from Paul and Katie Weiblen

-----Original Message-----
From: pweib@umn.edu [mailto:pweib@umn.edu]
Sent: Friday, October 17, 2008 9:12 AM
To: epgarren@comcast.net
Subject: Re: A few words for Myron


On Oct 17 2008, pweib@umn.edu wrote:

Dear Elizabeth,
>
>Here are a few words from Katie and me about Myron. Thank you for letting
>Katie know you would be happy to share them at his service.
>
Like Katie and me, there are countless others that are not here today to
express their gratitude for having known Myron, if ever so briefly. All
the people behind the counters, serving us in our busy world. As he paid
his
bill, Myron invariably, quickly divined their inner selves and regaled
them with life affirming comment - often at great length. Their day and
perhaps
their lives were brigthened with a new-found sense of their own worth. Of
course there are all the others who stood in line behind Myron. They were
of two minds - some became indignant with impatience, however there were a
few others who would join in to share a brief moment of human kindness and
understanding. Katie and I would like to count ourselves with those
people. Our world is diminished with Myron's death, but we cherish his life
affirming gifts. - Paul and Katie Weiblen

>Paul and

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FW: Myron Stocking RIPThursday, October 30, 2008 6:33 PM
From: "Elizabeth P Garren" View contact details
To: istocking2000@yahoo.com
from Bo Lyons in San Francisco


-----Original Message-----
From: Arthur E. Lyons [mailto:artlyons@pacbell.net]
Sent: Friday, October 17, 2008 1:57 AM
To: epgarren@comcast.net
Subject: Myron Stocking RIP


I first met Myron in 1951 when we were starting medical school in
Nashville at Vanderbilt. For both of us, we were fish out of water. We
were the only northerners in our class of 50 and felt relatively
isolated as yankees in a class of southern gentlemen. There are many
things I recall about him. The following are a few personal anecdotes
that came to mind when I heard about his recent death.

From the beginning Myron and I seemed to have a lot in common and we
shared in many experiences both in and out of school. But Myron
always seemed to march to the rhythm of his own drum. I found that
his quirky sense of humor was immensly entertaining and I always
seemed to be laughing around him. I recall hitchhiking with him to
New York one time where he met with my family and my younger sister's
friends. They still talk about his seemingly endless appetite as he
raided every icebox he encountered. One of our rides was through the
east Tennessee hills in the dark in a car driven by a single but very
tough country woman who quickly told us frigid and tired medical
students that she was packing a pistol and was prepared to use it if
we tried anything "funny",- the very last thing on our minds as I
propped my eyes open to keep her awake with conversation while Myron
immediately fell asleep snoring in the back. After a lot of
encouragement he finally got up enough nerve to stick a needle into a
vein in my arm in our class of clinical medicine where we were
partners. He was a born psychiatrist. At the first sight of blood
coming back in the syringe he promptly passed out and with the needle
still in my arm I had to catch him to keep him from hitting the
floor! He managed to kill off his dog in physiology class at the
convenient time of 5PM in order to get to a date. When he explained to
our instructor, a taciturn Chinese professor of few words, Dr. Meng
simply told Myron: "Dog cheap. Get new dog!" That was that for Myron's
date for that night. Convinced he could train himself out of a
lifetime of nearsightedness, he tried going without his glasses for a
while. I don't know how he kept from getting killed when he tried to
drive, but when I was with him I had too talk him through the traffic
just to keep myself alive. He was once convinced that he was being
enslaved by time and so gave up wearing a watch. He made up for it by
asking the time every five minutes, making himself a veritable pain
in the arse. Needless to say, forced by his long suffering family he
soon resorted to his glasses and wristwatch again.
The funniest thing about Myron was that he had no idea how funny and
entertaining he was. I was only one of his loyal friends. His later
life was frequently disturbed and unfortunately occasionally marked
with delusion and restlessness. I am afraid he was frequently unhappy
and clearly depended on on his devoted friends and family. Though I
saw him only rarely in recent years, I spoke to him often by phone
and I treasure the recollection of his knowledgable, often amusing and
erudite conversations.

