Comebacks: Fall seven, rise eight. Repeat.

This is what a comeback looks like.

Lately, that phrase has been hammering my brain. It comes unbidden, while I’m drifting off to sleep, reading, walking, spacing out, brushing the cats, running that 4 a.m. miracle mile. Those seven words just show up out of the blue, and when they do my heart leaps, breath skips, and sometimes for a few minutes or a few hours, everything changes. 

Not sure if the phrase came first and then the mindset, or if a shift in mindset triggered the phrase. Not sure where all this is taking me. But something is different. 

There’s been a change of heart. (Tom Petty) 

It’s time to let go of some old things and embrace something new. 

Take your best shot. Let me see what you got. (Springsteen) 

The other day at the gym, I did speedwork. I haven’t done speedwork in months, and the little that I had done back then was, in my opinion at the time, embarrassingly pathetic. 

Words matter. Calling a hard day when you still had the guts to show up and try “embarrassingly pathetic” is a great way to destroy your ego, hopes, dreams, which is likely why I’ve avoided anything connected to running lately. 

My self-talk was killing me, and I only recently figured that out. I don’t know how or why I figured that out. But I’m glad I did because now I’m starting to understand what I need to do. 

Last week, when I forced myself to get on the dreadmill, I changed the narrative.  “Five minutes. If you hate it after five minutes, you can quit. But give yourself five minutes.”

I lasted five minutes times nine. 

After that first five minutes, it didn’t occur to me to quit. 

I could have kept going, and in my younger days probably would have. I stopped after 45 minutes because my hips and knees started aching, likely because the tendons, ligaments, muscles, bones were feeling a little shocked. I hadn’t worked out like this in ages. 

Bad thoughts slammed me as I limped off the machine: “How out of shape are YOU? Shame. Shame. Shame.” 

But then came this: Fall seven, rise eight. 

Then this, a tiny voice that got louder and louder: “Hey! Look at you, still out there! Way to go!”

And then: “This is what a comeback looks like.”

Maybe it’s that, with the CPAP, my sleep has improved and hence my body and brain. (link to needing CPAP/ whining about CPAP post:  https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2026/07/i-hate-my-cpap-and-so-can-you.html)

I dunno. 

What’s important is that I’m attuned to a new wave, one focused on seeking out the good stuff I need and finding it everywhere.

There’s beauty all around me. (derivation of Navajo prayer) 

On August 1 I set a goal: move with intention every day for the month. 

Here’s how that’s gone so far: 

August 1: 3-mile walk, weights

2: 4 miles

3: 4 miles, weights

4: run 45 min, bike 30 min

5: 6 miles on elliptical, weights

6: 3 miles ell, bike 45 min

7: 6 miles ell, weights

8: 1 mile walk (steamy and humid, scorching sun, no shade anywhere, worn out, each step felt like I was pushing a truck, cue tiny violin)

9: 1 mile walk (still seventh circle of hell heat)

10: 3.5-mile walk (steamy but finally starting to acclimate) 

Ten years ago, this would be nothing. 

Ten years ago, life was totally different. 

I’ve never been this age before and never lived this kind of life before. This is new territory. 

Don’t look back. A new day’s breaking. (Boston) 

Here’s something about last week’s stats that makes me smile: On six of those days, those walks looked like tenth of a mile increments, done minutes at a time over hours. I work a part-time job outdoors (best job ever) and must stay within a certain area. 

I could have chosen to sit in the shade on a beach chair the entire time, sipping on ice water, listening to some tunes, scrolling through social media.  Instead, I took every opportunity I could find to get up and move. I’m bummed I didn’t do more on days 8 and 9, but given the temps and the intensity of the previous week’s workouts, each day represented the best I could give. 

Rise again, little fighter. (White Lion) 

I wrote this today and am putting it out into the world because right now I need to hold myself accountable and this is one way to do so. I have 21 more days of intentional movement. When I started on August 1, I thought that would look like walking at least three miles and/ or hitting the gym every day. I think I need to be more flexible and reframe my goals. 

That’s cool too. Part of goal setting is checking in and adjusting. 

Fall seven, rise eight. 

Fail better. 

There are going to be good days. There are going to be bad. There are days I’ll want to give up and days I won’t want to stop. 

I’ll only go ‘til the sun explodes. (Sublime) 

I am titanium. (Sia and for real – I’m a Titanium level Marathon Maniac)

Been a long time, but I'm back in town. (Lady Gaga)

This is what a comeback looks like. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hate my CPAP and so can you!

