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In a thread on Twitter, Ethan Weiss was with a group of 25 nurses and doctors working in NYC hospitals for the past 2-4 weeks. They are going home. He says United flew them to NYC for free, got lots of great PR, and took great care of them going out.
United wrote them 10 days ago to say the middle seats would all be empty. Clearly they are not empty.
This is the departure board for United at Newark yesterday.
I think this is what everyone fears about flying.
The United Airlines flight yesterday.
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Now that my parents have been gone for some considerable time, our differences come into focus.
I felt that my life was dispensable, temporary, so I was ready to take risks that they didn't want me to take.
If you took them at face value, they were sure I was going to fail and be dependent on them. That I would fail at what I was trying to do, and then be a failure at life. That could have been the outcome. I was certainly close a few times! ;-)
Why I was willing to take such risks is something I don't know. I have theories about it but I'm too close to have a good idea. I am what I am, it never was in question that I would do risky things. I wanted to do big things from a very young age.
My parents on the other hand valued security above all else. They had steady jobs, savings accounts, were very careful with their money.
Funny thing was that both my grandfathers were pretty sure I was doing the right thing.
Even though I overcame their objections, I don't think either of my parents ever forgot the judgement they formed years earlier, that I was a failure. On a personal level I still took big risks even if I had established myself from a productivity standpoint. (This was my mother's biggest value, that we be productive.)
They were depression era refugees in World War II.
I am a Boomer.
I think that explains a bunch of it, btw.
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My mother was a regular reader of this blog. Maybe she still reads it, where ever she is, whatever form she is in. I have women friends who read the blog, I think in a similar way to the way she read it.
She was a very smart person, lots of brain power, but also very wounded, and the wounds, which we shared in a way, made it hard for us to be close. Maybe toward the end of her life she opened up a bit, but she had a fear of men, given to her by her parents, and she passed that on to her children, in the weird way that parents give their agony to their children. But she read the blog. That was something.
The author and his mother with the author's newborn brother.
I dream about her every night. They are not happy dreams, they are dreams of unresolved anger, disloyalty. But I also feel for her in ways I didn't when she was alive. I wish I had protected her, which is ridiculous because she was the mother and I was the child. But it's there nonetheless.
I wish we could talk, but then I remember, we never accomplished anything with talk. Yet, she is the one who fed me, taught me, read to me, gave me her values, and ultimately was proud of me.
She was my mother and all that came with it. I hope she can read this and I hope she's happy.