I and everyone who knew him will surely miss him. Myron was truly
unique.


Arthur E. Lyons MD
2320 Sutter St. #202
San Francisco CA
94115

MEMORIES OF MYRON

I feel blessed to have many fond memories of Myron. They start when we were freshmen at Harvard College in the fall of 1947.Fresh out of high school,we were impressed and influenced by the large number of World War II veterans in our class. They were older and wiser and undoubtedly good role models.
Myron and I met on the stairway in Weld Hall, one of the oldest venerable buildings in Harvard Yard. My room was on the top,the fifth floor, Myron on the floor below. The veterans,notwithstanding, we and our room mates broke the tedium of study by engaging in water gun fights floor to floor!We became close friends and decided to room together for the remaining three years. These are a few of my memories:
OUR BEHAVIOR:My recollection is that we were both quite straight. We obeyed the rules, were awkward with girls,drank little, achieved far to good grades, and were more followers than leaders. We were jealous of the risk takers who broke Harvard's parietal rules, particularly not permiting girls in the rooms over night.
CHINESE FOOD:Myron's older brother George made a major discovery---Wah Yuans, a small basement restaurant in Chinatown near South Station. Wah had everything—superb food and bargain prices. There were no menus and the bill was totaled and presented as an abacus. Wah Yuans quickly became our god standard for the best in Chinese food, even to this day.
POLITICS:I must mention election night in 1948 when Truman unexpectedly defeated Dewey. Myron, I and dozens of other Democrats marched at midnight on Memorial Hall and took over a party abandoned by the vanquished Young Republicans.
CAREER GOALS:We both majored in the social sciences, Myron in anthropology, I in social relations which combined anthropology,psychology, and sociology. As we began our junior year I decided to go to medical school after graduation. Immediately I had to start pre-med courses. Although I didn't realize it until later, my decision influenced Myron who did the same thing in his senior year,i.e. Take FOUR pre-med courses at one time. Later, after medical school,we both devoted our careers to the care of children—Myron in child and adolescent psychiatry, I in pediatrics and adolescent health care.
CONTINUING CONTACT: Since our Harvard days we have experienced over 50 years of frendship. We always relished what we had in common—three sons,careers devoted to the care of the young, concern for the world and a passion to make it better. Though we did not see each other regularly. we stayed in touch with visits when we could and with phone calls through the years,. I treasured Myron's loyalty and friendship and will miss him greatly.

Jerry Rauh
October 17, 2008

A letter to dad from Ben

A Letter to My Father

I will always love you, dad.

There were times you made me want to scream. There were times – many, many times – that you made me want to pull my hair out, strand by strand by strand.

But I always loved you.

I always will.

I love you because of the way you loved me – completely, without conditions.

No matter what crazy, stupid thing I did, you kept loving me.

You loved me when I almost burned down the house in Newton with my 3rd-grade pals.

You loved me when you caught me smoking cigarettes in 8th grade.

You loved me when I was in high school and my girlfriend broke my heart. I couldn’t stop crying and wailing, and I turned the house into a living mauseleum. You loved me anyway.

In college, when I came home with long hair, clogs and an earring, you didn’t flinch, even though your embrace of Sigmund Freud had turned you into a bit of a homophobe in those days.

That was back in the early 1980s, around the same time I was struck with the peculiar idea that I should take to the stage, despite a modest endowment of acting talent.

That’s great, you told me. Do work that makes you happy. Do what your heart tells you to do.

You set a good example.

I’ve always respected your choice of work -- psychiatry -- even though I’m living proof that talk therapy doesn’t always work. You helped people who were grappling with loss and pain. It was a noble calling.

Your work was about emotions – and yours were larger than life.

You sang joyfully – if way off key. It’s hard to describe your singing style. Words fail me.

I’ll never forget you plucking on your banjo and howling away -- often before any of us had gotten out of bed. Even though you sometimes made us wish we had earplugs at the ready, it was fun to listen because you were enjoying yourself so much.

