Space Shuttle Challenger Explosion -

Thirty-six years ago the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. I was living in Brigham City, with my husband and two children. My husband worked for Thiokol, working on the o-rings for the space shuttle. 

That morning, after getting Tyler off to school, and Jenna down for her morning nap, I crumpled down in my bed, sick with a sinus infection, thinking I would rest while Jenna napped. 

And with the TV on to see the Challenger lift-off, with a school teacher on board, the world was able to see the disaster that was quickly judged to be Thiokol's fault. 

There were Thiokol dignitaries in Florida for this event and NASA dignitaries in Utah for this event; as were media folks from all over the nation and beyond. And oh boy, what a toxic mess this turned out to be. 

Within moments, our entire town was overrun with news vans and cameras and reporters interviewing any person on the street. 

And thank God there wasn't social media in those days. Because half truths were told, assumptions were made, and fingers were pointed before any authority could speak. Oh gosh, what a frenzy that would be today! 

In our neighborhood in Brigham City there were many folks (mostly men) who worked at Thiokol. In fact I think Brigham City survived as well as it did because of Thiokol's employee base, its proximity to Thiokol (40 minute drive, typically car-pools), and the decent salaries of those employed, with a great cost of living in the area. 

Many of the employees came home from work early that day, and an eerie silence settled on the town. The celebratory energy that had surrounded the town dissipated to dust. My husband came home in a shock. There were so many words to say and nothing to share. 

Several men who lost their jobs because of this disaster, and they became the scape goats for all things Challenger-related. 

One of the over-looked tragedies of this was that of grieving families who were were stunned by the event, floored by the horrible press Thiokol, and in turn the employees and families, were given, and absolutely no help processing what this meant to their future, their employment. 

And a year later, because of these events, layoffs, contracts re-routed, and changes to the Space Shuttle plan, our little family moved to Northwestern Alabama, where my husband took a job with Thiokol in Northeastern Mississippi, to work on the redesign of the Space Shuttle and its engines. 

You know, there's so much more to a story than what is presented in the news, online or otherwise. We jump to conclusions so fast when there is an event that is public and publicized. And even though there were so many naysayers at Thiokol and in Florida at the Kennedy Space Center, the "show" had to go on. And the story will never be complete. 

We had two neighbors who were "convicted" without a jury and blamed and shamed for this event. We have a deep love and respect for Allan (Al) McDonald, who gave his life telling the truth.

This was such a disaster, and yet it wasn't only Thiokol's fault - yes, the o-rings were faulty, and many people were opposed, and many people were pressured to giving their "go-ahead." And many hearts ache, still, after 36 years, because of errors. Mine is one. 

David Archuleta and Being True to Self -

So many times throughout my life I've been shamed for decisions I made. 

Shamed for being too much or not enough. 

Shamed for dressing to "together," shamed for not putting on my company outfit. 

Shamed for not getting an education before having children, shamed for getting an education while having children at home. 

Shamed for working outside of my home, shamed for not contributing to the family income. 

Shamed for having "only" two children, shamed for over-populating. 

Shamed for staying too long in a marriage, shamed for leaving a long marriage. 

Shamed for remarrying so soon, shamed for remarrying at all. 

Shamed for speaking my truth, shamed for being too bold. 

Shamed for being too assertive, shamed for not standing up for myself. 

And still, today, I think before I act. I think "Is this worth the risk," before doing nearly anything that may be misunderstood or misinterpreted, or that I'll have to explain. 

And yet here's 30 year old David Archuleta, sharing his deepest thoughts, in a way that can create his future, or can destroy so much of what he holds dear. And he shares. Without shame. 

The BEST 50 minutes I have spent on a Sunday in many many years. Please listen. Mormon or not, his  vulnerability is powerful, poignant, poetic, and gut-wrenching. And I'm sad that he feels as though he needs to explain himself. And grateful he does. 

