Dr. Spudman44's Open Salon Blog

His Screams Made No Noise

Thu, 9 Feb 2012 17:02:48 -0500

Duke's front door blew open and banged into the bookshelf, sending his three prized Hemingway hard-backed novels cascading to the floor. This woke him up from his deep slumber but he ignored it at first and simply turned over while rolling up in the comforting quilt handcrafted years ago by his grandma. That is until he started shivering from the cold, Idaho air attacking his now exposed tiny, tidy living room. He sat up and felt a jolt of energy provoked by fear. He paused, testing if this was once again another of the wild nightmares that had started haunting him regularly some weeks ago.

Another crash-glass breaking- got him up and he raced to the doorway. Papers were flying around from his desk and the carpet was already showing white flecks from the snow drifting inside. The screen door was banging over and over again so he reached out on the porch to close it when he was grabbed by the right arm and spun outside. Duke could not be called a cowardly man; he was a trained, skilled combatant and decorated war veteran and did not scare or startle easily. But he was suddenly frightened to the point he couldn't even get out a scream even though he tried several times. He knew whatever had him possessed a superior strength that he instantly calculated as unbeatable. He knew none of his tricks or tactics would work. After a few seconds, he wanted only one thing-to see this force face-to-face and witness what it was that was going to kill him.

****

He heard the phone ringing in the distance-the emergency line- and jumped off the couch in the living room and raced toward the bedroom where he always kept the phone handy. He was puzzled during the dash as he didn't recall going out to the couch and wondered why his socks got wet from the carpet. He answered on the fourth ring. “ Yeah, this is Duke.”

“How you doing down there Duke? Hell of a storm up here last night,” spoke a voice that Duke didn't instantly recognize.

“Yeah, it blew my door open,” answered Duke and the words surprised him.

“This is Jim at the Moscow Mental Health office. Afraid I have some bad news for you. Nate Phillips had what sounds like a psychotic break last night. He needs to be taken down to Hospital North. We got him an emergency bed early this morning.”

“What the hell happened to Nate? I just saw him two days ago and he was doing fine. Do you really think he needs to go into the hospital?”

“Oh, yeah. He needs to go. All of us on the crisis team agree. You say you saw him on Friday? He didn't mention that to any of us.”

“No, Wednesday afternoon. I really don't think he needs to go back down there. Damn, he's been going to school, working full time, and taking his meds. I don't get what happened.”

“Well, he drove himself to the emergency room Saturday night-actually early this morning. Said he couldn't get in touch with you. Something about your phone not working. Sounds like a lot happened since you last had contact with him. You said Wednesday, right?”

Duke didn't respond immediately as he tried to process what he had been told. Today was Sunday? He had lost two days?

“Duke, you still there?”

“Oh, yeah, excuse me. This is such a shock. So, what do you want me to do?”

“Need you to give him a ride down to the hospital. It is either you or the cops will take him down. I talked the crisis team into allowing me to phone you before we got the police involved.”

“Where do I meet you guys?”

“Nate is sleeping in my office right now. I'll wait for you,” said Jim.

Duke was on the road in minutes inching along the slick grade and up to the Palouse hills like he had done hundreds of times on other lonely rides over the last twelve years of being a traveling mental health counselor, specializing in those dealing with the challenges of schizophrenia. He popped in a CD copied from one of his many play-lists and by the third tune, the fog cleared and he was able to go near the speed limit until the last steep hill leading into Moscow.

Jim saw him pull up and came out to greet him. “Hey, Duke. Any trouble getting up here? I got the state SUV warmed up and ready for you.”

“No problem after the fog cleared. I don't need the state car; I always use my own vehicle.”

“Well, you kind of have to use the state car, Duke. It has restraints in it and Nate is going down in restraints; that's one of the things I had to agree to in order to keep the cops out of it.”

“That's bullshit. That kid doesn't need to be in restraints. I won't have one damn thing to do with this if you force me to use restraints on that boy. I will not be part of it at all. “

Jim looked at Duke for a long few moments and then excused himself. He came back a couple of minutes later with Nate and another man Duke had seen around the office a time or two.

“Okay, Nate is going down without any restraints but I have to send Doug down with you and you have to take the state car. Deal?” Jim asked but it wasn't really a question.

