Sample Read - Ghost; The Unseen Disorder of PTSD

 

Updated 11/14/2015

 "First do no harm.  Second, do no harm." ...Old  USMC Corpsman quote.

(Andy was a USMC Corpsman. Nothing more to say.  He's an amazing man and has seen it all. <3JM)

The cold hard fact of war is that our soldiers do kill children. A child, no matter what his or her nationality…a son or daughter….died at the hands of a Marine doing his job.  This pretty much has applied to any war in which we’ve been engaged.  The decision to kill a child is not something a grunt can consider.  He must only consider the survival of the platoon.  Later on in life the gut-wrenching and all-consuming guilt of taking a child’s life emerges in the form of severe PTSD.

After hearing Andy talk about himself, as an American medical professional treating the enemy, I was silent for a moment. I could understand treating a child, even one who was used by the Taliban to detonate a bomb. So why treat the Taliban soldier who took the coward’s way out and put that child in harm’s way for the blatant use of self-protection?  Perhaps I’m too hardened to the facts of war after working on this book, but my first inclination is that I would rather see the adult men die.  Andy has a kinder outlook on the sanctity of life, and was able to see things from his perspective.

“I believe in the good in people, but don’t forget, our guys come first.”

From the eyes of a medical professional, Andy sees humanity first and the enemy second. I get it now.  I understand.  I might not like it, but I now know what drives those in the Military medical field to save lives; even that of the enemy.  Humans equal humanity and nobody deserves to die during war.  Andy felt the obligation to treat the wounded…no matter who they were.

Updated 09/13/2015

"Smiling faces I've been seeing. But not for me.  I sit and watch, as tears go by"--Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Andrew Loog Oldham. 

(Samantha suffered a life changing work related injury, dealt with the pain, was rejected for her W/C claim and was in an abusive relationship as well.  Below is a snippet of only the verbal abuse she endured.  <3JM)

 Sample Read: Ghost the Unseen Disorder of PTSD

“In October of 2007 I had a double fusion in my mid-neck area. The surgeon told me that I would probably lose ten to fifteen percent range of motion in my neck.  I got lucky.  I only lost two to three percent.

 “And at this point surgery is not an option in my mid-back. There is a 50/50 chance that I could be paralyzed from the neck down. Where the bulging and herniated disks in my thoracic spine are located is where all of my muscles and bones and blood vessels are also located.  When someone has that kind of injury, the only way a surgeon will operate is if it bursts.  The insurer continued to refuse to acknowledge that specific injury, even though I did have the x-ray from before I started working there.  My upper back was fine when I started working there.  Now it’s like an ‘S’”

“Did you have someone to help you at home,” I asked, not realizing I was stepping on a sensitive subject for Sammie.

“I was in a very abusive relationship at the time.  I was living with my boyfriend,” she said, her voice a bit more quiet.

“My ex-boyfriend, with whom I lived at the time, would tell me that I was not hurt that bad and I was faking it.  He would say that I just did not want to work anymore.  That is when my blood pressure went sky high.  I had to deal with him, the pressure from my employer and the pain combined. So then I had to go on medication for my blood pressure too.”

“How did you react to that kind of insulting barrage of words?” I asked.

“I told him that I wished he could have my pain for just one day and see if he could function, because I’m pretty sure, he would have killed himself if he felt the pain that I felt.”

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So, did she leave him? What is the normal pattern with domestic violence?    <3 JM

 

 

 

...................Joanne Moore

(Currently in editing corrections are needed) ...as always........ <3 JM

 

 

 

 

Mother Of 8 Tells It Like It Really Is; By Lois Simonds.Reformatted by Joanne Moore

This article was written by my mother, Lois E. Simonds in 1969 when she worked as an investigative journalist for The Bethlehem Globe Times.  I have the original article in my archive of memories of her.  She was my best friend and confidant. From my mother I gained a love of writing, practical jokes, laughter, music, nature, people and the underdog. She taught me to be compassionate, understanding, tolerant of all people no matter their skin color, social economic status or sexual orientation.

Although she is gone, I continue to honor her memory.

Today is Mother's Day, May 10, 2015.  I thought this would be an appropriate Blog for all of the mothers, step-mothers, mothers of multiple pets, Grandmother, Aunts and Uncles who have guardianship of children, foster moms and especially, the one's who have stolen my heart; the single working mother.  Enjoy. <3JM

 

Mother Of 8 Tells It Like It Really Is

 By LOIS SIMONDS

Globe-Times Staff Writer

When I was told to write a first person Mother’s Day story, I squirmed and protested.  “I can’t…my kids would kill me.”

Earlier I had watched and listened with detached interest to a discussion in the newsroom on feature possibilities for Mother’s Day.

One staff member had proposed an interview with a sterilized mother of two adopted children.  Another suggested a spread about a Spanish mother of several children who was adjusting to the customs of a new country.

And then I felt the eyes of those who rule on me and I guess you could say I was compromised.

I am not sterilized and I am not Spanish but I am the mother of eight children and a staff writer with the Globe-Times.

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day and I will probably iron.

As is customary in our house, I received my Mother’s Day gifts yesterday immediately because few small children can wait two whole days with the gifts they made in art class that afternoon.

Gifts Galore

Joanne, our third grader at St. Joseph’s school, Limeport, gave me a card with this poem.  “May the Lord be with you, May the skie turn blue, I hope you are gay on Mother’s Day.”  I believe the old English spelling of sky was accidental.

A card made by my 11-year-old, less religious in tone, said “Hi Toots, to a mother different from any other,” was signed “from your dear child Jane.”

Five-year-old Patty came in from kindergarten yesterday, her arms behind her back and grinning said, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mom” and handed me a card filled with homemade stars.  Inside was printed (not by Patty), “I love Mother, Mother loves me, I will help her like a busy bee.”

“But you’re not my mother,” my husband Ben reminded me smilingly once when I mentioned his disinterest in gift giving.  He still points proudly to the Christmas three years ago when he gave me a steam iron.

