Sunday, December 15, 2013
Friday, December 13, 2013
The Problem of Physical Medical Records and Silent Diseases (revision of Ch 7 excerpt)
Knowing of Dustin’s disease and
shortened life expectancy since the age of three, I grew up well informed about
myotonic dystrophy. Or rather, I thought
I did. My father told me soon after Dustin was born that my brother was likely
to die before I did. As a three year
old, I doubt I understood much of what that really meant, but Dustin’s
condition and outlook were never a secret from me. I knew my brother needed open heart surgery
soon after birth, required help breathing in the first three months of his
life, had a feeding tube for the first six years and wore oxygen in his nose to
bed until he was 11 or so. I knew
myotonic dystrophy gave my brother weaker muscles, that he had inherited the
gene from my mother and that I was likely unaffected based on my good health
and academic success. It seemed I knew
quite a lot about muscles and genetics for being so young.
Growing up I grappled with the
proposition that my brother was likely never to walk. I went along to multiple doctor visits to
evaluate Dustin’s ‘club foot’, a condition I didn’t know the technical term
for, ‘talipes’, until 15 years later. I
knew my brother’s feet curved in a way that caused his toes to curl in and
under towards the arch of his foot. I
remember reading in the hospital waiting room as Dustin underwent surgery for a
third time to tighten his Achilles tendon to correct the bend of his feet and
enable him to walk. The doctor let me
feel the mold for Dustin’s leg braces before it were to be cast. In caring for
a severely handicapped child, it is important all capable willing members of
the family are knowledgeable in how to assist in the daily exercises to build
strength and gain skill, and that the family members feel excited and important
in assisting the handicapped child. In
subsequent visits, I was taught how to put the braces on Dustin, tied his shoes
over them, lead Dustin to the rail, and helped him take steps.
In one visit where the doctor wanted to
train the family to teach Dustin to walk, I wondered if my brother would let me
help, or if I would be any good in helping my brother to do something he had
never before been able to do. I
approached the room my brother was in tentatively, wanting so much to be a part
of helping my brother to walk, to be more like me, to overcome the odds and
nervous that Dustin might not let me help.
Luckily, he was in a good mood and receptive; when I walked into the
room and said his name with open arms to go hug him, his lips raised in a
smile, he brought his hand to his mouth, shot his legs out in excitement, and gurgled
in delight, welcoming me in the activity as if what the doctor had done was a
game.
I smiled at my brother, and playfully
called him by his nickname: “Hey udey-dude.”
Dustin seemed relaxed, and apparently the doctor approved as he placed
the brace in my hand. In my left palm I
held the smooth back of the brace which was molded to my brother’s leg, curved
and smooth. In my right hand I held the
flat based that would go under his foot.
The inside was molded to his foot, but the outside was formed to create
a solid base and felt more like an odd type of dress shoe. I rubbed my thumb on the inside where the
ball of my brother’s foot would sit. It
had a crisscrossed pattern across it to create friction and prevent
slippage. The brace was impressively
light and durable. I raised the brace to
my brother’s foot, slid his heel deep into the corner of the brace, moved my
left hand to cover the front of his leg and hold the grace, then took the
bottom Velcro in my right hand, pulled it over his foot, and secured the Velcro
tightly onto the other side of the brace.
I pushed his calf against the back of the brace securely and began to
take the bottom strap diagonally to the top Velcro catch, then crisscrossed the
top strap to the bottom Velcro. Dustin’s
foot was secure and he didn’t seem to mind the brace. I eagerly took his
already loosened shoes, maneuvered them over the brace and his foot, and
carefully tied his shoe over the brace. I
had gotten to practice the steps of strapping my brother into the brace and
tying his shoes over them before; however, today was going to add another step
I had not yet been allowed to do.
I
felt my chest leap with excitement as we lead Dustin to the rails. I held my brother’s hand, smiled at him and
placed his hand on the rail. He let out
a breath which hissed in a tone between excitement and caution. His hand said he trusted me, but his eyes
widened as he looked down at his feet and realized how high up his head was
compared to when he sat on the floor.
His scrawny legs were weak and wobbly, awkwardly small amid his large
knobby knees and bulky braces. The physical
therapist in the room reached down to move Dustin’s leg, one at a time, and my
brother stepped about three feet with the therapist moving his legs, me holding
just above his hips, and the doctor watching.
It felt like a success and for a while my young heart thought anything was
possible.
As a child, I was told about myotonic dystrophy
in cautionary, optimistic tones. The
adults around Dustin wanted me to care about my brother and be hopeful, but
they didn’t want me to think the answer to Dustin’s troubles were like
something that Santa was going to deliver after flying to my roof and climbing
through my chimney. When the doctor
wanted to train me to help Dustin walk, I was partially seen as a resource who
could assist in getting Dustin daily practice and repetitions. I was an eager young girl who believed in her
brother getting stronger without the limits of logic or the experience of
seeing someone get weaker instead of stronger.
