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The sun is streaming through the blinds, and it's making me cry.
Duncan loved sleeping in the sun, stretched out on his soft cat bed. As soon as he heard the blinds open, he would hurry over to start soaking up the warm beams.
It's been a week and a day since he had to leave, and I am missing him fiercely today.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Everything Hurts
There are no more pills bottles, syringes, liquid medications sitting on the table.
The medication chart I used to keep track of his dosage schedule is gone.
The fluffy pet bed he used to sleep on has been washed and will be donated to the vet.
I didn't have to sleep curled around a furry body last night.
There is silence instead of the clickclickclick of his claws on the wood floors.
There are no more vet visits written on the calendar.
I only had to put down two plates of food this morning, instead of three.
All the things I don't see and don't hear are deafening.
The medication chart I used to keep track of his dosage schedule is gone.
The fluffy pet bed he used to sleep on has been washed and will be donated to the vet.
I didn't have to sleep curled around a furry body last night.
There is silence instead of the clickclickclick of his claws on the wood floors.
There are no more vet visits written on the calendar.
I only had to put down two plates of food this morning, instead of three.
All the things I don't see and don't hear are deafening.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Goodbye, My Friend
In December, our beloved cat Duncan began losing weight. We found out he had anemia and dehydration. We remedied those conditions, and still he was losing weight. He was interested in food, but wouldn't eat much when we offered any to him. We held out hope that once the anemia and dehydration were taken care of, his appetite would bounce back and he'd return to his old self.
Last week, x-rays showed that he had a tumor in his liver. The vet said he could have an operation and chemo, but I wasn't willing to put him through any more. He was so skinny, so lifeless, had had so many trips to the vet for blood draws and shots, had to take medicine every day that he didn't want and had to endure subcutaneous fluids. He was suffering, and it was time for him to rest.
I was awake at 4 a.m. today, and I held him in my lap for a good, long while. I told him that I loved him. I thanked him for being so brave, for being such a great cat, for struggling through everything life had thrown at him. I told him it was time to rest now. I told him it would break my heart to let go but that I would be glad he was no longer miserable.
He had a little bit of food, some water, small pieces of cake donut. He was crazy for cake donuts. When he'd hear the plastic donut container open, he'd be in the kitchen like a shot, yeowling for donut. Even within the past week, being as sick and weak as he was, he hobbled into the kitchen and yeowled for donut.
His appointment today was scheduled for 9:20 a.m. We took him out of the carrier at the vet, laid him gently on his fuzzy purr pad. He was purring the entire time. Michelle, the vet tech who usually took care of him and who I referred to as his girlfriend, came in to say goodbye. She picked him up, and he raised his head to lick her cheek. I think that meant a lot to her. She was crying, and even Dr. Peterson looked a little close to tears.
Dr. Peterson explained what would happen, and they laid Duncan on a towel, not wanting him to urinate on the purr pad if his bladder let loose at death. He shaved a little fur from Duncan's left leg and apologized to Duncan as he injected the drug that would take Duncan's life.
He was gone at 9:35 a.m., nearly before the needle was removed from his arm. I watched his eyes as the drug was entering his system. They dilated a little and then just seemed to go still and he was gone. I was glad he didn't hiss or cry out as he died; my heart would've broken even more if that had happened. A minute or two after his death, he seemed to sigh.
Michelle pressed his two front paws into a piece of soft clay and stamped his name across the bottom of the clay circle. When she was pushing on his paws, I instantly had the thought, "He has a bad leg, and that's probably hurting him." It was instinctual, since I was so protective of his bad leg, and I had to remind myself that he couldn't feel it.
We spent some time with him, and then Michelle took him into the back. They placed his body in a green plastic bag to catch any urine, and I took him back out to the car while Eli paid for the visit.
We drove to a pet cremation place in Edina. I couldn't bear the thought of his body lying alone at the vet, waiting for pickup from some stranger. Logically, I know it was just his shell that was left behind, the part that made Duncan Duncan had left when his eyes went still, but I just couldn't do it.
