I was a teenager when my mother told me about Baby Charley. He was found in the backseat of a car outside the all-boys Catholic high school in Butte, Montana in 1954. Boys rushed him to the nearby rectory, but a priest directed them to reroute to St. James Hospital, two-and-a-half blocks away.
The story was shared in newspapers around the state.
The Daily Missoulian, Friday, October 22, 1954
My mom, newly married and unbeknownst at the time, newly pregnant, was preparing for the oncoming nurses when she heard pounding on the alleyway door. She asked a janitor to open it. “Petrified” boys passed the baby to the janitor, who quickly handed the baby to her.
“Baby Charley” as he was named, was at St. James for about two months, according to my mom. “Everybody loved him—the priests and nuns and doctors—and lots of boys would come in and talk to him and play with him. He was well taken care of.”
She dressed him the morning he was scheduled to leave with his adoptive parents. Mom had a meeting though, so was sad she did not meet the couple when they arrived to take Baby Charley home.
When I was eight, we relocated from Missoula to Butte and moved into my mom’s cousin’s home across from St. James Hospital. The hospital was boarded up by then, replaced by a new building a few blocks away. I traipsed past the old hospital’s alleyway door thousands of times in the ensuing years, walking to and from church and school. The all-boys’ high school became mine, having transitioned to coed in the 1960’s. After learning about Baby Charley, I often imagined the boys’ angst as they rushed to the rectory, then hurried to the nearest hospital door they could find.
Mom repeated the story throughout the years, the last time in early 2020 as we visited in her independent living apartment. “He was inside a paper bag, dressed and wrapped in a blanket. He had a sugar tit in his mouth, and he had beautiful red hair…” She paused. “I hope he’s doing okay.”
“I bet he is,” I said, studying the black and white photograph featuring Baby Charley and my twenty-three-year-old mother. Clad in her white cap and starched nurse’s uniform, she’s smiling at Charley, whose tiny fingers are curled around her finger.
Kay Antonietti & Baby Charley; St. James Hospital; Butte, Montana; 1954
The photo, which Mom kept in her cedar chest, was taken for a follow-up news article. “Picture no. 3; 2 col Sun; bottom, pg. 4;” was scribbled across its back. But instead of publishing the photograph of Baby Charley and my mother, the newspaper published a photo of him and a nursing supervisor instead.
My mom passed away on March 18, 2023. Two days ago, I washed the linens that had cocooned her, and my sister and me, during Mom’s final hours. I also laundered a pair of plush throws. The blankets rushed memories of Mom and I snuggled under them during our fourteen weeks together after she broke her pelvis in October 2020. Swathed in comfort and warmth, we’d watch “Jeopardy” and “Wheel of Fortune.” We’d reminisce too, and sometimes when dementia took hold, she’d ask, “Where’s the baby?”
A childbirth educator and decades-long nurse, mother of eight, grandmother of fourteen and great-grandmother of twelve, Mom could have been referring to a number of babies. But during those weeks I hunkered in Assisted Living with her, she often lived in the past.
On this Mother’s Day I wonder, as I have before, if the infant Mom worried about was Baby Charley. My years of teaching Lamaze classes and working as an OB nurse, coupled with the creation of characters for my novelPerimenopausal Women with Power Tools, colored my emotions as I contemplated Baby Charley’s birth and his birth mother’s courage, strength, heartache and love.
Mom’s plush throws are washed and tucked away. I imagine gifting one blanket to Charley. If his birth mother is still alive, I imagine gifting her the other. Full circle from the young nurse who welcomed and loved Baby Charley nearly sixty-nine years ago.
Growing up in Butte, Montana, I learned invaluable lessons from my parents, Dan and Kay Antonietti. Lifelong Catholics and Democrats, they taught me and my seven siblings fundamental values like honesty, compassion, integrity, fairness, generosity and respect. They taught us to “love thy neighbor as thyself.” In their messages to my twelve-year-old self, they wrote “be charitable to all.” And when we recited The Pledge of Allegiance, they affirmed that “liberty and justice for all” meant exactly that. All.
