Tapping the Limits of Existence

I wanted to share my creative writing honored at the Surrey International Writers' Conference 2006, through Simon Fraser University in Canada.  It is a story in verse inspired by Dr. Daniel Weisdorf from the University of Minnesota and his patients.

Tapping the Limits of Existence

by Diane Smith 

I. Into Summer’s Dreams

The baby awakens to the snare drum pebbles, cradled in the warm womb.  Popping rock firecrackers shatter the tranquility and Tina is born.  Humming birds tip and roll, pollinating flowers framed by willow trees and fragrant plums.

II. A Blue-Steeled Winter

Tina takes her first steps, over mountains of ice and frigid beauty, toddling into open arms.  Dad, in the frenzied storm of celebration, presses her tiny boots into the virgin snow.  Prints disappear with gusts of wind.  He takes out the toboggan and nestles her onto his lap as Mom slips behind him.

 

John; the older brother, pushes hard over the edge of the shelf, hopping on board, grabbing the cushion, legs tugged in, shouting, “Hold on tight, faster than the speed of light.”

Chunks of ice and snow crunch against the curled snow breaker, splattering, weaving

faster, reeling down the steep white run; wheezing past the pines.

Tears streak as the Northern wind bites the cheeks, eyes snapping shut, fingers stiff from wet wool mittens, the rush of penetrating air imprinting Tina’s first memory of a Minnesota winter day.

III. Spring Floods the Heart

Tina and her friend Lisa laugh together, racing across purple clover seas.

Then, Tina stops and breaks a cluster of apple blossoms from a low hanging branch.

“What happened to your other apple tree?” Lisa asks while jumping over a tree stump.

“Daddy said it was diseased and had to cut it down.”

“That one was so tall, I could see all the way to China.”

IV. Fireworks

Peach roses stir the thoughts, cantaloupe scents of memories; footsteps clipping on freshly laid sidewalk.   Such a warm summer’s night as fireworks explode.

Quickly, Tina climbs to the top of the cherry tree.

Standing confidently, balancing on one foot, arms stretching, trying to touch the sparks that cascade red, purple, cream, green and gold, then melt and disappear as more

flash into sight with a bang, fizzling and drizzling away.  Tina tastes the first cherries of summer, as another Chinese rocket fuse is lit, as she reaches for the colors in the night and listens to the music of the kettledrum booms.

V. And School Starts

A sickening world encroaches on peace.   Perhaps the bell won't ring today.

Everyone can go home.  Lisa and Tina are jumping rope, singing:

“Salome was a dancer.

She danced before the king.

Every time she danced

she wiggled everything.

"Stop,” says the king

"You can't do that in here."

Salome says "Baloney"

And kicks the chandelier.”

Childhood rhymes leap and somersault with friends to double dutch jumps, while others text messages and hackeys bounce off  shoes in school courtyards waiting for the doors to open.

"I'm sorry you got Miss Frank," Lisa says.  

"You're sorry, me too. I hate her. Everyone does. Hambone, my guinea pig hates her, my bird; Dudley Do Right, my dog Hillary.   Even the neon tetras in my fish tank,

and my brother, John.   He had her two years ago and told me all about her.  I was hoping we’d be in the same class,” Tina sighs.

“Me too,” Lisa says, and the bell finally rings.

Children march to their seats in lockstep as chair legs slide, whiffing sawdust scents and solvent.  And class begins.

“Social Studies” is placed on the Formica desktops of knowledge and ignorance and the questions start.

"Where was cotton grown?" Miss Frank asks.

To be the 'invisible man,' Tina thinks.

Ricky ducks low.

"What is the answer?" Miss Frank presses and points at Ricky. "Yes?"

Silence, dividing like wild cells, multiplies rapidly.

“Does Social Science bore you?  You're never prepared for class. Perhaps this will bore you too,” as Miss Frank stands tall, looming over tiny Ricky, abruptly yanking him

out of his chair by his arm. “Can’t you learn? Stand up straight you clumsy oaf,” as she shakes him.  ”Why aren’t you prepared?” 

Even the fly stops buzzing by the window.

Tina flounders with him, screaming in silence, ‘Alabama, Ricky, Alabama.  I'm sorry,’ Tina whispering now, wanting to help, but afraid a second invitation by Miss Frank will be issued to her.

