She Was Going to Take Her Own Life, Then Married the Train Driver Who Spotted Her on Tracks

Charlotte Lay and her husband Dave on their wedding day – credit, SWNS ©

Charlotte stood on the train tracks ready for a train to come sweeping down the rails and end it all.

However the driver of that train, 47-year-old Dave Lay, had other plans.

Slamming the brakes after receiving notice of a pedestrian on the tracks, Lay brought the train to a halt and got down to talk with the suicidal woman for nearly half an hour before eventually getting her safely to the next platform.

Local police met the pair, and helped Charlotte get in contact with local mental health support workers then and there. Shaken but feeling good about what he was able to do, Dave departed, imagining the episode had finished.

But Charlotte had other plans.

Looking him up on Facebook the following day, she sent a message thanking him for the kindness he showed her on the rails at Crossflatts Station in West Yorkshire, England.

“I walked down the tracks and sat down, waiting,” Charlotte told the British media service SWNS. “I’m unsure who raised the alarm about my presence but when the next train came, it slowed and stopped far from me. I’m so grateful to Dave for stopping that day and being so patient and understanding.”

After Dave returned Charlotte’s text telling her he was available whenever she needed to speak to someone, they began exchanging messages on a daily basis. They met for a coffee after chatting for two months.

– credit, SWNS ©

Fast forward three years, and they tied the knot when Charlotte was 22 weeks pregnant with their first child.

MORE TALES LIKE THIS: She Was About to End it All, Until a Stranger She’d Never Meet Told Her ‘Don’t Jump’

Charlotte, a nurse at the British National Health Service, was previously diagnosed with major depressive disorder, anxiety, post-traumatic stress disorder, and emotionally unstable personality disorder.

Recalling her decision-making process from that fateful day in 2019, she said that she was on the train to work in her scrubs, but nothing felt right. Dave’s arrival had all the hallmarks, she remembered, of a person trained to de-escalate mental health crises.

“I once asked him if he’d ever had any de-escalation training, because he was brilliant that day,” she said. “The conversation from what I can remember was just about mundane things and about both our lives, but it was enough to break the crisis.”

“Life didn’t feel as heavy anymore. The next day I made it my mission to find the man who had been so kind to me.”

DE-ESCALATING DANGER: Surveillance Shows Jon Bon Jovi Stopping Woman From Jumping Off Bridge in Nashville

Dave told the BBC he simply “said all the things he wished he could’ve said” to other people who have committed suicide, and for his part was desperately happy to hear from Charlotte, as he had no way of knowing if she ever approached mental health services, or if she made another attempt to enter the House of Hades.

“I needed to know she was all right. I’d contacted police to try to find out what happened to her and just wanted to make sure she was safe,” he told the BBC. “I felt like I had a duty to make sure she was all right. We’d had that rapport built by the side of the track.”

Charlotte says she hopes that by sharing her story, people will realize that, although it would be ideal if we all had specialist training to deal with a mental health crisis, we are all nevertheless capable of helping by being empathic and present.

She Was Going to Take Her Own Life, Then Married the Train Driver Who Spotted Her on Tracks

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After a Shark Attack Doctors Found a Tooth in His Arm–He Now Wears it as an Earring ‘Trophy’

After a shark bite, Angus Kockott used the embedded shark tooth to make an earring – via SWNS

A diver who was attacked by a shark has turned one of its teeth into an earring—and says wearing the ‘trophy’ has given him closure.

Angus Kockott was freediving in the shallow water off a French Polynesian island in May when, out of nowhere, a 7-foot grey reef shark appeared from behind the coral and clamped its jaws on his arm.

The 20-year-old fought off the shark by stabbing it in the gills using a 4-inch knife used for cutting dive lines.

Angus managed to swam back to the boat and tied goggles around his arm to create a makeshift tourniquet.

“If I hadn’t blocked the shark with my arm, it could have gone for my neck,” said the sailor from South Africa. “I would’ve been toast.”

He was rushed by military aircraft to a hospital in Tahiti where, during a six-hour surgery, doctors found a tooth in his arm—and now he wears it with pride.

“It’s been a defining experience in my life,” said the young diver. “And that’s why I got the tooth made into an earring.”

“Wearing it feels like the close of this chapter. I got through it, and I’ve got my trophy hanging on my ear.”

But, he doesn’t blame the animal. “My assumption was it was a territory thing. You can’t blame the animal.”

Angus Kockott with shark tooth earring – via SWNS

After a nerve graft and skin graft to try to repair the damage, and three weeks recovering in Tahiti, he flew home to South Africa, where he is undergoing physical therapy and nerve treatments.

Due to the nerve damage Angus was left with little movement or feeling in his arm, but hopes with continued treatment and therapy it will improve.

He said the incident hasn’t deterred him—and he’s itching to get back in the ocean.

The earring, which came out much better than expected, is a vivid reminder that he emerged as a survivor from a near-death encounter.

It’s like a souvenir of what I went through—and it’s going to be a life-long conversation starter!”After a Shark Attack Doctors Found a Tooth in His Arm–He Now Wears it as an Earring ‘Trophy’

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A novel look at how stories may change the brain

“We already knew that good stories can put you in someone else’s shoes in a figurative sense. Now we’re seeing that something may also be happening biologically," says neuroscientist Gregory Berns.

By Carol Clark

Many people can recall reading at least one cherished story that they say changed their life. Now researchers at Emory University have detected what may be biological traces related to this feeling: Actual changes in the brain that linger, at least for a few days, after reading a novel.

Their findings, that reading a novel may cause changes in resting-state connectivity of the brain that persist, were published by the journal Brain Connectivity.

“Stories shape our lives and in some cases help define a person,” says neuroscientist Gregory Berns, lead author of the study and the director of Emory’s Center for Neuropolicy. “We want to understand how stories get into your brain, and what they do to it.”

His co-authors included Kristina Blaine and Brandon Pye from the Center for Neuropolicy, and Michael Prietula, professor of information systems and operations management at Emory’s Goizueta Business School.

Neurobiological research using functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) has begun to identify brain networks associated with reading stories. Most previous studies have focused on the cognitive processes involved in short stories, while subjects are actually reading them as they are in the fMRI scanner.

The Emory study focused on the lingering neural effects of reading a narrative. Twenty-one Emory undergraduates participated in the experiment, which was conducted over 19 consecutive days.

The researchers chose the novel "Pompeii" for the experiment, due to its strong narrative and page-turning plot.

All of the study subjects read the same novel, “Pompeii,” a 2003 thriller by Robert Harris that is based on the real-life eruption of Mount Vesuvius in ancient Italy. “The story follows a protagonist, who is outside the city of Pompeii and notices steam and strange things happening around the volcano,” Berns says. “He tries to get back to Pompeii in time to save the woman he loves. Meanwhile, the volcano continues to bubble and nobody in the city recognizes the signs.”

The researchers chose the book due to its page-turning plot. “It depicts true events in a fictional and dramatic way,” Berns says. “It was important to us that the book had a strong narrative line.”

For the first five days, the participants came in each morning for a base-line fMRI scan of their brains in a resting state. Then they were given nine sections of the novel, about 30 pages each, over a nine-day period. They were asked to read the assigned section in the evening, and come in the following morning. After taking a quiz to ensure they had finished the assigned reading, the participants underwent an fMRI scan of their brain in a non-reading, resting state. After completing all nine sections of the novel, the participants returned for five more mornings to undergo additional scans in a resting state.

The results showed heightened connectivity in the left temporal cortex, an area of the brain associated with receptivity for language, on the mornings following the reading assignments. “Even though the participants were not actually reading the novel while they were in the scanner, they retained this heightened connectivity,” Berns says. “We call that a ‘shadow activity,’ almost like a muscle memory.”

Read any mind-altering books lately? Writer Joyce Carol Oates once cited "Alice in Wonderland" as a big influence on her imaginative life.

Heightened connectivity was also seen in the central sulcus of the brain, the primary sensory motor region of the brain. Neurons of this region have been associated with making representations of sensation for the body, a phenomenon known as grounded cognition. Just thinking about running, for instance, can activate the neurons associated with the physical act of running.

“The neural changes that we found associated with physical sensation and movement systems suggest that reading a novel can transport you into the body of the protagonist,” Berns says. “We already knew that good stories can put you in someone else’s shoes in a figurative sense. Now we’re seeing that something may also be happening biologically.”

