September 12: Resi North, My Brother's Birthday, Important and Loved

And then it developed that Campbell was not going to go unanswered after all.  Poor old Derby, the doomed high school teacher, lumbered to his feet for what was probably the finest moment in his life.  There are almost no characters in this story, and almost no dramatic confrontations, because most of the people in it are so sick and so much the listless playthings of enormous forces.  One of the main effects of war, after all, is that people are discouraged from being characters.  But old Derby was a character now.

His stance was that of a punch-drunk fighter.  His head was down.  His fists were out front, waiting for information and battle plan.  Derby raised his head, called Campbell a snake.  He corrected that.  He said that snakes couldn't help being snakes, and that Campbell, who could help being what he was, was something much lower than a snake or a rat--or even a blood-filled tick.  

Campbell smiled.

Derby spoke movingly of the American form of government, with freedom and justice and opportunities and fair play for all.  He said there wasn't a man there who wouldn't gladly die for those ideals.

He spoke of the brotherhood between the American and the Russian people, and how those two nations were going to crush the disease of Nazism, which wanted to infect the whole world.

The air-raid sirens of Dresden howled mournfully.  

The Americans and their guards and Campbell took shelter in an echoing meat locker which was hollowed in living rock under the slaughterhouse.  There was an iron staircase with iron doors at the top and bottom.

Down in the locker were a few cattle and sheep and pigs and horses hanging from iron hooks.  So it goes.  The locker had empty hooks for thousands more.  It was naturally cool.  There was no refrigeration.  There was candlelight.  The locker was whitewashed and smelled of carbolic acid.  There were benches along the wall.  The Americans went to these, brushing away flakes of whitewash before they sat down.

Howard W. Campbell, Jr., remained standing, like the guards.  He talked to the guards in excellent German.  He had written many popular German plays and poems in his time, and had married a famous German actress named Resi North.  She was dead now, had been killed while entertaining troops in the Crimea.  So it goes.

There's a lot of death in this passage.  The whole meat locker is meant to hold dead things.  Cattle.  Sheep.  Pigs.  Horses.  Everyone in the meat locker--the Americans, the guards, Howard W. Campbell, Jr.--are hiding from death.  And, at the end, we find out that Campbell's wife is dead, a casualty of war. 

Today is my brother Kevin's birthday.  He's been dead for three years now.  He was a good guy.  Worked hard all his life.  Unfortunately, he didn't take care of his health.  Ignored his diabetes.  Chose to spend his money on cigarettes instead of insulin.  He paid the price for those choices.  So it goes.

If you have a sibling, be thankful tonight.  Call your brother.  Text your sister.  Let them know that they're important and loved.

Saint Marty misses his brother.

December 10: "Carol" Dip Monday, Mental Health, Dysfunction

I come from a family that's really good at guilt and anger and depression.  The Holy Trinity of family dysfunction.  Of course, this time of year simply magnifies these problems.  We are expected to be together and behave like the Waltons.  Unfortunately, Christmas morning at my parents' house is more like celebrating with the Bunkers.  Lots of inappropriate comments, lots of whispering and eye rolling, and lots of overeating.  Throw in some depression and other mental health issues, and that's the yuletide season at the Saint Marty homestead.

Of course, my family is no different than any other family.  There's no such thing as a functional family.  There are simply levels of dysfunction.  Even the Ingalls on Little House on the Prairie had to deal with drug addiction and racism and class conflict.  If I were to rate my family, I'd place us somewhere between the Bundy clan and the Ewing clan.  Of course, that doesn't mean I hate my siblings or parents.  I love them, with all their faults.  I'm pretty sure they feel the same way about me.  (I have been the three-headed stepchild for a long time.  The lone Democrat in a family of Republicans.  A poet and musician and teacher.  I might as well wear a sign at family gatherings that reads, "Try not to talk about me until I leave the room.")

I have a particular sibling who is struggling at the moment with some severe depression and anxiety issues.  She's been struggling for quite some time.  Over a year.  If I try to talk to her about mental illness, she simply shuts down.  I can see a physical change in her body, as if she's a rose that's folding into itself to avoid a frost.  In the past, she's always been the person in charge.  The sensible one.  The one with all the answers.  Now, she puts everyone on edge.  At family dinners, she slams dishes and snatches plates.  She hollers if the fork is set on the wrong side of the plate.

Christmas and New Year's Eve for this sibling is going to be a challenge.  On New Year's Eve last year, she was practically in tears because the "crowds" of family/friends in the house made her anxious.  She's even worse this year.  If she makes it to January 1 without major medication, it will be a miracle.

My questions for Carol dip Monday is pretty simple:

Will my sibling get help for her mental illness problems soon?

And the answer from the great book of Dickens is:

Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious company in return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, if the Ghost had given him time...

That's a pretty good answer.  If my sibling would be "gay and light of heart," we all would have a Huxtable Christmas.

Sing with Saint Marty:  "Joy to the world, Prozac has come..."

It's all in the family