Monthly Archives: November 2009

Thoughts on Four Murdered Cops

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One of the things on my bucket list is saving a law enforcement officer’s life. They saved mine. In 1984 when I was held up and shot in the head at point blank range, members of the NYPD’s 84th Precinct were there in a flash and took me to the hospital. When I heard that four police officers from the City of Lakewood in Washington state were murdered in cold blood my bucket list commitment strengthened and my heart broke.

They four murdered officers are, Tina Griswold, 40; Ronald Owens, 37; Mark Renninger, 39; and Greg Richards, 42. They had families, friends, people who loved them, people they loved. They had dreams and hopes. And, they had a right to live out their lives. If that doesn’t break your heart, consider this; as a result of their murders, nine children have lost a parent. Renninger has three kids, Owens has one, Griswold has two and Richards has three

Law enforcement officers are human beings. Too many forget that. With a media addicted to reporting the worst in people, cops get ink when one of them abuses someone, does the wrong thing. And yes, when a law enforcement officer crosses the line, they deserve to be taken to task like anyone else. But the family of law enforcement officers across this nation do not deserve to be defined by the mistakes of some. The cops that raced to the scene when I got shot had no damned idea what they were walking into. Shots fired, man screaming for help. What can the get from that other than there has been gunfire? But they came anyway to stop the gunfire and try and save my life and they didn’t even know me! Their actions, going towards gunfire as opposed to away from it, are heroic by any measure, yet, in my case, as in the case of those like me, the media didn’t so much as lift a pen in interest.

There are four human beings dead now who had taken a job so they could protect and save lives like yours and mine.

I am sure I am not alone when I say I wish I could have protected them and saved their lives. All of my heart and soul is with their families and friends, and with their colleagues, and with all members of the law enforcement family in my country.

I am no one special and am anything but superman, but I will make this promise; if I ever encounter a situation where a law enforcement officer is being threatened or attacked, every ounce of my being will look to protect the life of the law enforcement officer. To those who might say, but Peter, you don’t even know these people or why risk your life, my answer is a simple one. The cops that saved my life didn’t know me and they risked their life to protect mine. They deserve to same and, for what it’s worth, they’ll  get it from me.

The Cost of Advocacy

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Before I get started here, let me say that nothing but the end of my life will stop me from advocating for every person’s inalienable right to equal rights. Okay, now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s begin.

It was early 2008 when I found myself in the Hannaford Supermarket talking with my friend, Eric. It was not long after I’d had all my workshops for brain injury survivors slammed to a halt and my income removed on a dime because, in short, I would not turn a blind eye or remain silent when witnessing people with disabilities, in this case brain injuries, being denied their rights and treated as if they were nothing more than wayward children.

“How you doing?” Eric asked. Eric, I should say, is someone I worked with for years and a man I genuinely love like a brother.

“I’m alright,” I said, “When I get really down I think about King and Gandhi and Medgar, and given the fact they were assassinated, I’m not doing too bad.”

“Sounds like you were assassinated,” Eric said. In a way, I knew he was right. I also knew I was alive and could and would continue advocating for people being denied their equal rights.

During this time I’d begun looking into rumors that a man who headed up a neurobehavioral project for the New York State Department of Health did not have the credentials he said he did. In time the investigation would reveal the rumors were true, he was claiming to have college degrees he did not have and had been presenting himself as this in his job for the state and in his private professional work for well over a decade.

Now the thing about investigations, an honest following of the facts, if you will, is sometimes what gets uncovered bruises people you like and care about and or leads you to discover people you thought were totally honest and honorable were not that at all. If you are wedded to the truth, you keep going, because, if you are an advocate, you know your work is not about you, it is about the ongoing effort to make sure all people are given their equal rights, period.

I lost a friend as a result of the above referenced investigation. A man who was, in my view, one of the best and most seasoned advocates I know. Still is, I am sure. However, people he cared about were wounded as a result of what I uncovered. I can’t help that and certainly didn’t intend that. I also can’t help where the facts led. If people knowingly took part in a process in which survivors of brain injury, their families, and healthcare providers were being misled, there are consequences. Can’t and won’t help that either.

But here’s the thing. The pain or wounding I’ve endured and the pain and wounding my honorable friend endured are nothing in comparison to the pain and wounding people with disabilities live with day in and day out when they are being treated like they are little children or being denied their equal rights. Which is why I will keep on advocating and I know my friend will too.

For those wondering who my friend is, I will never tell you. Why? Because he is a good and honorable person who, like me, is imperfect, and I’ll be damned if I am going to wound him because a moment came along in his life when his loyalty to a misguided person he loves blinded him to the greater good on the advocacy front. After all, like me, he is only human, and is allowed the imperfections that come with that condition. After all, he has equal rights too.

