DeliaBlack's Open Salon Blog

Life's Hard Lessons, A Celebration

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 11:11:47 -0500

Today is the first anniversary of my blog on OpenSalon. I had never blogged anywhere, and I feared that if I did, it would contain little more than my self-involved ramblings. Hopefully I have occasionally risen above this level. I don't know.

I usually don't forward emails I receive, but this one was too good to pass up. I attend a group for people who have lost a loved one to homicide. The counselor forwarded this to all of us, saying only that she had permission to share it and that it was from an anonymous member of the group. I think the advice goes beyond those who have lost someone to homicide, because we all suffer loss and have to rise above it daily. We have to constantly relearn the delicate balance of taking care of others while not losing ourselves.

To say that I appreciate my year here is a vast understatement. I may be around less, because I haven't made nearly the progress I wish to make on my novel. It is hard work about a painful subject, but something I feel I have to do. I think in the end, it will be rewarding. There are so many moments in life that veer between tragedy and comedy.

My brother has often warned, "Internet people are not real people." I find the opposite here. I find so many who reveal more of themselves than most of the people I've met. I have found much comfort in difficult times. I have found a lot of laughter.

Thank you for a beautiful, weird, ironic, political, heart-wrenching, wild, hilarious, profound, obscene, instructive, spiritual year. May we have many more.

(I did not realize when I first hit publish that I was starting a new journey. My life would be much less without each of you.)

From an anonymous survivor of a homicide victim in Mississippi

"A time comes in your life when you finally get it ... when,
in the midst of all your fears and insanity, you stop dead in your tracks and
somewhere the voice inside your head cries out ENOUGH!!!

Enough fighting and crying or struggling to hold on. And, like a child quieting down after a blind tantrum, your sobs begin to s...subside, you shudder once or twice, you blink back your tears and begin to look at the world through new eyes.

This is your awakening. You realize it's time to stop hoping and waiting for something to change...or for happiness, safety and security to come galloping over the next horizon. You come to terms with the fact that you are neither Prince Charming or Cinderella and that in the real world there aren't always fairy tale endings (or beginnings for that matter) and that any
guarantee of "happily ever after" must begin with you...and in the process a sense of serenity is born of acceptance.

You awaken to the fact that you are not perfect and that not
everyone will always love, appreciate or approve of who or what you are...and
that's OK. They are entitled to their own views and opinions. And you learn the
importance of loving and championing yourself...and in the process a sense of
new found confidence is born of self-approval.

You stop complaining and blaming other people for the things
they did to you (or didn't do for you) and you learn that the only thing you
can really count on is the unexpected. You learn that people don't always say
what they mean or mean what they say and that not everyone will always be there for you and that it's not always about you. So, you learn to stand on your own and to take care of yourself...and in the process a sense of safety and
security is born of self-reliance.

You stop judging and pointing fingers and you begin to
accept people as they are and to overlook their shortcomings and human
frailties...and in the process a sense of peace and contentment is born of
forgiveness.

You realize that much of the way you view yourself, and the
world around you, is as a result of all the messages and opinions that have
been ingrained into your psyche. And you begin to sift through all the junk
you've been fed about how you should behave, how you should look, how much you
should weigh, what you should wear, what you should do for a living, how much
money you should make, what you should drive, how and where you should live,
who you should marry, the importance of having and raising children, and what
you owe your parents, family, and friends.

You learn to open up to new worlds and different points of
view. And you begin reassessing and redefining who you are and what you really
stand for. You learn the difference between wanting and needing and you begin
to discard the doctrines and values you've outgrown, or should never have
bought into to begin with...and in the process you learn to go with your
instincts. You learn that it is truly in giving that we receive. And that there
is power and glory in creating and contributing and you stop maneuvering
through life merely as a "consumer" looking for your next fix. You
learn that principles such as honesty and integrity are not the outdated ideals
of a bygone era but the mortar that holds together the foundation upon which
you must build a life.