My children range in age from 22 to 5 and I find them delightful.  I also love my job.  Combining the two is a challenge for a woman who is disorganized and resentful of a night routine of packing lunches and tidying up.  As a result, working against deadlines in a newspaper office is nothing compared to some of the challenges I face before I leave home in the morning.

While most employees at the Globe-Times are breakfasting and glancing over their morning papers, I am crawling under beds looking for lost shoes.

On a bad morning recently, it took ingenuity to pack three lunches with frozen bread which I’d forgotten to take out of the freezer and without cold meat, which I neglected to buy.

Another day the dog ate the lunches.

A thermometer has an important place in our home and ours, much of the time, is jutting out of the mouths of children who claim to be taken with a sudden virus on school mornings.

Schoolitis

The same youngsters who raced around the house the night before stagger down the steps in the morning dramatically claiming it is impossible for them to go to school.

One recent morning there was a record four children who complained of being near death.  While suspecting the familiar school virus, their temperatures had to be taken…with 100 degrees the magic number in order to stay home from school.

Two children later and no one had produced a temperature over 98.6 so the next one in line, eyeing the results to date, complained about severe pains in the stomach…a harder to detect illness.

Jim, who just became a teenager, one morning, produced a temperature of 110 degrees with the help of a pan of hot water.

When I first started working, my husband and I sensibly decided to start an allowance system to encourage the children to help with housework.

Outsmarted
Greeted with much enthusiasm, the allowance project worked beautifully for three days…dishes were washed…beds were made.

And then we were outsmarted.  One before-going-to-bed check of bedrooms revealed four children asleep in sleeping bags so they wouldn’t have to make their beds in the morning.

A child, assigned to peel 12 potatoes for dinner, cagily peeled a dozen of the smallest potatoes in the basket and when I entered the kitchen I found only the bottom of the pan covered with spuds the size of large marbles.

As a final sign that early enthusiasm were ebbing was my argument with Jim, assigned to do breakfast dishes, on his contention that breakfast dishes and the clearing of the table could just as easily be done after school as before.  Note:  Jim has always disappeared immediately after school and until dinner time.

Allowances were sliced in half.

Letter to Jibs

This cut in allowances inspired Joanne, our eight-year-old, always eager to take a pen in hand, to write a letter to her sister, Elizabeth, called “Jibs” a junior at Penn State.

“Dear Jibs, When are you going to come home?  Jane cleaned your closet.  Its neat in there.  Jim got your card or letter.  We had to wate three days after his birthday until we could sing to him.  Were getting a picnic table.  Our allouances have been cut again.  Patty gets 13 cents (it isn’t worth it) a week.  I get 25 cents.  I can hardly buy anything with it but at leste I get it on Friday.  Then I sleep downstairs and eat the candy from my allouance. I’ll see you soon.  Your sister, Joanne.”

Mike, our oldest son, is home for the summer from University of Pennsylvania, and when informed that he would break into print as part of a Mother’s Day feature, he suggested mildly, “Couldn’t you say that you have seven children?”

Coming home from work is an experience which is matched only by leaving in the morning.

“Jim was reading my letters,” was the cry from out 16-year-old daughter Chris, which greeted my homecoming yesterday.  Two wanted friends to sleep over for the weekend and as I was starting the breakfast dishes at 4:30, my son called for a ride home from his summer job.

Bright Future
Surveying an untidy, tinker-toy littered house, I’m consoled by remembering my husband’s favorite saying.  “A hundred years from now, what difference will it make?”

I consider myself one of the luckiest women in the world.  I have eight healthy, highly individualistic children.  While they brawl and scream, they also laugh a lot and occasionally display gentleness.

I’m not concerned that I’ve contributed toward the population explosion.  I like to feel instead that I’ve given eight more people to the world who will search for solutions to problems plaguing mankind.

And while they’re growing up, I’ve had experiences which I’ll never forget.

Rude Awakening

While stretched out in bed one Sunday afternoon, a child sneaked into the room and dropped a small garter snake on me and watched delightedly with her two friends as I tried, in complete panic to burrow my way down through the mattress to escape it.

I’ve had my sons look at me with new respect after I’d beat them at pool.

I’ve read a newspaper sodden with spilled orange juice and paid telephone bills smeared with jelly.

I’ve watched my daughter’s boyfriend stroke her hair adoringly while she laughed uproariously at a comic strip she’s reading.

I went out in the yard to hang up clothes recently, looked up to the sky to check for rain, and walked into a muskrat hanging on the clothesline drying out.

How many women can girdle themselves for the day and disregard middle age spread because their scale has told them they only weigh 28 pounds?  I can…our scare is rusted by gallons of water spilled from children in the bathtub and it registers up to 28 pounds….no more.

And I’ve had Patty wrap her arms around and say, “Mommy, I only hated you for a little while this morning.”

These experiences and others have strengthened me to meet the wrath of my children today when they read about themselves in the newspaper.

Lois E. Simonds, Mother of Many:  RIP 11/27/1927 - 06/25/2005. Miss you everyday! <3JM 

 

 

 

   

Ghost; The Unseen Disorder of PTSD

Updated 12/01/2015

 

 America's Vet Dogs:

There is a local Amazon warehouse near me and they are hiring temporary staff like crazy to fill orders due to an overload from Christmas shoppers.  Once again, I'm hoping....Please, if you are doing on-line shopping with Amazon (I know I am), that you will be sure that your purchase goes to a good cause.  Any cause is good and there are several. Of course my preference and chosen charity is America's VetDogs.  It's very simple.  Type in http://www.smile.amazon.com/ and choose "America's VetDogs - The Veteran's K-9 Corps" as your charity.  It won't cost you a dime and will take approximately five minutes of your time to set up your funding for AVDs. A portion of your purchase will automatically donated to them. If not, don't let your purchase go to waste over the Christmas season.  Choose the charity of your choice.

Each time you shop, use the link www.smile.amazon.com and shop away! 

Remember, it cost them nearly 80K to train a service dog and the PTSD dogs are FREE for Vets. 



                                    ********************************************

I am a firm believer in the healing powers of dogs trained for PTSD sufferers. America's Vet Dogs, is offering a pilot program, which is free for Vets with PTSD.