“Ricky, Come with me."  As Tina watches him dragged by his arm, she feels they slide down the drainpipe together like ugly spiders ground up in the garbage disposal.

That evening, Tina talks to her Mom as the oak trees cast long shadows.  “…and Ricky had big red welts on his arms and was crying,” Tina says, “when he came out.”

She listens carefully, nodding her head.   "Why that dried up old spinster.  Who does she think she is?   This needs to stop right now.   We’re not living in the dark ages. Physical punishment is not only against the school rules, it’s against the law. I’ll check into this.”

Later that week, snicker grins electrify.  

“Miss Frank’s last year, pass it on.”

“Miss Frank’s last year, pass it on.”

“Miss Frank’s last year, pass it on.”

“Why?” asks Ricky, smiling. 

“She has been asked to retire.”

Red striations cross the sky and darkness descends, as a triceratops collapses in the heat while the family watches "The Lost World" that evening.

   

VI. Saturday Cartoons

Every Saturday, Mom lets John and Tina pull the sleeper couch out to watch cartoons.

Tina feels like a happy, well-fed slug on a hosta plant eating Fruit Loops from the box and sipping orange juice from a straw.

“I wish they had fearless leader on today.  I could get a few more ideas for Miss Frank,"

Tina says staring at the Niponese characters.

"Hey, let's do some trampoline jumps, see who can go the highest," John says.

"Mom says that wrecks the springs."

“You lily-livered lymphocyte. Get some balls,” John says.

"You’re talking dirty. I’m telling.”

“Yeah? Then we can’t play trampoline."

They share sneaky looks and begin to jump higher and higher and higher tucking legs, twirling to the ceiling.

Tina, almost out of breath asks bouncing up, “What is,” bouncing down, “a lily-livered,”

bouncing up “Lymphocyte?”

VII. Emily Has Chicken Pox

John awakens with red blotches and a fever. A few bumps have started to form and break open, oozing pus.

”Come on,” Mom says, “I’ve got a surprise for you in the car; a candy bar for the first one in,” luring with promises of treats. “Now that you're in the car, I’m taking you two to the pediatrician.”

"Geez, Dr. Lehman.  I'm not that sick."

"I'm not sick at all," Tina says. "Think he'll give me a shot?"

John stares at Tina muttering low, "Damn shots."

"Don't think so," Mom says.  "We'll see what he has to say." 

Dr. Lehman is wearing a big red bowtie as a stuffed teddy bear crawls up his stethoscope - too babyish. And jeez, he’s bald! TOTALLY BALD!

“Chicken pox,” Dr. Lehman offers a diagnosis.

“Chicken pox,” John sneezes into his elbow.

“Highly contagious,” Dr. Lehman adds.  “Keep the fluids going, maybe some soda.

And John should stay home and rest until the lesions scab over and he feels better.

“I guess that means no ballgame tomorrow,” Mom says.   “I brought Tina too. I don’t know if she got that vaccination at school in time.”

“How do you feel?” Dr. Lehman asks as he pulls a penny from Tina’s ear. “Magic,” Tina smiles.

“No fever, no rash, no coughing or sneezing.   Just money in your ears. That Varicella-Zoster shot should protect you,” Dr. Lehman smiles.  Then, he gives John and Tina a new copper penny.

At home, Dad says, “I heard you can’t come to the game tomorrow.”

“I feel pretty good,” John says.

“Sorry, doctor’s orders.   Tina, ya wanna go with your ole dad?”

“Cool.  Dad and I will tell you all about it,” as Tina scrapes scabs open with words.

And then, the coffee spills, soiling the crisply laundered linen as Mom dabs at it and the Federal case opens in front of the Supreme Court of sibling rivalry.

Tina looks for Emily; her doll, to tell her the good news.   Ah, there, cheeks, arms, and legs dotted with

chicken pox. Tina smudges the red ink, trying to remove the blotches as new rules are codified. Hmmm. What are the sentencing guidelines? How many years must be served? These things should be carefully weighed, considering loss of computer privileges and grounding.

Then the decision is made. Tina screams, “John, where are you?   I don’t care if you are sick.   You know that game you love?   It’s history,” as Tina grabs his CD and smashes it in front of him.

"I was sick of that game," he laughs. "So how is Emily doing?"

Nuclear winter sets in as electrons still their agitated motion.