You learn that you don't know everything, it's not your job
to save the world and that you can't teach a pig to sing. You learn to
distinguish between guilt and responsibility and the importance of setting
boundaries and learning to say NO. You learn that the only cross to bear is the
one you choose to carry and that martyrs get burned at the stake. Then you
learn about love. How to love, how much to give in love, when to stop giving and
when to walk away.

You learn to look at relationships as they really are and
not as you would have them be. You stop trying to control people, situations
and outcomes. And you learn that alone does not mean lonely. You also stop
working so hard at putting your feelings aside, smoothing things over and
ignoring your needs. You learn that feelings of entitlement are perfectly
OK...and that it is your right to want things and to ask for the things you
want...and that sometimes it is necessary to make demands. You come to the
realization that you deserve to be treated with love, kindness, sensitivity and
respect and you won't settle for less. And you learn that your body really is
your temple. And you begin to care for it and treat it with respect.

You begin to eat a balanced diet, drink more water, and take
more time to exercise. You learn that being tired fuels doubt, fear, and
uncertainty and so you take more time to rest. And, just as food fuels the
body, laughter fuels our soul. So you take more time to laugh and to play. You
learn that, for the most part, you get in life what you believe you
deserve...and that much of life truly is a self-fulfilling prophecy. You learn
that anything worth achieving is worth working for and that wishing for
something to happen is different from working toward making it happen. More
importantly, you learn that in order to achieve success you need direction,
discipline and perseverance.

You also learn that no one can do it all alone...and that
it's OK to risk asking for help. You learn the only thing you must truly fear
is the greatest robber baron of all: FEAR itself. You learn to step right into
and through your fears because you know that whatever happens you can handle it
and to give in to fear is to give away the right to live life on your own
terms. And you learn to fight for your life and not to squander it living under
a cloud of impending doom.

You learn that life isn't always fair, you don't always get
what you think you deserve and that sometimes bad things happen to
unsuspecting, good people. On these occasions you learn not to personalize
things. You learn that God isn't punishing you or failing to answer your
prayers. It's just life happening. And you learn to deal with evil in its most
primal state - the ego.

You learn that negative feelings such as anger, envy and
resentment must be understood and redirected or they will suffocate the life
out of you and poison the universe that surrounds you. You learn to admit when
you are wrong and to build bridges instead of walls. You learn to be thankful
and to take comfort in many of the simple things we take for granted, things
that millions of people upon the earth can only dream about: a full
refrigerator, clean running water, a soft warm bed, a long hot shower.

Slowly, you begin to take responsibility for yourself
by yourself and you make yourself a promise to never betray yourself and to
never, ever settle for less than your heart's desire. And you hang a wind chime
outside your window so you can listen to the wind. And you make it a point to
keep smiling, to keep trusting, and to stay open to every wonderful
possibility. Finally, with courage in your heart you take a stand, you take a
deep breath, and you begin to design the life you want to live as best you can…
Yes, I finally get it."

from http://www.flickr.com/photos/madalena_pestana/2471396625/

Granny Goes Home

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 19:11:19 -0500

On Oct. 30, it was confirmed that my 91-year-old grandmother had cancer. On November 1, we met with an oncologist, who told us he thought she had less than a month. She was suffering with blood clots that were cutting off circulation to her feet, which were turning black and could 'autoamputate.' Discoloration was moving up her legs. I wrote about that here.

http://open.salon.com/blog/deliablack/2009/11/02/i_heard_the_news_today_oh_boy

We found out that Medicare is supposed to cover hospice entirely for one month, less so after. We were able to move Granny to a hospice, which relieved me.

Grief reminds me of a sea, with small bits of time borne to the surface to be examined, then released to the cycling waves.

In the beginning, there was Lortab. Liquid Lortab, because she has always had trouble swallowing. She only got it when she asked or when someone advocated. I came to the hospice one day--surely it was mid-day, hours after I had picked up my mother that morning from staying overnight--to find Granny saying, "Oh, my legs. My legs. Help. Help me. Oh, God, please take me on. Jesus kill me." This is a woman who wouldn't even take Tylenol, who pulled herself up from a fall down the back steps at 90, dragged herself inside to the chair in the living room, waited several hours for me to come home from work, then struggled to walk to the car, because she didn't want to have an ambulance bill. She had fractured her pelvis.