These dogs are trained to sense a panic attack and a rapid heartbeat and lay on the Vet's body (with their head on the Vet's chest) until the heart beat slows, turn on lights and awaken a Vet from a nightmare, stand in front of a Vet while walking should people approach the Vet...these incredible dogs will sense out good and bad, thus protecting the Vet.  Basically, these companions take on the needs of and do what is most needed for any Vet with PTSD: To enable them to "feel safe."


It cost America's Vet dogs approx. 80K to train one dog yet they are free to qualifying Vets. If you shop at Amazon.com, Amazon will donate a portion of your purchase to America's Vet Dogs. Instead of using the name Amazon.com with your browser, type in http://www.smile.amazon.com/.


You will then be able to choose a charity. Everyone is free to choose his or her own charity, but I hope most of you choose "America's VetDogs - The Veteran's K-9 Corps". They can use every penny you can give.

Before you choose your charity, consider this: When a Vet comes home from having laid down their lives for our freedom, their life as they once knew is no longer exists.  They will suffer the effects of combat for the rest of their lives.  They are not being hired as is so falsely hyped in the media.  Most employers know the symptoms of PTSD, and at the level a Veteran suffers from this disorder, employers are actually reluctant to hire Vets. They are working menial jobs, when they are able to work.

 

Veterans do not get disability from the VA for PTSD, however the common civilian can and does qualify for disability (SSD) through the very same government.  The suicide rate amongst our Marine's is alarmingly high and growing by the day. Don't "thank a Vet." It's not enough. Please take your appreciation to the next level to support our troops.

To learn more about America's Vet Dogs, please visit their website at http://www.vetdogs.org/


 

......With love and compassion <3JM

 

 

 

 

Updated 11/15/2015: Partner-A Service Dog in Training.

 

Partner is part of The Guide Dog Foundation for the Blind, est. 1946. In 2003 The Guide Dog Foundation for the Blind, recognized the need for an assistant dog program for our Veterans. At that time American's Vet Dogs was created. Their funding comes from individuals, corporations, foundations, businesses, services, etc.

This beautiful soul will ultimately be either a guide dog or a Vet's with physical injuries and/or PTSD-related symptoms....providing he passes all of his testing with flying colors.

He's currently in his initial training with a volunteer in North Carolina. The first photo shown below was taken when he was twelve weeks old. He is seventeen weeks old in the second photo below.



This dog will change the life of one person who desperately needs help. <3 <3 <3JM


"Yesterday we took Partner out for his first BIG adventure (right in the beginning we start slowly and work our way to bigger stores and outings).We went to Sam's club on a Saturday afternoon without knowing it would be fully packed!!!



He did so well, totally surprised us!!



Walked thru the whole store like he has been doing it for months!! He met all kinds of people, obstacles and several different noises. He sat nicely when people came up to him (young and old), he walked next to a grocery cart wonderfully, waited patiently in line and then sat at the checkout like he knew what he was doing.



He even had his first encounter with a disabled person. He brought tears to the eyes of a wheelchair-bound woman. She was so happy to be able to pet him (she must of been in her 90's). She said she loved dogs but was never allowed to have one. She could not thank us enough. It just made us feel so good. Great socialization experience.



Hoping this is a sign of good things to come. Such a good boy!!!!"

 

 

Photos courtesy my bestie Deb Sourwine Brittain........<JM

 

To apply for a dog or to donate please click on the link's below.

Guide Dogs For The Blind

America's Vet Dogs



 

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 " I have yet to meet a weak person who has had to carry the burden of painful obstacles in his or her life." ......Joanne Moore

Updated 09/16/2015 Ghost; The Unseen Disorder of PTSD:
Delayed Release Date.

I sincerely apologize to the wonderful people who have supported this project for me and other PTSD sufferers.  Due to timing issues with additional sources for this book, I've had to postpone its release date.

"Ghost" needs to focus on as many different cases and levels of PTSD as possible. That means a lot more people from a diverse variety of backgrounds might be able to say, "Hey, I'm not alone."  There are SO many people out there who suffer from this disorder, and list of sources is growing (like Jack's bean stalk). 

If more people can gain an education and understanding of this disorder and its symptoms, perhaps it will ultimately mean less pain for the PTSD sufferer.....rejection, lectures, misunderstand symptoms and judging. Those who do not suffer from psychiatric disorders and pain are truly fortunate, but it also appears that most do not comprehend a single symptom of the diagnosis of PTSD. 

Ghost is being written to open many eyes to PTSD and its residual disorders. I'm willing to delay my release goal so as to add more chapters, which in turn could increase society's level of understanding.

I hope you understand and will continue to support this project. 
<3 <3 <3 <3JM



Updated 08/23/2015 Ghost; The Unseen Disorder of PTSD:

I feel it is important that I explain something up front to my readers.  When I conduct an interview, it is my job to step into the shoes of the interviewee and spend some time inside of his or her mind.  That is what gives me the ability to write descriptively. 

Last week I interviewed a Corpsman. Long story made short, a Corpsman is enlisted in the Navy, but works and keeps up with the Marines.  They are on patrol and in the midst of a firefight with the Marines.  Their job is not only to fight the enemy but to treat the wounded.  They have a medical education that is nearly that of a physician assistant. They are HIGHLY respected because they save lives and they do it in the utter insanity of a firefight. 

I am not going to get into to what went on during that interview, but I will say this: He and I spent six and one half hours on the phone.  He opened up, and I cannot fairly say "how" much he opened up about his war experience. Like all of the Military stories in Ghost, he gave me what he could and what he could is always enough for me. 

My point is that after our interview, I have slept a cumulative total of about 10 hours over a four-day period.  I am in complete adrenaline mode. This interview went very deep for me.   

So, I'm this civilian woman/writer who suffers from PTSD et al, and I'm speaking to someone who is probably giving me a tiny snippet of what he had to endure and survive. 

