Category: perspective

Warrior, eh? (End-of-Year Retrospective)

Isy / / perspective, spirituality, tasty words, what works

Interesting term, “warrior“. It came up on one of my CRPS sites today, applied by an ally to those of us with the disease.

I was such a righteous fighter all my life, and now the message I keep getting from within is to “lay down my arms” — a metaphor so painfully apt it beggars language (after all, my CRPS started in my arms.)

The more peaceful I am, the more progress I make — or at least, the more I hold my ground. But it’s very much a matter of never giving up, never laying down, never yielding one thing to this disease that it doesn’t have to win from me.

I don’t fight, I figure it out; problems are meant to be solved, and this is an evolving set of pressingly interesting problems.

I don’t think in warrior/fighter terms any more, but I believe those who work with me use them. While sheer determination has stood me in very good stead, I don’t think of my present approach in terms of battle. The ground has shifted too much — so much so that, as an amateur historian and traveler familiar with the terrain of many battles, I can’t think of there being anything left to win. The ground has been swept clean.

Yet I intend not to be destroyed by this disease. I intend to come out of it alive, and die by some more exciting means instead.

When you’re skirting paradox, you’re close to the naked truth.

I guess I’ll keep learning to “lay down my arms” and persist as peacefully and intelligently as possible, and let others call me a fighter if that’s how they think of it.

Me, I opt for peaceful intelligence instead.

Links (in order mentioned):

Refocus on what works: In memoriam

Isy / / critical thinking, legislation, loved ones, meds/drugs, perspective, politics, science, what works

Debbie died yesterday. She was a never-failing source of encouragement and intelligent support on one of my key online CRPS support groups.

She died on the table, while undergoing a medical procedure. I don’t know exactly what it was, and given my respect for patient confidentiality, it’s none of my business.

She’s the first person to die of my disease, to whom I felt personally attached. Needless to say, it’s sobering as hell.

I’ve written about the need to attribute deaths from this disease correctly. I’m preparing my own final papers. These thoughts are nothing new.

But today, they are biting deep.

I’ve recently become highly politicized over rights abuses and intolerable corporate stature in my country. I have privately — and quietly — become convinced that the US healthcare system is so completely predatory, so opposed to its own mandate, that it will never offer healing for anyone in my position.

Debbie’s death has broken through my professional anxiety about appearing detached and scientifically sound. I have, at long last, become politicized about the most important subject in my life, after 25 years of personal and professional involvement up to my back teeth.

I have minimized my discussion here of what actually works. That dishonest omission has done us all a great disservice. I’m going to discuss what works, whether or not it’s FDA approved, pharmaceutically profitable, or adequately studied.

Medical studies are a shining example of the fact that we inspect what we expect, not necessarily what we need. The fact that studies have not been done on most modalities, or not rigorously done in double-blind experiments, doesn’t mean the modalities don’t work.

It means the studies need to be done. Period.

Where I understand the mechanisms of action, I will explain them. Where studies don’t exist, I’ll detail what should probably be explored.

But I have had enough of silence. I will not die as Debbie did. I will not die on the table. I certainly will not die saturated with soul-destroying pharmaceutical-grade poisons, as so many of us do.

I will find a better way. I will find a way that works. I’ll do my best to persuade others to study the modalities involved, and to fund the studies. My legislators will learn to recognize my name on sight, because their slavish debt to the pharmaceutical industry is absolutely intolerable and it’s up to me, and others like me, to convince them of that.

I wish Debbie a painless and peaceful rest. I hope her extraordinary husband finds enough strength and comfort to manage life without her.

For myself, I want the intelligence, resources and strength to find a solid cure, make it happen, and spread the word.

No more silence. It’s too much like consent or, worse, collusion.

I do not consent to the deaths of my friends.

With my eyes now open, I’ll no longer collude.

Let’s find a real way out.