I went to get a nurse. They gave her Lortab. She calmed down some. I would rub her forehead, stroking her silver hair as she slept. She seemed smaller, only eating a few spoonfuls of broth.

My mother didn't understand. She packed for my grandmother as if it were a hotel. Lots of toiletries, powder. She asked a nurse why they weren't giving my grandma her blood pressure medicine, if her bowels had moved. She tried to get my grandma to eat, though my Granny didn't feel like it.

My mother is quiet, with shaky hands from years of psychotropic meds, mostly passive. I remembered when she was in the hospital several years ago after my father's death, not eating. Granny stood by the bed, leaning over her, almost forcing food down her throat.

"You gotta eat, Mayree! Eat! Eat so you can live!" she'd pleaded, almost frustrated to tears.

I told my mom to only give my grandma food if she asked. It was just prolonging her suffering. I noticed a dress hanging on the door.

"Why did you bring her dress?" I asked my mom.

"In case she has to go to the doctor," she replied.

***

I come again in the middle of another day and know she is in pain. She is weakening . I go to a nurse, forcing politeness.

"You know, she can't push that button to ask for you herself," I said.

"Ok, we know that," the nurse is somewhat condescending.

I want to yell, "Then why the fuck don't you check on her more often?!?"

She tells me, somewhat slowly, that nurses, "especially hospice nurses" are trained in how to tell if someone is in pain. That is what they do.

Luckily, I don't see that nurse again.

***

If you stand right over Granny and speak up, she can only nod or shake her head, as I had tried to explain to an uncle who earlier stood over her asking, "Where does it hurt?", as if she could still articulate. I had quit looking at her feet, because I thought I detected a wince when I moved the pads they'd loosely wrapped around them. One night, she'd asked me to rub her feet and legs to help her. This is right after she'd had pain medicine, and I didn't know if they would give her more. Her legs were almost swollen to bursting, like pink sausages, with the discoloration coming on about calf-high and ending in black toes. I had rubbed her once-twiggy legs, praying, asking her if it helped. She said it did, but I could tell it wasn't enough. Finally, I decided to see if they would give her more pain medicine.

I got a nurse. This one has close-cropped hair. Seems very professional, but kind. She gave Granny more medicine.

***

Granny can almost not swallow the Lortab. It is a struggle to get it down.

The close-cropped hair nurse, who I later learn is Bitsy, says she will call the doctor to get Granny on morphine.

The next time I see her, she is receiving shots through an attachment to her hand.

On one of my hands, I hate to ready for a memorial service, because that is like wishing her away. On the other, I'd rather be busy and ready. Without telling her (she does know it is the end....I made sure), I write her obituary.

One uncle, the only son-in-law, tells me over the phone that he thought "we'd" just go with the two-line free announcement of her death that comes automatically in the paper. She doesn't have any friends left to read the obituary, he says. "She don't need that shit!" he raises his voice at me over the phone, though I haven't raised mine.

I call my Granny's *actual* children, who overrule him. I wonder why we need even that amount of drama now.

***

Granny has made it clear, when still strong enough to talk, that she wants to die, but the only way to allow assisted suicide in Mississippi is to let someone hunt with Dick Cheney.

I go to see her in the middle of the day to assess her pain as best I can (though I lack the training of a nurse). I hold her hand and pray that God will let her go. I'll admit, I am too tired for an extremely fervent prayer. I substitute diligence. Sometimes it seems the light swells and that the room is tingly. I feel something in the air, a light that goes beyond the five senses. I find that I am listening to her unsteady breaths, and when there is a space between them longer than expected, I get hopeful, then defeated as the next one comes. I try to tell God that I will let him work. Vaguely, I wonder if my religious upbringing is correct. Should I get her attention and really be sure she's accepted Jesus? Could I be wishing her to a hell I'm not sure I believe in if she dies like this? She had told a relative recently that she wasn't sure she would see her dead relatives again.

I think of what I have felt-- not heard-- about God, and this brings relief. I pray for her, for all of us, the peace that passeth all understanding.