"Recovering faster than you. Mom fixed her with ink remover and if you ever touch my doll again…"

"You'll what?" John taunts.

"You'll see," she says."  For me to know and you to guess."  And the swaying of events feels like perfect sibling justice as vengeance does the Conga.

VIII. Purdy Steps Up to the Plate

Feathered lilies bend in the summer breeze weaving sweet blossoms and the game

is in the bottom of the third inning.  The Northern Pacific train chugs by the ballpark.

The engineer toot toot toots the train whistle, greeting the noisy crowd, as the Earth

stops twirling in the Milky Way and the fans rise to their feet waving.

“Hey, look at those spots,” as Dad points to Tina’s legs.

“Quit worrying.  Mom says it’s probably an allergy to something.  Time to get some Gummy worms. Be right back, Dad.  Tell me if I miss anything. Okay?”

“You betcha ya.”

Purdy steps up to the plate, swinging the bat.   He grabs his crotch, crouching low, britches brushing the dust.   Tina returns, charging up tiers, out of breath.   “So, what’s happened?”

“Foul ball,” Dad says. Lights snap on the field with a glare, casting an aura of indecision measured by seasoned risk.   To the West, the sun sets with flaming clouds, straining to watch the play too. “Ball one,” the umpire yells.

The next throw comes at 85 miles an hour.  Tina, leaping in the air, bumps into Dad’s elbow and her nose bleeds. “Ouch. Drop your head. Here’s my Homer hanky,” Dad says, “as the slender lilies by the entrance collapse in the heat.

IX: And a Sparrow Joins Purdy at the Plate

The bleeding stops. “Sorry I bumped you so hard.  Alright,” Dad says, “Here he comes again.”

Purdy swings at the fastball, nicks it as it arches backward and hits a bird on the fence.

A tiny sparrow falls to the ground as a thousand fans suck in air, waiting.   Purdy cups the sparrow in both hands and lays it in a grassy area outside the fence.

“Maybe I can take a nap with the bird,” Tina says looking into her fathers’ eyes.

The stunned bird flutters, then rises from the ground flying in figure eights over the playing field and the audience. Tina slips to the cement and pulls herself up hovering on the edge of tomorrow.

Father grabs her elbows and steadies her.  “You okay, Kiddo?” 

“Just tired.”

Purdy adjusts his helmet and smiles, moving to the plate, ready for anything.

Thwack! The wooden bat explodes splinters and breaks in two.  Purdy hits it over the fence, out-of-the-ball-park!

“Yah, Purdy. Way to go, way to go.”   Streams of colored shorts and tank tops

float on the steel bleachers, rising, falling as the fans yell, “Charge.”

“You’ll never see a play like that again, Tina. What a game.  How did I get a little girl that loves baseball AND dolls?” as he snorts like a pig checking the hanky Tina’s holding to her nose.

Blood is still dripping slowly. “I guess you hurt your nose more than I realized. Here—direct pressure will stop the bleeding.  And your legs are bruised too.”

Father puts his arm around Tina. He reaches up and knits his brow with his fingers, then checks his watch measuring the remaining innings to determine when the game

will end.  Tina feels cold.

The pearly nacre of the moon smiles, then fades behind a cloud as the bird rests on the top of a wire and Tina falls asleep on the bench.   

 

X. Facades

 Tina and her mother visit the hospital clinic as Tina’s pediatrician recommends a specialist. In the foyer, red gladiolas stretch over a modern, square vase.  Since the game, bruises pop up daily.

Translucent marbles hug the stems, the water two-thirds full.   Dewdrops gather on the petals. A receptionist, perfectly tailored, wears a crisp white lab coat with her name embroidered in red.   Tina examines the flawless flowers wondering.

“Absolutely fake,” the receptionist says reading her mind, turning them upside down.

“Fake,” Tina glugs. “They look so real.”

“Pretty backed up today. Please take a seat.”   The receptionist smiles and points to empty chairs.

Tina rests her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“Mrs. Salmon?” a nurse calls.

“Yes?”

“We’d like to talk to you first, then Tina.”

“I’ll be back in a minute; medical forms.”   Mom is gone for just a few minutes and returns with a frown.

“They’re ready for you now,” as they are escorted to a large room by a nurse.