How we REALLY were made! :)

Isy / / humor, mythology, perspective
Saturn, my favorite mythological curmudgeon, lost his throne and gave way to as nasty a pack of rapists, pederasts, thugs and thieves as Capt. Jack Sparrow could find in a century of shore leaves. Their litany of crimes is tedious, at best, but I’m aware of the limits of history; what gets preserved is often chosen by the loudest predators. 

There’s an old Greek story about the creation of humankind which sidesteps most of that. It goes something like this. 

*********
Young Kore (Persephone’s childhood name) was wandering by a river one day. As she forded her way across it, she was pleased by the clayey texture between her toes. She stopped on the opposite bank and scooped up some of that lovely mud.

She modeled it into a familiar bifurcated form, but it wouldn’t keep its shape. She worked some humus into the clay, to give it more body, and that helped. Bits of humus showed here and there, and the slightly fluffy look of it inspired her to give the dolly a nice topping of shreddy mould for hair.

Her father strolled up and asked what she was up to. She showed him her handiwork, as charmingly pleased with herself as only a kid can be.

Zeus admired it and said it was very nice, and what was she going to do with it?

She said she wasn’t sure. “But would you make it come alive, Papa? Please-please-pleeeeease?”

Zeus looked down at her wide, bright eyes and rosy cheeks, her face alight, and fidgeting in a pleased sort of way. Only one thing to do. 

He turned on his endless vision and looked up to see who was near the Olympian Fire. One of his nephews was standing there, staring at it. Zeus turned on his bullhorn voice and bellowed up to Olympos, “Hey, Prometheus! Oy, Prometheus, I need you!”

Prometheus looked away from the Fire and said, “What’s up, Big Guy?”

Zeus hated it when people called him Big Guy (it lacked class), but he swallowed his irritation. “Toss me down some of that Fire, smartass, okay?”

Prometheus grinned good-naturedly, scooped up a handful of the divine flame, and lobbed it in an underhand toss.

Zeus caught it in midair, massaged it into shape, then carefully pressed it against the clay creature in his daughter’s hands. It baked the clay and filled it with life.

The little clay dolly twitched, gasped, and sat up. It rubbed its face and opened new eyes. It rubbed its head, now sporting a fluffy head of soft hair. It spoke: “Holy crap.” Pause. “Well, that was weird.”

Kore bounced up and down, causing the creature to splay its legs and hang on for dear life.

“I want lots of them! And I want to call them Kores, like me! Look how cute they are,” she declared ungrammatically, staring at the singular creature.

“They should be called Zeus-lets, kiddo. You’re hardly old enough to be naming dollies, let alone species! I gave it life and I’m the grownup. I’ll decide what happens to it. Understand?”

Gaia, who had had quite enough of her rotten grandson lately, made her presence known with a rumble. “Do you ever tire of being the biggest brat in the room, Zeus? I gave my flesh for the creature, so it should be named after me! Lots of little Gaia-citas running around. Should brighten things up considerably around here.”

Zeus found himself in a serious disagreement, where he had expected a minor battle of wills with a child.

It didn’t help that Prometheus and the rest of the Olympians had turned to watch, and were encouraging all sides indiscriminately: “Go, you kid!” “Give it to the Big Guy!” “Hey, Grandma rocks, she should have it!” Zeus personally saw Apollo, alone, change his vote three times. And he wasn’t the most changeable, either. 

It was a floor show.

He caught Gaia’s eye. “Arbitrate?”

She lifted her chin. “If you can find an impartial arbiter.”

Zeus looked around and saw nearly every face animated with opinions. Even Hades had something to say. Naturally, he was rooting for the kid, just to spite Zeus.

Nearly every face. One face alone was still, and it was still behind bars. Zeus’s father, and former opponent, was just quietly watching.

He turned to Gaia. “How about Kronus?” (That’s the original name of Saturn, to you Latinites.)

