Eliana and Adrian

Eliana, giving, warming, radiating light,
meets Adrian, absorbing, taking, cold and dark,
at the edge where day meets night

“Be as I,” she says,
“we can be warm”

“Cold is part of my being,
warmth I have none to give”

“Be as I,” she says,
“I am illuminating”

“Dark is my being,
even in your light,
else none you’d see”

“Be as I,” she says,
“I’m giving”

“Taking is part of my being,
be that warmth or light,
I give what I can
coldness to warmth,
darkness to light”

“Be as I,” she says,
“I am a star”

“I am the space in which you dwell”

“I do shine everywhere,
in all directions from my core”

“Your shine is only within me,
you can not shine around me”

“I‘m giving life,” she says

“By taking your own,” says he

“Be as I,” she says,
“be giving, warming, radiate with me”

“I have no core that‘s self consuming,
I can not take from self to give,
as water I surround whatever is within”

“Darkness I give, darkness I am,
is this not what you need to shine?”
“Coldness I give, coldness I am,
your heat would quicken my demise,
if I were another sun”

“I’m giving life,” she says

“I am forever,” he replies

23. Apr 2009

Images from Far North Queensland

Images from Far North Queensland

(above) Termite Hill near Bamaga

(above) Injinoo

Graphic artwork

Graphic artwork

This gives a small overview of my artwork. Most are available as cards, framed prints, some up to large size canvas prints at: http://www.redbubble.com/people/heinz

You're never alone

Daylight

Night Vail

Self (Friday)

suffice to say

All images are (c) Heinz Ross, Gold Coast, Australia

She married Monday

She married Monday

Monday, ten to twelve,
her it for life
the date passed as
each fleeting moment
left behind
in time

The wall’s been taken,
carry who may have the strength,
so too the tower Eiffel built,
red bridge too far
she never spoke in steel
it’s not her style

Monday, ten to twelve
no chance to disappoint
polygamous games
not entertained
none knew it would be hers
none knows its face

so now she’s married
to a Monday moment
left in time
a ten to twelve, to be precise,
to it she’s faithful
all her life


‘it’ changed,
for some becoming you,
becoming him or her, not it
the life’s within, speaks back,
is calm in understanding,
although not all will do


© Heinz Ross, Gold Coast, Australia
5 Dec 2008

If I do anything

If I do anything at all

If I laugh…, I laugh too loud,
if I stop…, then the silence is a shout
if I cry…, I am crying all the time,
if I sigh…, I sigh too much,
if I’m num, it’s too quiet, what is right?

If I speak…, I talk too much for you,
if I raise my voice, then it is too high,
if I get dressed, then I dress too shy
too much red, green too blue, white too bright,
pink too purple, too beige and my yellow too dull
dress to short, sleeves too long
décolté is too low, pendant’s silver too gold,
dressed too young, for my age, it’s too old
style no longer the rage
whatever you see
and whatever I do
black and grey’s too much colour for me

If I’m happy, my happiness drives you insane
if I’m sad, then my sadness makes you leave the room
if I share my joy, then you roll your eyes
if I know it’s ugly, you keep telling ‘it is nice’
if I do nothing, nothing of what I do is right

If I talk on the phone,
if I’m with someone or alone
if I sleep too long,
if I’m weak or strong,
if I’m lost or belong
if I’m crook
if I cook
if I look
if I sook
if I yell
if I trip and fall
if I minify
if I’m asking why
too much sugar or salt,
food too hot or too cold
too much fear or too bold
too young or too short

if I cut the grass, wash your clothes,
sweep the floor and do endless chores,
work my skin to the bone,
ache for you, am alone
if my hands are too clean
if I’m not giving, I’m mean
if I give, it’s too little,
too late, or too soon,
crisp retort, didn’t smile,
said too much, didn’t say,
pay a bill, say a prayer,

if I watch TV, if I scratch my knee
if I open the door, if I ask you for more
if I go, if I stay, if I’m leaving or play,
if I loose my mind, if I’m in front or behind,
if I’m cute and coy, it’s another ploy
if you loose the game, then I am to blame
if I switch off the light, is the day still too bright?
if I lay on my back is the night too lit up to be dark?
if I cough, if I burp
if I ‘you name the verb’
if I dance and sing
if I give up or fight
if I breathe air in
if I do, I’ll be dammed
if I don’t, doors will slam
if I do everything
if I do all I can
is it ever enough
or too smooth or too rough

toying annoying,
depression a session,
brooding a mood,
all is bad, nothing’s good
love has come, love is gone
let’s face it, my friend
if I do anything,
will it ever be right?

© Heinz Ross, Gold Coast, Australia
13 Dec 2008

Where is the...

Where is the Fingerprint of …

It is interesting to note, that each (a single) ejaculation condemns 300-500 million sperm to death (give or take a few million). Add to this the ‘Ever Ready’ nature of men, and over a lifetime, the numbers of redundancies are staggering. Not many have 5 children these days. Perhaps that would be all we ever need, yet we sacrifice 6 billion in a week, 312 billion in a year, 14.352 trillion, perhaps more in a lifetime. Multiply that (the potential) by 3 billion men, it is a fair bit of redundancy. Of course different practices yield different results and not all men will ejaculate every time on purpose, after all, it is a ‘little death’. Even if one takes just 10% of the 14.000 trillion sperm, or multiplies that number by another million, and either way one would still be correct, for some.

There is of course a huge variation and many factors have an influence on the number of sperm, perhaps the less said, the better.

What about romance? The hay fever caused by the sexual excitation of our plants, where tons of pollen floats on the wind, the magic of life in fullest abundance, the release on one night in the year of corals giving births saturates the water with magic.

Woman is given say 500 ova, of which approx. 380 fully develop. No woman can bear that many children, not if it costs 9 months plus a lifetime investment.

Apparently 69 children, born by a Russian woman over a 40 year period sets the record, not that there is any sort of contest (she had 16 sets of twins, 7 sets of triplets, 4 sets of quads (between 1725 and 1765)), 67 of the children survived infancy. When one is finished saying ‘Good Morning’ to each, it’s nearly time to go to be. There are several families, each having 17 children from the one mother recorded in recent times.