You took great pleasure in small things, a trait I’ve inherited from you, and I thank you for it. I’m very happy baking an apple pie or drinking a cup of coffee in a Hanoi cafe. You loved a crisp, clear, Minnesota day.

I remember coming home from college on vacations. You were always there to meet me at the airport. I was always happy to be home. We used to walk along the Mississippi River, on our way to the U of M faculty club for lunch. “It’s a beautiful Minnesota day,” you would say.

You took joy in other people – sometimes so much so that you embarassed the hell out of me, walking up to strangers in the museum or on the street and chatting them up as though you were old friends.

“See, Ben? It’s easy to meet girls,” you would say. “All you have to do is talk to them!”

For all the joy you found in life, you weren’t afraid to cry. Long before the sensitive man was in fashion, you were the ultimate sensitive man. I’ve always admired you for that.

Sometimes you lost control of your moods. They became too powerful to tame. It was a wild ride at the end. There were moments of joy. There was a lot of pain. It was difficult for you, difficult for your family, difficult for your friends.

You struggled through it, in your own remarkably stubborn way. Nobody was going to tell you what to do – even if they just happened to have a damned good idea! We would argue. Oh, how we would argue.

In your loneliest times – and there were too many at the end -- you were brave. You were always brave.

We didn’t always agree.

But I always loved you.

I always will.

from Ingrud

For Myron from Ingrid
October 17, 2008

We were legally married for over 40 years, and psychologically married for longer than that. Til the end, we remained good friends.
We met on a blind date in New York City on New Years’ eve, 1956. I knew that night that things would probably last, because we laughed all evening and half of the next day.
Myron was a very funny man. His brain was sufficiently unique that it’s difficult to remember exactly what was so funny , but his humor was with him til the end of his life.
Out of the past, I bring up images.
During our second year of marriage, Myron – who had one year of psych residency -- was working as a psychiatrist in a naval hospital where marines were sent when they had mental breakdowns. They were a tough bunch. I remember a caller in the middle of the night telling Myron that one of the patients was threatening the staff with a broken bottle. A second call said that another patient was eating the glass. Myron was scared, but he dashed to the ward and was able to walk into the ward, talk to the threatening patient and calm him down. On two other occasions he had to hospitalize his superior officers, who were alcoholic. It took courage.
Another image is of Myron at my bedside during 4 long labors. He was right there with me, kissing me through the most difficult contractions. I’m not sure how it worked, since I was taking quick Lamaze breaths, but I know he was there during the roughest contractions.
I also see him comforting and explaining things to our oldest son, when our second baby unexpectedly died of meningitis. The older boy was only 18 months old but Myron would show him pictures, and talk about his little brother. I couldn’t do it.
That child’s death never divided us, as happens with so many couples. I remember that we hung onto each other all through the night after the phone had rung, with news of Matthew’s death.
I see him racing down stairs to our landlord’s apartment when their young toddler was having seizures. He went with her to the hospital and got them to start treatment right away – a pediatric intern, he had recognized this second case of meningitis and probably saved her life. Our own child had not had such clear symptoms.
Many years later, Myron’s brother and sister were visiting us in Minneapolis when we got news that his sister’s son had hung himself. Everyone turned to Myron as the one who would find a way to break the news to his sister. He did it in a deeply caring, empathic way as the family sat near by, everyone holding their breath.
He was the rock, the steadfast, calming person in the family. He remained so until a horrible illness separated him from us.
Many years later, when Myron himself was hospitalized among some very threatening patients, I see him talking them down. He was in an elevated mood state himself, but he still had the capacity to soothe people who were out of control. He never lost his touch.
We remained good friends until the end of his life. Just a few weeks ago we were having dinner and playing cards with friends, as he sat in his special chair which helped him get to a standing position. He was very weak, but he was recovering.
And he could still play bridge.
Wherever he is, I suspect he is stronger than ever, perhaps causing an uproar of laughter in heaven.
Ingrid Stocking

Eulogy

Thank you everyone for coming. My name is Nick Stocking. I’m Myron’s number two son – his middle son.

