satisfying life. Because for all of us, sufferings are inevitable throughout our lives. And so is glory. We need not cling to either state, both are ephemeral.<br />
<br />
And for me, a life of <i><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/05/13/key-to-long-life_n_5315974.html" target="_blank">meaning</a></i> is far more important than happiness, and contemplating death, grief- and love- grounds <i>my</i> life in meaning. A life of meaning is what gifts me happiness not my present or momentary emotional state, as the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Molecules-Of-Emotion-Mind-Body-Medicine/dp/0684846349" target="_blank">molecules of emotions</a> are always moving and changing, even if ever so slightly.<br />
<br />
As Rumi says, '<i>the healing from the pain is in the pain</i>.'<br />
<br />
Read that again: the <b><i>healing</i></b> from the pain is <b><i>in the pain.</i></b><br />
<br />
So, when it comes down to the question of 'getting over' child death, I prefer the concept of 'integration' rather than 'getting over' or 'moving on' or even 'getting thru.' For me, integration promotes transcendence or transfiguration. As <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Grace-Disguised-Soul-Grows-through/dp/0310258952" target="_blank">Jerry Sittser</a> said, 'you don't get over these losses... rather they are folded into us as decaying matter into soil.'<br />
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And speaking of transcending loss, the <a href="http://www.kindnessprojectday.org/" target="_blank">Kindness Project </a>is hosting its annual International #KindnessProject Day on July 27. Head over to the Facebook page <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MISSFoundationKindnessProject?ref_type=bookmark" target="_blank">here</a> for a first-hand example of how beauty and pain and love and grief and joy and connection coexist. Bring Kleenex. Here is one example:<br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;">A </span><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/kindnessproject" style="background-color: white; cursor: pointer; line-height: 20px; text-decoration: none;">#KindnessProject</a><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;"> in memory of Lila.</span></i></span></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: purple; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">Today in honor of what would have been my baby daughter's fifth birthday, I drove around and left five gift packages at stranger's doors. They contained bubbles, etch-a-sketches, little candy bags, wil<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">dflower seeds, a small angel statue, and a $10 gift certificate to Starbucks. I hope my Lila brought a little light into the lives of five other families. She certainly brought the light into our lives too. Thanks so much for making this happen. My heart feels lighter even when I'm crying. I miss Lila with all of my heart. Thank you so much.</span></i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">We hope you will join us on this day and everyday and share with others! Print your free Kindness Project cards </span><a href="http://www.kindnessprojectday.org/" style="line-height: 20px; text-align: left;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">. </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">And feel free to share your thoughts about "getting over" the death of a child. You can email me at Dr_Joanne@me.com.</span></div>
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<br />Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-79534551929252090542014-07-02T07:48:00.003-07:002014-07-02T21:19:04.962-07:00My Grief Theory: Black holes and novas<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYEdM5x6DuiRBl_zWWMSroCBAkXdzAc1aOJn1nqcAo5CpOZR4vzF6mLOTUH9875jDfqr4jCcVOOlr_XhDWVAeLDM-qDkfF2RIsPbbT2UTYyV36xY2u0fVydpAtzANF25ugX0fRbUIoT0Q/s1600/contraction-expansion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYEdM5x6DuiRBl_zWWMSroCBAkXdzAc1aOJn1nqcAo5CpOZR4vzF6mLOTUH9875jDfqr4jCcVOOlr_XhDWVAeLDM-qDkfF2RIsPbbT2UTYyV36xY2u0fVydpAtzANF25ugX0fRbUIoT0Q/s1600/contraction-expansion.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Chanelcast</td></tr>
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<h3>
<i>"During expansion, dark energy -- the unknown force causing the universe to expand at an accelerating rate -- pushes and pushes until all matter fragments into patches so far apart that nothing can bridge the gaps. Everything from black holes to atoms disintegrates. This point, just a fraction of a second before the end of time, is the turnaround..."</i></h3>
<br />
I'm working on a paper on traumatic grief and its natural, uninhibited trajectory if we allow full inhabitation. "If" is a key word here.<br />
<br />
Grief is not just a spiritual/existential, emotional/psychological, social, and physiological process. Grief is also an evolutionary process of <i>expansion and contraction</i>.<br />
<br />
The expansion-contraction model is seen all throughout the natural sciences from <a href="http://www.unc.edu/news/archives/jan07/newmodel012907.html" target="_blank">physics</a>, <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1418632/" target="_blank">cellular biology</a>, and <a href="http://www.engr.psu.edu/ce/courses/ce584/concrete/library/cracking/thermalexpansioncontraction/thermalexpcontr.htm" target="_blank">thermodynamics</a> to <a href="http://dimacs.rutgers.edu/Workshops/Immuno/slides/deboer.pdf" target="_blank">immunology</a>, physiology, and <a href="http://books.google.com/books?hl=en&lr=&id=NdJXcBpepGMC&oi=fnd&pg=PP8&dq=evolutionary+reason+for+contraction+in+childbirth&ots=5_BEEWDQaG&sig=T1ZhIFXUl_qgRA5VWz63lILMDpE#v=onepage&q&f=false" target="_blank">childbirth</a>. The black hole is an enormous vacuum of contraction. A nova is the product of its birth. <br />