So it seems the sexdrive (I love how my dictionary is trying to turn this word into ‘seedtime’) is in some sort of overdrive, but perhaps that’s only how it seems. Fact is the sperm-count (concentration) is steadily going down; the quality, in particular of the male sex sperm is degrading, the number of genes in the male ‘Y’ sperm has reduced to 78. In addition, the Y contains repeatedly the code ‘I am male, I am male,’ to be sure it survives the next attacks and still be true and successful in its mission. Specifically in European men the quality of their sperm is viewed with concern, as population numbers there are in decline as well. I guess more ‘important’ gadgets have priority over the attention seeking calls of toddlers, and sperm count has little to do with it. Add to this the number of Y sperm that are zapped by female fluids whilst they thought they were on their merry way, and perhaps each one is needed to even the chances. Perhaps as a species we are never going to make it that long, given the dramatic changes all of us have come to witness in our lifetime. In addition, we have to deal with the projected acceleration of men’s influence on the planet; each day is, as it has always been, so very special.

The SRY gene (Sex-determining Region Y) is the one on the Y chromosome that decides which sex the new life becomes (it develops the testis (generally), yes and no are also correct). There are variations to this (disease and mutations), but if the female has the SRY, it is not going to make a male.

Wonders never cease.
A look at our human family:

XX = girl (generally, the neat box we are all supposed to fit in)
XY = boy (generally, as above, just the other gender)
XX = boy or girl, active gene Sox9 will turn XX into a boy
XY = boy or girl, active gene Sox9 will turn XY into a girl
XXY = male but infertile
XXXY = male but infertile
XXXXY = male
XXXXX = female (mental, growth and motor retardation)
XYY = boy
XYYY = boy
XYYYY = boy
XXYY = boy
XXX = girl
X = girl

Then there is the variation in chromosomes (other than the typical 46), such as trisomy 21 (Down syndrome, has extra copy of chromosome 21, when trying to combine with either, egg or sperm. Two additional chromosomes 21 are added, hence ‘tri’. Additional variations in this, if not all of the genes of C21 are duplicated). In a similar way, if it affects the 18th chromosome, it is trisomy 18 (Edwards Syndrome), trisomy 13 (Patau syndrome), trisomy 12, 9, 8, and all the way back to +2.

If we take a look at twins (identical, semi-identical, non-identical) or larger numbers of multiples (3, 4, 5, 6 etc), it really gets interesting.

With the twins, one could have a male (fully functioning and male in appearance), containing within female reproductive organs from his absorbed twin sister. He’s born alone, his twin within. Look carefully in the mirror; do you have two different coloured eyes? If so, one could be the eye of your own twin. It is so nice to finally meet you. How many of us are twins and have no idea? It does happen more than many would believe. Not even our mothers would know, as early pregnancy tests and ultrasounds are recent innovations. Depending on your sensitivities and being in tune with one’s self, perhaps you feel and know (although too often unproven), that inside is something that one can’t exactly put the finger on. Perhaps one gets a feeling of ‘twin-ness’, for lack of a better word, of being the single twin. There is always something, someone missing that one never knew one had, especially if one’s own parents had and have no awareness of it. Whatever applies to the twins, will also apply in many more combinations to larger multiples.

After that, we have the chimera (what a horrible description) made inside the uterus (rare), and micro-chimeras via IVF. If one ever gets a DNA test done and it does not match (even as mother, and you would pretty well remember carrying and birthing them), the kid/s would still be yours if it is/are chimera. With reference to blood grouping alone, there are artificial chimerism, dispermic chimerism (rare in humans), and twin chimerism (an exception in humans). An individual identical twin with a composition of different blood groups in one person and another mix in the other twin are possible.

Conjoined twins (or more) create other unique humans, with the various possibilities as the twins, plus the type of joint, shared or individual organs and a whole list of combinations. Some conjoined twins could internally be the mirror image of the other, the heart on the right side, liver, spleen, stomach and intestines matched accordingly on the other side. This affects about 50% of all Siamese twins joined at the chest, the left twin has the heart left, the other is as a mirror. The heart on the right side is not limited to Siamese twins and could happen anytime. The little organiser cell may have been too busy, and when the heart cell asked where to build itself it was told to go there instead of here. The life is under threat if only the heart is on the right side and everything else not mirrored as well. Occasionally cells don’t separate properly and can result in one twin carrying part of the other, incorporating it into one body, 4 legs, several sexual organs, two heads and many other variations. It is very amazing to see the build-in drive for life creates a unique being, as each of us is unique. Yet all too often that uniqueness is unacceptable (and brave be the one who points the finger). How many twins (partly grown on the other) murdered, not because the carrying twin’s life is under threat, but to make that twin conform to ‘our’ acceptable standards of humanness? Such operations are not called murder, an extra arm or leg is not really human, he/she/it is not going to have any problems in the future, it’s for the best (so they say). The operating doctor has a crystal ball and can see the happy surviving twin far in the future, skipping ropes, hailing the doctors name in praise forever. Often conjoined twins go through horrendous procedures of separation, sometimes the medical world too well aware that one or both could loose their lives, at an age where none of the twin can even speak their own mind.

Using fertility drugs and hormone treatment can lead to all sorts of surprises. Despite having the X and Y chromosomes, there are these variations, in rare cases, but still in sizable numbers:

Hermaphrodites = male and female (have ovaries, menstruation and testis; produces egg and sperm, but is physically unable to mate with itself, often the female opening is between the stem of penis and upper part of scrotum, variations);

Female pseudo hermaphrodite (ferms) = having ovarian tissues, not necessarily looking female;

Male pseudo hermaphrodite (merms) = having testicular tissues, not necessarily looking male;

Pseudo hermaphroditism = (XY or XX) primarily of one sex plus having secondary sex characteristics (perhaps a clitoris (or very small, male looking appendage) and no female opening at all, variations).

Many of the above are infertile, suffer from deformities, mental retardation, low IQ, and various other health problems and most likely a shorter life expectancy. Many, if not most, also suffer from identity issues, where does one belong, if there are only two boxes to fit in and none feels right? The doctors can help to make one look like one or the other, but that is just on the outer, the cosmetic effect, to make one more like everyone else. We all know for a fact that no two fingerprints are alike, that no two people are alike; we pride ourselves in being an individual. We drive cars, produced by the millions and some spent lots of extra money to make such a car unique, to make it stand out, to be different. Many make such statements in the clothing they wear, the hairstyle, the behaviour, but having a pimple on the nose is all it takes to hide inside, because one is not like everyone else.