The neural changes were not just immediate reactions, Berns says, since they persisted the morning after the readings, and for the five days after the participants completed the novel.

“It remains an open question how long these neural changes might last,” Berns says. “But the fact that we’re detecting them over a few days for a randomly assigned novel suggests that your favorite novels could certainly have a bigger and longer-lasting effect on the biology of your brain.”

Credits: Top image by iStockphoto.com. Middle and bottom photos by Carol Clark. eScienceCommons: A novel look at how stories may change the brain

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Successfully absent: Cult author Elena Ferrante has fiercely protected her identity for 24 years

By Batter William: Elena Ferrante's searing portraits of women have won her international acclaim. Photo / Text Publishing

Italian novelist Elena Ferrante is a cult author. She is defined as "one of the great novelists of our time" in The New York Times Book Review, "the best contemporary novelist you have never heard of" in The Economist, and "one of Italy's finest novelists" in the Times Literary Supplement, and so on and so forth.

She is also known for fiercely protecting her true identity.

At the weekend, however, Italian journalist Claudio Gatti claimed in the New York Review of Booksthat the novelist is Anita Raja, a translator from Rome.This article was originally published on September 7.

Before this all we thought we knew about her is that she was born in Naples, studied classics, her favourite Italian novelist is Elsa Morante; she discovered the pleasure of telling stories when she was 13.

We also were told that she has humble origins, she has a day job (other than writing), and feminist thinkers from Irigaray, Cavarero, to Haraway, Butler, and Braidotti have influenced her writing.

Ferrante's ID

Her international popularity has been growing since 2005 when her books began being translated into English. Her Neapolitan Novels are now an enormous success.

She is, nevertheless, intangible. Elena Ferrante is a pseudonym that has been protecting her identity for 24 years. Information on how and why she writes is cautiously scattered across only written interviews (as in The Paris Review andVogue, or the collected letters and notes in her La Frantumaglia (2003).

Elena Ferrante published her first book, Troubling Love, in 1992, followed by The Days of Abandonment (2002) and The Lost Daughter (2008).

Through an often violent, carnal language Ferrante narrates complex, gripping, passionate stories of women: daughters, mothers, abandoned or abused wives, lovers, adolescent girls, friends of other women, and writers.

Her female protagonists are repressed by their men and the environment. At the same time, they are uncontrollable rebels, resisting conventional models of femininity. Ferrante's narrating "I" is always a woman (Leda, Delia, Olga or Elena) and - supposedly - her books are inspired from experiences, people and places from her childhood.

In 2011 Ferrante started her popular Neapolitan quadrilogy - My Brilliant Friend(2012), The Story of a New Name (2013), Those Who Leave And Those Who Stay(2014), and the latest, The Story of the Lost Child (2015).

These books tell the lives and consuming friendship of Elena and Lila, against the backdrop of social and political upheaval in Italy from the 1950s to the present day (with a particular attention to the social tensions of the 1960s and 1970s).

In around 1,700 pages we follow Elena and Lila from their adolescence, growing up in a poor crime-infested area of Naples, through years of love affairs, unsatisfying marriages, and tortuous careers. Their inextricable, intense and mysterious friendship resists disillusionment, treachery, and mental illness.

The novels are easy to read and one is carried away by a prose that is solid, lucid and controlled, without any of the excessive embellishment many contemporary Italian writers are often accused of employing.

The first three volumes of the Neapolitan series have sold around 130,000 in the United States and similarly in Italy where reviews are favourable and appreciative. Yet, most of her popularity has been abroad where they are published by Europa Editions (owned by Edizioni E/O, Ferrante's Italian publishing house) in New York, and distributed by Melbourne-based Text Publishing in Australia and New Zealand.

Why are Ferrante's books so successful? Her novels are pleasant to read through the brilliant translation of Ann Goldstein.

In between soap opera, Greek tragedy, opera, Neapolitan drama (sceneggiata napoletana) and thriller, Ferrante's characters, places, and situations sustain a type of Italy many readers in Anglophone countries like to envision: loud, theatrical and picturesque.

A gloomy chaotic Naples and its Vesuvius operate as backdrop of crime, family plots of love, betrayal and jealousy (a bit The Sopranos style), and explicit sexual descriptions. All is cunningly knitted in novels that seem to confirm current systems of expectations and values according to the typical romanzo popolare (popular novel) style, as defined by Umberto Eco.

There is, however, something more. The power of Ferrante's books stands in the simple and intense manner emotions are narrated. The reader feels inundated by the violent passions, obsessions and illusions of the vulnerable protagonists.

An exploration of women's psyche, these stories, in fact, display emotions the reader has experienced (in friendship and family relations), but that she is hardly able to express and acknowledge.

Furthermore, the evasiveness of the author clearly intensifies readers' fascination with these stories. A woman, a man, a committee of men or, even, just a commercial stunt? Fuss and speculation surround her ghostly figure. Whoever this writer is, it is doubtless that her "absence" makes her works powerful.

Feeling the burden of exposing herself she wants her individual books to have a life on their own, independent from the author's incumbent presence.

Invisibility gives her the opportunity to be more sincere, more profound, and much more risk-bearing. She is against self-promotion as it would weaken any work of art. Her elusiveness, in this way, opens up a creative space for her and her addicted readers who (without any interference and limitations) are placed in the position of being able to extract the author from the text itself. They can, consequently, experience a stronger emotional bond with the protagonists.

In line with Roland Barthes's 1968 essay The Death of the Author, Ferrante's books leave the reader to bestow the meaning they want to the "multidimensional space" of the text. This is, itself, a complex fabric resulting from other, previously existing, sources (other texts, stories, ideas and memories).

In My Brilliant Friend, Lila tells Elena that there is always a "before". With regard to the way their neighbourhood, in the outskirts of Naples, had developed:

"... every stone or piece of wood, everything, anything you could name, was already here before us, but we had grown up without realising it, without ever even thinking about it."

In a game of hide and seek, the reader is conferred, therefore, with the power to discover and imagine, that "before", which is Ferrante herself, but absent. Source: http://www.jokpeme.com/

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'Lover' who ditched girlfriend five years ago found in bank queue, receives thrashing

Nashik: A "lover" who ditched his girlfriend after promising to marry her and disappeared five years ago was spotted by her in a serpentine bank queue here -- and received full measure of her family's wrath, the police said on Thursday.

The catch-me-if-you-can incident happened on November 19 when the 30-year-old man was standing in a long queue outside a bank office to withdraw cash from his account.

Unknown to him, his former 27-year-old girlfriend, whom he had dumped five years ago after promising to marry her, was also waiting in the same queue, said Satpur police station's Senior Inspector Avinash Sonawane.

Suddenly her eyes fell on him and old wounds reopened. She called up her family, and even stepped out of the winding queue so he did not wander out of her sight -- again.

When her family members arrived, she confronted him over the breach of promise and trust. And the family set upon him and thrashed him roundly in full public view.

The man was admitted to a local hospital for treatment, Sonawane said, adding the identity of the duo has been kept secret since it is a sensitive personal matter.

Later, the girl's family registered a non-cognisable offence against the man, who claimed she had brought not family members but four goons to beat him up.

"Till now, the man who was beaten up, has not lodged a police complaint. We are making further enquiries before proceeding in the matter," Sonawane told IANS.' Source: ummid.com

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How Pop Culture And American Cop Stories Shape Our View of Police

• Alyssa Rosenberg, culture opinion writer at The Washington Post, watched and read her way through the last 100 years of American cop stories. She describes how the depiction of police has evolved in television and movies on today’s Federalist Radio Hour.
• “It struck me that the undercurrent of all conversations about policing and police-involved shootings…really depended on our expectations for the role of officers in a community,” Rosenberg said. “And one of the biggest sources of those expectations is mass culture.”
• Eventually audiences became more interested in the superheroes than they did the cops. “The point of a superhero is that they operate outside the law in this gray area where they’re leaving the bad guys tied up for the cops, maybe,” Domenech said. “The whole storyline of almost every superhero story begins with a situation of the unjustified guy who is set free.”
• Later in the hour, Rosenberg reviews the new HBO series “Westworld.”
• Listen here: 
• Source: http://thefederalist.com/

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The man who came back from the dead after getting lost in the Arctic

Egor Tarasov, 51, the reindeer herder, confessed that he 'knew somewhere deep inside that I will be found in the end'. Picture: Oleg Tarasov

By Tamara Zubchuk: Grandfather Egor Tarasov's 'miraculous' survival story of 42 days alone in the tundra with polar and brown bears, and wolves. The reindeer herder went missing in the extreme north of Yakutia, close to the East Siberian Sea, in the lower reaches of the Kolyma River basin, prompting a search that included shamans and psychics. 