<br />
<i>Yet, it's never been applied to traumatic grief theory.</i><br />
<br />
Still, I see this process enacted in grief when it's allowed to inhabit its own natural course. What does this mean?<br />
<br />
The contraction of grief occurs when our attention and energy are pulled inward, our surroundings made smaller because, in the moment, we are overwhelmed. So we contract and tighten, emotionally, reserve our energy and attention and focus, very intently, on grief. And on self. In a moment of contraction, it feels as if our very survival may be in question. We may feel unsteady, unsafe, unheld, tenuous, desperate, maybe fearful, and yes, vulnerable. We curl up and hold our breath. We self-protect. The contraction will save us.<br />
<br />
Contraction is not wrong or bad and needs not be controlled in nature. The contraction is necessary for the expansion...<br />
<br />
Expansion comes with the deep in-out-breath, the period of, even minuscule, growth post-contraction. We grow 'larger', the tightness loosens, and we are more willing to venture out and explore, to take risks, to open and unfold. We are in a moment of trust, safety, curiosity, willingness, connectedness, openness, belonging, and maybe even hope. The expansion will save us.<br />
<br />
Expansion is not wrong or bad and needs not be controlled in nature. The expansion, too, is necessary for the next contraction ...<br />
<br />
I see the lifelong grief journey as a series of little- and sometimes big- waves of expansions and contractions.<br />
<br />
For me, childbirth is the most salient, albeit painful, tangible metaphor: Without contractions, our child, like the nova, cannot be born. Contractions are excruciating. Indescribably so. Yet, it is this tightening that opens the cervix for the baby's birth. It is this process that inhibits postpartum hemorrhage. It is through this process that expansion, and transformation, can occur. <br />
<br />
And, during contraction, it is essential to have those who accompany us through our most painful contractions so that when we arrive at our pique, we can turn and look into the eyes of a loving other, pause, and hold through the other side of that pain. During expansion, it is essential to remember our contraction, learn from our contraction, cultivate trust in self and other, and maybe even turn toward another in contraction.<br />
<br />
Yes, in grief, we must have both contraction and expansion to truly have- to inhabit- our grief. When one does not have both contraction <i>and</i> expansion, we cannot make it to the other side of that pain, and all that remains stagnates and does not move. In fact, the word <i>emotion</i> has roots in Middle French (c 1500s) and means "<i>to stir up</i>" and "<i>to move</i>".<br />
<br />
Indeed. <i>Contraction only</i> will leave us unmovable- paralyzed with pain for the duration of our lives, fearful of love and life and terrified of more pain. This is a kind of Death for us. <i>Expansion only</i> is a futile endeavor as well, mostly because it is a ruse. It is often a state of self-delusion and inauthenticity that will leave us unsatisfied with our identity, soul-less, and worn out from persistent pretense. The natural course of grief, as in nature, is contraction-expansion-contraction-expansion-contraction-expansion.<br />
<br />
Disintegration first. Reintegration follows. Over and over. And over and over. This is the path of natural, uninhibited grief.<br />
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This is the wisdom of the Universe, the wisdom of your body, the wisdom of your heart.<br />
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Trust it, and it will save you.<br />
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*****</div>
Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-22803304251020159212014-06-26T19:37:00.005-07:002016-06-28T18:46:05.737-07:00The Holy Longing is Yours: Caveat emptor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">(massman: noun, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"> an average, typical, or ordinary man </span><strong style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">:</strong><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"> a prototype of the mass society especially when regarded as lacking individuality or social responsibility, as drawing his stereotyped ideas from the mass media, and as easily manipulated by economic, social, or cultural elites)</span></i></div>
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<br />
Every week, I have the privilege to hold a discussion about grief with colleague Dr. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juET61B1P98" target="_blank">Geoff Warburton</a>.<br />
<br />
We have both have experienced grief from the inside during the course of our lives and have now devoted ourselves to the practice of grief counseling.<br />
<br />
We share a sentiment about grief in Western culture. That is, in general, grief is widely misunderstood, castigated, affronted, and bypassed in practice, theory, the media, and even in some spirituality. Most recently, we discussed the spiritual bypass, and a more thorough triadic diatribe about this topic is forthcoming. I digress (as usual)...<br />
<br />
Fast forward to today.<br />
<br />
