Michele Bachmann suffers from migraine headache, sometimes very severe ones. She's now being hounded by the press, who follow her asking if she ever missed a floor vote due to a migraine, and other "vital" questions. Commentators comment that she might, if elected president, be incapacitated at times. There's a media frenzy building among folks who obviously do NOT suffer migraines and know nothing about them or their treatment. And her fitness for the presidency is being called into question because of these headaches.
I am no fan of Michele Bachmann. I don't think she and I could disagree more, but I think this attack based on her migraines is disgusting. She's in good company. There are stories that Abraham Lincoln suffered from these cursed spells on top of his depression. I don't doubt it. Other distinguished sufferers include Presidents Woodrow Wilson and Thomas Jefferson. Yet all three of these MEN did their jobs despite their headaches, and I am sure Bachmann does, too. She joins Alfred Nobel, Sigmund Freud, George Eliot, Alexander Graham Bell, George Bernard Shaw, and scores and scores of other high functioning, high achievers who did what they did despite that hemi-cranium pain that we've come to call migraine. And she joins me.
Attack Michele Bachmann on her voting record, on her speeches, on her positions, on her ideology. Do not stoop to attack by saying she might be incapacitated at times, that she is not physically fit for the presidency. I rarely hear these kinds of things said of male migraine sufferers. If John F. Kennedy's health did not keep him from doing his job, then migraines wouldn't stop Michele Bachmann.
I strongly dislike Michele Bachmann and disagree with her on almost everything. But I will fight her on the issues, on her ideology, not on her headaches. I know how she suffers. On that, I feel compassion.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Black Bugs
I had driven at least fifteen miles toward home in silence before I realized there was no music. On the way to the nursing home to see my dad yesterday morning, I had played one of my hand-mixed CDs. There was Percy Sledge, Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, the Hollies, the Mamas and the Papas, all of them singing songs from my late teens and early twenties. Now that I noticed it as I drove home to Greensboro, the silence was uncomfortable, oppressive. So I turned on the CD player: James Taylor sang "Carolina in my mind," and then the late but beautiful Minnie Ripperton began to sing "Loving you." I had to turn it off and finish the trip home in silence. I've made this trip almost 14 times in the last 2 weeks, but I never needed the quiet until yesterday.
Two weeks ago today, I received a call from the assisted living center where my dad, who will be 87 in September, lives. They told me that he had been sent to the hospital Emergency Room after taking a bad fall. I called Van, my cousin, Dad's nephew, who went straight to the hospital. By the time I got there, they had decided to admit Dad. He didn't look like a man who had fallen. He looked like a man who had been bludgeoned violently by a madman. There were cuts, scrapes, scratches, and bruises all over him, and he was completely disoriented. He has dementia anyway, but he was totally out of it that day.
Dad spent four days in the hospital and then was discharged to a skilled nursing home. Highgrove, the assisted living center, will hold his room for a total of 30 days. So for a while he can go to Avante for rehabilitation, which he desperately needed, for he couldn't even sit up on his own. He seemed to me months from being able to get in and out of bed on his own or taking himself to the bathroom. And he was totally incontinent. He was as weak as a spaghetti noodle. At Avante he will have physical therapy every day. They will try to build his strength back.
Avante is just across the street and down the block from the hospital, so I walked over to do the paperwork. There was more paperwork than in my last mortgage. But I met the admissions director, who was very kind to me, and the social worker, who took me to her office so that she could learn a bit about Dad. She, too, was kind and gentle with me, a nervous daughter. When I first turned from the public areas to walk with her down the hallway past the rooms of residents and patients, my first vision took my breath away. There down both sides of the hall, all the way down the left, all the way down the right, were black faux-leather wheelchairs, each with a resident sitting in it. A few residents were trying to make their way up or down the hall, but most of the others were just sitting there. Many were resting their heads on their chests; some had their eyes closed and their mouths open. From the opening at the head of the hall, where I got my first glimpse, the black chairs looked like big black bugs crawling along the baseboard. It was to me a most distressing sight.