As we close in on the 2020 election, thoughts of my dad and mom swirl through my mind. So too do memories of Montana’s 2017 congressional special election. Embracing the principles instilled during my youth, I campaigned hard for the Democratic candidate. I phone banked, knocked doors, and tabled at the University of Montana. I harnessed my son Eric’s courage and graduated into solo door-knocking excursions, something I thought I would never do. I described my trajectory here.
But amid the coronavirus pandemic, I’ve scrapped door knocking this year. Instead, I’m phone banking alone at the dining room table. I’ve penned two hundred postcards, displayed yard signs and bumper stickers, and written a letter to the editor.
Postcards to Swing States
Our Papa died in January 2017. A World War II veteran, he was elected State Commander of Montana VFW in 1991. He later served as Montana VFW’s Legislative Chairman. Throughout his last twenty years, he testified on veterans’ behalf at both the national and state levels. Always his helpmate, Gram was his constant advocacy partner for the last seven.
In 2015, Gov. Steve Bullock invited my parents to Montana’s capitol. Though they had been there countless times, I had the honor of accompanying them on that special occasion. Gov. Bullock commended my dad for his years-long dedication to veterans and their families. Acknowledging my mom’s steadfast support, he thanked her too. Their humble pride was palpable. So was Gov. Bullock’s admiration.
Gov. Steve Bullock and Dan Antonietti, July 2015
Kay Antonietti, Gov. Steve Bullock, Dan Antonietti, Karen Buley
Now Governor Steve Bullock is running for U.S. Senate. Montana’s Lt. Governor, Mike Cooney, a Butte native like my parents, is running for governor. And Kathleen Williams, a three-term Montana legislator, is running for Congress. During the years Papa navigated the halls of Montana’s capitol, he visited with all three. He would be so proud to vote for each of them in 2020, as well as other Democrats up and down the ballot.
Cooney. Bullock. Williams. 2020
Gram turned eighty-nine in August. Her memory fluctuates, but she remembers I’ve been phone banking for Montana’s Democratic candidates. She often asks, “Did you get everything done?” Occasionally she’ll pause, then add “for the election?” When I say I’m making calls one night a week, her reply is always the same. “God love you. I hope they win.”
Kay Antonietti, Spring Meadow Lake State Park
In the quiet of my heart, I hear Papa echo her words.
My friend Carol emailed to ask if I would boycott Facebook for its inadequate removal of hate speech.
Her question sparked a childhood memory. We met in Catholic school when I was the “new girl” in third grade. The following year, she and I sprawled on the shag carpet in my family’s dining room. Carol told me one of our classmates taunted her during recess.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I’m colored.”
I don’t remember my reply. Honestly, I am not even sure I did reply. I didn’t know words like empathy or racism. But I remember feeling a wave of emotions for her and a flash of anger toward the boy that hurled the hurtful words. Carol’s parents were born in the Philippines. Until that day, though, I never noticed she and I were different colors.
Fifty-five years later, people are still being harassed—and murdered—because of the color of their skin. In the wake of the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, Elijah McClain, Rashad Brooks, and so many others, sorrow and rage have swept the country. Cries for equity and justice abound.
Carol’s email arrived the day hundreds of companies began a Stop Hate for Profit advertising boycott. Businesses united “to force Mark Zuckerberg to address the effect that Facebook has had on our society.”
I wrote I had never paid for advertising nor made any purchases via Facebook. “I hope more companies pull their ads and join the boycott, though.” I added, “I like posts about marches and activism opportunities, links to articles, and connections with family and friends.”
“Couldn’t FB members do a 3-day boycott?” she replied.
Her suggestion felt huge. And my Facebook reach felt small. In addition, I often used Facebook numerous times each day between my personal page and two public pages.
In previous weeks though, heartbreaking images and accounts of racism and police brutality—on television and online and in print—spurred me to commit to antiracism. I had attended Black Lives Matter protests and made additional donations to organizations fighting for equity and justice. Carol asked for more.
