Face Masks in 2020

Who ever thought we'd be isolated in our homes, afraid to go out among people, afraid to touch surfaces, afraid to go to our families' homes even, for fear of carrying some dread disease to them, or fear of contracting something ourselves?

Well, that is where we are, and if you are NOT afraid of these things, then you have not taken the time to educate yourself about COVID-19, and you may be a big part of the problem. This is serious business. Be serious about it. Read reliable articles, not partisan political hack rags. Listen to revered scientists, not some jackass politician. Question motives of those who would have you believe this isn't something to be afraid of, because they have other motives than quelling your fears. Again, this is SERIOUS BUSINESS.

So, yesterday the CDC announced that they now recommend that we wear masks when we're out for any reason. Now, this is not written in the article, but they don't mean if you are taking a lone walk in the neighborhood, or you're taking your dog out. There is no reason to believe that the virus is floating on the air, waiting for you to just breathe it in. But if you are going into any business, home, or other building where other are, or others have been, you should wear a mask. There are several reasons for this.

There are basic reasons people wear these kinds of masks. 1) to protect oneself, and 2) to protect others from oneself. Number one is intuitive, but if you need an explanation, it may help you from breathing in some particulate that someone exhaled near you if they didn't practice social distancing, for instance. In and of itself, the mask is only as effective as you allow it to be. While wearing it, you MUST keep your hands off of it, you can't be adjusting it, moving it, pulling it off, etc. You are highly likely to basically contaminate your hands on surfaces in any given space, so messing with the mask is just going to contaminate that, and put the virus closer to your mucus membrane, and thus into your system.

That second reason, to protect others, people don't seem to understand. You are healthy, right? No symptoms of anything, right? No sniffles, fever, cough. Well, guess what! You can be carrying this disease and never know it! That's right! At any moment of any day, you could have picked up the germ from someone else who also may not have known he or she was carrying it, or you could have inadvertently touched some surface where the virus landed, and was hanging around just waiting for someone to pick it up and spread it before its life cycle ended. And now, you, if you didn't at least wear a mask, could easily be spreading this virus to more people every day. See how the cycle works? You could literally cause the death of others.

SO, back to masks. Masks are just one way that we can make it harder for this virus to pass from one person to another. They are not perfect, and we are still learning about what works best, but it's time to start the fight, nonetheless, because at least we know that masks can HELP decrease the spread of this insidious disease. If you don't think it's worth trying, then please, go to the ocean and throw yourself in, so the rest of us have a chance!

This past week, even before the CDC recommendation, I started researching many people's articles and ideas about masks. I have read university studies; I've read epidemiologists' thoughts; I've read state and local health departments' input; I've watched countless videos;  looked at a hundred or so mask patterns; researched materials; and I've realized it's enough to make your head spin. Having worked in an operating room for years, and having learned about the efficacy of masks even all those years ago, I guess I have some baseline understanding of the med/surg mask to start with. Add to that the scientific studies that I've been reading, and I've put together some ideas for making masks at home to help protect my family and myself.  I have settled on a face-fitting, easy-to-wear, comfortable fabric mask with a special pocket where one can insert a paper coffee filter for extra protection. This pattern was published online by  a group called Masks of Love, Western North Carolina, based in Asheville, I believe.  The sewing instructions can be found there. The printable pattern is linked below.     https://www.masksoflove.org/

(NOTE: I modified this pattern slightly so that the front and the back are separately finished off at the ends, and then sewn together. This creates basically an open tunnel, into which I slipped half a standard coffee filter. I also created a small tunnel at the bridge of the nose and inserted a piece of 12 gauge aluminum wire [rustproof] with the ends turned under to make them blunt. This creates a malleable nose-pinch to make the mask fit tightly to your face.)

So, if you have sewing skills, you may want to think about not only making some for yourselves, but about making some for others who you know may need one.  It's time we go back to thinking about and caring for others. I'm just going to say that again. It's time we go BACK to thinking about and caring for others!

THE PATTERN I USED IS HERE.

