Alas, Rejection

I was rejected last week. Excluded. Summarily dismissed. Kicked to the curb.

I had enrolled in a research study last year, a one-off, as far as I knew. I went to Chapel Hill to the EPA building and spent two hours being consented, ---- who knew that could be a verb? ----answering questions on the computer and being questioned in by a researcher. He turned me over to the nurse and I submitted to collection of blood and saliva as well as other medical measurements. It was largely painless and I enjoyed the people who were involved. At the end, they sent me to the bursar, I was given a check, and I went my merry way.

Now, nine months later, I got a call asking if I wanted to participate in a follow-up. It would mean three trips to Chapel Hill over 8 months and some questionnaires and saliva collection at home once a month. The purpose of all this was to measure specific markers that might be associated with air quality. I was in the right zip code and my previous participation marked me as a good candidate. It would pay $420, a sum that greatly added to its appeal. I felt comfortable and was glad I could add my little part to this research effort.

All went well until we reached the clinical part. It started going south immediately when she took my temp and found it was slightly elevated. Hmmmm. Then my blood pressure was much higher than normal, another glitch. We proceeded through a couple of other measurements, laughing and joking as we went. I mentioned that I’d had a pulmonary embolism in November and was scheduled for a stress-echo the next day, which made her frown. I climbed up on the table and she prepared to draw blood. Since the PE, I’ve been on a blood thinner, which concerned her about the blood draw.

She stuck me once. No blood. She switched to the other arm and still not enough to make a difference. With many apologies, she tried one more time with no result. It seemed I was all dried up. It was then that she told me that all these things meant I would probably be excluded from the study. She talked to the research guy in charge and sure enough, I was out. They sent me to the bursar for a check to cover what I had done and I was sent on my way.

I was surprised at how it made me feel. Driving home, tears welled, blurring my vision. It wasn’t the money, it was rejection. I was disappointed. It reminded me of being laughed at or left behind in grade school. I felt like a failure, not good enough. I went home and, against my better judgment, ate some ice cream and went to bed for a two-hour afternoon nap.

Some things echo for a long time, I guess. 

And I need to stay hydrated.

Confessions of a Political Naif

I saw recently that Lyndon LaRouche had died. Hard to believe he reached the ripe old age of 96.

Mr. LaRouche played an unwitting part in my development of critical thinking and political awareness. It was he who taught me to actually read and think before voting.

I suppose it was in the 1980s, back when I lived in Illinois. Backers of the LaRouche movement or party, however you want to characterize it, secured many spots on the primary ballot for statewide offices. I'd heard his name bandied about in the media and thought the ideas he espoused were abhorrent. I knew I would never vote for such a man. 

What I didn't know, and was not revealed on the ballot, was that a whole herd of LaRoucheites was running. They had refreshingly "normal" names, easy to read, familiar as the people next door. A few were even women, which appealed to me greatly. When the primary election rolled around I hied me to the polls and blithely marked the ballot for all the women and people with names I could pronounce, without knowing anything about them. 

When the results tumbled in over the next day or two, I was horrified to realize that I had helped advance many of Lyndon LaRouche's favored candidates to the general election. I did that. I was responsible for these batshit crazies being put before the electorate and likely being put in office in the fall. It was my fault.

Between the primary and the general, I educated myself. I hadn't been the only one to succumb to that level of ignorance and laziness. It was a well-thought-out tactic on the part of LaRouche and his henchmen. They read the voters and I was one of them. It was the last time I went to the polls without arming myself ahead of time with enough information to make a reasonable choice.

I've nearly always voted. A few times I missed or sat out an election when I was out of the country or between residences. Other than that, I've cast my ballot in every election I could, beginning with the 1972 primary when I was finally old enough to vote. I had just turned 21, which was the voting age until it was lowered to 18 in July 1971. I proudly cast my vote for the presidential candidate, Shirley Chisolm. I had read and heard about her. Did I research the other candidates on that ballot? No, I just voted for all the Socialist Worker Party candidates and filled in with Democrats and women where needed. 

Moral of the Story: Don't vote unless you know who you're voting for! Political parties, TV personalities, social media buzz, and familiar names don't mean a thing if the politico in question is a charlatan. Dig deep and then VOTE! ---- every time they crack the door at the polling station.