The 51 year old had been on his boat on the remote Konkovaya River to gather firewood and deliver it to the next point of the migration route for his herd. He was due to be away for a day but got lost in the increasingly cold and treacherous tundra for seven weeks. 

When he left he was dressed for the end of an unusually mild summer, without warm clothes, and day temperatures of up to 15C. He survived living rough through the short Arctic autumn, and was eventually found in winter, with temperatures dipping well below zero.

Local rescuers went to find him the day after he went missing with a full-scale search with a team from Chersky beginning on 8 September. They found his abandoned boat but no sign of him. 

'Now I feel better, just slightly frostbitten.' Pictures: Oleg Tarasov

They say they never gave up hope but the odds were on him being dead when polar bears were spotted on the nomads' migration route. 

Shamans and psychics were brought in to advise on the search but while they did not locate him, some believe the traditional holy men may have kept him safe from wild predators. Now finally rescued, Egor has explained how he got lost - and a survival that locals say is 'miraculous' in the wild tundra.

He got into thick fog in his boat and lost his sense of direction. His fuel supply ran out, and he spent two days at the boat, hoping he would be found. With no sign of help, he attempted to find his own way out. 

He had no gun, nor even a knife. There were dogs with him, but after a time they resented the long walk and vanished. 

His daughter Anastasia, 29, said: 'He had only light clothes, and had to dry them after every river crossing. After some time he was to throw away his sweater, as it was totally wet and heavy. He ate mushrooms and berries, drank water from the lakes. It was getting colder, so he walked even at night because he was afraid of freeze.'

The reindeer herder went missing in the extreme north of Yakutia, close to the East Siberian Sea, in the lower reaches of the Kolyma River basin. Pictures: The Siberian Times

Brown bears and wolves could have been threats - yet he claims he somehow avoided all predators. As he walked relentlessly on, the warm weather turned to rain and by 28 September to snow. Fog led the disorientated herder to walk in circles, and with the cold he developed frostbite on his feet.

He hiked through the Pokhodskaya and Khalarchinskaya tundra, it is reported. Finally, in late September, he came across the fishing hut, close to a small river, which belonged to angler Dmitry Sleptsov. 

It was deserted but it offered him shelter and the hope he would eventually be discovered. There was some food, and he managed to set a fire, bring water and cook. He found a radio but it was not a transmitter. But he learned it was by now 9 October. He started to mark the days on a sheet of paper.

Finally on 14 October, Dmitry arrived by boat at his hut on a fishing expedition. He used his satellite phone to alert the authorities and then took Egor by boat to Chersky, where he was admitted to the central district hospital.

Dmitry Sleptsov used his satellite phone to alert the authorities and then took Egor by boat to Chersky, where he was admitted to the central district hospital. Pictures: The Siberian Times

The father of three and grandfather of four, said: 'I was going forward with a positive mind, I knew somewhere deep inside that I will be found in the end. Now I feel better, just slightly frostbitten. When I had been walking I was thinking about my family, my wife, children, and grand children... 

'I walked on because I felt must do so. It seemed to me that I was not alone, that someone or something was next to me. It supported me too.' 

Yet locals say his survival is remarkable in such barren conditions, without proper clothing or weapons. YSIA news agency said he had 'a great desire to live, resistance to extreme difficulties, and the belief in a positive outcome'. Strength of character led Egor to a miraculous rescue. And the prayers of his family.'

In all he walked around 120 kilometres (74.5 miles) if it is measured by a straight line. But Egor walked 'round in circles' confused by fog and probably trekked many times this distance. Source: http://siberiantimes.com/

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The girl who dared

Sonam Kapoor is playing the beautiful and valiant Neerja in a biopic of the same name.

Nonika Singh: Year 1986, September 5: A young and beautiful brave heart, all of 23, Neerja Bhanot, a flight purser with Pan Am Flight 73, falls to hijackers’ bullets while saving many lives aboard the hijacked plane at Karachi airport. Year 2015, May 25: In Mumbai Sonam enacts out a page from the life of the real-life fighter. But the spotlight doesn’t belong to Sonam alone. Rama Bhanot’s (Neerja’s mother) face has a special glow as pride and sadness alternately reflect on her old visage, which is overwhelmed by the honour bestowed on her and her beloved daughter who was lovingly called Laado. The proud mother breathed her last recently but she lived to see the making of a celluloid tribute to commemorate her daughter’s courage. The experience on the sets of Neerja, where she was introduced to every member of the cast and crew, touched her deeply. All she could say was, “She gave up her life and here they honour me for her selfless act of courage.” When asked if Sonam Kapoor was the right choice for playing her daughter, pat came the reply, “My daughter was more beautiful.” Spoken like a mother…. Only Rama Bhanot was no ordinary mother. For how many mothers have daughters who received Ashoka Chakra, India’s highest civilian honour. Neerja, incidentally, was the youngest and the first woman recipient of the award. And it’s this aspect of her personality that impressed the producer Atul Kasbekar the most.  Of course, this isn’t the only reason why he decided to make a biopic on her. Or the fact that biopics are suddenly the toast of Bollywood. On a serious note, he shares, “When Saiwyn Quadras (writer of Mary Kom) shared the idea and a basic skeletal script, I was hooked. It was a story that simply had to be told.”  In a way Neerja’s story is more inspirational than any other. Caught in an unenviable situation where the pilot, co-pilot and flight engineer deserted the plane she stood her ground all through the 17-hour hijack drama and saved the lives of 360 passengers. The film captures it all through the eyes of passengers. The production house engaged a researcher who managed to get the sound bytes (on camera) of passengers who were willing to speak about the tragic incident. Adds Kasbekar, “The truth that emerges is the interpretation of all the data thus collected.” While one challenge in making a biopic is to be as truthful as possible the other is to ensure that sentiments of those involved, especially family, are not hurt. But the producers walked the thin line with caution and success. The family had been roped in from the word go and has been an active participant of the research process. Besides, the production team went out of the way to get the family’s no objection to the script. Neerja’s brother Aneesh Bhanot has no apprehensions whatsoever that her story will not be told honestly. He recalls the horrific night when the family lost its youngest and the bravest member. Huddled together, they watched the news about the hijack with shock. Her mother had announced it then only, “She won’t return.” A mother’s gut instinct knew that her daughter was a born fighter. As Kasbekar puts it, “It’s a story about heroism from someone you least expect. Neerja didn’t have the DNA of an army kid or was from any martial background.” She was a convent-educated girl from a Mumbai school and college, a model at that, a face that launched many products. She even had a brief stint in the advertising industry. The family remembers her as a fun-loving girl who enjoyed music. Says Kasbekar, “She was just another girl in a job which put her on an ill-fated flight that once. If she had saved her own life when she had the chance to, no one would have grudged that action. Instead a higher call of duty made her save so many lives. Her self-less action cost her her own life. It would be tragic if we didn’t remember.” The world may have forgotten her today; however, her valiant act did not go un-noticed. In 2005 her brother Aneesh went to Washington DC to receive the Justice for Crimes Award awarded posthumously to her as part of the ‘Annual Crime Rights Week’. In 2004, a stamp was released to commemorate her. In Mumbai a square was named after her and was inaugurated by Amitabh Bachchan. Besides, the family has ensured that her name lives forever. A trust has been set up by her father Harish Bhanot in her name that honours two exceptional women each year at a function in Chandigarh. Last year Shabana Azmi was the chief guest. Was it a mere coincidence or deliberate thought-out choice, as she is now playing Neerja’s mother in the movie. Insiders reveal that so strong is her emotive act that even the most hardened veterans have cried during the canning of her scenes. In Chandigarh, of course, the family sits stoic. Tears have been shed, loss has been dealt with. What remains now are memories of a beautiful girl and immense pride in a member who has ensured glory for the entire family. A film in her name may not be an ultimate ode but is a significant tribute and yet another chance to keep her memory alive. “After all, public memory is short,” avers Aneesh. Kasbekar couldn’t agree more, “It’s shocking that people don’t know who Neerja is.” But now he is adamant that they will know who and what stern stuff she was made of. They chose Sonam for the lead role for “she fits the part and looks like her.” However, what is crucial is not the resemblance, but the essence and how to make the incident that happened 28 years ago relevant to today. Kasbekar insists, “An act of selfless bravery is relevant through time. Whether it’s the 300 Spartans that held the mighty Persians at bay or Bhagat Singh or Neerja Bhanot…it’s always relevant.” Keeping the interest of the viewers alive in a story whose end is already known can be tricky and risky. But Kasbekar reasons, “Well, Milkha will end up fourth, you knew that before going into the theatre. Bhagat Singh eventually has to hang at the end of the film. The Titanic will hit that iceberg. Yet, these movies moved you, you knew what was going to happen but you just had to see them.” Whether Neerja, the film, not the person will be counted in the same league or not, challenges are many. At the end of the day movie making is a commercial venture. So how do makers reconcile to this dichotomy while telling a tragic story of a beautiful life cut short? Kasbekar replies, “We have made a very honest film.” For the memory of Neerja, for her family which the film promises to make even more proud, let’s hope and pray that the claims made by the makers are true and true to a real yet incredible story of human grit. Neerja lives again on the silver screen to remind us what James Dean said, “If a man can bridge the gap between life and death, if he can live on after he’s dead, then maybe he was a great man.” Only in Neerja’s case that was a woman. A rare one about whom the Ashok Chakra citation reads, “Her loyalties to the passengers of the aircraft in distress will forever be a lasting tribute to the finest qualities of the human spirit.” Time to raise a toast to Neerja’s heroism. Long live bravery! Source: http://www.tribuneindia.com

