Rickey Wright, Music Critic – Dead in Seattle at age 45

Today’s post is different from my usual posts.

I’m sad, and I want to pay tribute to a genius who has gone from my life–my nephew, Rickey Wright. Rickey was consumed with music and the written word from an early age, rocking to the Beatles before he could walk and reading books by the time he was two–he taught himself to read! He was one of those rare individuals who was fortunate to be able to have a vocation and avocation that were the same: music.

He began his career as a music critic/reporter at the Virginian-Pilot in Norfolk, Virginia, along with freelancing at other papers. When he was offerred a position at Amazon.com as a music reviewer, he jumped at it and moved lock, stock, and barrel to Seattle. We–his family–were back east, and we missed him. But he was pursuing what he loved. Music was his life. There is a link to his blog All the Magic! to the right of this post, and there are dozens, if not hundreds, of tributes to RIckey on the Net.

His funeral was last Thursday in Norfolk, and well over a hundred people showed up. His friends in Seattle are holding a celebration of his life, as well.  Everyone has their own memories of Rickey, and what follows is one of my favorites.

The first time I saw Rickey, he was just a couple of hours old. He was tiny and pink and had the years spread out before him, years during which he would go many places and learn many things and make many friends. His great love, however, has always been music. He has loved music almost since the beginning.

Forty-five years ago—1964—I was a fourteen-year-old girl and the Beatles had just arrived in America. I was in love with John, Paul, George, and Ringo—all of them! Every morning before school, I would get up and the first thing I would do would be start my Beatles records playing—and they would continue playing over and over again until I was ready to walk out the door to the school bus.

Sometimes, Rickey’s parents–my sister and brother-in-law– would allow me to babysit, which was something I loved to do. Rickey was such a sweet baby.

Whenever I visited their apartment, I always took my Beatles records along. Of course! During the summer of 1964—just like I did every morning before school—I played the same records—the same songs—over and over again.

No one except a thirteen-year-old girl could possibly stand the sheer repetition—the same songs over and over again.

No one, that is, except Rickey.

In 1964, Rickey was barely a year old. I would hold him in my arms and we would dance all over the living room. Then I would start the records again and we would begin dancing again. One of my favorite songs at that time was the Beatles’ She Loves You …

We would sing along with the record: She loves you … yeah, yeah, yeah.

Well, eventually, even a teenage girl gets tired and I would stop dancing and give Rickey a cue that maybe it was time for us to do something else.

Rickey wasn’t always ready to stop dancing. He wasn’t always ready to stop the music.

Rickey was very verbal, even when he was very young, and he immediately let me know what he wanted—even at such a young age, using monosyllables and stringing them together.

He would point frantically toward the record player, crying out yeah yeah on!  yeah yeah on! He wanted the music to play on and on and on … and never stop.  

Rickey, we weren’t ready to stop dancing. We weren’t ready to stop the music. We weren’t ready to lose you.

But you had to go.

Rest in peace, Rickey. We love you.

And rock on, Rickey. Rock on.

 

 

Eleven-year-old girl dies while her parents are praying.

Yesterday was a bad day. When I awoke and went out to drive to breakfast with a friend, I found that two of the tires on my car were flat. Later in the day, I went to a restaurant where service has deteriorated much over the last few months, and where the service yesterday was so terrible that I complained to the manager. We got our meals gratis. Then, I went to Office Max to buy a new filing cabinet and found that despite having been told (previously, when I called to ask) that I could get free delivery on any item over $50, that that would not be the case. Free delivery is only if I ordered from online. So, I had to load it  up and lug it home. See what I mean about a bad day?

Well, today is not much better.

I read a piece in the Virginian-Pilot about a family who didn’t seek medical care for their seriously ill eleven-year-old daughter because they didn’t believe in medical treatment. They believed that God alone has the ability to heal the sick.

Kara Neumann, a beautiful eleven-year-old, died from untreated diabetic ketoacidosis resulting form undiagnosed and untreated juvenile diabetes. This condition occurs when the body fails to produce insulin, which then leads to severe dehdration and impairment of muscle, lung, and heart function. So, she died. Everything stopped working, and she died.

Kara had not seen a doctor since she was three, and, according to a police report, she no longer had the strength to eat or drink or even to speak on the day before she died. She reportedly could not move her mouth and just made moaning noises and moved her eyes back and forth.