Doug took the wheel and Duke joined Nate in the backseat. They were following the twisting turns of the Clearwater River road within minutes heading up to Orofino, a sleepy once thriving logging community located right on the wild river. The town was now home to a new prison and the old Hospital North.

“Thanks for coming and getting me, Duke," Nate said before dozing off.

“Hey, Doug, pull over at the Lenore Store would you?” asked Duke. He did and Duke hopped up front for the last twenty minutes of the ride.

Doug won Duke over in a few miles as he started talking about his latest golfing trip and his short time as a minor-league third baseman, both huge interests of Duke. They pulled into the hospital emergency stop area. Three young men in white uniforms came hustling out to greet them.

The wide awake Nate popped out of the backseat and said, “Duke, I am so sorry, man.”

Doug snapped the handcuff on Duke's left wrist just as the door flew open. He was no match for the three sets of young arms that now held him in the wheelchair. He knew there was again no reason to resist-he was up against overwhelming force. But he did fight-to no avail-when they got the needle out. His screams made no noise.

Mellow Break-3-Minutes of Seattle Wonder-Come on a Trip

Sun, 29 Jan 2012 14:01:09 -0500

I live on the border of Idaho/Eastern Washington which is a great place to reside. However, I have lived on the other side of Washington--the west side of the Cascade Mountains-for half of my adult life. I collected a bunch of photos of the west side to entertain myself. I enjoyed it so much myself that I thought you would like to experience it. Three minutes of mellow time. Let's take a trip. Here is the link--give it few seconds to load--Enjoy!

http://drspud44.com/mellow.html

Suffering Because of Some False Morality

Tue, 21 Feb 2012 08:02:34 -0500

“Holy shit, Rick! I am so glad to hear your voice. Is it getting any better for you?” I asked.

“Well, I don't know. I died last night.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, I was dead for three and a half minutes. The entire room was filled with people pounding on me and racing around when I woke up,” he said.

This poor soul broke his neck fifteen years ago while wrestling with his twenty-year old son, who had that day made the University of Idaho's varsity basketball team as a walk-on player, an amazing feat to accomplish. They were going to head into town for a celebration steak dinner. They were goofing around like they had done thousands of times before, Rick fell and couldn't move. An hour later, he was taking a helicopter ride to Spokane, the dinner forgotten, where he spent four months learning to deal with his new life of being a quadriplegic.

What the immediate future holds for Rick is impossible to predict. His support group and Rick keep hoping that he will recover and return to his comfortable country home someday. Lots of people get sick and suffer each day in this world. But to me this entire scenario could have and should have been avoided.

I didn't have any idea that a pressure sore could be such a big deal. That is until an experienced worker with the disabled told me that a pressure sore the size of a dime could be life-threatening and could cost around $30,000 of medical treatment to cure.

“If it gets the size of a nickel, it could take months to heal and could cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to cure.”

Rick got a sore, evidently when one of the new day aides put him in his wheelchair without the cushion being inflated and positioned correctly. This young woman was the thirteenth day worker in the four years I have known Rick. She is a part of a never-ending collection of rotating workers paid a buck over minimum wage per hour that Rick trains and then ends up counseling as many of them are struggling with their own existence.

The sore would not heal at home and finally the doctors ordered Rick to the hospital. He was supposed to go in, have a procedure, and head home three or four days later for a six-week convalescing period in an air bed at his home. Well, that was the plan, at least. The sore did not respond as hoped and his stay was extended. Rick started feeling anxious which always increases his already chronic, nagging, daily pain. For those in the know concerning chronic pain management, humanity is in the dark ages still.

He ingests several Oxycontin pills, a few Valium, and a handful of Hydros each day to get by. He has a pain pump and an experimental spinal stimulator that was implanted in him a year and a half ago. This stimulator actually worked for almost a year and Rick was a different person living pain free for the first time since he broke his neck while wrestling with his son fifteen years ago. But the stimulator's effectiveness slowly diminished and he had to return to the one source of relief that worked consistently-marijuana.