The next day, my father was transferred by ambulance from the hospital to the nursing home. I had gotten seven days' of clothing from Highgrove, and I had bought him some new socks and underwear, and new trousers in a much smaller size. He has lost so much weight, his pants were just barely hanging on him. And a new, smaller belt. He was okay for shirts, shoes, pajamas, robe. I tried so hard to think of everything he'd need and to move it from Highgrove to Avante or to buy it new. They placed Dad in a bed in a room he shares with a much younger gentleman. They brought his meals to his room and he ate on the over-the-bed tray for a few days. And he wore pajamas for one day.
Then came Day Two. When I arrived, I walked through the lobby as always, seeing the nice and friendly people, making my way to the wards. I turned onto B, which is Dad's. And there he was. In a black bug. I'm so sorry to have to say that my first emotion was grief that my Dad was one of the ones out there in the hall just sitting in a wheelchair doing nothing. It was only my second thought to be happy that he had been given a good bath and a shave and dressed in street clothes. All I could see was how skinny he is, and the black bug. My heart broke. But I was able to shift my consciousness to focus on his gains. He was sitting up; he was dressed, even though he was having to wear Depends. But think about it. His life is out of his own hands now. Someone else wakes him up, picks out the day's clothing, helps him bathe and dress. The home serves the breakfast that it serves. Then he is told he cannot lie down but must sit up. Someone else decides when he goes to lunch, to bed, everything. The only decision he gets to make all day is what he's going to think about as he sits in his black bug.
I took him for a walk, pushing his wheelchair everywhere we could go. Finally we went back to his room. He was always begging to go back to bed, but his nurse would tell him NO. She said he had to sit up a while to get stronger. If he just lay in bed, he'd never get stronger, never get to go back to Highgrove, where he had a private room and his own furniture and was teacher's pet. It shocked me when he told me he couldn't remember Highgrove, so the next morning I called Tammy, the administrator there, and she offered to go visit him at Avante, to cheer him up, to jog his memory, and to motivate him.
He was giving up. The fight was going out of him. He was still taking his meals in bed. Each day his eyes were red and swollen from crying, and he begged anyone who came to see him to please take him with them when they left. He asked me, "Why can't I just go live with you til I die?" I tried to explain that my bedrooms are upstairs and he can't even walk to the bathroom, much less up a flight of stairs. I didn't remind him that he bought his long-term-care insurance so that I would never have to "take care of" him. I didn't remind him that I have a mother, too. Those of you who read my post about my shaky relationship with my dad, about his abuse of my mother and me, will understand that I cannot wipe and bathe this man. My mind, which is bent, would break. If you'd like to read that post, you can find it at http://measuredcoffeespoons.blogspot.com/2011/02/have-you-got-any-news.html.
I saw him again yesterday. I go as frequently as I can. Yesterday I gussied up in white cropped pants, a red silk shell, and a matching red long-sleeved blouse (it was a cool day). And my red wedge sandals. I wore all this red because I wanted to cheer Dad up and I wanted to play up the beautiful new earrings that Carol gave me when we went for our Buddhist chanting meeting last Tuesday night. They are red and silver. The silver part is a butterfly. I had told Carol how much I liked her butterfly earrings. I told her that when my precious German Shepherd Bo, the D.C. police dog flunk-out, died, my mother and I decided to make butterflies the symbol of Bo and his spirit. So I think of him, he who had made it through all the obedience parts of training and was the best dog I ever had, I think of him whenever I see a butterfly. Carol remembered all this. She has a friend who makes jewelry, and she had these made for me, and I wore the red and silver butterfly earrings yesterday.
Dad and I visited in his room for quite a while, talking. His eyes were no longer red and swollen. He's beginning to accept being there. For a nursing home, Avante is a wonderful place, but by definition, nursing homes are depressing to me and to him. When I was young, just out of college and working at my first job, I lived next door to an older gentleman, Mr. Foxe, who visited his elderly mother in a nursing home every Sunday afternoon. His kitchen window faced my living room windows. Every Sunday night, I would see Mr. Foxe standing in his kitchen drinking shots. Now I understand.
When it was almost time for Dad to go to the dining room for lunch - Yay! They don't bring him a tray anymore! - I left to spend some time with my 86-year-old mom. The two of them have been divorced for 40 years. I'm their only child. This ain't easy.