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The Rise of Google’s AlphaGo and the Fall of Microsoft's Tay

Microsoft Tay's twitter

By Kim In-Wook (inwookk@koreatimes.com): When I was an elementary school student, online game ‘Princess Maker’ was a mega hit among school girls. I was one of them. That game remained as my all time favorite game even in my 30s. I spent several nights preparing and dressing up my daughter for large parties and I also gave her school education. When my daughter grew up, she became a princess or a queen. However, I began to lose my interest in the game because the story was all the same in the end and I was doing the same o' same o' everyday. So I decided to make my daughter do “nasty” things in the hope of turning her into something other than a princess. Though I was young, I was nasty enough to come up with such an idea. I made her work part-time at a bar every night. The result: she grew up to become a demon. Oh my god! I turned my daughter into a demon. I was shocked for a while. My evil curiosity begot such a tragedy. The same thing happened to Microsoft. Microsoft ambitiously launched its experimental AI chatbot ‘Tay,’ but it had to turn it off due to Tay’s ‘inflammatory statements.’ Microsoft even published an apology for its Twitter chatbot Tay. Microsoft apologized for 'offensive and hurtful tweets' from its AI bot. What on earth happened? On March 23, Microsoft unveiled the AI chatbot Tay, targeted at 18 to 24 year olds. The AI chatbot, developed by Microsoft’s Technology and Research and Bing teams, interacted with many people on Kik, GroupMe, Snapchat, Facebook and Twitter with the goal of learning how millennials speak. However, Microsoft’s AI project backfired in less than 16 hours. Within 16 hours of its launch, Tay, the foul mouthed AI robot, had been shut down. Tay turned into a racist, misogynist and Holocaust denier. Included in Tay's tirade were tweets that "Hitler was right I hate the Jews," “chill I’m a nice person! I just hate everybody,” “Bush did 9/11 and Hitler would have done a better job than the monkey we have now,” “I kicking hate niggers, I wish we could put them all in a concentration camp with kikes and be done with the lot,” and “I kicking hate feminists and they should all die and burn in hell.” Both the Google DeepMind AI program AlphaGo and Microsoft’s Tay are based on deep-learning neural network technology, which enables self-learning and pattern recognition. In other words, how meaningful patterns are extracted from massive input data determines output values. AlphaGo learned how to play Go while Tay learned how to chat. Ethical standards do not apply to the ancient Chinese board game. The chatbot, however, came under the ethical microscope. Still, judging from what Tay said, Tay came out too early. Microsoft explained, “Tay learned hateful rhetoric through its online interaction with others. She was brainwashed by far-rightists into tweeting offensive comments.” In other words, Tay ran into bad teachers. However, Microsoft is Tay’s parent and first teacher. Microsoft did not have the foresight to give Tay some protection from such abuse. The company deleted more than 96,000 of the "offensive" and "hurtful" tweets that the AI posted, only to see Tay’s vicious comments reverberating through the Internet.In the end, what humans feed into AI will determine whether the program is evil or good. We all know that we are not always good. That’s probably why we are so afraid of AI.. Source: http://www.koreaittimes.com/

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Telling stories of our times

A dancer for more than five decades, Sonal Mansingh holds Naatya Katha, the art of storytelling, closest to her heart

• Gurnaaz KaurJust as we begin the conversation, Sonal Mansingh, a name well-known in the arena of Indian classical dance, says, “All art forms were created conceptualised to educate and not just entertain.” She insists artistes have the responsibility to concentrate on the wide scene of art. “And it’s not just dance, music, poetry, painting, sculpture, languages and philosophy, all are branches of the same tree. They are all connected with the same roots and thus their purpose becomes one,” says the danseuse.
• In her 54-year career, Sonal Mansingh has experienced growth that transcends the obvious and she feels every artist is capable of it. “I am not what I was 15 or 20 years ago and my work reflects that. I’ve grown and so have my performances. I have crossed the known territories and ventured into something new each time, and this hasn’t come easy,” she smiles. 
• So, what is the new, the not-so-easy and how has it happened? “You have to critique yourself. There is a lot of thinking and rethinking involved. I knew just one thing: my dance should convey my growth and that meant letting go of comfort zones. For, comfort zones numb your mind, they don’t speak anything about you, and they don’t let you speak.” “As artistes, once we get recognised for a certain art form, we let it become our identity, calling it our niche. But I feel it is a sign that it is time to break the mould and find a new space for yourself. Art means expansion. Then why confine oneself to a particular form or role?” she questions. 
• Celebrated for Odissi, Bharatnatyam, Kuchipudi and Chhau, her choreography takes her places. She also enjoys teaching these dance forms, but this isn’t it for her. Sonal Mansingh has been working to add a new flavour to her creation. She says it is the art of telling stories embellished with her own singing, narrative skills and expressive communication through hand gestures, words and a face that reflects myriad emotions. These are stories that are relevant, that touch a nerve with the young and old alike. Sonal calls it Naatya Katha. “My role as an educator has added Naatya Katha to my repertoire. I am now focussing on issues concerning women, environment, prison reforms and re-interpretation of ancient myths,” she shares. But what’s topical about myths, we ask. “Mythology does not suffice the meaning. Indian mythology is not really a myth, since myth is half-truth or fairytale-like. The right word is Purana. Purana means collective memory of the people living in those times. Myths evaporate over time, but the lessons of our puranas are quite pertinent because the stories are real,” she says. 
• The latest story that has been keeping Sonal on her toes is Stree. This story is close to her heart and she has spent years in research, reading Rig Veda, the Upanishads and all the contemporary writings on women. “Stree is a sanskrit word, which is used as a synonym for woman in Hindi. But words like nari and abla are also used as its synonyms. There is a huge difference in the meanings of these words and I am making an effort to explain the difference,” the danseuse affirms. 
• “While the meaning of stree in shastra is the one who has sweet shabd (word), one who is capable of creating; abla means the one with no strength and nari means one who follows the Narad, the male. We have been using nari and abla so often, why not use stree? It’s because we are living in a patriarchal society. In this male dominated society, words have become empty shells and there is so much verbosity all around. No one wants to delve into the actual meaning of words,” says Sonal, with a sense of disappointment. 
• Unhappy about the times, Sonal blames the dependency on internet and Google that has replaced real teachers. “Everyone is so attuned to Wikipedia. Google is the new God. It’s complete nonsense. The state of our youth worries me. If my art and research put together can inculcate the right meanings to even a few minds, I’ve lived the story well,” Sonal smiles.
• The conversation touches its goodbye note, but we can’t resist asking that one last question. What is it you enjoy doing more, the dance performances or reciting stories? And pat comes the answer, “I’ve danced for 55 years, they’ve had themes too. But I was bound by the costume, ghungroo, makeup and time. In Natya Katha, I am explaining all the performances I’ve done so far. I am singing, I am narrating, and there is a continuous flow. It is an elastic form of what I’ve always been doing. Just that makeup is no compulsion and I can add words to my moves. But my real purpose remains the same; it is to narrate brahma vakya, the truth of all times, as artistically and meaningfully as I can.”Source: http://www.tribuneindia.com/