Rick's pain level on even a good day is about a six on the one-to-ten scale. By taking a few tokes of pot three or four times a day he could reduce the pain. He has so many health problems in addition to his paralysis that he needs constant one-on-one attention. A hospital is not set up for that needy of a patient. He started to feel helpless away from his regular routine, caregivers and his marijuana. This increase in anxiety multiplied the normal pain to the point that he was in tears most of the time by the second week of his stay. The doctors tried to administer to his pain by pumping him full of morphine which did nothing but make him incoherent, uncomfortable, and confused. He started telling me about morbid, vivid dreams that scared him. And he talked of dying. I read him a story and played a full Elbow concert on his computer which put him to sleep. I gave him a couple soft pats before leaving him for the night.

***

The next morning, I got bundled up and grunted up the fairly steep hill on my mountain bike to the hospital a dozen blocks away from my home. I enjoyed the challenge of defeating a hill as I knew the reward would be a fun few seconds blasting downhill later and feeling like a kid again. Plus, I appreciated that I was still able to do physically challenging things, especially after seven straight days of visiting and seeing my good pal, Rick, crippled up and stuck in a hospital bed suffering with his chronic pain. I parked my trusty bike and entered the hospital on this Thanksgiving morn. I could not shake the memories this damn place keep dredging up as I strolled down the hallway toward Rick's room. As a young man, this was the very spot where my lovely, vibrant wife had her insides torn out which made bearing children for her impossible and I was the lucky guy that got to tell her. These haunting reviews came to an abrupt end when I entered Rick's room and noticed a syringe sticking out of his neck.

"Good morning, Rick. What the hell is a syringe doing sticking out of your neck?"

"Really? I didn't notice."

"I'll go get someone," I said in a fake soft voice that I used to protect Rick from my flash of anger. I was ready to chew some ass and believe me, that is a skill I am a master at performing. I stopped the first nurse and quietly and calmly informed her of my concern. She gave me a brisk, "I'll be back to check on it," and bustled off toward the nurse's station. I got the distinct feeling that she thought me an asshole for even mentioning it. I'll spare you the litany of cuss words I mumbled, perhaps a little too loudly. I could see the nurses were overworked here, like probably everywhere, but this was no place for a guy like Rick who needs constant, individual care.

Rick is a remarkable man and a most courageous fighter. How he ended up in a hospital again is part one of this tale. It went like this. Idaho is ruled by right-wingers who last year tried to cut out all money for mental health services and severely restrict the care hours for those with physical disabilities. The theory was that volunteers and the churches could serve those with mental ill problems and guys like Rick could travel for treatment as home services were advertised as a frivolous luxury that a cash-strapped state could no longer afford. After these mental midgets found out that they would need nearly 30,000 volunteers they backed off and reduced the services which was at least something as many of us were concerned of what would happen if all the services were eliminated.

Often we talk about society's problems as if they were abstractions. But when I see problems become real-life, concrete, observable dilemmas then my frustration with bullshit gets nearly out of control. This is my main problem with Rick's suffering. It didn't need to fucking happen.

This cavalier, mean, callous attitude toward those in chronic pain held by an ignorant, loud mob has kept marijuana possession and use a crime even with all the mountains of evidence of how innocuous and helpful a substance the wonderful green herb actually is. If marijuana was suddenly discovered it would be hailed as a miracle, natural substance with no troubling side effects. But no, we have allowed our brothers and sisters to be put in jail for recreational use, simple possession, and prevented medical marijuana use for serious illnesses and pain relief. This is unreal and unacceptable.

During the late sixties and early seventies pot use was so common and so open that those of us who lived back then would never have imagined that four decades later it would still be illegal. This pot hysteria could be the best example, next to evolution, of how myths and false morality dominate science. Here is an example.

I was playing in this golf tournament last fall with my brother and one of his long-time friends who recruited his college-age son to be his partner for the weekend. The young man was a total gentleman, good company and played some great golf. He also sneaked off on several occasions to take a few tokes of pot. This enraged his father, a notorious hard drinker, who announced that he wished his son “would get off that damn pot.” He said this while taking a big sip from his favorite drink -a Snake River Bummer- that contains enough alcohol to cause a confirmed wino to start quoting Shakespeare after one serving. I found this terribly amusing and could not resist giving him some shit about it all. Yeah, alcohol is not a problem but a few harmless tokes is a grave concern.

Can you say stupid?

That would be okay but that attitude is still alive today and is the prevailing attitude that has prevented marijuana law reforms. The latest polls show that 58% believe that marijuana should be legal. Here are the facts:

Marijuana Facts-( taken from the Drug Policy Alliance website)

"Marijuana is a plant containing a psychoactive chemical, tetrahydrocannabinol (THC), in its leaves, buds and flowers. Marijuana is the most commonly used illicit drug, with forty-two percent of American adults reporting that they have used it.