We carried him into the cremation place and went into the back of the building. Mike slid his body into the oven and pressed the button to lower the door and start the process.
We went to two different parks and sat out in the breeze and the sun, watching the birds and butterflies. The second park bordered a lake so we sat at the edge of the water and watched the ducks and geese gliding through the water. I had a hard time settling, had a lot of nervous energy, couldn't still my mind.
Two hours later, we collected the small white plastic box that held what was left of Duncan and came home. For such a small being, he left a huge hole in our lives. The house seems so much emptier and quieter without him here. It will be a long time before it comes close to feeling "normal" again.
Despite my grief, I'm grateful that he's no longer suffering. It was so damned hard this past week, seeing him so still, watching him struggle to get up, petting him and feeling how thin and bony he was. He was losing his dignity, and there was no reason to allow it to continue.
I love you, Duncan. You were so brave throughout your life, and you brought such brightness and laughter to us. Sleep now, Punkin, and be at peace. You've earned it.
Last week, x-rays showed that he had a tumor in his liver. The vet said he could have an operation and chemo, but I wasn't willing to put him through any more. He was so skinny, so lifeless, had had so many trips to the vet for blood draws and shots, had to take medicine every day that he didn't want and had to endure subcutaneous fluids. He was suffering, and it was time for him to rest.
I was awake at 4 a.m. today, and I held him in my lap for a good, long while. I told him that I loved him. I thanked him for being so brave, for being such a great cat, for struggling through everything life had thrown at him. I told him it was time to rest now. I told him it would break my heart to let go but that I would be glad he was no longer miserable.
He had a little bit of food, some water, small pieces of cake donut. He was crazy for cake donuts. When he'd hear the plastic donut container open, he'd be in the kitchen like a shot, yeowling for donut. Even within the past week, being as sick and weak as he was, he hobbled into the kitchen and yeowled for donut.
His appointment today was scheduled for 9:20 a.m. We took him out of the carrier at the vet, laid him gently on his fuzzy purr pad. He was purring the entire time. Michelle, the vet tech who usually took care of him and who I referred to as his girlfriend, came in to say goodbye. She picked him up, and he raised his head to lick her cheek. I think that meant a lot to her. She was crying, and even Dr. Peterson looked a little close to tears.
Dr. Peterson explained what would happen, and they laid Duncan on a towel, not wanting him to urinate on the purr pad if his bladder let loose at death. He shaved a little fur from Duncan's left leg and apologized to Duncan as he injected the drug that would take Duncan's life.
He was gone at 9:35 a.m., nearly before the needle was removed from his arm. I watched his eyes as the drug was entering his system. They dilated a little and then just seemed to go still and he was gone. I was glad he didn't hiss or cry out as he died; my heart would've broken even more if that had happened. A minute or two after his death, he seemed to sigh.
Michelle pressed his two front paws into a piece of soft clay and stamped his name across the bottom of the clay circle. When she was pushing on his paws, I instantly had the thought, "He has a bad leg, and that's probably hurting him." It was instinctual, since I was so protective of his bad leg, and I had to remind myself that he couldn't feel it.
We spent some time with him, and then Michelle took him into the back. They placed his body in a green plastic bag to catch any urine, and I took him back out to the car while Eli paid for the visit.
We drove to a pet cremation place in Edina. I couldn't bear the thought of his body lying alone at the vet, waiting for pickup from some stranger. Logically, I know it was just his shell that was left behind, the part that made Duncan Duncan had left when his eyes went still, but I just couldn't do it.
We carried him into the cremation place and went into the back of the building. Mike slid his body into the oven and pressed the button to lower the door and start the process.
We went to two different parks and sat out in the breeze and the sun, watching the birds and butterflies. The second park bordered a lake so we sat at the edge of the water and watched the ducks and geese gliding through the water. I had a hard time settling, had a lot of nervous energy, couldn't still my mind.
Two hours later, we collected the small white plastic box that held what was left of Duncan and came home. For such a small being, he left a huge hole in our lives. The house seems so much emptier and quieter without him here. It will be a long time before it comes close to feeling "normal" again.