 The indignities of aging. . . where to begin? 

“Old age is no place for sissies.”  (Bette Davis, award-winning actress)

“Inside every old person is a young person wondering what happened.” (Sir Terry Pratchett, author, humorist, satirist)

“We all are going to die.” (Joni Ernst, Iowa senator, cerebral orator bar none) 

I expected – even welcomed to some extent – the wrinkles and gray hair. All part of the process, I figure. And I’ve lost an inch – an entire inch!!! – from my already shorter than average frame, but these things happen.  Every day is a gift, right?  

The latest:  Now I use a CPAP and, you’ve been warned, felt like sharing. 

 

Since bonking at the Tokyo Marathon last year, I’ve seen tons of doctors. None could find any reason for my symptoms of dizziness, fatigue, general malaise. Some blamed the blood pressure meds I was on at the time. Others shrugged and said maybe I was dehydrated. But a few months ago, the pulmonologist I was sent to by the cardiologist who found nothing wrong with my heart, thank goodness, added another piece to the puzzle: severe sleep apnea. 

No idea how long I’ve had it. Seems like I’ve been tired forever. Yes, sleep has been hard to come by in recent years. Working full-time while caring for ill parents then coping with their deaths took a huge toll on me, physically and mentally.  

And then there was the overlapping exhaustion from running all those marathons. Yes, that pursuit of endurance excellence helped me cope. In many ways, I was and am super strong. But also, that physical stress, along with the stress of all that travel, added to all the other stress?  In retrospect, the last decade or so was a non-stop roller coaster ride featuring every emotion on the spectrum, and what little downtime wasn’t really downtime. It was mostly staring into space from sheer exhaustion time. 

And lately, add to that the ever- present mushroom cloud overhead. Like many other Americans I haven’t slept well since the presidential election. How I know the present political insanity is weighing on me: A few months back, saw a post that the loser had kicked the bucket.  Those immediate feelings of lightness, goodwill, and joy? Indescribable. Equally as hard to put into words -- that awful weightiness that descended when I learned that the news was false and the creep was still of this earth. 

Given all this, when the pulmonologist ordered the sleep study referral back in January, I did exactly what I thought was right. I ignored the referral because though I have no medical degree, I had a running tally in my head that gave me all sorts of valid reasons why I was tired so why should I listen to a doctor?  Idiot. 

Finally in May, exhausted beyond exhausted, constantly falling asleep while trying to read, write, exist, it hit me that doing a sleep study might be worth my while. 

Here’s what the sleep study involved: next to nothing. I called the sleep study office. They sent me a package. I didn’t need to go anywhere overnight. Didn’t need to travel out of state or visit strange offices. Didn’t need to arrange for someone to feed the cats or check on the house. 

All I had to do before I went to bed that night the package arrived was open it, and  follow some basic instructions involving a cannula and a pulse oximeter, that contraption doctors stick on your finger to measure oxygen. It sort of looks like a clothespin.  I remember waking up the next morning, eight hours of sleep later – or so I thought, feeling unusually refreshed because I’d just had the best sleep ever, and thinking of the cannula and company, “Well that was a huge waste of time.” 

But dutifully, I sent the package back through the mail. A week later, I got the results and my mind was blown. 

Based on what I thought at the time was a decent night’s sleep, I have severe sleep apnea. Turns out, that night I slept a total of five hours and 44 minutes, during which I stopped breathing an average 45 times per hour and my oxygen at one point dropped to just 80 percent. And for me, that was a GOOD night’s rest. Guess that goes to show just how far gone I was. 

Here’s what happens when you stop breathing 45 times in an hour: oxygen levels plummet, adrenaline spikes, blood pressure goes nuts. Restorative REM and deep sleep? Forget about it. There’s no such thing when you are waking up once every minute or so. Multiply that by days, weeks, months, years. Your risk of dizzy symptoms, arrythmia, stroke, heart attack, diabetes, depression, anxiety, go through the roof. 

Every symptom I’ve experienced the last few years, what I put down to normal aging, coping with loss, overtraining, adapting to new meds, all of it, can likely be traced to severe sleep apnea.  How crazy is that? 

I truly thought the doctor was nuts, ordering that exam for healthy-as-a-marathoner me. Boy was I wrong. 

Within days of getting my results, I was in the pulmonologist’s office. Within a week after that, I was getting fitted for a CPAP, which was super easy. 

