A recent study indicates that one in four homeless Americans are veterans [PDF file]. NPR is running a series of stories about the plight of homeless veterans, including oral profiles of several vets who are or were homeless. As another commentator notes, many veterans come from disadvantaged backgrounds and are thus more likely to experience homelessness at some point in their lives. The military provides one of the few opportunities for young men and women from economically depressed regions to build a future for themselves. Veterans’ disproportionately high representation in the ranks of the homeless is stark evidence of our collective failure to support our military personnel when they re-enter civilian life. We excel at providing lip service to the patriotism of those who choose military service, but we’re even better at ignoring them once their service is complete.

Most of you probably won’t read this until Sunday, so I decided to give you some comfort reading to go with your coffee and pancakes: a story about the redemptive power of puppies. If you read the article without getting even a little misty, you’re a cold, inhuman bastard who should keep far away from children and small animals. Thanks to the invaluable Metafilter for the link.

In a recent ER episode, a teenage kid with a degenerative neuromuscular condition is brought in to the hospital with a severe case of pneumonia. The doctors prepare to put him on a ventilator, but the kid refuses, stating that he doesn’t want to live the rest of his life dependent on a machine. The kid persuades one of the docs to support his decision and the kid dies.

When it came time for me to be put on a vent, I was in similar dire straits: deathly ill with pneumonia and semiconscious because of the elevated CO2 in my bloodstream. I remember a team of doctors filing into my hospital room and matter-of-factly informing me and my mom that I needed to be intubated. I remember freaking out and starting to cry, but I must’ve blacked out because the next thing I knew, I was in the ICU with a tube down my throat.

In the couple years leading up to that day, my hometown pediatrician tried repeatedly to have a conversation with me about what life with a ventilator might be like, but I kept blowing him off because I didn’t want to think about it. Looking back, the transition might have been a little easier if I’d known what to expect. And I probably would have still chosen the ventilator under less urgent circumstances. Even at thirteen, I was fairly certain I didn’t believe in God and I wasn’t ready for nothingness.

At The Washington Post’s On Balance blog, a father writes about Samuel, his seven-year-old son with cerebral palsy. He writes this about parenting a child with a disability:

My experience is that parents of children with disabilities face a
different balancing act. One big struggle is balancing time spent
supporting a child with a disability vs. the family’s other child(ren).
Others include marshaling the time, energy and financial resources
needed to manage a child’s medical care and therapy, and the scarce
resources left for yourself, your relationship with your spouse, and
your work.

I think about my own family and how the gravity well of my disability shaped and tempered our dynamics. I consumed a lot of of my parents’ time and energy, especially during those years when it seemed like I was getting sick every other week. And my siblings sometimes had to assume the role of caregiver or personal assistant, particularly my brother. We used to play computer games that I didn’t have the dexterity to play independently (oh, Wing Commander II, how I miss your awesomeness). And when I wanted to play and he didn’t, my petulant rages would eclipse anything that any of those whiners My Super Sweet Sixteen could muster.

I have good, close relationships with my parents and siblings, in large part because I learned that I am not, in fact, the center of the universe. Now, when I see other families coddling or kowtowing to their kids with disabilities, I wince a little bit. We may look innocent, but many of us have an almost preternatural ability to bend minds to our will.

As I was walking home from a movie last night (American Gangsters: decent but not spectacular), I noticed several red-clad Guardian Angels riding a city bus. The last time I checked, this isn’t New York City circa 1986. A couple of them wore wraparound sunglasses; they looked like extras from a direct-to-video movie. Is the Metro Transit system really that unsafe as to invite the presence of a group that I thought has been inactive since the early days of grunge? Or am I completely oblivious to the present dangers of life in the city?