Thursday, February 24, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
I received another reminder email from the coordinator of our 45th "GUNS '66 (Georgetown University School of Nursing, Class of 1966) Reunion". Joan was recalling that while we were doing our psychiatric rotation at Walter Reed Hospital -where they treated our military's sickest of the sick - I had suggested she audition for the University's annual musical production. She did, got a part and met her husband of 44 years - also a member of the cast. I was ruminating about my first job after graduation - back home in NYC.
I peeled my nurses' cap off the refrigerator door. It was the first step in what had become a ritual of preparation and, that day, prelude to the commencement of a career. In 2 hours I would report for duty as a registered nurse. The cap had been scrubbed then soaked in a starch solution and finally spread carefully onto the door - all wrinkles kneaded into disappearance - to dry and stiffen overnight. It felt good - hard and stiff, ready to take on its winged shape. It was five A.M and the night still had a tentative grasp on the apartment. Only the fluorescent beam from the oven door shot through the shadowy room to where my hands worked deftly, creasing, folding and securing the fabric with relentless little studs. I placed a rolled sock into each of the wings to discipline curves into submission.. Then, for the first time, I affixed the narrow blue-over-gray grosgrain ribbon which sliced the white span horizontally announcing its wearer was a graduate. I slipped the cap into its plastic bag and shuddered. "What if I can't handle it?"
An hour later I was walking quickly to the subway (there is only ONE pace in 'the city' - "quick") bound for Queens and one of the city's largest city-owned hospitals, Elmhurst General. The "zoo", her former roommate, Connie had called it. Trundling under the East River, I thought of my interview. I'd been appalled by the woman's appearance. Miss Mulvehill was a cartoon of all of the short, plump supervisors I'd ever met. Her yellowed, long-sleeved uniform seemed to strain at the task of containing the abundance of lipoid tissue, which, if ever freed, would roll back and down, slamming her dyed-red curls into the wall behind her chair. Leaning forward on ink and grease-stained elbows, her mass was firmly anchored by the voluminous, pendulous breasts which gripped the blotter upon which my application risked envelopment.
"Interested in Critical Care.," she asked impassively. My trim figure was so tensed I hardly needed the chair from which I leaned forward in confrontation.
"Coronary Care, actually. We had a very progressive program at Georgetown, as you may know, and I . . . "
Ms. Mulvehill thrust her meaty lower lip out and down and slowly slid her finger across its moist surface. Hesitating just a second - to focus on her target - the wet nub then impressed itself on the application, an assist to the movement that would flip the pages to where my assignment would be scratched. Exhaling her interruption, I heard,
"What makes you think you'd like critical care?" I smiled: enthusiasm conquers annoyance.
"Oh Ms. Mulvehill. It's such a CHALLENGE. Those patients are SO fragile, vulnerable and frightened by their illness. And the MACHINES. We forget how threatened they are by the machines. There's such a . . .a RISK of depersonalization. We, I mean the NURSE must keep the patient's individuality in the forefront. (I know. I'd like to slap me shut, too. We were just sooo programmed.) Of course the doctors are SO busy. And the families - loved ones are too often shut out." (BRAIN: SHUT UP!) She had allowed her squeezed eyes to study me during this diatribe. They reported thick, chocolate hair, eased back into a bun at the crown, high cheekbones, walnut eyes framed by thick brows, glazed lips, barely tinted coral and even, 'Chicelet' teeth. She thought, "She's got a ball on the tip of her nose, and on HER it's cute." Reaching for her pen, she scribbled in a manner that precluded recourse. Noticing the definitive move, I heard my voice grow thin as I concluded. Then, speaking as she wrote,
"There are no openings in Critical Care at the moment. You'll be working on N-6. Report is at 7. I think you'll find the experience invaluable." My train of thought completely de-railed, I fought for the presence to ask a pertinent question. "At the moment?" What does that mean. Would there be an opening in a few weeks? By Christmas" Next summer? When? Mulvehill was not inclined toward elaboration. I thought, "She's right. I need a job - now. And the experience."
"N-6. Is that a Med-Surg Floor?" She glanced up and beyond at the wall clock, then rested her gluttonous gaze on a rusted lunch pail which dominated her cluttered desk.
"N-6 is Neurology-Neurosurgery. Call me if you're having any problems."