The breaths keep coming. I just ask God that if I can't be with her when she goes, he will be, someone will be. I still hurt when I think of my dad dying alone. I try to tell myself that maybe in some way, he wasn't.

***

I come back another day. Bitsy had told us the day before that she doesn't think Granny will last the day. Today she says that it is only hour to hour. I sit again, after determining to the best of my ability that she isn't in pain (though I lack the training of a nurse). Her eyes are barely opened. She can only nod and is eating nothing.

"Whenever you feel like you need to go," I raise my voice slightly, leaning down to her, "you go. You will see them again. You will see your family. We love you."

Her mouth is always opened. Even when she can't eat, she wants water. Now, since she can't swallow, I drip water from a straw into her dry, tiny mouth. Her skin is yellowish. There are tiny half moons that remind me of horizons between the pink bands on her eyelids. She has shrunken even more.

I pray again. Rest. Try to think. Try to hope that she is peaceful and knows she isn't alone. I stroke her silver hair almost every time I see her. It used to be black, even darker than mine, I heard. I sign out before I leave, realizing I have been there over an hour again.

I come Friday morning to pick up my mother from staying overnight. Granny seems to be sleeping. I mention the obituary in front of her in conversation with my mom, then apologize, though she seems to have heard none of it. She is locked away in her world for now, I guess.

Almost two hours later, my aunt calls. Bitsy had called her and said that Granny died.

They will not move the body yet if we call and say we want to see her.

My mother, brother, and I go. She is covered, still lying in the room. Her mouth is still open. I can't close it, but I close her eyes. I tell my brother that I heard they put coins on Lincoln's eyes, as was the custom back then. I think they have to make small incisions now to shut them, don't they?

Her body still has some warmth, though a chill has settled in. Her complexion is a dull yellow. I stroke her hair again. It almost feels as if she is alive. I try not to choke up.

I go outside. It is a clear, cool day. Beautiful really. Tropical Storm Ida has long passed. I wonder where she is.

***

We make plans with a funeral home, the cheapest we could find. It is a simple building next to a trailer made to look like a house. She wanted to be cremated. They will bury the ashes, so we don't have to sneak them in, as she supposed.

At the funeral home, I see tiny replicas next to the larger urns.

"Are those to keep portions of the ashes?" I ask.

The funeral director says yes. I ask to see what Granny's ashes will be buried in. He shows me a black box, plastic, that he and the son-in-law previously agreed on. I think, "Her ashes could survive a plane crash."

The funeral director asks if we want to keep portions of the ashes. The son-in-law asks my mother and aunt. He does not look at me. I don't want to seem weird. I would probably spill them anyway.

***

I work on the shit obituary that she doesn't need. (The son-in-law, to his credit, has come around). I debate how to say that she worked 'outside the home' only once in her life. I debate how to make it clear that she was fiery, without showing the bitterness or how hard to get along with she could be. I come up with this:

Besides working in a tool room in a South Carolina shipyard during World War II, Mrs. ______ stayed home to raise her family. "Granny," as she was called, could be fiercely protective of her brood, but she also had a gentle side. When her son recently asked what gave her the most joy in life, she replied, "You babies."

I hate form obituaries. I want this to stand out, in a good way. I debate mentioning the time she banged a bully's head against the wall because he'd picked on one of my uncles. The bully's mom had come down to the house, screaming that she would "break this door down!" (Even in times when others didn't, Granny was paranoid enough to lock her door during the day.)

"You just try!" Granny said from the other side of the door, where she stood calmly ironing.

I leave that part out.

***

I am finally able to finalize a memorial service with a church, so I email the obituary. I call the funeral director to make sure he's gotten it. It is either now or another phone call--I think another phone call--where I hesitate.

"Yes?" he says.

"I---" I am too embarrassed. "It's nothing. I'll go."

"No, Ms. Black..."

"It's not important." struggle, keep voice steady

"Why don't you tell me what it is you want?" he is a bit annoyed. I feel my face contort. I force words from a deep place I wish to hide.

"Would it be all right if you give me...a lock of her hair before you [burn her up] cre-cremate her?"