And we had a bond that began in 1964 when my family relocated to my parents’ hometown of Butte, Montana.
The day after her query, I replied I would promote a boycott. A pair of New York Times articles days later strengthened my resolve.
“very disappointing”
Civil rights groups called a July 7 meeting with Facebook’s top executives, Mark Zuckerberg and Sheryl Sandberg, “very disappointing.” Derrick Johnson, President and CEO of the N.A.A.C.P., said, “They lack this cultural sensitivity to understand that their platform is actually being used to cause harm, or they understand the harm that the platform is causing and they have chosen to take the profit as opposed to protecting the people.”
On July 8, Facebook released the findings of a two-year audit examining its policies. According to its handpicked auditors Laura W. Murphy and Megan Cacace, lawyers and civil rights experts, “Facebook has made policy and enforcement choices that leave our election exposed to interference by the president and others who seek to use misinformation to sow confusion and suppress voting.”
The July 8 article quoted Vanita Gupta, President and CEO of the Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights: “As long as the platform is being weaponized to spread hate and violence, harm vulnerable communities, and undermine our democracy, we will continue to hold the platform accountable.”
Together
As individuals, we too can join in efforts to hold Facebook accountable. Please sign the #StopHateforProfit petition. And add your name to a letter thanking businesses for putting principles above profits.
On July 27,please join a 3-day #NoHateorDisinformation Facebook boycott. That day, Mark Zuckerberg and CEOs of Amazon, Apple, and Alphabet’s Google will testify before Congress in an antitrust hearing.
Using the above graphic for your profile picture—either as a temporary or ongoing photo—will add power to our collective action. Give yourself a three-day pause from Facebook and perhaps all social media.
Go for a walk
Read
Listen to music or a podcast
Dance
Spend time with family or friends—four-legged or two-legged
Garden
Draw or write or color or paint
Connect with others virtually or via phone, email, or letters
Meditate
Create found object art or a word collage
Bake or prepare a special meal
Text or email photos or videos of your boycott creations or activities
Be still. And listen.
We are not born with prejudice or hate in our hearts, and we are all human. Some of us even share the same soul.
Thank you for joining the July 27-29 boycott to urge Facebook to ban hate speech and disinformation. Together, may we make the world a safer and more humane place.
Montana is three weeks into Phase One reopening amidst COVID-19. During our previous shelter-in-place order, outdoor exercise was acceptable while we adhered to social distancing guidelines and limited groups to ten or less. In our state dubbed “Big Sky Country,” access to public lands abounds.
Yesterday, inspired by a friend’s Facebook photo posted days earlier, I drove ten miles from home to Mount Jumbo. A plethora of vehicles filled the small parking area and lined both sides of Lincoln Hills Drive. I eased into an empty spot, then crossed to the trailhead. Arrowleaf balsamroot blanketed the hillside, and birdsong filled the air.
The North Loop Trail, new to me, extended right and left. I turned right. Then, at a T-intersection, I left the wide, logging-road grade for a narrower, steeper path—the Woods Gulch – Sheep Mountain Trail. Considering the number of cars and trucks parked below, I encountered far fewer people during my eighty-minute meandering than I expected.
A lone hiker and dog bypassed me as I stopped to take photos. Along the way, I met two more solitary hikers, three groups of mountain bikers, three parties of hikers, and three more dogs. An abundance of wildflowers and spring growth peppered the mountain. I’m grateful for the family of four and later, a group of friends, that schooled me on arnica, shooting stars, larkspur, a ballhead waterleaf, and prairie stars.
Shooting stars
Arnica
Ballhead waterleaf
I stood more than six feet away and secured my mask while we chatted. A blue surgical mask, it was one I’d worn to a cesarean birth years ago. Occasionally, I’d bring my used masks and disposable, bouffant caps home and add them to the dress-up clothes. I had no idea those old masks would be reused as personal protective equipment—PPE—years later.
On the fortieth anniversary of Mount St. Helens eruption, I’m reminded of quarantine and masks. As a practicing RN, I was deemed an essential worker, though I don’t recall if that was the term used to give me permission to leave my home and traverse our ash-covered city. The restrictions were short-lived in 1980, unlike the path we’re navigating today.
