Line Up To Eat Me!

They are the “Greatest Generation.”

Threadbare and creative with recycling, they survived the Great Depression. The men, without reservation, signed up for probable death fighting imperialism in the Pacific and fascism and utter horror in Europe.

The women, unable to fight in the military, stayed home and kept the country’s factories and infrastructure running. As a sign of respect, men wore hats and removed them upon entering a building, also as a sign of respect.

After the war, women outside the workforce kept the houses clean, raised the children, and had dinner waiting when their husbands came home from work.

Before buying a piece of clothing, stitches underwent the scrutiny of the consumer, and fabric ran between judgmental fingers. People expected to buy furniture only once, ever, and furniture was treated with delicacy; often covered with plastic to protect the fabric from stains.

Members of this generation referred to each other respectfully, using the nearly antiquated terms “Missus, Mister, and Miss,” until it was agreed that to do so would negate the intimacy of friendships that were built to last as long as the furniture. Neighbors could be relied upon to wave a friendly greeting and lend the occasional cup of sugar.

This is the generation that bears witness to the 20th century in its entirety. Members don’t have to use the Wikipedia to know who Joe McCarthy was and what he was about. The Greatest Generation lived passionately, paving the way for Civil Rights to take hold, for women and other minorities to start to knock down the walls of prejudice and inequality.

I am proud that my grandmother is a member of that Generation. She remembers everything. She can solve a New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle in 10 minutes flat. After I’d been practicing the game of cribbage for a year, I challenged her to a game. She skunked me no less than three times in one game.

And don’t you dare call her “Kaye.” It’s “Mrs. Clarke” to you, buster.

She is a formidable woman, a product of the years she lived and survived as the daughter of settlers on Vashon Island, later living in both Anchorage and Seattle.

Few non-Japanese people were certified to teach the intricate and difficult method of Japanese embroidery called Bunka. As long as I can remember, her fingers were nimble and sure, working quickly to fill an 18×36 canvas with embroidered images of fish, roses, birds, and replications of classic and historic paintings and landscapes.

She tried to teach me Bunka, but I didn’t have the patience. As a member of Generation X, my mind wanders, even when my hands are not idle, devil’s playthings. I couldn’t stare at the needle and thread as my fingers worked to poke it through canvas, trapping the thread below with a firm scratch, for hours at a time.

My grandmother could embroider all day and into the night, and she taught many Japanese immigrants her art, which originated in their country of origin. She is still corresponding with the majority of those women, and is fond of reminiscing about the days her basement classroom was full of the delightful Japanese women who attended class toward the sole end of maintaining their heritage and traditions.

Every time she and I enter a restaurant where she’s been before, there’s a staff member who remembers her kindness and faithful correspondence with them and their families.

Everybody loves her. She smiles without reason, and laughs easily with a palpable generosity of spirit and friendship.

Until she re-married at the age of 81, Gram worked for at least three companies as a bookkeeper. She loathes inactivity, and it drives her crazy to have the television on during the day, unless there’s a baseball game to watch.

A couple of years ago, Gram was diagnosed with congenital heart failure. She’s been able to lessen her decline with medication and concentrated oxygen intake. Occasionally, she requires hospitalization, usually for one night or so.

Yesterday, she was admitted into Valley Medical Center through the Emergency Room. She had fluid on her heart, and could barely breathe. Death drew nearer to her than it had ever dared. She waited six hours to be seen.

Upon examining her, the ER doctor said, “If she was 50 years old, I’d run all sorts of tests, but in her state, there isn’t a lot I can do.”

He admitted her, thus transferring responsibility of her care to another physician. He all but said, “Let’s just put her in a room and let her die.”

Overnight, with medication, Gram clawed her way back to life. Her nurse confirmed that she was in decent shape, and would probably be discharged. A family member was with her all day until about 6 in the evening.

No doctor had examined or even seen Gram since the ER last night; nearly 24 hours would pass before one would. In the HOSPITAL, where there is a high concentration of physicians, not a single doctor even poked a head in her doorway to say hello. It was like going to the zoo without encountering a single animal.

Around 7 in the evening, a doctor finally arrived and told Gram she’d have to stay a couple more days because of fluid congestion around her heart.

Gram lived through the night by sheer dumb luck.

Valley Medical Center’s physicians appear to have forgotten that people Gram’s age ARE the Greatest Generation. They have lived so long and given so much of themselves, enabling today’s doctors and lawyers and general public to enjoy the freedom and pride we each enjoy. Every single person they encounter owes them respect.

Once a person passes 80 years old, they deserve the same, if not better, level of care and attention from medical professionals as their children and grandchildren.

When I hear of someone who, through neglect and apathy, inflicts harm and discomfort onto my grandmother, I can’t describe the feeling.

Nobody’s loved ones should have to endure pain and near death due to the ignorance, arrogance, and total lack of humanity shown by the physicians and staff at Valley Medical Center in Renton, Washington.

If you need to take a loved one to the hospital, and you don’t want them to suffer and/or die, STAY AWAY FROM VALLEY MEDICAL CENTER in Renton, Washington.

Valley Medical Center, get in line to eat me .

Signed,
Gram’s granddaughter