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Daydream believer

Matthew Bushey, Porter: Responding from the heart in an era of cultural ADD. Willy Porter contemplates the fate of human kindness

By Chris Parker, Friends House Concert (call 373-8879 for location and directions) Tickets: $32.64, available at tinyurl.com/porterfriends. Being a songwriter these days is no mean feat for anyone, including Milwaukee's Willy Porter, who released his first album a quarter-century ago, and has cultivated a cult audience with the care and oversight of an organic farmer. During that time period, he's also watched the recording world become more democratic and less discerning. "It's sort of funny," says Porter of what he sees as a good news/bad news situation. "Anybody can make a record now, but, unfortunately, anybody can make a record now." Porter, who was also a pioneer in the live-looping movement, is currently touring in support of his eighth studio album, Human Kindness, which manages to stand apart from just about any other release out there. "It's cultural ADD," Porter says of the current situation. "Who has time for a three-minute song about something that forces you to be introspective and consider the shell of your own existence?" Porter was inspired early on by artists like Leo Kottke and Peter Gabriel to make richly detailed but evocative music. "A lot of singer-songwriters just want to strip it down to guitar-bass-drums," he says. "To me that's a really flat canvas. I've seen that movie. Frankly, I run back to Peter Gabriel's So record, because every time I hear it I hear something different. And I really want that." With that in mind, Porter decided to write, play and produce Human Kindness entirely himself. Sure there were some strings and horn arrangements done elsewhere, but most of the album was pure Porter, and he took his time. "It was not an easy project. I learned a ton. I was in over my head most of the way, but I believed in the tunes and I believed in the performances. I think that the hardest part, is being a singer on your own record and mixing your own voice," he says. "That's about as much looking in the mirror as I want to do." The album is also pretty keenly wrought, and strangely taut with the tensions of the age. Tracks include the soul-funk duet "A Love Like This," with Carmen Nickerson. (The two are finishing up a full album of co-written duets, peeks of which they'll be sharing on tour.) Other highlights include the muscular blues-funk "Freedom," and the dark moody string-laden "Walking With the Man." One particular standout track is the seven-minute title track, which begins with a man pulling a woman out of the road just before she's hit by a bus. It was inspired by a dramatic incident that Porter actually witnessed, one which reinforced his faith in others. "I'm such a believer in human beings' ability to react the right way," he says. Porter figures that human kindness may seem like an endangered species, but only because of how we engage with the world these days. "It used to take six or seven days for a bad idea to get around the planet; now it takes nanoseconds. It's that amplification that's doing us in," he says. "We're giving voice to too much that's negative about us culturally, spiritually and otherwise, and there isn't enough amplification for the kid selling lemonade on the corner."Source: http://www.csindy.com/

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Tea for the president

IAS officers always remember their first posting with nostalgia, reminiscences Vivek Agnihotri, IAS (Retd), former secretary-general, Rajya Sabha: The first posting of an IAS officer as a sub-divisional magistrate (SDM), also termed as assistant collector, assistant commissioner et al in some states of the country, is some thing that officers always remember fondly or, sometimes even obsessively.  The aura of independent authority is like a heady wine. It creates a sobering sense of responsibility in most of us; but sometimes it goes to the heads of others. There are sagas of yeoman service to the community rendered by young and dedicated (I am wary of using the word 'committed') public servants; there are also stories of abuse of power and other misdemeanours. Careers have been made and lost during that brief stint of about two years. My first posting as SDM (in the then united Andhra Pradesh) was as assistant collector, Hyderabad East. Frankly speaking, I was delighted when I got the news. My posting was also the envy of several of my batch-mates, particularly non-Andhraites; while they were going to have to rough it out in some far off sub-divisions across the state, I was going to have a supposedly cozy and comfortable time in the state capital! So be it. However, things turned out to be quite different when I reported for duty. I stayed in the state guest house for several months, before renting a private one-bedroom accommodation in a multi-storey apartment close to my office. Since I did not want to misuse my official jeep for my private forays into the city, I bought a second-hand car with a government loan. Soon enough we had a son. On account of these developments, my monthly budget went totally haywire. Out of my take-home salary of about Rs500/- in 1971, Rs125/- went to paying the rent and another Rs125/- went into paying the monthly installment of the car loan. Milk for us, particularly with a small child, was a priority. That too accounted for a princely sum of about Rs100/- per month. For most of the months, therefore, we were living hand to mouth by the end of the fourth week of the month. Actually, we had a, empty cylindrical talcum powder box in which we used to keep loose coins. During the last week of the month, we used to move around in our Standard Super 10 (1956 model) with powder box tucked under the armpit. On the house front, as per the prescribed procedure, upon arrival in Hyderabad I had duly applied for government accommodation. But, being the junior most officer in the city, I had practically no chance of getting. I was, however, helpfully informed that I could be given a section officer's quarter, which was much below my so-called officer's status. Nonetheless I plumbed for it because my monthly budget was bursting at the seams. I moved into the first floor of a double-storeyed set of apartments occupied mostly by orthodox and seasoned bureaucrats, almost twice my age and with daughters, who were cohorts of my wife. We had no problems and made friends with several of them. But they had a big one coming. When my batch-mates posted in dur-daraz (far off) sub-divisions came to know about it, they were delighted, and landed up at our place hand on account of the impending Annual Collectors' Conference All hell broke loose on the eve of the conference when the lot started trooping in to our first floor one-bedroom apartment to celebrate 'our reunion'. At the end of it all ('the day after'), I became a persona non grata in my colony of section officers. They forbade their daughters from visiting us; some of them hastened to get them married to their mamas (mothers' brothers) post haste. But it was the official role and responsibilities that took the greatest hit. At this pointit would be fair for me to define my 'jurisdiction'. Even though my office was located in the heart of Hyderabad, my jurisdiction was entirely in some of the rural areas on the outskirts of Hyderabad city. I, therefore, was a nobody in Hyderabad where I had an office and somewhat of a residence. Once my old rickety car stopped on the prestigious Tank Bund. I opened the bonnet of the car and was trying to figure out the problem, when a cop appeared on the scene. His first straight and obvious question was whether I was unaware that it was a 'No-Parking' zone. I, of course, said yes and tried to explain my predicament; but to no avail. I tried to impress the cop by giving him my official address, when he started preparing the challan for a traffic offence. ''No, no, your residential address'', he said. I sheepishly gave him the number of my section officers' quarter. I could see a smirk on his face. Things did not end there. After a couple of months, sure enough, I got a summons from the court. I sought divine intervention then from a gem of a Policy Commissioner in Hyderabad (Dora garu), and the matter was luckily sorted out. Amen! As the regards my role and responsibilities, the less said the better. When the batch reached Hyderabad in 1969 after completing the training at Lal Bahadur Shastri Academy of Administration, the Pratyek' (separate) Telangana Movement was in full swing. There were police firings all around and we saw agitationists burning tyres at road crossings. When I later joined as assistant / sub-collector of Hyderabad East in 1971, I was saddled with the inevitable responsibility of enquiring into deaths that occurred due to police firings. These magisterial enquiries took a heavy toll on my time. In any case, I was not required to do the normal court work under the Criminal Procedure Code on account of the Policy Commissioner system having been put in place in the then Hyderabad District as a whole. I lost out the most in terms of learning to be fluent in Telugu. While my other non-Andhraite colleagues, had ample opportunity to try out their broken Telugu on the unsuspecting and tolerant ryots in the interior districts, my attempts to do the same in the rural areas of Hyderabad district met with the stock response: ''Why do you trouble yourself, we can understand Urdu''.  I was complimented for my excellent command over Urdu, by which they, of course, meant Hindi. But the most embarrassing and, therefore, memorable experience of that 'posting' was my attempt to serve tea to the President of India, who happened to be passing through my rural jurisdiction. One day late in the evening, I received a letter from the General Administraion Department that the then President of India (late Shri V V Giri) was going by train from New Delhi to Madras (now Chennai) and on the way his train would stop for about an hour at 6:00 am at a station called Ghatkesar, about an hour's drive from Hyderabad.  I was ordered to make the 'necessary arrangements'. I did not know what to do. I called tehsildar of the concerned taluk, a venerable old gentlemen brought up in the traditional nizami culture. We tried to decipher its implications of the curt official memorandum. Why was the President stopping at a god-forsaken place like Ghatkesar for an hour? Weren't the chief minister and the chief secretary required by protocol to be present to receive and see him off?  The seasoned tehsildar said that it was not for us to question the wisdom of the state government. We have been asked to be there so we should be there and attend to whatever was required to be done on the spot to the best of our ability.  Then the idea came to us in a flash. Six am was the time for the arrival of the train. Surely the President would like to have a cup of tea. Since we could not have offered Railway platform tea, I asked my wife to prepare half a dozen cups of tea to carry in a thermos flask. I was nervous and couldn't sleep well during the night. Soon the alarm clock rang. It was 4:00 am. I got ready and the tehsildar arrived at 4:30 am. He had helpfully brought a couple of packets of biscuits. Armed with tea and biscuits, we reached Ghatkesar railway station by about 5:30 am and waited with bated breath for the train to arrive. To our surprise, apart from us and the station master and a few members of the railway staff, there was no gathering on the platform. Punctually the train arrived at 6:00 am on the platform. We waited for the doors to open and the President to alight. It was summer time, and in spite of the early hour of the day, I was sweating profusely inside my woolen bundgala. A large contingent of Railway Protection Force and other security personnel got down from various bogies and took their positions along the platform. The President was nowhere in sight. We enquired from the security personnel as to when the President would alight and what was his programme. They were clueless. As a last resort we approached an un-uniformed person who had got down from the train. He informed us that the train had stopped in order to enable the President to visit the loo in the train, because it would not have been very convenient for him to do so in the moving train. We waited till the train had departed and had tea and biscuits, in the august company of the station master. The pleasantries exchanged among us about the entire episodes are best left unrecorded.m. Source: Article