Her parents, Dale and Leilana Neumann, are said to be followers of an online faith outrach called Unleavened Bread Ministries, which calls for healing by faith alone and talks about the end of the world. I visited the Unleavened Bread Ministries web site and even found one of their published writings that talks about Christians (who are not a part of their ministry) having a microchip in their foreheads. I kid you not. The Neumanns reportedly believe that if they had taken Kara to a doctor for treatment they would be cut off from God.

Now, I’m sorry if I offend anyone … but these people are nuts! Not the psychiatric diagnosis, medication-will-help kind, but weak-willed, callous, no common sense kind of nuts. And yes, I know it’s not politicaly correct to call someone nuts, but that is not a slam on anyone other than the Neumanns. As I said, they are weak-willed, callous, and have no common sense, and I can think of no other word that is so universally known to describe this type of person, to describe them. Again, I apologize.

I’m an insulin-dependent diabetic. Every day I have to use a needle to inject insulin into my abdomen. My life depends on doing so. I see doctors. And I’m not cut off from God. God has blessed me with many things, one of which was the discovery that I have diabetes and led me to a doctor to properly treat me.

Leilane Neumann and Dale Neumann are are chrged of reckless endangerment. If convicted, each faces up to 25 years in prison. I hope they use that time (if convicted) to get a grip on their lives and beliefs and not follow another pseudo-religious group like the Unleavend Bread Ministries. That group has caused enough damage. 

To watch a lively and vivacious young girl die before their eyes when medical care would have been easily obtainable is wrong, wrong, wrong. Just plain wrong.

Mentally ill man covered with feces attacks Continental Airlines attendant

This is a sad story.

You may have heard about the Continental Airlines passenger who went into the plane’s bathroom and emerged covered in his own feces. He then assaulted the flight’s sole attendant, pinning him down until several passengers assisted in subduing the confused man. The attendant wisely had the other passengers move to the front of the plane while the man remained in the back row. After the flight landed in Omaha, police boarded the plane and later released the man to mental health professionals at the Iowa center where he reportedly lives.

There are many questions about this incident, and I’m somewhat confused myself. All the news reports I have read about this incident, have included the phrase, “The FBI will investigate how the man was allowed to fly unsupervised” or some variation of same. Apparently, the man was taking a holiday trip from Chicago to Houston to Omaha.

Did he have his doctor’s permission to travel? Must have …

Was he on meds? Most likely. Was he taking his meds? Who knows.

Who took him to the airport, and what was his mental state when they left him there? Good questions.

Now, I’m glad no one was hurt. And the police handled the situation well by recognizing that the man was ill and needed mental health care rather than jail. The part about the FBI investigating how the man was allowed to fly unsupervised troubles me, however. 

Obviously, someone needs to check into this. The center where he lives must have believed he was fit to travel (unless we learn later that he left without permission). The man was not fit to fly, at least not on this flight. But, The FBI? They should be out chasing bad guys, not investigating one man’s mental health crisis.

Yes, I understand the attack occurred on a plane, and these days everyone is a bit touchy–warranted I’ll agree–about disturbances on planes. But at this point let’s look at what the TSA’s impressions were of the man as he went through security. Chances are that even if the man had had an escort, he would have come out covered in feces if he had had a break at that point.

The last time I checked, mentally ill persons are not criminals. Every person with a mental illness does not require an escort.

Get the FBI outta there and place the responsibility where it belongs: back at the care center.

Just my opinion …

Christmas Gifts

My thoughts this evening are on the many children in psychiatric facilities across America and all the Christmas eves and Christmas days that I have worked on such units. Typically, the number of patients on the hospital unit goes down … way down … at Christmas, or just before, as if all the problems the kids have the rest of the year have just suddenly and miraculously disappeared.

On a children’s unit, the days leading up to the holidays are filled with anticipation. They are, after all, kids. Typically, much of their time is spent wondering whether or not they’ll be disczarged before Christmas, and if they won’t be, their disappointment may be expressed with screaming and lots of cursing—often aimed at the nursing staff. As if we really had anything to do with it.

 

The hospital staff tries to make the unit as festive as possible: a child-decorated tree and homemade garlands, pictures of Santa and snowmen, and stacks of empty gift boxes, gaily-wrapped to reflect the season’s mood. Nurses and mental health techs use their free time along with money from the hospital administration to shop for gifts for the children, many of whom would otherwise receive little or nothing on Christmas. Later, these same employees come to work early and stay late to wrap and label gifts for each child, with a few surprises at the ready for a late or emergency admission.