The train screamed to a halt and I bolted for the doors, aware I'd almost missed my stop. Tried to calm myself as I walked (quickly). "The first day of ANY job is always rough. I'd be even more of a mess if I were starting in Critical Care. Mulvehill did me a favor. I need time to get used to their routines. But Neuro! The damage is so OFTEN irreversible. It's so. . . long-TERM. But now I'm a graduate. More time to REACH people, coax them out of their oblivion. Time. We'd had too many conferences, interruptions. But NOW."
"Did you want six?" snapped a stranger in scrubs. "Six? Six what? . . .Oh, sorry, half asleep," as I backed out of the elevator. Squinting, I approached a deserted Nurses' Station. Noting the disarray of metal charts, lab slips and medication cards, I proceeded to a door marked "Lounge". Must have had a busy night. Maybe an arrest. I hung my coat in a tall, narrow metal locker. The room was "done" in late dirty, torn, unkempt distress-type decor topped with some variety of eating, drinking and smoking debris. Having secured my ("the") cap, I blessed myself and marched out to the patient area. Closing the door behind me, I was staring into a pair of dull, brown eyes about four inches from my own. "I'm Brite. You must be Clarke. C'mon, I'll show you the floor."
I followed the chubby, shuffling frame, fascinated by the black woman's shoes. They plopped. The backs of the laced, white oxfords were pressed in and flat, the feet resting on a now-opened surface, like a bedroom slipper. The brief spell was broken when I started choking on the air. The combo of Pine-Sol and urine stung the sinuses, watered the eyes. (Have not used Pine-Sol to THIS VERY DAY) Steeling myself, I asked the back of Brite's head,
"How many beds on this ward?"
"We got forty beds on this ward. This here is the treatment room," as she kept plopping. Stopping, I pushed the door open a bit. Then. I gasped and smacked my hand so hard against my mouth, my lips were already puffing out.
"Ms. Brite," spoken deliberately and to no one, "this man is dead." The corpse - no covering or ID tag - had been parked for a while, so hard and set were the open eyes and mouth. Closing the door, I caught up with Brite.
"Ms. Brite, you DO realize. . . "
"Jack, here, is the night orderly. Clara's the night charge. We'll make rounds with them and get report." Jack chewed a toothpick, Clara a donut and I my now-swollen lip as we walked to the end of the ward. From the faded-green, rusted, metal beds, the glassy, glazed, confused, unfocused eyes of some twenty-odd human beings stared. Most were diapered, drooling and disoriented.
"What's the current census, Brite?" I was hoarse, stunned by this suffering montage.
"ROUND . . .uh . . .thirty-five."
My thoughts sizzled. Around? Well I guess it would vary. We'd just passed two unmade, vacant beds. Their occupants. . . . down in x-ray? Out for breakfast? In the closet? And what about that guy in the treatment room? Isn't anybody going to SAY anything?
"Excuse me, Clara." She stopped, head down, tapping a bed footrail with her pen.
"What happened to the patient in the treatment room?"
Bristling, "I can SEE that he's expired, Clara. Was it during the night? What happened. . ."
"Don't know. He 'spired on evenings and they put him in there. We didn't have time to take him to the morgue."
My thoughts continued their hot race. Don't KNOW? Dear GOD! Poor man probably couldn't take it any more, stole down there - easily un-noticed - and, after clumsily hoisting himself onto the stretcher, blissfully dropped dead. A zoo.
We'd reached the Nurses' Station again. I was making some mental care plans when Brite said, "You'll be in here."
"In here" was a room contiguous with the nurses' station. I'd noticed it in passing. The door had been closed. Thought it was a conference or med room. Brite was gone and Clara lounged on the door jamb for,
"This is Neuro's 'tensive care'," the way a centurion might tell a Christian, "These are cats."
Don't know about y'all, but I'm thinking (I lied. Actually, I've made a decision.) that the COMPLETE title of this post was left off - inadvertently, to be sure. Following "RN" I neglected to type: "Part I ". And I know you'll enjoy "Part II" - hard to imagine, but there's some funny (tho at the time 'black funny') stuff to come that you'll not want to miss. (Of course there have been times I've wished I HAD; just a very few, TEENY times) So then, Later, L. . . .