At that appointment, which lasted 45 minutes, I learned how to care for my machine, which is roughly the size and weight of one of those AM-FM digital clock radios every college kid had back in the 80s. I was measured for and given a mask, a bit of plastic about three inches long, that attaches to my nostrils and straps onto the back of my head, where a tube runs from the strap to the machine. I was given an app so I could track my usage and measure my progress. 

I would love to tell you that the CPAP was a dream and so easy to get used to. That was not the case. It’s no accident that up to 30 percent of users abandon their CPAP within the first few weeks. It’s not natural to sleep with a bit of plastic attached to your face. The first night, I was up every hour or so, tugging on the tube, adjusting the mask.  Even woke up panicking a few times because I thought I was suffocating. 

Exhausted the next morning, I was so discouraged, convinced that this was all a very stupid idea and that nothing was ever going to change and I was doomed to a life of fatigue. 

Then I checked the app. Turns out I slept 8 hours, a whopping amount. My breathing stopped an average 12 times an hour, not fantastic but a huge improvement over the 45 times/ hour of my initial test. 

But why was I so worn out?  Shouldn’t I have felt refreshed, finally? I remembered that the nurse told me that I might not start feeling better for weeks. I needed to be patient. One step at a time, I remember thinking. Marathoning is good training when it comes to remembering the big picture. 

I’m one of the 70 percent of CPAP users who kept at it, spurred on by two things. First, my insurance would make me pay for the machine if I didn’t use it 21 out of 30 days for a minimum of four hours a day. Second, I was desperate for something to change. I truly was not myself at all, almost literally sleepwalking through life. 

Weeks, the nurse had said. I’d need to wait weeks to see results, she insisted. The nurse was wrong. By the afternoon of day two, I was feeling better than I’d felt in ages. Proof: I hit the gym and stayed a phenomenal ninety minutes on the cardio equipment, then managed 45 minutes of weights.  I swear I even got a tiny endorphin high. 

Things continued to improve. By week two, I was averaging under ten events per hour. Week three that amount was hovering close to five, which is considered within the normal range. Now seven weeks in, if I have more than four events per hour it’s unusual. This week, I averaged 3.4 events a night. The app gives you a numeric score that considers hourly usage, events, mask removal times. I started in the low 90s, and this week averaged 100 percent, which is an excellent description of how I feel; I have more energy now than I’ve had in ages;  think more clearly; blood pressure is improved. I’m craving healthier foods, and I look forward to going to bed. 

That’s an unexpected gift – looking forward to sleep. Because I struggled with falling asleep these last few years, I got in the habit of spending hours most evenings dozing upright in front of the television. A form of self-medication, I guess. 

The CPAP isn’t something I care to use in the kitchen or living room. It needs to be plugged in and must rest on a flat surface. For me to use it comfortably, I need to be in bed. So, I’m going to bed earlier, forgoing all the junk TV I once watched and fell asleep in front of. 

And the CPAP IS comfortable now. I’m used to it. It took about two weeks or so, but my body adapted. 

I could sing my CPAP’s praises all day, but that doesn’t change the fact that I really, truly hate the thing. Yes, I’m glad I can finally sleep at night and that I have much more energy during the day. But the CPAP is a stark reminder that, despite my best efforts to stave off the signs of aging, I’m getting older. 

While the doctor can’t say specifically why I need to use this machine, it likely comes down to the harsh fact that I’ve got six decades of living under my belt. I’ve got strong legs and a heart that won’t quit anytime soon, fingers crossed.  But the muscles that support my breathing don’t have the tone they once did, and that’s hard to accept. 

 Right now, I’m exploring ways to change that, because I’m not quite ready to go gentle into that CPAP-supported night. But I know the truth, that this CPAP stuff is most likely permanent. 

And then there’s the fact that you can’t always outrun genetics. Thankfully, at present I don’t have the cardiac issues one parent had, or the lung issues of the other. But despite my exercise regimes, and (mostly) healthy habits, I have nonetheless been duly blessed with the same two hernias as my mother, who never marathoned a day in her life, and have been equally graced with my father’s and grandmother’s acid reflux issues. There IS a family history when it comes to sleep apnea too. 

 Ultimately, this machine, while giving me new life, is a reminder of my own mortality. That’s sobering but also a gift in a way, I guess. 

That greatest of great philosophers, Ferris Bueller, got it right when he said, “Life moves pretty fast.” I’m glad I’m not sleepwalking through it anymore. But geez, if time could slow down just a little, that would be great. 