Another dear friend, a medical doctor and researcher in Canada working in refugee health (note: plenty of grief and trauma in this population), recently attended a conference in the U.S. One of the days in this conference was devoted to "bereavement care".<br />
<br />
She was so upset by what she'd heard that she abruptly exited two workshops that were intended to <i>help</i> grieving parents.<br />
<br />
She sent me some of the materials to review and I shared her deep concerns. Actually, I was <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/11393607" target="_blank">mystified</a> and astonished.<br />
<br />
Two clinicians who presented as "experts" posited "therapies" which were not only (less than) pseudo-science but more than that: They are potentially <i>harmful</i> to the bereaved. Their suggested "interventions" may even further disenfranchise, stigmatize, and pathologize normal, albeit painful, traumatic grief. Their strategies promoted the "unfeeling" and "unseeing"and even medicating of grief... precisely the opposite of what research in traumatic grief suggests as most efficacious, and it was some of the most 'unmindful' and experientially avoidant propaganda I have ever seen.<br />
<br />
Experiential avoidance (that is the chronic turning away from or distracting of painful emotions/memories unconsciously), in fact, in the <i>SCIENTIFIC</i> literature is closely linked with substance abuse, physical illness, and other maladaptive behaviors and affect. <br />
<br />
Look, I get it.<br />
<br />
Clinicians are not often researchers so they may or may not be able to discern the rigor of a study's outcomes. Many of them don't even have time to read the research and may not understand methodology.<br />
<br />
So, herein lies the dilemma: Bad therapy happens. And bad therapy isn't just bad therapy- it's not like a bad haircut. These are people's lives. And not just any people. The most vulnerable population on earth. Very, very dangerous, indeed.<br />
<br />
So here is a rare offering of advice - maybe an invitation - for bereaved persons: caveat emptor.<br />
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<i>Be careful with whom you share your grief.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Be careful with whom you share your grief.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Be careful with whom you share your grief.</i><br />
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And be wary of advice wielding, arrogant "clinicians" who think they know it all.<br />
<br />
The clinicians who know best are the ones who admit <i>they know nothing</i>. The best therapists are the ones who admit their impotence in the face of such trauma and suffering. They are the ones who say, "There aren't words... I have no cure... And I will join you in the abyss..." The best therapists are those who understand humility and deference.<br />
<br />
They are some duplicitous charlatans who are out to exploit. But there are also many well-intended who can harm you and me and us all. They often don't read or understand the research, they believe what others in positions of authority tell them without question, they may not be prone to dialectical thinking, and they often pretend to know the unknowable. Even if unwittingly, they end up preying on those who are desperate for any help, presenting themselves as the experts.<br />
<br />
They are on the internet, on Facebook, at conferences, in clinical interactions, in schools, churches, post offices, and grocery stores. Be mindful of your input: Don't believe everything you hear from others, even self-purported experts. Don't believe everything you read in books or out there on the web. The internet, particularly, is filled with writings that are wonderful and useful. Other writings, <i>when not plagiarizations of those who are wise about grief </i>(please cite your sources people), can be incredulously harmful and misinforming.<br />
<br />
Western culture, by its nature, promotes the use of nearly any strategy to bypass grief. Drugs, sex, alcohol, shopping, food, gambling, exercise, work, hedonism, any distraction you can name. Even therapy. But the sages knew what we seem to have forgotten in contemporary society: No 'intervention' and no interventionist can 'cure' your grief. There is no panacea. You are not broken, you are broken hearted. And as Rabbi Mendel of Kotzk said 'there is no more whole heart than a broken heart.' <br />
<br />
You are not in need of repair. No alphabet soup intervention (ABC therapy, XYZ medication) and, certainly, no drug can assuage your grief. The only way is through, and the only way through is with loving, nonjudgmental support, good self care and self compassion, and some other things demonstrated in the literature to be helpful in coping with, <i>not eradicating</i>, grief. And frankly, the source of many concerns about the prolongation of grief resides within our own social groups- others pressuring mourners to 'get over it,' 'move on', 'feel better.' Others who do not remember with us. Others who ostracize us and treat us as lepers. This kind of social reaction is not helpful, and actually is quite isolating and harmful for grievers. So let's focus on an intervention for a sick and intolerant culture that coerces us into believing we are entitled to happiness and comfort and immortality at all times and at all costs.<br />
<br />
So if you need some extra support because you are feeling lonely, withdrawn, and confused, that help can come from those who are innate helpers from within your circle of friends/family/faith community and/or from those trained to help you to <i>integrate</i> your grief (like one of these <a href="http://certification.missfoundation.org/" target="_blank">individuals here</a>), not push it away, decry, avoid, repress, or otherwise deflect it. Surround yourself with others who have a "PhD" or "MD" or advance degree in common-sense and loving kindness.<br />