When I think of my father what I think of first is a phrase that I learned while studying psychology as an undergraduate: “unconditional positive regard.” That means always being supportive, whether the person you are supporting deserves it or not. From the day I was born until two weeks ago today when my dad died, I always knew that my father loved me and supported me completely. Although there are literally hundreds of examples I could come up with, I only have ten minutes to speak. I’ll offer one example that I think is especially illustrative.

In 1983 I was a freshman in college. I was an “A” student during my first semester and during the second semester I felt more and more pressure to succeed at a high level. It got to the point where I had a panic attack during an exam and I walked out. It went from bad to worse after that and I ended up withdrawing from every class with two months left in the semester. I was so ashamed, embarrassed and humiliated that I told no one and continued to masquerade as a student for the rest of the semester. The only people I eventually told were my parents.

They could have asked me a lot of questions, like, “Why did you waste our money?” or “Why are you such a nervous Nelly?” But I heard none of that. Both of my parents were completely supportive. I specifically remember my father telling me, “Don’t worry about it Nick. You are a great student, a great person and things will be all right.”

And things were all right. I went back to school the next year and graduated with good enough grades to get into the U of M law school. I was able to do that largely because of the unwavering support of my parents for which I am grateful. This is just one example of the complete and total support that I have received from my father throughout my life. He was always positive, never judgmental.

When I think of my father I think of one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. We spent so much of our time together laughing, both in good times and bad. We laughed a lot even during the worst times -- even while facing death in the hospital. We would both rather laugh than cry. I would like to share a handful of humorous stories involving my father.

I should preface the following stories with a warning that they involve foul language and I hope that I don’t offend anyone. On the other hand, if you were friends with Myron you cannot be easily offended.

I remember back in 1977 when we moved to Minnesota and I was a little adolescent. I had my last fist fight with my younger brother Tim that first year here. Tim was two years younger and a lot smaller so he fought the only way he could: dirty. I remember running to my father after our last fight to rat Tim out for his dirty tactics.

“Dad! Dad! Tim punched me in the balls!”

I just knew Tim was in for a big punishment. But I remember Myron looking at both of us, pausing and then declaring, “Congratulations Tim! It takes tremendous aim to hit Nick in the balls.”

More recently, I remember various funny encounters with hospital staff after Myron was hospitalized due to his first stroke in April. He had a stroke on April 19 and stayed in the hospital until the end of June so there were many encounters. I remember one time a nurse coming in and asking Myron if there is anything that he needed.

“Well yes there is,” replied Myron.

“What is it?

Myron lifted up his arm and enthusiastically shouted out, “Love!”

And I remember Myron insisting that I take him home just a few weeks after his admission for the stroke.

“Dad, I can’t take you home now. You are paralyzed on your left side. You can’t walk. You can’t use your left arm.”

And as I said that, food started dribbling out of Myron’s mouth. For a few weeks after the stroke he couldn’t hold down his food and no one knew why. Several minutes after he ate, food often came dribbling out of the side of his mouth.

“Look at that Dad! I can’t take you home now! You have apple sauce dripping out of the side of your mouth!”

“That’s because I hate fucking apple sauce!!”

I recall another time when an aristocratic nurse entered the room to attend to dad. Myron was very perceptive and immediately asked, “Hey Becky, what exactly is it that your husband does for a living?”

“Now Myron, that’s none of your business!”

Myron was annoyed.

“Yes it is my business! I’m having physical therapy tomorrow and I want your husband to pay for half of it!”

I’d like to conclude the humor portion of my presentation with the following joke. This is Myron’s favorite joke of all-time. He loved it.

Two psychiatrists were having lunch. One asked the other how his day was going.

“Not good at all. I had breakfast with my mother this morning and I’m afraid I made the worst Freudian slip ever.”

“Well, what exactly did you say?”

“Well… I meant to say, ‘Pass the butter…’

“But, instead I said… YOU RUINED MY LIFE YOU FUCKING BITCH!”