Despite the fact that marijuana is less harmful than most other drugs, including alcohol and tobacco, it is the most common drug that people are arrested for possessing. US marijuana policy is unique among American criminal laws in being enforced so widely and harshly, yet deemed unnecessary by such a substantial portion of the population.

Fact: More than 800,000 people are arrested for marijuana each year, the vast majority of them for simple possession.

Police prosecuted 858,408 persons for marijuana violations in 2009, according to the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s annual Uniform Crime Report. Marijuana arrests now comprise more than one-half (approximately 52 percent) of all drug arrests reported in the United States. A decade ago, marijuana arrests comprised just 44 percent of all drug arrests. Approximately 46 percent of all drug prosecutions nationwide are for marijuana possession. Of those charged with marijuana violations, approximately 88 percent (758,593 Americans) were charged with possession only. The remaining 99,815 individuals were charged with “sale/manufacture,” a category that includes virtually all cultivation offenses.^[1]

Fact: Most marijuana users never use any other illicit drug.

Marijuana does not cause people to use hard drugs. Marijuana is the most popular illegal drug in the United States today. Therefore, people who have used less popular drugs such as heroin, cocaine, and LSD, are likely to have also used marijuana. Most marijuana users never use any other illegal drug and the vast majority of those who do try another drug never become addicted or go on to have associated problems. Indeed, for the large majority of people, marijuana is a terminus rather than a so-called gateway drug.^[²^]

Fact: Most people who use marijuana do so occasionally. Increasing admissions for treatment do not reflect increasing rates of clinical dependence.

According to a federal Institute of Medicine study in 1999, fewer than 10 percent of those who try marijuana ever meet the clinical criteria for dependence, while 32 percent of tobacco users and 15 percent of alcohol users do. According to federal data, marijuana treatment admissions referred by the criminal justice system rose from 48 percent in 1992 to 58 percent in 2006. Just 45 percent of marijuana admissions met the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders criteria for marijuana dependence. More than a third hadn’t used marijuana in the 30 days prior to admission for treatment.^[3]

Fact: Claims about marijuana potency increases are vastly overstated. In addition, potency is not related to risk of dependence or health impacts.

Although marijuana potency may have increased somewhat in recent decades, claims about enormous increases in potency are vastly overstated and not supported by evidence. Nonetheless, potency is not related to risks of dependence or health impacts. According to the federal government's own data, the average THC in domestically grown marijuana – which comprises the bulk of the US market – is less than 5 percent, a figure that has remained unchanged for nearly a decade. In the 1980s, by comparison, the THC content averaged around 3 percent. Regardless of potency, THC is virtually non-toxic to healthy cells or organs, and is incapable of causing a fatal overdose. Currently, doctors may legally prescribe Marinol, an FDA-approved pill that contains 100 percent THC. The Food and Drug Administration found THC to be safe and effective for the treatment of nausea, vomiting, and wasting diseases. When consumers encounter unusually strong varieties of marijuana, they adjust their use accordingly and smoke less.^[4]

Fact: Marijuana has not been shown to cause mental illness.

Some effects of marijuana ingestion may include feelings of panic, anxiety, and paranoia. Such experiences can be frightening, but the effects are temporary.

That said, none of this is to suggest that there may not be some correlation (but not causation) between marijuana use and certain psychiatric ailments. Marijuana use can correlate with mental illness for many reasons. People often turn to the alleviating effects of marijuana to treat symptoms of distress. One study performed in Germany showed that marijuana offsets certain cognitive declines in schizophrenic patients. Another study demonstrated that psychotic symptoms predict later use of marijuana, suggesting that people might turn to the plant for help rather than become ill after use.^[5]

Fact: Marijuana use has not been shown to increase risk of cancer.

Several longitudinal studies have established that even long-term use of marijuana (via smoking) in humans is not associated with elevated cancer risk, including tobacco-related cancers or with cancer of the following sites: colorectal, lung, melanoma, prostate, breast, cervix. A more recent (2009) population-based case-control study found that moderate marijuana smoking over a 20 year period was associated with reduced risk of head and neck cancer (See Liang et al). And a 5-year-long population-based case control study found even long-term heavy marijuana smoking was not associated with lung cancer or UAT (upper aerodigestive tract) cancers.^[6]

Fact: Marijuana has been proven helpful for treating the symptoms of a variety of medical conditions.