SOUL-SEARCHING AT THE MOVIES

Tonight, we went to the local cinema to see the film, “Joni 75: A Birthday Celebration.” Joni Mitchell, one of my very favorite singer-songwriters of all time has turned 75, and some of her musician friends threw her a party in the form of a tribute concert. Thank God someone made the decision to film the entire event!

I had seen lots of little references to the birthday celebration online, including some short clips of one of my favorite musicians, James Taylor, participating on stage.  When the event popped up on Facebook advertising this filmed concert and celebration, I  jumped at the opportunity and immediately bought tickets!

The moment the film began, I was thoroughly enthralled. And I’m not proud of this, but 2 minutes in, and basically for the rest of the film, I had a lump in my throat, and tears streamed down my face. This old guy’s dry eyes were not dry tonight! It was really hard not to openly sob a couple of times! Today, ironically, a friend posted a meme on my Facebook timeline with a picture of a little boy with his eyes closed, and his hand on his heart, and it said, “That feeling you get when music touches your soul.” This film, and the music in it, not only touched my soul, but embraced it, stroked it, rewarded it.

Why would a grown man weep like this during a concert movie? Well, I asked myself that repeatedly throughout the movie. And in silence, I responded with many answers.

I wept because the music was so good. The melodies were lovely and unpredictable, and the lyrics were sheer poetry. My soul was, indeed, touched.

I wept because I thought about how proud these musicians must have felt to be a part of this event, even how the instrumentalists on the stage must have been to both perform with all this stellar talent, and to perform in tribute to Joni Mitchell, this amazing singer-songwriter!

I wept at the performances, for the pure raw emotion with which they delivered Joni’s songs. Each one was more magnificent than the last.

I wept at the shots of the rapt audience faces, swept into the spell of melody and lyric and emotion.

I wept at the comradery of the musicians onstage and off. This common cause was obviously a truly unifying force!

I wept because nearly every song flooded my brain with memories...memories of myself listening to Joni’s music growing up, memories of events, or things I was doing at a time when one of the other of these songs were playing, memories of emotions that poured out every time I could remember hearing ‘that song.’

I wept for all those people who I knew would love this, but who were not here to enjoy it with us.

I wept because I was lucky enough to be sitting there, watching this amazing event up close and almost personal, with an amazing sound system.

I wept because one of the artists presented, Kris Kristofferson, showed obvious signs of dementia, but with help from Brandi Carlile, performed beautifully.

I wept at the way Joni looked, frail, old, still very beautiful, but vulnerable, and knowing her health was failing.

Mostly I wept, I realized, at my own inadequacies: my innate need to make music, to sing, to perform, to please an audience, and my inability to do so, as well, as much, and as satisfyingly as these artists. I wept at the choices I’d made in life, putting music farther down the list of important things to do. I wept that these people were living fulfilled dreams, and that I was not. I wept because my years left on this earth are much fewer, and there is no chance I can improve that situation.

So, I wept. I’m not proud of it, but I’m also not ashamed. I have a heart. I feel emotions. I refuse to let convention or someone’s skewed view of gender or expected behavior dominate me.  I wept. And then I got over it. The important things that remain are that my soul and spirit were enriched and renewed tonight. The emotional releases are cathartic and cleansing. I’m pretty sure I will sleep better tonight too!

Happy and sad tears flowed from this same pair of eyes, down the same face, and onto the same collar simultaneously. I wondered for a moment, if they were scientifically analyzed, happy tears and sad tears had the same or different compositions.

  

Epilogue:

If you can't tell from this piece, I felt this film was wonderful, amazing, stunning! It's filled with some of the best performances I've seen...hands down! Performers include Norah Jones, James Taylor, Rufus Waynewright, Emmylou Harris, Seal, and Diana Krall, just to name a few. I actually believe that, even if you aren't a die-hard Joni fan like myself, you will still marvel at this collection of work. Do yourself a favor.

https://www.musiccenter.org/tickets/events-by-the-music-center/joni-75/

Your Life-Touch: Tribute to my Friend, Ricky Wilkins

 

YOUR LIFE-TOUCH

In your all-too-brief time on this big blue ball,

You touched so many, influenced so much.

Honest as the rain.  Deeper than the ocean.

Brilliant and confident and humble. 

