The Price of Capitalized Medicine: Eli Lilly's Price Gouging of Cymbalta Patients

I have a lot of friends who are against Obamacare and who have issues with socialized medicine. These same people are proud that America's healthcare system is based on capitalism. Let me tell you a brief story about healthcare when it's a money-making empire. 

Two years ago, my doctor switched me to Cymbalta as a migraine preventative. And it worked really well. Really well. For over a year, we paid (after insurance) $52 a month for that prescription. 

It isn't my most expensive migraine medicine but, when you are a chronic pain patient (I take over seven medicines, three on a daily basis), you want to save money wherever you can on the oodles of medication needed to live a normal life. So, Mark and I were really looking forward to June 2013 when Cymbalta was to become generic. We hadn't been this excited since Botox was approved for migraine treatment by the FDA (that saved us $350 a month).

Only... Cymbalta didn't become generic in June. The manufacturer, Eli Lilly, sued the FDA for a six month extension. And won. There was a price change, though. Cymbalta cost more. It was now $60 a month. Mark thought that was a little odd, but he shrugged it off and paid for my most needed medication. The next month, the exact same prescription was $72. 

Okaaay... Mark asked my pain specialist, Dr. Robert Hansen, if he was writing the prescription differently; nope. No change. Hmm. So Mark asked our pharmacy if there was some new surcharge we were paying. Once again, we received a negative answer. In fact, the pharmacy said it had never levied a surcharge. 

Three days ago, Mark refilled my Cymbalta for the 8th time this year. It was now $90. Mark called the insurance company for answers. HOW could the price of my medication almost double in three months? 

Long story short, Eli Lilly is saying the cost increase reflects how difficult it is to make Cymbalta. I'm not sure how something becomes MORE difficult to make every 30 days. You'd think that, overtime, the process would become streamlined rather than problematic. 

I do know that the company has already successfully sued the government to keep Cymbalta from going generic (for no reason other than to keep money in their coffers)... and I can add two and two well enough to see that my September refill will probably go up another ten or 20 dollars.

Why? Because the company sees the end of the road, money-wise... and they want as much as they can get between their grubby little fingers. As optimistic as I usually am... I am in agreement with Mark that the company will probably sue the government, again, to avoid losing money to a generic form of its medicine. And I agree that it will continue price gouging the users of this medication. 

And it sickens me... literally. Because I cannot afford all my other medications AND my Cymbalta if this price trend continues. The manufacturer REALLY has me between the proverbial rock and a hard place because of how WELL it works in preventing my migraines. So, we will continue to pay the higher amounts for awhile. A short while. Until the price is no longer affordable. Which means I will become sick. Quite sick. Again. We can look for other medications that are similar, but I will first have to come down off the Cymbalta and then build up to the necessary levels of the new medicine. And I will suffer the 'are the side effects worth it' dance a few times until we find a medicine that keeps at least half the migraines at bay without costing me the loss of feeling in my extremities or constant shaking or insomnia or high blood pressure, etc. 

So, for about one-and-a-half to two months (best case scenario)... I will be in serious pain on a semi-daily basis. I have shots that work EXTREMELY well fighting migraines, but my insurance only covers 12 of those a year (and I've already used half of those this year). How quickly do you think I'd go through six shots if I had no major daily preventative? Yes, I also have Botox/Myobloc shots... but those keep the level of pain from a migraine from exacerbating. They do NOT prevent my migraines. 

And folks... we have decent insurance. What happens to those folks who have poor insurance or no insurance? Do you think Eli Lilly gives a damn? I don't. So please... don't tell me how horrible socialized medication would be... unless you want to pay the plus $1000 a month after insurance (and rising) for me it costs to be able to live, love, and laugh (never mind work) and function as a normal human being. 

A person's access to medication and healthcare should NOT be determined by wealth. Ever.

The Love and Laughter of a Legendary Man: Gus New

Thank you for meeting with us today as we say goodbye to an incredible man, my beloved uncle, Gus New… 

As small children, my brother and I lived far away from the majority of Momma’s family, so our trips to NC to visit were exciting adventures. I could not WAIT to jump from the van and run straight into the arms of Granny and Pop. Once we’d all hugged, kissed, and exchanged greetings… it was time to do what our family does best. Eat… and we’d chow down on fried potatoes, chicken and dumplings, and collard greens… and while the adults sat back and talked… I’d bounce around in my chair, antsy and ready to go… Ready to see Uncle Gus and Aunt Carolyn.

When I was a child, no one lived larger in my mind than Uncle Gus… a loud, amiable, affable, quick-witted and hilarious big bear of a man who emanated love and laughter.

Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Gus

As soon as I’d draw a bead on him, I’d haul little white girl tail to run and jump and FLY into his arms. He’d wrap both tightly around me, swing me around, tiny little toes feeling the whoosh of air as I was spun, and I’d snuggle up into the space between his shoulder and chin as he’d croon softly, “Hey there… how’s my little shug?”