And when I think of my father I think of family. He was the ultimate family man. He loved his family more than anything and would do anything for each of us. From the year I was born we went on the best family vacations, year after year: Martha’s Vineyard, Cape Cod, Nantucket, the Virgin Islands, South Carolina. And we were all so happy and had such a good time. We’d play tennis, ride the waves, lay in the sand, cookout on the beach. When I think of my happiest memories in life, I remember these vacations, some of which you see pictured here. And invariably, it was during these times when we were all together at the perfect spot -- like on the beach with the sun setting at Martha’s Vineyard -- that Dad would say, “It doesn’t get any better than this. It just doesn’t get any better than this.”

And he meant it. Those times were undoubtedly the happiest times of his life. And mine.

And when I think of my father I think of friendship. It sounds like a cliché but it’s true: my father was my best friend. We had a lot in common and spent so much of our lives together doing things that we both loved. He taught me how to play tennis when I was ten years-old and we played each other thousands of times, all the way up until last summer. And even though he could never beat me after I reached high school, he always wanted to play, insisting that this time victory would be his. We loved the same sports and spent countless hours watching sporting events on TV. We shared the same politics and talked about current events all of the time. When I wanted to share something in my life, I called Dad. He died two weeks ago today and I have never gone this long without talking to my father. I miss him terribly.

We all remember where we were on 9/11. I was in New Orleans at the airport when the World Trade Center went down. And the first person I called when the world was crumbling was Dad. And after our most recent national disaster – the Sarah Palin debate – Dad was the first person I called. In fact, that was Thursday, October 2, the last night Dad was alive. He and I and Fartun had dinner together that night. He had chicken and a chocolate-covered Haagen Das ice cream for dessert, his favorite. After dinner I went home and watched the so-called, pathetic excuse for a debate. When it was over I immediately called Dad. We both laughed at what a complete joke Sarah Palin is and how horrific it would be if this woman ever became Commander-in-Chief. That was the last time I ever talked to Dad. He died just a few hours later of a stroke while sleeping comfortably in his bed. He looked at peace. His cell phone remained in his hand and his body was still warm when I hugged him for the last time.

In light of the timing of my father’s death, I would like to dedicate the following irrefutable conclusion to the John McCain campaign: Sarah Palin killed Myron Stocking.

Tragically, there were some vary bad times later in Myron’s life. During the mid 90’s he was diagnosed with manic depression. It was a diagnosis he disputed until the day he died. But the facts cannot be disputed: Dad was hospitalized three times before his stroke – twice for manic behavior and once for a suicide attempt. And each time he was hospitalized, it broke my heart.

And then in 1998 my parents got divorced. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But that broke my heart.

But when I think of the bad times I get comfort from the following thoughts.

First, I remember what Dad told me in the early 90’s, before he got sick. We were playing tennis and he was now in his 60’s. The realization that he was getting older and could conceivably die at any time made me nervous. I remember sharing my anxieties with him.

“Dad, you are in your 60’s now. You could die of a heart attack while we are running around out here playing tennis. I don’t know how I would ever handle it if something like that happened.”

His response gave me comfort. And during the bad times that would eventually follow I would think of what he said and again it gave me comfort.

“Nick, I’ve had a great life; a full life. If I die tomorrow I would die a happy man with no regrets.”

I am also comforted by the way my father left us. He hated the hospital and insisted on dying at home and he was able to do that. He came home little more than a 200-pound sack of potatoes in a wheel chair and by all rights, should not have left the hospital at that time. But after several weeks of intensive therapy and 24-hour home care, he walked to his doctor’s appointment the day before he died. And for two weeks leading up to his death, he had reduced the home care to 12 hours and was going to bed by himself. The physical therapists told me it was no less than a miracle that Myron could walk without a cane. And he always told me that he would like to die in his sleep and he got his wish. He died at home in his own bed in his sleep after suffering another stroke. During his last few weeks he was very happy at home with his newly won independence. He died on his own terms at his own home with his dignity intact and I get comfort from these facts.