<br />
Hell, I've seen animals give better 'therapy' than plenty of 'therapists.'<br />
<br />
Again my unsolicited advice: Do not believe everything a so-called professional tells you. If it offends your soul, follow Whitman's advice and "dismiss" it. Rather, trust the wisdom of your own grief. Get help if and when you need it from others who will embrace and uphold you and who understand what SCIENCE says about trauma, grief, and love. Yes, love.<br />
<br />
Little in this conference's literature I read as it related to grief was based in science. And, <b><i>nothing</i></b> in any of the literature I read from this "conference" felt like love. And this saddens me beyond words.<br />
<br />
Because in the end, grief is not a medical issue. Grief is not an issue to be solved or cured. Grief is an issue of the heart. <br />
<br />
Heed Goethe's harbinger: <i>Beware the massman, the troubled guest on the dark earth.</i><br />
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Sources, Part II</div>
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by Adrienne Rich</div>
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I refuse to become a seeker for cures. </div>
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Everything that has ever </div>
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helped me has come through what already </div>
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lay stored in me. Old things, diffuse, unnamed, lie strong </div>
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across my heart. </div>
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This is from where </div>
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my strength comes, even when I miss my strength, </div>
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even when it turns on me </div>
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like a violent master.</div>
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<br />Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-20542858344353603612014-05-11T09:15:00.002-07:002014-05-14T09:53:55.313-07:00Call me! Emergency. <div style="text-align: center;">
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<i>The afternoon knows what the morning never expected</i>. </div>
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Swedish proverb</div>
<br />
I am typing this from the acute surgical floor of a local Phoenix hospital where no mother would want to spend Mothers Day. But I've been living at this hospital since Tuesday now, starting in the Trauma Intensive Care Unit, by the bedside of my beautiful son. And I am quite grateful to be here by his side, after five sleepless nights, where he and three friends survived a horrific head-on collision with<br />
a drunk driver on Cinco de Mayo. <br />
<br />
Why? Because not all children with internal and traumatic brain injuries make it out of the ICU. But mine did. Here is a small portion... The rest will come at a later date of more lucidity.<br />
<br />
I received a text as I was driving on the freeway Tuesday at 1:00 pm. I glanced down and saw "emergency" and called my other son. Given the work I do, I take the word "emergency" seriously. <br />
<br />
"Ari is hurt, he's in ICU at XYZ hospital... "<br />
<br />
This news came less than an hour after one of the top mornings of my life: I had just left a meeting with the dean informing me of my academic tenure and promotion at ASU. <br />
<br />
My mind spun. I was driving on the freeway, north, and had to find an exit ramp to turn around and<br />
get back to Phoenix. That's the last thing I remember, other than two other phone calls I made, one of which was to the hospital. Next thing I remember, I was at the foot of his bed, shaking, looking at his broken and bloodied body. My legs disappeared...<br />
<br />
When the ICU social worker appeared, I felt relieved that I'd get answers and maybe a shred of compassion. However, instead, I ended up in our sons bag that smelled of his sweat and bloodied, cut- off clothing searching for his insurance card. Obviously, this was her priority. Next thing I remember after that was sitting in a tiny room with loved ones sobbing uncontrollably. <br />
<br />
There is much much more to this story which I will tell when I am rested. The loving support and generosity of the MISS Foundation community and my friends have been overwhelming, vastly different from Cheys death. Yet, there is much to say about the experience as a whole- one such concern being that we were never notified by law enforcement or hospital staff despite the fact that<br />
they had my sons ID and they knew my first and last name. Rather, they left him alone in ICU and I<br />
didn't make it to his bedside for 12 hours after the crash. His coworkers' growing concern that he hadn't come to work spurned a search for my boy. There is much more to the hospital and investigative story too...<br />
<br />
It appears Ari will be okay, though neurocog assessments are challenging and he will have months of rehab ahead. I always hesitate to give overly fluffy and optimistic reports because every day I meet parents who were assured that their children were stable or even recovered and then they, tragically, died. <br />
<br />
The young driver of the other car was impaired. I do not yet know his name however the news said he is is not expected to survive. He was merely 25. I ask that you hold my son and his two friends in your hearts, prayers, and meditations as they face a very long and arduous road to recovery.<br />
