Amy Hill Hearth

His name was Jonathan. He was a cultural anthropologist, a musician, a free spirit. He was a father, husband, and friend.

He was my brother.

It started with a phone call on a Monday morning in July 2021. Jonathan was in the hospital. He'd had a seizure the night before. This, in itself, raised alarm bells. I knew he had no history of seizures, and yet he'd had one that was so severe that he fell and ripped apart his shoulder. At the hospital, a scan showed "something" in his brain. He would be having brain surgery that afternoon.

It was my sister who called me, and she spoke slowly and carefully. Still, three words - seizure, scan, surgery - felt like three quick slaps to my face.

The surgery went on for hours. When it was over, we would learn that "something" in his brain had a name: Glioblastoma, a malignant brain tumor. 

With optimal care, Jonathan's prognosis was 12-14 months. With no treatment, he could expect to live four months.

He decided to fight it. He lived for 23 months, almost twice as long as predicted. He went into a final decline last spring, and died June 24. 

All is quiet now. Those of us who loved him are bereft and exhausted. We are like survivors of a crash, stunned and awaiting rescue.

As I sit here writing this post, I look out my office window at a gentle, soothing rain. It's a comfort, this soothing rain. I like the sound of it. I like the way it slows life down from a frantic pace. No one is mowing a lawn. Traffic is lighter. Everyone has retreated indoors.

There is much to be grateful for.

There is, also, a lot to worry about.

I have never worried about my country as I do now. I fear the future. Will our democracy survive? Will we split into two parts? Will hatred define us? Is anyone able to hear over the shouting?

Greed is, as always, at the root of it all. The richest among us aren't satisfied. They want more. And more. And still more. They feel entitled. They want to run the country. They think they know better than the rest of us lowly souls, so they give huge sums of money to our elected officials. Bribes, to be blunt about it. All this money is floating into the pockets of public servants – not all, but many - who are supposed to represent us.

So we have greed. We have anger.

And we have self-interest. All of us, not "just" the wealthiest. One person's freedom is more important, apparently, than someone else's life. It's all about "me" rather than "us." Gone are the days of my childhood when we were taught to wait our turn, to share, to respect our teacher. Gone are the days, I guess, when young men like my father enlisted to fight in a world war to keep us free.

People are complicated. We're all a product of the times in which we live. We will always have greed, anger, and selfishness, but right now we seem to be giving in to it, even celebrating it.

And yet there is one more failure – a huge one – that may define us more than any other. We have not prioritized the importance of the gentle, soothing rain. We aren't appreciating the gifts of nature and, tragically, we're hurtling toward the days when there will be nothing but drought, on the one hand, or the kind of fierce, isolated downpours that cause destructive flooding. 

We aren't doing anywhere near enough to fight this crisis. There is much we could do, but we haven't. I believe, therefore, that if humanity survives, our era will be remembered for one thing above all: squandering the opportunity to address climate change.

To the next generation and the one after that: I'm sorry. 

When I see what is happening in Ukraine, I feel it in my bones, my family having gone through something similar in WW II. 

My mother lost numerous members of her family, some at the hands of the Nazis (for reasons we don't know), and, at the end of the war, by Russians. Russian soldiers chased my family, all civilians, and murdered several, including my great-grandpa, who was in his eighties. (He was shot and, while still alive, thrown off a bridge to drown.) My mother and her parents were, fortunately, in America at this time.

While in college, I interviewed several surviving members of my mother's famiily. They had been Displaced Persons at the end of the war and went through absolute hell. One great-aunt had lost both legs to frostbite. Eventually, they found their way to an American zone where they were taken care of, but the physical and emotional scars lived on. They were damaged people, and some of that trauma, no doubt, has been passed to my generation and even the next. 

What is happening in Ukraine at this moment is horrible and has made me reflect on my kinfolk who fled a similar situation in 1945 -1946. There are relatives I never met, and whose fate I will never learn. I do not know where they are buried, assuming they were buried properly at all.

The atrocities being committed in Ukraine will have a life of their own that will be felt a long time from now. 