Intellectual and humanitarian.

Direct. Witty.

To say you were talented is to describe the sky as big.

You taught, mentored. You enhanced and improved all with whom you performed.

You played anything and everything in any needed key,

And often on a keyboard that was held together with duct tape and a promise.

If ever ivories were really tickled, I’m sure it was you who made it happen!

Your fingers danced like a chorus line!

You wrote, you played, you sang, and all so beautifully, and yet,

You stepped aside to share the light when the time came for others to shine.

You rarely, if ever, left anyone wondering what you were thinking.

You freely spoke your mind, without a worry about anyone disagreeing.

Your sugar was the sweetest ever, and your acid just as bitter.

We watched you in awe.

We listened to you with amazement and envy.

We read your brilliant political rants and wished we’d said those things!

And now, my friend, like the best in show business, you’ve once again left us wanting more.

Well played, Ricky.

Well played.

George F. Hoffman

2016

THAT'S NOT MY MOTHER

(As I watched my mother go through illnesses, some dementia, and age-related decline, I would sometimes be dismayed that a woman so very vital could be reduced to this frail, dependent person before me. A woman who had done so much in her life to help others; who had worked until the age of 84; who was so active in her community and church; a woman who had overcome crippling childhood disease, raised three children of her own, helped raise a sister....how could this woman be the same woman before me, I would sometimes ask myself. I began this poem last year, before my mother's death. Yesterday, on Mother's Day,  I somehow remembered starting this, and I thought that it was time I finished it.
This is not only for me and for my mother, but dedicated to all of you out there who may be watching loved ones' lights dim. Have faith. It's the only way.)

THAT’S NOT MY MOTHER
 by George F. Hoffman

That woman there, in Mom’s big chair,
That’s not my mother.
That woman has a distant stare,
She rarely gets up from that chair.
That’s not my mother.
That woman moans, complains and whines,
Demands, commands, repeats, reclines.
I’m thinking maybe these are signs,
That’s not my mother.

That woman there, in Mom’s big chair,
That’s not my mother.
My mom has always been so kind.
She’s never been of unsound mind.
That’s not my mother.
My mom works rings around us all.
She charges like a fireball!
My mother has it on the ball!
That’s not my mother.

I don’t know where that lady’s from.
That’s not my mother.
She doesn’t even sound like Mom.
Although she sits with great aplomb,
That’s not my mother.
Mom’s always strong. She’s never frail.
Mom is robust, not weak and pale.
Mom wouldn’t need help to inhale.
That’s not my mother.

That woman there in that big chair,
That’s not my mother.
A resemblance, maybe. But I would swear
That’s not my mother.
My mom would not have lived this way.
My mother cherished every day.
It may seem strange, but I have to say,
That’s not my mother.

AND THUS, WE GRIEVE

Mom, when the light was still in her eyes.

Ever since my mom began her long slow decline toward her final breath, I began to think what our world would be like when she is ultimately gone. I know that sounds morbid, but bear with me as I explain. I believe there is a reason for this, and I believe it’s a healthy process.  You see, I think this is a beneficial grieving activity, even if one does it unintentionally.

Mom is a ‘tough old broad.’ And yes, I can say that to her face, and I tell her that nearly every day. She overcame childhood illness; nearly two years of her life spent in children’s hospitals; at least 5 surgeries, one ultimately fusing one of her hip joints; crippling disabilities; and all this while her father was dying of tuberculosis thousands of mile away in a sanatorium.  As a ‘disabled’ adult, she gave birth to and raised a daughter alone for many years, helped to raise her youngest sister, working full time, ultimately married and birthed and raised two more children, all the while working a full time job in a sewing factory. She was very active in her church, many years as the person in charge of the kitchen there. She was also very active all her adult life in the Ladies Auxiliary to the local fire department, also holding highest offices in both regional and state organizations related to that group. She was active in the local Chamber of Commerce and was even Citizen of the Year once.  Further health issues in adulthood included scoliosis resulting from years of having one leg shorter than the other; crippling rheumatoid arthritis; psoriatic arthritis; osteoarthritis; a car accident resulting in a femur fracture in her ‘bad’ hip; a winter ice accident in which she broke her neck, shoulder, and clavicle; and these are only the things that I can readily remember! When Mom retired from the Aileen company where she’d worked most of her adult life, she went on to work, caring for her elderly mother in her home for many years, babysitting children, and then finally providing elder care in the community for quite a few people, all up until about age 84 or 85! Up until the second stroke she had, she could still work rings around me! She could often be found in her kitchen on a Friday, preparing for an Auxiliary bake sale, baking 10 or 15 pies!  So, yeah, I’d say tough old broad pretty well sums it up!