<br />
I also ask that you hold the unidentified driver in your hearts, prayers, and meditations. Whoever he is, for me, his life is worthy of our thoughts, and he and his family are deserving of my abiding compassion. My heart is heavy for this probable loss...<br />
<br />
Life is so fragile. So very precious and fragile. And I have to say it: I miss you Chey. <br />
<br />
Gentle Mother's Day to all the mothers who have lost their precious children, including the one who caused the accident nearly killed my son.<br />
<span id="goog_1677479347"></span><span id="goog_1677479348"></span><br />
----------------<br />
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<br />
My goodness thank you to nurses Todd, Angela, and Rose and PCT Toni on the 8th floor here. You have been amazing and compassionate! And our experiences otherwise have not been so there.<br />
<br />
Thank you to those who brought amazing basics like good water, broccoli, coffee, green smoothies, deodorant, dry shampoo, notepads, blankets for sleeping (hospitals are cold and their sleeping cots are, I'm sure, intended to dissuade others from cohabitating with patients for a week) and other essentials I'd never have considered.<br />
<br />
Mostly, thank you for the love and prayers. <br />
<br />
----------------<br />
<br />
Update 5/12/14: Ari was given a medical clearance and has moved up to Sedona so his family can take care of him through his rehabilitation. He'll be following up with the experts at the B.R.A.I.N.S.<br />
Clinic and soon be in PT for his left leg injury. <br />
<br />
We are trying to get some home health... at times the pain is unmanageable.<br />
<br />
5/15/2014: we we're readmitted through the ER at Flagstaff Memorial Hospital several days ago. Home care did not go well and it was clear he was not release-ready. However, the staff here has been superlative, in both technical and human skill.<br />
<br />
His two friends are doing well and expected to make a full recovery.<br />
<br />
Sadly, I still have no information about the other driver but I continue to think of him often, holding him gently in my heart.<br />
<br />
Please remember the parents who did not get to bring their children home from the hospital... please.<br />
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<br />Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-7130153686432548832014-04-24T16:05:00.001-07:002014-07-16T10:33:39.128-07:00The Lies Imprison, The Truth Liberates...<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><i>“Whatever is unnamed, undepicted in images, whatever is omitted from biography, censored in collections of letters, whatever is misnamed as something else, made difficult-to-come-by, whatever is buried in the memory by the collapse of meaning under an inadequate or lying language - this will become, not merely unspoken, but unspeakable.” </i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">-Adrienne Rich, On Lies, Secrets, and Silence: Selected prose</span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><b><u>An Open Letter to Those Who Use Lying Language</u></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Dear fellow clinicians and academics, family and friends, strangers and heroes, </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I grow weary of your lying language. When you speak for me - for my child - do not soften the blow of the words that sufficiently describe the horror.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I did not experience a "situation."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">This is not an "unfortunate happenstance."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I need not exclude my child, should I choose not to, in the tally of my children.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">My child is not "in a better place".</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">It is not "easier" to lose a baby than a teenager, nor is it "harder" to lose a teenager than an adult child.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Someone's loved one who died isn't "the corpse". And the death of my baby during birth is <b><i>not</i></b> a "pregnancy or reproductive loss". </span></span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><u><i>Stop your lying language and do not speak for me. I find your prevarications offensive, minimizing, trivializing, and superficial.</i></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><u><br /></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">The "situation" is actually an unspeakable tragedy. Call it what it is.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">The "unfortunate happenstance" is the trauma that changed my life forever.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">If you say I have four children, you are lying. I have five. If I say I have four children, it may be because I do not trust you on such sacred ground. I have the authority to make that choice for myself. You do not.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">That "better place" you describe is not better for me as a mother </span></span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">longing to put my arms around my child.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">To lose a baby is to lose a child, as valuable and precious as any other child. To lose an adult child is to lose a "baby" as valuable and precious as any younger child. Love and grief are not contingent on the time spent with a child.