And so it was with Uncle Gus and me… when we were together, I was his shadow. I worshipped him… I wanted to be just like him… fun, spontaneous, loving, and hilarious. One summer night when we’d packed the car full… and I MEAN full of folks: Momma, Billy, AnnMarie, Chris, Aunt Carolyn, Uncle Gus and me, we kids chatted back and forth until AnnMarie looked me dead in the eye and asked, “Marji? How come you talk so funny?” I was stunned for just a second… before I, for the first time ever, channeled my uncle and replied, “I can talk like y’all, too.”

There was dead silence in the car… broken by Uncle Gus breaking the sound barrier with a gut busting belly laugh.

“I’ll be durned, Carolyn… You are right… she IS just like me.” And so it began… the family now officially had two smart alecks… two cuts ups… two peas in a pod determined to make EVERY family occasion a festive one. And we became partners in chaos, too. Over the years, Uncle Gus and I have gotten into more trouble with Momma… just for being us.

I remember one Christmas when Gus decided to take us all to see the Meadows Lights for the first time. Prior to heading there, though, we stopped by McDonald’s first, and had our fill of Big Macs, fries, and Cokes… Somewhere, somehow, Uncle Gus and I decided we needed to appear more festive, so we turned those McDonald’s paper bags upside down, rolled the lip back about an inch, and placed them on our heads. And then we began singing. And singing… we sang every carol we could remember… and by the time we’d reached Meadows, we were in high form… giggling, laughing, and admiring each other’s head gear. Once we slowed down to see the sights, we rolled down the windows, stuck our heads out, and talked to ANYONE near us… wishing them a Merry Christmas, singing to them, and speaking in British accents… just because. By this point, most of the family entourage had also donned McDonald’s bags… except for Mom. To this day, I don’t think Mom can describe the Meadows Lights… because she scooched down in the seats, attempting to hide and not let ANYONE know she was related to us.

But… Uncle Gus never let Momma entirely off the hook. When she was completely relaxed, completely comfortable, he’d imitate a gorilla, waddle up behind her, and begin ‘grooming’ her hair for bugs he could eat. GUUUUUUS!!! Momma would screech! This was just about the only trick of his I have never copied… because Momma said she’d come back and haunt me one day if I did. I take that kind of threat right seriously. 

Always in the background... embracing us all.

But my… the FUN we had. Late last night, after I had fallen asleep, my husband sent me an email, and he wrote, “Honey… I know why you loved your uncle so much… because you are just like him… a big kid who embraces life, lives to the fullest, and seeks fun and adventure at every turn.

Mark is probably right… Uncle Gus was the biggest kid I have ever known. In fact, to my knowledge, there were only two serious subjects in his life… Vietnam (which he rarely discussed) and Fishing. Yes, you heard me…. Fishing. Aquatic life in every body of water, ocean, sea, pond, lake… and even fish bowls… bubbled sighs of relief this week when it went through the underwater grapevine that the Great White Fisherman had gone to troll the waters of Heaven.

Fishing at Mom and Dad's place on the Rappahannock River. 

Gus was THE fisherman… fish feared him… for he could catch anything… and he would go to extremes to do so. Think I’m kidding? Just ask his son, Christopher, and my brother, Billy, about the night they went pier fishing with Uncle Gus. The weather was brutal, the wind was whipping sand and sea spray at them like a sandblaster cleaning an aging pick-up truck. Bill and Chris took cover behind the pier’s benches, but Uncle Gus stood resolute, a sentinel in the night, armed with a surf rod and a case of Coca-Cola. And he didn’t catch a daggone fish. Not one. Did he despair? Nope… they stayed the whole night, Billy and Chris hunkered down behind weathered wooden benches, and Gus facing the fury of the storm… just in CASE they might start biting.

Another time, Uncle Gus and Aunt Carolyn took a foray to the Outer Banks for a bit of surf fishing. Pole in hand, Gus stood facing the ocean, ready for that tug to wake his reflexes and begin battle. Aunt Carolyn, meanwhile, meandered the shoreline, looking for pretty shells and stones, and playing in the waves. And then… dum, dum, DUM!!! Disaster struck. A rogue wave built up, smacked Carolyn, and knocked her tail over teacups into the ocean. GUS! She hollered, GUS!

Being a man of action, he quickly ran to her and snatched her by the drawers with his left hand… holding her high enough out of the surf so she didn’t drown. As Uncle Gus relayed this story, later, to us, my husband, Mark, asked, “did you lose the pole?” “Son,” Uncle Gus declared solemnly, “a man never lays down his surf rod. We waited until another man walked up the beach, saw me holding the fishing pole in one hand and my wife by her bloomers in my other. He was kind enough to assist me.”