A physician comes in and sits down by Tina and her mother.  Several students are side-by-side in a row of chairs, like puffed up mushrooms, clustered tightly on a rugged stump; a teaching hospital; none of them are pediatricians.

The oncologist says, “I hope you don’t mind the students.  Don’t be scared.  We want to talk to you about your illness.  It’s somewhat rare.  That’s why we invited our oncology residents to come and listen.  There are things we can do to help you so—please feel free to ask questions, and you too, Mrs. Salmon.”

“Rare,” Tina repeats.

“Yes, unusual,” as drones of simplicity and complexity generate confusion and fear as the specialist lectures on.

Trial drugs are placed in a pharmaceutical bag.   Pain medication, a referral, and business card for in-home care, are given to Tina’s mother.

At home, dishes and utensils clatter in the empty landscape.

“So,” John asks, “How did things go at the specialist?   Get some shots?”  

“Not today, John,” Mom says.

“What’d the specialist say?” Dad asks.

Tina interrupts. “He was really nice. Didn’t even have to take my clothes off.   He says I’m sick.  May have to stay home from school awhile and rest. Might have my own nurse.”

As frantic dinner movement stills, no ‘pass the chicken, please’ or ‘thank you for the gravy,’ a tap- less rhythm steals center stage.

That night, Mom comes into Tina’s room before she goes to sleep. “I want to talk,” Mom says. “I’m sure you must be scared after that long consultation with the doctor and all those people.”

“Tired,” Tina says, “And my legs hurt, I can hardly move them.”

“I’ll get your medication—and bring a pain pill too.

Tina pushes her leg into pajamas and winces, then crawls into bed, remaining there for weeks with brief respite for meals and baths.

XI. And Tina's Dreams Come

"I hurt all the time now."  Tina tells Emily.

"Where?"  Emily asks.

Tina points to bruises on her face, her legs, red spots, and her arm that holds a shunt.

Morphine is given almost daily now with extra dishes of red blood cells, platelets

and exhaustion. A gentle brush of the arm against a bed blanket yields reddish-purple bruises.  Little red dots speckle her legs.

Orion and his penny-studded belt are stationed in the black sky, along with his jewels, an angle on the crest, far from Tina’s reach.

The penny is stamped clearly; 2005.

“Why so far away, draped against the heavens?  I want that penny,” Tina says to Emily, her doll, as they admire the night together.

“But Orion needs it for his belt. It’s just a penny,” Emily sighs.

“Yes, but have you ever seen one with all those diamonds? It must be lucky.”

“Not one like that; it’s a rare one for sure,” Emily agrees, “But, it is just a penny. My brain is fuzzy now and I must go to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Tina says, “I think I’ll go to bed too,” as she counts the bruises on her arms and the red dots on her legs.

“A quick question before we go to sleep.  Where’s John?” Emily asks. “I’m not too fond of him after he gave me measles, but, I do miss him. Is he afraid he’ll get your disease?”

 “No, he’s just sad.  Lately, he starts crying when he sees me. So tired, Emily, I must go to sleep now.”

Lids close hiding blue eyes, milky like a trout's on a Greek plate served with parsley, lemon and morphine. Tina awakens with a shriek, gums bleeding.

“Please, no more!” Tina’s mother says, holding Tina’s free hand.

“We need to get this in a good vein," the nurse explains, as she starts to thread.

A large cannulae barely fits. The nurse tapes Tina’s arm down to a plastic white board

that stretches the length of Tina’s fingers to her elbow and inserts an intravenous needle in the cannulae.

Rubber gloves are snapped off and thrown in the  ‘biologically contaminated materials’ waist basket that squeaks open with pressure from the foot. 

“Now, you should be able to sleep.  Some people, Tina, have nightmares with morphine, scary thoughts too.  You mom said, “Your doll was talking to you the other day.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t afraid.”

We’ll try a different medication if you have scary dreams.  Morphine is a good drug and usually stops all the pain. Let me know how you feel when I come back tomorrow.

We can adjust the dosage or change the medication again.” The nurse reaches up and releases the flow, calibrated to response.

Tina loosens her grip, nodding off.

The nurse says, “She needs platelets. She’ll rest easier with that drip now.  I promise you, she won’t even wake when we run them in.   I’ll order a bag. Blood bruises, did you know that?" 

“No, I didn’t. I only know my Tina does.”