Oh well.  Onward and upward. Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead. 

Forward, ho.  

Epstein West Palm Beach Survivor Hearing #6: Roza - "Releasing my name while redacting the names of the powerful is a choice."

 

May 12, 2026, at West Palm Beach City Hall, a group of Epstein sexual assault survivors gave testimony regarding their abuse and the government's response. I listened to this hearing, which lasted about three hours, while I was out on a long walk. 

The next morning, I was searching news sites for more information on the hearing and was surprised at how little was out there. This earth-shattering stuff about billionaire sexual assaults, massive government failure, and the stories of the women who survived all of this and are speaking truth to power took some serious time to find. 

Under one video, someone posted, “This is awful. Why aren’t we hearing more about this?” My exact thoughts. 

I went back and listened again to the hearings. Because I was now sitting at a table and not navigating roads, I was able to watch them too. I took notes and am doing my best to summarize and condense, one survivor at a time. 

I’m trying to avoid editorializing. It’s not my place. The point of this exercise is to share what the survivors said. This is my attempt to help get the word out. 

Each survivor speaks for eight to ten minutes. My notes should take just a minute or two to skim, if you’re so inclined. Please watch the video too and correct me if I need correcting. It’s important to get this right. 

 

Link to hearing video: 

https://www.youtube.com/live/fHntY5BVY90?si=ag85yR9MrzXJaI5V

 

This link brings you to a 7/20/2026 CNN story that goes into more detail about Roza, the horrors she faced at the hands of Epstein, and and reveals how strong she continues to be (might have to copy and paste link):

 https://www.cnn.com/2026/07/20/politics/roza-gilles-jeffrey-epstein-victim-abuse

Roza’s talk begins at 54:30 and lasts about six minutes. She stops often to wipe her nose and catch her breath. It’s obvious this hearing takes a great toll on her. 

 

In 2008 at age 18 in her home country, Uzbekistan, Roza was recruited as a model by MC2 Model Management owner Jean-Luc Brunel. 

“Coming from a financially unstable background, I was the perfect target for coercion.”

She was promised a modeling career “beyond my dreams.”

In less than six months, the modeling company secured an O-1 visa for her, despite the fact she had none of the necessary qualifications. 

(The O-1 Visa is a work visa for individuals with extraordinary ability in sciences, arts, education, business, or athletics, or exceptional achievement in television and film.)

By May 2009, she was isolated in New York City, controlled in a manner she’d never previously experienced. Soon after her arrival, the agency claimed she owed it $10,000. She had no money, and no local family or friends to turn to for help. 

The modeling company controlled every aspect of her life: where she went, how she dressed, how she looked. The agency gave her enough of an allowance to “keep me afloat,” but never enough to let her be independent. 

Less than a month after arriving in the US, the agency sent her “to the home of a registered sex offender”—Jeffrey Epstein in West Palm Beach, who was under house arrest at the time, after serving 13 months of an 18 month prostitution sentence.  

There, she was introduced to his girlfriend Ghislaine Maxwell and was told that she was a photographer who would help Roza build her portfolio.

Epstein “used the names of powerful politicians and his friendships with others in authority to demonstrate his influence." He said he was an investor in her modeling agency. 

He joked about his time in jail the previous year, describing it as “a game,” and bragged about how girls would visit him in his cell. 

He offered her a position answering phones at the Florida Science Foundation to help with her financial troubles. 

“One day, his masseuse called me into his room, where I was molested for the first time by Jeffrey Epstein.” 

Over the next three years, she was “subject to ongoing rape.”

Roza emphasized again that at the time of these rapes, Jeffrey Epstein was under house arrest “for the molestation of underage girls.”

“The fact that he could commit those acts made justice feel impossible to me” and took away Roza's  ability to seek help.  

She was not allowed to go back to New York City until after Epstein was released from house arrest, “where my nightmares continued.”

Those years of abuse turned into decades of fear that she still carries with her today. 

She eventually stepped forward with other survivors, hoping that those who allowed this to happen would be held accountable, and was assured that her identity would be protected.

Then the Epstein files were released.

“I woke up one day with my name mentioned over 500 times.”

“While the rich and powerful remain protected by redaction, my name was exposed to the world. Now reporters from across the globe contact me. I cannot live without looking over my shoulder. I can only imagine the long-term effect this mistake will have on my life.”