After this conversation, Uncle Gus figured my poor husband just didn’t understand the fundamentals of fishing, and he took it upon himself to educate Mark. He put together a surf rod package and gear for us right before we headed to the OBX for our first vacation as a married couple. But, you see, Uncle Gus and Mark had a special relationship… They were close… Uncle Gus taught Mark how to be a master at the art of cooking a hog… and Mark was his eager apprentice. Each year, Uncle Gus would turn over more and more duties to Mark until Mark was ready to fly solo. It was a special day, indeed, for Mark.

But, don’t think Mark escaped unscathed. He, just like every other person Uncle Gus loved, fell victim to one of Gus’ antics. In fact, on our wedding night, right as Mark and I were stepping outside of the reception to head off in our car, Uncle Gus stopped him and announced, officially, that he was ready to make Mark a full-fledged member of the family.

And right there, in front of all our guests, Uncle Gus grabbed Mark’s belt… and dumped an entire cup of birdseed down the pants of Mark’s tuxedo.

While many wives have special memories of their wedding night… the first one that comes to MY mind is that of showering my husband down with the bathroom hose attachment in an attempt to remove those dang seeds. They. Were. Everywhere. We might have been able to get them off faster, but Mark and I were laughing too dang hard to be overly efficient. Once again, my uncle had made sure that even my wedding night would be a balance of love AND laughter.

As the years go by, I know I will think of Uncle Gus often… I will never enjoy a moment of fireworks lighting the sky without remembering the 4^th of July when an errant rocket flew off course, headed straight for me and Uncle Gus, and we dove to the dirt all while Gus was screaming, “Fire in the hole!!”  I will not be able to make peanut brittle or wield a cast iron pan without remembering the two of us huddled over Granny’s stove, me stirring while he listened for peanuts popping. Whenever Mark complains about getting a belly, I will think of Uncle Gus and his Dunlop disease… ‘cause his belly done lopped over his belt. I will not have a bad cold without wanting to pronounce to the world that I am suffering the collard du mompas. I will laugh at folks who claim to be experts because I will recall him teaching me that an ex is a has been and a spurt is a tiny drop of water. When I struggle to lift something, I will hear his voice chastising me, “Girl, you don’t have enough tail to move that. Eat a cheeseburger.”

Uncle Gus during is Tour of Duty in Vietnam.

When I watch specials about Vietnam, I will recall our trip to the Veteran’s Wall and helping him find a fellow by the name of Kermit. I will see him in my mind’s eye talking quietly to the young lady who stopped us and asked, “Sir, were you there?” And I will remember how he quietly and gently spoke with her about what he saw. And I will remember that his kindness to her was emblematic of the kindness and consideration he showed everyone. 

I will remember the day I was struck with a migraine while visiting him in Newton Grove and how he drove straight to the pharmacy to find relief for me. When the pharmacist asked if I had a prescription, Gus replied with, “that child is lying on my bathroom floor and she has passed out from pain. You WILL give me something, with or without a prescription.” I don’t know what Uncle Gus got, but I remember waking up with him cradling me, dribbling Coke down my throat followed by a large capsule. Fifteen minutes later, I was out of pain.

And that is who he was… and who he will always be. A man filled with laughter and love. If you ever forget this, just look at the many photos our family treasures of Uncle Gus. In almost everyone, he is the one standing or kneeling at the back with a smile beaming across his face… letting us know that he always had our backs… and now that he and his fishing rods have been packed for the trip to heaven, he always will.

 Thank you, Uncle Gus, for loving me… for teaching me that laughter IS the best medicine… and for showing me that if we laugh while we stick together, we can weather any storm. You, Sir, are my hero. 

Uncle Gus was honored at his funeral by two members of the Army who played Taps, folded the American flag, and presented it in ritual form to Aunt Carolyn. It was impressive... We plan on sending a letter of appreciation to thank them for the manner in which these two men carried out their duties to show military respect for Uncle Gus. 

An American Soldier in Need

On January 22nd, Sgt. Wesley Kidd (US Army), returned to the States from a full deployment to Afghanistan. That day, he was able to hold in his arms, for the first time, his infant daughter who had been born during his deployment.

Wes' wife, Ashley, and his two daughters, Annalynn and Amelia

After visiting with his family in NC, he returned to active duty at Ft. Riley, Kansas, and bunked in the barracks for single soldiers because his wife and daughters live in Clinton, NC, and cannot join him until a custody battle over the oldest daughter has been decided.

Wes knew that, due to budget cuts, he would have 90 days upon his return to move from the barracks. However, upon return to Kansas, the timeline was altered dramatically, and the new deadline was February 23rd.

Wes began busting tail to prepare to move. He placed his car in the shop to repair damage incurred during a severe accident in NC so that he would have viable transportation. He began the packing and boxing associated with any move. And he started looking for apartments or for anyone needing a roommate.

Of course, funds are tight because he is also paying for his wife and family's household in NC. Today, though, at 2:10 in the afternoon (EST), his key card to the barracks was decoded, and he was told to move out. Right now. Nine days ahead of time. He has not yet lined up a place to live; his car is not yet out of the shop, and he has yet to set aside enough money to get a place all by himself. However... this does not matter. He has to move. Today. Right now.