I was youthfully and eternally convinced that my brother could learn to
walk. I think the doctor was partially
willing to involve me in the process so that I didn’t hurt my brother by trying
on my own without training.
As Dustin passed infancy and grew from a
toddler to a young child, his body seemed to become healthier and more
durable. His vitality and capabilities
increased with time. By the time of the
attempts to get Dustin to walk, he no longer needed his feeding tube, but could
feed himself with a spoon or fork. He no
longer needed oxygen and could communicate with varying pitches and tones in
most vowel sounds and a large range of consonants. Dustin was able to wheel himself to the balloons
at Wal-Mart, interact during recess at school, and scoot anywhere in the house
using his arms to push his bottom forward. While his obstacles at birth were
severe and life threatening, his prognosis seemed to be ever improving as he
outlasted life expectancy predictions and progressed in ways doctors said he
never would. Learning to walk seemed
like the next logical step. All the news
that reached my ears seemed to be good news and besides when he was sick, I had
only seen my brother get stronger over the years; even when Dustin was sick, I’d
be told with the right medical attention, he would be ok. I began to think that
with enough prayer and willpower, anything could happen if God were
willing.
I wished fervently for my brother to be
able to walk. I prayed for him nightly,
threw quarters in wishing wells, and was diligent in helping him wear his
braces and insisted on constant walking practices with him after school. I would stretch
my brother’s legs, rotate his ankles, do resistance exercises and help him
practice standing. However, it didn’t
take long before Dustin didn’t enjoy wearing the braces much, and
sometimes I would want to practice longer than he was comfortable. My 10 year old brain was convinced my brother
was gaining strength and would one day be able to walk because he had broken so
many limiting expectations in the past.
At times I would hold Dustin’s hand next
to a rail, at others I would have him hold onto my waist and we would walk
together. After a while, our public
school built an apparatus which was basically a long flat board with side
supports and hand rail on either side so Dustin had a platform to walk
across. He had a stander at school, and
various walking assistance equipment. At
home, when Dustin would seem as if he were done walking, often I would have him
stand leaning on the couch. My fifth
grade logic thought this good practice, that standing after he had worked the
muscles would build good endurance and lead to muscle strength. I wanted my
will power and effort to be able to change the predictions on the limits of my
brother’s potential.
Dustin would lean with his forarms
resting on the edge of the couch. He was
tall enough that he would bend at the hip, his waist jutting out awkwardly from
side to side as he rotated his balance.
His knobby knees would dwarf the size of his calf muscles, which looked
like flabby flat skin hanging loosely from his bone. The braces seemed to double the width of his
ankles and extended almost half way up his leg.
He had to wear high top sneakers with the braces, which were filled to
capacity and were laced tight to hold the shoe in place. Occasionally, even with the braces, his
ankles would give as he adjust the weight around his hips and he would stand
with one foot flatly on the ground and the other would have rolled so that most
the side of his shoe touched the carpet.
After the third surgery, my brother again
seemed to be defying odds and was able to stand longer and even began to show
some definition in his calf muscles.
However, with his muscle condition, my brother’s feet did not quite look
like mine, even after a third surgery.
The weak muscles would not hold the tendon tight, and his feet again
began to curve in. His braces became a
discomfort, and weren’t fixing the problem or giving my brother a stable
surface to stand on. So, we took on more stretches and foot
rotations, trying to build strength in and around Dustin’s ankles so the
tendons would straighten. Sometimes, I
would add extra stretches in before bed or before school when Dustin woke up. I
persisted in practicing standing and walking with my brother. Three surgeries would be a waste without
appropriate practice.
I was watching my brother stand at the
couch a few months after his third foot surgery when my father came home from
working at the water treatment plant on Hill Air Force Base, in Utah . My father was dressed in his fatigues and had
the usual sweat and dirt on his uniform from a hard day’s work. Dustin was
standing, bent over on the hip with most the weight resting on his arms against
the back of the couch, grunting in a whining tone and shifting his weight
uncomfortably. My father saw my brother,
recognized his discomfort, and asked in a startled voice, “How long has he been
standing there?”
I had wanted my brother to practice, and
as a young child, even as an adult, I am not gifted in understanding other’s
limits. I’m not sure how long I had my
brother standing there, but I knew he wanted down, and I know I didn’t want to
let him, because in my mind practice, determination, and positive thinking lead
to physical growth and strength. My brother
had no graceful harm-free way to let himself down from standing next to the
couch without simply crumpling to the floor.