Gaia was surprised. Also mighty pleased — she considered all her sons mentally weak, but Kronus was the best of the bunch and had taken her side when no one else would. If he was acceptable to his arch-enemy Zeus, he was certainly acceptable to her. “Kronus it is,” she said, and everyone turned with her to look at him.

Kronus’s eyes lifted. The ages of imprisonment had left his eyes deep and dark with shadows. It took some time for him to bring himself fully into the light again. His brother Iapetus gave him a surreptitious hand.

As he stepped into the center of the watching gods and took up the mantle of judgement, bright white light filled the space they were in. It chased away every shadow, prying into every nook. Nothing remained hidden. 

He cleared his throat softly. “I can’t pretend I didn’t see and hear every bit of that. I’m a little surprised you asked me, so before I go further, I need one word from each if you.”

He paused and made sure he had their attention. Even the restless child was riveted by the lines and hollows on his great face, the aeons of thought marking his brow. “Swear before all Olympos that you’ll be bound by my decision. All of you. Because greater good or greater ill may come of this than any of you can now see.”

Surprised, but trusting him, Gaia nodded. “Of course.”

Enthralled, Kore whispered, “Yes.”

Boxed in and suddenly wishing he’d named anyone else, even Hades, Zeus grumbled, “Oh, Hell.” Beat. “All right.”

Kronus nodded, and shifted position. “Then this is how I rule.

“Zeus, you did a thorough job of giving this creature life, and therefore gave it a future and everything that goes with it: thoughts, wishes, actions, an ability to affect the world. That is a heavy burden to lay on something that didn’t ask for it. It will need a strong ally, a knowing guide, a wise governor. You will be all that and more, because, having given this thing life, you should help to make that life worth having.”

Zeus blinked and stepped back, as if punched in the gut. Not what he’d been thinking at all. 

Kronus turned to Kore, who blanched and tried to shrink. He smiled at her as gently as he was able. “Kore, you made something beautiful, and it was intelligently and cleverly made. Well done.”

She tried to smile. She was certainly proud at his praise, but overwhelmed. Never had she been in the center of so much light; it hurt and frightened her, but she didn’t want to show it.

Kronus went on, “You asked that there be lots of them, and so there shall be. You will get your wish.”

Kore nodded with a big, shy motion of her head.

Kronus added, “You made it out of clay and in your hands it was lifeless. Do you remember?”

Kore nodded again.

Kronus said, “Then, in the fulness of time, you will be responsible for them in that state again. When they live out their spans and return to being lifeless, they will return to your hands.”

Kore’s eyes widened. So did Hades’, because a new shadow — distinctly like the shades of his realm — descended on Kore’s form and began to soften the light that nearly blinded her. Her mother Demeter, riveted by the shadow, was so tense you could string her in a bow, but there was nothing she could do. 

Kore breathed her relief at being shielded from the painful glare. 

Kronus turned last to Gaia. “You gave your flesh to make this flesh, so its flesh is your responsibility. Provide this species with food aplenty, and ensure its fertility so that it will perpetuate itself time out of mind.”

Gaia, hiding her relief, nodded. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but hadn’t expected to get off so lightly for stooping to Zeus’s level in the first place.

Then Kronus stopped briefly and gave her a Look, and she felt she had just been privately chewed out for that very thing. She dropped her gaze and gave a little nod, accepting the silent rebuke.

Kronus looked upwards and scratched his chin. It made a scrunchy sound, since he hadn’t shaved. “As for what to call it,” he mused aloud, “I see no point in choosing one of your names over the others. It’s now a shared task and no one of you should have more credit — or more responsibility — than you already do.”

He looked at the little thing, sitting peacefully cross-legged and wondering what all the fuss was about.

Its mud was now good flesh, and the crisp, short fibers of humus peeking through were transformed into crisp, short hair. It saw Kronus peering at it, with his huge wise face alight with interest. It smiled brightly up at him and gave a big enthusiastic wave with both arms, exposing more crisp patches underneath.  