 

Younger children in the hospital spend a lot of time looking at magazines and print advertisements from places like Toys R Us or Target. You know what I’m talking about here—bright, full-color, glossy print advertisements with more toys than you can imagine outside the old Sears catalogues or at FAO Schwarz.

 

There was a special child I worked with in Connecticut a number of years ago that I remember well. He was about eight years old and his name was … well, let’s just call him Frederico. He was a beautiful boy, with olive skin and long, extravagant eyelashes, and his parents were from someplace south of the border. He spoke with a heavy accent. Neither parent was available to care for him—Dad was in prison and Mom was in her umpteenth rehab—and Frederico was with us. All the staff quickly fell in love with Frederico, for reasons you would understand if you had ever met him.

 

Anyway, one Sunday morning in the weeks before Christmas, The Hartford Courant carried one of those big, thick, glossy advertising inserts with oh-so-many toys. I pulled it out of the newspaper and slipped it into my bag for work, thinking to myself how much Frederico would enjoy it. I wasn’t disappointed. He took it and immediately ran to his room—which was a private room for behavior reasons—and jumped onto his bed and started pointing at what he wanted, what he was sure Santa would bring him. A big, red fire truck with a siren, if I remember correctly.

 

He kept that crumpled, very-wrinkled advertisement for weeks, obsessing over what he saw that he wanted and what he saw as un-obtainable by normal channels, but that he was sure Santa could bring him. When I say he obsessed, I really mean obsessed. Every other word that came out of Frederico’s mouth was fire truck. (Yeah, I know that’s two words, but give me a break here. It’s Christmas.) Daily, the advertisement was shuttled not-so-gently from Frederico’s hands to the floor beside his bed and then back to the top of his bed for viewing.

 

That Christmas eve, as I was tucking Frederico into bed, he reached forward to lightly touch my face. He pulled me toward him to whisper into my ear. “D’ya know what I really want for Christmas?” he asked. “I want to go home and live with you, Debbi. Can I please? Can I be your little boy.”

 

I must tell you that in the few seconds it took me to answer, I honestly thought about it. I would have loved to have Frederico as my child, in my family, to give him a fresh start, and I tried to think of ways I might be able to pull that off. In the months he had been with us, I had truly grown to love him. But we were in different roles and the hospital and the profession itself dictates boundaries, so, I hugged him and softly explained—to myself as much as to Frederico—that I couldn’t do that because I already had two sons of my own. That I would see him every day at the hospital.

 

He, of course, protested that he was sure that I still had room for one more boy, a small boy–please, Debbi, please–but I finished tucking him in and gently kissed his forehead and returned to the nurses’ office, where I shed not a few tears over what I really wanted to do. The night shift would later place the wrapped gifts under the tree, and I would hear the next day about what Santa had brought.

 

Frederico didn’t receive his fire truck that year, and he didn’t get a new family either, at least not with me. That saddened me. I continued to see Frederico every day after that for months, but things were never quite the same. He had opened up and told me what he wanted and I couldn’t give it to him. He didn’t want to risk doing that again, at least not at that time, in that place, with me. In late spring, Frederico was discharged to one more of several foster homes, and I never saw him again.

 

As I think of Frederico today, I hope he finally has a real family and that he will have a good Christmas this year. Maybe, he’ll come to understand how very much the staff at that hospital cared for him and wanted the best for him that Christmas and for all the Christmases to come. Moreover, I hope the public can someday acknowledge the emptiness that fills so many children’s lives and hearts and work toward helping fractured families so that, someday, children won’t be separated from the people who matter most and have to celebrate the wonderfully-important days with caregivers.  

 

In the meantime, tonight, I wish for all the children and all who work with them, much joy and many blessings.

 

Merry Christmas, Frederico.

 

Merry Christmas to you all.

 

I hope we can all remember to celebrate the gifts we receive that truly matter.

Ten–year-old boy was more than the school could handle, so they took him to jail.

I’m fairly certain that when ten-year-old Vinni Barros woke up Friday morning, he didn’t expect to spend the weekend in juvenile detention. But he did. It seems that he became upset over something or other and starting running around, screaming, and knocking things off desks. His teacher reports that he also picked up a metal baseball bat, put it over his shoulder, and smiled at her, which she took as an overt threat. I would, too.  