My father walked at a quickened pace over to where my brother stood,
bent over so his knee was on the ground and wrapped one arm under my brother’s
legs and one arm around his back. My
brother immediately embraced his father, reaching desperately around Randy’s
neck and letting his frail body fall into my father’s strong embrace. Randy
carried Dustin over to his favorite toys in the living room, placed him gently
on the floor, and began to play puppets with my brother, having Mickey ask
Dustin how his legs felt as if it were part of the game. I watched as my father’s tired and tight
muscles relaxed on the floor next to my brother’s tired and flaccid muscles,
watched their joy in playing and enjoying their moments together. I knew something in what I did was wrong.
After my brother went to sleep, my
father explained that Dustin’s body was different, that the surgeons were
trying to help Dustin walk by enabling his feet to look and stand the way mine
did, but even after that, Dustin’s muscles would have to grow strong enough to
hold his body weight and he would have to learn the skill of walking. It was going to be a long process. I had to be gentle with my brother. Tough practice wasn’t going to make his body
like mine; Dustin was just built different from me and for that I was very
fortunate. Dustin was never going to run
as fast as I did or try to practice pushups with his feet propped up on the
coffee table in the living room to try to win a grade school Presidential
Fitness award. The way I thought wasn’t
going to change my brother’s muscles and I could really hurt him in trying.
At that age, I was bigger than all the
boys in my class, finished fourth in the mile out of all the top runners, and
was routinely picked first or second when all the boys got together to play
recess football. If I tried harder, I
did better; I was strong and I was big.
For a month before the fifth “President’s Physical Fitness Challenge” I
‘trained’ at the house doing push-ups using the coffee table as an incline,
pull ups in dad’s closet, trampoline jumping acrobatics, and gave targeted
attention to the V-Stretch, my usual lowest score. Limits, in my young mind, were obstacles set
to be mentally broken by those tough enough to push through pain. I thought because my brother had defied so
many odds and expectations with good health in the past that with the right
mind set and unfaltering effort he could be pushed into walking. However, pushing my brother in the way I
pushed myself didn’t bring him to walk, and my blind optimism and stubborn
determination brought him pain.
As the months passed after the surgery,
it became obvious that the progress was temporary and that my brother’s feet
would continue to curl back to where they were or worse. The doctors thought about taking muscle from
his knee or shoulder into his ankle, but in the end the process and training
was ruled too painful or futile to be worth the higher risks. Each year of my
brother’s life, my father’s military insurance deductible had to be paid in
full. Perhaps there were surgery types
available that could have helped Dustin walk, but with the financial bills we already
had and the rates the insurance company was paying the hospital, our money was
not going to buy Dustin a cutting edge experimental surgery. There would be no more corrective surgeries
or medical attempts to help Dustin walk on his own.
The special education department at school
still had time for Dustin in the stander, but he practiced taking steps for
shorter periods and eventually it was generally accepted that Dustin was not
ready to walk and would probably never walk unassisted. When the military changed my father’s
assignment and moved us to a new school district, Dustin did not have a walking
training program that focused on steps, but instead focused on him standing
longer periods. My brother’s progress
was no longer going forward with walking and instead the focus was shifted on
making his arms strong enough to maneuver himself in his wheelchair.
Most who are born with congenital
myotonic dystrophy and survive to age 10 can walk. However, Dustin’s mere survival was laughing
in the face of known medical odds.
Dustin’s myotonic dystrophy carried so many repeats of the wrong protein
triplet on chromosome 19 that he didn’t really fit medical textbook cases, or
there were enough additional birth complications that there was no simple
comparison. When he was born in 1989,
there weren’t many children who survived birth with myotonic dystrophy as
severe as his, and I have never met another as severe as my brother. The muscle disease often creates weak enough
hearts that infants don’t survive outside of the womb. My brother had successful heart surgery right
after birth. My brother turned blue from
lack of oxygen almost immediately after birth, and infants with myotonic
dystrophy often cannot breathe on their own.
However, Dustin had grown strong enough to only need oxygen at night
when he was sick. Many children born
with severe congenital myotonic dystrophy simply don’t survive except by stroke
of miracle or luck, or the improving medical services available and good
staff. Perhaps now, over twenty years of
medical advances later, I could find more children like my brother, or perhaps
with early detection that type of child is still rare because more are aborted
in utero than born in the modern era.
My brother had constant medical attention
from an experienced doctor at Wolford Hall Military Hospital. The military moved our family strategically
close to the best Air Force Hospital available.
In Salt Lake City, Dustin had a team of doctors, and a university
research hospital paid us to bring Dustin in for additional studies involving
graduate students and sleep studies.
Dustin was treated by well informed, well paid, highly intelligent,
caring individuals and he thrived in those circumstances to become a healthy
and happy young man who did not need oxygen, a feeding tube, or overnight
medical stays for years at time. His
severe case helped rewrite the medical research as a living example of a
genetic mutation that cause most to die in infancy and was a brilliant success
story of modern medicine and prayer.
