Early this week, two authors were featured on a national morning television show. Larry Smith and Rachel Fershleiser talked about their new book: "Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure." The book book was created from submissions for a contest launched by Smith Magazine. Contestants were asked to write six-word stories of their own, as memoirs. The idea grew out of an old legend that Ernest Hemingway, while in a bar (where else), was challenged to write a story in only six words. I found this to be an interesting concept and challange that I could not resist. Tell me yours... I'll tell you mine.
Been there. Did that. Not done!
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Finding My Family
(From March 2007)
I didn’t know my father. What I knew of him came from stories told by family members and by my mother who hated him intensely. As I grew, I had many questions that were either ignored or answered inaccurately, so by mistake or by design, I was misled about who my father really was and the role he played in my life.
I was born in 1962, three weeks to the day after my parents were married in a civil ceremony standing before a county judge. What a sight my mother must have been. A sight not so common let alone socially accepted in 1962. Within months, my parents had split with my mother filing for divorce shortly thereafter.I wish I could say that I had a happy childhood but by the time I was six weeks old, I had a broken leg due to a suspicious crib accident. This was only the first of many like incidents as my mother raised me on her own.
I was told many times that my father was rotten, worthless and no good. She also rarely missed the opportunity to tell me that I was sure to grow up and be just like him. At fifteen, I left home and never looked back.
Now that I’m older and hopefully wiser, I like to think that I’m open-minded. I’m a police officer trained to look at all perspectives and recognize that there are two sides to every story. However, hearing nothing but negative comments from my mother for all those years left me angry but happy that he wasn’t in my life. I’ve been asked many times if I ever wanted to find him and the answer has always been a quick and bitter “No!” If ignorance is truly bliss, I was blissfully satisfied to leave well enough alone, that is until one day when my, then girlfriend, now wife went digging. That’s when I discovered that nothing was as I was told.
My wife is as inquisitive as she is intelligent and beautiful. Having excellent computer skills combined with a working knowledge of genealogy, CSI Sarah, as she’s been dubbed, can find anything and anyone on-line. While doing some of her own family research, she checked the marriage records for the State of Pennsylvania for my mother and father and much to our surprise, she found it. Finding the record here in Pennsylvania truly was a revelation because much of my mother’s family believed that she and my father eloped to another state to wed. The legal age to marry in Pennsylvania was 18. Because my mother was only 17 at the time, she needed parental permission.
We located the county they were married in and obtained the marriage license. I soon learned what no one in the family ever knew… my grandmother signed off on the marriage giving permission for my mother to wed. This was a secret that my grandmother took to her grave. I also learned another fact I was misled about, the fact that my father was also 17 and not “a few years older” than my mother. Both were very young, probably very scared with my mother being very pregnant with me. The marriage license had a lot of information including my father’s date of birth and with this, I knew there was much more to discover.
It’s difficult to explain but what I once cared nothing about soon sparked my curiosity. Just the few new facts that contradicted what I was originally told pushed me further to want to know. I wondered how much more there was to learn that was either told to me incorrectly of just kept from me all these years. I soon realized though that Sarah, bless her inquisitive little heart, was going to find out more about my family whether I wanted to learn it or not.
The first stop in the hunt was the social security death index. It was there I found my father. He died in 1992 at the very young age of 48, just five years older than I am now. As surprising as the age he died was where he died. I remember being told that he had family in Ohio and perhaps Michigan but there was never any mention of Tennessee. Rhone County, Tennessee to be exact. So, the next step was to find the obituary. This would perhaps give some insight into some of his family, how he died and maybe even how he lived. I called the local newspaper that referred me to the local library that referred me to the local historical society. After being put on hold briefly, a very nice gentleman from the Rhone County Historical Commission pulled the obituary off of microfilm and read it to me over the phone as I took notes.
The obituary read that my father left behind two sisters, a brother, a wife and five children (not including me). I was stunned to say the least. Taking my notes from the telephone conversation, Sarah went to work looking for phone numbers based on the names and cities from the obituary. Before too long, we found a number that could have possibly been his sister Lois in Cleveland, Ohio.
Everything moved so fast. It was that morning that we went to the county courthouse for the marriage certificate, searched the social security index, made numerous calls to Tennessee and researched possible matches to the names in the obituary. Although it was late in the afternoon and I was emotionally exhausted, I knew in my heart that I had to call that number. I also knew that if I thought about it too long, I may never dial it. Even though through that entire day I was driven to know, a voice inside told me to leave well enough alone. Ignoring the voice, I picked up the phone and dialed the Cleveland number. It was a call that changed my life.
