Life is fragile at best.  At worst it is undervalued.  Prolonging it and maintaining its quality is something most doctors have at least thought about.

Me — I was brought up by family values as well as institutional values to venerate the academic system as a seeker of truth, guardian of highest ethics.

I thought that the institutions that regulated clinical research, whether they were academic or not, were at least trying to be ethical in the face of mounting economic pressures from those who develop substances to be used for the human body, to prolong and maintain life. Some people still believe in this.

Some people, even some I can call “friend,” consider me a failed academic, someone who could have contributed more to society had she written more papers that somebody thought were good enough to publish in medical journals.

All of the above is unadulterated lies and total BS that has kept many competent minds devoting their lives to ideals that are later sold to the highest bidder.

I don’t think I have any lingering doubts that my running from academics, yelling and screaming, was the best decision I ever made.

The story of Polyheme – developed as a synthetic substitute for human blood — is perhaps the worst example of human rights having been sold down the river for development of something of serious danger (if you believe the publically published academic results) and at best, unproven help (are they really keeping this kind of secrets from us so the company developing this junk can make money?) to either prolonging or maintaining life.

The story is complicated, but basically, here it is.

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I have sat silent for a long time, waiting for the news to come in from Fort Hood, waiting for people to understand and explain.  Now, I have read and seen enough that I think I understand.

As always, my own life and experiences have been so rich and so diverse that I have an overwhelming memory or vision.

It was a California state prison; I have worked in a few.  Religion was always especially popular within the prisons where I worked.  I assumed, as did the mental health personnel in general, that it was because inmates felt so dehumanized and downtrodden that they could be expected to grasp onto anything that made them feel good.  We knew and understood this.

I certainly maintained friendly associations with all chaplains.  I considered them a bit idealistic, a bit naive, but I also considered myself that way.  And in that feeling, that belief, that “give them the extra mile” feeling, I got some peace.

Still, I remember the day I was scared.  I rarely ventured into the areas of religious worship, but once, just once, I happened to be out crossing the yard during one of the five daily times of Muslim prayer.  I could not count the number of inmates, as they covered the yard.

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