I went to Mom's house and convinced her to let me take her out to lunch. She finally agreed, but just so I'd get a good lunch. She didn't feel she was dressed up enough, and she didn't feel like changing, so she just decided to go to the Mayberry (yes, it's true) Restaurant just as she was. We each ordered sandwiches in this very popular, crowded, and very casual place. When once again she commented that she did not look good enough to be there, I said, "Mom, we are eating sandwiches on paper in plastic baskets. How good does one need to look in a place like this?" She laughed. Besides, she looked fine and was dressed nicely. After lunch, we headed for the grocery store and picked up some groceries for her. I wanted to get more, but she can be stubborn. We got her groceries in and put away. Then we hugged and told each other how much fun lunch had been and how much we loved each other. She stood in her open front door as I drove out of sight. My last sight of her is her waving to me as I pulled away in tears.
It was back to the nursing home to check on Dad before heading back to Greensboro to collapse. He told me he thinks he lost his wallet at the swimming pool. He hasn't been near a pool in years. When it was time for me to go, he didn't ask me to take him with me, but he did ask to see me to my car and watch me drive away. So I pushed his wheelchair into the lobby and placed him by a front window. I pointed out my car. A nursing administrator was in the lobby, and he offered to take Dad back to his room after I left, so I could grant his wish. I drove away and could see him waving in the window, and for the second time yesterday, I broke into tears.
Dad's got a long way to go in 2 short weeks or he loses his room at Highgrove. He has to become ambulatory, and right now he is just too weak to walk. The tests the hospital did show that he did not have a stroke causing the fall. Nor did he sustain a concussion in the fall. Yet that fall accelerated his dementia significantly. At this point I don't know if he will be able to go home to Highgrove or not. I pray for this. I chant for this. And don't think I don't know how lucky my mom and I are that she is able to be so independent at her age. We are thankful for that.
And I was thankful for Kia and the Kats when I got home, got into comfortable clothes and crashed on the sofa.
This "parents in the eighties" thing is hard as hell.
Two weeks ago today, I received a call from the assisted living center where my dad, who will be 87 in September, lives. They told me that he had been sent to the hospital Emergency Room after taking a bad fall. I called Van, my cousin, Dad's nephew, who went straight to the hospital. By the time I got there, they had decided to admit Dad. He didn't look like a man who had fallen. He looked like a man who had been bludgeoned violently by a madman. There were cuts, scrapes, scratches, and bruises all over him, and he was completely disoriented. He has dementia anyway, but he was totally out of it that day.
Dad spent four days in the hospital and then was discharged to a skilled nursing home. Highgrove, the assisted living center, will hold his room for a total of 30 days. So for a while he can go to Avante for rehabilitation, which he desperately needed, for he couldn't even sit up on his own. He seemed to me months from being able to get in and out of bed on his own or taking himself to the bathroom. And he was totally incontinent. He was as weak as a spaghetti noodle. At Avante he will have physical therapy every day. They will try to build his strength back.
Avante is just across the street and down the block from the hospital, so I walked over to do the paperwork. There was more paperwork than in my last mortgage. But I met the admissions director, who was very kind to me, and the social worker, who took me to her office so that she could learn a bit about Dad. She, too, was kind and gentle with me, a nervous daughter. When I first turned from the public areas to walk with her down the hallway past the rooms of residents and patients, my first vision took my breath away. There down both sides of the hall, all the way down the left, all the way down the right, were black faux-leather wheelchairs, each with a resident sitting in it. A few residents were trying to make their way up or down the hall, but most of the others were just sitting there. Many were resting their heads on their chests; some had their eyes closed and their mouths open. From the opening at the head of the hall, where I got my first glimpse, the black chairs looked like big black bugs crawling along the baseboard. It was to me a most distressing sight.
The next day, my father was transferred by ambulance from the hospital to the nursing home. I had gotten seven days' of clothing from Highgrove, and I had bought him some new socks and underwear, and new trousers in a much smaller size. He has lost so much weight, his pants were just barely hanging on him. And a new, smaller belt. He was okay for shirts, shoes, pajamas, robe. I tried so hard to think of everything he'd need and to move it from Highgrove to Avante or to buy it new. They placed Dad in a bed in a room he shares with a much younger gentleman. They brought his meals to his room and he ate on the over-the-bed tray for a few days. And he wore pajamas for one day.