Despite my grief, I'm grateful that he's no longer suffering. It was so damned hard this past week, seeing him so still, watching him struggle to get up, petting him and feeling how thin and bony he was. He was losing his dignity, and there was no reason to allow it to continue.
I love you, Duncan. You were so brave throughout your life, and you brought such brightness and laughter to us. Sleep now, Punkin, and be at peace. You've earned it.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Back Again
A few years ago, I had trouble getting signed into this blog and, at the time, Google was no help at all.
On a lark, I attempted to return to these virtual pages today...and here I am.
I hope to come back here on a regular basis, now that I've found access again.
On a lark, I attempted to return to these virtual pages today...and here I am.
I hope to come back here on a regular basis, now that I've found access again.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
A Few of My Favorite Things
This Yuletide, I find myself waxing nostalgic for reasons I can't explain. Maybe it's because I'm growing more fully aware of the passage of time. Battling health issues - even relatively minor ones - has a way of making you look at your own mortality. Maybe as the world seems to grow larger and darker and more sinister, I wish for the return of a simpler, brighter, and more innocent time.
Whatever the reason, it makes me think back to my childhood with a mix of sweet and of bitter. There was a purity of heart, a sense of astonished wonder, that I had as a child. Magick was real, and it was all around. Children can feel this magick. Their hearts are unburdened and open and exquisitely naive. The cynicism that comes with age hasn't touched them yet - cynicism that blinds adults to elves spying through windows and makes them feel foolish for looking for reindeer or sleigh tracks in the snow on Christmas Eve.
I remember the feelings of anticipation and excitement I had, knowing Santa was coming, wondering what would be in the wrapped packages beneath the tree. I can remember the feelings but I can't touch them anymore, can't taste them. When I was an age I can't quite remember, my cousin told me that Santa wasn't real. I didn't want to believe it but eventually, the facade fell, and I couldn't go back, couldn't un-learn, and the magick was lost to me. The part of my heart that believed in the jolly old elf who delivered presents to children swung shut.
Little by little, the simple joys of the season began to be lost. The unbridled glee of flying down a slippery hill on a sled or a saucer or even on a plastic garbage bag, tumbling to a halt at the foot of the slope only to climb up and do it all over again. Sitting by the radio early on a snowy morning, listening intently to the school closings, silently hurrying the announcers through their alphabetic list, ecstatic when they reached the B's and said, "Big Lake." Bundling up in snow pants and coat and scarf and hat and mittens and boots to conquer the drifts, building structures that were castles or forts or houses or, one year, even a dragon. Helping Mom make spritz cookies, using the copper and white cookie press, eating more dough than finished product. Being amused when Dad tried to sneak his gifts open out of turn, looking like a naughty child all the while, perhaps even thinking he was getting away with it without us noticing.
Time has a way of stripping the bad from a remembrance, creating a selective amnesia that allows only the good to flow through the filter. Sometimes a flight down the hill resulted in a bloody nose or other slight injury. Sometimes the announcers never said "Big Lake." The dragon melted away into a slushy pile on the lawn. Too much raw dough caused a stomachache. Dad hasn't been with us for six Christmases now.
Memories can be tarnished but, as with a cherished antique, the burnishing and imperfections can be what makes something valuable and loved. As the Skin Horse said in The Velveteen Rabbit: "Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
I don't mind the nicks and dings. What I miss is the heart-magick that seems to be inherent in us as children. The sweet innocence that lets us believe - TRULY believe, without reservation - there are toy-making elves and flying reindeer. The uninhibited spirit that allows us to get fully, totally, blissfully lost in the sensation as we fly down an icy hill or birth mystical creatures from snow.
I want to peel away the hardening of adulthood. I want to again know the joy of listening for sleigh bells and reindeer hooves on a cold December night. To experience the nearly painful anticipation of lying in bed, waiting as long as possible before rushing down the stairs to open presents. To fall back into the snow and make an angel and stare up at the sky, pondering the impossible number of possibilities.
