Birthday Revisited ...

A stillness has settled over the house, quiet. There are no errands to run, no foods to prepare, no lists to consult. The house has been returned, nearly, to its pre-party state, with one distinct difference: It's clean. Parties are good prompters of house-cleaning.

So. Now it is Sunday. The birthday whirlwind has given way to a whisper of a breeze, the kind that barely stirs the curtains or nudges a leaf across the grass.

Friday, the official day, was spent largely in preparation for Saturday. But there was plenty of birthdayness therein. My mom stopped by at our appointed walking time, unsure if we were going for a walk (nope) then returned with my father later for my requested birthday breakfast of cheese potato soup.

Yes, soup.

On Wednesday, out walking, she asked me what I'd like for breakfast on my birthday. Mom makes a big deal out of birthdays. Always has. When I was little, I'd have breakfast in bed and whatever I wanted for dinner and she'd make a cake or buy a cake depending on my request and she and dad would festoon the kitchen with crepe-paper streamers – two colors, always, twisted together, and balloons at all the edges where the streamers were taped to the ceiling.

Little has changed. Well, the crepe paper is a thing of the past.

While we walked, she ticked off breakfast ideas: pancakes, French toast (mom makes sensational French toast), ham, bacon, the usual breakfast suspects. No, I said, over and over, that wasn't what I wanted.

I often don't know what I have a taste for, especially a couple of days in advance.

But then I decided on soup. A restaurant near me makes cheese potato soup that will make you weep. So that's what I announced as my choice.

"Soup?" my mom asked.

"Yep," I said, as we kept walking. "I should get used to drinking my meals."

Badump-bump.

So we had soup for my birthday breakfast. And I opened my gift, a serving piece, made by a local potter, that I've had my eye on for some time. They had also brought an arrangement of ruby-red carnations and assorted greenery. A few weeks ago, I'd walked into my parent's house and spied carnations on the counter that were the most incredible shade of deep burgundy, so mom had called the florist and asked them to put together an arrangement of them for my birthday. The flowers she picked up weren't exactly the shade she was hoping for, but they go very well with the curtains in my dining room.

And later, they left, and I set about preparing food for the party on Saturday. A lot of food. More food than we would possibly eat. I always know that, in the moment. I know that I'm overpreparing, and yet there's a tiny voice in my brain, a tiny Serbian voice, saying, "I don't know if this will be enough."

It is always enough. It is always enough times 10. But the Serbian voice will not be silenced.

It's a good thing I like leftovers.

Having washed a lot of dishes, I hopped in the shower hoping I hadn't depleted the hot water. I had not. So I showered and shampooed and tried to bend my hair to my will and headed over to mom and dad's for dinner.

Every year, mom makes lasagna for my birthday because every year, I want my mom's lasagna. It is the best. Ever. On this planet or any other.

I walked in just behind my brother and his family, greeted my cousins who'd flown in from New York, made my way into the kitchen, and spied a splint on my mother's hand.

"I had a little accident," she said. And proceeded to tell me that she slammed her finger in her car door and then took herself to the emergency room, since she'd broken a bone and required stitches.

My mother, ever the pragmatist, told the ER staff that she had to get out of there as soon as possible, as it was her daughter's 40th birthday and there were people coming over for dinner. An hour later, she was home, stitched and splinted and ready to go.

On the counter, among other noshy bits, was a divided dish filled half with dark chocolate-covered almonds and half with dark chocolate-covered raisins. I was happily munching away and made some mention about them, as they were an atypical appetizer (though mom had intended to put them in the living room and just hadn't gotten around to it before everyone arrived) and that's when others realized that they weren't black olives.

We sat down to dinner, the always-simple menu of lasagna, garlic bread, and salad, and then had cake, which is always white cake with lemon filling frosted with stabilized whipped cream, not that gritty bakery buttercream which I am convinced is simply sugar stirred into a vat of Crisco. Cutting the cake, I gave my nephew and niece pieces with flowers on them. Because no matter how old you are, there's something about a frosting flower on your piece of cake.

My cousin Patty retrieved the birthday loot from the living room and set it in front of me.

My brother's family contributed money in my name to The Heifer Project, an organization of which I am very fond. If you don't already know about it, you should. Click here to find out more.