Oh to be so brave - 

                                                                David Archuleta Shares -                             

                                            

Dying in the Days of CoVid -

Over the past 3 weeks I have witnessed more than 12 hospital deaths - being a member of a team who talks with the dying person and their loved ones about their Goals of Care, sharing with these folks that their prognosis is not "good" (even though they typically know), and then, in many instances, being with the families as their loved one dies. (Mind you, this does not include the patients I have seen in our clinic who have recently died - probably 8.)

As a family comes to the realization that death is imminent, a multi-colored butterfly is placed on the outside of the room's door, the observation blinds are closed. Privacy is granted. 

I am fascinated by the ways loved ones react and act to the news and the dying process - who they want notified, or not. Death bed reconciliation is real, as is death bed arguing and fighting and bickering and taking sides. Regardless, grips loosen, and death becomes, ready, or not. Lights are dimmed, or not. Blinds are opened, or not. Some in the room sob uncontrollably, others surround the bed, telling stories, singing songs, laughing. Some stand as far away from the bed as possible, with hands in pockets and heads bowed. Some mourn angrily, bitterly, regretfully. Others walk out of the room, choosing not to be near the room. Some families want every relative and friend in the room with them, while others don't want anyone to be there, or they want to be alone with their husband/wife. Loved ones rotate through the rooms and the waiting area, taking their turns saying good-bye while also holding vigil.

And who?

Three young men, under 40, of CoVid complications. Two elderly women of CoVid, one fully alert one day, dying the next. One woman, just a wee-bit older than me, unexpectedly, and her husband made it to the hospital just in time to be stunned by the news, not even able to tell their children. One woman had been hospitalized for weeks, alone, with visitors having ceased nearly 4 weeks before she passed. Another died just days after his wife died. Another died, with her daughter by her bedside, and this daughter having now lost both parents, an uncle and a brother within 2 months. One woman had been sick since just before Christmas, with only one son in the States, who had recently recovered from hospitalization. He had the role of calling his siblings and holding the phone to his heavily sedated mother's ear as they all said their good-byes. 

For the most part, the dying are comfortable and those remaining are truly the ones in pain. 

I am often asked to pray, often for the dying, occasionally for the ones left behind; find someone to give a Priesthood blessing, hold the loved one's hand while they die, be a comforting presence, validate their choices and decisions. 

I try to slip out of the hospital room as the patient takes their last breath, and then slip back in to hold, hug, stand silently near, all the time holding the happenings sacredly. 

After? It's tough to talk with family about what happens after their loved one has died, while they're in the midst of being present with their family member/friend. And yet questions abound - what's next? Where do they go? How do I pick a mortuary? Can Mormons cremate? I can't afford a burial. Where is the least expensive place to go? I want to honor, and we will spare no expense. Can I dress them? Do I get CoVid funeral assistance? Can I go now? How long can I stay here? 

I don't ask if the person was vaccinated, I don't really care. My role is to carry no judgment, even for the family who were prominent on social media as anti-vaccine, who brought their loved one to the hospital too late, and were angry with healthcare providers for not "doing all they could" to save them, and "what are we going to tell our friends." Even with healthcare providers barely alive themselves some days, and some days stepping away to shudder, sob, swear, and then returning to give their very best. 

And while not all of the deaths I've witnessed have been CoVid deaths, all deaths these days are affected by CoVid, and all the loved ones remaining have been witness to the protocols CoVid has demanded of us all. 

And my summary - my role, really, when it's all said and done, is incidental. I don't administer medications, monitor oxygen levels, deliver feedings, change sheets. And yet, as I stand quietly behind that invisible curtain, always available, always out of the way - I like to think that I am the defender of their story, the one who is present, who sees the entire story unfold, and validates - the dead, the living, the caregivers, real events, not statistics. 

As soon as I am able, I walk outside, tear off my facemask, turn east to the mountains, taking deep breaths of the frigid air - filling my lungs with real.

When my day is finished, I arrive home, my drive home not long enough to let the emotions of the day wash away, eat, attempt to sleep, get up, and do it all over again. And yet tonight - with the remains of the day still weighing heavily, I turn to pen and paper, and purge, praying for sleep, for myself and those I hold in reverence.