 

I must mention here that Vinni was in a special needs class which tells me that the school already knew he had some problems, some of which are probably behavioral. In any event, the school officials felt the situation was more than they could handle and called the police and emergency medical technicians.

 

Eventually, Vinni was able to calm himself. But, once the two police officers and three campus security guards arrived, Vinni became upset again and reportedly kicked and spat at an officer. He was then arrested on a charge of felony assault of a police officer and taken, handcuffed, to juvenile detention for a three-day stay.

 

Vinni’s mother, Shantelle Fry, says she had previously met with the school nurse and principal and filled out the proper paperwork. She also says that the school had “emergency” medicine to help Vinni calm down, and she doesn’t understand why it was not given. Neither do I.

 

If Vinni has, indeed, been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and his mother had properly authorized the school staff to administer medication whenever he needs it, not doing so was a bad call.

 

Now, I don’t know the medication Ms. Fry referred to, but it was apparently something that Vinni has used successfully in the past. The CBS4denver web site includes a statement that “bipolar disorder is complicated …”

 

Yes, it is.

 

But then the sentence goes on to say, “ … school nurses typically don’t have the expertise to give out strong behavior changing medication in the context of an emergency”.

 

What? What did that say? “ … school nurses typically don’t have the expertise to give out strong behavior changing medication in the context of an emergency”?

 

The kid was in trouble. He was out of control. He needed help, and the school nurse was supposed to be there to help him with medication, if warranted, at just such a time.

 

Having worked in pediatrics, in schools, and in child and adolescent psych, I know how tough working with some kids can be. How challenging and sometimes even threatening. I have been kicked, slammed, shoved, punched, spat upon, and head-butted. But, having also gone to nursing school and knowing that the school nurse sat for the same licensing exam I did, I know that she had the expertise and was legally capable of properly doing a quick exam and administering medication and absolutely should have administered his med if there was a valid order.

 

Otherwise, she should have called the EMTs and insisted—insisted—he be taken to the local emergency room for evaluation . He should not have gone to the slammer.

 

Denver Public Schools … get your act together!

 

Denver Police … get some proper training!

 

California bans same-sex marriage. That’s wrong.

On Tuesday, California voters voted to ban gay marriages in that state with 52 percent of the vote in favor of the ban.  I’m disappointed.

As a child born and reared in the South, the first time I heard about same-sex relationships was when I heard the word “queer”. When I asked what that meant, usually no one would give me an answer. If an answer was given, the best answer any adult would come up with was that it meant, “boys who like boys and girls who like girls” and the subject would be quickly changed. There were often laughs when someone was called “queer” or, later, “gay”, which further confused me.

Sometime over the many decades since that time, I’ve come to look at the question of who should have a relationship with whom, and I have decided that it is simply none of my business.

It is not my right to be judgmental of anyone.  It is not my right to be the determinant of who anyone is attracted to or involved with sexually or emotionally. It is not my right to look down on anyone for any reason—we are all equal in the eyes of God. And, it is certainly not my right to cause any person to be denied a loving relationship with the person he or she cares for.

It is not my right to do any of that.

Further, to deny a same-sex couple the benefits of joint property ownership or hospital visitation between partners or insurance benefits based on the fact that their relationship is based on love between partners of the same sex is wrong.

It is not my right to judge.

My thoughts and prayers and best wishes are with those who are involved in California’s unjust and inequitable action, and I hope soon the right of same-sex couples to marry will be restored.

The news is good. There is hope.

The news is good. There is hope.

There are many changes that take place during a person’s lifetime, not all of them good. Last night’s news that our government will change was good and welcome.

Growing up in the South, I’m old enough to remember when people of color were not welcome—not permitted—to sit at a lunch counter reserved for whites or use the same restroom or sit forward of the rear door on a bus. Many whites who had what they referred to as “colored help” would not allow them to sit at a table in the kitchen for a meal or even use tableware or dishes that the family used. A young black man or woman could not, would not, dream of occupying the White House. That has changed.

I’m old enough to remember an undeclared and unnecessary war that raged on until close to 60,000 of our young men and young women were dead and someone I loved with all my heart lay dead on the field at the age of 20. Today, we’re fighting a similar war, but I believe that soon our troops will return home to their families and better lives and to protecting the United States honorably.