Is THIS the way we treat our soldiers? A man who has been deployed to both Iraq and Afghanistan? A man who has loyally and faithfully served this country since August of 2008? A father who watched the birth of his child via a Skype link because he was buried in the Afghan Sands while his wife struggled through labor in NC?

Sgt. Wesley Kidd while in Afghanistan. 

Right now, Wes is robbing Peter to pay Paul and is calling in favors from friends to help him evacuate his belongings. He's seeking a floor on which to bunk, and he is praying that somehow... some way... he will find the money to rent a car for temporary transportation and to set up a new household.

Right now, I am writing this article to ask if you want to help. I've created a PayPal link to which you may donate to help Wes. Even a small donation of five dollars, when combined with the donations of others, can make an enormous difference. Today, I ask you to empty your change purse and help a fellow American... an American who chose to place his life on the line so that yours may remain secure.

 

2012: The Year Women and Men Unite

If 2012 was known as the year of the War Against Women, let’s make 2013 the year where women and men come together to work as human beings and focus on mutual accomplishments rather than individual gender issues.

To do so, though, we need some sobering perspectives on relevant issues… And I will start with one that exploded on FB this afternoon: Rape.

I think (but have no proof) that more women are aware of how prevalent rape is than men because women talk… we talk to each other; we confide in sisters and cousins and girlfriends and even female professors. We do not, however, often confide in men. I am NOT saying to my male friends and relatives that no woman every confided in you. What I am saying is that more women in your circle of friends and family have been victimized than you know. In fact, one in every six women has been sexually assaulted. Gather your female friends and family members in your mind… and if you can count more than six, it’s likely that one person in that group has been violently sexually violated.

How can I sadly, yet confidently, state this? Because more than one woman (1.3, to be exact) is raped every minute in America. Read that again, MORE than one woman is raped EVERY MINUTE in our country. How long have you been on FB today? Forty minutes, perhaps? That means 52 American women were raped while you chatted online, played Farmville, and uploaded your photos. Fifty-two mothers, daughters, sisters, nieces, friends, lovers were violated.

At that’s women over the age of 18. Furthermore, experts estimate that only 16% of rapes are reported. I’m not trying to take you back to the hell of fifth grade math problems, but consider for a moment that those 52 victims account for only 16% of the women raped during your 40 minutes of FBtime. Sixteen percent.

Why are so few of these crimes reported? Shame, Fear of Retribution by the Criminal, Lack of Self-Esteem (thinking the rape was not important enough), Fear of Police Response, and the Belief that Nothing Can be Done.

This last concern is a valid reality. Of all the rapes reported in 1992, 2%... ONLY TWO PERCENT… were convicted AND imprisoned.

So, let’s review this again… at least one woman is raped every minute in the USA. If we multiplied that by a single day, that’s 1872 women every day… and of those 1872 women, only 37 of them will see the capture, conviction and imprisonment of the criminal who violated them physically, mentally and emotionally.

Are these statistics uplifting? No. But, with awareness comes knowledge, and with knowledge comes power. And if we unite our power, we CAN make the US safe for ALL Americans, not just those who can urinate from a standing position.

All those with me, say AYE!

A Vote for Obama, A Vote to Protect My Gals

Aunt Marji and her Gals...

The Republican Party Presidential ticket will not receive my vote. As a woman who wants my nieces to live in a world where they are not held back because they were born with a uterus, it is my duty to protect them by voting pro-women.

When the Republican Party returns to the way it treated women in the 80s and early 90s, they will regain my vote.

While they support politicians who want to force a woman (rather than letting her choose) to give birth to a child of a rapist, to the child of an incestuous relationship, or a child that will endanger her life (against the beliefs of over 75% of the American public), they will not receive my vote.

While they support a violent criminal in his desire to have rights to the child he fathered through rape, they will not receive my vote (law in over 30 American states, including NC and VA).

While they belittle a woman who's been sexually assaulted by telling her she should be more aware of her surroundings, that she should not go into bars, that she brought a violent and predatory attack on herself (while the assailant only received a slap on the wrist), they will not receive my vote.

While an elected official believes a woman who's been 'legitimately' raped will not become pregnant, they will not receive my vote.

While members of the GOP convene to discuss a woman's right to affordable birth control without allowing a single woman to speak, they will not receive my vote.

While an elected official tries to pass a law that condemns a doctor to death for performing an abortion on the victim of a rape, they will not receive my vote.

While a woman who testifies for affordable birth control for a lesbian who needs it to prevent life threatening ovarian cysts is called a slut, they will not receive my vote.

While members of the South Dakota GOP try to force women who want an abortion to attend mandatory counseling at a crisis pregnancy center that is run by anti-abortion activists and does not employ a single medical professional on staff, they will not receive my vote.

