A quarrel hanging on the public’s back...

A quarrel hanging on the public’s back

Just how democratic is the country and its political system when a

defenseless public is forced to bare any and all dire results of a

long and private quarrel between union members and their employers.

Especially when the public is not involved as a public to the strike.

Actually, both sides in the supermarket quarrel would squeal like

stuffed pigs if the suffering public or its elective representatives

were allowed at the bargaining table. As it is either side in a

strike can freely use and torment the public for their own purposes

of blackmailing the other. Both the metropolitan transportation

strike and the strike against the bulk of our food markets are

completely based on making the public suffer. Their success is

actually based on putting the public through the ringer. Yet, no

forced arbitration has yet been request by either federal state or

local officials who are suppose to represent the public since we have

been dragged in as no less than the weapon.

REBA WILLIAMS

Newport Beach

A column ready for print in a dozen years

Steve Smith, I just read your article about the McGills (“Family

Time,” Saturday) and I would like to ask if in 12 years you would

write an article about my husband Arvin and me?

BETH KATLEN

Costa Mesa

Another amazing story, with long odds

Peter Buffa writes (“Comments & Curiosities,” Sunday) about things

you find behind walls. I have a similar story about what we find on

grass. It’s quite a story, so bear with me.

My son, Brian, has a bad heart. Since age 29, he has battled with

atrial fibrillation. In the past five years, he has been cardioverted

in a hospital setting 15 times. He has undergone exploratory heart

catheterization twice, all to no avail.

On a Sunday afternoon, April 7, 2001, while playing basketball

with a childhood friend on a UC Irvine court, Brian complained of

dizziness and left the game. He got to the sidelines, fell to one

knee, and began to cry. He sensed his oncoming death as he collapsed

on the grass. He lost consciousness and suffered “sudden cardiac

death.” His heart had gone into 1-to-1 fibrillation, with the atria

and the ventricle fibrillating at the same time.

His friend on the court noticed what had happened some moments

later and went into action. He and several other fellows in the game,

with all their cell phones, called 911 and members of the family.

Brian’s older brother and wife, as well as a close friend were just

going out the door to attend Saddleback Church, when the phone call

came in. All three got on their knees and prayed “big prayers” that

the paramedics arrive in time and that Brian’s life be spared. The

paramedics did arrive, tried CPR, tried lidocaine injected directly

into the heart to no avail, and then, as a last resort, tried the

portable defibrillator. Brian was already gray, skin cold and clammy,

eyes rolled up, in convulsion and foaming at the mouth.

Against all odds (almost), the defibrillator worked. Brian

regained consciousness and was sped off to a local hospital. He

remembers the paramedic saying that Brian had just pulled a “Hank

Gathers.” But the paramedic had no answer for Brian’s question, “Why

was I saved?”

The paramedics told me later (I found out their names from the

emergency nurses and took a batch of homemade cookies to their

firehouse.) that the survival rate for someone with sudden cardiac

death is about seven percent -- not Buffa’s odds, but close -- and

that they had just “lost” a similar case of a young man dying during

a local soccer game.

The paramedics also told me that they normally are out on calls

and the fact that they were at their station, located only one mile

away from the court where Brian had collapsed, was also a small

miracle.

Well, the day I took over the cookies, one of the paramedics gave

me the location of the court. I drove over, got out of my car and sat

down near a spot on the grass where I believed Brian had collapsed.

The grass was all matted down in a human shape. Smack-dab in the

middle was a somewhat flattened dandelion. After some big-time

thanksgiving to the Man Upstairs, I picked the flower, wrapped it in

some tissue and took it home. I took the photo Hoag Hospital had

taken of Brian the first day of his birth out of its frame. His

brother’s matching photo, taken 16 months earlier, shows Todd all

wrapped up in a receiving blanket. Brian’s photo shows his left hand

peeking out of the blanket, so I took that dandelion and glued it to

the photo in such a way that Brian’s little hand seems to be

clutching his little yellow flower. The photo went back into its

frame and back on the bookshelf.

Four days later, Brian was released from Hoag and I returned to my

classroom. Michelle, one of my fourth-year French students, greeted

me with a hug and an envelope. She had created a personalized card

with her computer and had all the students in the class jot a note of

encouragement inside. As she handed me the card, Michelle apologized

that she had printed the photo on the envelope upside down and so had

decided to print the photo again, right-side-up, so that the photo

appeared twice on the front.

I gasped aloud at the sight and, like Leslie Louvier, feel goose

bumps when I think about it; the photo was a close-up of a small

baby’s hand holding a yellow flower. I knew, at that instance, that

this was no coincidence! The odds are 17,682,441,595 to 1, plus or

minus 5, right?

Why? Because, the same year Brian experienced his first A-Fib

episode, on a special afternoon, lying on my back on a grassy hill

overlooking the Laguna Canyon, I gazed up at the blue sky and waited

quietly for God to whisper something. Well, He did! He told me, “Your

name is not Florence. Your name is Flower. You are my flower.” I

shared that story with family and friends, some of whom call me that

name. (My Bulgarian name, given to me by my family at the time of my

baptism, is “Tsveta” which means flower in Bulgarian.)

Flowers, especially yellow ones, mark birth and rebirth in my

life. And I will be forever amazed!

FLO MARTIN

Costa Mesa