I feel like I won the lottery when I was born into this family, with parents and brothers that I love so much. And yes, there were some very tragic times in the end for my father and the family. But for over 30 years I could not have been happier with my family. We were all so happy. And, in keeping with the lottery analogy, we suffered some huge losses in recent years and it was excruciatingly painful. But when Dad died two weeks ago I still felt rich. I am rich.

I would like to thank my mother for remaining a good friend to Myron even after the divorce. I would like to thank my brothers for their unwavering support of Dad, both of whom have flied back repeatedly to Minnesota from Vietnam and Iraq since Dad’s first stroke in April. I would also like to thank Yasmin and Fartun for the love and great care they gave my father during the last several months of his life. I would also like to thank Elizabeth – Dad’s personal helper who he cared about deeply – for the great support she gave my father for the past few years.

And lastly, I would like to say one last thing to my father.

“Dad, for 44 years you were my father. It just doesn’t get any better than that.”

Tribute to Myron from A.R.Gurney (Pete)

October 17, 2008

ON MYRON

It’s a cliché to say I’ve lost my best friend. But I feel I have, with Myron. In fact, Molly and I were so eager to share our grief with Ingrid and the Stocking boys that I neglected to notice, until just this morning whenwe arrived at the airport, that Delta had erroneously put us on their 8 PM flight to Minneapolis. So all I can do now is remind Ingrid, Ben, Nick, and Tim how much a part of my life he was, and how much I ache in not being able to say so in person.

I’ve known Myron for over fifty years. We’ve shared many Christmases with the Stockings, traveled with them at home and abroad, and connected them many times after they moved to Minneapolis. Myron and I used to play tennis at the West Newton Neighborhood Club every Saturday morning. I enjoyed our talks over a beer afterwards as much as I enjoyed the game. Maybe more so, because the game itself could be tricky. Myron sometimes would do his grotesque eye exercises right before he served, and he wasn’t always accurate about the score. “I can’t recall every point, “ he’d say, “but it feels like deuce.” And maybe it was deuce in some basic way, because I always felt even with Myron, on the court or off. We were very much on the same wave length in those earlier days.

We all know that there came a time when Myron began marching to a different drummer. It was terribly tough on his sons and on Ingrid, and all of them took steps to survive. Nick’s accounts of his excursions were very funny, but I have the sense that we laughed so we didn’t weep. My contact with Myron during these years was mostly by telephone. Our telephone conversations were primarily one-way, though he never lost his rich and complicated way of expressing himself. He was especially obsessed with what he was writing. “I now envision it will come to four volumes,” he’d say. I tried to encourage him to lower his sights a little, but I’m not sure I was persuasive.

Myron did come east now and then, and we loved seeing him. For the most part, he behaved himself, except once, when he got up early and carefully rearranged our kitchen. Another time, he came to New York to see a play of mine and to prove to himself he could travel alone. He chose to come by train and told me he had made friends with everyone aboard. I could believe it. I was initially unable to see much of him because I was still tinkering with my play which was in previews, but when at last I tried to call with him to arrange a meal together, I found he had had some difficulty at his hotel and left to go home. Then, as now, I missed the boat with Myron, and it bugs me.

What is so brutally heartbreaking is that, from all reports and from what I could tell from my recent telephone conversations with him, Myron was turning a corner and was coming back to us. His rehab, apparently, was unusually successful. In his writing, too, if I can judge from his newer blogs, he was returning to the measured and richly articulate vein I have so often admired. For a long time, all of us have been missing the Myron we used to know. It’s a terrible twist that he was taken from us just when he seemed to be coming around. I miss him all the more because of that.

DRSOXALPHABETSOUP

Take your pick: B is for Beauty queen, or for Bailout. That is too rich topically to combine in a single day's entry. I will start with the beauty queen. We can move on to the bail-out issue tomorrow
Why should we have any reservations about a beauty queen?
1.Beauty is usually only skin-deep. Sara may be the exception. She certainly is a quick-take, and has a facile if empty capacity to use words when in her people pleasing mode. The problem is, too many in our electorate
may be more impressed by her womanhood and beauty to notice that she has many of the qualities of a mean air-head, more adept with words than ideas.
2.I find it easy to imagine a scene from her Miss America days. The judges huddle in she consterfnation:
Sara has had an interview in which She tells a little about herself Including her plzns for the future. She sharew her dream with open spontaniety "First I will sserve as governor. Then I will be so popular I will get picked as a vice presidenti cndidate
by an aged warrior too desperate to vet my candidacy.
At that point the judges (it IS national T.V.)are so flustered by her charming grandiosity and do not know how to respond to such unrealistic expectation. They are relieved and unanimous when one suggests, "let's make her Miss Congeniality. Everyone was pleased. As was Osama years later when he considered the prospect.
Osama.