While Representative Lisa Brown is barred from the Michigan State House for using the anatomical term, vagina, they will not receive my vote.

While Republican women, like Phyllis Schafly, assert that spousal rape does not exist because a husband is allowed, by law, to have sex with his wife whenever, wherever, and however he wants, regardless of her wishes, they will not receive my vote.

While a Wisconsin Senator is comfortable proposing laws stating that single mothers are the leading cause of child abuse and neglect, they will not receive my vote.

While Schafly supports this idea, stating, "Single motherhood is the biggest cause of social ills today, and harms kids more than anything else", they will not receive my vote.

While former presidential candidate Rick Santorum accuses single mothers of "breeding criminals", they will not receive my vote.

While Senator Grothman of Wisconsin asserts, "money is more important for men. I think a guy in their first job, maybe because they expect to be a breadwinner someday, may be a little more money-conscious," they will not receive my vote.

I agree that the economy is horrible. I loathe that I have to think about whether or not I can afford to fill my entire tank, or whether I should just go for enough to get me back and forth to work for the day. I hate that I never know if my classes will "make" because the cost of tuition and textbooks are so expensive students may not be able to afford their education.

However, as much as I hate the economy and the lack of economic gain and upward momentum... it does not touch my disgust with the way a large portion of the Republican Party has decided to treat me and every other American woman. I am mortified, horrified, embarrassed and appalled by the actions of this fringe group who has overtaken the GOP.

I am baffled that such a once amazing group of Americans has let a bunch of misogynistic fools destroy their integrity.

Worst of all... I am terrified that, unless these people are stopped, be it by independents like me, Democrats like many of my friends, or moderate Republicans like many of my relatives, we will find our beautiful country firmly planted in 1812 rather than 2012.

So, my dear Republican family, friends and fans, if you want my vote, then get these fools in line. I completely concur that the cost of current essential goods are sky high, that the employment market and housing markets are bleak, and that Wall Street’s ups and downs show a recession at its worst; however, these costs, while high, do NOT touch the value of our daughters’ freedom and equality. To me, that’s priceless.

My Nieces, Marina and Josie, are the main reason I will not vote Republican in 2012.

Life, Scatology, and Frisbees in the Heart of Darkness

Today, Jamey Tisdale exudes health and vitality. His longish blond hair flips and flings into his eyes as he pounces at a runaway Frisbee. His slender frame is complimented by wiry muscles; as a matter of fact, he would almost be graceful if his feet had not grown to fill size ten and a half Teva’s—much too large for a man who barely reaches 5’7”. All this intense vitality starkly contradicts a picture taken of him a few years ago of a man, standing by himself in the Heart of Darkness: Cameroon, West Africa. His malaria wracked and starving body wrapped in a sarong.

People who know Jamey, however, realize that starvation and malaria come nowhere near to trampling his spirit. Instead, he now owns a collection of “when I was in Africa” stories. At any given opportunity, he will trap people and educate them (willingly or unwillingly) about the ‘real’ Africa. Thankfully, the stories are usually entertaining, if not a little off color. His theme seems to be that people lose their rigid codes of behavior under stressful circumstances, like starvation.

In the late 1980s, Jamey and about 105 other people, ranging in age from 18 to 27 and from 15 different countries, spent three months in Cameroon. They were involved in a project called Operation Raleigh (affectionately known among participants as Op Ral), a four year program developed to break down cultural barriers and international prejudices among some of the world’s future leaders. The program was the pet project of Prince Charles; it involved approximately four thousand Venturers from 50 different countries. The Venturers circumnavigated the globe performing community service, scientific research, and adventure projects. Approximately 500 Americans participated, and the US was represented on every single expedition save one: Noriega would not allow American Venturers in Panama.

Jamey’s particular expedition to West Africa afforded an opportunity to help the Cameroonians while learning about West African culture… and he would learn a little about himself, too. The conditions under which the Venturers lived never came close to their normal lives. They didn’t live in dormitories or sleep in cots. Instead, the Venturers found themselves sleeping in ‘bashas’ (raised platforms made of split bamboo and covered by a tarp) and/or resting in jungle hammocks (solid cloth bottomed hammocks with mosquito netting). Jamey fondly recalls that, “on one exceptionally special and well-remembered occasion, I had the pleasure of spending the night in a mud hut. This was the only night (in the entire three months) that I had the pleasure of sleeping in a building. Well, a sort of building.” Yet, Jamey does not regret any of his adventures—not even the slight starvation.

Jamey first discovered his malnutrition when based in Dikome Balue. As a service project, he and two other Venturers attempted “to paint over the dirt” in one room of a “pseudo-hospital” built of concrete blocks. They discovered a pair of scales hiding in a dusty corner and, on a lark, decided to weigh themselves.