I want the return of my favorite things.
Whatever the reason, it makes me think back to my childhood with a mix of sweet and of bitter. There was a purity of heart, a sense of astonished wonder, that I had as a child. Magick was real, and it was all around. Children can feel this magick. Their hearts are unburdened and open and exquisitely naive. The cynicism that comes with age hasn't touched them yet - cynicism that blinds adults to elves spying through windows and makes them feel foolish for looking for reindeer or sleigh tracks in the snow on Christmas Eve.
I remember the feelings of anticipation and excitement I had, knowing Santa was coming, wondering what would be in the wrapped packages beneath the tree. I can remember the feelings but I can't touch them anymore, can't taste them. When I was an age I can't quite remember, my cousin told me that Santa wasn't real. I didn't want to believe it but eventually, the facade fell, and I couldn't go back, couldn't un-learn, and the magick was lost to me. The part of my heart that believed in the jolly old elf who delivered presents to children swung shut.
Little by little, the simple joys of the season began to be lost. The unbridled glee of flying down a slippery hill on a sled or a saucer or even on a plastic garbage bag, tumbling to a halt at the foot of the slope only to climb up and do it all over again. Sitting by the radio early on a snowy morning, listening intently to the school closings, silently hurrying the announcers through their alphabetic list, ecstatic when they reached the B's and said, "Big Lake." Bundling up in snow pants and coat and scarf and hat and mittens and boots to conquer the drifts, building structures that were castles or forts or houses or, one year, even a dragon. Helping Mom make spritz cookies, using the copper and white cookie press, eating more dough than finished product. Being amused when Dad tried to sneak his gifts open out of turn, looking like a naughty child all the while, perhaps even thinking he was getting away with it without us noticing.
Time has a way of stripping the bad from a remembrance, creating a selective amnesia that allows only the good to flow through the filter. Sometimes a flight down the hill resulted in a bloody nose or other slight injury. Sometimes the announcers never said "Big Lake." The dragon melted away into a slushy pile on the lawn. Too much raw dough caused a stomachache. Dad hasn't been with us for six Christmases now.
Memories can be tarnished but, as with a cherished antique, the burnishing and imperfections can be what makes something valuable and loved. As the Skin Horse said in The Velveteen Rabbit: "Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
I don't mind the nicks and dings. What I miss is the heart-magick that seems to be inherent in us as children. The sweet innocence that lets us believe - TRULY believe, without reservation - there are toy-making elves and flying reindeer. The uninhibited spirit that allows us to get fully, totally, blissfully lost in the sensation as we fly down an icy hill or birth mystical creatures from snow.
I want to peel away the hardening of adulthood. I want to again know the joy of listening for sleigh bells and reindeer hooves on a cold December night. To experience the nearly painful anticipation of lying in bed, waiting as long as possible before rushing down the stairs to open presents. To fall back into the snow and make an angel and stare up at the sky, pondering the impossible number of possibilities.
I want the return of my favorite things.
Friday, September 11, 2009
September 11
Today marks the eight-year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. MSNBC is replaying news coverage from that morning; against my better judgment, I tuned in.
I haven't seen images from 9/11 for quite some time. I remember when it first happened, I was glued to the TV, couldn't turn the damned thing off. It seemed so unreal, like a movie. I know many people have described it like that - I'm sure that's our human way of shielding ourselves from the horror, from the knowing that it actually happened. One of the most chilling photos I saw was on the cover of a magazine - Time, I believe. It showed the WTC and a plane was in the shot, just seconds before it plowed into one of the towers. It was horrifying because you knew that within a heartbeat of that frozen moment, all hell was going to break loose. I would stare at that photo, wishing I could reach in while time was motionless and pluck that plane out of the sky.
I joined MSNBC's coverage while the first tower was burning, and I could feel myself getting ill because I knew what was about to happen. I can't even really describe the emotion that welled up in me while watching the second plane strike the other tower. My brain had the "this is a movie" thought again for a brief moment, and then I just started to wail. I did that weeping/screaming thing that you do when tears alone don't seem to adequately express the terror and rage and sickness and sadness that come from some deep, dark place inside.