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">And the "corpse", "fetus," or "pregnancy loss" to which you refer does not - <i>in the least</i> - speak the truth about the death of my plump, ebony haired, olive skinned daughter. She is not a corpse to me, I did not lose a pregnancy, and <i>don't </i>say I did. I lost my daughter, my baby girl, all 8 pounds and 22" inches of her perfect body.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Your fraudulent language contributes to what Rich calls the "lies, secrets, and silence."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Stop it. Now. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Take your duplicitous language, write it on a piece of paper, light it aflame, and say farewell to the propaganda and cultural manipulation and death avoidance that has plagued our society far too long. And if you are in our bereavement and professional community and you promulgate this language, then you are a part of the problem and an accomplice to a systemic and harmful fairytale that diminishes and devalues all our precious ones.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I realize you may not be sophisticated enough to understand this or that you may be uncomfortable with the reality of traumatic death, but I implore you to stop your writing about things which you do not and cannot fathom. Stop using <i>your</i> voice to tell <i>my</i> story. Your words are a prison of deceit, constricting and distorting the <a href="http://www.ramdass.org/acknowledge-suffering/" target="_blank">authenticity</a> of my <a href="http://www.kindnessprojectday.org/" target="_blank">sentence of 'suffering</a>'.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">It is time for <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MISSFoundationKindnessProject?ref_type=bookmark" target="_blank">truth</a>. And the truth shall set us both - and the world - free.</span></span></div>
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</span>Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-65271610113548099802014-04-01T16:20:00.002-07:002014-04-01T17:57:29.539-07:00Caveat emptor: Beware False Prophets and Distractions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Early grief is terror. Its dark, dank, putrid odor fills our lungs, and traces of its acerbic rancidity remain in our mouths. The torpid way it burns caverns in our brains and claws through the tender of flesh of our hearts makes us wish for something else. Anything else. <br />
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We resist being dragged into the belly of the whale, where we await liberation in the vomitus. It is the place where the darkest night is also the longest night.<br />
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Why would we not seek to escape such horror?<br />
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So, escape we do, at least temporarily. But these temporary distractions do not satiate. They, rather, make us thirst more for the ineffable and they add to our suffering.<br />
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We seek relief in drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Gambling. Infidelity. Food. Exercise. Television. Work. Parties. Spirituality.We seek relief <i>in seeking</i>.<br />
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Yes, we seek relief even in seeking.<br />
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We become enamored with the pursuit of spirituality, meaning, purpose, answers, certainty. And there are many 'false prophets' (spiritual leaders, gurus, psychiatrists, mental health providers, coaches, even those within the grief community ad nauseum) willing to take your money and promise you what they can never give you: Peace. Happiness. Joy. Love. Relief. And spirituality, meaning, purpose, answers, certainty.<br />
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My friend came by this afternoon and told me a story of a spiritual teacher who was "so powerful" that just being in his presence moved people to tears. He healed "many from grief and from a traumatic past." Of course, there was a significant price to pay for such a healing. And of course, he was so holy that you dared not touch him.<br />
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Call me skeptical, but I ain't buying it. A holy person who can heal suffering but whom you cannot touch? And one who promises to heal just by being in his presence?<br />
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Here is what I know about grief, false prophets, and distractions (gosh, how I loathe "lists" and here I am creating one):<br />
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1. No one can "heal" us. No one else has the answers for us. No one can bring back our child or our husband or our parent. There are no drugs, prescription or street, no magic pills or potions, no G-ds or goddesses or divine beings, no short cuts through this. If we do not soon learn this lesson, we will spend many years ping ponging our way through grief, forsaking our authentic self out of fear and the unwillingness to surrender.<br />
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2. If someone promises us a quick remedy through grief, we should engage our inner skeptic. Even if we feel some temporary relief, this state is not likely to 'stick' and any spiritual bypass is likely leading away from transfiguration. Brass only turns to gold when consumed by fire.<br />