In addition, we have the various forms of sexual differences in our humanity: Heterosexual, Homosexual, Bi-sexual, Transvestite, Hijra (no he, no she, neither male or female, it means ‘hermaphrodite’ in the Urdu language, many do not mix with male or females), Eunuch (male with male sex organs removed), the combination of Eunuch and Hijra, Inter-sexual (as young person is one, changes to the other gender during puberty (either way), the name is being phased out), Trans-sexual (male to female via double operation (removal of male bits/creation of female bits, no uterus) and hormone treatment), Trannies (Tranies) - Shemales (males with hormone treatment with male genitals and some female characteristics (breasts, hair, behaviour)). In one of the above one finds the female with enlarged clitoris, as big as the erect penis, able to penetrate another female (no sperm though).

So called paraphelia (from Greek, para=besides, phelia=love), which Albert Eulenburg (German neurologist, who published several works on sexology and an Encyclopaedia on Health) already in 1914 described in his time as “All forms of sexual perversions…”, and went on to continue to describe each in detail. There are at least nearly 90 practices grouped under the heading of ‘paraphelia’.

One could go on and on, the cross dressers, the swingers, sex addicts, narcissim, phone sexer, masturbators, the gay, lesbian or straight looners (a sexual interest in balloons) and so forth. Some enterprising business could link their product to some sort of sexuality, create on-line forums and meeting places and, not to forget business, a link of where to get the partner (the orgasmic car, the ejaculating fountain, the every ready fence post), be creative.

There is also another form of sex, the ‘not now sex’, and ‘sometime-in-the-future-sex’, what I mean is abstinence, waiting for marriage, waiting for the right partner or celibacy by choice.

Sex, sex, sex, some may never give it a second thought, but many of each ‘prime’ gender (and if this word ever takes off, I hereby claim my copyright and expect 1cent for each use of it) are bombarded by the thought every so often. It seems sex is the prime instinct, the reason of being alive, be that of animal, plant or humankind, to get to the stage to procreate is the purpose of all life and living. It is a very bold statement (I also accept that there are countless other opinions, based on various believe systems, none of which are covered in this article.). The creation of offspring goes hand in hand with the instinct for survival, food and self-defence.

In the early stages of development of the sexual organs, one would not know what is becoming. The eye can see it either way. Black and white, the end blocks we seem to be aware of, yet in between is a whole range of different shaded grey. Not only that, there is also a whole range of colour, not as 8bit, 24bit, 128bit, not even millions or billions of colours. There are no graduations at all, but a smooth, non-stepped line. There are not enough tins on earth for a store to stock paint in all colour shades. There is an infinite number of white, an infinite number of yellows and so on. Ah yes, is black a colour, is white a colour is a subject all its own, for the purpose here they are opposites and they are colours.

As hot has cold as opposite, no white without black. What is the opposite of sex? While sex has many meanings, one of the most powerful ones is the purpose of procreation, the making of life. Is the opposite of that the taking of life? The Cain and Able curse, or the not making of life, perhaps it is the making of death. No victims come forward to say ‘kill me’, as they too contain the same life driving forces as any other living being. However, without a doubt, the defensive instinct has many men capable of killing, to protect their young, family and country. For some reason, the trees give the flesh of their fruits, without being killed. Even if the seeds are swallowed, they carry on the quest for life. Given the smallest chance, they shall try to make it, and need that mechanism as a means to get away from the tree.

As a child, the first time I heard the description ‘White men, White race’, I thought it was a special tribe living in Siberia, blending into the landscape, indistinguishable from the snow. I still have not seen a White man, just lots of Peach faces in various shadings. But with so many things, neat handles on any subject simplifies human interaction that much more.

Each is unique; we just need to accept that we really are unique. Are you expecting a boy or a girl or a ____ or a ____? Neither, it’s going to be a…, are you ready for it…? It will be wearing green; don’t you know what that means? In the incomprehensible magic of life, it is going to become a living being, trying to live the best it can, so that it reaches its destination in death. And if it misses that target, there will surely be someone ensuring it is not going to happen.

Many an animal lover projects the human measure stick onto an animal and thus does not understand the underlying rules (the pack instinct, herd instinct, pecking order, rules of feeding order, alpha domination etc) and therefore has trouble training any dog.

Perhaps we too use the measure stick of acquired morality and humaneness, which is seen as an ideal (and only in select societies), but in the cruelty of life or death of little consequence.

The war between the chromosomes X and Y has been raging perhaps since humankind began, unconscious to our awareness. Man loves woman and vice versa (with exceptions), yet the X chromosome has been chewing up the Y for thousands, if not millions of years, perhaps starting in pre human times (oh dear, another can of worms: creationism / evolution, let’s just say, ‘a long time ago’). We do not mourn (not that I am aware of) the deaths of billions of sperm. Does a woman mourn the loss of her unfertilised egg each month, most likely not (but this is my assumption, how would I know). Each girl carries a basket of eggs for life; each boy comes with a factory that produces regardless, well into old age. We get adrenalin on demand, tears on demand, saliva on demand, but one never knows when some sperm could be useful, so might as well make sure it’s always there. It also explains men’s hand movements that he is not even aware of anymore, the slight itch that makes one scratch, translated it means ’slow down guys, I know you want to get out’, usually the left hand for right-handers sends the message.

When it really comes to survival the X has a job to do, firstly protect the mother at any cost, and ‘any’ means just that, kill your own if it saves the mother. If there are survival choices to be made in twins, or other multiples, the X will kill the male, and after that any Y children in order to protect the mother. The Y is no different, already under attack as soon as it is released, its only chance of survival is to race as fast as possible, not to be the first, just to get out of the acid around it (stay in the middle guys). The clever X or Y, once it gets to the egg, is taking a well deserved rest, lets all the other sperm do the hard work. Once the jelly coat is thinning near the membrane our hero or heroine jumps in and fuses with the egg, becoming one. 400 other hardworking sperm, all likely sibling contenders’ stand flabbergasted, ‘what the…’ as millions more arrive and realise there won’t be a next time. And as opportunistic as the winning sperm, so we all, at least once in our life (let’s say just before our life began), were the special ones, out of 500 million others, the clever, the strong, just to fuse with the egg. Did this create the ego? Yet if Y’s survival is at stake, it will attack its own mother. But every mother is XX, a twin sister would be XX, and the body that Y is in, or in the process of creating is XY. Y is always outnumbered. The male is clearly the weaker sex, most women know that, but graciously let their male live with some illusions.

We all (male and female and all the human gender we are) celebrate a new life, but when it comes down to the cruellest, most basic level of survival, we are possibly capable to kill such life for food or less. Not possibly, we are capable to do just that, as we (humanity) have proven plenty of times in history and are still doing just that.