To Jamey’s shock, he found he had dropped from 130 to 110 pounds; each of the others had lost an equivalent amount of weight. Technically, Jamey was not malnourished because the Venturers were on a scientifically balanced diet… most of the time. At this point, the men decided to take desperate measures, according to Jamey. “We formed a starvation pact. Mango, Allan and I, from then on, tried to receive kitchen detail. We would feed each other while cooking, make sure we all got larger portions of food, and horde the leftovers. But by the next day of work, we all developed the shakes from being hungry.” The women on the expedition gained weight from the rations due to the high carbohydrates in the diet. The men, unfortunately, lost weight. Ever the opportunist, Jamey guilted the women into donating their extra candy bars; he got to the point where he would eat anything, even liver pate’ (though a delicacy to many, Jamey views it as “cat food’). He once even ate 12 portions before someone stopped him. On many nights, he would gorge until he could only lie on the ground and view the stars. “The Starving Threesome, as we were called, never could get enough to eat… no matter how much food we devoured.”

Part of his problem was caused by carrying too much weight in his backpack. Hikers, as a rule, should never carry more than 1/3 of their weight, and he regularly toted more than half his weight. “Besides the radio parts, the boxes of food, the water and the shelter I had to carry, I had the ungodly stupid notion of carrying around Sea Monkeys, a Slinky, a couple packs of cards, my Walkman and a bunch of tapes. It would have been simpler to have just put bricks in my pockets.”

Dikome Balue also served as the base camp for these jungle treks and, “from here we would hike off into the rainforests of the Rumpi Hills for ten day stretches, visiting the local villagers to deliver rudimentary medical care and to give talks on birth control and diarrhea prevention.” For many of the villages visited, the Venturers were the first outsiders they had ever seen. Yet, “we always felt welcome and safe, no matter where we trekked. The people were some of the most friendly beings I should ever hope to meet.”

Unfortunately, packing in and packing out his gear on these treks wore Jamey down… And, “That’s probably how I got sick,” Jamey asserted, “besides being bitten by a malaria infected mosquito.” In addition to rapid weight loss and disease infested biting bugs, the Venturers also battled dysentery and gastroenteritis. Trips to the “squat and drop” became an extra adventure to those who succumbed to this ravaging of their bowels. They waddled out over a four foot deep ‘toilet’, each foot balanced on a log that stretched six feet across the pit. The tortured soul would then squat down to relieve their bodies and then try to waddle back to the other side… withOUT falling in the muck filled pit. Quite a gymnastic feat.

The medieval torture toilets helped Jamey return to the basic idea of simply surviving this adventure, but the death of a fellow adventurer cemented the concept. At this point, “we realized we could die at any time; she had just slipped on a rock and broke her neck; it could have happened to any of us at any time. At this point, nothing bothered us anymore; we all returned to a baser level of life. We weren’t hung up on morals, codes of behavior or ethics. We dreamed about the things we missed the most and, consequently, our conversations revolved around three things—food, fornicating, and farting.”

They didn’t smell good, either. When Jamey first arrived in Cameroon, he could hardly stand the smell of the natives, but “you didn’t walk away from them or avoid them because that would be rude.” At this point, the Venturers were still cognizant of their own bodies and, after the first day of work, all the men and women went down to the river to bathe, the men going one way, and the women going the other. However, “the next day we had already lost some inhibitions; after work, we all went to the same spot on the river, and the clothes hit the air at the same time our bodies hit the water. Not long after that, I noticed I couldn’t smell the Africans anymore.” A few weeks later, a Red Cross helper visiting the Operation Raleigh camp politely informed the Venturers that “although you all cannot smell it, you are all mildewing.”

Jamey laughs, now, when he thinks about the mildew. Actually, he is always laughing because he “doesn’t stress over the little things,” according his friends. He actually enjoys these small moments. “On some days we would journey into the forest for the express purpose of butterfly collecting. We were trying to catalogue what was in the forest and identify new species. These were the days when we would catch little to nothing. But, as soon as you got into the forest without a net, they (the butterflies) would practically land on your head. Even under these conditions, we would catch, in a week, ten times the number of species found in England.”

After finishing his butterfly story, Jamey finds he is tired of this Frisbee game, so we go into his apartment, and I continue to pelt him with questions as he plays video games. It’s nearly impossible for Jamey to be absorbed in less than two activities at a time. For a brief moment, his attention is split between me and the game of Mario Brothers. His character is hopping through a field of giant mushrooms and attacking flying turtles; Jamey loves the game as he figures it is the brainchild of a 60s refugee—the game is loaded with what Jamey calls good and bad ‘shrooms, a land of clouds, and flags embossed with peace signs. As Jamey’s character races across the screen in search of an elusive princess, Jamey’s nose starts to itch. His hand reaches to eradicate the problem, but the movement starts his glasses rocking. The frames teeter for a few seconds, and then settle lopsidedly on his face. Upon closer scrutiny, you notice his glasses aren’t held together by screws; instead, the frames are jerry-rigged by bread tie wrappers. This ingenuitive frugalness drives his roommate, Rob, bonkers as he tries to wrap up the sandwich bread bags with ever increasing difficulty. As his fingers fumble with the bread tie remnants, he grumbles that, “I feel like I am trying to put a diaper on a fly.” Living with Jamey and his creative solutions does present its difficulties.