I asked the voice on the other end of the telephone, “Is this Lois Bennett, the sister of Daniel Burns?” She said yes. Not wanting to scare or shock her, I told her that I was doing some family research but when she insistently asked, “well, who are you?”, I told her that I was Dan, her brother’s son from Pittsburgh. She then replied, “Oh my, I remember you. We always wondered what happened to you.” We talked briefly and arranged for me to call back a few hours later. I hung up the phone after a five minute conversation and knew immediately that I had opened a door not knowing where it would lead.
Gathering myself mentally and emotionally, I called back a couple of hours later with a list of questions to ask about family history, heritage and medical issues. Having three children of my own, I knew it was important to learn all I can about my father’s medical history. The news wasn’t good. He died of a heart attack being overweight, a heavy drinker and a very heavy cigarette smoker. After talking with my aunt Lois for a while, I gained a whole new insight into what kind of man my father was and the things she told me left me flabbergasted. She told me of incidents pertaining to my mother that I previously got only her side of the story. One in particular was the episode where I was hidden by my father’s mother in a dresser drawer. The story told by my mother was that my grandmother was attempting to take me from her. My aunt Lois however, tells a different tale. My father and his mother were protecting me from one of my mother’s many violent tirades. After fifteen years with her, this is the story most believable.
Aunt Lois went on to tell me of a time that my father sat and cried about not being able to raise me himself after losing me to my mother. She and I talked for a while but when the conversation turned to family history, she referred me to my half-brother Jim. She had called him that afternoon after our first conversation and told him to expect my call later that evening. The interesting thing was that before that day, Jim had no idea I existed. Jim and I talked for hours and I learned that my father was a loving, caring man who maybe wasn’t perfect but did his best to be a good parent. He taught his children to do right by themselves and others without raising a hand in anger to any of them.
Shortly after making contact with my father’s side of the family, we traveled to Cleveland, stayed for a weekend and met just about everyone. I learned that Daniel Joseph Burns had in fact eight children, seven boys and a girl, of which I am the first. Although not all of us have been united, with regard to Jim’s two brothers, Bill and Jason, immediately we formed a bond with Jim and I especially becoming close. We aren’t half-brothers, we’re just brothers.
During the weekend in Ohio, I was welcomed with open arms not as a new friend but as family. It was overwhelming and emotional as only then did I realize that a very big part of my life had always been missing. Growing up, many people felt sorry for me because I never had a family, but now I do. I must admit though, when I made the initial phone calls, after forty-three years I expected to hear something like: “It was nice to hear from you, have a nice life, stay in touch, etc.” What I didn’t expect was the level of love and acceptance I received. The best surprise was the fact that the nicest people I ever met in my life would turn out to be my own family.
I didn’t know my father. What I knew of him came from stories told by family members and by my mother who hated him intensely. As I grew, I had many questions that were either ignored or answered inaccurately, so by mistake or by design, I was misled about who my father really was and the role he played in my life.
I was born in 1962, three weeks to the day after my parents were married in a civil ceremony standing before a county judge. What a sight my mother must have been. A sight not so common let alone socially accepted in 1962. Within months, my parents had split with my mother filing for divorce shortly thereafter.I wish I could say that I had a happy childhood but by the time I was six weeks old, I had a broken leg due to a suspicious crib accident. This was only the first of many like incidents as my mother raised me on her own.
I was told many times that my father was rotten, worthless and no good. She also rarely missed the opportunity to tell me that I was sure to grow up and be just like him. At fifteen, I left home and never looked back.
Now that I’m older and hopefully wiser, I like to think that I’m open-minded. I’m a police officer trained to look at all perspectives and recognize that there are two sides to every story. However, hearing nothing but negative comments from my mother for all those years left me angry but happy that he wasn’t in my life. I’ve been asked many times if I ever wanted to find him and the answer has always been a quick and bitter “No!” If ignorance is truly bliss, I was blissfully satisfied to leave well enough alone, that is until one day when my, then girlfriend, now wife went digging. That’s when I discovered that nothing was as I was told.