My mother, however, fought the creeping
slowness of adult onset myotonic dystrophy in oblivion, away from all the
geneticists, large military hospitals, or graduate work research. She was diagnosed with myotonic dystrophy
soon after Dustin was born by a simple handshake. Myotonia is a condition where the muscles
have trouble relaxing after contracting.
If my mother shook someone’s hand, she would have to physically push her
palm back into place or wait a long time for it to return there itself. Myotonia is not present in congenital
myotonic dystrophy, but if a child survives into adulthood, the hand release
difficulty of myotonia appears. My
mother had it.
My mother was diagnosed in her medical
records as a carrier since 1989; she would be affected by the disease more and
more as time went on. While my father
was still in the military, when we were around the best medical care, my
mother’s disease did not have overt affects.
My father retired from the military in 1999, three years before Dustin
passed away, and thirteen before my mother died. Dustin’s medical records were extensive,
multiple huge folders worth. When we
lived in Utah, the last place my father was stationed, we had most of his
records, but some of the earliest were lost or discarded. My brother had a large enough file that no
doctor could go through all of it, nor would they need to. His disease was obvious. When my father retired from the military, the
family medical records were sent to the National Archives. If we knew more, we could have kept them, or
requested all of our records. We
didn’t. Dustin regularly saw a doctor in
Kansas, and the records from the last hospital were requested and sent. He lived in one city for the rest of his
life. His medical care was good enough.
My mother, however, did not have her
full medical records when she was taken to the hospital in small town Larned,
Kansas. From Larned, she had to wait
over two hours for an ambulance to take her to Hays Medical Center. Hays
Medical Center did get the medical records from Larned, but that apparently did
not include the diagnosis that my mother had myotonic dystrophy.
I've been told this was the first, or one of the first times I got to meet my brother - in a mask in a hospital.Tuesday, December 10, 2013
“And That Means I Can Do Anything” Cathartic Realism in the end of the curious incident of the dog in the night-time
Have you read the curious incident of the dog in the night-time? Great, read this analysis of the ending.
Critical Analysis with **SPOILERS OF ENDING****
http://www.amazon.com/The-Curious-Incident-Dog-Night-Time/dp/1400032717
Critical Analysis with **SPOILERS OF ENDING****
http://www.amazon.com/The-Curious-Incident-Dog-Night-Time/dp/1400032717
“And That Means I Can
Do Anything”
Cathartic Realism in
the end of the curious incident of the
dog in the night-time
The autistic juvenile narrator of the curious incident of the dog in the
night-time (hereafter the dog),
Christopher Boone, can be analyzed as a tragic hero who completes a quest. The novel ends with the haunting claim by
Christopher that he will achieve his dreams and be exactly what he envisions
himself to become, a scientist.
Christopher lacks a full sense of self-awareness. He believes his dreams will succeed because
he completed his ‘quest’. Christopher
believes he showed success and capability in going to London on his own,
solving the mystery of who killed Wellington, found his mother, was brave, and
wrote a book. Due to his self-perceived
success, Christopher concludes ‘that means I can do anything.’
The ending of this story is
intentionally meant to give the reader pause.
Christopher himself, being not fully aware of emotions, cannot
experience full catharsis as a tragic hero.
However, the artistic genius of the
dog is the author’s ability to let the narrator present a voice to the
reader which does not make conclusions or tell the reader what to think, thus
leaving the reader to analyze the narrator internally. The reader must contrast Christopher’s
optimistic self-assessment to realism.
Christopher cannot do anything and
everything he could envision. His trip
to London was not a success. Police were
looking for him, and at any moment he anxiously gripped a knife handle, unable
to serenely handle the human atmosphere around him. In solving who killed Wellington, he isolated
his father as a liar and refused to grow past that one fault to allow a
successful relationship. Christopher
found his mother, ruined her current relationship, and forced her back into a
life style she purposefully escaped. He
was brave, in a sense, but was incapable of enduring the stress of high human
interaction in the subway. He views his
quest as a success and a sign of growth, but to an astute reader, his quest is
seen as a series of near tragedies and life altering chaos for his
parents. In Christopher’s self-acclaimed
success and claim that he can do anything, the reader should see the subtle,
but climatic emphasis of the author’s purpose in writing the text: humans are
not capable of anything and everything, including those with disability;
thus, to show true empathy and emotional connection, we need to acknowledge the
difficulty in living with limits on our potential.
As the sister of a severely handicapped
brother, I empathize with Christopher’s family.