F is for five

The pentagon announced today that there have been five more American fatalities in Iraq.
How do we measure the value of even one life?
Is it a matter of gender, ethnicity, or just what?
Those who have not experienced the death of a son, daughter, or other one they have loved may have understood with their intellect, or maybe their heart,but most unlikely they could have integrated the two.
Are American lives the only lives which will count for us if we define ourselves as loyal Americans?
I don't think so.
If one of us has been tortured, and endured incredible pain and hardship, will his heroic tribulations enhance his compassion or blunt it. By all views a heroic man guaged by what he has endured John Mc Cain appeares to me to have been captured , NOT LIBERATED BY IT.
6ur Surge has been a failure if not a catastrophe.
I believe that John McCain, a genuine Amerian hero in the face of those extraordinary hardships he endured as a prisoner of war, has lost a great deal in his sacrifice for his country-including the ability to lead us wisely.
In my estimation,as a doctor,as a psychiatrist,and as
myself a survivor of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, McCain has lost his sense of proportion. His world
now is peopled by his demons.
He seems now to function with the intense fixity of an Ahab. Iraq and a vison of revenge obsess him.
It is truly sad- his functioning now, is ossified by old hurts, and advancing years. I hope we,as a nation, will be too mature, and too compassionate to blindly follow him off the cliff into an absyss beyond.
Following his win in South Carolina he vowed,while flailing his arms in a frightening portrayal of democrat Dean at his most extreme, to pursue Osama to Afghanistan, and personally to eliminate him. He appeared to be offering to do so with his bare hands. Should he achieve that grandiose goal he would only succeed in sullying his hands, and as well as an unforgiving heart and our National honor.

Dr. Sox

O is for Omissions

today H is for Hello

Hello,
My name is Myron Stocking. I am an m.d. who has always found my work fascinating and almost always rewarding.
However, I think it is with blogs as it is with condos-a great many more are built than are needed.
Therefore I would like to make clear who I am and what this blog will be about.
1.I am a retired psychiatrist. I am an m. d. I think we if we were modest and honest we might add m.ds. to our category of blogs and condos-we have more than we absolutely need. Tho no one ccould deny, when human and well trained drs. are a precious resource. It seems to me any objective and well informed observer will be aware of the enormous challenges that are unfulfilled in our own medical delivery system. To be specific: a society that values it's citizens would provide each of them regardless of age, class, wealth, or health, with good medical care. We are not deoing that.
2. I am an old guy-77. I wish that would suggest I am wise. I think readers should not take that for granted. I have expeienced a great deal, and I do the best I can with the tools I have, but as I look at my age-mates, I think that what I regard as age appropriate dementia is frequent enough to make that a useful descriptive term. I am not as discouraged as that might suggest. There are many skills that require thousands of repetitions to be learned. That being so the elderly may get an assist from the extra opportunities life has afforded them to repeat.
3. I am a writer and a teacher who cares deeply about both writing and teaching.
4. A word about the structure of the blog: It will be wide-ranging in content. On particular days I might begin with thoughts triggered by words or topics that begin with any letter of the alphabet.
I will try to keep entries concise, but that will be an on-going challenge. A number of wise men have noted it is harder to write briefly and do justice to a topic than to ramble at greater length. I think of the quote attributed to more than one person: "If I had had more time I would have written a shorter letter"
5. My own value system places honesty way above conformity or political correctness.
6. I will to the extent I am able respond to those who make comments.
6. I think that is enough for now.