My wife is as inquisitive as she is intelligent and beautiful. Having excellent computer skills combined with a working knowledge of genealogy, CSI Sarah, as she’s been dubbed, can find anything and anyone on-line. While doing some of her own family research, she checked the marriage records for the State of Pennsylvania for my mother and father and much to our surprise, she found it. Finding the record here in Pennsylvania truly was a revelation because much of my mother’s family believed that she and my father eloped to another state to wed. The legal age to marry in Pennsylvania was 18. Because my mother was only 17 at the time, she needed parental permission.
We located the county they were married in and obtained the marriage license. I soon learned what no one in the family ever knew… my grandmother signed off on the marriage giving permission for my mother to wed. This was a secret that my grandmother took to her grave. I also learned another fact I was misled about, the fact that my father was also 17 and not “a few years older” than my mother. Both were very young, probably very scared with my mother being very pregnant with me. The marriage license had a lot of information including my father’s date of birth and with this, I knew there was much more to discover.
It’s difficult to explain but what I once cared nothing about soon sparked my curiosity. Just the few new facts that contradicted what I was originally told pushed me further to want to know. I wondered how much more there was to learn that was either told to me incorrectly of just kept from me all these years. I soon realized though that Sarah, bless her inquisitive little heart, was going to find out more about my family whether I wanted to learn it or not.
The first stop in the hunt was the social security death index. It was there I found my father. He died in 1992 at the very young age of 48, just five years older than I am now. As surprising as the age he died was where he died. I remember being told that he had family in Ohio and perhaps Michigan but there was never any mention of Tennessee. Rhone County, Tennessee to be exact. So, the next step was to find the obituary. This would perhaps give some insight into some of his family, how he died and maybe even how he lived. I called the local newspaper that referred me to the local library that referred me to the local historical society. After being put on hold briefly, a very nice gentleman from the Rhone County Historical Commission pulled the obituary off of microfilm and read it to me over the phone as I took notes.
The obituary read that my father left behind two sisters, a brother, a wife and five children (not including me). I was stunned to say the least. Taking my notes from the telephone conversation, Sarah went to work looking for phone numbers based on the names and cities from the obituary. Before too long, we found a number that could have possibly been his sister Lois in Cleveland, Ohio.
Everything moved so fast. It was that morning that we went to the county courthouse for the marriage certificate, searched the social security index, made numerous calls to Tennessee and researched possible matches to the names in the obituary. Although it was late in the afternoon and I was emotionally exhausted, I knew in my heart that I had to call that number. I also knew that if I thought about it too long, I may never dial it. Even though through that entire day I was driven to know, a voice inside told me to leave well enough alone. Ignoring the voice, I picked up the phone and dialed the Cleveland number. It was a call that changed my life.
I asked the voice on the other end of the telephone, “Is this Lois Bennett, the sister of Daniel Burns?” She said yes. Not wanting to scare or shock her, I told her that I was doing some family research but when she insistently asked, “well, who are you?”, I told her that I was Dan, her brother’s son from Pittsburgh. She then replied, “Oh my, I remember you. We always wondered what happened to you.” We talked briefly and arranged for me to call back a few hours later. I hung up the phone after a five minute conversation and knew immediately that I had opened a door not knowing where it would lead.
Gathering myself mentally and emotionally, I called back a couple of hours later with a list of questions to ask about family history, heritage and medical issues. Having three children of my own, I knew it was important to learn all I can about my father’s medical history. The news wasn’t good. He died of a heart attack being overweight, a heavy drinker and a very heavy cigarette smoker. After talking with my aunt Lois for a while, I gained a whole new insight into what kind of man my father was and the things she told me left me flabbergasted. She told me of incidents pertaining to my mother that I previously got only her side of the story. One in particular was the episode where I was hidden by my father’s mother in a dresser drawer. The story told by my mother was that my grandmother was attempting to take me from her. My aunt Lois however, tells a different tale. My father and his mother were protecting me from one of my mother’s many violent tirades. After fifteen years with her, this is the story most believable.
Aunt Lois went on to tell me of a time that my father sat and cried about not being able to raise me himself after losing me to my mother. She and I talked for a while but when the conversation turned to family history, she referred me to my half-brother Jim. She had called him that afternoon after our first conversation and told him to expect my call later that evening. The interesting thing was that before that day, Jim had no idea I existed. Jim and I talked for hours and I learned that my father was a loving, caring man who maybe wasn’t perfect but did his best to be a good parent. He taught his children to do right by themselves and others without raising a hand in anger to any of them.