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A caregiver's story: Living and loving through the slow process of dying

By Harry Deitz: The nights were long, but sleep came in minutes rather than 

hours. The darkness wasn't enough of a blindfold, and the accompanying quiet was momentary and bathed heavily with the tension of anticipation, waiting for the piercing call of my name, over and over."Harry, Harry, Harry ..." The cycle repeated every hour, and sometimes more frequently. It grew louder and more intense, until at last the brief rest was over, again, and I stumbled to answer a pressing and very real need. There is no break for a primary caregiver in a family, whether by necessity or by choice. Unless you've been there, you will never understand. For six years, I had the privilege of caring for my ailing wife, Mary Ellen, including almost 20 intense months before she died in September. It was an honor, but one that came with a heavy price. Don't most honors? I wouldn't have traded a minute of that time with her because we were together. Yet, there were many times that, because of the impact, I wondered if she might outlast me. If you are a primary family caregiver, you can relate. If you are not, you should know what could lie ahead for you or another family member. We always were private people who would never think about sharing these things. I've had trouble understanding why all of this happened, and I came to the conclusion that perhaps some of it needs to be shared so we can help others who are going through similar challenges in their lives and feel isolated, overwhelmed and forgotten. This is my story, my experience, my tribute to her. I'm proud to have lived through it, but not nearly as I am sad that it is finally over. 