“I wanted to be a doctor when I was a kid.  I want to end this statement with a story.” 

She then told the story of Dr. Ignaz Semmelweis, who in the 1800s discovered the connection between maternal deaths and lack of medical hygiene, noting particularly that it was not unusual for doctors to go from the autopsy room to the delivery ward without thoroughly washing their hands. He hypothesized that cadaver particles from the corpses were transferred to mothers giving birth, leading to deadly infections.

He advocated for thorough handwashing and established strict sanitary protocols in his own practice.

Roza said the medical community rejected his findings, because they didn’t want to accept the reality that something as simple as their own inadequate hygiene practices was responsible for patient deaths. Doctors continued to operate with dirty hands, which lead to scores of preventable maternal deaths. 

Semmelweis was ostracized from the medical community, lost his job, and eventually was committed to an asylum.  

Roza likened the government’s actions in aiding and abetting Epstein to those physicians who ignored or maligned Semmelweis for advocating better sanitary practices. 

“Releasing my name while redacting the names of the powerful is a choice. It’s a choice to prioritize the comfort of institution over the safety of the survivors. The evidence is right here. Yet those in power would rather us die socially, emotionally, and physically rather than admit their own complicity.

“I am no longer Jane Doe hiding in the files. I’m a woman, a fighter, and I’m a witness. And I’m begging you, please wash your hands.” 

 

Epstein West Palm Beach Survivor Hearing #5: Epstein used her mother’s brain tumor to force compliance

 

Took a long break from reporting survivor testimony. But the recent news that the president of the United States on June 29 lost his appeal of the $5 million E. Jean Carroll verdict reminded me that when it comes to speaking truth to power, there’s no time like the present. 

We live in a country where: 

Half the country elected an adjudicated rapist who also has more than two dozen credible sexual harassment/ assault accusations lodged against him. Here’s a partial listing of his accusers, as of September 2020, if you care to check that out: https://abcnews.com/Politics/list-trumps-accusers-allegations-sexual-misconduct/story?id=51956410.

This week, billionaire businessman Steve Witkoff, a Trump-appointed US Envoy with no diplomatic experience  and no experience whatsoever in mediating between warring nations, who has massive economic ties and business interests in the Middle East, yelled at and cut the microphone of Congresswoman Madeleine Dean (D-PA) during a congressional briefing call on the Iran ceasefire deal. Per Dean, he called her questions “smart-assed” and “stupid” after she asked questions about the terms of the memorandum of understanding and asked Witkoff about his business interests in the region. A special envoy muted a Congresswoman’s microphone. 

He called her names because he didn’t like her questions. Apparently, this is how we treat women now, which makes complete sense because our role model misogynist president regularly blasts female reporters on their looks and intelligence. Piggies everywhere. 

So given these latest insults to women everywhere, it felt like a good time to revisit the West Palm hearings, and share more words from the women, young girls at the time of the abuse and  barely teens some of them, whose lives were changed forever, by our president’s dear friend, Jeffrey Epstein – with whom Trump shared many “wonderful secrets.” (Per the birthday card Trump says he didn’t send to Epstein.)

May 12, 2026, at West Palm Beach City Hall, a group of Epstein sexual assault survivors gave testimony regarding their abuse and the government's response. I listened to this hearing, which lasted about three hours, while I was out on a long walk. 

The next morning, I was searching news sites for more information on the hearing and was surprised at how little was out there. This earth-shattering stuff about billionaire sexual assaults, massive government failure, and the stories of the women who survived all of this and are speaking truth to power took some serious time to find. 

Under one video, someone posted, “This is awful. Why aren’t we hearing more about this?” My exact thoughts. 

I went back and listened again to the hearings. Because I was now sitting at a table and not navigating roads, I was able to watch them too. I took notes and am doing my best to summarize and condense, one survivor at a time. 

I’m trying to avoid editorializing. It’s not my place. The point of this exercise is to share what the survivors said. This is my attempt to help get the word out. 

Each survivor speaks for eight to ten minutes. My notes should take just a minute or two to skim, if you’re so inclined. Please watch the video too and correct me if I need correcting. It’s important to get this right. 

 

Link to hearing video: 

https://www.youtube.com/live/fHntY5BVY90?si=ag85yR9MrzXJaI5V

Dani Bensky’s talk begins at 47:10 and continues for about five minutes. 

Epstein abused her in 2004 and 2005, eight years after Maria Farmer first reported Jeffrey Epstein to the FBI. 