Two strokes and a heart attack  (which I still believe was precipitated by mismanaged medications) finally slowed Mom down, and after trying private care in her own home for a while, it became obvious that she was going to need some skilled nursing care. She was moved directly following one of her hospitalizations to this nursing home where she still lives today. It has been a blessing that so much family and so many friends are in close proximity and can visit often.

Most of those first three years, Mom was well cared-for at the nursing home. Even though it was hard to see her requiring care, rather than giving it, it was easy, at least, to walk out of there after a visit, knowing she was safe and that the folks who worked there were, for the most part, caring and compassionate people. Mom had always been a model resident too: always smiling, kind words for everyone, watching out for other residents.

In the last year or so, things changed rather drastically at the nursing home, often with devastating results for my mother, and I’m sure for many of the residents. We’ve had friends and relatives whose loved ones have been in the facility over those months, and have lamented with many of them at the demise of the place.

In recent months, we’ve struggled with :

·      corporate bureaucracy and utter neglect in the nursing home;

·      changes in administration, including management and directors of nursing at the nursing home which resulted, sadly in complete lack of continuity of care;

·      understaffing and overworking the staff who were there;

·      changes in the medical care providers (doctors) three times in as many months, again, negating any continuity of care for these poor patients;

·      antiquated thinking in patient care where medications are basically thrown at symptoms until patients are finally taking multiple drugs to counteract other drugs;

·      arguments and adversarial relationships with nurses and aides who would rather gork these poor patients out to keep them quiet than give them a few moments of reassurance;

·      Mom’s horrible reactions to some of these drugs they’ve had her on….5 pages of them at one time;

·      a bed-bug scare;

·      a scabies scare;

·      the only Hospice nurse I’ve ever seen who has no compassion;

·      lots of miscommunications, lost orders, lost lab results;

Again, these are just the things that I can readily remember!

In the nearly four years that she’s been in this local nursing home, and especially in these past few months, I have had many opportunities for grieving. I have heard myself say a thousand times that I believe we have these days because most of our grieving will be done by the time Mom passes, so that day’s pain will hopefully be eclipsed by relief, and even, hopefully, joy. I recently enlisted Hospice care to enhance the care that Mom receives at the home, and to help us prepare for the end of her life.  Mom’s care, even the lack of care at times, pervades my every day at this point. My days almost always include any number of the following: calls from the attending physician; calls from nurses; calls from Hospice nurses; calls from either of the social workers; calls, emails and text messages from family members and/or friends who are visiting and concerned about whatever happens to be going on at the moment; my own emailing or texting family members to update them on any number of these same things.

The last two weeks or so, Mom seems to have gotten much worse, mentally. Her short-term memory is greatly diminished. As a result, she often finds herself in what, to her, are unfamiliar surroundings, and you can imagine how frightening that must be.  It’s a blessing she still knows us all, and recognizes us immediately, but she usually gets very weepy when any of us appear for a visit. Her speech is now very labored, and processing what she wants to say gets harder for her every day. This just further adds to her fears and frustrations.  When I’m there, she usually asks me several times where she is, why she’s there, and if she’s going home. Then she often tearfully apologizes for being a nuisance, or cries and tells me she hopes she doesn’t wake up one morning, or tells me she sure hopes the Lord’s still looking out for her.

Tonight was one of my usual visits to see her. I sat at home for a while, messing with my phone, and putting off leaving to drive down there as long as I could.  Don’t judge me until you’ve been in this situation yourself.  I finally said goodbye to my wife and the dog, and headed out. As I drive the 20 or 25 minutes to the home, I begin to steel myself, and put on my light happy façade. I have to prepare myself for all her questions, and remind myself to be patient. I have to plan ahead for ways to change the subject and help her to happier thoughts if the situation warrants.