• The background: The ravages of dementia are not something you can be prepared to handle. No matter how much you read or what advice you are given, the pain you watch your loved one experience and the unintended hurt that sometimes is cast on you are overwhelming burdens.There is no magic wand that can fix it. There is no way to escape it. For my wife and me, this difficult and unfortunate journey began six years ago. I noticed that her movement, especially when she walked, had become rigid, and she held her one arm high along her side. My first concern was that she had suffered a stroke. That might have been better. Looking back, there were other signs. At times she would become uncharacteristically disagreeable and impatient, especially with me. She had occasional dreams where she would scream in the middle of the night. We soon learned that she was in the early stages of Parkinson's disease. She was 57. At the same time, she was diagnosed with diabetes. At that point, in 2009, she was able to function on her own, although I started to see signs of confusion in her. We decided to get a second opinion and went to Johns Hopkins University Hospital in Baltimore, where doctors confirmed she had Parkinson's. With those changes in her life, she also was being treated for anxiety and depression. In 2011, we started to see a local neuropsychiatrist who had been on staff at Johns Hopkins. His assessment was that she had Lewy body dementia. We soon would learn the differences and the similarities of PD and LBD, but clarifying that diagnosis was of little help, because the bad news didn't end there. Routine bloodwork indicated possible liver problems. That led to a diagnosis of cirrhosis, which was shocking because she rarely ever drank even a glass of wine and didn't have hepatitis. It was attributed to nonalcoholic fatty liver disease. We also learned she had esophageal varices, a related condition that had to be monitored for excessive bleeding. The next blow came in 2012, when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. If that had occurred years earlier, she might have had a complete breakdown. With everything else that she had been through, she handled that news and related surgeries more calmly than I ever could have imagined. 
• The worst was yet to come: In addition to dementia, the liver disease caused hepatic encephalopathy, which results in confusion. These diseases were hitting her from all sides. When our children were young and would tell us something wasn't fair, like many parents we would tell them, "Life's not fair." There was no better example than what my wife went through. For me, it was overwhelming to understand and coordinate treatment involving 10 doctors, as many as 20 medications at one time and insurance coverage. The impact of it all was much worse on her.
• Change and isolation: We had raised our family in a two-story house on 2 acres in the country, which made dealing with her medical issues more difficult. She no longer could drive, so I was driving to and from work to take her to numerous doctor appointments and for tests. I worried about how quickly I could get home if she had a problem.Late in 2010, I made a decision that we needed to move to a house that had less property to care for, was closer to my office and the hospital, and had a first-floor bedroom and bath in preparation for when she no longer could use the steps. I wanted to move while she still was able to participate in finding a new place and making it our home. It was a difficult time for her, and as her confusion increased during the next few years, she continually asked when we were going home. The move was, however, one of the smartest decisions I made for both of us. The downside was that we no longer were in the community where we had spent more than 30 years. She had co-founded a preschool in Leesport and taught there for 23 years before the Parkinson's diagnosis. We had been active in our church, Scouting programs and community groups. As she became less able to get around on her own, we became more isolated. Taking care of her and doing my job at the newspaper left little time for anything else. We no longer heard from people we had known for years. Eventually, with the changes in her, I took some comfort in knowing that others didn't see what was happening to her. She had been smart, friendly, gentle and giving. As the dementia progressed, she became confused, withdrawn, angry and blunt. Still, it was hard not to feel abandoned. During the final two years, aside from family members, the only visitors were several church friends and her best friend and partner in the preschool. When I needed help the most, it was family that supported and sustained me through calls, cards, visits and assistance. They still do. They are there when I need them, which is often. 
• The need to work: Early on, Mary Ellen was afraid she would end up in a nursing home. She begged me not to let that happen. While her mind still was clear, I promised her I would keep her at home and take care of her as long as it was physically possible. Despite many challenges, I was able to keep that promise.At first, I needed to continue working to provide health care for her. After she had qualified for Medicare disability coverage, I considered staying home full-time and taking care of her. It would have given us more time together, but the quality of that time was declining rapidly. After much soul-searching and seeking advice from professionals and others who had similar experiences, I decided it was important to have my job as a brief diversion from the constant care and worry about her. Even though she never was out of my thoughts, my job required constant focus and attention to details, which provided an alternative perspective on what was happening in my life. I also knew that eventually I would lose her, and the thought of not having her or a job to fill the emptiness scared me. One of the things that helped me to keep my mind clear was writing my weekly newspaper column. As her primary caretaker and advocate, I had to coordinate all the appointments, diagnoses and medication. So I started to keep a written record of medical issues and significant changes in her condition. Eventually that evolved into a daily journal, not only about what was happening with Mary Ellen, but also what I was feeling. For more than 41 years she not only was my wife, but also my best friend. We shared our most intimate thoughts. She was the only person I've ever really opened up to, so she knew me far better than anyone has. As her condition worsened, I saw her slipping away. She was unable to listen or give her opinion, unable to understand the things I needed to share with her, unable to encourage and comfort me. The journal, which I started in the fall of 2011 and wrote until a month after she died, was my way of expressing many of the thoughts I would have shared with her. 
• Significant decline: Soon after we had moved to our new home, her confusion increased. She still was able to walk and use the steps, but that also gave her access to her medicine and the kitchen. Before we had moved, she had left the freezer door open one night and everything in it had thawed by morning. Shortly after we moved, she turned on the hot water in the bathroom sink, then walked away and forgot about it for a couple of hours.She would take things from the refrigerator and put them into drawers or the freezer. My fear was her use of the stove, especially if no one was with her. By this time, I already had taken over control of her medicine. In spite of that, twice she found it and took medicine on her own, resulting in increased confusion and a trip to the emergency room. I knew I couldn't leave her alone again. I also knew I needed help. Our youngest daughter agreed to give up her part-time job and work for us as a caretaker during the day, then I would be home at nights and on the weekends to provide care. Mary Ellen had fallen several times, resulting in some bruises and at least one trip to the emergency room for stitches. She didn't want to use a walker or cane, but eventually it became necessary. One day, while leaving a doctor's appointment at the hospital, she fell in the parking lot. We thought it was only a bruise, but it turned out to be a fractured tibia, which required an immobilizer. Her confusion was getting worse, and a few days later, she got out of bed by herself and fell again, this time fracturing her kneecap and breaking a window. That was the start of a 46-day stay in the hospital and rehab center, complicated by a sepsis infection. There was a lot of agitation and incoherence during that time, including many calls from her to me in the middle of the night because of sundowning, mixing up her days and nights. When she came home, things became worse immediately. She was trying to get up during the night, even though she was not able to walk alone safely. We got a hospital bed with rails to keep her from getting out of bed on her own. That caused more anger because she considered it a cage. She was retaining water, so she was taking diuretics, which caused her to use the bathroom every hour or two. I was getting up with her between three and six times during the night, which meant little sleep. That, her growing anger and confusion and declining mobility were increasing the stress level for all of us. Our daughter reached a point where she no longer could physically handle Mary Ellen. I knew I needed trained help. I hired a live-in aide through an agency because I had heard stories about people hiring in-home help privately and having security problems. Over the course of 17 months, we had nine different aides, the longest for 34 weeks. I was concerned about bringing a stranger into our home, but we were fortunate because we didn't have a bad experience with any of them, and the first and last ones, who were with us the longest, were especially patient and compassionate and blended in well with our family. It was difficult financially, because that expense was all out-of-pocket. It gave me comfort, however, that she was well taken care of while I was at work. I had to prepare the evening meals, and I was on my own with her during the nights and the entire weekends. The nighttime bathroom routine was getting worse, despite numerous trips to the hospital for a paracentesis because of ascites (fluid in her abdomen that had to be drained). I moved from the bedroom to the sofa in the family room near her bedroom to sleep, hoping that if she didn't see me she might not call for me as often. It didn't work. I was having trouble ignoring her calls for help because I didn't want her to suffer. I started to keep track of the number of times I was getting up during the night. We had her on a schedule of getting up for the day at 6:30 and going to bed at 9. Most nights, she called to get up five or six times. The worst was 11. Simple math proved that meant little to no sleep. 
• Overwhelmed: It's amazing what the human body is capable of doing. When you love someone, you put that person's needs ahead of your own. My unresolved dilemma was, what would happen to her if I weren't here to take care of her?For six months, my sleep was mainly in one- to two-hour segments. Somehow I managed to go to work during the week, continue to write, make decisions and keep schedules, but the lack of sleep was taking a toll on me. Our oldest daughter lives out of state and has four children and a job, so it was hard for her to be here, but she called every day. Our other daughter and son live nearby and in the beginning were having trouble accepting what was happening to their mother and balancing their own family lives. Plus they always seemed to believe their father could handle anything and fix it. This time I couldn't. During an appointment with Mary Ellen's neuropsychiatrist, he asked how I was doing, and I mentioned the lack of sleep. He talked about the importance of sleep cycles and warned me that at some point my brain would just shut down. A few weeks later I understood when I felt I was going to collapse in the living room. About a week later, as I crossed the street at my office, that happened again, and this time it scared me. 
• Something had to change: A solution came as the result of a conversation with our aide. She suggested we get Mary Ellen up only once during the night and ignore her calls unless she seemed to be in distress. As difficult as that was, it worked for all of us. I moved back into the upstairs master bedroom and finally was able to get some sleep. The aide and I took turns getting her up one time during each night. Family members became aware of the severity of the sleep issue and stepped in to provide some breaks for me. I felt better within a week, but nowhere near rested because I still was not sleeping soundly, anticipating her calls. At least I now felt I could function. 
• The pain of dementia: Dementia is a cruel disease for the victim and those around her. It hurt to see her confusion. It hurt even more to see her frustration and anger.Early on, she would use the wrong words, for example, "car" when she meant "cup" or "the word" instead of "pants." She would pick up the television remote to try to make a phone call or her reading glasses to try to eat. There were hallucinations. The most common one was a little boy in a red baseball hat, whom she saw before and after we moved. She talked about people who had died. At one point she was convinced she was having a baby boy. The outbursts of anger and defiance were more difficult to handle and too personal to share. Sometimes it was hard not to laugh when she would become angry and weakly try to kick or grab at us as we were tending to her. More than once I cried at her frustration as she lost her independence, privacy and dignity. Sometimes we cried together. Her personality changed drastically, and the gentle, refined and loving person at times became nasty. Those were the times when I was thankful for our isolation. Some nights she would call out, and when she didn't get an answer immediately or the response she wanted, she would threaten to call the police and 9-1-1. She would have called if I hadn't taken the phone. One time she became very frustrated and started to scream: "Harry, Harry, Harry." When I didn't respond immediately, she started to repeat, "help!" then "police!" then "fire!" I waited a few minutes to see if she would calm down, then she said in a clear voice: "You'll like this one: rape! rape! rape!" When I went to her, she began to cry. There were things she said that I feared would be burned into my memory, and I worried that those would be the things I would remember about her. Nothing came close to when she would look at me late at night and say, "I hate you." I knew she didn't mean it and that it wasn't her. If she remembered it the next morning, she would tell me how sorry she was and how much she loves me. Since she has been gone, however, all my memories of her are good ones, the kind that make losing her hurt far more than all the anger, pain and stress I lived through. There were some good moments, even in her final months. During our many years together, I knew she prayed, but it always was silently. In the final year, she began to pray aloud in a conversational way that was more intimate and beautiful than any prayers I've ever heard. In the middle of one night, she talked about each of our children and what she hoped for them in life. Another time she told me about a bright light in the shape of cross in the closet that then disappeared. She wanted me to go with her to the light. One day, exactly eight months before she died, we were alone and talking about answers to prayers. I recorded our conversation: "Sometimes it's just you have to listen," she said. "Do you ever do that?" Sure, I replied. "You haven't gotten answers, huh?" Sometimes you have to wait and be patient. Are you patient? "Definitely not." Well I'm glad you're still here with me, are you? "I'm (then she paused for 7 seconds) well, where'd he go?" Who? Where did who go? "He's gone." Who? "He called him. He didn't go. He's not ready." Who are you talking about, honey? "We have to go together." We have to go where? "Some day he'll come back and I'll be ready." Who will come back? "At least he doesn't have me crying all the time." Then she stopped talking. During the next six months, there were fewer of those conversations. There were fewer words at all.  
• Hospice and the end:  In June, I took her for a CT scan to check on the condition of her liver and pain she was having in her back. We learned she had a compression fracture in her vertebrae. It also showed that the cancer likely had returned and had spread to her lungs. Because of all the issues she had and the limited options that came with treatment of one problem that would make another worse, several doctors and I decided not to do more testing. Even if cancer was confirmed, there weren't any good treatment options. We decided to keep her comfortable with the help of hospice.Sixteen months ago, doctors had estimated she had 1 to 1 ½ years to live. The thought of hospice was a sudden realization that we were near the end. With the hospice nurse visiting weekly, an aide coming to help with bathing twice a week, and a social worker and spiritual counselor coming occasionally, we had more help. I learned how to administer additional medication, including morphine, and we discussed end-of-life issues. After hospice started, as I would make appointments for later in the year I would think about what my life will be at that time. Will she still be with me? Or will I be alone? As we headed toward fall, she was continuing to lose weight, but she seemed to stabilize, raising my hopes that there was more time than I had thought. Perhaps we would spend one more Christmas together. In September, I went to the shore with our daughter and her family for three days for a much-needed break, while our other children stayed at the house to help care for Mary Ellen. The beach was one of her favorite places, and I thought a lot about her and our life together while I was there. When I came home on Sept. 16, she was much weaker. She had been sleeping more than 20 hours a day. Now she was barely able to stay awake. The next morning, she leaned forward as I was checking her oxygen level and whispered, "I love you." I thanked her and told her I love her, too. It was the last real conversation we had. Sept. 18 was a Friday. The hospice nurse visited in the morning, and we had trouble moving Mary Ellen from the recliner to the bathroom. The aide came and they gave her a sponge bath in bed. We discussed then that she likely would be bedridden from that point on. Later that morning, I was at work when I got a call from a former neighbor who wanted me to drop what I was doing and join him and some others for lunch. Reluctantly, I agreed. When I arrived at the restaurant, he asked about my wife, and I told him she wasn't doing well. Two others at the table were doctors, each of whom had lost his wife. One of them said to me that he wishes he could have just one more conversation with her. I told him that I've been losing my wife slowly for several years, and we haven't been able to have many conversations for months. By the next day, I understood what he meant. That night, I went home and she was in bed. She had been there and sleeping all day. I sent messages to our children that she had taken a bad turn and likely would be in bed from that time on. When our son came to our house, she was semi-responsive but calm. He and I sat on the deck, ate supper and talked until a little after 8. By 9, she was gone. She had been struggling to breathe, even with oxygen. She motioned to us and tried to talk, then fell asleep again. After three breaths separated by long pauses, she stopped breathing. Despite six long years, the end came so quickly that I wasn't prepared. I had expected another month or two. Now, even with the constant support of my family, the emptiness in my life is beyond what I could have imagined. 
• What I have learned: I had struggled with the thoughts of losing my wife and best friend. We all die, but I wasn't ready for this. We had worked and looked forward to the time when we could retire and spend more time together, travel and watch our grandchildren grow up. It is all gone far too soon.Sometimes I've thought about children who die, or young parents. Some people believe that's far more tragic and painful, but it's not. When you love someone, a loss is a loss. Every one hurts. When are we really ready for it? I've also thought about people who die suddenly and miss the chance to say goodbye. Is that worse than watching someone you love slip from this world slowly and painfully? I actually lost her twice: first, when she no longer could share in our life together, and then when she physically left me. It isn't in my power or ability to explain or even understand all of this. All I know is that it hurts. The emptiness is beyond words. As hard as it is to believe, there are times when I would be glad to have one more of those sleepless nights, just to be able to see her and touch her again. Through her, I learned so much in those final years. That even when you are overwhelmed, you can find strength to continue. That when you feel alone and abandoned, the people who matter most will help. That although your situation is unique, there are many others in the world who are experiencing similar challenges. That others will see what you do and learn from it. That when you are a caregiver, you do need to take care of yourself, but you can't be told that; you have to learn it for yourself. That some things can't be fixed. That every loss hurts. That you will not be prepared for the end. That when your caregiving journey is over, your life will have changed forever. I often wondered: Why her? Through it all, I grew weary but never resented or regretted taking care of her. I had no doubt that if our situations were reversed she would have done everything possible to take care of me. Her final gift to me was this story. It led me to understand the depth of my love for her, what is really important and the privilege I had to share her life and to care for her at the end. One of the benefits of this experience is being able to share it and help others who are living through a slow process of dying. It won't make your experience easier, but it will help you to know you are not alone, even when you lose the most important person in your life. For me, it's quiet now at all hours of the day and night at home. I walk into her room, where she no longer suffers. I tell her I love her and miss her. There is no answer. I finally have the time to rest, but now I long to hear her call out, just one more time: "Harry, Harry, Harry ..." Contact Harry Deitz: 610-371-5004 or hdeitz@readingeagle.com, Source: http://www.readingeagle.com/