Beams of light connect to sensors, flashing in the dark by Tina’s bed.   Paths without substance or form measure her life.

XII. The Rock of Health Splits

Specters rise high above the swells, tossing, twirling on the sea as Tina, wobbly with waves of nausea tilts her bald head, slender fingers pinching the ear between the index finger and thumb to take a sip of Bumble berry tea.

She stares into vacant space.  Such cold white fingers, skin dotted with red Petechiae, stretching as translucent as the clay in the fine bone china teacup.

She offers a sip to Emily, carefully lifting the cup to the ruby red doll’s lips. Confidence eludes as fingers readjust and a pinky rises in the air for a proper hold.

Tina skates her fingertips across her smooth pate, then touches Emily’s soft curls.

”Emily, please remind me to ask Mom where she put my wig?”

“Perhaps it’s in the toy box,” Emily says.

“No, not the toy box, probably my drawer of chores—forgot, don’t have any more chores to do, wouldn’t be there.   Oh, maybe my wig is on the shelf. And, I almost forgot to tell you.   The nurse came back today.   She wants to redirect the river of my veins.  Shhh, listen.”

XIII. The Crash of Roses

“What do you want me to do?” as father’s spittle flies in the air.

“I think we need to have a pow wow; a family talk.” Mom says weakly.

“We’ve had enough of those. Talk can’t fix this.”

Tina listens at the door, then Emily interrupts, asking, “What happens to red rose

petals in the fall?”

"They go sailing on a light breeze,” Tina explains. “Sometimes an aphid thumbs a ride."

"A ladybug told me," Emily says, "the clapping noise from the landing petals deafen them as they brush the blades of grass."

"Most of the flowers are gone now; only Rose hips are left on thorny stems,” Tina says, as she peeks into the kitchen again, listening.

“How do you know? This involves Tina.   She should be included,” Mom says.

“You’re crazy. She's only eleven.”

”Tina understands more than you know.”

Tina strains, turning to Emily, “Stem cells/T cells, embryon …, can’t hear much.

“She’s too young to make decisions for herself.”

“I’m not saying she should, but I do think she should have a vote.”

“And what does that mean? Damn it. Would you shut up? There’s nothing we can do.

And it’s hard enough for adults to carry the weight of these decisions.”

Even the cardinal sings off key screeching at the empty feeder.  

"It wouldn’t hurt to ask her how she feels about this mess, what she wants.”

"There you go with that crap. You’ve been talking to too many counselors.”

“I have to talk to someone. You’re never home.”

“That’s because you’re so much fun to be with.”

“Somehow Tina’s illness doesn’t leave much room for smiles,” Mom says.

The rattles from the kitchen, the radio, the birds and petals jumble together.

“Shhhh.  Do you hear that?” Tina asks Emily.

“I’ll help,” John says. “I make some decent money after school. Geez, I hate flipping

those burgers. But, I would give it to you for Tina. She’s a lot worse, Dad.”

Emily’s eyes pop open. “Even these tiny ears can hear those crashing roses.”

“Yes, you're right, Emily.  They're talking about the flowers. They need light.

Mom has decided she will order the sun to come out.   Enough with all these gray, rainy days.”

“Finally,” Emily says, “Shhh, I can't hear.”

“Tell me how can we pay for a  marrow transplant?”

"Daddy's crying," Tina says to empty space, “Over me," as she closes her eyes.

“She needs it now,” Mother says.  “If we wait much longer it won’t matter anymore.”

“We’ve gone over this and over this.  Hell, if I made triple my salary, I couldn’t pay for it. And the burgers won’t help—," Dad screams, the softly, "your sentiments are appreciated.   And it’s still experimental – easily five times my yearly salary.   And nothing seems to change in this house, except Tina.”

Dad throws his coffee in the sink, hesitates, then his cup against the wall muttering, “Yes, I know, she’s getting worse.”

“Now everyone is crying,” Tina sighs.

Illusion stands tall, dissipating as shadows rise, and then diminish with the blowing of fragile dreams and the grooving of the metal.

“I’m thinking of something else,” Mother says.

Hundreds of thoughts fly by the belt in Tina’s mind; a blurred vision, divining efforts by relentless clicking fingers, just twists of filament and fate.  "I don't want to hear it. I can’t hear it anymore,” as Dad leaves the kitchen with the car keys, brushing past John.