Our trajectory through the COVID-19 pandemic is fluid as new data unfolds. My mom, a resident of a senior living community one hundred twenty miles away, has been quarantined since March 14th. I applaud the care to keep her and her cohorts safe, but I miss her. Until our state reaches Phase Three of the reopening plan though, quarantine for such communities will continue. So I savor daily phone calls with Mom and look forward to the day we can be together again.
Mom and I at 2020 Montana Women’s March
In the meantime, I’ll practice social distancing, wear a mask in public, and relish the beauty and birdsong around me.
The COVID-19 pandemic has thrust us into uncharted territory. Last week, nearly 3.3 million Americans filed for unemployment benefits. Three days ago, we learned the U.S. leads the world in the number of confirmed COVID-19 cases. Closer to home, Montana reported its first COVID-19 death minutes after Gov. Steve Bullock ordered us to shelter-in-place beginning yesterday at 12:01 a.m.
The CDC advises us to take breaks from reading, watching, or listening to stories about the pandemic. But as we’re hunkered in, often with smart phones or remotes at our fingertips, heeding that advice can be a challenge. Anxiety and fear run deep.
I’m mindful of the privileges I have that so many others do not: a stable income, housing, food security, friends and family, books, and good health. I take none of them for granted. In response to a friend’s Facebook post this week about embracing gratitude for a warm house, little worries, a fridge full of food, and other comforts, a man replied, “Good points, but I’m still praying for employment security during this time. It’s a lot of stress.”
Stress beyond my imagination, truthfully. Rich and I volunteered twice this week at Missoula Food Bank & Community Center. We stayed past our scheduled 11-1 shifts both days because there was nobody to take over for us. Sue, the Friday volunteer that replaced Chandler on our assembly line of three, was scheduled to receive a foster dog from the Humane Society of Western Montana that evening. On the cusp of Montana’s shelter-in-place directive, the animal shelter geared up to operate without volunteers.
After we left the food bank Friday afternoon, staff made the difficult decision to suspend volunteer activity inside its building. However, drivers will still be utilized for the senior home delivery program.
As we hunker
in, I offer these thoughts. If you are able, please:
donate to an organization that mitigates food insecurity or provides financial assistance to those in need
apply to your local animal shelter to foster an animal if a need arises (As of yesterday, Missoula’s Humane Society had enough foster families, though they were accepting applications to fill future needs if necessary.)
donate blood
support a local business that offers curbside pickup, takeout, or delivery
Along with limiting our time immersed in news stories and social media, the CDC recommends we exercise, eat well, meditate, share our concerns with others, get plenty of sleep, and more. Some people, due to a myriad of circumstances, might find these guidelines difficult or even impossible. So please, do what you can to help those in need.
And to the health care workers, first responders, pharmacists, grocery store employees, sanitation workers, and all who are doing essential work to feed, care for, and keep us safe, thank you. This video is for you.
It was a new word for me. Queer. 1967, age eleven, I sought out my twelve-year-old brother, careful to catch him out of earshot of younger siblings. “What’s a queer?” I asked.
“Ssshhh!” He flicked his head toward the adjacent bedroom where our mother was putting away laundry. “Mom will hear you.”
His stage whisper was so loud, I was certain she heard him, not me. I left, my question unanswered.
I had a fallback plan: Julie, our thirteen-year-old neighbor. She would tell me. And she did. I don’t remember her words. Straightforward, they didn’t leave a lasting impression. The shushing did.
I didn’t fault my brother, though. Growing up in the 1960’s, the families I knew didn’t talk about sex. I added “queers” to the list and moved on.
Twenty years later, I had my first baby. When I changed Eric’s diaper, I practiced saying “this is your penis” and “this is your scrotum,” determined to say those words as easily as “Head of hair. Forehead bare…”
When he was four, I borrowed a kids’ library book to read to him and to one-year-old Colin. It had cartoonish drawings and talked about bodies and making babies, subjects I did not want to be taboo. That same year, Eric traced a panty liner on a piece of paper. “I drew a uterus!” He presented his drawing, his pride palpable.