The next time I ever complain, someone, please slap me.  I can see. I can breath. I can hear.  I can walk. I can speak.  I can drive.  I can go out dancing.  I can clean my house and mow my lawn. (The last one is my biggest turn-off).  Simply put....I am GRATEFUL.  Putting things into perspective, no matter what level of PTSD, depression or what ever ails us is the key to finding peace within.  There is always someone out there who has it worse off than I do. 

One last thing:  There is a mountain. We are all allowed to put our life's experiences into a paper bag and place the bag on the mountain.  We are given the choices of either taking back our own bag or taking that of another....oh, and incidentally, these bags are stapled shut...no peeking allowed.  Which decision would you make?  

.....................................<3 JM 

Updated 08/10/2015 Ghost; The Unseen Disorder of PTSD:


We each are born into a state of innocence. It is what life throws at us that can make or break a person.. That incredibly powerful strength can be environmental or taught by our parents. Other times it's our instinctive human will to survive.


Finding the ability to survive is a potent and resilient part of all of us, no matter what hand we are dealt.



Reach down deep inside of yourself and find your power. It is up to each of us to fight to overcome our obstacles in this lifetime. Banish 'giving up' on yourself. Heal yourself, and then set your sights on helping others.

 

 


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“Ghosts; The Unseen Disorder of PTSD”, due for publishing late 2015, is not the average book. By contrast it is an exceedingly far cry from anything every written.  


The catalyst from which "Ghost" emerged is a short story entitled "Hell Beyond Hell; The Marine's War in Afghanistan" that I co-authored with Kent Mullins, USMC (two deployments in Afghanistan).  To read more about HBH please see  Hell Beyond Hell; The Marine's War in Afghanistan-Behind the Story .

 

 

I am including civilian stories as well as Military interviews. My reasoning for doing this is so that there can be an equal understanding of people suffering from PTSD, depression and life-changing injuries from which millions of people across the world suffer.


I want to capture as many possible points of view from PTSD sufferers. All of my interviewees included in this project have been subject to different environmental factors as well as genetics.

 

 

This book is written through the eyes of those who suffer from PTSD and its complicating disorders.  Each chapter reveals a unique story of  a PTSD sufferer who describes their experiences to the readers. It also is all-telling of how each person who wears the scars of PTSD has learned to survive with their demons continually pulling at their minds and causing nearly unbearable pain and ultimately suicidal ideations.


"Ghost" will hopefully give our culture an education and understanding of this disorder and the related derivatives which stem from PTSD, such as depression, panic attacks, generalized anxiety, chronic pain and sleep deprivation.


These disorders cause an infinite loop of pain in PTSD patients; one with which they live 24-hours per day. It’s time to stop chastising and ostracizing those who suffer from this disorder. I’m firm in the belief that this is done out of both ignorance and fear. I feel that it is my moral duty to teach that people with PTSD are survivors, not society’s outcasts!


An epidemic of people with these disorders is sweeping our nation.


This book also addresses the cruelty from society that, thus far in my writing and interviews, every single person with conditions such as PTSD or depression, etc. has endured in one way or another.

 

Whether it's being flagrantly ostracized by family members, old friends who turn out to be not friends at all, or having humanity in general turn their backs on these people, the emotional pain, isolation, anger and loneliness is always the same. Blatant rejection is a common denominator which is shared by most of these individuals.

PTSD patients are heroes and heroines. Not one of those interviewed thus far has failed in his or her attempts to strive to gain added strength each day and to subsist through life; at times on a minute-by-minute basis. Their will and determination is amazing. All of them do something to give back to society, and that makes them all the much commendable.


In listening to the stories of my interviewees I am able to translate what they reveal about themselves and put their words into a narrative and descriptive writing format; one with which the general public can identify, or at least gain even a small window of understanding of human beings who are plagued by PTSD. Usage of real names is discretionary.  


Concerning the Military interviews I've conducted, I find it particularly offensive that many of our Vets acquire PTSD from combat firefights and watching their brothers being killed and maimed and then............They are then brought stateside to await another deployment or are assigned a position on a Military base. They do not get the debriefing or psychiatric help they desperately need and they end up self-medicating to drown both their physical and emotional wounds.
 

Because of the Military's strict policy on illegal drug use, many are not given an honorable discharge. The irony is that these men endured their training, earned their purple hearts, fought for America, lived in fear every minute of every day for an average of seven months and are then simply dismissed as no longer needed.

The same entity that changed them from human beings into killing machines will not provide a Veteran who has done his or her job exactly as they are taught, the courtesy of 30 days of in-patient psychiatric care for PTSD.....technically a work-related disorder. This is beyond maddening to me and whether or not the American Government approves of what I have to say, this concern will be heavily portrayed in "Ghost." Simply put...I don't care. These people need a voice and I happen to have a loud mouth.



 VA BENEFITS vs. PRIVATE HEALTH CARE

 

I spent nearly 30 years working in the medical benefits field. I think my experience qualifies me as a benefits expert. I can usually cut through that red tape of an insurance carrier or third party administrator.



I decided to "test" the system. I calculated hold times, disconnects, redials, hold times again, phone trees (press 1 for this, press 2 for that). I was transferred back and forth from Tricare to their third party administrator, Federal Health Net Services (FHNS). FHNS referred me back to Tricare. I was referred to their websites, which are also useless. I was able to speak to two people at Tricare and one at FHNS after many redials.


I cannot decide which of these operations had the rudest people working as customer service, claims representatives, and managers.


If our Vets have the fortune of actually having the opportunity to deal with the disingenuously-run health care provider that is Tri-Care, they must have had enough fight left in them to cut through the red tape. That in itself is a huge uphill battle if one is unfamiliar with the insurance arena. As with civilians who as a rule, abhor insurance carriers, many of these people simply quit. They give up. They are entitled to their full VA benefit package, but are too weary to pursue them.
 

The sad truth is that the civilian population suffer from the identical disorders as Veterans even though civilian PTSD is more than likely suffered on a less severe scale. Yet civilian PTSD patients have the luxury of health care reform, Medicaid and Social Security Disability (SSD). SSD also provides the civilian with the added benefit of vocational rehabilitation. This can and often does lead to a fully paid college education. Personally, I do not disrespect or resent the civilian SSD recipient. How can I? I am one of them.