Kronus smiled as inspiration dawned. He remarked, “It does look like it was made with humus. We’ll call it homo.”

And so it was.
*********
The much shorter translation from Pseudo-Hyginus’s “220 Fables” is here:

http://www.theoi.com/Khthonios/Persephone.html

My prior work on the Saturn mythology is posted as a guest-blog series at Oxford Astrologer. …Why under astrology? 
Because, since the death of Joseph Campbell, modern astrology is the best repository of psychologically-oriented myth. Ignore what doesn’t work for you — but enjoy and mull over the stories, because they’re utterly human:
– Saturn’s tricky childhood: 

http://oxford-astrologer.blogspot.com/2011/08/how-i-made-friends-with-saturn.html?m=0


– The (kind of creepy, but fascinating) birth of Venus: 

http://oxford-astrologer.blogspot.com/2011/08/kind-of-creepy-birth-of-venus.html?m=0


– When Saturn goes off the rails: 

Playing with fire

Isy / / perspective, poetry, tasty words

No idea what prompted this poem, but it might have been an iPhone app that makes your phone look and act like a Zippo. Enjoy… and feel free to speculate about what was in my other hand.
…

up side
down
looks fine
from here

It’s all a
matter of
perspective.
Isy says so.

it all looks odd
up side down

spine free
limbs agleam

it all looks good
up side down

Isy? Isn’ty?
no matter

Flip Me

Isabel plays
coolly with fire

up side down

is a different
point of view

Releasing the gods within

Isy / / mythology, perspective, philosophy, spirituality, tasty words

Modern mythology (á la comic-book heroes & Harry Potter) make extraordinary powers something odd, often imposed on those who never asked for it or are forced into concealing it in order to survive.

I don’t have a lot of time for the victim mentality, however charmingly restated. (I love Harry Potter and X-Men but still take them in small doses.) And the idea that it’s abnormal to be super-anything is not congruent with my experience. I don’t know anyone who isn’t super-something.

Embracing the deep weirdness of reality and going from there seems much more effective — and realistic. Notions of normalcy are hopelessly entwined in history and place, sealed with the invisible glue of social fear.

In other words, normalcy is unstable and profoundly irrational, even as we’re desperate to hang onto and justify it.

Not very helpful for dealing with bodily meltdown, lasting pain, deep disruptions and the massive issues of powerlessness, poverty and loss that are shaking so many. It’s too easy to feel like a victim and a freak.

I’ve been delving into the mythology of the Titans, creator gods (like Gaia, Rhea, Ouranos, Kronus) who gave rise to the later — and nastier — Olympians (like Jupiter, Mars, Hera, and all that crowd.) They deal with devastating changes, massive loss, pain, betrayal, mutilation, everything we face — but not for one minute do they imagine that they are ordinary, held to small standards, ineffective or meaningless.

They move and think and act and feel as if it mattered, because it does; they are born to their extraordinariness and they own it, warts and all.

I want to reframe the stories we tell ourselves so that we start out being extraordinary — not by accident or as oddities, but by right. Then the overwhelming tasks we face become merely heinously difficult, not completely beyond us.

We need not waste energy trying to conceal how much we can really bring to bear. We have better things to do.

Define stability

Isy / / moving/traveling, nature, perspective

I live on a boat. Not a houseboat, a sailboat. It’s 29 feet long, 9’4″ at the widest point (outside measurement), and has overhead clearance of just barely 6′ in the main cabin.

Since I’m less than 9′ wide and 6′ tall, this works for me.

A small boat is an unstable surface, shifting with every step and wiggle. You keep your balance by toning your abdominal muscles – as soon as you tighten your midsection, the wobbly feeling disappears, and even if the boat’s surface is 30 degrees from horizontal, you can still keep your feet under you.

I have the strongest core of anyone I know who doesn’t either live on a small boat or teach Iyengar yoga, because that’s just how it works.