The child of anyone is also our child, each man and woman is a grown up child and also our sister/brother/itling but only, if we are subjected to the ‘I love you spiritual influence’ endorphins. But once the baby has grown a little older, out of the big eyed ‘I’m so cute, please love me stage’ I could imagine it be very uplifting to at least once shout out of the window, ’can’t you tell your kids to shut up?’ I would love to do it to the Magpies, they can be a pain, but mother magpie can’t, her big kids are on a good thing and I do feel sorry for mum, besides, my ‘Magpian’ lingo skill are limited.

The showing of a life-giving breast is covered/censored in the media of some countries, seen as some sexual ‘no no’, while showing the blowing of brains out does no longer raise an eyebrow. Hide in the corner somewhere, if you are a mum with an infant; please don’t give it life in our shopping centre, we must ask you to leave. I don’t know how many deaths (real or acted, in movies, the News, as murders or wars) we get to see each week/month via movies or TV. There is not a law on earth against it, there is money to be made and yet discriminating the feeding from the breast is OK.

So it is all geared for one thing, survival, whilst too often we don’t even know why we live, our minute genes try their very best to give us the edge over anything we may come across. A great number of genes have not modified for millions of years, and can also be found in mice, unchanged for hundreds of millions of years. Perhaps the genes, the amino acids, DNA segments have no awareness of life, perhaps all they know is ‘be’, and in being, in joining together in wondrous and unique ways they form the building blocks of a becoming organism, then able to do the same thing, ‘be.’ I can’t sense my heartbeat, a lump of twitching heart cells; the heart so huge, pumping in two closed circuits blood, all within me. How could I possible sense the message within cell number 75billion, which is about to be replaced in 3 seconds?

Over 480 matched DNA segments have been uncovered, the shortest 200, the longest consisting of 800 base pairs (a lot of continual encoded information) to have remained unchanged for over 400 million years (before our time). Research scientists from University in Brisbane, Australia, in collaboration with Professor Haussler, UC Santa Cruz, and computational biologist Dr. Bejerano, who carried out most of the work, are unable to explain. While everything changes, a lot stays the same, in particular if it’s proven to work. A bit like the wheel, how much rounder could it possible get?

But an update on that, the longest are now not 800, but 280000 base pairs (a muscle protein, 33000 amino acids long). Whenever you get to read this, that number will be out of date. Sorry, correction, the longest is now 2.400.000 base pairs (dystrophin, a muscle protein on Chromosome 4). The 24m model made by the students of Huddersfield Uni does not count. Nobel Price winner Hamilton Smith led a research team whose synthetically created DNA has reached 582,970 base pairs (Jan 2008). They even added their own ‘watermark’ (the new creationism?).

Two worms with 20000 genes each don’t make a human, (some may disagree, believing there are exception), but 25000 to 40000 genes makes us human. Some say up to 50, 60 and 120000. What makes us special are the number of proteins encoded per gene, more than in any other species. We may share a large number of genes with any other animal and plants, but the protein on the gene may be very different. The building blocks of the protein are arranged in much wider possibilities in human than on a worm. As example, we share 90% of these protein building blocks with a worm.

So this we are, human, all the above, but only in the substances of our physical being. Animal research suggests that the length of some coding may well govern behaviour. Further influences are the health of both parents, healthy food supply for the mother during pregnancy, removal of influences of poisons (alcohol, smoking, drugs, fumes), parental cargo, cultural freight, societies, racial, religious influences, each teacher leaves some sort of mark, personal experiences and millions of other variables that day by day will make each more different, more unique.

The sexdrive does not stop when all the kids are born. More often than not, a healthy sexdrive is used for the purpose of recreation, of having a great time, of relating to one’s partner on an intimate level; experience a bonding of love and closeness, or live out one’s sexual fantasy, not to make babies.

Google reveals 4.9 million hits for ‘online sex’; 7 million hits for ‘sexual intercourse’; ‘f_ck’ has 150 million hits; 176 million hits on ‘p_rn’; 577 million hits on ‘sex’. The word ‘Hits’ is incorrect, they are just the targets, hits are the visitors who get to these sites and whatever multipliers you care to use are the number of assumed visitors. In contrast, there have been 37 Million Abortions so far in 2008. Some days later I got 212 million for f_ck, 242 million for p_rn, inflation is rampant. Much of that is created by the money makers. If there is a demand, some will try to fill it.

Bear also in mind that this is one of our most basic instincts. But here as well, I don’t think all is as it seems, as women and men will use very different approaches. The number of singles (even down to the age of 18 in either of the two ‘prime’ genders) who are looking for relationships (that may result in love, sex, hopefully both) is very high. Many look for just sex and perhaps find each other much quicker, after all, no commitment, no consequences etc. I think more people want that something special, something deeper and have difficulties finding it. But who knows, around the next corner there he/she/it is and bingo. Go forth; hit him/her/it in the face, ‘What took you so long?’

So what is sex? Is sex the close exchange of intimacy between two people who wish to become one in their child and build a family? Is sex the raw animalistic urge to mate anything that comes across one’s way? Is sex the unrestrained, no consequence exchange of primeval lust for selfish gratification and nothing else? Is sex the never penetrating / or being penetrated exchange of sexual thoughts and reactions, including orgasms / ejaculations, even if it occurs seemingly one sided, with a fence as partner, a car, anything but another human? There are possible a lot of moralistic views of what it supposed to be, but what it actually is may well be as diverse as humanity itself.

The conflicting messages in societies help little to alleviate the stress that is placed on both genders, and here I caught myself in my own small view of what humans are, ‘all’ genders would have been correct. Could it be, that Joan’s husband does not have erectile dysfunction at all, he loves her, he does not cheat on her, he is just not attracted any more. As soon as her sister walks across his path he is fully alive. Nelly is not frigid, she never was. Is it any wonder that the drunken breaths turns her in disgust, while she may fantasise about the young lolly next door, but could never do anything about it. The largest sex organ is the brain. Much goes on in there that goes unnoticed. Everything of what one absorbs from a partner is stored in there, evaluated, analysed. Did he wake up grumpy, did she make the coffee, did he bring the garbage out, she thought he was wrong, a million little things can affect the sex life, and most of those have nothing to do with sex. Often a simple understanding between the needs of another could solve more sex problems, than becoming an acrobatic performer, a 78 position chaser, a ‘let’s try this’ and see if it works. A single shot to the ego and many men fall apart, just as telling a woman how hot another one looks is not going to earn any bonus points. The turn-on buttons are not on the body, there are no buttons.