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3. True spiritual leaders are <i><b>humble</b></i> servants. They do not expect others to wash their feet for 'healing'. They, rather, wash the feet of others. No one kisses their robes to receive redemption. Rather, they kneel at the sight of a small child or a wounded animal or a leper.<br />
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4. A person who is willing to endure the putrid odor and rancidity of grief, the person who will walk with us into its fire, in our own time and in our way is a rare treasure. We should recognize and honor this person as a touchstone. And realize, too, that one day it will be our turn to help another. This is our sacred duty, and we should never forget this. If we do, we may experience tremendous dissatisfaction in our lives later. Ironically, once the dissatisfaction from this process hits, we may find ourselves distracting yet again.<br />
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5. Katherine Porter said, "The past is never where you think you left it." We can run - we can distract - we can lean on false 'prophets' who have built their own lives on the sinking sand, but unless we confront the pain that lies within us, whether dormant or not, we will never have real peace.<br />
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6. Whitman said to dismiss anything that insults our souls. Yes. This. Someone else said that the best way to be deeply spiritual is to be deeply human. Yes. This. Too.<br />
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7. Remember that from which we run is within us. We seek and chase and pursue and grasp all for naught. Both the beauty and the pain and the suffering and the healing are exactly where we are in this precise moment.<br />
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I admit I am concerned by all the 'expert' counselors, doctors, spiritual leaders, gurus, coaches- etcetera promising to cure grief, anxiety, or depression. I've even heard one claim to cure grief within 90 days! Another 'expert' charges $35 for a two-minute question, and about $2000 to spend a day in counseling with her. Many of these charlatans hijack others' work- their sagacity, experience, and compassion, claim the teachings as their own, and then charge others for what isn't theirs. I've seen this happen time and time again and it is very naughty.<br />
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Medicine has its repugnant maneuvers too: Let's not forget that according to the DSM5, you may be <a href="http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2012/03/relativity-applies-to-physics-not.html" target="_blank">diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder</a> (a purported mental disorder) after only two weeks following the death of a loved one if you continue to have symptoms. Of course they can ensure you get the "care" you need if you'll just listen to your doctor...<br />
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There are so many who are vulnerable and deeply wounded who seek relief from this bottomless pain. I get it. Truly, I do. Beware though: What you so desperately seek is not to be found in a spiritual leader or guru or doctor or in a bottle or a needle or a sex act.<br />
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Everything you have to become you is within you.<br />
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And only you.<br />
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Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-9822315626893493772014-03-08T18:56:00.001-08:002014-03-08T19:12:20.791-08:00Where your heart lives...My parents, especially my father, loved Sedona. Well, everyone loves Sedona. Our family has had a second home here since the 1970s, off and on, and I spent countless weekends, summers, and vacations in the very tiny town of Sedona.<br />
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Around here, we have something we call "Sedona fever" wherein tourists buy homes on their first visit and move their families here in a moment of red rock impulse. It's easy to see why, isn't it?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breathtaking monsoons</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Distant red rocks</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The magic of Sedona</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not an usual sighting</td></tr>
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Since I was a little girl, I've been drawn to Sedona.<br />
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It's not a town with night life other than the magnificent stars that shine so brightly you can almost touch their glow. Yeah, I'm a little earth mother anyway and big cities were never my thing.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Playing in the creek, 16 years old</td></tr>
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Nonetheless, when I moved here full-time six years ago, I felt I'd <i>come home</i>, and I mean this in a big way.<br />
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The next year, while out walking one day, I came upon a little cemetery in West Sedona, down a side street behind a U-Haul facility. Never one to resist an old cemetery (surprise, surprise), I wandered in, curiously reading epitaphs of the dead, many of whom were children. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cemetery in West Sedona</td></tr>
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I knew the town I loved so much my entire life was named after Sedona Schnebly, one of the earlier settlers, but I didn't know much else about her.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sedona Schnebly</td></tr>