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Robyn, characteristically lovely, organized, subtly supervisory, kept a constant, quiet vigil re: the keeping clean aspect of "Showtime, Folks!". And then it was time. We heard actual trolley bells and there in the driveway was the glistening antique trolley, its co-ordinating octogenarian driver listing at attention, hat in hand, memory in the previous century. We queued-up CAREFULLY and marched toward our waiting chariot. Jennie, ably-assisted by Maid-of-Honor Julie, paused just long enough to share her special ride with posterity. Within three turns (0.5 miles) we were chugging up the on-ramp to the westward-bound, three-lane highway. Auntie Sue was in the car following the trolley, lens targeted; my car, driven by one of Julie's Georgetown roomies accompanied by Julie's fiance riding shot-gun and other maid "significant others" in seats 2 and 3. The Father-of-the-Bride and I were toward the rear of the trolley with Dale, Mistress-of-Ceremonies. Robyn, clutching 2.5 year-old, Eton-clad son, Declan's hand and Philip, clutching a large cooler holding "classified" contents, were toward the front.
DAD: "Of COURSE you can do it. Do you know what this is COSTING me? Here we GO!" And they did. It was just every girl's DREAM wedding. (After some post-ceremony COOLER refreshments in the limo en route to The Cavalier.)
As you can see: going counter-clockwise from the group pose cradling the Bride in front of the hotel, we began with "Daddy's Little Girl", moved down to 'Daddy's BIG Girl', across to Cousin Brennan & Julie - catchers of the garter and bouquet, Jennie and Ramone (The GENIUS with the shutter who gave us these memories), Mom and Fav Uncle Chris 'toasting' the cake, Happy Mom with Jennie, Proud Aunt Eileen, mother of dexterous Brennan of garter fame, Dad and finally-relaxed Robyn gettin' down above the Leavy Clan Traditional "Mad Dance" to "MUSTANG SALLY"! (And if you look closely, Auntie "Mad" Sue - in red-really is an official 'Clan' member when it comes to dancing and kindness and gettin' to the church on tape.)
Later. L. . . .
Sunday, February 13, 2011
On the evening of February 17,1984, our 16 month-old son, Declan, aspirated a piece of browniie containing fragments of walnut. He'd been laughing. On March 15 - a Thursday afternoon, he died. At Christmas we'd had 4 beautiful, healthy children. I was finally able to write this at Easter. We then had three.
As with all tragedies, much of the experience is personal, unique. But Declan was also a member of a community, a neighborhood, a region. He - and we - were fortunate that he lived in Hampton Roads. If you are fellow residents, you deserve to know why.since we trust ourselves to each other everyday. Today, in 2011, as Americans, you are equally deserving, for the same reason. Declan's story has to do with capabilities and limitations. It is a point of reference from which we can all hope to see progress but with which we must live in "the now". That Declan had to die is, we believe, a fulfillment of God's far greater "story". But we don't ask that you share our metaphysics, just the experience of the way he left; a sharing that is secular and intended to evoke pride and hope.
Phil, my husband, had been a practiicng Emergency Medicine doc for 12 years. I had been a coronary care nurse. Ours, then, was a privileged perspective. Words like 'emergency', 'stable', 'critical'. have poignant, scientific meaning for us. "Baby', 'fear', 'protect' have equally charged meaning. Our professional qualifications allowed us to reconstruct events with clinical observations. Our credentials as parents were the same as yours.
We gathered late for a special dinner that night. It had been a good week for the family Phil and I, 14 yr-old Philip, 7 yr-old Julie, 3 yr-old Jennie, Declan and Poppy, my Dad who lived with us. By 7 that evening, Declan was bored, antsy, cranky. He toyed withe his brownie - mashed it up, spread it around (probably curious as, when I think about it now, he'd never had one before (I don't "do" desserts) and we've not had one since). And he took a bite. He was giggling when he finally stood up, wanting to get down from his chair. "O.K., Helen (often referred to him as 'Helen Keller' who also - initially - had that nasty little habit of cruising around the table, scarfing tidbits from siblings' plates), "it's time for that bath", I'd said, picking him up. Suddenly, I felt him jerk but there was no sound. Movements continued, his face turning red.
I handed him to Phil. He opened his mouth to clear it of food. There was nothing in his mouth. Still no sound — no coughing, no choking. I dialed 911.
An alarm shrieked silently through all of us. This was bad. Experience and exposure notwithstanding, there was terror in the air. My hands shook as I dialed. Yours might too, but you'd dial. Reciting our name, address and the nature of the problem sounded hysterical inside my head and yet I was coherent. The children and my father stood frozen— "Oh my God." "Daddy do something." "Mommy, Mommy." I told them to stand still.