Last night, the people of the United States did themselves proud—we have elected Senator Barack Obama to the highest office of our land. He is a good man and the leader we need at this time. I have hope that this nation’s wounds will heal and we can return, once again, to being a nation of integrity and honor, goodness and forthrightness.

There is, indeed, hope.

A little info on adolescent schizophrenia

As a nurse, I receive a lot of medical/psych newsletters. Today I received this very interesting video, Diagnostic Challenges in Adolescent Schizophrenia,  from Medscape Psychiatry and Mental Health. It features Robert L. Findling, M.D., Professor of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry; Director, Child & Adolescent Psychiatry, University Hospitals Case Medical Center, Case Western Reserve University School of Medicine, Cleveland, Ohio.

Does your child take psych meds? You’re not alone.

Did you take your pills today? Did your kids? Where do you live?

A recent study, led by Julie Zito of the pharmaceutical health services research department in the School of Pharmacy at the University of Maryland, reports that if your child lives in the United States, he or she is three times more likely to be prescribed psychotropic medications for conditions such as attention deficit hyperactive disorder (ADHD) and bipolar disorder than children in Europe.

The study compared psychotropic (stimulant, antipsychotic and antidepressant medication and any psychotropic) drug use among young people aged 0-19 years from the Netherlands, Germany, and the United States.  Rather than spit out a bunch of information from the study, I strongly suggest that if a child you care about is taking psych meds, that you read it.

There is interesting data included about which drugs are commonly prescribed where, and where drugs commonly prescribed in the U.S. are not allowed. (For example, amphetamines are not allowed to be prescribed in France, Spain, or Italy.)

There is also information on differences in diagnostic classifications (ADHD, bipolar disorder, conduct disorder) between the three countries studied, and well as a look at why the differences in prescribing are taking place and which type of specialist is doing the prescribing..

An interesting article about the study can be found at Business Week.

It gives us all something to think about.

 

 

 

 

Toddler Javon Thompson Starved to Death by Members of Cult

It may seem like I’m on a rampage about dead kids this week, but I promise this will be my last post about the topic. For the week.

I hope.

I’ve honestly been extremely sensitive about dead kids ever since Andrew McClain’s death back in 1998, and it still upsets me beyond words to learn about a child’s death. Andrew’s death was entirely–I said entirely–accidental, but Javon Thompson’s death was not. Not an accident. No way. No how.

Anyway, Javon was a cute-as-the-dickens baby whose mother had joined the 1 Mind Ministries (read cult) run by a woman who called herself “Queen Antoinette”.  Shortly after baby Javon and his mother, Ria Ramkissoon, moved in with the group. Queen Antoinette declared that Javon should say “Amen” after grace like the older, school-aged children did.

Fifteen-month-old Javon refused to-could not-would not-who-knows-why-he-did not-he-was-a-baby-for-god’s-sake say “Amen” and the Queen decided to punish Javon by withholding food and water until the next meal, at which time he was given another chance to say it.

He didn’t say it then either, and again food and water were withheld. And again. And again.

His skin color darkened, his eyes grew darker, he became dehydrated, and he starved. He died.

But, wait! It doesn’t end there. Cult members packed Baby Javon’s body in a green suitcase and poured Lysol over his body and put some scented fabric softener sheets in for good measure. To keep the smell down, y’know. Then the cult made several moves, carrying the green suitcase with them with Javon’s rotting body until they finally got kicked out of where they were living (except that Javon was dead) with a man in Philadelphia.

The man apparently liked them enough, though, so he told them they could leave some of their stuff in his shed. The suitcase remained there for a year.

Rather than my starting to sound like CSI, there are links here and here with more specific details on the case. Let it suffice to say here that homicide detectives finally found Queen’s green suitcase with Javon’s long-dead body inside.

I can just about imagine Ria Ramkissoon’s attorneys posturing about how she was brainwashed and is not/was not/never was responsible for the death of her son. About how she didn’t know he was dying. How she should be given another chance.

Crap! She killed Javon, and she has been properly charged with first-degree murder. She should be punished for taking her child’s life, as should all the other members of the cult who were complicit in Javon’s death. They were all old enough to know better.

And I won’t even get started on Cayley Anthony. Yet.