Thanksgiving, Michael Sulsona & What the Fuck

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Many years ago, around 1975 I imagine, Michael and I are driving through Coney Island in his red Karmann Ghia. As we were riding along I find myself wondering how he is able to be so comfortable in his own skin. While we have only known each other a year or two at the time, you only have to be with Michael Vincent Sulsona for twenty seconds to realize you are with someone who has the capacity to accept his reality nearly the instant it occurs, and never lose his sense of self in the process. To put this remarkable capacity to accept in context, I met Michael not long after he lost both his legs in Vietnam at age 19; he was a Marine

Anyway, there we were driving along, and I ask, “What’s your philosophy on life?” He briefly considers this and says, “What the fuck.” I remember thinking, Wow, that’s cold. So I ask what he means and he says, “When things happen you have to know when there’s nothin’ you can do about it and say, What the fuck, and keep going.” If you think about, what he is saying, you’ll realize it is a deliciously Brooklynized version of the Serenity Prayer: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Michael and I have been friends for about 35 years now. I think about writing about him but I always put the pen down knowing I don’t stand a chance in writing the difference he has made in my life. I can’t possibly articulate how much I love him, how he has, in a very real way, become my brother, how much his sons, Philip and Vincent mean to me, how I know that were it not for the solidity of their presence in my life, making it through some dark times would have been much harder.

Believe me, there are not many people I trust completely. There are some I trust completely when it comes to certain things, but very, very few that I trust completely in all things. And I can tell you right now, I trust Michael and his sons that much.

If I could do anything for Michael it would be to make some producers realize Michael is, without question, one of the best screenwriters and playwrights around. Likely one of the best my country has ever produced. He has had God knows how many plays produced, won a number of awards, and continues to produce work that is dazzling in its depth and scope. Michael is also proof the quality of ones work does not always have much to do with who buys it and produces it. Let’s face it, Dan Brown, of “Da Vinci Code” fame has made millions and, truth be told, his writing is so horrible he makes Danielle Steele look Shakespearean by comparison.

The genesis of this essay was a desire to write something for Thanksgiving. And while this essay does not do its subject matter justice, I am damned glad Michael, Vincent and Philip Sulsona are in my life. They are very much my family. And while nothing I write will ever succeed in telling them how much I love them, I’d like to say, being able to write anything about them is something I am very thankful for.

Living with a Brain Injury: Them There First Hours

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A few housekeeping things on the front end of this essay. First, no two brain injuries are exactly alike. Second, too many healthcare providers (and others) act as if they are alike and treat us as if they are alike and that does nothing by amplify the already formidable challenge of living life with a brain injury. Third, there are some similarities. One of them I will talk about here, is the fact that our relationship with our injuries changes over time. As we age, our physiology changes and we change.

Before I move on, let me say that the number one complaint I hear from survivors across my state and beyond is they are far too often treated like they are children. It’s true. I’ve witnessed it. Two facts to keep in mind: no one every suffered a brain injury and got younger, and no one ever suffered a brain injury and lost their individuality.  I was 30 when I got shot in the head and when I came to on the ground, damned if I wasn’t still 30 and, by the way, still Peter Kahrmann.

All of us who live with brain injuries face the task of learning how to recognize when the injury’s impact is present and then developing ways of managing that presence. Given that this presence changes, many injuries, for instance, are one experience when we are rested and another when we are fatigued, we are all, like everyone else on the planet, a work in progress.

Over the past months I have been relearning how to manage the first hours of my day. When I wake up in the morning I generally know the things I am supposed to do that day. Go to the store, make a phone call or two, write and answer some emails, get dog food, feed the dogs, go for a walk, work on the book, read, go to the market, and so forth.

Now, pretend for a moment, that everything I just mentioned represents a ball I want you to juggle without dropping. Not easy, perhaps impossible, which is exactly how I feel about being able to complete my day’s tasks when I wake up. Impossible! When I wake up and register the things I am supposed to do that day I am instantly overwhelmed, frightened, and positive I can do none of them. I can’t emotionally do the juggling and thus am unable to envision how on earth I will get anything done.

But there is good news. This early morning flooding is temporary. I have learned it takes my brain time to wake up and gather itself because, after being awake for a couple of hours, what felt impossible now feels very possible. And so, my early morning strategy is reminding myself that this too shall pass. So, I have my morning coffee, relax, read the news on the web, and wait for my brain to wake up.

Before I sign off here, a word to those in the healthcare field who work with us. If you don’t provide us with a non-judgmental environment that recognizes our individuality you will fail miserably in your stated desire to help us grow our lives. In fact, you will make the task of growing our lives and managing our injuries even harder. I know what I say here will make a difference to the many providers who truly do care. I also know what I say won’t make a damn bit of difference to the providers who don’t care. They’re out there too. I’ve seen’m.

Reality’s House

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Nothing but sweet talk times are long gone by

No sandcastle dreams on the horizon for this man

I’m singing soft beat rhythms in reality’s house

Striding true and steady in dreams come true

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Setting pen to paper here and my brother

Michael writing reality’s truth over there

We’re from the backstreets of hard times

Tapping out our words in reality’s house

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Not worrying now about tomorrows

Cause  tomorrows are bound to come

And when don’t no more for me my friend

I’ll have lived my time real in reality’s house

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So all you dreamers keep on dreaming

But don’t miss the magic of the day you’re in

‘Cause the magic’s here for you and

Your life living real in reality’s house