She was seventeen. 

She lives with PTSD because of the trauma she experienced. 

Was trafficked “only” to Jeffrey, “which unfortunately is not the case for so many others.” 

Was recruited by two other young women, one in late teens, one only 13 who was trying to escape Epstein’s abuse by bringing him new girls.

Epstein weaponized her “aspirations and dreams” by weaponizing the language of the dance community – she was a dancer -- and making false promises. 

Shortly before meeting Epstein, Bensky’s mother was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Bensky saw Epstein’s name on a donor wall and contacted him, thinking he was a medical expert and could use his pull to help her mother. 

Instead, he sexually abused her. Then he “used her mother’s brain scans against her” and told her she needed to either recruit more girls for him or do more for him.

She recruited no one, “just endured the abuse.” 

In May 2005, mom had successful tumor removal and Bensky was able to “escape Jeffrey’s web.” 

To keep her from reporting him to authorities, Epstein threatened her friend and told Bensky she would be arrested for prostitution if she went to police. 

The Epstein reports that have so far been released have shown Bensky’s name multiple times, her address, her employer at the time, where she was studying, “and other identifying information.”

In one document, her nickname was redacted, but just a few lines later, her entire legal name was not. 

“I am just one of hundreds of survivors exposed like this.”

She learned a few weeks before the hearing that her name appeared yet again in a newly-released third batch consisting of only twenty documents.

These results are available to “the whole world. . .  my child, my students, my students’ parents, my friends, my employers, my colleagues, my family. I am public.” 

This outing of survivor names does real, irrevocable damage. 

For Bensky, accountability looks like: removing perpetrators from power, seeing arrests made, and laws passed that further protect victim’s rights.  

“When systems protect the powerful rather than the victim, abuse becomes normalized. “

 

 

 

Epstein West Palm Beach Survivor Hearing #4: Jena-Lisa Jones, a high school freshman when Epstein attacked

May 12, 2026, at West Palm Beach City Hall, a group of Epstein sexual assault survivors gave testimony regarding their abuse and the government's response. I listened to this hearing, which lasted about three hours, while I was out on a long walk. 

The next morning, I was searching news sites for more information on the hearing and was surprised at how little was out there. This earth-shattering stuff about billionaire sexual assaults, massive government failure, and the stories of the women who survived all of this and are speaking truth to power took some serious time to find. 

Under one video, someone posted, “This is awful. Why aren’t we hearing more about this?” My exact thoughts. 

I went back and listened again to the hearings. Because I was now sitting at a table and not navigating roads, I was able to watch them too. I took notes and am doing my best to summarize and condense, one survivor at a time. 

I’m trying to avoid editorializing. It’s not my place. The point of this exercise is to share what the survivors said. This is my attempt to help get the word out. 

Each survivor speaks for eight to ten minutes. My notes should take just a minute or two to skim, if you’re so inclined. Please watch the video too and correct me if I need correcting. It’s important to get this right. 

Link to hearing video: 

https://www.youtube.com/live/fHntY5BVY90?si=ag85yR9MrzXJaI5V

Jena-Lisa Jones begins her five-minute talk at 40:20. 

Her voice shakes but she soldiers on, wiping away tears as she speaks. 

She was a freshman in high school in West Palm Beach, age 14, when she was attacked by Epstein. 

“For a long time, I stayed silent because I was afraid and I did not understand how this could happen to me.”

She demands government transparency and accountability. 

How was Epstein given a non-prosecution agreement even though there was evidence he abused dozens of children, including her?

How was he allowed to leave jail in 2009 and continue harming young girls?

The Department of Justice continues to harm survivors by publicly releasing survivor’s names, social security numbers, and deeply personal information. As a result: 

-              Husbands learned of their wives’ abuse. 

-              Children learned of the abuse of their mothers from reporters, strangers on the internet, and other kids at school. 

-              Fellow survivors learned that some of their friends had also been abused because they saw their names. 

-              Survivors saw the most intimate details of their own trauma publicly exposed. 

Government promised repeatedly that survivors' info would be protected. “We came to you seeking answers for why our rights were violated in 2007, and in that process our rights were violated again. “

If the government is serious about making changes it must acknowledge the failures – when Epstein was set free in 2009 and again “when our privacy was shattered this year.” 

The government must take responsibility by providing “meaningful remedies” to the survivors who’ve been harmed over and over again.  