His tone changes. He says that will be fine.

***

My mother, retired, enfeebled from a heart attack and huge battles with bipolar disorder, seems to be taking it well. My brother seems OK. One uncle, the first of her sons, the one she defended with a head banging, is suffering.

An aunt called me a few days before Granny died and, in retrospect, seemed to be about to cry, but I was so busy quieting my fighting dogs that I was too pissed to notice at the time.

My mother plays the classic country music station on TV. It grinds away, annoying me. Merle Haggard comes on. Though I like some of his music, one should not have to listen to Merle Haggard when already grieving.

"Silver wings..." he tells me. "Shining in the sun--light."

"Roaring engines," he goes on. "Headed somewhere in flight."

"They're taking you way, ay," he insists. "Leaving me lone-ly."

"Silver wings....slowly fading out of sight."

Then it gets worse.

"'Don't leave me,' I cry. 'Don't take that air-a-plane ride.'

But you locked me out of your mind. Left me standing here behind."

I think of hair I will never touch again. I think of others I have lost and those I will lose. I wish I'd kissed my father the last time I left him sleeping. I don't think I kissed my grandmother that last day.

I weep. Sitting on the couch donated to Granny after Katrina ("Oh, I don't like black," she'd told us), I weep. I am tired. I am in pain.

At least, this is what I think.

(I lack the training of a nurse.)

1918-2009

When I Die, Celebrate My Life at Wendy's

Sun, 15 Nov 2009 19:11:21 -0500

Yes, that's right--Wendy's. I figure I've spent so much time there while alive (actually, I've spent so much time in the drive thru while alive), that I should have a funeral there, too.
At the agreed-upon time, people should converge on the Wendy's and order the number 4 combo (the Baconator), preferably with a Caesar side salad and water, though in moments of extreme distress, sweet tea is fine. Those out-of-town should rush to their local Wendy's at the same time and can keep up with the proceedings via cell phone.
People can sit at whatever tables they wish, but they should leave a center table empty so that any funeral goer who wishes to share a memory can have a central location to do so. For example:
"I met her on Craigslist in the adult ad sect---This-uhjuicyburger--sorry---we went out a few times. If I'd uh known she would die so soon, I would've taken her some place more expensive, like La Quinta."

In further tribute to me, people may wish to appopriate my habits, if only for a day. Some will just eat in their cars in the parking lot, because they can't be bothered to go inside. Also, there is no reason to dispose of your Wendy's bag and drink in a garbage can when you can just throw it in the floor of your car.
If you wish to extend the celebration to the place I once lived, extra fries can be pushed at my dogs through the chain link fence. Make them take turns. Also, I sometimes make the neighbors wonder by sitting in my car in our driveway and watching the cats climb my windshield to my roof (I can't afford a glass bottom boat, but I can pretend I'm watching lions on safari). Then I feed them fries through my window.
But, no one can leave Wendy's without doing the funeral salute. This involves all the cars circling Wendy's and honking in unison. And everyone should put at least a quarter in the Dave Thomas adoption fund. It is only right.
So, there is my plan on how I want to be remembered. Someone may want to fling my ashes on the little mulchy area near the drive thru speakers, and if so, let it be done. Weep not, my friends, for I'll have gone to that great burger joint in the sky. Do not be surprised if you catch a glimpse of me in your chocolate frosty.

_________________________________________________

I love this kid from Wife Swap! Go, Lil Curtis!

I Heard the News Today, Oh Boy!

Mon, 2 Nov 2009 10:11:38 -0500

It was not today, but Thursday over a week ago that I woke up in the morning and walked past my grandmother's room.

"Take me to the hospital. I wanna go now, this way, " she said, asking to go in her robe and slippers.

Granny is normally a hospital avoidance expert, though these last few years have left her as a patient more than the rest of her life combined. I dutifully took her to the emergency room, telling my mom to ask her sister not to call while I was out there.

"I'll be busy, so I can't answer the phone every few minutes. Tell her I'll call her."