My brother Dustin, although a beautiful blessing, had mytonic dystrophy
and could not accurately claim he could do anything he wanted, in part because
he was not physically or mentally capable of speech. My parents, like Christopher’s, put
commendable amounts of effort and energy into caring for my brother. Along with that energy, came occasional
stress and frustration. The catharsis at
the end of the dog is not about
Christopher’s personal growth; in fact, he changes very little in course of the
novel. However, the catharsis rests in
the reader, who experiences an emotional cleansing of realism, acknowledging
that not everything is possible for everyone and moving forward from that
realization to accept that it is neither fair nor correct to expect everyone to
be the same, to be capable of all their dreams, or expect that living with
limits is easy on any one individual or their family.
We are not fantastical knights in a
story who all complete fairy-tale like quests and succeed in our goals. Life has real limits, challenges, and
risks. Christopher was brave, but in his
daring, he encountered a world that was not ready for him, and that he was not
ready for. His mother could not handle
the challenge of raising him and abandoned her family. His father loved him dearly, but after one
lie Christopher could not fathom living with the instability not being able to
believe everything his father said and refused the help of his most consistent
caretaker. The answer to life’s
challenges is not always success.
However, I believe Mark Haddon, in his tragic ending that the narrator
views as a success, wants to encourage empathy for those with disabilities and
their families in acknowledging that the path is not easy and that there is no
clear ending where the struggle stops and that no one is capable of everything.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
My Agent Said "I think you'll get this published"!!!!
Today I got a Positive Response From My Literary Agent!
Today
I got a Positive Response From My Literary Agent!
September of 2011, my mother, Jo Lyn
Bartz, passed away after a month in the hospital from respiratory failure. This summer, I began writing a memoir to
share the story of surviving and thriving in a family with genetic disease,
telling how I lost my mother and brother to myotonic dystrophy. I sent my first query letters to agents July
14th of this year. 3 hours
later, I had a positive response from an agent.
I then started extensive research on how to create a complete proposal for
literary non-fiction, and created a complete proposal ready for agents and book contests. July 18th I had a positive
response from Quest Magazine in publishing an article excerpt from my memoir, From My Mother. On September 26th, I sent my
complete proposal to my literary agent, including links to my newly published
article and a poem which was selected to a Kansas poem of the week in
September (http://150kansaspoems.wordpress.com/2013/09/02/mom-dad-and-dustin-on-the-beach-of-the-great-salt-lake-1997-by-darcy-leech/).
Since then I have written to page 156 and
have an almost complete draft. I still
have to write the hardest part of the book, recounting my mother’s last days in
long-term critical care in Wichita. I’ve
been dragging my feet in writing in part because the end of the book is so
emotionally charged that it changed my mood for a few days to relive it all to
write. I know the story is important,
and I know the writing is worth it. I
had been waiting on The Christopher Doheny Award to announce a winner to
hopefully gain some motivation or have more direction (http://www.centerforfiction.org/awards/the-christopher-doheny-award/). Originally, the award was supposed to be
named by the end of November. I emailed
when it wasn’t posted Dec. 1st, and found out the announcement had
been delayed to January.
I had felt a little stalled, started
spending my free time playing with Magic cards or other distractions rather
than writing, avoiding the catharsis of writing the final chapter. Over summer I had a Bible study with great
and wise women who prayed for me every Tuesday and encouraged my writing. I felt so much momentum over summer I was
sure I was going to be published and felt very proud of myself to be a paid
author after getting the check in my hands and physical copy of my Quest
Magazine article (http://darcyleech.blogspot.com/2013/10/beyond-willpower-caring-for-brother-and.html)
. Then, since October, writing felt
slow, the momentum felt as if it dwindled, and as a busy teacher, I began to
think next summer I would pick the project up again.
Then today, Dec. 5th, I got
this email:
Hi, Darcy, you have done a
wonderful job of presenting your work, but I think that you can make this
stronger. I am going to offer thoughts that you can take or leave, but they are
meant to try to help you achieve the goal of publishing this book.
Your marketing sections are
superb. No changes there. Your chapter summaries are fine; they indicate the
flow of the story in a clean, straightforward way.
Basically, I like your
handling of the story, but there just isn't enough texture in it yet--that's my
opinion, of course. Storytelling is a very challenging art. You have to guide
the reader in terms of pacing, conjuring up images of places and people, and so
on.
Take another look at your
sample material and ask yourself if someone would be able to get enough images
and grasp of emotions to make a great movie out of it.
I don't think this needs a
huge amount of work, but I would like to see you take it up a notch in terms of
literary quality.
I hope you will feel
comfortable coming back to me when you do this; if you think that my advice
isn't useful, I understand. I think you will get this published; I'm just
trying to nudge you along a bit more so this book is the best it can be.
Kind regards, ** my
possibly favorite person ever if this works out ***
My agent gave me a specific
task, positive feedback, and thinks I will get published!
Amazing, wonderful, beautiful
news!
I shouted in joy when I
read that email then commenced to dance around the room with my husband,
Daniel, until my son wanted to join in and asked us to play ‘ring around the
rosie,’ which we did.