Tina falls asleep, Emily cradled in her shoulder no longer able to distinguish

reality from dreams.

The gray evening folds around her sleep as an orange harvest moon barrels out,

hanging low, weighted by the heavens,  illuminating the large, twilight sky and

Orion’s saber with a shining penny in his belt.

XIV. A Ripple in Time

Streaked clouds shadow the moon's hallowed orb and popping rock firecrackers shatter the tranquility;   tapping and exploding the limits of existence.

Emily rests on the quilted bed.  Grief chuckles fill the night as Mother cradles her in arms.  A toybox full of memories rest at their feet.

The sun rises and moths grow tipsy, pollinating flowers framed by willow trees and fragrant plums.      

-----

References:

(1) Popping Rocks Reveal New Volcano

By Larry O'Hanlon, Discovery News

Oct. 27, 2005 — “Noisy popping rocks hauled up from the deep Pacific seafloor off northern Mexico appear to be from a very young undersea volcano, say U.S. and Mexican geologists.

Some of the weird and scientifically valuable gas-charged volcanic rocks were first discovered in the same area in 1960, but no one had been able to find them again until now.

It took some careful and persistent dredging of the 10,500-foot-deep (3,200-meters) seafloor by a bi-national crew of students and researchers near what is called Popcorn Ridge, 200 miles south of San Diego near Guadalupe Island, to relocate the remarkably loud rocks.

"People don't know how many volcanoes there are off the coast here," says Dana Vukajlovich, one of the chief scientists on the cruise, organized by the Scripps Institution of Oceanography at the University of California, San Diego.”

(2) Taken from the URL; http://www.saskschools.ca/~gregory/gym/skiprhymes1.html

“Salome was a dancer.

She danced before the king.

Everytime she danced

She wiggled everything. (wiggle body)

"Stop", said the king (hold out hands in front)

"You can't do that in here."

(Nod head and shake finger)

Salome said "Baloney"

And kicked the chandelier. (kick out foot)”

(3) Taken from the URL: http://www.wordreference.com/definition/lockstep

“Lockstep; a manner of marching in file in which each person's leg moves with and behind the corresponding leg of the person ahead; "the prisoner's ankles were so chained together that they could only march in lockstep."

Adolph Hitler's army marched in 'lock step.'

(4) The Invisible Man, by HG Wells. Ralph Ellison wrote a novel in 1952; bearing the same title; a uniquely African American Story.

(5) Cancer cells divide at a faster rate than normal cells as referenced by an excerpt;

Cancer and the Cell Cycle

W. Maxwell Cowan, M.D., Ph.D.

Vice President and Chief Scientific Officer

"Cancer is a genetic disease," says Bert Vogelstein, an HHMI investigator at The Johns Hopkins Oncology Center in Baltimore. "But it differs from most other genetic diseases in two ways." Traditional genetic diseases such as hemophilia or cystic fibrosis develop because of errors in the DNA of a fertilized egg and, therefore, of every subsequent cell in the person who develops from that egg. By contrast, though people may inherit predispositions to certain types of cancer, cancer itself generally results from mutations in the DNA of a single cell in the body that then begins to multiply uncontrollably. As that cell gains a selective advantage over the less-frequently dividing normal cells, it eventually produces a tumor made up of its descendants.”

(6) Petrarch and the "Dark Ages" as taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dark_Ages

"Triumph of Christianity" by Tommaso Laureti (1530-1602), ceiling painting in the Sala di Constantino, Vatican Palace. Images like this one celebrate the destruction of ancient pagan culture and the victory of Christianity. See also iconoclasm.

“It is generally accepted that the term was invented by Petrarch in the 1330s. Writing of those who had come before him, he says that "amidst the errors there shone forth men of genius, no less keen were their eyes, although they were surrounded by darkness and dense gloom"[1]. Christian writers had traditional metaphors of "light versus darkness" to describe "good versus evil." Petrarch was the first to co-opt the metaphor and give it secular meaning by reversing its application. Classical Antiquity, so long considered the "dark age" for its lack of Christianity, was now seen by Petrarch as the age of "light" because of its cultural achievements, while Petrarch's time, lacking such cultural achievements, was now seen as the age of darkness.