Shortly after making contact with my father’s side of the family, we traveled to Cleveland, stayed for a weekend and met just about everyone. I learned that Daniel Joseph Burns had in fact eight children, seven boys and a girl, of which I am the first. Although not all of us have been united, with regard to Jim’s two brothers, Bill and Jason, immediately we formed a bond with Jim and I especially becoming close. We aren’t half-brothers, we’re just brothers.
During the weekend in Ohio, I was welcomed with open arms not as a new friend but as family. It was overwhelming and emotional as only then did I realize that a very big part of my life had always been missing. Growing up, many people felt sorry for me because I never had a family, but now I do. I must admit though, when I made the initial phone calls, after forty-three years I expected to hear something like: “It was nice to hear from you, have a nice life, stay in touch, etc.” What I didn’t expect was the level of love and acceptance I received. The best surprise was the fact that the nicest people I ever met in my life would turn out to be my own family.
Friday, February 15, 2008
I Admit it, I do Love the Job
(from September 2007)
Immediately after my back injury I didn’t really think too much about what I would be missing as an active duty police officer. As time goes on, however, I find myself missing the job and all it meant to me. Although my wife would absolutely hate it, I would love the chance to get back to work and fight the forces of evil (in and out of the police station. I'll share more on that in my new blog "Back of the Badge."
The best thing about the job is the friendships and bonds that are formed with those whom you work with. One of the many “good guys” on the job that I had the absolute honor to work with was a man named Brian Hughes. To myself and many others, Brian was the kind of guy, and officer, you could always count on. As patrol partners, we had a lot of good times as I recall more than one occasion I nearly wrecked the police car laughing so hard. It wasn’t all fun and games though as together we caught a lot of bad guys. Brian and I made a good team and it’s that camaraderie that I miss.
One winter, while working night turn, I had the flu so bad, it was an effort to drag myself to work especially after being in a jury trial all day. For that week, all I recall was getting into my police car in the city garage after 11:00 pm and Brian waking me up just before 7:00 am. For the whole shift, he took all of the calls and literally did all the work while letting me get the rest I badly needed. That’s the kind of guy Brian is.
On the lighter side, one of my funniest, yet most disturbing memories was the day Brian and I hit the drive thru at McDonalds. Now, as police we’re always a little leery of the staff at our local Mickey D’s. Between the guys on parole and the women who were jilted after a bad date with someone on our police force, you never knew what extra goodies awaited you under that innocent looking sesame seed bun. It’s one of those “Don’t think about and it’ll go away” things. This day, however, Brian and I couldn’t avoid the paranoia. After we ordered, we were asked to pull up to a space in the parking lot. An employee will “bring it right out”. After a few minutes, I felt a bit uneasy as to why it was taking so long. It was then I looked back toward the restaurant to see a handful of employees with their faces pressed against the glass looking at us. With their eyes as big as plates, half were fixated on us as the other half were watching the young girl approach the police car with our bag. All of them were snickering.
She walked toward our car as if she had just drawn the short straw in some sort of a weird human sacrifice lottery. She handed the bag to Brian through the car window and literally ran back to the restaurant. Needless to say, that bag met the first dumpster we could find and that night we ate at Dairy Queen (you can watch them cook your food there).
Immediately after my back injury I didn’t really think too much about what I would be missing as an active duty police officer. As time goes on, however, I find myself missing the job and all it meant to me. Although my wife would absolutely hate it, I would love the chance to get back to work and fight the forces of evil (in and out of the police station. I'll share more on that in my new blog "Back of the Badge."
The best thing about the job is the friendships and bonds that are formed with those whom you work with. One of the many “good guys” on the job that I had the absolute honor to work with was a man named Brian Hughes. To myself and many others, Brian was the kind of guy, and officer, you could always count on. As patrol partners, we had a lot of good times as I recall more than one occasion I nearly wrecked the police car laughing so hard. It wasn’t all fun and games though as together we caught a lot of bad guys. Brian and I made a good team and it’s that camaraderie that I miss.
One winter, while working night turn, I had the flu so bad, it was an effort to drag myself to work especially after being in a jury trial all day. For that week, all I recall was getting into my police car in the city garage after 11:00 pm and Brian waking me up just before 7:00 am. For the whole shift, he took all of the calls and literally did all the work while letting me get the rest I badly needed. That’s the kind of guy Brian is.