A friend of mine moved away and couldn’t get rid of his even smaller boat (25′ with rather less overhead clearance), so he sold it to me cheap. The main difference between his and mine is that the smaller boat has a larger engine and a thicker hull. It was designed to sail across the Pacific.

Now I have two boats. (That’s COMMODORE Idiot, thank you very much.)

For various reasons, it’s time to leave the Bay Area. I’ll be returning part-time to rural Massachusetts, but I can’t hack the cold season. It would be far cheaper and less painful to gnaw bits off me with a blunt and rusty saw. So I have to come up with some way to live and somewhere to be during the off-season.

Did I mention that I have a boat? … In fact, two?

I’m discussing a boat-partnership with a friend of mine who is capable of the work, but hasn’t found out if he really likes it yet. We’re going to work on the boats this winter, getting them ready to sell; in the fullness of time, we’ll know if we’re cashing them in for an upgrade to sail towards the Equator in, or flogging them and splitting the money then going our separate ways.

The second option is easy, sensible, and well within my expectations and experience of life. Our friendship could easily continue intact.

The first is not necessarily any of those things. But the long-term benefit of it is that it would probably give me a second home to go to, somewhere warmer, with the comfort of a friendly face to greet me.

Some think that coming away with a sack of cash is more like stability. Having money reassures me in a way known only to those who’ve done without. It feels solid.

But what’s the value of solidity? I’m used to ground that moves under my feet. Snug up your core, and it’s easy to handle. And there’s nothing like casting off and taking off, nothing over you but open sky, and your own home flying through the water with such poise that it makes even the cormorants faint with envy.

[IMG cormorant superflock on my birthday sail]

Stability might mean solidity. Or it could mean being able to balance different forces well. Which of these sounds more interesting? Even – or perhaps especially – when you aim to make each day as sparkly and intriguing as a handful of jewels?

[Just wait till I get the pictures up :)]

Pain Manifesto

Isy / / critical thinking, CRPS knock-on effects, loved ones, opinion, perspective, philosophy, poetry, tasty words

This came out of cold chronic CRPS type 1, a debilitating condition of intractable chronic pain, nervous system disruption, and multi-system dysregulation — destroying the body’s ability to manage heat/cold, blood sugar, immune defense, circulation, sensation, bone density, movement, vision, digestion, heart function, and ultimately survival.

“Standard” treatments don’t work well for me; moreover, they involve invasive procedures too brutal to tolerate and medications I’m either outright allergic to, or that impair me so profoundly I can no longer function. At all.

So I took myself off my meds, thought things over, and came to the following conclusions.

MY CHRONIC PAIN MANIFESTO

Yes, it hurts.
It’s going to anyway.

So should I hoard my days
And fast from life?
Comfort myself with poisons,
Blister-packed and FDA approved?

Some think it would be best all ’round.
I’d cure them if I could (heh!)
But I’m too tired for
Yet another pointless struggle.

The sunlight pours through trees like prosecco
And reminds me what it means to live:

Voices warm with love, the
Mouth-smack of good food,
The hug of hills and the
Rough snuggles of the sea.

Hoard my days? I’ll spend each one
Like it’s stuffed with jewels
Pouring through my hands like a miser’s dream.

Feast on this:
The cost of life is much the same.
The difference lies in how you spend it.

Considering the end: a new beginning

Isy / / CRPS knock-on effects, nature, perspective

Mortality is tricky. We’re all going to go sometime, but we are hardwired to avoid the very thought of death. And so we should be.

However, when my loved ones die, my life (so far) continues – though significantly changed. Death has ripple effects on the living. This is why we have wills, wakes, and difficult conversations with the elderly and infirm.

My dad was a financial planner when he died. Here I am, 45, with a horrible condition and a little bit of property… As a financial planner’s daughter, I know perfectly well that the responsible thing to do is sit down and make a will, living will, and any other terminal documents I need. So I’ve started that process.

The old man would be proud!

Naturally, the first thing people ask is, in sweetly worried tones, “Are you okay?”