Then came Day Two. When I arrived, I walked through the lobby as always, seeing the nice and friendly people, making my way to the wards. I turned onto B, which is Dad's. And there he was. In a black bug. I'm so sorry to have to say that my first emotion was grief that my Dad was one of the ones out there in the hall just sitting in a wheelchair doing nothing. It was only my second thought to be happy that he had been given a good bath and a shave and dressed in street clothes. All I could see was how skinny he is, and the black bug. My heart broke. But I was able to shift my consciousness to focus on his gains. He was sitting up; he was dressed, even though he was having to wear Depends. But think about it. His life is out of his own hands now. Someone else wakes him up, picks out the day's clothing, helps him bathe and dress. The home serves the breakfast that it serves. Then he is told he cannot lie down but must sit up. Someone else decides when he goes to lunch, to bed, everything. The only decision he gets to make all day is what he's going to think about as he sits in his black bug.
I took him for a walk, pushing his wheelchair everywhere we could go. Finally we went back to his room. He was always begging to go back to bed, but his nurse would tell him NO. She said he had to sit up a while to get stronger. If he just lay in bed, he'd never get stronger, never get to go back to Highgrove, where he had a private room and his own furniture and was teacher's pet. It shocked me when he told me he couldn't remember Highgrove, so the next morning I called Tammy, the administrator there, and she offered to go visit him at Avante, to cheer him up, to jog his memory, and to motivate him.
He was giving up. The fight was going out of him. He was still taking his meals in bed. Each day his eyes were red and swollen from crying, and he begged anyone who came to see him to please take him with them when they left. He asked me, "Why can't I just go live with you til I die?" I tried to explain that my bedrooms are upstairs and he can't even walk to the bathroom, much less up a flight of stairs. I didn't remind him that he bought his long-term-care insurance so that I would never have to "take care of" him. I didn't remind him that I have a mother, too. Those of you who read my post about my shaky relationship with my dad, about his abuse of my mother and me, will understand that I cannot wipe and bathe this man. My mind, which is bent, would break. If you'd like to read that post, you can find it at http://measuredcoffeespoons.blogspot.com/2011/02/have-you-got-any-news.html.
I saw him again yesterday. I go as frequently as I can. Yesterday I gussied up in white cropped pants, a red silk shell, and a matching red long-sleeved blouse (it was a cool day). And my red wedge sandals. I wore all this red because I wanted to cheer Dad up and I wanted to play up the beautiful new earrings that Carol gave me when we went for our Buddhist chanting meeting last Tuesday night. They are red and silver. The silver part is a butterfly. I had told Carol how much I liked her butterfly earrings. I told her that when my precious German Shepherd Bo, the D.C. police dog flunk-out, died, my mother and I decided to make butterflies the symbol of Bo and his spirit. So I think of him, he who had made it through all the obedience parts of training and was the best dog I ever had, I think of him whenever I see a butterfly. Carol remembered all this. She has a friend who makes jewelry, and she had these made for me, and I wore the red and silver butterfly earrings yesterday.
Dad and I visited in his room for quite a while, talking. His eyes were no longer red and swollen. He's beginning to accept being there. For a nursing home, Avante is a wonderful place, but by definition, nursing homes are depressing to me and to him. When I was young, just out of college and working at my first job, I lived next door to an older gentleman, Mr. Foxe, who visited his elderly mother in a nursing home every Sunday afternoon. His kitchen window faced my living room windows. Every Sunday night, I would see Mr. Foxe standing in his kitchen drinking shots. Now I understand.
When it was almost time for Dad to go to the dining room for lunch - Yay! They don't bring him a tray anymore! - I left to spend some time with my 86-year-old mom. The two of them have been divorced for 40 years. I'm their only child. This ain't easy.
I went to Mom's house and convinced her to let me take her out to lunch. She finally agreed, but just so I'd get a good lunch. She didn't feel she was dressed up enough, and she didn't feel like changing, so she just decided to go to the Mayberry (yes, it's true) Restaurant just as she was. We each ordered sandwiches in this very popular, crowded, and very casual place. When once again she commented that she did not look good enough to be there, I said, "Mom, we are eating sandwiches on paper in plastic baskets. How good does one need to look in a place like this?" She laughed. Besides, she looked fine and was dressed nicely. After lunch, we headed for the grocery store and picked up some groceries for her. I wanted to get more, but she can be stubborn. We got her groceries in and put away. Then we hugged and told each other how much fun lunch had been and how much we loved each other. She stood in her open front door as I drove out of sight. My last sight of her is her waving to me as I pulled away in tears.