My momentum is back. I have
a story worth telling. My mother’s
legacy will be honored and people will know a little more of what it means to
be part of a family with genetic disease because I will write and publish From My Mother.
What I need now are
readers. I need to add more sensory
details, I need to show my reader what
is happening. I need to increase the
literary merit of my first draft. Who’s
with me?
(I’ll pay, or mention you
in a published book’s acknowledgments – which ever you prefer!)
Game on! Let’s make this happen.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Why there is One Santa Astronaught Ornament on the Tree
Why I Kept One Santa on the Tree - continuation of yesterday's post
Santa
may have become symbolic of modern American consumerism with an image
detracting from the true spirit of Christmas, but the story does get some
things right. To be fair to the argument
I presented last post (http://darcyleech.blogspot.com/2013/12/why-there-are-no-santa-ornaments-except.html) about how we should be more purposeful in how we choose
to celebrate holidays, I want to tell you why I DID keep one Santa on our tree
in reach of my impressionable toddler.
My son already
knows about Santa, has seen Santa ‘in person’ and seen gifts unwrapped that
were from Santa. Like it or not, Santa
is part of the mythos of America and my son has zero chance of growing up
without Santa entering his realm of influence.
I’m not out to destroy the image of Santa in my house, but I am out to
disarm the mythology of Santa and not give the consumerist ethos power over my
child before he is old enough to make his own decisions.
I want
to read Eli the Santa story one day, when he is older, when he can
differentiate fact from fantasy, and when his good habits are in place
longer. Grown men who know Santa is not
real do good things in the image of Santa, collecting toys for the less
fortunate, giving of themselves, and bringing joy through good cheer. Santa isn’t iconoclastic or vile in a way
that the image doesn’t deserve a place in our lives; in fact, Santa deserves a
purposeful place in our lives – as an acknowledged symbol of good will used in
modern America to spur consumerist sales and promote ‘cradle to the grave advertising’
by targeting children’s emotions and irrational hopes.
The
Santa story has good aspects. We should be
encouraged to give to people. Santa
gives toys to everyone, regardless of race, social status, or prestige and
instead judges on people’s choices and what the individual has control over
rather than what they are born into. Santa
wants to help others. Santa cares about
benevolence. Santa is a
philanthropist. All of those are respectable
traits.
The
ornament of Santa that did make it on to our tree is an astronaut. It’s humorous to think of old man Santa
visiting space in a defunct missile program with his beard outside his oxygen
helmet. Santa the astronaut poses no
threat to my son’s ethical and financial future because this Santa is obviously
fantastical, perhaps even slightly a parody of how Santa travels the world in
one night.
I don’t
want my son to embrace the consumerist mentality presented by the modern image
of Santa, but when he is old enough, I certainly want him to acknowledge the
story of Santa, the intended moral of the story, and one day when he is old
enough, how Santa’s image is used by those who wish to gain from other’s
spending. We still have Santa in our
house; I don’t mind children around Eli enjoying Santa or talking about Santa,
or Eli getting Santa wrapping paper on his gifts. (I might have to apologize if my son repeats
what I have told him about Santa not being real, but Eli wouldn’t be the only
influence in the world to blurt out that idea…)
Part of
the power in looking at the shift and impact of the modern American Santa
ideology and the trend in consumerism that has become Black Friday shifting
into Thanksgiving after dinner work and shopping for a things based society is
that after we acknowledge the lurking influences that may come with Santa, we
can find a peaceful equilibrium in knowing how to approach the Santa mythology
with our children.
My son
knows Santa isn’t real. He also knows
that dragons aren’t real (I think…). He isn’t going to send a gift list to any
dragons or Santa and I’m not going encourage his believe in either entity
rewarding his behavior through magical means.
Eli has a dragon toy in the house he likes to pretend play fly with. There’s a Christmas ornament of Santa on the
tree Eli may take a natural interest in.
However, I’m not going to purposefully promote a myth embedded with
consumerism and lack of logical financial restraints. I’m going to make sure my son knows the
quality of truth about Santa and purposefully protect my son from the media and
corporate manipulation of an image which works wonders on a child’s
imagination.
In short,
I don’t have to actively work against Santa to encourage my son to form values
based on Christianity before consumerism.
I’m not worried about Santa being around my child, but I will prepare
him and have adult talk about what the Santa myth carries with it in a world
out to liberate you from your dollars and your restraint. I don’t believe that purposefully deciding
not to make Santa an emphasis of our family holiday should threaten those who
do. I don’t mind if your personal choice
is to have your children believe in Santa, I just hope you are purposeful in
this parenting choice and consider the larger social aspects of the Modern
American Santa image has become.
I don’t
mind Santa as an astronaut ornament on my tree, I just purposefully won’t give
him any power beyond that.