When I got to her room, Mom was sitting in her wheelchair at the foot of her bed, staring at the floor, her eyes dazed-looking and even rather lifeless. When I said hello as I entered the room, she barely even looked at me. It was kind of like she was forcing herself to respond. She always says, “Bless your heart, there you are,” as if she’s been expecting me. But even when I get close and hug and kiss her and look her straight in the eye, I don’t see her light. The one thing that makes me think her end is near is the light that’s gone out of her eyes. It’s just not there anymore, no matter what we do. 

She immediately began to get weepy, and her words, then, were even more difficult to understand. I suggested we go outside to the porch for a breath of fresh air. We could listen to the birds and watch the pretty sunset, I said. She just half-heartedly said ‘OK.’ 

It was a lovely evening, with the sun setting and a gentle comfortable breeze blowing across the porch. I pulled her wheelchair up close so I could hopefully more easily understand her as she tried to talk to me. We talked sunsets, and birds, and weather. I showed her my son’s and his fiancé’s engagement pictures on my phone. In between, she cried and asked, and I answered, those same questions over and over about where she was, why she was there, and whether she was going home. I gently reminded her, when she complained that no one had been to visit, who had actually been there in the past few days.  Then she’d cry some more, looking so frightened, and apologize that she was so ‘crazy,’ and couldn’t remember anything anymore.

So I sat there with her in the gentle evening breeze, looking into her face, holding her poor, bony, withered hand, her fingers pointing in all directions because of the ravages of arthritis. I held it gently because it was obviously painful tonight. I looked into her teary vacant eyes, and fought back my own tears, and I realized that we were both mourning. I was mourning the complete death of her independence, and thus, of her spirit. She was mourning the death of many of her brain cells, and those bits of memories that she’s sure she’ll never recover. 

And thus, we grieved.

EDITORIAL: WHAT, INDEED, WOULD JESUS DO?

Today, my faith in God is strong, but my faith in my church, I’m afraid, is faltering. Just when I feel like I have a better understanding of Christianity, I’m completely blindsided by some Old Testament-scripture-quoting dogmatic individual, who calls himself a Christian, while simultaneously judging AND persecuting others, ‘in the name of God’! 

Now I know, even as Christians, we may all come from different backgrounds, varied doctrines, denominations, and beliefs. I, for instance, grew up in a Methodist church, and I attended a United Church of Christ for quite a few years. I have been exposed to many other churches in my 58 years, too. But I have to say that in all my life, in any church I’ve ever attended or visited, never have I heard any minister or message telling me that I should judge people here on Earth, decide if they are worthy, and ridicule, exclude, and persecute them if I feel so obliged! Nope. Not once. On the contrary, the basic principle or doctrine of ANY Christian church, to my way of thinking, is LOVE ONE ANOTHER. Isn’t that what we’re basically called to do? I’m asking...because I am beginning to think I must have missed something in all my years of learning. In our modern world, “we’re often asked, what would Jesus do?” While I used to think that seemed a little corny, these days, I feel like flashing a sign pretty regularly asking that very question! 

Indeed, what would Jesus have done had he witnessed the judgement and persecution of a minister that took place at my church, all without ANY of those involved EVER having met her? It doesn’t matter who she was, or even what her perceived ‘sin’ may have been. She was essentially tried, judged, sentenced, and hanged by a vigilante group through phone calls, social media, etc. Not a single one of those people knew anything about her more than they’d gleaned from a Google search and common gossip. Not one. That’s not loving one another folks, no matter how you cut it. That doesn’t even fall under respect. 

So today, I’m struggling with my membership in a church where I grew up, but where love, and even tolerance, seem to have taken a vacation; a church where the proverbial tail wags the dog, and a few misguided people dictate how things will be done. I’m very sad. I’m embarrassed. I’m disheartened. But I’m praying. And I am writing this piece to both get this off my own chest, and to share with other Christians this reminder: Love one another. That’s what it’s all about. Love one another.