It was back to the nursing home to check on Dad before heading back to Greensboro to collapse. He told me he thinks he lost his wallet at the swimming pool. He hasn't been near a pool in years. When it was time for me to go, he didn't ask me to take him with me, but he did ask to see me to my car and watch me drive away. So I pushed his wheelchair into the lobby and placed him by a front window. I pointed out my car. A nursing administrator was in the lobby, and he offered to take Dad back to his room after I left, so I could grant his wish. I drove away and could see him waving in the window, and for the second time yesterday, I broke into tears.
Dad's got a long way to go in 2 short weeks or he loses his room at Highgrove. He has to become ambulatory, and right now he is just too weak to walk. The tests the hospital did show that he did not have a stroke causing the fall. Nor did he sustain a concussion in the fall. Yet that fall accelerated his dementia significantly. At this point I don't know if he will be able to go home to Highgrove or not. I pray for this. I chant for this. And don't think I don't know how lucky my mom and I are that she is able to be so independent at her age. We are thankful for that.
And I was thankful for Kia and the Kats when I got home, got into comfortable clothes and crashed on the sofa.
This "parents in the eighties" thing is hard as hell.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
I'm still here!
Well, I'm still alive. The FBI says I was a victim of a scam they so imaginatively call "The Hit Man Scam," and the local police couldn't even find out that much. Apparently, the scam started in Russia in 2006 targeting people in the Pacific Northwest, and by now it can come from anywhere and find you all over the United States. So many people in countries less rich than ours think that each individual American is rich, so we make their favorite marks. Thanks for all of you who emailed me or commented and expressed your concern.
A bigger problem is my pancreas. Test results are ambiguous. The biopsy could only obtain fluid from the cyst, no tissue, because of the difficult location of the pancreas. My doctor wants to watch and wait and repeat the test in 3 months. He has decided my pain doesn't come from the pancreas. There's no evidence of this, he just decided it. The pain is right where the tests showed the cyst to be. My MRI indicated a mucinous cystadenoma, which the Mayo clinic website says is precancerous or cancer. I'm thinking of going to another doctor for a second opinion. I know the pancreas is very hard to get to, and that is why most cancers are so advanced by the time they are found. As a result, pancreatic cancer is almost always terminal. Here's a chance to catch one early, but the guy's doing nothing. But it's still early. Thanks for asking.
I want to write soon about Mitt Romney and other topics, but for today let me just share with you this morning a photo of the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, one of the most beautiful places on earth.
A bigger problem is my pancreas. Test results are ambiguous. The biopsy could only obtain fluid from the cyst, no tissue, because of the difficult location of the pancreas. My doctor wants to watch and wait and repeat the test in 3 months. He has decided my pain doesn't come from the pancreas. There's no evidence of this, he just decided it. The pain is right where the tests showed the cyst to be. My MRI indicated a mucinous cystadenoma, which the Mayo clinic website says is precancerous or cancer. I'm thinking of going to another doctor for a second opinion. I know the pancreas is very hard to get to, and that is why most cancers are so advanced by the time they are found. As a result, pancreatic cancer is almost always terminal. Here's a chance to catch one early, but the guy's doing nothing. But it's still early. Thanks for asking.
I want to write soon about Mitt Romney and other topics, but for today let me just share with you this morning a photo of the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, one of the most beautiful places on earth.
Monday, June 6, 2011
The Blue Ridge
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| The Blue Ridge |
And when I turn homeward
My heart breaks in song,
For the high hills and mountains
Are where I belong.
"The High Hills and Mountains," a song by Jean Ritchie
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Sarah Palin and Paul Revere
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| Statue of Paul Revere in front of the Old North Church in Boston. |
I can't believe it. Sarah Palin visited Paul Revere's House and the Old North Church in Boston last week and said this:
He warned the the British that they weren't going to be taking away our arms by ringing those bells and um making sure as he's riding his horse through town to send those warning shots and bells that we were gonna be secure and we were gonna be free.
