WISH I HAD THE GUTS TO SPEAK UP

It's been five years since my Dad died, but every time I read a headline about a drug he was taking during his last months of life, I feel sick.

The drug is Risperdal.

It's back in the news again because its manufacturer was fined a billion dollars in Arkansas for marketing the drug in "misleading ways" through that state's Medicaid system.

Though originally billed as an anti psychotic to treat schizophrenia and bipolar mania, it was also used for a very lucrative "side job" - as a sedative for elderly patients.

My Dad fit into that category. He was acting-up while he was in assisted living, got demoted to the nursing home, and needed to behave. So he was promptly prescribed Risperdal and from then on in, he moved and comprehended in slow motion, like a film reel being shown at marmalade speed. Noticing that he seemed distant and almost "frozen," we asked the nursing home staff about his meds, but they assured us he was status quo and I never inquired about it again.

Truthfully, my sisters and I were barely managing to keep all of the nursing home balls in the air at one time, so drugs doses and side effects were just one of the fish we had to learn to fry. 

Now, years later, when I learn that the makers of Risperdal have been levied a behemoth fine, I'm glad that they received a financial smackdown, but sad that they profited by drugging-up my Dad and many other older adults.

If this blatant drug misuse had never made the papers, I wouldn't have been any the wiser.

But learning that it was deliberately misrepresented has taught me a lesson: If my gut tells me something seems amiss - especially if I'm someone's caretaker - I should ask questions. And if my gut isn't satisfied with the answers, I should politely but firmly speak up and ask again.

And I believe that a bright, alert and sympathetic Daddy Bones would readily agree. 

HAVE I GOT NEWS FOR YOU...

YA THINK? A federal judge ordered a psychiatric exam for the JetBlue pilot who, in the middle of a flight, abandoned the cockpit and ran down the aisle screaming about terrorists and religion. Do you mean to tell me that they didn't order a psych workup for him immediately after the aircraft landed? And instead they just locked up the guy and waited a week to check if he was legally insane when he melted down and had to be wrestled to the floor thousands of feet in the air with a planeload of terrified passengers? Those of us who are neither mental health experts nor lawyers could have figured that one out. Good luck, Captain, with that type of expert response to your breakdown, you are gonna need it.

NEIGH NEIGH. A high diving-horse act that was booked to return to the Steel Pier in Atlantic City this summer as part of the beach resort's overhaul has been cancelled. Horses around the world clapped their hooves in robust approval. Making a beautiful animal climb high in the air and jump down into a miniscule container of water seems barbarian for both horse and rider, although at least the latter has a choice in the matter. Surely the powers that be can create another form of innovative entertainment for the masses. Hey, how about opening another casino so retirees, high school kids with fake IDs and minimum wage earners can blow all of their savings in a single afternoon? Yeah, yeah, that's the ticket.

UGLY HOMES WANTED. That's the headline from a recent newspaper ad. They were looking for houses for a makeover TV show and wanted to feature residences with ugly kitchens, bathrooms, siding and windows. Well, Mr. Producers, come with me on my morning walk - youse could have the pick of the litter (literally) in my Philly neighborhood, with enough "unique" homes to keep your program going for a good year or so. Hey, I might even let you take a peek at my basement in the event you're considering a new handyman show, "Tales from a Really Scary-Looking Cellar." Hollywood, here we come!

HOWDY, STRANGER! In a travel article about Amsterdam, the author noted that the natives "say hello to random strangers...so overt friendliness is not only acceptable, it's encouraged." That's fine advice to keep in mind when you're in the Netherlands, but don't try that type of Tomfoolery when you're in the Big City, fellah. Eyes straight ahead and don't even glance at someone unless they're your grandmother (and only then with a strong persona of urban reservation).

SHADES OF GRAY. Yes, I have been merciless, picking on former Governor and current inmate Rod Blagojevich, but this latest news item really got to me: Rod, who used to have his hair colored by his barber, will have to go gray because dyes are banned in prison. (Officials put the nix on hair coloring out of fear that prisoners would try to alter their appearance during an escape.) Bad enough that he'll have to age ungracefully in the clink, let alone alerting the whole world about his upcoming silver transformation. However, the news will help keep many of us on the straight and narrow because who knows what else they prohibit in jail: makeup, nail scissors, tweezers, hair gel? It would be a real crime if we were incarcerated and our fellow humans had to view us without some of those vital accouterments...

WHEN PUSH COMES TO SHOVE...

There was something frantic in her voice that jolted me out of my sleep.

It was 2 am on an unusually warm March night when I was suddenly awoken by a loud argument coming through my open bedroom window from the schoolyard next door.

It wasn't the first "lovers' quarrel" that I've heard in the middle of the night in our neighborhood, but the woman sounded so anguished that I couldn't just turn over and fall back to sleep.

"Please, PLEASE," the young teenage girl pleaded to her companion, who outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds, "give me back my phone so I can call someone and go home."

But the hulking guy - a 19 or 20-year-old punk who lives on my block - refused her request and kept berating her, finally shoving her shoulders so forcefully that she stumbled on the cracked concrete.

That was it. I stuck my head out of the bedroom window and bellowed: DON'T YOU DARE HIT HER."

That interruption from the dark made him freeze, shrink away and quickly respond to my accusation by declaring:"I didn't hit her, I just pushed her." Then he looked at the girl and asked "RIGHT?" to which she rotely replied, "That's right, he just pushed me."