Phil had by this time done numerous Hennlich maneuvers, applying sharp pressure to the abdomen to force air up and dislodge the obstruction from the windpipe. They didn't work. He alternated blows to Declan's back and chest. Nothing. The look of frustration and disbelief that I saw in my husband's eyes was undoubtedly mirrored in my own. We had to go beyond mother and father and son — and function. We brought him over to the counter by the kitchen sink and began cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR). When I tried to breathe into his nose and mouth I met with total resistance. Something was stuck in his airway. Phil quickly repeated all of the previous maneuvers to try to clear it.
I brought the girls and my father out to the front hall, turned on all the lights, and opened the front door wide. I told them to pray and direct the paramedics to the kitchen when they arrived. Phil was vigorously massaging the baby's chest and blowing into his mouth. Declan was gray and stiff; stomach contents were oozing out of his mouth and nose. We suctioned him with our mouths. The telephone rang. The paramedics. "MY GOD, haven't they left yet? Didn't they believe me?" In fact, they were en route. They questioned Philip, who stood next to us and relayed what was going on. Which was: "He's vomiting Phil." "No, he's dying Lorene." "Then you'll have to do a trach." "I can't." (Trach refers to tracheostomy cutting down into the windpipe so that a tube can be inserted to breathe a patient.) Philip, fighting for control, "They want to know if he is in respiratory or cardiac arrest?" "Both!" I handed Phil a kitchen knife as we hyperextended Declan's neck, his soft, blond, feathery hair fanning out
into the kitchen sink. "My dad is doing a trach, now." Phil somehow cut the skin. The blood was dark. No oxygen. The windpipe was so small. The drinking straw and the cut-off bail point pen were too big to use as temporary airways.
There was madness then, of a sort. "Don't die Declan," "BREATHE, baby!" "NO, God, no." Phil grabbed Declan's head and blew with all his strength into his mouth. We finally heard it — a wet, croaking gasp. Phil had blown the obstruction down and into the lung. The blood flowed freely and bright red now as we continued what became effective CPR. I checked his groin. He had strong, regular pukes. We all knew Daddy had brought Declan back. Phil and knew how much deadly acid and oil we had blown into his lungs. But maybe....
Suddenly — uniforms. The paramedics were in the kitchen getting out the equipment that would keep Declan breathing and beating so he could be moved to the hospital. They began four minutes from the time I had dialed 911. How hard it must have been for these young men. Phil
taught and trained the Emergency Medical Teams (EMTs). They are, in a sense, tested by him daily. With feelings of disbelief. trepidation and desperate urgency, they faced Dr. Leavy in his kitchen — a battlefield of blood, tears and vomit — for the most comprehensive of tests: to stabilize and transport his near-dead little boy. We had prayed for them to come and were so relieved to see them. But when we faced the fact that we had to relinquish control — stop doing things to and for Declan with our own hands — we felt the first blows of impotence which would continue to reign for the next 27 days.
They moved Declan to the breakfast- room table and began attaching the nuts and bolts of the life-support system that would allow safe transport. I checked on the other children, returning to find the paramedics and Phil still at it. Declan had gagged out the first breathing tube so they were putting in another. They were checking the position of this or that, and finally I couldn't stand it any more. "Can't we just get going?" "Well, M'am," he answered calmly, "we want to make sure he has a good I.V. running in case he needs any medicine on the way." I knew this. I had no right to say that. I apologized, and he understood. They seemed to be taking hours, but it was truly a matter of minutes. They do so much — tedious, complicated things — so quickly and so well that the helpless, terrified person standing by wants to say mercilessly, "Listen, hot shot. this is your job. Can't you step on it?" Well, it isn't — a job, that is. It is a series of highly skilled maneuvers performed under difficult conditions and aimed at saving a life. There can be no interference. It was agreed that Phil do the intubation, but beyond that we handed Declan over to them.
They were aware of our knowledge and our eyes. They executed their tasks flawlessly, speedily. They found time to comfort and reassure us. We ran blindly down the front steps. They remembered the blanket and to move with a coordinated effort as they carried Declan gently out into the chilly February night. We were grateful to and for our paramedics. Trust them with your lives.