His drawing did look like the knitted uterus I used in my Lamaze classes. I reveled in his artistry, creativity, and in the way the word rolled off of his tongue.
Eric and Karen Buley.
Fast forward twenty-five years. I wish I had known to look for LGBTQIA books. That acronym was not in my vocabulary back then, but acceptance, empathy, love, and tolerance were. I have since learned that I am an ally. And Eric is queer. He is also a Fulbrighter. A City Year AmeriCorps alum. An Education Pioneer. A TeamChild Board Fellow. And an MPA. A recent graduate of the University of Washington, he was nominated to be both a Husky 100 and a Luce Scholar. He is fluent in Spanish; has lived on four continents; and is compassionate, kind, and an inspiration. His sexual orientation does not define him.
On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, Eric left Montana to spend a year in San Miguel de Tucumán, Argentina, as a foreign exchange student. Four days ago, I donned a pair of Argentine earrings he gave me, harnessing his courage as I prepared to embark upon my first solo door-to-door canvassing. His political activism began in high school when he restarted an Amnesty International club for his senior project. My activism, spotty throughout the years, kicked up last summer. In recent weeks, it has been on overdrive.
Montana has a special election coming up on May 25. Our lone seat in the House of Representatives was vacated in March. I have been working hard to elect Democrat Rob Quist. He represents Montana values, including equity. His Republican opponent opposed non-discrimination ordinances in Bozeman and Butte. But equity is a Montana value, so both ordinances won easy victories: Bozeman unanimously; Butte 10-2.
At a recent Special Election Action Forum, a speaker shared a conversation she had had with her mother. When she referenced LGBTQ rights, her mom asked, “What does the Q stand for?” then said, “Oh. That’s a word I don’t use.”
Her mom is a Baby Boomer, like me. I didn’t use ‘queer’ growing up, either. I do now.
Last week, while tabling on the University of Montana campus, I talked with another Baby Boomer. He expressed concerns about the candidates. I rattled off Rob Quist’s Montana values: public lands, affordable health care, Medicare and Social Security, public education. He told me he had been in the healthcare field, so we talked about that.
Then I shared the heart of my story. I told him I had never really campaigned before. I said that Rob Quist believes in equity, and I was fighting for my queer son who cried for two weeks after our November election. The current Republican candidate had fought non-discrimination ordinances, I said. I tried to keep the quiver out of my voice when I added that my fight was to elect a man who believes in equity.
He listened, then said that my son should not have to worry about being treated equitably. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me he would vote for Quist “for your son.” He added, “My wife will, too.”
I thanked him, hoping he realized the depth of my gratitude.
I had another tender conversation when I knocked doors two days later. A man told me he had lost his wife the week before. His words matter of fact, I asked about her. Sixty—my age—she died too young. He told me about her cancer and her medical bills. I told him about my dad, who had passed away three months before, five days after breaking his hip. Eighty-nine, he had had a good, long life. We talked about affordable healthcare for all.
I told him I was campaigning because I had a queer son, and because Rob Quist believes in equality.
“Your son is what?” he asked.
“Queer.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s an umbrella term for non-heterosexual,” I said. I told him it was a reclaimed term, not the slur of our youth.
“I did not know that,” he said, his words thoughtful and deliberate.
We talked a bit more about his wife’s upcoming celebration of life, then said our goodbyes.
When I reached the sidewalk, he called, “Tell your son there are people out there who support him.”
“I will,” I replied, my voice catching.
Tears threatened as I walked to the next house. His words affirmed what I knew and gave me resolve. Montana has a single seat in the House of Representatives. I will continue to fight for Montana’s voice to be one of affirmation, safety, and inclusion.
My eighty-nine-year-old father died on January 5, five days after breaking his hip. He was scheduled for surgery January 3–delayed until his body cleared blood thinners—but worsening congestive heart failure declared itself early that morning. “I’ve had a good life,” Dad said, voice breaking after hearing that his body couldn’t tolerate surgery, that we’d keep him comfortable until his reunion with an army of family and friends in heaven.