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And then while walking around in this humble and quite simple cemetery, I chanced upon Sedona's grave. I was so surprised, and I felt a deep connection with her resting place.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sedona Schnebly's grave</td></tr>
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Suddenly, I noticed, just next to hers, another grave. "Pearl A. Schnebly…beloved daughter."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Her precious Pearl</td></tr>
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<i>How is it that I never knew the town I so loved all my life was named after one of us, a bereaved mother?</i><br />
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I sat down on the dirt by their graves and tears fell. I wanted to know more so I began to research the lives of Sedona and Pearl Schnebly… <br />
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It was 1905, and Sedona's 6-year-old daughter was riding her pony when the unthinkable happened. Sedona was there, helplessly watching as her daughter was dragged. The grief was unbearable.<br />
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Sedona used to look out the window of her kitchen onto the grave of little Pearl every day. She was so distraught by her beloved baby's death that they fled Sedona several months later.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsSGLV3jRQvKGlWqBfQmL9Tcxdl0CQ3Yq7jS16MiF51yHVe6SBrxnxIOdAGhQWv-AZT9aGrNRDF6RfMcCpyppEHYAPYEkXhVKGpzs3Iecjl91AblFKn59N8-NcfiRyaz0jKIqehOQyhc/s1600/Schnebly-Hotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsSGLV3jRQvKGlWqBfQmL9Tcxdl0CQ3Yq7jS16MiF51yHVe6SBrxnxIOdAGhQWv-AZT9aGrNRDF6RfMcCpyppEHYAPYEkXhVKGpzs3Iecjl91AblFKn59N8-NcfiRyaz0jKIqehOQyhc/s1600/Schnebly-Hotel.jpg" height="261" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The home where Pearl was buried</td></tr>
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Sedona Schnebly did not return to the place she so loved until her own burial 45 years later, as requested, beside her precious Pearl, in 1950.<br />
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I visit her grave often now, and I talk to Sedona- and to Pearl- and I understand why this is the only place on earth I want to live.<br />
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**************<br />
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If you're a provider and want some excellent <a href="http://certification.missfoundation.org/" target="_blank">bereavement care training </a>and a chance to see Sedona in person, visit this <a href="http://certification.missfoundation.org/" target="_blank">link</a>.<br />
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<br />Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-984330758590198929.post-16761585387598844292014-01-31T11:01:00.005-08:002014-01-31T11:14:01.471-08:00Everything I need to know about grief I learned from my plants (well, not really) but...<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;"><b><i>"The seed is in the ground. Now may we rest in hope while darkness does its work." </i></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">Wendell Berry</span></span></span></h2>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">I have a little spot in my new home, just under the stairs, and I call it my St Francis wall. St Francis is my favorite of all the saints, save San Juan de la Cruz, and I love having a little place in my home to remain conscious of his compassionate axioms.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">For about two months, I had some wonderful little plants surrounding my Francis wall. I bought a 'forever sun' lamp which I kept on 24 hours a day (see the light shining from the corner) because this space had no natural lighting at all. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">However, my once-little happy plants began to change. They were not doing well. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">They were sick, obviously, and needed care. I tried variously things over the course of a few weeks… but nothing worked. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">Then, I thought about grief.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">"<i>Oh my gosh! Of course</i>!" I thought, "<i>The plants are not getting darkness now at all, are they</i>?" </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">I went to the literature and found out that, indeed, plants <i>require</i> darkness for photosynthesis. A carbon reaction reduces CO2 to form carbohydrates and thus to release oxygen. This happens only in the darkness of the night. The darkness is also necessary for photoperiod, the process by which the plant prepares itself for flowering, for blossoming.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">Talk about a 'doy' moment of perspicuity. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">When I read about this process for plants, I sat down and cried. Nature, the Great Teacher, thank you, thank you. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">Of course. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">We <i>need</i> the darkness to be whole, to be healthy, to blossom. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;">My plant, now, after now being exposed to darkness again looks entirely different.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;"> ...And so do I.</span></span></div>
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Dr. Joanne Cacciatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10863060782827061955noreply@blogger.com2