I couldn't bear to watch the towers fall so I turned the channel to ESPN, wanting to regain some equilibrium through the utter banality of people talking about sports. Even without seeing it happen again, I know the shadow memory of those buildings crumbling to the ground in a plume of smoke and metal and humanity will be with me the rest of my life.
Thank you to all the emergency personnel who risked their lives to rescue others. Thank you to all the firefighters from across the nation who travelled to NYC to help. Thank you to all of the everyday people who became heroes with their actions on that day. Thank you to the brave passengers on United Flight 93 who sacrificed themselves to perhaps save many, many others. Thank you to everyone who refused to let the terrorists win, who wiped the proverbial blood from their mouth after such a hard blow and said, "You can't keep us down forever. We are stronger than that."
Blessings to everyone who was affected by this life-changing day.
I haven't seen images from 9/11 for quite some time. I remember when it first happened, I was glued to the TV, couldn't turn the damned thing off. It seemed so unreal, like a movie. I know many people have described it like that - I'm sure that's our human way of shielding ourselves from the horror, from the knowing that it actually happened. One of the most chilling photos I saw was on the cover of a magazine - Time, I believe. It showed the WTC and a plane was in the shot, just seconds before it plowed into one of the towers. It was horrifying because you knew that within a heartbeat of that frozen moment, all hell was going to break loose. I would stare at that photo, wishing I could reach in while time was motionless and pluck that plane out of the sky.
I joined MSNBC's coverage while the first tower was burning, and I could feel myself getting ill because I knew what was about to happen. I can't even really describe the emotion that welled up in me while watching the second plane strike the other tower. My brain had the "this is a movie" thought again for a brief moment, and then I just started to wail. I did that weeping/screaming thing that you do when tears alone don't seem to adequately express the terror and rage and sickness and sadness that come from some deep, dark place inside.
I couldn't bear to watch the towers fall so I turned the channel to ESPN, wanting to regain some equilibrium through the utter banality of people talking about sports. Even without seeing it happen again, I know the shadow memory of those buildings crumbling to the ground in a plume of smoke and metal and humanity will be with me the rest of my life.
Thank you to all the emergency personnel who risked their lives to rescue others. Thank you to all the firefighters from across the nation who travelled to NYC to help. Thank you to all of the everyday people who became heroes with their actions on that day. Thank you to the brave passengers on United Flight 93 who sacrificed themselves to perhaps save many, many others. Thank you to everyone who refused to let the terrorists win, who wiped the proverbial blood from their mouth after such a hard blow and said, "You can't keep us down forever. We are stronger than that."
Blessings to everyone who was affected by this life-changing day.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Smile Though Your Heart is Aching
I watched the memorial for Michael Jackson yesterday, and I'm still attempting to wrap my mind around it. I felt it was a fitting tribute to a larger-than-life icon - it had a bit of an award ceremony feel to it and yet, it was funereal and somber. There was no doubting that it was poignant in places. You would have to be stone-hearted if you didn't feel a tug while watching Jermaine sing Smile, his brother's favorite song; if you didn't get teary eyed as Usher struggled through Gone Too Soon; if you didn't outright cry when Michael's 11-year-old daughter took the microphone and wept about the loss of her father.
The service capped a two-week span of nearly non-stop news coverage so Michael was never far from my mind, and I struggled with how I felt about him as a person. I was never a huge "fan" of his - I enjoyed his music and videos well enough, and I felt that at times he displayed otherworldly talent, but I never wore a single glove or learned to moonwalk. But those were my feelings about his craft, not about his character. I knew how I felt about the entertainer - how did I feel about the man?
Unfortunately, the first thing that seems to come to mind when you think about Michael is the unsavory child molestation business. He was found not guilty in a court of law but even so, that taint always remains. Admittedly, I knew very little about the facts of the cases so I went in search of knowledge this morning.