“Don’t force us to relive this through more litigation. “

Pass a law requiring the government to compensate victims for the harm caused by releasing this information 

Do not pardon Ghislaine Maxwell. 

If there are other men who have hurt women, prosecute them also. But please leave the survivors alone. 

If a woman tells you she is a victim, listen to her. Believe her. Respect her trauma.

“Epstein tried to paint his victims as bad guys to avoid responsibility for himself. Learn and understand that.”

“Sharing our stories should be a choice, the choice I was able to make today.” Testifying should not be something survivors are forced to do. 

Women abused by Epstein and groomed by Maxwell should not be treated like criminals. 

Do not blame survivors for the crimes of the abusers. 

Education is job one. 

“I’m here for our children.”

“I didn’t have the language. Didn’t know who to tell. Didn’t have the tools or support we needed.”

Every middle and high school student in the nation needs to receive instruction on the signs of sexual abuse and exploitation and how to report it. 

Train adults and provide accessible resources. 

Real change requires leadership at a national level. One of the most important places to begin is in our schools. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unpacking the drive home: One box at a time

The most recent drive from cornfields to clam flats was stressful, to say the least. The worst of it? I brought the stress on myself, because foremost in my brain was the memory of the last time I drove east with my pets. It was on that trip, exactly a year ago, that one of my cats, Gus Gus, passed away.

 I had no idea he was ill. Though I suspected something was off, I assumed the issue was more about territorial posturing than anything medical. 

Gus was older, wiser, and had always been a spoiled, domesticated feline prince.  

Patrick my newest addition, hated him. Pat was younger, bigger, and rougher. He’d spent the first year of his life in survival mode, a tough street cat. Then I trapped him. Within weeks, he was settled in like the royalty he was born to be. 

Given that he was at heart a cat, Gus was unusually tolerant of Patrick. When they first met, Gus tried cuddling him and even gave Pat first dibs on their shredded cat food. But when it came to Gus, Pat was all about winning. 

Gus was a pile of mush. Patrick was and still is an alpha. There was one year of battles before we embarked on that devastating fateful trip last year. 

I didn’t realize Gus was in serious trouble until the second, the final night, of our voyage. When I let the cats out of their carriers in our cut-rate, highway motel – pets welcome, the others scampered out and immediately commenced sniffing around. 

Gus didn’t move. I pulled him from the carrier. He tried to stand but trembling, sunk back onto his tummy. In seconds, I was online searching emergency vets. Found one just a few miles down the road. Three hours, two thousand dollars of testing, and many tears later, Gus passed away.  

Numb, exhausted, I ordered his cremains sent to where we were headed, went back to the motel, got no sleep, then drove another four hundred miles the next day. 

How stressed out did all this make me? His box arrived a few weeks later, while I was running a marathon in another state about three hundred miles south. I got the delivery notification while I was taking a water break about fifteen miles in. 

I panicked, picturing poor Gus’s box outside on the cement stoop in the elements and subject to rain, heat, predators. Instead of running, I commenced walking, and started searching phone numbers, calling neighbors I barely knew, and leaving messages pleading that they pleasepleaseplease keep the box safe for me until I got back a few days later. I spent more time the next hour planning for Gus’s remains than I did running on the course. 

When I got home, after two marathons in two days, I was so relieved to have that cardboard box in my possession. I don’t even recall what I did with the race medals. 

I couldn’t bring myself to unpack Gus’s box. It stayed on the table next to the front door the entire summer. When the other pets and I drove back to cornfield land that fall, I packed it with the rest of my luggage. 

That same package, wrapped in postal service tape, covered in stamps, stayed on my bedside table all fall, winter, spring. 

It was on the table when I went to bed. I’d notice it with some surprise, and say to myself, “I should really open that. It's too late now. I’ll do it tomorrow.” 

Tomorrow would come and the box would be there, still waiting. Again, I’d look at it like I’d never seen it before and think, “I’ll open it before I go to bed tonight.” 

For nine months it sat there, untouched. For the better part of a year, I reminded myself each night and morning that I should really open that box, but I never did. 

Then, a few days ago I was packing the car for this next trip east. The trunk was full and I’d just put down a folded blanket on the back seat and put puppy pads on top of that, just enough room for three cat carriers, along with their food, bowls, litter, plus a backpack with some overnight things for me. 

All that was left was to get myself and the kitties in the car the next morning then drive the 1,300 +miles route I’ve driven at least a dozen times. 

I’ve driven east two times since Gus passed, but this was the first trip back since then that I’d be taking the cats. 