I too suffer from PTSD, depression, generalized anxiety and panic attacks. But I am treated. Well treated. I've had three back surgeries and have also dealt with chronic pain, which exacerbated all of my other disorders. I consider myself fortunate to be non-Military. My heart weeps for our Vets.


The same government that has granted me an alternative to leave the corporate world, given me an income and health insurance, has ironically denied the same benefits to a man or woman who has laid down their lives to protect my freedom, put themselves at the door of death and ultimately turned their souls upside down.


I will never say I "know how you feel" when it comes to a Vet who has seen combat. I don't. I never enlisted. But I do care about and love people, especially those who capture my heart with their ability to hang on and push through a very difficult life.


"Ghost" is neither my diary nor my hope to make a boatload of money. It is  being written because I have something to say about these disorders that cause so much pain in people who are ignorantly misunderstood by society.


"Ghost" will speak........and speak loudly about PTSD. To the millions of you who suffer from this painful ailment, please know that your story is important as are you!  

 "Ghost" exposes Military combat, crippling accidents, drug addicted parents, physical and emotional abuse and the many, many other environmental factors which cause PTSD and the life-long battle PTSD sufferers endure to lessen the unseen pain inside of their psyches. 

 

Some will disapprove of this book. Some will be critical. That is fine. It makes no difference to me.  I believe with all of my heart, that "Ghost" needs to be written.

 

You can follow me Twitter at "MooreVirgoRocks", on Google at "Joanne Moore", and on Instagram at JoanneMooreAuthor.

 Hugs........ <3JM

PS/If you would like to read "Hell-Beyond Hell; The Marine's War in Afghanistan", please click on the link below. It's a short story and is about a 30-minute read. $1.99 per download on any Kindle, Nook, Tablet, PC or Laptop.

 

 

 Hell Beyond Hell; The Marine's War In Afghanistan

 

 

 

Layla. You Got Me on My Knees!

Layla was four to six months old when I stole her from the bowels of the Southern Tier of the United States, where dogs are killed by the hundreds everyday.  She had a collar but I did not have a leash as visiting my son in Tennessee and bringing a new dog back home was not on my bucket list for that trip.  I already had a wonderful Rhodesian Ridgeback named Billy who thought he was my boyfriend.  He was Kenneled during this trip.

My son had given me a long chain....like the ones with the little metal links on it.  It had no handle but it did have a hook.  I bought some food, stocked up on water and left for home......with Layla in the back seat of my car.  Sight unseen.  I had no idea where this was going or how it would turn out or how Billy would react or how I could afford vet bills and food for two dogs. 

Layla was clearly frightened.  She laid low in the back seat and didn't make a move or make a peep.

Our first stop was just past Roanoke, VA.  I got out the chain and hooked it onto her collar.  I got her out of the car.  For her age she was strong and clearly not leash trained.  I wrapped that chain around my right hand a few times to reel her in and I remember it cutting into my skin as she dragged my like a rag doll around the grassy area of the rest stop.  She did her business, and after getting gas and candy supplies, we headed out again.

Virginia is a long state to drive from end to end.  I did some thinking on that trip home.  More along the lines, of what am I going to do with this dog?  I don't necessarily want two dogs, but I could not leave her there either.  I had a great idea.  I would have her spayed, up to date on her shots.  I would housebreak and crate train her.  I would leash train her, and teach her basic commands.  I knew I could do that.  I did it with Billy and my methods worked fine.  Once she was a more functional dog, I would find her a home.  Yep!  That solves it.

She stayed silent and still that entire trip.  I was living in downtown Bethlehem at the time and I arrived home around 7 that night; too late to pick up Billy from the kennel.  I did have a crate and set that up with blankets for Layla.

I offered her food and she took it gratefully along with some cold water.  I took her outside and when she peed I did the happy dance and gave her a treat.  I picked her up and brought her back inside the house.  I gently caressed her from head to tail while I was walking.  I wanted her to know it was ok.  She was safe.  I sat on the sofa with her and looked at her little face.  Her strange pointy nose and her frightened brown eyes.  I continued to pet her until she fell asleep in my lap....just like a baby.  She relaxed for the first time probably since her own birth.

Her meet and greet with Billy was like they had known each other all of their lives.  "Hey how you been?"  "Great, how 'bout you Billy?"  (Chest bump).  There was nothing to it.  Billy was alpha and Lay was the subordinate.  They ate together, they played together, they slept together.  And it was immediate.  There was not one fight and no territorial issues.

I had her spayed just a week or so after I got her.  Billy was already neutered, but I wanted her vet checked first and then we scheduled the operation after the vet check. She was healthy, no heart worm and no Parvo....those horrid diseases that are rampant in the south.   She did fine.  I anticipated her needs.  She needed to go out after playing, sleeping and eating.  They both did and I think she was so easy to housebreak because she simply followed Billy's lead.

Months went by and she was pushing a year. Training her to chill out, sit, stay, and walk on a leash was a different story.  It was summer and on weekends I took my dogs to my parents' home in Coopersburg. The dogs hung out in the yard and I hung out by the pool.  Wearing my bathing suit beneath shorts and a tank top, I stood at the top of my oak staircase with my bag of tanning potions and towels.  Billy was downstairs waiting for me. Layla was behind me at the top of the stairs.  She was doing spins and the happy dance.  This was not her first ride to my parents' place and she knew, probably by the bag I had, where we were headed. She was so happy and so excited.  I let out a nice breath at the thought of a day near the pool and the sun. 

I took a step out to start my way down the OAK staircase, and felt something charge my other foot.  (Guess who?).  I think I actually went airborne and then fell down the steps and landed at the bottom in some sort of twisted position.  She came right after me and as I lay there nearly paralyzed with shock and horror, she started licking my face.  And not just in one spot...this was no sympathy lick.  This was the hurry up, let's go, lick.  Then she licked the other side of my face, then she started on my forehead.  She thought, ok, you are down the steps now and we are closer to the door, which means we are closer to the car, which means we are closer to a RIDE!!!!  I wanted to grab her by the trachea and squeeze. Instead I stood up to check out the damage.  First of all, the trip was cancelled.  Secondly, I had large bruises and lumps on me, but nothing serious.  I never, ever have walked down the stairs in front of a dog since that day. My paranoia on the staircase issue is complete.