On the lighter side, one of my funniest, yet most disturbing memories was the day Brian and I hit the drive thru at McDonalds. Now, as police we’re always a little leery of the staff at our local Mickey D’s. Between the guys on parole and the women who were jilted after a bad date with someone on our police force, you never knew what extra goodies awaited you under that innocent looking sesame seed bun. It’s one of those “Don’t think about and it’ll go away” things. This day, however, Brian and I couldn’t avoid the paranoia. After we ordered, we were asked to pull up to a space in the parking lot. An employee will “bring it right out”. After a few minutes, I felt a bit uneasy as to why it was taking so long. It was then I looked back toward the restaurant to see a handful of employees with their faces pressed against the glass looking at us. With their eyes as big as plates, half were fixated on us as the other half were watching the young girl approach the police car with our bag. All of them were snickering.
She walked toward our car as if she had just drawn the short straw in some sort of a weird human sacrifice lottery. She handed the bag to Brian through the car window and literally ran back to the restaurant. Needless to say, that bag met the first dumpster we could find and that night we ate at Dairy Queen (you can watch them cook your food there).
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
A Message of Love, Eighty-eight Years Old
The other day, my aunt received a Christmas card from our cousin. Enclosed was a letter that was recently discovered in her mother's belongings. It is an 88 year old letter that was written to my then 6 month old grandmother by her 22 year old brother, a soldier fighting in France during World War I. The letter is dated April 8, 1919.
"Dear Little Sister,
Having not seen you yet but having heard so much about you I thought I would write you a few lines of course knowing that you will have to wait some time before you are able to read it, that you have a brother in France who is very anxious to see you and I am sure that you have another brother who is also over here that is anxious to see you, and we expect to be home and see our new sister soon.
Hoping this finds you well and that I may soon be home with you I am your anxious, brother Bill."
My great-uncle William Quinn did return home to see his new sister, my grandmother. Unfortunately he died in October of that same year after being exposed to mustard gas. William's brother, Peter who also served in France, returned to the states after the war but also died as a result of exposure to chemicals at the front.
The true mystery about this letter may be the fact that since it was found in her older sister's belongings, it poses the question: Did my grandmother ever read it? I guess we'll never know.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
The Dirty Little Bugs of Jefferson Regional Medical Center
It seems appropriate that the first topic of my new serious issues blog titled “Write From the Hip” is about tribulations that my father-in-law has endured after “routine” hip replacement surgery.A good man who worked hard all of his life to take care of his family is now enduring adverse medical ramifications due to a few who are arrogant enough to believe that the rules just don’t apply to them. What makes this problem worse is a hospital administration that is either unwilling, or unable, to enforce the protocol that is established to ensure the well-being of their patients. MRSA stands for Methicillin Resistant Staph Aureus. In short, it’s the hospital based infection that that is spread from patient to patient/person to person sometimes by unclean surgical rooms or items in those rooms but usually by the health care staff themselves.
My father-in-law has nearly been a continuous patient at Jefferson Regional Medical Center since he was admitted on Saturday, August 25, 2007 for post operative complications after hip replacement. According to his doctors, he was diagnosed with having MRSA at the surgical site. Although it is undetermined where and how he got the infection, I have observed and documented a deliberate disregard for my father-in-law’s health and safety at the hands of a few of his providers. Although I believe that most of those tasked with Albert Manns’ care follow the rules and proper patient protocol, the following are scenarios that put him as well as other patients at risk:
On Monday, August 27th, a nurse on the third floor was tasked with starting an IV line in the patient’s right arm. After numerous attempts, she was unsuccessful and asked another nurse to assist her. While Angela was attempting this procedure, she was not wearing gloves. On Wednesday, August 29th, a nurse or nurse’s aid came into the room on the third floor to change the patient’s dressing. She saw that the bio hazard trash can was overflowing (see photo) and while wearing gloves pushed the trash down into the can. She then began to attempt to change the patient’s dressing without changing her gloves. She was stopped by the patient’s wife. Carrie did change her gloves but not without an indignant attitude. He was transferred to the fifth floor after he tested positive for the MRSA infection. Joke number one: It was an “isolation” ward where specific protocols were “supposed” to be followed.