For many there is a ‘yes’ for the excitement, the passion, even the low down lusty urge, and all is fine, not to forget the ever so powerful influence of Venus, the goddess herself. There also comes a point when one becomes disgusted, in particular if a victim pays for it all. Perhaps cultural and societies standards play a great part in forming what constitutes healthy and unhealthy sex (apart from STD issues).

The early explorers would have seen many interesting and different attitudes towards sex on their travels around the world, in times long before the re-education campaign by religious missionaries. Sex in public used to be normal in some cultures, older women giving advice to young girls whilst having public sex. The girl may be as young as 12, copulating with an adult right in front of Captain Cook, never in England of course. Arranged marriages had young children marry their husbands. Many of today’s standards did not apply then.

Can one have love without sex? I would say yes, after all, they are two different things. If a health condition or accident takes that part away from a partner, love can and will find other ways. Love needed more now than ever, yet some, because of it, could leave. Many believe having both, love & sex together in the same person is the ideal and I would tend to agree with that, but accept that others may not feel that way. My question would be, is there a victim?

I have come to understand that there are 31 billion searches on Google every month (for anything); in 2006 it was 2.7 billion/month.

War gets 760.000.000, the victims of war are maimed or dead;
Kill gets 234.000.000, the same applies here;
Peace gets 408.000.000;
Love gets 2.240.000.000, isn’t that nice?

All this only covers the humans and there are many more prodigies, who are instantly recognisable as humans as well as children born who look unusual, caused by chemical or radioactive mishaps (and there are possibly more). The power of life in trying and succeeding to create a living being, that may be very different yet still considered human. Likewise in the food intake, starvation, malnutrition, vitamin deficiencies, missing of most of what we consider essential, yet still the powers of life sustain the body as best they can.

What of the part humans? The combining of human material with animal eggs (not a hybrid, call it a ‘cybrid’, and UK legislation is in place, to give the go ahead for such thingamajigs for research purposes). The purpose is for stem cell harvesting. (Issue 2605, Page 7, New Scientist, Health) It also allows the addition of non human genes or cells to human embryos (again for research).

A year later, Apr 2008, Science Correspondent Ronald Bailey gets a little carried away by the thought in his article, titled ‘Humanizing Animals.’ See: http://www.reason.com/news/show/125776.html As far back as 2002, Ronald Bailey covered the 33rd World Vegetarian Congress, dealing with issues relating to animal genes in plant foods.

(The following are my thoughts, not Ronald’s) It’s very easy to imagine a humanised cow. An extra pair of arms grow somewhere near the udder. Instead of bellowing in pain and waking up the neighbourhood, such cow would walk up to the bucket, clean it, milk itself, strain the hair out of it, knock on the front door and go ‘moo.’ Why not do butter, cream, yoghurt, cheese, ‘hey come back here, you’re not done yet.’

The world of ‘Manimals’ is upon us. Would you believe that millions of (amongst other things) human genes are owned by large companies. Up to one fifth of every person’s DNA belongs to some company. Whose DNA was it? Expect to pay a license fee AND royalties to take a look. Many of the issues relating to Patents on life are currently before the US congress. How come we are allowed to live without paying them a royalty?

Who is making life? Is it the modern Alchemist, with a big pot of genes, some bark from a distant tree and 20 million secret herbs and spices, start at midnight and stir slowly? When the first morning bird sings, run, before it explodes. What will it become? We don’t know yet, but it will become something, it will ‘be’. In the silent morning anticipation the voice of the pot can be heard from ten miles around, ‘Jump in master, you will make us complete.’ Whatever crawls out of the pot is looking for the fingerprint of God, just a wee bit of DNA. What are the risks? What’s the opposite of God?

No, no, I don’t wish to upset any believers, but isn’t the thought already in us, at least in some? Will we eventually go down the same road with our genes as the plant seeds? Buy a packet and the fruit you grow is infertile, because we need to protect our investments (the genes THEY own). Will the couple of the future have to buy the sperm to make a baby? Who will own all the genes eventually?

We are what we eat, so the saying goes, yet what is it that we eat? 80% of US cheese is no longer what it was, and that started 12 years ago. It would be so easy to go off on another tangent, processed foods and their effects, but no.

How did it all start, sex, ah, Sex, the joyful means to procreate, but that was last week, this week it is used for physical exercise, stress relief, even entertainment. Next week there will be a museum somewhere, ‘have a look at this, can you believe it, what were they doing?’

So what is it all about, what am I trying to say? We, humanity have sent messages into space, trying to communicate with the unknown, the alien. For a start, we have severe communication problems with each other, even if we were to speak in one language. The difference between what is said, what one thought one said, what one heard, what one thought one understood, and what one understood are not necessarily the same. Which of our animals can we understand, at least in part? Could we accept 10 different genders in the aliens, or get our doctors to snip and tuck, so they are easier to handle? When will we accept ourselves? When will we accept the other? Many countries have laws in place not to differentiate between colour of the skin, sex, age, and so forth, yet clearly each who is different beyond that will have to fight their own battles. But for this, they will never have the numbers, they can not win. They are not organised and live isolated across the globe, many believing there is no other like me. Discrimination can make one’s life a misery. Being different, the uniqueness so many treasure, ironically is also what makes some an easy target. It appears to be different is OK, as long as one can still fit in one of two boxes.

A cell has not separated from another somewhere in the process of growing a life and there, one has become different on the outer for all to see. All too often one is different on the inside, locked within one’s own cage none can see. With all the talk of sex and sexual preferences, leanings, one gift that life has brought us can overcome all differences. There is no need to spice it up, to make it fashionable or sexy. No tantalising tease of orgasmic floods as promise, no alluring eyes as invitation, one gift we have, no matter how we came to be, the gift of love. And those who know nod in silent knowing perhaps grace with a grin. And lots been said of what love is, what it can do, what it is not. What’s in it for me, we all too often ask of anything. What’s in it for us, be more appropriate, as it contains them and those and I as well. It’s easy to proclaim one’s love to the attractive, the sensual, the wealthy, the brave, ‘the one I want’. Be different, be daring, be unique and love the one you’d love to hate, the one that’s odd, the one none else would want to love, the one you did not speak to for a year. Perhaps you have an enemy, in that an opportunity to gain a friend. There is no need to barter all your heart; love has its own factory.