My mom and I ordered his breakfast, our thoughts shifted from hoping he would make it through surgery without complications to anticipating the logistics of in-home hospice care. When the first of my siblings arrived, Dad told her, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”
Inducted into the Butte Sports Hall of Fame in 2009 for his teenaged boxing prowess, we didn’t know whether those were fighting words or a reference to heaven. Fighting words, it turned out, when he mentioned his caregiver soon after: “Maria’s going to have a job.”
My dad, Dan Antonietti, wearing his favorite WW II Veteran cap.
The hospitalist switched him to oral morphine, which relieved Dad’s pain without the sedation of IV Dialudid. He had a glorious day: visiting with Mom and six of their eight children, talking and singing on the phone to grandchildren, and visiting with Maria.
A champion of veterans’ rights, he had planned to testify on their behalf twenty-three times at the Montana legislature this session. Now, instead of Mom being chauffeur and copilot as he navigated the Capitol halls with his walker, Dad dictated testimony from his hospital bed for her pinch-hitter appearance. He talked so fast, it took two of us to take notes.
“Madam Chair and all members of the State Senate Veterans’ Affairs Committee:
For the record, my name is Catherine Antonietti, wife of Dan Antonietti, who is in the hospital and unable to attend this legislative session. He is a member of Post 1448 in Butte, Montana, which is a mile high and a mile deep and all the people are on the level.”
He grinned, then continued in his own words.
“I was the Legislative Chairman of the Veterans of Foreign Wars at the state and national levels. I voted yes for all legislative bills for the last sixteen years and I continue to cast my vote for every veteran’s bill held in this legislature. I’m glad to see you all back. Thank you, Madam Chair. You’ve all been a big help and I am proud of all of you.”
I fought back tears at his tender words, thinking how proud I was of him. Laughter followed when he said he wanted a beer, then asked for ice cream instead. We told him he could have both. “Just ice cream,” he said. “The kind I like.”
Two sisters went on a grocery run, returning with a half-gallon of ‘Mocha Me Hoppy’ and beer—just in case. Dad had three servings of ice cream that afternoon and evening. He had a couple of bites the next morning, which turned out to be his final meal. He began a steady decline, transitioning from oral morphine to a continuous IV infusion by the time the hospice nurse and social worker arrived for a family consult the following morning.
They asked if we wanted to go to a conference room. Dad hadn’t talked or opened his eyes since the previous evening, but they reminded us hearing was the last to go. We said we wanted to stay.
The nurse listened to his heart and lungs, then said it might only be hours before he passed. She talked about end-of-life care and offered condolences. The social worker did too, lingering to take contact information for bereavement follow-up—offering thirteen months for any or all.
She suggested one-on-one goodbyes with Dad and, after she left, we exited the room so Mom could go first. All eight of us and one brother-in-law followed. Dad’s brow wrinkled in concentration. He didn’t open his eyes, but he moaned and moved his lips. I felt his words in my heart. He died peacefully eleven hours later.
As we reconvened the following morning to discuss funeral plans, Vice President Biden and Congress met to formally count electoral votes. That morning I read factual news, not fake, about fifty-plus ineligible Republican electors—ineligible because they didn’t live in their Congressional Districts, or because as elected officials, they were barred from being “dual office-holders.”
I felt joyful driving to the mortuary. I imagined Dad and his fellow warriors working the Democratic Caucuses from above, particularly Senator Tester who had known and respected him for his veterans’ advocacy. I sang en route:
Papa Dan, you are the man, you’re up in heaven to take a stand to help change the history of our country. The country you loved and fought hard for, Donald Trump will be no more president-elect of this, our great country. Hallelujah, Hallelujah. Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
I knew my chorus of angels might be hypothetical, but I believed the Democrats would fight for justice. Constituents had urged objections for weeks. President Obama had imposed Russian sanctions. Fifty ineligible electors tipped the scale.