I was there about an hour when my mom's sister and brother-in-law showed up. Granny has had trouble with blood clots, and her legs have been swollen for weeks. The staff had moved us right away into a little room in the ER. They finally got around to taking her up for a CT scan in order to check and make sure that the blood clots hadn't gotten to her lungs.

My aunt and uncle and I waited. Finally, someone came down and said that my grandma's wristband was gone.

"She's been sittin' up there in the hallway, and they didn't know who she was," the staff member said. We waited longer. Finally, an ER doctor came down. Her lungs looked clear of clots as far as they could see, but the clots in her legs had worsened. There were also "spots on her liver." It would be cancer. It would have metastasized there from somewhere else, probably her colon, which sends blood to the liver.

Right now, they had to worry that a clot wouldn't break off and kill her. They were going to put a filter in her abdomen to catch clots, then get to the spots later.

Cancer. We went to a waiting room in a different section of the hospital as they put in the filter, and I kept weighing the word. Everything seemed different, vaguely menacing in a way I couldn't grasp. The air seemed charged and even the chirpily bland anchors we watched on the waiting room TV seemed part of a conspiracy. What kind of word casts such a spell?

This Friday we got the official report back. She has stage four cancer. It probably started in the pancreas. Half her liver is eaten up with it. Though some in the family (mostly men) didn't know what she should be told, I tried to prepare her. I told her they were thinking that she probably had it.

"You tell 'em that no one in my family has cancer. You tell 'em for me," she said.

Yesterday, we had a family meeting with an oncologist. He looked about my age and stooped down to hold her hand, talking loudly as he told us all that chemotherapy usually only lengthens the life for a few months in an active patient with pancreatic cancer. It is inadvisable for a person in her condition.

(They let Granny out of the hospital while they were waiting for the biopsy results, but I had to take her back to the emergency room last Wednesday. The bottoms of her feet were purple, because the clots were worsening and cutting off circulation.)

The oncologist even said that her feet might autoamputate. He said they would only do chemotherapy if she insisted, but it would leave her feet open to even more wounds. My already small, tired Granny seemed to shrink even more with worry as she squinted to understand him.

"Do you think you would want chemotherapy-like treatment, or do you want us to just make you comfortable?" he spoke slowly, loudly down to her.

"Yeah, I wanna be comfortable," she said.

I pointed out that she didn't know he was really asking if she wanted treatment at all or not. She just thought he was asking about pain. He tried to explain to her again.

So, they are going to release her to hospice care at home. The doctor told the family that in her condition, he doesn't think it will be more than a month until she dies. I don't know how much we will have to do at home. I have to get the room ready. Family members have flown in and another is coming. I need to call to find a church for a memorial service. I wonder what we will do about her bathroom needs, since she can't walk. Her legs are purpling, too, and one foot has a huge blister that leaked today and will probably turn into a wound. Gangrene has been mentioned. This is gross, I know, but I am not sure how this will be handled. They claim that there is such good pain management. The oncologist said that when cancer patients were surveyed, they feared pain more than death. I don't doubt it. It is what I fear.

As the family gathered in a waiting room last night to discuss the oncologist's visit-- saying they weren't sure what Granny understood and what she should be told--I decided to make my way back to her. I asked if she knew what her doctor said. I tried to tell her gently but clearly that they were saying she wouldn't live through this and that treatment wouldn't save her, but only make her legs more prone to wounds.

"Well, I'm 91. That's a long time, honey," she said. "You know I wanna be cremated."

"Yes," I said.

"And Susie said that you can just go up there at night and dig a hole and--you know--place the--and then plant a bush over it and them folks at Serene Gardens won't know," she said. (She has said she wants the ashes buried, not just spread over the grave.)

"Yes," I said. "You know, you'll see Bob" (my grandpa who died before I was born) "and who else....your parents and Pearl and Golden and---"

She began to name her siblings. "and Jewell and Gervais....." (They named all the girls after gems except one. My grandma's middle name is Opal).

I mentioned the names of her deceased family members, because I hoped she'd find some comfort. I know she has long been afraid of hospitals. I know that she --a woman who never takes pain medicine--finally broke down crying a few days back from the pain in her legs, frantically asking somebody to help her. I know that I still think of my own father and how I so wish to see him. Sometimes it is hard to even stand.