While being purposeful in deciding how to treat modern American holidays, hopefully you ponder the
While being purposeful in deciding how to treat modern American holidays, hopefully you ponder the
Monday, December 2, 2013
Why There are No Santa Ornaments (except the astronaut one) on Our Christmas Tree
(opinionated faith based writing - fair warning)
Last night while decorating the
tree, I hid three Santa ornaments that had been on our tree in the past and
only let the astronaut Santa go on our tree explaining what the space helmet
would do for his breathing. My son has
yet to sit on Santa’s lap and will never write a letter to the North Pole at my
command. My two year old son Eli has
been told more often that Santa isn’t real than he has unwrapped a Christmas
present. Am I a super-strict mother controlling her son’s
imagination and limiting the joy of Christmas?
Perhaps. What I am doing is
purposefully raising my son to not believe in Santa.
To children, Santa represents a
benevolent man with magic powers who delivers presents based on behavior and
merit. To parents, Santa represents a
system of check and balances on behavior and an excuse to indulge in extravagant
present buying for their children. To companies,
Santa represents a profit line, increased consumerism, and a feel good
atmosphere based on product and payment not associated to need. To non-believers, Santa represents a harmless
entry way to enjoy a traditional American Holiday. To
this believer, Santa represents a belief in ‘things’ which are given regardless
of need based on behavioral merit.
Now trust me, I don’t rally against
magic and enjoy card games with creatures like minotaurs and shows like Lord of
the Rings or Chronicles of Narnia. My
problem with Santa isn’t in his magic or that he is fictional. My problem with Santa is that the image and
message distract from the ethos of unmerited grace, intangible gifts of the
spirit, and giving more of ourselves than we give to ourselves (or our
household).
Our house is decorated for
Christmas, equipped with a pre-lit Christmas tree, little people Nativity set,
Avon toddler Nativity set, Willow Tree Nativity set, and angel tree topper. Some might argue that three nativity sets is
an equal sign of consumerism, and if I didn’t have them all given to me or see
my son put his hands on baby Jesus, make pretend cry sounds, then try to
comfort baby Jesus, I’d probably agree.
My son’s main learning environment is my house. His personality, character, and ethical views
are being formed today as I type while he plays with Thomas the Train in the
living room. My son is impressionable, and
the impressions around him now will impact him for years to come. I believe I should be purposeful in how my
household reacts to traditional American holidays, including the decision in
whether or not to embrace Santa.
I asked myself – what benefit is
brought by a belief in Santa when my son already knows the story of Jesus? Santa might encourage my son’s imagination,
or help him look forward to Christmas; however, what would his focus on
Christmas be? Looking over Black Friday
ads for things to ask for? Behaving and
doing nice things so that he can be extrinsically rewarded by a false personality
type with unlimited resources? Does
Santa represent something I want my son to idolize?
Consumerism is rampant in a society
of affluence. Gifts will be given on
credit card. 16 year olds will be given
smart phones and six month later be told to find a job so they can pay the two
year contract and be tied to the phone financially. People stood in line for hours on Black
Friday to buy gifts for people who said things like “I really don’t need
anything.” Living rooms will be piled
with over 10 gifts a person and some of those gifts will remain in the box to hide
in the basement, or be exchanged for something else, or sold on ebay. Christmas will be spent with teenagers
shooting guns and stealing cars on Grand Theft Auto, or people testing the
internet search restrictions on their new tablet to see if they now have a
sneakier way to avoid a visible internet history.
My husband and I are both
professionals able to pay our monthly bills and chose to put money into
savings. If we have true needs, we meet
the need that month. If we have wants,
we plan accordingly and try not to buy on impulse. We want to instill financial responsibility in
our son so that he can manage his wants and needs and not acquire a house full
of clutter. Santa does not fit our
financial planning model. Santa does not
model financial planning. Santa has no
budget, no resource allocation, and unlimited time apparently. It could stunt a person’s financial planning
ability to indulge in a yearly fantasy about a man who gifts everyone from his
unlimited resource pull based on behavior.
Santa being so key to the American version of Christ’s birthday has sold
the emphasis from a celebration of the gift of grace to the indulgence in gifts
bought with money. To allude to the
Bible, we give often not with the spirit of Christ, but with the power of what
is Caesar’s. The dollar often determines
our enjoyment of Jesus’ birthday. Jesus
didn’t come to help us enjoy our dollar bills more.
A family atmosphere that encourages
belief in Santa also encourages children to want what they don’t have and don’t
need, as if those resources fall from the sky with parachutes from sleighs. Parents ask children to create lists,
creating desires that weren’t present before and may not have an easy end
point. This need isn’t sated only once;
Santa comes yearly. Add in birthdays,
and children are expected to produce wants at least twice a year. Do we really need that much stuff? Do our children? Should we have a culture where we expect
everyone to have list for Christmas so it is easier to check their name off a
list of gift buying?