The replaying of that horrible night that Gus died would not leave my head. 

For the billionth time I looked at that little cardboard box, and I swear that box looked right back at me. Without another thought, I ripped off the band aid. In seconds, mailing tape curled at my feet.  In my hands I held a simple mahogany box, silky to the touch, with Gus’s name engraved on a silvery plate on top. It was beautiful and horrible. 

Gently, I placed the box at the bottom of my pocketbook, which always stays attached to my body when I travel. There was something comforting about having Gus close by. The proximity meant he was in my thoughts the whole drive. 

I don't think the world is a welcoming place right now, but for some reason having Gus near me shifted my mindset. I was overly solicitous when it came to making sure the cats were comfortable: multiple stops, head pats, treats. Poor things. I woke them from some solid naps just so that I could scratch their little chins. I looked for kindness on the road and found it. 

Day one

First. Coffee and gas stop in Iowa. Amazing kind clerk who asked so many questions about Massachusetts -- while I was itching to get on the road and doing my best to disguise my impatience -- and told me about how he hoped to visit one day but for now his favorite place was Colorado, which he visited once with his dad when he was little. 

Him: There were huge mountains all around me. I felt so tiny. It was awesome. 

Second. At new to me motel in Ohio which online said it allowed pets. 

Me, exhausted after driving 665 miles with constant threat of high winds and heavy thunderstorms, checking in: First, chatted with the clerk about how bad the traffic was, then said, “Sorry.  I’m a little impatient. It’s warm out (88 degrees at 7 pm) and the cats are in the car, and I don’t want them to overheat. 

Clerk, brusquely: Oh, we don’t allow pets. Sorry. 

Me, agitated in a way that one can only be after a day living on large coffees and bottles of diet, caffeinated soda:  But that’s not what it says online. 

Clerk: Oh. (silent for two beats while I imagine being forced back in the car, driving forever, falling asleep at the wheel, crashing, burning, etc.) I don’t see any cats here. You’re all set. Enjoy your stay. 

Day two

First. Dawn, coffee and gas stop in Ohio at a favorite stop.

Young guy in beat up shirt, torn jeans, scuffed work boots while we both are filling our coffee cups: If you’re looking for the half and half, it’s right here. (I said no but thanks.) Yeah. I drove all the way across town from XYZ because they didn’t have half and half. Love that stuff. 

Me: We humans are weird, aren’t we?

Him, grinning:  Got that right. You have a good day, Miss.  

Second. Walking out of same coffee place, two kids, middle schoolers maybe, see me coming, arms full of coffee and sandwiches. They smile, hold interior and exterior doors for me, and nod when I say thank you. 

There was kindness everywhere on the roads. From the only other car on the Ohio Turnpike also with Massachusetts plates that I traded lanes with for a hundred miles to the closed, traffic jammed sections where drivers motioned me to cut in front of them and  returned my thank you waves.

So minor, I know. But it all mattered because things got better. The roads lost their danger. The constant storm clouds gradually got less menacing. Noticing the small kindnesses made a huge difference. 

When I got to my ocean, 1,379 miles from the start the day before, I did the usual: stumbled from the car on half-wake legs and gave them a quick shake, then jogged over the shell-strewn sand to say hello to the mighty waves of her highness, the majestic Atlantic. Normally, I inhale the views and breathe in the salt for as long as it takes to bring my road-battered brain back to life. But today I had passengers waiting so I kept things brief. 

At the water, I bent down, ran fingertips through the waves, genuflected, and said a quick prayer of thanks. Not a practicing Catholic anymore, but some habits die hard. Those roads aren’t easy.  I’m grateful that on so many of these trips, things have mostly been good. 

The water sang and sparkled as two ferries on the horizon shining bright as clouds played tag, back and forth, back and forth. I saw my first shirtless runner of the season and for the first time in ages thought about running again. Maybe. 

Got back in the car fast because the beasties needed to stretch their legs too. 

A few minutes later, me and the cats -- Patrick, and David and Alexis Rose, were out of our cages. While the furry ones scrambled and sniffed at dusty corners and scratch-free-for-now upholstery, I got their food and water and their Gus all set. 

The food and water is by the back door so the cats can watch our squirrels and chipmunks while they eat. Gus is upstairs on my bureau next to my writing journal, a bunch of pens, a handful of coins, and three of my favorite running hats. 

I still have a ton to unpack. This morning I started that by writing. As always, it’s good to be home.