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo! We just went through this in mid-March with Michele Bachmann, who thought the Shot Heard 'Round the World at Lexington and Concord took place in New Hampshire, not Massachusetts. I wrote a blog post based on Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem "Paul Revere's Ride" on March 15 to inform Michele that Paul Revere set out late on the 18th of April in 1775 when the lamps appeared in the belfry of the Old North Church in Boston. It was in the wee hours of the morning of April 19, 1775, when Revere arrived in Lexington, then Concord an hour later, warning the militias that the British were coming. It was in the battle that ensued at Lexington and Concord, Massachusetts, that the Shot Heard 'Round the world was fired. It's a great post. Click on the link below, and read it and enjoy!
Michele Bachmann and What?
And now we have Sarah Palin mangling the beginning of Paul Revere's ride. And what amazes me most about both women is that it is clear that Bachmann has no idea the Lexington and Concord have anything to do with Paul Revere's ride and it is clear that Palin has no idea that Paul Revere's ride has anything to do with Lexington and Concord. Forget the bells. That's just nuts. They should have known the link between the beginning and end of Paul Revere's ride, the link between Paul Revere and Lexington and Concord, the link between Paul Revere and the Shot Heard 'Round the World since they were nine years old. And they are considered serious contenders for Commander in Chief. Oh, God help us.
I don't have the energy to write a whole new blog post for Palin when everything I said about Bachmann on March 15 works for her, too. It's a fun post. I had a blast writing it, and I hope you will click on the link and give it a read.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Surprise! It's a Death Threat!
Yesterday afternoon at 3:34 pm, I received a death threat.
A hit man somewhere in this big world sent me an email message informing me that someone whom I call my friend wants me dead. He has already been paid to do the deed. He has already investigated me and found me and is all set and ready to go. But he has the "friend" on tape. He offered me an exchange. My life and that tape for $8,000.00. I really would have thought I'd be worth more than $8,000 and was a little hurt, but it is okay because I can't afford even the $8K.
The email's provenance in very confusing. When the mail came in, it was listed as from Grace King. On the email itself it says reply to <jerryhong1@megamail.pt>. Megamail is an email service in Portugal I learned. The return path of the email is listed as <mrsking88888888888.ffffffffffffff@msn.com>. That's America. In the body of the message, I was told to reply to Alex Igos at <alexigos@megamail.pt> Portugal again. To settle any doubts I may have, Mr. Igos, the author of the message, promised to send my name and address in his next email. He said the hit had to be performed within the next 10 days. I was instructed not to call to police and to tell no one.
The first things I did were to call the police and to post this on Facebook. A very nice and thorough officer came to my house twice yesterday afternoon and last night. He said he felt it was a scam - he called it "bull shit" - to extort money, but noted there was always a chance that I was truly in danger. Officer Mills recommended that I leave town for ten days. I have just had a biopsy done on a pancreatic cyst, I have 2 cats and a dog, I have depression...packing and actually leaving seems harder than dying.
Officer Mills filed his report and now the case is in the hands of investigators. Mills said he will now be "out of the loop." He was a nice man. I will miss him.
Late last night Mr. Alex Igos told me that he wants me to wire the money by Western Union to someone called Nzekwe Chinasa in the city of Cotonou in the Republic of Benin - another country, that makes 3, another continent, 3, - immediately. Otherwise he will go ahead with the hit. He says his network is all over the world and there is nowhere I can go to be safe. I emailed him back that it was 10 pm on a Friday night of a holiday weekend and there was no way I could meet his demand. I asked him to back up his promise to prove himself by showing that he knows where to find me. I asked him to send me my address.
So far, nothing.
This morning as I walked my precious dog Kia, a car pulled up beside me and stopped. The window went down. I was as calm and cool as a cucumber, but I believed with all my heart that a gun was going to appear in that window and that I would die there trying to walk my loving canine companion. But it was only a former neighbor, whose house here is for sale, coming to check on some things at the house. How nice to have friends to talk to, but I could have done without it this morning.
Now I am posting this, telling the whole world or anyone who will listen. This is a form of terrorism. The police asked so many personal questions about who might not like me that the questioning was painful. The stopping car almost stopped my heart. Maybe it is just a scam and they are hoping I will be so scared that I will wire them the money. They probably chose hundreds of Americans at random to receive their threats. Maybe they will punish me by killing me if I don't comply. I don't know. I don't recognize the world anymore, can't understand it. Maybe this is just a cruel update of the funds from Nigeria transfer scam. Watch this spot. See if I am still around in two weeks, and pray for me about that biopsy. The doctor said it was ambiguous so he want to watch it and repeat it in 3 or 4 months.