Santa is perfect for consumerism as
the image produces and encourages desire for pleasing things not attached to
need and viewed as if the items are from a stream of limitless resources. This ethic controls the modern Christmas too
often in America. Why should we have to
produce false needs so that people feel good in buying unnecessary gifts? Why have we been so conditioned to get the endorphin
rush unwrapping gifts and in swiping our plastic to buy gifts for those who don’t
need anything they can’t buy themselves?
Why is there acceptable social pressure to buy into consumerism on a
holiday about unconditional grace? Why
do we pass that on to our children?
Santa was not intended to be
subversive to the message of Christ. Saint
Nicolas is a long ways from the American Santa of 2013 though. The key ideas of Santa’s image are counter to
the Christian message in the story of Christ.
Christ does not give us physical tangible rewards on earth based on how
much we please our parents or the rules of society. When Jesus overturned the money-changers’
tables, he probably got knocked off Santa’s nice list for socially unacceptable
behavior that hurt others’ feelings.
Christ died for our sins to give us the overflowing gift of Grace. Santa keeps a list of our sins to see if we
end on the naughty or nice list. Christ
denounced the power of government coined currency; Santa drives the power of
government coined currency. Christ
encourages us to be good for heavenly rewards; Santa encourages us to be good
to receive gifts from the power of man that make our life on earth more pleasurable,
perhaps even pleasure based.
‘Black’ Friday is probably the day
the most ‘Santa’ gifts are bought. Black
Friday can take away from family time, shift the holiday of Thanksgiving from gratitude
to greed and set up Christmas to be based on earthly pleasures over heavenly
gifts and the ultimate sacrifice of forgiveness and grace. Check the Black Friday youtube videos to see
the extremes or go here: http://www.bing.com/search?q=walmart+black+friday+fight&form=msnhpm&refig=8df5b1fabaf14f71af70011478ab5cec .The name ‘black’ comes
from the ledger book and negative numbers being red and profits being black,
but isn’t it ironic that our latest national holiday is a celebration of the
materialism of hyper consumerism in America and detracts from the holy purpose
of the Christmas celebration?
It feels good to give gifts, and
pretty good to get them. It is probably
pretty pleasant to see a child’s face light up from Santa listening to a whole
list of the child’s desires. A lot of
things feel good. Jeremiah 17:9 admonished
“The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand
it?” Is the feel good heart warming of
the modern American Santa filled Christmas where we are meant to be? I’m not out to change America or tell you how
to live your life, but my personal answer to that question is no. That ‘no’ is why my son has been told more
times than he has unwrapped a Christmas gift that Santa isn’t real.
Proverbs 3:5-6 hangs in my kitchen: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
And lean not on your own understanding; 6 In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He shall direct[a] your paths.” Santa is cute, and the image brings pleasure to lots of people. However, cute and pleasing does not mean Santa is right to idolize in the formative years of building my son’s character. I love Christmas, and I believe the holiday has purpose, meaning, and fills families with joy. I want my son to know that joy. I want my son to know the reason for The Season. I want him to play with the toy sheep and cow and camel and pretend play the three wise men bringing gifts to Jesus. I want his joy in Christmas to come from family and spirituality and knowing he is saved because Christ bought the greatest gift of all with a sacrifice not present in the ageless undying form of Santa. I want my son to enjoy Christmas, but I don’t want the consumerist pleasure based X-mas drive for dollar signs to color his perception of the most important holiday of our faith. Purposefully, as for me and my house, we will not believe in Santa and will try to avoid the consumerist rush of a ‘things’ based Christmas.
And lean not on your own understanding; 6 In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He shall direct[a] your paths.” Santa is cute, and the image brings pleasure to lots of people. However, cute and pleasing does not mean Santa is right to idolize in the formative years of building my son’s character. I love Christmas, and I believe the holiday has purpose, meaning, and fills families with joy. I want my son to know that joy. I want my son to know the reason for The Season. I want him to play with the toy sheep and cow and camel and pretend play the three wise men bringing gifts to Jesus. I want his joy in Christmas to come from family and spirituality and knowing he is saved because Christ bought the greatest gift of all with a sacrifice not present in the ageless undying form of Santa. I want my son to enjoy Christmas, but I don’t want the consumerist pleasure based X-mas drive for dollar signs to color his perception of the most important holiday of our faith. Purposefully, as for me and my house, we will not believe in Santa and will try to avoid the consumerist rush of a ‘things’ based Christmas.
Jesus
is the reason for the season. As
parents, I think we have a responsibility to purposefully consider how we
approach holidays in our household.
Happy Holidays! May the season
find you well. God be with you in the
Christmas season.
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