Why did Petrarch call it an age of darkness? Petrarch spent much of his time traveling through Europe rediscovering and republishing the classic Latin and Greek texts. He wanted to restore the classical Latin language to its former purity. Humanists saw the preceding 900-year period as a time of stagnation. They saw history unfolding not along the religious outline of St. Augustine's Six Ages of the World, but in cultural (or secular) terms, through the progressive developments of Classical ideals, literature and art.

Petrarch wrote that history had had two periods: the Classic period of the Romans and Greeks, followed by a time of darkness, in which he saw himself as still living. Humanists believed one day the Roman Empire would rise again and restore Classic cultural purity. The concept of the European Dark Ages thus began as an ideological campaign by humanists to promote Classical culture, and was therefore not a neutral historical analysis. It was invented to express disapproval of one period in time, and the promotion of another.

By the late 14th and early 15th century, humanists such as Leonardo Bruni believed they had attained this new age, and a third, Modern Age had begun. The age before their own, which Petrarch had labeled "Dark," had thus become a "Middle" Age between the Classic and the Modern. The first use of the term "Middle Age" appears with Flavio Biondo around 1439.”

(7) From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia;

Taken from the URL: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lymphocytes

“A lymphocyte is a type of white blood cell involved in the human body's immune system. There are two broad categories of lymphocytes, namely T cells and B cells. Lymphocytes play an important and integral part of the body's defenses.”

(8) Matthew 6:28-29; Authorized King James Version; Printed by Oxford University Press

“And why take ye thought of raimant? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

(9) The clash or roses was written in honor of

Poet Ingeborg Bachmann (1926-1973) and her work

In The Storm of Roses cited below:

"Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,

the night is lit up by thorns, and the thunder

of leaves, once so quiet within the bushes,

rumbling at our heels."

(10) Anwar Sadat, shortly before his death on

60 Minutes, in regard to peace between Israel and Egypt;

said, “Patience brings roses.”

(11) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Universal_health_care

“Countries with universal health care:

Australia, Austria, Belgium, Canada, Cuba, Denmark, Finland, France, Germany, Israel[5], Japan, The Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Portugal, Seychelles,[6]South Africa, Spain, Sweden, Taiwan, and The United Kingdom are among many countries that have various types of universal health care systems.[3]”

(12) “Survival after transplantation of unrelated donor umbilical cord blood is comparable to that of human leukocyte antigen-matched unrelated donor bone marrow: results of a matched-pair analysis”

Juliet N. Barker, Stella M. Davies, Todd DeFor, Norma K. C. Ramsay, Daniel J. Weisdorf, and John E. Wagner From the Blood and Marrow Transplant Program, Department of Medicine, and Department of Pediatrics, University of Minnesota School of Medicine, Minneapolis, MN.

“Umbilical cord blood (UCB) is being increasingly used for hematopoietic stem cell transplantation and has been associated with a reduced incidence of severe graft-versus-host disease (GVHD). To further investigate the relative merits of unrelated donor UCB versus bone marrow (BM), a matched-pair analysis comparing the outcomes of recipients of 0 to 3 human leukocyte antigen (HLA)-mismatched UCB and HLA-A, B, DRB1-matched BM was performed. UCB patients, who received cyclosporine (CSA) and methylprednisolone (MP), were matched for age, diagnosis, and disease stage with BM patients, who received either methotrexate (MTX) and CSA (26 pairs) or T-cell depletion (TCD) and CSA/MP (31 pairs). Patients were predominantly children (median age, 5 years) undergoing transplantation for malignancy, storage diseases, BM failure, and immunodeficiency syndromes between 1991 and 1999. Although neutrophil recovery was significantly slower after UCB transplantation, the probability of donor-derived engraftment at day 45 was 88% in UCB versus 96% in BM-MTX recipients (P = .41) and 85% in UCB versus 90% in BM-TCD recipients (P = .32), respectively. Platelet recovery was similar in UCB versus BM pairs. Furthermore, incidences of acute and chronic GVHD were similar in UCB and BM recipients, with 53% of UCB versus 41% of BM-MTX recipients alive (P = .40) and 52% of UCB versus 56% of BM-TCD recipients alive at 2 years (P > .80), respectively. These data suggest that despite increased HLA disparity, probabilities of engraftment, GVHD, and survival after UCB transplantation are comparable to those observed after HLA-matched BM transplantation. Therefore, UCB should be considered an acceptable alternative to HLA-matched BM for pediatric patients.”