Marijuana has been shown to be effective in reducing the nausea induced by cancer chemotherapy, stimulating appetite in AIDS patients, and reducing intraocular pressure in people with glaucoma. There is also appreciable evidence that marijuana reduces muscle spasticity in patients with neurological disorders. A synthetic capsule is available by prescription, but it is not as effective as smoked marijuana for many patients. Learn more about medical marijuana. ^[7]"

More than 70% of voters support the right of patients to use marijuana with a doctor's recommendation — including substantial majorities of Democrats, Republicans, and Independents.

Seventy percent is a huge number-only 78% think the earth rotates around the sun-seriously- so what is the damn hangup? Get these laws changed, quit the insanity of filling prisons with pot smokers and allow those in chronic pain access to all the marijuana they want or need. This ridiculous notion that pot smoking is somehow an example of immorality is a myth that must and should die. Most of our representatives do not want to be branded as "pro drugs" so they avoid going on record for reform. Isn't four decades of this enough?

My good friend Sherrie repeats the story often of how marijuana saved her life after she was in a near fatal car accident. She was in severe pain so they pumped her full of morphine. She finally demanded after her weight dropped to eighty pounds and her husband had already signed the papers to have her legs amputated at the knee to be taken off the morphine. She started eating pot brownies and sneaking off to smoke pot on the hospital grounds when visitors came. She immediately and dramatically improved, her appetite increased, she gained weight, began thinking more clearly and both of her legs were saved. She claims that she would be dead without marijuana. Did she move on to other drugs as the myth suggests? No, in fact she no longer smokes pot nor drinks alcohol.

Why is it that it is always the rightwing Republicans that keep this bullshit about marijuana alive? Their cruelty toward those in chronic pain is not even recognized despite the numerous positive stories and mountain of scientific evidence. No, in the rightwing black and white world, marijuana, a natural plant is an evil and damn all those who suggest otherwise. Well, damn you chowderheads for all the suffering you cause and damn you for nearly killing my good friend.

I am an ardent supporter of President Obama but on this topic his justice department has become a travesty. He will hear from me, I guarantee that. Take a moment to write your representative and demand that they stop this insanity toward marijuana.

Rick has been in intensive care since late November and been moved three times. He currently is in a good facility a hundred miles north of me but in rough shape. He is being fed by a tube-hasn't eaten anything since December-and is thin and weak. I doubt he will ever get out and back home. Those in power are supremely ignorant. The pennies saved on cutting back his services which led to him counting on untrained amateurs rather than professionals has been swallowed up by the hundreds of thousands of dollars spent trying to keep him alive. And they claim to be the fiscal responsible ones.

Turning Lead Into Gold

Sun, 28 Aug 2011 18:08:05 -0400

_{The Philospher's Stone}

It is puzzling that we struggle with this life

We worry about what others think about us

When they really don't reflect on us at all

We reach out our hand to others hoping

Often, our hands get slapped away or dismissed

Not only because of meanness or disagreements

But for something perhaps even worse-indifference

We, They are wrapped up in our own worlds

The ones we created in our minds for reasons

We really never challenge or analyze fully

Falsely believing that our disputes are

So unique, important-a trap we gladly embrace

The gift of consciousness is not recognized

Here we are in this shared reality orbiting

On an isolated blue orb in a silent universe

We don't spend enough time looking up or in

Rather, we mostly react to events,conditions

Most of them petty and meaningless in the end

We shrug off our victories and shiny moments

Focusing instead on the struggles, dilemmas

We look for all kinds of myths or explanations

Of why this life must have some hidden meaning

Some still adhere to Bronze Age stories to help

Others can hardly wait for the other, better life

Which is so odd, unbalanced as this now life

Is amazing, wonderful and could be enjoyable

Many seem to enjoy not enjoying, claiming

The right for if you only knew my struggles

I've been used, abused, refused and forced to lose

The universe is out to get me and I can prove it

People hurt me, tear at my giving heart unfairly

The search for happiness is never really earnest

Yes, it is puzzling that most do not relish living

They put a noose around their neck voluntarily

Wishing for this, hoping for that, ignoring...