© Heinz Ross, Gold Coast, Australia
27 Nov 2008

Wheelies

Anyone would be familiar with jam, marmalade, butter, the ones that come in small plastic containers, served on airline meals in flight or breakfast at a hotel. Possibly a great part of the population has no big problem peeling the lid off to get to the substance. Fading eyesight makes these triangles minute. All have their outer ear chopped off, a smooth radius blends both sides of the triangle, which is fine, it prevents scratch and cut injuries. Nature, especially living beings, rarely grow geometrical flat planes, surfaces (ice, crystals, etc), and so all of our fingertips are rounded, the thumbs included.

This in effect reduces the amount of fingertip that could grip the small triangle. The radius has further reduced the triangle’s height. Skin itself slips off on the very smooth surfaces; instead, many try to dig in with the fingernails for increased gripping power. One usually employs the thumb and index finger, while the other hand holds the container with the precious goods. Often it works, sometimes it doesn’t and the whole container flies through the room. All too often, this small triangular lip can drive one to frustration and outright anger. All it takes is normal aging, some weakness, brittle fingernails, coordination and eyesight interference and most everyone will come across this eventually.

I mentioned this to a friend of mine, who is in the design and manufacturing business of food processing machines, but they were not producing such small products, geared for different lines. One item I have come across deserves a mention, a twin pocket Tomato Sauce container with a raised edge on the discharge side. The pack designed to fold, a little pressure forces the ridge to crack, and the user is in full control of the amount discharged. The different viscosities between sauce, jam and butter does not make this container ideal for all contents. These items (the jam containers and such) don’t usually bother me, but they bother many of the people I know (but rarely do they complain). Some call themselves affectionately the wheelies; instead of legs they have wheels, even if they have legs.

A dear friend of ours became a wheelie through age and lifelong hip joint problems. My late wife hid her own wheels behind a corner, every time we visited our friend in the age care facility. ‘We must not let her worry about me,’ she said, and arm in arm, slowly and carefully we ‘walked’ the five steps to the safety of a chair. Buying a set of wheels is an experience. The first one is perhaps the hardest to buy. No one likes wheels. My late wife hated the thought of it. I carried her piggyback or in my arms for weeks. ‘Just think what we could do,’ I said, ‘a park, the ocean, the river’s edge, the inside of a forest.’

For many, a wheelchair is a marker that lets everyone know where one is going. A bit like clothing, once the trendy clothes don’t matter anymore, another part of life begins same when the hair becomes tired of chemical colouring. There are also many small wheelies, not one bit concerned about their hair colour, many have none to colour. And so was Julie. One day, and the day was always a Thursday, Julie comes into Oncology, her all black wheels roll silently, but Julie never is, ‘Hi guys,’ she calls out, ‘Good morning, I want to wish you all a Happy Day.’ Then she throws a red rose of hope, a ribbon and a red balloon onto each bed. ‘What’s the occasion?’ someone asks, ‘I’m in the clear, you hear, I’m in the clear.’ Her face said all. ‘Just needed to share my joy with you, and hope you too…’ She made everyone happy. Each clock ticks different, one accepts that, but seeing a kid of 16 with low batteries is painful, many clocks struggle to make 8 or less. Julie will turn 17 and that is joy enough to know.

Not all are weak or frail; many are strong healthy people having lost the function of a leg or both, from one day to the next, often bike, industrial or other accidents. Caren is about 25 mostly wearing a singlet, her upper arms well toned; she looks strong and full of vitality as any woman that age, gym, gym, gym. There are no handles on her wheels, no push bar and the usual gizmos. Her wheels are angled in, a wide wheelbase you could say, rock solid grip, the Formula 1 equivalent, definitely a sports model with exceptional handling capabilities.

Some wheels are not for life, transitional wheels will do until a new leg is made and the art of walking becomes as normal. Paul was one of those, waiting for the stitches to properly heal. Every meal time he came as the last. He’d stop at the entry to the large hospital dining room (perhaps 60 seats), his voice strong enough the deaf could hear, or at least adjust their volume. ‘Oh my God, look at you lot,’ he calls into the room, ‘It’s like in a morgue. Don’t anyone make a noise, or they think you’re still alive.’ He had a habit of stopping at each table, greets each person by name, ‘And how is William on this beautiful morning?’ William answered, nodding with a grin. ‘And the delightful Mrs Carpenter, are we in a good mood?’ ‘Go away, Paul.’

‘Aye aye Captain, please hold still, here is your bib, and there the serviette, and you are ready, Captain,’ The Captain could not speak, but he did acknowledge Paul’s assistance by moving his head. Paul was always on the move, he’d read out the menu, spy a bowl of bananas, ‘Who wants bananas?’ then he took count and delivered them all, before the kitchen staff had a chance to defend them. His place was beside the Captain. Paul made his bread, cut it all up, fed the Captain and cleaned whatever spills may happened. He also had enough insight to leave those alone that could not cope with his outgoing personality. In hospitals three times a day is mealtime, and butter/margarine is the first to challenge the once independent men or women. Now they are patients, some are patient patients and endure to not be beat. Paul knew everyone and knew the likes most had. He opened many of the butter, jam and marmalade plastic containers on his regular route. One man like that can lift so many spirits at once. Live and let live, Paul’s philosophy.

Each new wheelie will go through time, traumatic times, understanding and learning to cope with new realities. 1.7million people suffered limb loss in 2007 (excluding fingers and toes, USA). A wide range of causes can lead to limb loss, limb difference (the congenital absence or malformation of a limb) or amputation: Crush injuries, bad breaks, diabetes, war injuries, drugs, blood circulation and many more. AK/ BK, above or below the knee will influence the future leg and ambulation. In below knee operations, higher percentages are expected to become walkers. Unfortunately, sometimes complications afterwards may require another AK amputation. Some legs feature microprocessors, control systems for swing and stance with weight bearing and position sensors, designed to aid smooth ambulation for AK cases, but this is not a medical paper.

Hospitals are well prepared for amputees of any type, at least by having wide corridors and doorways, lifts, accessible toilets and bathroom access, help buttons too, but the normal residence is not. Getting from the taxi to the house is the first trial, getting into the house another, even if there are only 3 steps. Most standard wheelchairs fit through doors, but expensive modifications may be required to get the house up to a safe level. Two access points for wheelchairs, in/out of the building in case of fire, manoeuvring through the corridors, able to enter and exit anywhere safely. The height of the kitchen sink, location and type of taps and fittings, ovens, appliances, shelf heights, washing machine, laundry, drying, switches, manoeuvrability in corridors, the height of the fuse box, all become new issues. A simple blown light bulb is virtually impossible to replace.