The Hike

 

Still no home for Layla.  I wonder why that is. Perhaps it is because I didn't look for one....ever...not at all.  The idea was there, but I suppose I had grown too attached to her, and things were working out well.  My household was in sync and we were a happy crew. 

 

Everyday after working at Mack Trucks, I would come home, change into hiking clothing and, especially in the wintertime, hurry out the door with the dogs.  It is illegal to have your dogs off of a leash anywhere in the City of Bethlehem, but I broke those rules....often.  I believe that dogs are meant to run with freedom as do their ancestors. The hiking path, I knew would be void of people at this time of day.  So rather then walk them along the streets of Bethlehem, I headed out to Illicks Mills Road and would, on a daily basis,  park in the lower lot of the hiking trail along the Monocacy Creek.   It did happen to be a winter night and I wanted to get the hike in before nightfall.  As I pulled in the lot, there was only one car there.   It was a messed up beater car with some weird looking guy sitting in the driver's seat.  The hair rose on the back of my neck. I sensed his strangeness, but not danger.  He was watching me get the dogs out of the car (on the leash at first).  I knew this because peripherally I was watching him watching me.  As we hit the trail, I glanced back and he was getting out of his car.  Between the trail, which is right along the water, was a set of railroad tracks which separates the hiking trail by about 50 feet of brush, thicket and trees.  The trail and the tracks run nearly perfectly parallel. This guy was on the tracks and he was maintaining a slight distance behind me. 

 

We got about a mile into the hike.  Daylight was beginning to fade and not a soul was around. It was me, my dogs and a stalker.

 

I did an abrupt 180 on him to head back to my car.  He immediately began to walk right though that 50 feet of wooded area straight toward me. He was methodical and he was moving quickly.  Within a nano-second Layla, this dog I had for maybe six months, headed toward him and placed herself about 10 feet in front of  me.  Her paws were down, her tail was straight out, her ears were back and her teeth were showing, and she had a giant Mohawk from her neck to her tail.

 

She was growling, and I mean she was growling and snapping, and growling.  (Wow! You go girl!)  He stopped about 20 feet away from her.  Her movements had been superior to his in the methodical and moving quickly area.  He considered the situation for a second or two.  He  looked at Layla and then he looked back at me. In the seconds that all of this transpired, I kept my amazement and respect for this dog to myself but I could not help but play along.  I crossed my arms across my chest, stood with confidence, and stared at this man with a little smile on my face....as in...."feeling froggy?"  Now that was on the outside.  On the inside I was scared shitless as well as amazed and bewildered at what was transpiring before me.  Call it the perfect combination of mixed emotions.  The hair on the back of my neck had already stood up in the parking lot when I first saw this guy.  At this point I probably looked like Medusa. But still, I would not let my fear show.  I already knew from self-defense snippets I had learned over the years that fear was the last thing I wanted to show.  

 

It was over as quickly as it began.  The man raised both of his hands to show a lack of threat and he and his scraggly hair backed slowly away and headed quickly in the opposite direction. I could not believe what I had just witnessed.  A dog just saved my life. I made a promise to Layla on that very day that I would never leave her side and would give her the best life a dog could have...right up until the very end. 

 

 Layla's Saddest Time/Comeback

 



Billy passed in 2009.  She missed him terribly.  She laid on the deck and would not eat.  That's was total grounds for spoiling her and I did.  I sat with her and petted her.  I spoke to her and told her she was beautiful.  I told her that she was such a wonderful little girl.  I took her in grassy areas of the yard, sat and brushed her. I gave her tons of love and tons of kudos and treats.  She went grey, but emotionally, she came back.  

 

One of the things I loved most about her was the way she would wake me up in the morning, as in "I would like to eat please."  I first would feel this cool air come at me from her nose as she put it against mine. It was just a gentle little peck from her.  She had no problem communicating with me by using many other, "Layla Moves." Sitting near the door meant she wanted to go "out."  Sometimes it was necessary and sometimes she was playing mind games with me....perhaps she forgot that in the past 10 minutes we had just been outside and she had done her business.  I went back to my writing and would tell her to "settle."  She'd jump up on the love seat, which she owned, do a turn and then with a sigh, go to sleep.

 

What she sought could be seen in her eyes; the eyes of an old and very loving soul of a dog named Layla.  I will admit....many, many times I did feel like her slave.  But I also understand that I had put myself in that position and was going to keep that promise, so I was happy to give her pretty much whatever she wanted, or perhaps needed.  I think it is a fact that we became soul mates.  I spoke to her often because I liked talking to her.  She liked being call beautiful, such a good girl, and hearing, "Mama loves Layla."  She loved when I sang to her, and it was usually her namesake, the Eric Clapton song. (acoustic version).

 

Being the only dog in the house, who was also spoiled and stubborn,  I discovered that Layla had taken a liking to eating like a pig.  During my recent back surgeries I was unable to hike with her.  Instead, we did have a different exercise regime for her.  3-5 times per day. I stood in the yard and she ran and got a (broken in quarter's without her knowledge) treat in opposite directions. 

 

About one month ago, March 2015, I noticed that she was having difficulty finding her treats.  So, I thought.  Ok.  She could be going blind.  I encouraged her to use her nose to find the treat, which I hoped would keep her happy, and proud of herself.  It worked.  "Sniff it out baby.  Come on.  You sniff that out Stinkypoo!"  She would find the treat and I would do the happy dance.  I believe that blind dogs find their way just fine, with proper guidance.  If Layla was going blind, we would find a way.

 

She was running fairly well considering the condition of her hips at that age. I just don't know why she had to run right into me. (I have heard that dogs do take on the owner's personality).  I took some spills, but I think that might be a Karma thing.  She sent me airborne quite a few times over the years. She seemed happy recently, but I saw some slowing down.