He first mastered making do with minimal materials while his group helped to build a bridge in Cameroon. Now finished, the bridge spans 180 meters (about two and a half football fields) across a river and is the largest single suspension bridge in Africa. In order to build something of this magnitude, the Venturers needed to move seven ton logs, but the turfajacks the group had to move the logs with were only supposed to be able to move two tons or less. Eventually, one of the turfajacks exploded; fortunately, no one was hurt. Jamey still considers this a miracle.

He considers the project, though, a disaster because “we built it to give year round access to the park for the World Wildlife Fund people and for the local Africans and, also, because it was a nice large object that Op Ral could say they had built. Unfortunately, the bridge also gave year round access to poachers. The locals almost never use the bridge because the ladder to get on it went 33 feet straight up in the air, and the Cameroonians are notorious for their fear of heights.”

“On opening day, the Governor came for the ceremonies. Locals clambered all over the braces and supports as he climbed toward the top to initiate the bridge. Part of the way up, a brace cracked under the weight, and a mumble went through the crowd. Bad omen. We knew, then, that the natives would probably never get on it again. It was frustrating for me because I had almost gotten killed building it. Once I had to climb up a tree with chainsaw in hand and had to cross part of the way over the river in order to trim some branches out of the way, so we could put the sway bracing in (to keep the bridge from vibrating). Halfway up, I saw fire ants pouring out of the tree, so I had to jump to the ground. But… I guess it didn’t matter because I wasn’t hurt.”

Though Jamey complains about climbing trees while carrying chainsaws, he was actually quite careful, and the people in his group took great pains to stay safe and well. Common sense was crucial as many of their treks took them deep into the jungle and, if they got hurt, they probably would not make it back to base camp. Even if they were able to make it to a village, there was no guarantee that there would be adequate medical help. Jamey is still cautious in the woods, and his caution has ensured injury free forays into nature’s playground.

Civilization, though, tends to mess with him. Once, after a solid night of drinking, he slipped backwards down the stairs of his apartment in Greenville, NC. After Jamey hollered for a good 10 minutes, Rob finally woke up and investigated the source of the cacophonous screeching. He found Jamey flat on his back with one foot caught in the stair railing and with his head firmly embedded in the spokes of a bicycle wheel. Jamey still claims the stairs attacked him. He also claims he could have gotten up on his own, and… he only lay helpless so Rob could see why it was so dangerous to store a bike against a wall at the foot of the stairs.

After regaling me with this story of evil stairsteps, his Mario Brothers’ character falls one too many times, and the game is over. Bored with technology, Jamey now wants to return to the Frisbee game he deserted earlier in the day. We head outside, smelling the crisp, fresh scents of spring, and Jamey bounds across the street and into a field beginning to burgeon with green blades of lush grass. He quickly jumps into the game in progress and snatches a disc out of the air. While running, catching, and throwing and then repeating the same steps, Jamey starts another story. This time, though, the theme is less dark… less ominous… less depressing. After one particularly lucky snag of a Frisbee, Jamey stops on the field and stares down at the disc clenched in his callused hands. He spins it for a few seconds, and then stops… and stares again. Engraved in the plastic toy is a map of the world with Africa glaring in gold relief. “You know what,” Jamey pontificates aloud, not really noticing the rest of the players (and me) listening, “Frisbee is the answer to world peace. We (Operation Raleigh) were playing soccer with the local men one day, and the egos of both sides ran out of control. We were playing in jungle boots, and they were playing in bare feet, and neither of the two teams wanted to lose. It was the ‘defend our motherland’ versus the ‘third world can’t beat us civilized people’. And then, someone brought out a Frisbee. The Brits didn’t know how to throw one, and the Africans had never seen one. All of a sudden, we were all caught up in the excitement of a new sport. Even the African women and children came out to play (they wouldn’t play soccer). For the rest of the afternoon, we all played Frisbee, and we all got along. Maybe we should have Frisbees instead of nuclear weapons to settle disputes. At least you can eat off Frisbees.”

For Jamey’s next adventure, a trip to South America, he’s packing Frisbees instead of Sea Monkeys as welcoming gifts for the locals. This child’s toy may not be everyone’s idea of harmony, but it works for Jamey.

Back to School, Back to the Battle against Bullies

In another week or so, children all over the US will return to schools, and teens and young adults will be returning to college. The purpose of school is to gain an education. Unfortunately, it is also a place where some have to build defensive shields to protect themselves from the brutal onslaught of bullying. As a target of bullies from grade four through grade 10, my empathy for the victims of bullying is strong. And, for a long time, my hatred of the bullies was intense.