And the police. A garden of squad cars outside. Police in every room. Now we adults know, don't we, that the police are there to help us. But there is still a vulnerable child that plays in the back room ofall our minds who says, "Police — must be trouble." There also is a vulnerable
grown-up standing on the front porch of our minds saying, "No problem — you all can go home now." So it is with a strange ambivalence that we seek and accept help. Part of me wanted to minding the rest of Norfolk?" But the crushing truth was that they had answered a call to 1125 Westover Ave.. a place where tragedy was in progress. And they were needed there — now sitting on the stairs holding Jennie, now kneeling, arms around Julie, watching Declan being saved. Standing beside Poppy. allowing him to cry. Talking with Philip; praising his courage, his father's work. Offering to calm me and accepting my rejection with mature grace. Washing the blood from the sink and cabinets. "The children shouldn't have to look at this." the policeman said.
They made the unbearable bearable.No one wants cops in his house, but we demand that they be right under the window when things go bump in the night. They must walk gently amid the rubble of human emotions. It's ugly — what they must see. It's beautiful — what they do. The next time you're talking to a police officer— waiting for your ticket or whatever say thanks for us.
The Emergency Room. Our other family. Stunned and silent. they
reined in their emotions and worked to correct the imbalances that could threaten Declan's life. We were in a small, quiet room. a place for shaking. crying, praying. We did all of these things and drank the first cups of what would be vats of coffee drunk during the long vigil. Softly-spoken words of encouragement, assurance of prayers. offers of continued support were all around us. Finally, Declan was ready for transfer. Everyone wanted to do more, to say he would be all right. But, like us, they could only surrender him — and hope. There are no routine emergencies. Declan's presented the dilemma they face each day — "Let what we've got be enough to save this life." They did what they could. And then they cried. That's part of emergency medicine. Maybe you didn't know. They cry for all of us. It's something to think about when the E.R. is crowded and you have to wait a long time to be seen for your earache. Declan would eventually that the available, known treatment used to keep him alive contributed to his death. At the house having no suction, we had to blow large amounts of destructive fluid and chemicals into his lungs along with the oxygen he needed. Whatever lung tissue was still healthy after that had to be helped along with high concentrations of oxygen and pressure to get the job of oxygenation done. This tissue eventually was damaged from the prolonged use of high oxygen and pressure. It was unavoidable. On the night of February 17th, the doctors could only hope that the initial
while his lungs healed.
There was a very special, state of the art place in your midst called the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit at The Childrens Hospital of The King's Daughters. There were two, full-fledged, experienced pediatric intensivists there all the time along with a highly skilled. educated and astute group of nurses. Add to this the endless and immediately available lists of specialists, residents and social service personnel and you know that this unit is nothing short of superb. We lived with these people and what they do for 10 days.
Their work is demanding, exacting. One drop more or less of a drug can take a life. Reading and correctly interpreting the maze of machinery attached to each patient can save entrusted to them gives new meaning to the words critical, fragile. The little people themselves give new meaning to the words loveable, vulnerable, helpless. The thing that comes to mind when I think of that staff is love — in all of its meaning. Their challenge is to fix the smallest and the most broken among us and to grab the little body from which life has almost completely drained, find the hole and plug it. They know some of their patients will die. But they never know which ones. Wouldn't it be easier, emotionally, to focus completely on the machines.
the numbers, the cold — but reliably there — steel and polyethelene aspect of their work? Sure it would. Instead, they love the child, love the family, over and over again.
It's a very high risk kind of love. He would hear friendly, cooing. comforting voices always around him. "Mr. Clown's gonna play his music, Declan. I'll put him on your head so you can hear him." "Let's see what the kids did today, Declan." (At the doctors' suggestion, the children sent daily tapes of their activities so Declan could hear their voices and they could be with him.) We knew about the nurses' hugs and kisses, their prayers with Declan. They were saying, "I'm gonna love you, you tricky little kid, even though it's gonna hurt like hell if you die." They had to face us and the children, day and night, answering so many questions in such detail, having to admit to that awful set of limitations. They desperately wanted the miracle to happen but after 10 days Declan's lungs were saying they couldn't function with the high pressures. Only a jet ventilator could deliver high oxygen with low pressures.
So, having worked so hard for so long, they had to turn their littleguy over to the Medical College ofVirginia for the only chance he had left.
It took 24 hours to fly the ventilator and a qualified inhalation therapist to Norfolk, prepare this special KD van, and then move Declan and all of his paraphernalia up to Richmond. It was with great care and courage that our doctor, nurse and paramedic escorted Declan to MCV. It was with great reluctance, hope and love that they left him there. It hurts not to be able to do the miracle.