Over the past two weeks, I started having this extremely strong gut feeling that her time was coming soon. She was insisting on being outside as much as possible and it was much more often than she was used to in the past.  She sat and looked at the river. She walked around the yard and sniffed every thing she could.  I chased her to stop her from eating cat poop a few times.  She was different somehow.  It's almost as if she just wanted to totally and completely enjoy what she knew would be her last days on earth.  I allowed her to lead on that one and I'm really happy that I did. Now, when she sat by the door, I did get up and take her outside, even if meant I had to stop working and it was one of her little mind games.  Something was guiding me and I knew I had to accommodate her every request.  She got what she wanted and that alone makes me feel better. I think she and I worked extremely well as a team to prepare her for leaving this earth. 

 

 

April 23rd, 2015

 

When I woke up this morning, the very last thing I thought was that I would lose Layla.   But Layla did not come over and give me her wake up and feed me wet-nose signal. I have been sleeping with her in the living room because she has been having a tough time with the steps for quite some time.  I sat up at 7:30 this morning and looked for her.  She was laying on the carpet on the opposite side of my coffee table.  She was looking at me too.  I put food in her bowl, which was always of huge interest to her.  She just remained where she was.  Okay. Hmmmm. She would probably  eat her food later.  I saw her do this one other time but it was not recent.   She went outside, did her business.  It was a cooler day, which meant she could run errands with me.  Those car rides; she loved them!  We went food shopping and I noticed a large field behind the market and I saw an opportunity for her to go off leash, which she also loved. We walked the field, she ran toward a line of woods, stopped and looked around smelled all of that wonderful stuff that is nature. She circled back to me, running happily on command and came for a treat. 

 

We and got home around noon and she simply sprawled out on the floor.  Her stomach looked bloated and I ran my hands over her belly and just found massive lumps.  They were on her back and on her side.  I could fit my entire hand around all of these lumps that seemed to have suddenly grown on her out of no where.

I knew what this was.  My friend Susan Reinholtz, a woman who has a vast knowledge of animals once said to me, "When it's their time, they will let you know."   I called the Vet.  They would see me in two hours.  Call me crazy.  I really do not care, but I will bet my life that the 2pm appointment was not an accident.  I think this was what Layla wanted;  her lasts two hours, in pain, with me.  I picked up on that and I spent my time on the rug with her, talking to her and telling her how much I loved her. I would get lots of small "I love you too" licks on the nose. I started to brace myself.  I spent two hours bracing myself.

 

Ok.  I'm sure I'm REALLY insane on this one; still don't care, but Gay Lee Elwell, one of my dearest friends passed away in 2012.  She was a huge animal lover.  Words that seemed were not coming from me, but from her were infiltrating my mind.  Whether it was God or Gay Lee, I'll never know, but I think it was Gay Lee speaking to me. She said, "Let her go, I will catch her."  It was repeating over and over and over in my mind for two hours. and the more it repeated itself the more love I gave my little girl.

 

I called my friend Deb Brittian in North Carolina.  She works with service dogs and is my "go to " person about pets amongst other things.  I shot a photo to her and we got realistic. She told me that she did not like the bloating she was seeing.  Neither did I. Deb was amazing in taking some of this pain from me.  We both knew it was time to say good-bye to an awesome gift of love and Deb stayed with me every step of the way.

My heart sank when the Doctor told me that Layla's liver was severely enlarged. We bantered a for a few moments over what do. If she had an enlarged liver I wanted to see her liver function tests.  The doctor took her back for a blood drawing.  He was going to run a full blood panel. I called Deb back and told her about the enlarged liver and that I had asked for blood work.  When I told her about the liver enlargement, she said, "uh, that's not good Jo."  "I know," I said. "I think it's time."  Deb said, "Let's see what the lab says. Call me back when the results come in."

 

Fifteen minutes later, I called Deb and put her on speaker phone and the doctor could now address the two of us with the blood results.  Her calcium was high, her liver and function tests were double the high end of the range,  and it was pretty much a no brainer for all of us that she was just filled with cancer and her kidneys were failing and she was in terrible pain by now.

She had her ride and her walk in the sunshine one last time today.  She was ready to leave.  I signed off on the Euthanasia papers.  I spent some time with her and then a Tech took her back for insertion of the intravenous set up.  I cried in my car for a few minutes until someone in the office came out to tell me they were ready.  I wanted one last photo of Layla and me and the Tech took an excellent shot that showed how much Layla and I really did love each other. It's an unforgettable photo. And I'm so grateful I have it. 

 

Layla snatched up Deb's heart when they met a few years ago.  I redialed her number as she too wanted to show Layla lots of love and kind words through the euthanasia. While Deb was softly talking to Layla, I was doing the same.  I had my arms wrapped around Layla and continued to speak to her with love, respect for the wise old soul that she is. I told her she was beautiful and was a good girl and I repeated that with the hopes that it was the last thing she heard. Layla gently and ever so soft and peacefully passed.  She was gone from my life.    

She bowed out of earth and moved on to bigger and better things, I'm sure.........
 

 08/2003 - April 24, 2015

RIP Sweet angel

 

 

Do Not Get Involved; Sibling Rivaly. Written by Lois Simonds. Edited and rewritten by daughter, Joanne Moore

Do Not Get Involved' Sibling Rivalry

Lois Simonds

Rewritten by Joanne Moore

Sitting by the Delaware River gives me artistic inspiration.  It must have a really cool and positive spirit.  And that is where I sat at 1pm today thinking about my writing.  I want some guidance on my next piece because it is about Ghost Diseases and is named appropriately already.  I know that I also want to show myself to the world.  I want people to hear about Ghost Diseases from those who have them!  Specifically, I suffer from some, thus I feel qualified to write on the subject.

One thought (as usual) led to another and I thought about my childhood for the 98^th time in the past few weeks. 

As my mother used to say, (“In my unsolicited opinion,”), so now you get mine; everything we are and all that we do stems from what shaped and formed us as children.  Our strengths, our weaknesses, our trigger points, our needed boundaries, and of course the scars we wear.  Everyone has scars.  Seriously, if you wish to dispute that, show me one “normal” person?  There is no “normal” in my eyes. 