I checked my phone when we broke to look at caskets, certain that Colin Powell’s three electoral votes would multiply and he would be elected President. Premature I knew, because objections, debates, and subsequent votes would take time, but I checked again before we segued to our meeting at the cathedral.
Dad emboldened me with the motto: “You can’t win if you don’t try.” Numbed by the Senate’s inertia, I didn’t cry until driving one hundred twenty miles the next day to pack for his funeral. Angry tears spilled down my cheeks. I cursed Democratic senators and told them about my dad.
He was a fighter. Not a quitter. His dad died when he was ten. Butte-tough, he was a fourteen-year-old featherweight champion. He would have excelled at other sports, too, but he had to work to help support his family.
He was a WW II Veteran. He enlisted in the U.S. Navy in 1945, but was honorably discharged after breaking his back in a car accident. Determined to serve his country, he enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1946 and served in the post-war occupation in Japan.
He was a Blackfeet Nation Indian Chief. Honored for his role in securing programs and funding for the Blackfeet people, he was adopted into the tribe in 1972 and given the name A-pi-na-ko Si–pis-to: “Morning Owl.”
He liked Bernie Sanders. Days before he died, he said to me, “I wanted to vote for Bernie but you said that would be a vote for Trump so I voted for Hillary.” He was heartsick that Hillary won the popular vote but lost the Electoral College.
He loved his country, and was proud of his legacy. Seventeen grandchildren. Five great-grandchildren. He wanted to make their world a better place.
But not one of you Senators put up a fight.
That morning, I talked with a lifelong friend. She said one good thing about Dad’s death was that he would not have to see Trump get inaugurated. We shared our hope that her eighty-six-year-old dad wouldn’t either. After nine months of hospice care, he died peacefully four days later.
On January 21, she, her daughter, and I marched in the Women’s March on Montana, carrying our special angels in our hearts. We toasted them afterward with my mom and sister—reveling in memories of two proud Americans and their lives well lived.
Weeks since we said goodbye to my dad, I miss him. I am grateful, too. Grateful that during his graveside military honors when Mom was presented a medal and the words, “On behalf of the President of the United States . . . ,” Barack Obama was President. I am grateful Dad is not here to watch Trump unravel the country he loved, the country he fought for. Most of all, I am grateful he is pain free and resting in peace. Continue reading I grieve my father. I grieve his beloved country more.→
Thank you, Montana, for passing I-182. Thank you for your compassion for my friend Shelly and for the thousands of other Montanans who lost their medical marijuana providers in August. Three days before the election, a woman complimented my “VOTE” button as we waited in line at the Roxy Theater concession counter. “Vote for medical marijuana,” she said.
“They were about my friend in hospice care,” I said. “She uses fentanyl patches, but she needs medical marijuana too.”
“My son’s on fentanyl,” she said. She told me he has Crohn’s Disease. He can eat when he uses marijuana but without it, food is a challenge.
“We already passed it,” her friend said. We expressed our collective frustration with the legislative rollback and shared our optimism that Montanans would vote to legalize medical marijuana. Again.
We did. So did Arkansas, Florida, and North Dakota. California, Massachusetts, Nevada, and Maine voted to legalize recreational use for adults twenty-one and older. Though speculation reigns about how a Trump administration will impact the marijuana industry, I believe that legislation will be left up to the states. For Shelly, and for all who need medical marijuana, I don’t want to believe anything less.
My friend Shelly changes her fentanyl patches every two days. It used to be a single patch every three days. Now it’s two patches every other—for a combined 62.5 mcg. Her story is written between the lines in a Washington Post article that states, “The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention warned doctors in the spring against prescribing opioids with benzodiazepines, except for patients battling diseases such as cancer.” Like Shell.
Diagnosed one year ago with a pancreatic neuroendocrine tumor, Shelly’s in a club she never asked to join. Cancer her entry ticket, she can fill her prescriptions without question. But when she uses morphine and Dilaudid and lorazepam for breakthrough pain and anxiety, “All I can do is sleep,” she says. “That’s not living.”