Phil and I went up alone and settled into the Ronald MacDonald House. It felt safe and good — being in a house. We missed the kids. We were tired, scared. edgy. The staff at MCV would be edgy as well. Their new admission was a rare case a kid who had survived full arrest and serious aspiration in his kitchen, had normal brain function, no heart or kidney failure and had exhausted the miracle supply at KD. Only his lungs were shot. Would the jet ventilator be the key? Despite these dreadful odds, their embrace of Declan and us was complete from
the first meeting. Declan did not improve on the jet. Phil asked about ECMO — Extra Corporeal Membrane Oxygenation. It's like a heart-lung machine. Maybe we could rest Declan's lungs so they could heal while ECMO kept him alive. Consultations were made. It
wasn't recommended. It has been used successfully only on newborns. But, "We happen to have an ECMO team right here," they said.
The next day Declan started to decline rapidly. The ECM() team was
called. They would try to get him on. While they primed the pumps and the intensivists worked to keep Declan going. the surgeons explained to us how slim the chances were of surviving the treatment. There was a great danger of hemorrhage on ECMO. Any infection is fatal. The
pumps are geared for the small volume of blood in the neonate. Declan could die for any of these reasons. (Of course, we were in a large city, in 1984, with AIDS making a strong debut, priming his pumps with 24 units of donated blood. It gave me pause then and now.) If he doesn't get on ECMO, we thought, he'll be dead tonight. Yes, doctors, we understood. We signed the papers. It was a difficult discussion far all of us. They hated what they had to say. There would be a time limit. He could stay on for only 10 days. Any longer and hemorrhage would be certain. We could only hope that he could live on ECM() and his lungs would heal enough to work again on the jet. "If he makes it. he'll be the first in the world with his kind of disease," the surgeon said. They began at 4 p.m. At 2 a.m., Declan finally was on ECMO. Our children joined us the next day. team. The staff gently prepared the kids for the pumps, the motors, the tubes, the bleeding they would see. They helped them to see Declan under all of this to talk to him, to listened. They heard the truth. They saw how never to lose hope. And that other families had tragedy. They made friends. They learned how to support and be supported. A child Declan's age on ECMO was a new frontier. There were many technical problems, many close calls. We've After 14 days, the time came to turn off the ECMO machine. There had been no change in Declan's lungs. We talked to him, told him how much we loved him and would miss him. But we knew he had to leave and it was — would have to be — all right. He squeezed our fingers, wrinkled his nose when we blew on his face. His touch and reactions were playful, not desperate. Declan was not afraid. He knew no pain. no strangeness. He did not die alone or in silence but in the company of people who loved him enough to say goodbye.
MCV belongs to you. too. You needn't fear impersonality, a syndrome associated with large medical centers. It is warm and friendly, and people care. These same people made medical history that March. Other children will live because they had the courage to put Declan on ECMO. Maybe that was part of Declan's mission. Another part might be that two other children can now see with his corneas, still others fought their cancer with the juices from his thymus gland.
At Declan's funeral, there was a line of rescue vehicles, EMT's standing at attention. Nightingale (our rescue helicopter) hovered overhead at the gravesite. The staffs from KD and MCV were there. We released a dozen helium-filled baloons to escort him - and returned the salute to the gathered honor bearers. Declan could have left without a trace. He's left some rather large footprints for a little guy. But then, look at who his friends were.
Valentine's Day will be happy today - as it was in 1984. I'll more than likely NOT say the same of the Ides of March, 2011. L. . . .
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Sunshine go away today; Don't feel much like dancing
Some man's gone, he's tried to run my life; Don't know what he's asking.
He tells me I'd better get in line; Can't hear what he's saying
When I grow up I'm going to make it mine; but these aren't dues I been paying.
How much does it cost, I'll buy it; the time is all we've lost, I'll try it
But he can't even run his own life; I'll be damned if he'll run mine, Sunshine.
Sunshine go away today; I don't feel much like dancing
Some man's gone, he's tried to run my life; don't know what he;s asking.
Working starts to make me wonder where; the fruits of what I do are going
He says in love and war all is fair; but he's got cards he ain't showing.
Sunshine come on back another day; I promise you I'll be singing
This old world, she's gonna turn around; Brand new bells'll be ringing.
OOOps. Gotta go. FBI - BOMB SCARE. We have to evacuate the building. I q-ed up Don McLean and "Bye, bye. . . ."
L. . . . .