More thoughts rolled into the sponge of emotions that is my brain.  I went into my office and pulled out my mother’s memorial book.  I have seven siblings and one of them was kind enough to create a sort of, book with prayers from her memorial service, her poetry, which was found after she passed away, photographs of her from Berwick High School to Penn State, into the 60’s and in her elderly years. I added my own person trophies, which mainly consist of many, many letters that she wrote to me over the years.   This book contains lots of great memories and I appreciate the fact that one of my siblings took the initiative to do this.

Having a family of eight children is a dysfunctional environment waiting to happen.  At least it was in my case.  I am the seventh of the eight.  Psychologically, I don’t know where that puts me and I don’t care.  The eight of us are now adults and it’s up to us to make our own changes in life.

When I was living in Wisconsin many years ago, My mother, a journalist and novelist by trade, would send me ramblings of her thoughts in the form of extremely well written and humorous words.  I found one today that I want to Blog…….in her name and in her honor.  This one is about sibling rivalry.  This could be a touchy piece with my family.  But it’s true, it happened and my intentions are purely to honor my mother’s work and not to hurt or upset any of my siblings.   

With that said, I have changed the names of everyone named in this letter by her.  Otherwise, It is word for word.

Lois Simonds (Sometime between 1990 -2000)

 (There is no salutation). 

There is one firm rule for a mother of several strong-minded , opinionated, assertive, grown children.  And that rule, always to be followed is “Do not get involved”!  Sit back, be detached, and never, never interfere in the lives of those scrappy adults-especially in the business dealings they may have with one another. This detachment must be maintained, even though at times, the mother is deluged by phone call from one or another adult child, proclaiming the righteousness of his or her stand on inner-family disputes.  Do Not Get INVOLVED.  Use the traditional retort “Really”……..“How about that!” responses, innocuous by safe! 

 Example:  Take the hypothetical case of one adult child, who with her husband, wants to have a new home built.   We will call her XX.  Her brother, who for reasons of clarity, we will call ZZ, is a home builder.  XX and her husband would like ZZ to construct their new home. ZZ and his partner, who we shall call YY are interested and initial discussions on cost and type of house begin.  The mother has been informed of this by both XX and ZZ.  Then comes a phone call from ZZ complaining that he feels pressured by XX to expect upgrades in the building project, without expecting increased costs.  “I don’t want to do this.  YY (his partner) wants to, but I don’t.” ZZ declares.  DO NOT GET INVOLVED the mother reminds herself.

A phone call next from XX.  ZZ has been dragging his feet not getting back to her about plans and costs for the new house. After all, this is her dream home and she knows what she wants. Right?  ZZ acts like he doesn’t want to build the house.  What should she do?

Not a shovel of dirt has been unturned and the siblings are at war already.  The mother wonders and worries about the possible estrangement-maybe even permanent estrangement-of the two children when they really begin fighting over the building project.

Another phone call from XX- ZZ is acting disinterested in building the house.  The mother suggests cautiously, “you know that ZZ really likes to build speculation houses because he doesn’t want to deal with people and the changes they want.”  “Maybe XX would be wise to get estimates from another builder,” the mother suggests.  And XX agrees.

On the recommendation of another brother, hypothetical RR, XX contacts UU Contractor, who with his partner does framing for the hypothetical ZZ.  It would be no conflict to build a house, UU Contractor tells XX and her husband, adding he was anxious to do the job.  He would get back to them within a week with an estimate, UU Contractor reported.

Three weeks go by and no contact.  UU Contractor does not even return XX’s phone calls. The mystery of UU Contractor’s disappearance into the woodwork was later solved but we won’t get into that.  Then XX calls the mother, informing her they have found a great builder.  QQ Contracting who said he would build their house for $5000 less than ZZ.  Further, he would provide 400 square feet more for the same low price.  Great, declares the mother, thankful that she Did Not Get Involved.

ZZ calls the mother and asks, rather disinterestedly, “Has XX found another builder?”  The mother mentions that the builder will be some man, QQ Contracting.  “Oh, no!” is ZZ’s response.  There was a long silence, and then the mother asked, “What’s wrong with him?” (hoping that ZZ’s obvious disapproval centered on color rather than reputation).  “Oh nothing.  I just wish she had gone with UU Contractor. He’d build a much better house for XX,” replied ZZ.

The mother immediately has the image of XX’s with a crooked roof, slanting doors. The vision continues with the house now crumbling into a pile of used lumber with the onslaught of 25-mile per hour winds.  But the mother remembers.  Do Not Get Involved.  This is, however, some handwringing. Three weeks go by with XX calling in the interim to report her satisfaction with the new builder.

“He listens to me. He is so easy to deal with,” she babbles.Then XX’s enthusiasm wanes somewhat.  The mother doesn’t press.

XX’s sister, who we shall call hypothetical VV calls to inform the mother that XX and her husband discovered in the small print in the building contract that construction could take nine months. The mother’s heart sinks.  With their Pocono home sold, XX and her family have been living in her parent’s home.  But for nine months?  ZZ calls and during the conversation, he asks about XX’s building plans, noting that he is between projects and now wants to construct XX’s new house.

“Is the final contract with QQ Contracting signed yet?” he asks.  The mother reports what the hypothetical VV told her – the possible nine month construction span.  “Why don’t you call your sister and tell her that you now want to do the job?” suggests the mother.  “No.  You call her.  After all, you are the one who lost the building project for me,” said ZZ, laughing a little – just a little.  

 Do Not Get Involved-Do Not Get Involved, the mother muttered as she dialed XX’s number.

ZZ is now going to build XX’s new house. He has matched QQ Contracting – board by board and the cost will be $100 less, the mother was informed by XX.  Further, her brother has promised to have the house finished in four months.

And the mother, who grows more hypothetical by the day, no longer cares if ZZ and XX are no longer speaking after the new house is built.  She has a new concern.  Will Cassie, MM and his wife's dog attack Jo and Mark’s dogs during the visit to Wisconsin in April, thus causing friction between Jo and her brother MM?

But the mother has learned her lesson.  Do not get involved.