On Monday September 3rd at 5:00 pm, another nurse’s aid came into the room to take blood pressure and temperature. When I saw that her hands were bare, I asked her why she wasn’t wearing gloves. She replied, “I washed my hands.” I said that there was a sign outside the patient’s room (the pink “Resistant Organism Isolation” sign) and was it not true that the reason for that sign and protocol it stated was to protect the patient as well as the staff member? Her answer again was that she washes her hands before coming in the room. She then left the room. At 5:15 pm, she returned to the room to retrieve the dinner tray. I said nothing to her but she asked me, “Do you have a problem with the infection in his wound?” I said, “No, I have a problem with the fact that there is a specific protocol that should be followed according to the posted sign outside and that you have chosen to ignore it.” Her reply was, “I wash my hands all the time… that’s more than most people in this hospital can say!” I said again, “The paper posted outside clearly stated gloves and/or gowns to be worn by staff members. Are you aware of that rule?” She said that she hadn’t worked on this floor for three months. I asked, “Were you trained in that protocol?” She replied that she was. I asked if she agreed with these protocols for the benefit of the patient. She answered, “Yea, kind of.” At that point she said, “Well I just won’t come in here at all then.” To that I asked if she were then denying this patient care and I asked if she were a health care professional. She then left the room without answering either question.
On Saturday, September 8, a nurse extern came into my father-in-law’s room at about 8:25 pm to retrieve his water pitcher. She entered without wearing gloves or a gown and was told by the patient that she had not put gloves on as per the policy. Her response was, “Yea, I know,” but still made no attempt to put them on. She was asked by the patient to put gloves on because she would get into trouble. She just said, “No, I won’t.” She then took his water pitcher out of the room for, in her words, “disposal” and returned to the room again with a new pitcher without washing her hands or wearing gloves. On Monday, September 10 at about 8:00 pm, one of his doctors stopped in his room and examined his surgical site. Not only did he not wash his hands before or after examining the site, he did not wear gloves or the gown as protocol dictates. It is assumed that this doctor had returned from surgery as he was wearing scrubs.
On Tuesday night, my father-in-law was to be released and sent home. For this to be achieved he had to see one of his own doctors to give the ok. He, and the family, were told that he would be released at about 2-3 pm. After waiting for nearly nine hours, he was seen by yet another doctor in the same practice. This doctor entered his room at about 9 pm and sat down on the bed. No gloves, gown, washed hands, etc. When asked by my wife if he would please wear gloves, he curtly replied, “I’m not going to touch him.” Probably the biggest joke is that there is a sign that hangs in every patient’s room that states, “It’s ok to ask” and that proper hygiene is important. My experience is that it’s obviously not ok to ask. If you do, you get a load of crap from nurses and doctors who are just “Holier that thou.”
In conclusion, I’d like to know why are these flagrant rule violations tolerated by the hospital administration. I spoke with patient care managers and even the manager of infection control at the hospital. The conversation was filled with “How terrible and unfortunate this was” and “Oh, thank you for bringing this to our attention”, but the overall attitude was, “We do what we can and if it doesn’t work, sorry about your luck.” I was told by one of the doctors and one of the floor supervisors that they both would wish to fire the nurses and nurse’s aids for their actions. But both said that they are union and just couldn’t be touched. Jefferson’s staff is filled with many nurses, doctors, and nurse’s aids who are professional, caring and just excellent health care providers. It’s a shame that they also have on their staff a few arrogant, ignorant, thoughtless and unprofessional idiots who put their patients in danger. It’s unconscionable and downright criminal. Based on a report published by the Pennsylvania Health Care Cost Containment Council published in November of 2006, the state average for hospital infections is 12.2 per thousand. Jefferson Hospital’s average is 28.7, more than double the state average but when I asked the patient care and nursing supervisors about these figures, the answer from each was, “Well, reporting procedures can be inconsistent and numbers are often skewed.” It’s interesting to me that when Great Britain is taking steps to ban health care workers from wearing jewelry and lab coats as they carry these infections easily, the administration at Jefferson can’t even get some of their people to wear gloves or wash their hands.
I want to reiterate that 98% of the doctors, nurses, nurses’ aids and staff members at Jefferson are true professionals who obey all of the rules and do care for their patients. I’m sure that they, too, are angry as it takes only a few to give the entire staff a black eye over something so simple yet so dangerous.
Welcome and Introduction
Initially, I created the blog Been There, Done That and that than rolled into Write From the Hip. Here is where I wanted to create blog that would highlight some of the more serious problems we all may face. Although many of issues are personal, most of them pertain to each and every one of us in one way or another. These topics will include good (and bad) parenting, raising children, hospital safety and even police corruption. So when you find that there isn't enough aggravation in your life and have a few extra minutes, sit down, log in, and hold on because we'll have some very interesting things to share.
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