Both of their defenses sounded much too rehearsed, as if they has been through this drill before. Then he regained his macho demeanor and yelled in the direction of my window, "People around here should mind their own *!#!* business" before he and the girl disappeared wordlessly out of sight.

My poor hubby, who almost fell out of bed when I unexpectedly shrieked out the window, begged me to go back to sleep, but I couldn't because I kept thinking of Kitty Genovese.

 

Do you remember her?

In 1968, 28-year-old Kitty was stabbed and brutally murdered at 3 am on her way home from work to her apartment building in Queens. Authorities estimated that 38 people probably heard her screams as she was being attacked, but although a few turned on their lights and one man yelled down to "let that girl alone," not a single person called the police.

I was just a kid when this story made national headlines, but some cautionary tales stick with you for a lifetime. The lesson learned from her death was that there's a difference between minding your business and minding your conscience.

So even though I might be labeled a busybody, I'm still going to make noise when a weasel who mistakenly thinks he is a Big Man starts to smack - or push - a woman around.

No, I won't physically get in the middle of a confrontation (with age comes wisdom), but I will do what I can to prevent a fellow female's head from meeting the pavement.

Sisterhood and intervention can both be powerful, and a half century after her horrible death, I think that Kitty Genovese would agree. 

THE PITTER PATTER OF LITTLE PAWS

Sammy Girl had some work done lately.

That's what I'm calling it, anyway, to make her feel better about the scar on her face.

Sammy is our 11-year-old mutt who had a growth on her cheek, which the vet examined last year and classified as "just fatty tissue." Sammy and I decided that we could both work with that and went on our way. We subsequently learned from other dog owners that growths on old dogs are inevitable, like the middle-age spread, unfortunate fashion choices and an affinity for coupons that come with human aging. 

So I figured we were just part of the geriatric canine crowd until Sammy's growth just...well, GREW. Where strangers used to say, "What a nice doggie" they instead asked, "What the hell's that thing on her face?"  

So when hubby and I took Sammy back to the vet, we heard the diagnosis that all three of us dreaded: She needed surgery to remove that Little Shop of Horrors growth. I should have asked how serious her condition was, but being the loving soul that I am, I instead inquired: "Um, Doc, about how much will this cost?" He estimated that, along with a much-needed teeth cleaning, anesthesia, blood work and a giant dog biscuit to lure her into the OR, "About five or six." On the ride home, it occurred to us that he hadn't been terribly specific, and we prayed that he meant five or six hundred, NOT thousand... (He did.)

So she had the operation one morning and when we nervously picked her up that afternoon she basically looked like a mutt version of Frankenstein, with big stitches and a drain literally stuck into the side of her face. What it was draining, we didn't ask. When you are in a vet's office, you just shake your head affirmatively, as if you fully understand the intricate post-surgical care instructions they're rattling off, then you head for the exit as fast as you can drag your frazzled pet.

Post-surgery, Sammy had to wear a giant cone around her neck (the vet people called it an "Elizabethan Collar" which I think is brilliant branding, especially if you are an Anglophile or a big PBS fan), making eating, walking up steps and growling convincingly at other dogs quite a challenge.

Two weeks after surgery, Sammy Girl is her old self again, save for a gaping hole on her face where the drain had been.

She started with a growth on her face and ended with a hole in her face?

Hey, I said she had work done, I didn't say she was gonna magically transform into Lassie or that adorable Jack Russell in THE ARTIST.

Not to worry, Sammy Girl: You could grow an extra claw, but as long as you're by my side, you'll always be beautiful to me.

HIGH ANXIETY INDEED

I love reading about idiotic politicians from other lands - it actually makes America's leaders seem just slightly less annoying.

With the exception of Rod Blagojevich, of course. Now that the former governor is in prison serving 14 years for corruption, maybe he'll finally wipe that big what-me-worry Alfred E. Neuman smile off his face.

 

This guy left for the slammer as if he was strolling down the Red Carpet at the Golden Globes, shaking hands, greeting well-wishers, posing for photos and giving media interviews. Although he once thought he was an untouchable big shot and tried to sell a senator's seat for big bucks, now he'll be making 12 cents an hour doing menial jobs in the Big House. Be sure to make that toilet shine, Ronnie, and we'll see ya in a decade or so.

He was not nearly as humble as an Egyptian lawmaker who resigned from parliament and was expelled from his party after he was caught lying about the fact that he had a nose job. His party represents a strict form of Islam that "forbids cosmetic surgery as meddling in God's work." In other words, you better stick with what the Big Guy gave you and you better like it. But this politician didn't and, when he appeared in public with heavy bandages on his face, his cohorts got suspicious that he didn't sustain injuries from a carjacking and a beating, as he claimed. If he is found guilty of lying, he could be imprisoned on charges of "creating anxiety among the public" and "worrying public officials."

Can you imagine if every American politician who made citizens anxious was put behind bars? Talk about prison overcrowding! Ron Blagojevich (go ahead, say it out loud - it's fun!) would have to fight for a bunk with so many of his old pals crowding onto the pen.

So remember, if you are in office, don't give your constituents a snow job - we can tell when you're fibbing and when you've had work done, just by looking at you with our sharp, artificially-raised, non-wrinkled eyes.