Her medical marijuana card used to offer an alternative. “Mentally, physically, spiritually, psychologically . . . with the pot, I am living.” Though Shell has been receiving in-home hospice care since spring, she’s been able to make memories with her family: taking road trips to Yellowstone National Park and to Colorado; going camping; canning peaches; and enjoying movie nights, family dinners, and an outing to MontanaFair.
Montana voters approved an initiative to legalize medical marijuana in 2004. In 2011, the Montana Legislature passed SB 423 to repeal the 2004 Montana Marijuana Act and replace it with new regulations. Appeals and court hearings followed, but ultimately the Montana Supreme Court ruled that the law to limit providers to only three patients would go into effect August 31, 2016—the day before Shelly’s fifty-ninth birthday.
Shelly Hert and Karen Buley 2016
Unable to afford to stay in business, her providers were forced to close their doors. I met them in early August when I took Shell to the pot shop. I was impressed with their professionalism, knowledge, concern for Shelly, and array of products. Her providers applauded testing, taxation, and regulations, but were frustrated with Montana’s forthcoming legislation to limit access. Since 2004, registered medical marijuana Montanans have been treated for cancer, chronic pain, multiple sclerosis, Crohn’s disease, epilepsy, and more. But when the law changed on August 31, Shell and 11, 849 other registered cardholders lost their providers.
Pharmaceutical billionaire John Kapoor described his late wife’s cancer struggles in a recent Forbes article: “I saw what she had to go through, and I can tell you, pain is such a misunderstood thing for cancer patients.” Following her death he developed Subsys, a fentanyl spray for under the tongue administration to provide rapid relief for breakthrough cancer pain.
But in 2014 the NYT described off-label Subsys use, higher sales rep commissions for selling higher doses, and company plans to seek approval for broader use. The article quoted Dr. Lewis S. Nelson, a medical toxicologist at the New York University School of Medicine: “If you’re waiting to die, you should die in comfort and dignity. It’s very different than if you’re attempting to have a functional life, because these drugs are relatively incompatible with having a functional life.”
Shell is receiving hospice care, but she is not waiting to die. She recently danced at her daughter’s wedding, and is looking forward to another family celebration in the coming days. She had stocked up on enough pot “to last through September” but now it’s October and she doesn’t have a provider.
I talked to her two days ago. She sounded rough. She asked if we could talk the following day; she had a call in to her hospice nurse to increase her fentanyl patches. She didn’t want to load up on morphine or Dilaudid—they exacerbate her opioid induced constipation (OIC), despite stool softeners and Milk of Magnesia. She’d been rationing her marijuana lozenges because she didn’t want to run out. Montanans voted in 2004 for more humane treatment.
We will get the opportunity again this November with I-182, a ballot initiative that would, among other things, repeal the three-patient limit. Eight other states will vote on marijuana initiatives this fall: three on medical marijuana; five on recreational use. Twenty-five states (including Montana), the District of Columbia, Guam, and Puerto Rico have passed marijuana legislation.
A 2015 Gallup poll found that 58% of Americans support legal marijuana. A study by economist Darin F. Ullman reported that medical-related absenteeism declined after the legalization of medical marijuana, and, according to CBS News, “it estimated that the overall impact of the legal marijuana industry on the U.S. economy for 2016 would be as much as $17.2 billion.” Cannabis remains illegal under federal law, though the DEA acknowledges, “No death from overdose of marijuana has been reported.”
Not so for opioids. In 2014, there were more than 14,000 U. S. deaths involving prescription opioids. Articles pepper the news about our nation’s opioid epidemic and its devastating societal and economic effects, and Forbes tells us that even though the FDA approves Subsys solely for cancer patients, its continued off-label use has resulted in antikickback statute violations and an accidental death.
Shell called yesterday after sending this email:
Shelly needs her fentanyl patches, but she also needs medical marijuana. If you live in a state that will be voting on a marijuana initiative this November, I urge you to please vote FOR legalization. Legalize. Regulate. Test. Tax. Enable Shelly, and others like her, to live the functional lives they deserve.