Thankfully, I was targeted in a time before cyber bullying was possible. Instead, I had objects thrown at me in geometry; I had clothespins tacked to my pigtails in 6th grade science; I was listed as second least attractive on a poll conducted by my 5th grade elementary school class, and I was tormented by neighbors and supposed friends on the school bus from 6th through 10th grades.

By 10th grade my bullies had me convinced I was ugly, poor, stupid and unlovable. I was different from my classmates, but not THAT different. I grew up more slowly. I stayed interested in childhood pursuits much longer, and my naiveté was evident by some of the taunts thrown at me. When I was 11, two girls asked me if I was a virgin. I had never heard of the word, so I figured they meant allergic (remember, I was only 11). I said no, as I had no allergies, and the two girls tilted their heads together and cackled. I knew I had given the wrong answer.

When I told my mom about being called names, she did not seem to grasp the severity of the situation (nor did she know how cruel some kids could be… as she and dad had both been ‘cool’ kids in their hometowns). The first time I shared one of the more brutal comments, my mom raged with anger and called the mother of the boys who had told me that “the best part of you ran down your father’s leg.” I know the mother of the boys cried (because Mom told me), but that did not end the torment. It intensified it. The next day on the school bus, I was vilified by the rest of the kids for tattling.

So, I learned to keep my mouth shut and suck it up. Like many young girls, I was going through a caterpillar stage, and every change puberty threw at me made me look that much more different. The braces and the pimples compounded my stick straight scrawny figure. No curves, no hips, no breasts. I really wondered if I could get any uglier. By 10th grade, my skin was tough, my shell nearly impenetrable. I developed a caustic and sarcastic wit that could lacerate those who dared insult me. And, as a natural observer (if you were quiet, you didn’t draw as much attention to yourself), I had ammo that stunned my enemies. Cross me at your own peril.

One comment, though, really got under my skin… but I was growing up enough to analyze what was said to me. A semi-popular classmate asked me if I were a farmer (because of the outfit I wore to school that day… a matching knit short set I borrowed from my mom. Obviously, the outfit was not agricultural, but this was her way of asking if I were poor.). I was puzzled. I mean, yes, I lived in the country, and we had a lot of land, and we had cattle and pets. But, we weren’t poor. I was pretty sure of that.
So, I asked Mom. That was the day of the shopping spree. And the day I found out we were wealthy. If I could frame a memory, I would place that one in a large gilt rectangle and hang it over the fireplace in my living room. Mom told me to get my butt in the van, and we drove into town, and we shopped. And shopped. And shopped. From that moment on, I was covered in Izods, Levi’s, Sasson, Jordache, and Calvin Klein… if it were an 80s name brand, I had it. In one afternoon, Mom had removed one of the rings of the bull’s eye I had been carrying for six years.

Puberty removed the rest. I grew into my looks. My figure blossomed, my features sharpened, and I grew my hair out. Boys started asking me out. And I started saying no.

Why? Because I was still hurting inside. The weapons were removed, but the wounds lingered. I had an immense level of anger inside of me, a righteous anger that often exploded and frightened people. I finished the last two years of high school without any tormentors, but I had become a cold and non-trusting person. Overtures of friendship were viewed with rampant suspicion. And I had become mean. Snide. Cruel. And I did not like myself for a whole new set of reasons. In the mirror, I began to resemble my bullies. Change was essential.

College helped. Starting over at a new school with new faces and no history meant a complete do-over. And shock of all shocks, I was considered beautiful, smart, and popular. I kept waiting for the chair to be pulled out from under me, but it didn’t happen. And I started to soften and trust. When chosen by the English Graduate Society to be our representative for the ECU Homecoming Court, I accepted… as I knew it wasn’t some set up to a brutal joke.

Over the years, I have forgiven those who bullied me. I’ve even begun to forget some of the events (only to be reminded because of old journals). I despise the act of bullying, though and I will be the first to step in if I see it enacted. Over the years, my classrooms (when I taught K-12) were a haven for what my fellow educators called the “Island of Misfit Students”. I really didn’t care what the hell my classroom was labeled, as long as students knew it was a safe place to be and to learn.

Today, I am enjoying my last week off before I have to ready myself for the fall college semester. I don’t see as much bullying at this level, though it does still happen, and I do still read the riot act when necessary. If someone tried to pick on me or insult me or torment me in anyway today, I would sit down and laugh until tears ran from my eyes. Then I would hand them a box of diapers and wet wipes and tell them to come back when they were grown up enough to act like an adult.

So, why this long and personal diatribe? Because, some kids don’t have a Super Mom like me… or the good friends I did have to buffer the pain… or the little brother who looked up to them… or any of the other coping mechanisms and luck sprinkled across my path. So, for these kids, I ask of you a favor. Don’t assume your kids are not bullied just because they don’t talk to you about it. Pay attention to their behavior. Are they suddenly quieter? Do they often avoid certain classes or activities? Does the former A student begin to hate school?

Finally, don’t assume your kids cannot be bullies. You’d be shocked at who can actually be a bully. I know I was.