After reading a few pages of documentation, I'm nearly fully convinced that he wasn't guilty. I think the deadbeat psycho parents of his accusers pimped their kids out with the intention of extorting money from Jackson, pure and simple, and it makes me sick. For each of these two kids who levelled accusations, there were 15 kids who said nothing ever happened when they spent time with Michael. Staffers for Jackson came out with stories of molestation; however, some of these were disgruntled people who had been fired and all of them were promised thousands of dollars from tabloids to tell their story. If they'd truly been concerned, I have a feeling they would've told these stories to the police for free - not suddenly felt compelled to tell the "truth" after some rag waved some money in front of them. Hell, even sister LaToya accused Michael of being a child molester...only to admit later that her husband had told her to do it for the money her story would bring in.
I can't imagine the horror and humiliation of this entire situation. Apparently, one of the kids said Jackson had exposed himself, and the kid described Jackson's genitals. So Michael submitted to a 25-minute strip search - I'm sure pictures were taken during this procedure, to be submitted as evidence. [Turns out there were some similarities but not enough to make a positive ID, as it were, including that the kid said he was circumsized, which wasn't true.] Add to that all the media vultures skulking around, all the horrible headlines, all the accusing eyes.
People assume that Jackson was guilty because he settled out of court with the family of the first kid - oh, he didn't want a trial, he must be hiding something. Truthfully, I think he just wanted it to be over. There had been enough misery which took a huge toll on his health and his career, and he just wanted it finished. I find it interesting that this kid's parents put a price on their son's head - $22 million. If it were your child and you knew your case was rock solid, wouldn't you have wanted to drag Jackson's butt into court? No matter what the outcome of the trial, wouldn't you have wanted to destroy the man who molested your child? Apparently $22 million erased the kid's trauma well enough. Of course, this boy's father said, when asked how he thought all of this would affect his son, "That's irrelevant to me...It will be a massacre if I don't get what I want."
What a lovely guy.
Was Michael a saint? Certainly not. Was he odd/eccentric/strange? Yes, but there's no law against that. Did he look at pornography? Perhaps, but if that were illegal [apart from child pornography], half the planet would be in prison. Was he flawed? He had faults as deep-reaching as those beneath San Andreas. Was he influential? He met with princes and presidents, congresspersons and kings, revolutionaries and royals. Did he make bad decisions? Many times. Was he generous? He gave millions to charity [he was listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the pop star who supports the most charities].
I'm actually surprised that Michael lasted as long as he did. He was thrust into adulthood, never had an opportunity to be a child. I can understand why he wanted to cling to child-like behavior, since that was stolen from him. I'm sure some people think "poor little rich boy," and I don't excuse his refusal to grow up. We all have an albatross around our neck for which we're responsible, and most healthy adults have an ability to remove, or at least to cope with, the weight. But I don't believe Michael had the ability to adequately handle his demons, and I think that denial [along with genuine physical pain from years of performing] is what drove him to drugs. He was broken at an early age and really never stood a chance as an adult. That he lived to 50 years of age is a testament to his determination.
I'm hoping Michael's legacy will be one of hope and love. He was far from perfect, but I hope future generations will focus more on his contributions than his failings. He wanted to heal the world, wanted people to join together regardless of race, had the child-like desire to fix every hurt and right every wrong. He gave millions of people a reason to smile, to thrill, to be amazed, to reach out and try something new, to strive to be more. And I thank him for that.
The service capped a two-week span of nearly non-stop news coverage so Michael was never far from my mind, and I struggled with how I felt about him as a person. I was never a huge "fan" of his - I enjoyed his music and videos well enough, and I felt that at times he displayed otherworldly talent, but I never wore a single glove or learned to moonwalk. But those were my feelings about his craft, not about his character. I knew how I felt about the entertainer - how did I feel about the man?
Unfortunately, the first thing that seems to come to mind when you think about Michael is the unsavory child molestation business. He was found not guilty in a court of law but even so, that taint always remains. Admittedly, I knew very little about the facts of the cases so I went in search of knowledge this morning.