Still no more messages from Alex Igos <alexigos@megamail.pt> in Portugal who wants his money wired to Africa. What is going on?
Oh, and the messages from Alex Igos? They were all signed William Yahman. What a jumble to make it hard to trace.
A hit man somewhere in this big world sent me an email message informing me that someone whom I call my friend wants me dead. He has already been paid to do the deed. He has already investigated me and found me and is all set and ready to go. But he has the "friend" on tape. He offered me an exchange. My life and that tape for $8,000.00. I really would have thought I'd be worth more than $8,000 and was a little hurt, but it is okay because I can't afford even the $8K.
The email's provenance in very confusing. When the mail came in, it was listed as from Grace King. On the email itself it says reply to <jerryhong1@megamail.pt>. Megamail is an email service in Portugal I learned. The return path of the email is listed as <mrsking88888888888.ffffffffffffff@msn.com>. That's America. In the body of the message, I was told to reply to Alex Igos at <alexigos@megamail.pt> Portugal again. To settle any doubts I may have, Mr. Igos, the author of the message, promised to send my name and address in his next email. He said the hit had to be performed within the next 10 days. I was instructed not to call to police and to tell no one.
The first things I did were to call the police and to post this on Facebook. A very nice and thorough officer came to my house twice yesterday afternoon and last night. He said he felt it was a scam - he called it "bull shit" - to extort money, but noted there was always a chance that I was truly in danger. Officer Mills recommended that I leave town for ten days. I have just had a biopsy done on a pancreatic cyst, I have 2 cats and a dog, I have depression...packing and actually leaving seems harder than dying.
Officer Mills filed his report and now the case is in the hands of investigators. Mills said he will now be "out of the loop." He was a nice man. I will miss him.
Late last night Mr. Alex Igos told me that he wants me to wire the money by Western Union to someone called Nzekwe Chinasa in the city of Cotonou in the Republic of Benin - another country, that makes 3, another continent, 3, - immediately. Otherwise he will go ahead with the hit. He says his network is all over the world and there is nowhere I can go to be safe. I emailed him back that it was 10 pm on a Friday night of a holiday weekend and there was no way I could meet his demand. I asked him to back up his promise to prove himself by showing that he knows where to find me. I asked him to send me my address.
So far, nothing.
This morning as I walked my precious dog Kia, a car pulled up beside me and stopped. The window went down. I was as calm and cool as a cucumber, but I believed with all my heart that a gun was going to appear in that window and that I would die there trying to walk my loving canine companion. But it was only a former neighbor, whose house here is for sale, coming to check on some things at the house. How nice to have friends to talk to, but I could have done without it this morning.
Now I am posting this, telling the whole world or anyone who will listen. This is a form of terrorism. The police asked so many personal questions about who might not like me that the questioning was painful. The stopping car almost stopped my heart. Maybe it is just a scam and they are hoping I will be so scared that I will wire them the money. They probably chose hundreds of Americans at random to receive their threats. Maybe they will punish me by killing me if I don't comply. I don't know. I don't recognize the world anymore, can't understand it. Maybe this is just a cruel update of the funds from Nigeria transfer scam. Watch this spot. See if I am still around in two weeks, and pray for me about that biopsy. The doctor said it was ambiguous so he want to watch it and repeat it in 3 or 4 months.
Still no more messages from Alex Igos <alexigos@megamail.pt> in Portugal who wants his money wired to Africa. What is going on?
Oh, and the messages from Alex Igos? They were all signed William Yahman. What a jumble to make it hard to trace.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
depression
abject, barren, bleak, blue, dejected, depressed, desolate, despair, desperate, despondent, destroyed, devastated, disconsolate, discouraged, dismal, dispirited, doleful, dolorous, down, downcast, downhearted, forlorn, gloomy, glum, grieving, grim, hopeless, joyless, lachrymose, lonely, malignant, melancholy, mirthless, miserable, mortified, mournful, sad, solitary, solitude, somber, sorrow, suffering, suicide, unhappy, wistful, woeful, wretched...
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