But you never know where Granny's mind is. After we named some of her lost family members, she finally admitted, "But I'm not a 'studyin' them right now. I'm just hoping my bowels'll move."

Oh, the mad, screaming roller coaster of life. Where will it take us next?

______________________________

A friend and his family also need support, prayers, good words....His post puts mine to shame.

http://open.salon.com/blog/jimmymac1025/2009/10/31/a_day_in_court

Thank you for stopping by.

Roman Polanski Must Have Friends at ABC

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 19:10:55 -0400

Charles Gibson on the nightly news just introduced a segment comparing supposedly incompatible terms of justice. Director Roman Polanski is in a Swiss jail "on 30-year-old charges of having sex with a teenaged girl." Yet on the other hand, there is a known money launderer running a bank and allowed to have U.S. citizenship, Gibson said.

I have seen other articles that seem to want to drum up a pity party for Polanski, painting him as having had a tough life on the run. Yes, hopping between expensive hotels in Europe must be hard. Note that when Gibson said "30-year-old charges of having sex with a teenaged girl," he cleaned up the allegations quite a bit. According to Wikipedia, which has been studied by the renowned journal Nature and found to have almost the level of accuracy of Encyclopedia Britannica, this is what Polanski did:

"Geimer testified that Polanski gave her a combination of champagne and quaaludes, a sedative drug and muscle relaxant, and despite her repeated protests and being asked to stop, he performed oral sex, intercourse and sodomy upon her.^[42]^[43]^[44]^[45] A grand jury decided to charge him with rape by use of drugs, perversion, sodomy, lewd and lascivious act upon a child under fourteen, and furnishing a controlled substance to a minor.^[46]"

Because several have questioned the validity of Wikipedia, here is a link to an LA Times article about the trial. It shows that against her protests, he raped her.

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-polanski25-2009oct25,0,5337333,full.story

As most of us know, Geimer was 13. Merely framing the charges in the vague way anchor Charles Gibson did could make someone think Polanski had consensual sex with a 17-year-old. What he did was rape--statutory and otherwise. However, the segment on the news wants us to worry about money laundering. Yes, money laundering is bad and the person should be in jail, but a rapist shouldn't be allowed freedom either.

Here is the first page of the story on the ABC news site, which starts off with the same line as Gibson's segment. See what you think. I would say that being too easy on one criminal isn't rectified by being too easy on another.

U.S. Goes Easy on LA Bank

Manager Once Accused of

Hiding Drug $$$

A Tale of Two Fugitives: Life on the Run Works Out for BCCI Official, but Not Roman Polanski

By BRIAN ROSS, VIC WALTER, RHONDA SCHWARTZ and RICHARD ESPOSITO
Oct. 28, 2009

For Roman Polanski, life as a fugitive has led to the worst of times.

For the manager of a major Los Angeles bank, however, life as a fugitive had led to the best of times including a California home, a big bank job and U.S. citizenship.

Saad Shafi fled the country for Pakistan in 1988 after being indicted by a federal grand jury on charges he and other executives at the Bank of Credit and Commerce International, BCCI, helped Colombia drug bosses and Panamanian strongman Manuel Noriega hide millions in drug money.

Polanski pleaded guilty to charges of having sex with a 13-year old girl and fled the country in 1978 prior to sentencing.

Unlike Polanski, prosecutors in the Shafi case decided after eleven years to dismiss the charges against Shafi, apparently convinced the fugitive would never be extradited by Pakistan, his home country, to face the BCCI charges.

By 2005, he had been granted U.S. citizenship and gone back to work in the American banking industry.

ABC News found Shafi working as the manager of the Los Angeles branch of Habib American bank, an FDIC insured institution chartered and headquartered in New York.

"He is not a fit person to run a bank," said Jack Blum, who investigated BCCI for the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. "Banks should be run by people of good moral character."

In a brief interview, to be broadcast tonight on ABC World News with Charles Gibson, Shafi confirmed he was the same man indicted by the grand jury and labeled a fugitive for 11 years.