After reading a few pages of documentation, I'm nearly fully convinced that he wasn't guilty. I think the deadbeat psycho parents of his accusers pimped their kids out with the intention of extorting money from Jackson, pure and simple, and it makes me sick. For each of these two kids who levelled accusations, there were 15 kids who said nothing ever happened when they spent time with Michael. Staffers for Jackson came out with stories of molestation; however, some of these were disgruntled people who had been fired and all of them were promised thousands of dollars from tabloids to tell their story. If they'd truly been concerned, I have a feeling they would've told these stories to the police for free - not suddenly felt compelled to tell the "truth" after some rag waved some money in front of them. Hell, even sister LaToya accused Michael of being a child molester...only to admit later that her husband had told her to do it for the money her story would bring in.
I can't imagine the horror and humiliation of this entire situation. Apparently, one of the kids said Jackson had exposed himself, and the kid described Jackson's genitals. So Michael submitted to a 25-minute strip search - I'm sure pictures were taken during this procedure, to be submitted as evidence. [Turns out there were some similarities but not enough to make a positive ID, as it were, including that the kid said he was circumsized, which wasn't true.] Add to that all the media vultures skulking around, all the horrible headlines, all the accusing eyes.
People assume that Jackson was guilty because he settled out of court with the family of the first kid - oh, he didn't want a trial, he must be hiding something. Truthfully, I think he just wanted it to be over. There had been enough misery which took a huge toll on his health and his career, and he just wanted it finished. I find it interesting that this kid's parents put a price on their son's head - $22 million. If it were your child and you knew your case was rock solid, wouldn't you have wanted to drag Jackson's butt into court? No matter what the outcome of the trial, wouldn't you have wanted to destroy the man who molested your child? Apparently $22 million erased the kid's trauma well enough. Of course, this boy's father said, when asked how he thought all of this would affect his son, "That's irrelevant to me...It will be a massacre if I don't get what I want."
What a lovely guy.
Was Michael a saint? Certainly not. Was he odd/eccentric/strange? Yes, but there's no law against that. Did he look at pornography? Perhaps, but if that were illegal [apart from child pornography], half the planet would be in prison. Was he flawed? He had faults as deep-reaching as those beneath San Andreas. Was he influential? He met with princes and presidents, congresspersons and kings, revolutionaries and royals. Did he make bad decisions? Many times. Was he generous? He gave millions to charity [he was listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the pop star who supports the most charities].
I'm actually surprised that Michael lasted as long as he did. He was thrust into adulthood, never had an opportunity to be a child. I can understand why he wanted to cling to child-like behavior, since that was stolen from him. I'm sure some people think "poor little rich boy," and I don't excuse his refusal to grow up. We all have an albatross around our neck for which we're responsible, and most healthy adults have an ability to remove, or at least to cope with, the weight. But I don't believe Michael had the ability to adequately handle his demons, and I think that denial [along with genuine physical pain from years of performing] is what drove him to drugs. He was broken at an early age and really never stood a chance as an adult. That he lived to 50 years of age is a testament to his determination.
I'm hoping Michael's legacy will be one of hope and love. He was far from perfect, but I hope future generations will focus more on his contributions than his failings. He wanted to heal the world, wanted people to join together regardless of race, had the child-like desire to fix every hurt and right every wrong. He gave millions of people a reason to smile, to thrill, to be amazed, to reach out and try something new, to strive to be more. And I thank him for that.
Like a comet blazing 'cross the evening sky
Gone too soon
Like a rainbow fading in the twinkling of an eye
Gone too soon
Shiny and sparkly and splendidly bright
Here one day, gone one night.
Like the loss of sunlight on a cloudy afternoon
Gone too soon
Like a castle built upon a sandy beach
Gone too soon
Like a perfect flower that is just beyond your reach
Gone too soon
Born to amuse, to inspire, to delight
Here one day, gone one night
Like a sunset dying with the rising of the moon
Gone too soon
Gone too soon
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