I'm a born writer, and there was no greater proof than the way I reacted to the global pandemic. I didn't think twice. I didn't hesitate. I went into my home office and started to write.

No, I didn't write about the pandemic itself. My topic is an entirely different one. I don't feel as if I chose the subject as much as it chose me. It's what I wanted or needed to write, so I did.

That said, the idea was rattling around in my head for a long time. I'm an "ideas" person, but being in lockdown with my husband and our dog put my mind into overdrive.

I wrote day and night and the result is that just one year later, I have completed a polished, five-hundred page manuscript. Everyone has had their own way to deal with stress; this was mine.

        Imagine walking down a sidewalk in New York City and seeing thousands of pieces of paper caught in the wind. When you pick up one document out of curiosity, you see that these are, in fact, your papers. It's the Great Depression, you were unable to pay your rent at your dental practice, and your landlord has tossed all of your belongings, including your patient records, bills, and books, into the street. You run up and down the street for hours grabbing what you can. You are heartbroken. All of your dreams have been crushed.

      Imagine being a four-year-old girl in Chicago in 1929 who becomes sick with one of the most feared diseases in the world, diphtheria. The city's health department quarantines you, along with your father, into your railroad flat. Officials nail the door shut and paint a giant "D" for diphtheria on your front door. You survive, as does your father, only to have the same thing happen when your family relocates to New York City two years later and the disease you catch this time is scarlet fever. You and your father survive this, too.

       Imagine being an Eagle Scout who enlists in the U.S. Army three days after graduating high school in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin, in 1942. By the age of 20 you find yourself on the other side of the world, trying not to get killed by Japanese snipers. Before that, however, there is basic training where, during a live-ammunition exercise, you see your first death. A soldier next to you lifts his head slightly too high while you're all scrambling on your stomachs across a field. Your fellow soldier is killed right before your eyes, and you haven't even left the USA yet.

        The first example was Dr. Bessie Delany of the famed centenarian Delany Sisters with whom I collaborated on the 1993 oral history, HAVING OUR SAY. Through her own ingenuity and grit, she re-built her dental practice. She continued to practice dentistry until her retirement.

        The second example was my mother. My mother played with her dolls, said prayers, and sang songs to keep up her own spirits while extremely ill and quarantined.

        The third example was my father. He adapted and survived WW II in the Army by focusing on a combination of hope, humor, and can-do optimism.  

         I provide these three examples to illustrate 1.) losing a business 2.) facing dire illness and quarantine, and 3.) being a war-time soldier.

         What these three individuals had in common was resilience. While one could argue that resilience is a trait with which one is born, I contend that it is a learned skill.

         Resilience is a reaction to a bad situation. It's a way of framing a problem. It's being knocked down and getting up again.

         We're all getting some practice in the art of resilience this year. A pandemic, a severely-damaged economy and a stunning level of anger and uncertainty have created a tragic year, and it's only October.  

         I've had my share of hardship and losses in my life, but my response to this year (which, for me, also included the death of my mother in March) has been one of resilience. I am not patting myself on the back. I owe this, 100 percent, to those who modeled that behavior for me, including the Delany Sisters and my own parents.

         Resilience is not just an attitude. It's having the ability to stay calm and find solutions, even if they're only smalls steps. Problem-solving, thinking ahead, and accepting reality are part of it, too. Being resilient does not mean your response is perfect. Resilient people have days when they don't get out of bed, or days when they get angry, but the difference is that the next day they are ready to start over. Being resilient, ultimately, can become part of a broader pattern. It is a way of life.  

         Now I come full circle to something my readers, followers, and fans have heard me say for years: Listen to your elders, especially those who seem to bounce back from life's challenges. Seek out people you admire and follow in their footsteps.

         Remember, at the same time, that some people deemed strong in our society are actually quite weak. Don't mistake loudness for leadership, or over-sharing and attention-seeking for being honest. Beware of people who need to actively prove something all the time. Our culture offers many more negative than positive examples. If you don't have anyone to emulate in your life, then follow the insight offered by the Delany Sisters. "The world is full of good people. Your job is to find them."