The marvels along the way on this journey

Seven billion souls exist on this planet but

How many truly live? And am I one of them?

If not, why? This life is a flash in eternity

I need to remember that at all times-will I?

_{Come with me. Kick back and let's take a drive through Montana. It is relaxing. Click the small button not the big one on the screen. If it kicks off-(thanks Google) then come back and try again. It is worth it.}

Gentle Mabel Took a Life

Wed, 25 Jan 2012 11:01:49 -0500

Chapter Five- Gentle Mabel Took a Life

It was almost dinner time this summer day. I was covered with dirt after spending the day with Terry, Brad, Steven, the Kluss boys and the Jensen brothers digging a fort in the gully. Mom was sharing a cup of coffee with the next door neighbor, Mabel, who was holding her head in her hands with her elbows on the table for some reason. Mom took one look at me and cried, “Hold it right there, mister. Don't you dare track that dirt in my clean house. I'll get the broom. Excuse me Mabel.”

She hustled to the closet, snatched the broom, closed the door and stepped out on the porch.

“Bobby, I need to talk with Mabel in private for a few minutes. Do you want to go ride your bike to Carlson's and have a burger, fries and a shake for dinner?” she said as she swept me from top to bottom.

“Really? Oh, yeah, you bet I do."

“You'll have to bring some back for John and Dad too.”

“But what do you want Mom?” She smiled at me and patted my head. She gave me a last sweep, stared at me for a long second or two and then suddenly hugged me. I was surprised as Mom usually wasn't the hugging type, thank goodness.

“Get me one of those foot-long hotdogs and some curly fries. Now, shoo and don't stop at the bowling alley or the willow trees.”

“What's wrong with Mabel?” I asked.

Mom looked around as if someone was listening to us and whispered in my ear, “ Mabel had a tragedy.”

She waved at me, handed me some money and pointed toward my bike. The new, clean me jumped on my trusty bike and zoomed off. I pretended I was being chased by Gus Monrose, the villain in the latest Hardy Boy mystery, The Shore Road , that Mike Jensen had given to me two days ago. I got the order from Carlson's Drive-In and didn't think it would hurt to make a quick stop at Imperial Bowl to get a Mountain Dew and take a wizz. I chugged the pop and resisted playing a few games of pin-ball. I pumped up the last hill with Gus still on my trail and coasted into the carport. I busted through the back door. Mom looked up and pointed downstairs. Mabel was still there.

That was fine with me as the basement was dark and cool. Besides, it was time for one of my favorite shows to come on. I flipped on the black and white console TV and wolved down my burger and fries.

I must have dozed off watching Maverick and woke up when my older brother, John, smacked me on the head with his knuckle. “Where's the food, Bonehead?” I pointed at the sacks, he grabbed them and disappeared upstairs.

I heard Dad leaving later for a meeting. Shortly after the Nash took off, Mom came downstairs, carrying a laundry basket. After starting the washing machine she came over and sat down.

“Mabel killed a little boy today,” she said.

“What?" I yelled jumping up.

“Take it easy, Bobby.”

“Why did she do that, Mom?”

“It was an accident. She hit him up on Thain Road while driving home in her Plymouth. He rode his bike out in front of her and she couldn't stop in time,” Mom said.

“Is she going to jail?” I asked.

“No, but there's a problem. She was speeding. Look, Bobby, it's going to be in the paper tomorrow so I am counting on you to make sure none of your buddies starts saying anything bad about Mabel. She's a gentle, wonderful lady and a good friend. She needs our help.”

“I'll pound anyone who says anything rotten about her,” I said.

“I don't want any fighting! Some people will talk; they always do. Remember, she lost her only son six years ago and still isn't over it. This is a real tragedy, not a TV show. Not only for that poor little boy and his parents but for poor Mabel. I am worried she may never be able to forgive herself,” she said while dabbing her eyes.

I was taking the trash out to the burning barrel that night when I heard some sobs coming from Mabel's back patio. I tired not to spy but saw Ernie, her husband, holding Mabel in his arms. She was crying which for some reason made me start tearing up too. I crept away. I wasn't used to seeing grownups cry.

The next day, I saw Ernie drive away in the Plymouth. Mabel never drove a car again that I remember.