Having begun this process, I’m much better. It reassures me to know that certain important things will be said, certain horrible things will be avoided, and — though there’s no getting around the fact that bereavement sucks — there will be more love and comfort in those ripples than there would be otherwise.

It also makes me think in terms beyond myself. Legislation around CRPS is almost nonexistent, because people don’t think of it as terminal. However, as I remarked in my bio-blog, the diseases it causes most certainly are.

Sound familiar? Anyone here remember the health care terminology changes in the ’90s? (Read the bio-blog for more hints.)

I can do something very important with my death (hopefully many years off) -– I can make sure it’s properly attributed. No disease without a body count is ever taken seriously, and it’s time to start counting bodies with this horrible disease.

Personally, I have been struggling with a panicky fear of mortality because of this disease: each time I have a flareup, my body is never quite the same again; each time I have a lasting attack of the stupids, I have no idea if I will get my brain back; my heart is becoming more irregular. Barring a miracle or an accident, I’m facing a rotten time. With this disease, I look at the end, and all I can do is scream. I hope I have hidden it well!

However, the thought of this final gift — proper attribution, a ripple of awareness, the hope of better care for my compatriots — this tiny thing, this little spark, has had a tremendous effect: I feel the force of my life again.

It’s true: when you’re skirting paradox, you’re close to the naked truth.

Contemplating the end with wide-open eyes, returns my thoughts to getting more juice out of life. There’s a lot of it left, all things considered. My end will not be in vain, and with that in mind, the time until then seems much more promising.

Links:
Bioblog about myelin & attribution
“Nothing you do is in vain”

A gift to share

Isy / / Dept. of Blith. Obv., perspective, realpolitik, sheeple, useful links

I had the pleasure and privilege of speaking with Dr. Adams, who (among other things) teaches clinical at UCSF Medical School. He provided me with a brilliant overview of the recent history of public health.

“Remember [the federally mandated public health targets called] Healthy People 2000 and Healthy People 2010? We missed those goals by miles. We don’t even _have_ a target program now. The next one could just be: Breathe. And I’m not too sure we could even hit that!”

He kept me spellbound for half an hour. I don’t think I got a word in edgeways, but he must have liked the quality of my listening, because he gave me this book off his shelf as a gift:

He said, “Be calm when you read it. Sit down, breathe, and take it easy.” Caveat emptor.

This doctor uses the (numerous!) expensive letters after his name for something besides paying the mortgage … He and his posse sent a copy of this book to President Obama, with a cover letter explaining the devastating consequences of a profit-driven health care system. 

They heard back from a medical advisor: the President put the book in his Presidential Library, but the advisor had to state that the for-profit industries had their influence so well laid in that, if the President breathed a word about single-payor care, it had been made clear to the White House that he would be abandoned by both sides of the aisle.

Abandoned. Completely. For standing up for the American people. The same American people who let those pikers into Capitol Hill in the first place.

You’ve been bought & sold. We all have.  Weren’t you looking? I’m not sure I was. 

The industries speak for us because we haven’t spoken up enough for ourselves. Politicians are nervous, ego-driven creatures desperate for a good image, and we’ve let the moonshiners polish their images — and their apples — while we bitch about the rent. 

The rent matters. Lots. Sadly, signing Internet petitions does not. 

Is it too late?

Well, you’re still breathing, aren’t you? So am I. Emigrated yet? Me neither. Guess it’s not too late, then. 

Be heard, unfiltered. Call. Fax. Write. Put a stamp on it. Letters matter. Phone calls matter. These represent a big hurdle in people’s minds, and politicians know it. They weight them accordingly. 
(http://www.usa.gov/usa/Contact/Elected)

Paper, three sentences, stamp and envelope are not really that hard to do … just slightly strange to think about. Try it & you’ll see what I mean. 
(http://www.usa.gov/usa/Contact/Elected)

If you have expensive letters after your name, this is an excellent way to get more mileage out of them. Your words are weighted more heavily still. 
(http://www.usa.gov/usa/Contact/Elected)

Let your politicians feel insecure about their policies, where they don’t serve you or those you care about. Let them feel watched.  Let them get nervous and worry about their hair; it means they’re procrastinating about changing their minds, even as their minds are changing. 
(http://www.usa.gov/usa/Contact/Elected)

Call. Write. Use stamps. Fax. Be seen. Be heard. Vote. And monitor voting. 