Just a few weeks ago, Jenny moved into her house, especially modified. With a couple of friends we helped her move the few miles down the road. Jenny seems to be in paradise now. He husband and children too are happy with the move. Jenny is a wheelie for a good many years having several manual wheelchairs. She is a very independent woman (early forties). She moves from one wheelchair to her car, lifts herself from the chair into the car seat and is ready to drive. Wherever she arrives she opens her car door and flicks a button. A simple but ingenious custom made device lifts her wheelchair (from the roof top) over the edge of the car and via steel wire lowers it to the ground. She unfolds it, adds a firm bottom part into the seat area and transfers her bodyweight from the car into the chair. She has both legs, but no hip joints connecting them to her body. She does it so effortlessly and must have done it countless times.

Jenny also has a scooter that runs off a battery; it gets her safely to the local shopping area, several hundred metres away. There is just one road crossing that is a bit tricky and bumpy. She feels a lot more at ease if someone is nearby, just in case she gets stuck. Some hundred metres is a fair way on a slow speed scooter, there are no guarantees the weather will be the same, arriving at the destination. Summertime brings thunderstorms that come very fast, are vicious and many last just a few minutes. Once, a friend, who was not in a wheelchair, was hammered from all sides, by wind and lashing rain in my open carport. He could not even get to the next building 5 metres away. There was an unlocked door right behind him, safety within inches, but trying to scream the 5 metres to let him know, he could not understand a word. He was soaked through and through. The thought of being surprised on the road in an open scooter would get the heart pressure up (pea to golf ball size hail can be part of the greenish storms).

Being alone at home is another of many issues that can fill one with fear. Just the knowledge that someone is nearby, in the next room, in calling range, is enough to calm such fears. The mobile phone is always charged and hangs attached on the clothing. Overall the manual (none motorised) wheelchair has many benefits, is reasonably cheap, fits folded into cars, lightweight, self drive or push drive. My late wife too managed to overcome the ‘feeling’ that the word wheelchair instils. Calling it wheels or wheelie takes the edge off a little. She never had the strength to move her meagre weight, inside the house was about the limit. But each hill, the downhill side, she did enjoy being able to choose any direction she wanted. Learning to come to grips with the milestones in life, like parenthood, becoming grandparent, a pensioner, wheelie, all take some time before one ‘is’. Living it has its benefits, memories, the scent of a flower, the sniffing snout of a deer, the sound of a creek, a million totally normal things can be experienced by accepting the wheels as a means of transport, as device that enables the going there. Shopping together becomes easy, left hand pushes the wheelchair handle, right hand the trolley and somehow they become a unit that moves as one.

Not everyone will feel comfortable in a simple wheelchair, especially if one spends a lot of time in it. Billy, whom I met recently, has the motorised version. She arrived in a special maxi taxi; a hydraulic lifting device at the rear of the bus brought her to the ground. No normal family car can cope with such a chair. There are only a fixed number of special taxis in the area, so waiting times of over an hour are not unusual. Pre-booking guarantees that one will come, but ‘when’ is another matter. An accident put Billy into the chair over 20 years ago. She has digital readout, a monitor showing her angles of seat, backrest, has adjustments under the seat, in the seat, massaging programs, but it is missing a coffee maker to get all 100 of my points. I have never heard of one of these fairly heavy chairs tipping over. Forward and behind the main drive wheels are large type castors that prevent tipping in the two directions. In Billy’s case one could compare it with the extra wheels on drag racing cars, she’d understand that. She has another as well; it’s a drive-in motorcycle tricycle. And she can ride it as well, Hell yeah. Some of the motorcycle clubs around town do a lot of charity work, for kids in hospitals, Christmas, Easter etc, and Billy is often the honorary leader of the pack, followed by a few hundred noisy sisters and brothers carrying fluffy toys and teddy bears, and Santa is going to get the cobwebs blown out of his beard as well.

Two months ago Billy tipped over, it was evening time, nice breeze in from the ocean, perhaps just a bit too dark to notice the hole in the footpath and the heavy chair tipped on its side. Her mobile phone safely at home and so she was at the mercy of the Gods for the next hour. She did not sustain additional injuries, eventually a passer by alerted the ambulance and all worked out ok. She’ll be busy in the next few weeks doing charity drives.

Jenny loves rock concerts and would love to be able to see the stage with her favourite band. Mostly tables and seats are arranged in a big arc around the stage (Meals are served as well). Within an hour people will be dancing right between stage and the tables, and that’s the end of seeing anything. Pushing your way through a group of dancers, and many are young kids having fun, letting loose, is fraught with all sorts of dangers for Jenny. She has a rare bone disease and any sudden jolts in her case is life threatening. We did manage to get to one side of the stage, she enjoyed it and I stood guard so that none accidentally fell into her.

I met Patsy too and it took a little while to be able to communicate. When communication is hard to do, one speaks in words, not sentences. It takes a little practice, mostly on my part in understanding her unique way of expression. Her wheels are also electric power and she shifts her body weight throughout the evening. I was amazed of the accurate control she had over her wheels. A small joystick on her left side, several switches, yet eating and drinking is not without its risks for Patsy. Everyone I know in wheels is an expert in controlling their machines, except some.

The newbie wheelies are different. Ted, at the turn of retirement, an around the world trip with his wife, planned for a long time, came to a sudden end when hit by a stroke. Ted can not open any butter, jam or even squirt Tomato Sauce at meal time. How many times we sat together and his bread was flying off his plate. Every time it did amplify his new condition resulting in much distress. Ted is still in the stage of digesting what had happened. Next to Ted, Chen, an older man from Vietnam had learned to manage with one moving arm. Every day his wife came in, brought him Vietnamese delights, steaming hot, unpacked a bag full of things and best she could tried to explain what it is. Language was signs and pictures made by the hands. She mothered her husband, she mothered Ted, she could not do enough in giving. Three times a day she came, a person like that seems like an angel. Ted loved her in a way that she stood on the highest pedestal there is. Chen had an infectious laughter, nodding mostly, gesticulating; language without words, if it was right he was very happy, if not he tried his best to get there. Chen was a fast eater, never took his time. Often I thought of my older brother who had acquired a whole assortment of sayings to do with food. ‘Eating whilst standing up is a crime against one’s health,’ is one of them, ‘Chew long and slow,’ is another. In hind sight I could find much wisdom in some of his words, it would allow time for saliva creation, time for the stomach to register what is coming down and signal the ‘enough’ watcher. I thought I had a sweet tooth, oh no, Chen’s is a lot sweeter. He buttered his bread and sprinkled something on it, intrigued I enquired, it was a small mountain of sugar. No matter what he put after, the base coat was butter and white sugar. Within a few seconds he pushed one over the table, nodding full of encouragement with his beautiful smile (I translated that as: ‘It’s not going to kill you, have a go.’). The sugar crunched between my teeth, like rocks in a mining crusher. White is not my favoured colour in sugar. His wife did it the same way. Chen’s wheels didn’t mean anything to him, I rarely saw him drive it and if he did he bumped into things a lot, he only had one hand to use, the other was in permanent sleep. Moving the hand over, to turn the other wheel never really worked out with Chen. In his eyes one could see, ‘get me out of this mess.’ Chen accepted his wheels like a diver accepts a bottle to breathe from. He never fought with it; he was just not interested in it. His face always mirrored his inner calm, an easy happiness, no fights with anything.