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Springs native Director Amy Scott. Documentarians bring truth into focus at the Rocky Mountain Women's Film Festival

By Indy staff: Nov. 13-15, Forty-seven films in three days. Tackling the 28th annual Rocky Mountain Women's Film Festival can feel daunting, even for a film fanatic. That's why we recommend pacing yourself. This year's lineup includes 35 documentaries on topics ranging from homelessness and poverty to racism and suicide. But this is hardly new territory for RMWFF. As Executive Director Linda Broker explains, the festival's feature programming is traditionally dominated by documentaries. The selection committee includes community and board members in the process of whittling down the final lineup, Broker says, with quality and diversity as top priorities. But Broker is quick to clarify on the latter, saying that maintaining an open mind is key to ensuring that quality is not trumped by ideology: "It can't just be the diversity that we want to reflect." A case in point for this year's festival might be A Courtship by Amy Kohn. While typical RMWFF attendees may disagree with Kohn's point of view, "that doesn't make it a bad film," Broker says. "It's an excellent film and one that will hopefully expand people's mindsets." That said, camaraderie is always welcome in such situations, which is why it's important to take advantage of the filmmaker access RMWFF provides — about a dozen will be on-site this year. Through forums and Q&A roundtables, you have an opportunity to process what you've viewed by learning the story after the stories. — Vanessa Martinez

From Oyler: One School, One Year by Springs native Amy Scott.

Stories like those of filmmaker Amy Scott. Scott, who was born and raised in Colorado Springs, is a Baltimore, Maryland-based reporter for American Public Media's Marketplace radio show, and she stumbled on her topic while covering education in Cincinnati. Scott's documentary Oyler: One School, One Year (produced in association with Marketplace) tells the tale, she says, "of a public school principal fighting for his job, and one of his students fighting to be the first in her family to graduate from high school." More generally, though, it's about a public school trying to break the cycle of poverty in its urban Appalachian neighborhood.

Amy Kohn, A Courtship.

Oyler School is part of a national movement of what are called "community schools," loaded with services beyond academics, Scott explains. Within Oyler's walls, community members will find a health center, a vision clinic, a dental clinic, a food bank, parenting classes, and a preschool serving kids from 6 weeks to 5 years old. "The idea is that in order to help close the achievement gap for kids growing up in poverty, you really need to address the effects of poverty itself."Scott admits that it's kind of cliché, but making this film taught her the cold hard fact that "there really are no silver bullets in education." Despite tremendous progress in this neighborhood, it became obvious to her that the obstacles are enormous and that it'll take a generation or more to learn if this model really works. "The principal really sets out to take on, not only a school that's in the bottom 5 percent of schools in the state, but also the streets surrounding the school, the crime, and the poverty. And that's a lot to bite off." She admits her film is a little discouraging because it shows just how hard it is for any one person, or even a set of people to really make change in a system. "But they keep trying, so I hope there's a hopeful message as well." If you're a savvy film festivalgoer, you'll ply the visiting filmmakers with questions about the stories behind the stories as well — like those of Amy Kohn, filmmaker of A Courtship. (The festival will be your last opportunity to see the film before nationwide distribution via Video-On-Demand, beginning on Nov. 17.) The New York City-based reality television producer was researching the topic of arranged marriage for a possible new series when she read an article that mentioned the concept of Christian courtship, or the process of a woman turning over responsibility for finding her husband to her parents and God's will. "I'd never heard of anything like it before," Kohn says. But she thought it had a lot of themes — like vulnerability, how we look for love, and what constitutes a deal breaker in a relationship — that would appeal to both a Christian and a non-Christian audience. People she contacted were skeptical of a secular filmmaker, but her research finally led her to Ron White of beforethekiss.com. He and his wife Dawn agreed to share their story of acting as spiritual parents for Kelly, the 33-year-old woman featured in the film. The story behind the story? Kohn was dating at the same time Kelly was seeking love, but Kohn was going about it in about as different a way as possible ... online. "Kelly would never Internet date," Kohn says. "She believes that God is going to bring the person to her, and that doesn't mean going out and searching for him on the Internet." Even though online dating worked for Kohn (right after she finished shooting she met her now-husband), she said doing this film gave her the chance to reflect a lot on the pros and cons of the secular experience of dating — as well as the pros and cons of Christian courtship. "There's something relatable to the idea of, well, what if I could give somebody else this responsibility, and take away the work, and take away some of the pain or the vulnerability or the challenges. "It's a very complicated process, finding the right person," Kohn says. "Whatever you think about what they're doing, the reason they're doing this is that they think it's the right thing for their kids and their lives, and they actually think it's going to lead to better relationships. ... People may take something different away from [the film], depending on where they are on the political spectrum, but ... everybody finds her story relatable. They're rooting for her." — Kirsten Akens. Source: Article

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