It’s surprisingly little trouble after all. 
… http://www.usa.gov/usa/Contact/Elected

To find your reps and congress-critters, choose the category and plug in your zip code here: 
http://www.usa.gov/usa/Contact/Elected

Fair Share Challenge: what taxes do for me

Isy / / critical thinking, loved ones, opinion, perspective, realpolitik, what works
This budget horror-show has given us a lot to think about. The role of taxes in our country is probably the biggest, sorest issue of them all right now.
“Why should we pay taxes? That money is ours – we earned it!”I heard this from a member of the armed services who’s quite intelligent.   
Out of respect and consideration for my impassioned, but perhaps distracted, old friend, I wanted to find a non-partisan, preferably non-political way to discuss the point of taxation. So let’s simply see how that money gets used in real life.
Everything in bold-face type is heavily subsidized or completely funded by government money – local or federal, for better or worse. Do any of these tax-funded things affect you?
I take pain medicine which was funded by government grants to develop. My treatment was developed by government grantees. It keeps me alive and functional, so I can write things like this. Is that a good use of taxpayer dollars (printed at the Mint and monitored at the Federal Reserve)?
Read on and let’s all decide.
My nephews go to school by bus, when their mother can’t take them. She has just received her teaching credentials, so she will soon be working as a teacher. Their father, my brother, is a Marine. He runs a base where he supervises the training of National Reservists of the Army, Marines, and Air Force.  He recently visited a friend in the VA hospital.  All of his children were born in military hospitals.
Since they all run on a tight schedule, they use their car a lot. It uses gasoline; they used to have one that ran on diesel; the next one may be an electric hybrid. To cover short distances, they use local roads. To cover long distances, they use highways. They’re careful of road crews, and drive sensibly over bridges and through tunnels (I hope.) Me, I mostly use the bus and train.
My brother and his wife pull over to make room for fire trucks, police cars and ambulances. (Many ambulance systems have been privatized; however, they still work on the basis of city or county contracts that are funded by taxes.)
They eat on the healthy side of a normal American diet. With three growing boys in the house, they eat plenty of wheat and corn-based products, such as bread for sandwiches, cereal, pasta, and so on. They’re allowed occasional treats, including candy and soda sweetened with corn or cane sugar.  I bet they get their beef from the grocery store, so you know it was raised on soy and corn, and was probably fed antibiotics.  Those boys are pure dynamite anyway.
My dear old friend David used to work at the library. He still volunteers there. His pension keeps him in a simple but comfortable style of life. He likes to attend church, though most of his real friends are out and about on the city sidewalks.  He keeps in touch with a friend who has been in the mental hospital, and their conversations help her stay on track.
When my Dad died suddenly, I attended support groups at the local Hospice.  I used to be a nurse, working in hospitals and home care.  In the ER we took care of prison inmates when they got hurt. 
I ran out of work at one point and wound up on food stamps and welfare.  I will never forget that they kept me alive until I could find work again.  Since then, I haven’t really minded paying my fair share of taxes.  
During the last election cycle, I saw an angry woman on TV waving a sign that read, “Get your government hands off my Medicare!”  I hope she understands things better now. 
This has given me a lot to think about.  
And, fellow bloggers, here’s an invitation/challenge: how much better can you write on this theme?  How much do you really know about government support for the things you use every single day that make your life do-able?  How does this pertain to your work, paycheck, interests, family – whatever really matters?
I’d love it if you’d share links here and let me know.