Ted still needs time. I made sure I stayed long enough to sit with Ted alone. In a way I guess, he is still trying to rewind time, why, why now? His wife was on his mind, the gift he could not give to her, the future he would bring her now, like this, why? And as the dining room emptied we hugged and streams of tears freed from his eyes. Such tears wash away a lot of poisons, so another friend explained to me once; he is a professor and authority on blood and heart, that’s another story. Ted has a heart of gold, a soft spoken man, probably a lifetime worth of love shared with his wife. Becoming a burden to her in time to come is his worst fear. In the afternoon of life some want to put their feet up and just watch the sunset in peace.

I had several extended stays in the same hospital; my first day was also when Tihana was admitted. Tihana is also a wheelie newbie and can not really relate to it. She’s Croatian and I suspect she had a fairly traumatic life. A lot of fear in her eyes, nothing to do with being in a wheelchair, she’s very shy and would have been content hiding behind a long curtain. It took a week of sharing meals to exchange simple human acknowledgment that were slightly more than avoiding eye contact. Her granddaughter was fluent in both languages and built small bridges. We spoke in gestures, too few.

Somehow when I think of someone, I get this one summarising image of the person. With Tihana it was when I walked past her room, she was reading something. I stood in the doorframe and said ‘hello.’ She put the book down and smiled, there was a peace in her nod, a return smile. She did never use words, but this was as good a ‘hello’ as any. This is her picture in me, instantly available. My room was next to hers.

Thinking of Chen, one starts to grin for no reason, that’s Chen in one picture, his wife’s little pots are there as well, she endlessly fussing over him. Ted leaves an overwhelming feeling of the love he has for his wife. I never met her but she is his treasure. Patsy has not yet her picture burned in me, I don’t know her well enough. Jenny has this huge smile, sometimes her small dog on her lap, but the community involvement, the massive amount of knowledge in her surrounding is what shapes Jenny’s view within, a very capable organiser down to the details. She is also advisor / consultant in wheelie and related matters and knows the place inside out. Inspirational would be the word for Jenny, if it had to be condensed. Her skin is marked like a roadmap with straight lines crisscrossing another. Each line represented the need for another operation. Underneath all are the bones that will never be normal. How many lines? Does it matter? No need to count, no one has enough fingers and toes to count them.

My image of Billy’s is double sided, definitely a lady of style and poise, painted toe-nails, high heels, high fashion and the down to earth opposite of it all, outspoken, adventurous, actively involved in many charities and good causes.

The Captain is stored too. Many faces stored at instant recall, some without names, many trying to cope, who have not yet found a balance are there as a group picture. Paul is walking now, but still the image I have is his Banana distribution, a grin like a little mischievous kid, but always meaning well.

One man appeared to not let anything get in the way. No doubt he ran a business and that is what he was doing, straight from the hospital. It would not surprise me him getting back to his office, his managers asking ‘Where did you leave your leg?’ his response perhaps, ‘Leg, what leg? Ah, yes, give me last months’ balance sheets.’

Jess I met just once, in emergency, he was still wearing the colours of his club. I didn’t like all that much the messages in his tattoos, but they were clearly made in another time, the younger days of rebellion. Realities for Jess were his legs now, he still had both, solid red, hot, swollen, his toes turning colour. His Harley slid in the wet. He was on the ‘before’ side, trying to cope with that.

Caren is still pumping weights, looking great, so totally independent. Julie will turn 22 soon. She is no longer a wheelie; she has become a walker, so grown up and blond, somewhat different from the girl who gave all once a rose of hope and she still shares her joy.

As I think of Caren, Speedy Gonzales for some reason pops into my head. Perhaps both share ‘speed’ as getting from A to B. Speedy Gonzales is not her name, but the first thing that came into my head is the first moment we met. Margret is a lively soul, nearly ran me over in a shopping centre with her scooter. She has the luxury model, decent headlights, a basket, seat with armchair and number plates. She lives in the suburb nearby and we only ever meet in the shopping centre, so often now that one expects to see her there as a part of it, but she’s not. I am a little worried, as I have not seen her for some weeks, but no one lives in a shopping centre. She’s getting on in years, hope she’s OK. Margret is a joy to watch, she moves a yard and stops to talk to person 1, moves another yard and has a session with person 2. One can easily do the shopping, she may have moved some yards, not all too many, as each time she meets a face she had not seen, and catch up time is certain.

It seems she knows everyone in town, she drives to them, they go to her. Sometimes her smile and open laughter stops, she can listen, give one her full attention, then holds the arm and says, ’it’ll be right, you’ll see’ and crowns it with a heartfelt squeeze. She can walk some steps, parks her scooter outside the toilet, locks it and hopes it still is there when she returns.

After my wife died, our dear friend of so many years said to me with a smile, ‘I knew she was ill all along, she wanted to protect me. I knew.’ Infection becomes the biggest enemy and when it came to my friend, we looked at each other, both knowing. Her picture in me is of a healthy woman who happened to walk with a limp, from the day we first met, it had never changed.

In looking at what each went through, perhaps facing death is common in many. Many come out of such an experience with a fire for life, with an inner strength, a purpose of living and each day becomes an unforgettable experience. Loosing a leg is not a death sentence, but getting one only fully understood by the receiver, often illness is a delayed death sentence. It is also a life sentence. Death does not come until it gets here, until such time there is life. Lance Armstrong is still alive today giving hope to millions that a doctor’s death sentence is not necessarily correct. And even if it were, it is one’s own choice to believe it or believe in overcoming it. The zest for life in all who faced adversities can be so infectious and in that, I believe, each shares with all a unique gift.

Heinz Ross
29 Nov 2008