I riffled through the tissue in the gift bag from Patty and Barry to find my way inside. I parted the paper and gasped. There, tucked amid all the black tissue, was a little blue box tied with a white satin ribbon.

My first-ever gift from Tiffany.

Inside the little blue box was a little blue suede pouch. Inside the little blue suede pouch was a sterling-silver floating heart pendant. Of course, I put it on right away.

Eventually, everyone began to stir and get ready to go home. I left with a little bit of lasagna (for breakfast the next morning) and the remainder of my cake.

Which I shared with mom on Saturday morning, with coffee. And then I proceeded to tackle the day's to-do list.

Patty and Barry came over to help with preparations and I surely could not have pulled off everything without them. They are very helpful sorts.

Once I crossed off all but one item on the list, they returned to my brother's house to get ready for the party. I intended to do the same – get ready, that is – but kept finding little things to do.

I eventually got in the shower. And then I cleaned the bathroom, the last item on the list.

P and B arrived again to help plate all the appetizers and arrange the spread. Mom and dad arrived with the dessert she was contributing to the offerings and in short order, everything was ready. All we needed was more guests.

Who arrived in a steady stream, perfect for greeting. Not everyone all at once, but a consistent flow of saying hello and taking coats and getting each person something to drink and then doing it all over again for the next arrival.

It was lovely to have a houseful of people, but not so many that I couldn't chat with everyone.

Despite the invitation's request of my guests that they not bring gifts, they brought gifts. Which was very thoughtful.

Many of them also brought wine. And champagne.

All of which was very much appreciated. The thank-you cards are waiting to be mailed. (Yes, Jay, I do have to send one to you, even though you always tell me they're not necessary.)

But I must say, of all the things everyone gave to me, what I cherish most from them is what they wrote in their cards. I didn't open gifts in front of everyone, I waited until I was alone. And I'm glad. Not that I really would have minded if they saw me cry, but I was grateful for the solitude so I could focus on what they had to say.

I am overwhelmed by everyone's kindness. And I am grateful to them for letting me know what's in their hearts. I, of course, feel the same way about them. Even more so, if that's possible. I am surrounded by amazing people. I am grateful for them beyond measure.

Their words are especially well timed. They give me courage, because sometimes it's scary to become who you are meant to be.

So today, with the dishes washed and the glassware packed away, I will bask in the need to do nothing in particular.

Once again, my love and thanks to all who made this birthday the best yet. You are gifts to me every day.

Well, Hello, Forties! ...

I'm too tuckered to type at length, but so far, my forties can be summed up in one word: spectacular.

My love and thanks to all who made the day so special.

I have one remaining birthday wish: a good night's sleep.

Farewell, My Thirties ...

And so today is the last day of my 30s. Tomorrow, I will turn 40.

Technically speaking, I will not wake up as a 40-year-old as I was born in the evening.

So if I was of a mind, I could cling to my 30s for more than a few hours tomorrow.

But I won't.

Tomorrow, I embark upon my 40s.

Today, as I was running errands – so many errands – I took note of the fact that I felt not powerful, per se, but capable. There were things to be done and I was doing them.

Not that that should feel remarkable.

But I've long had the notion of the woman I would be in my 40s and I wondered as I drove if I will wake up tomorrow feeling differently, if I will feel as though a switch has been flipped.

And then I realized that the switch will be flipped – or not – by me.

Which has always been the case, of course. I am the switch-flipper, no one else.

But in ways I can't explain, there's something about turning 40 that feels empowering in an entirely new way.

So the cliché "Life begins at 40" is a cliché for a reason, it appears.

I am not one of those women who insists on staying 39 forever.

Grateful as I am for every day, if I had to choose one year to live again and again, forever, this year would not be that year. I will be happy to ring in 2010.

I've been waking up at ridiculous hours, which in turn means that I am tired, very tired, in the early evening.

I may well fall asleep soon and wake up sometime after midnight, my 30s in life's rear-view mirror.

I look forward to all the day will bring. Tomorrow, and every day hence.

Love ...

I'm not gay.

Some days, I think life would be easier if I were. I've surely not struck on a successful male-female equation.

But today is one of those days when I realize that there is nothing easier about being gay, not when a majority of the electorate in a state strips same-sex couples of their right to marry.

How heartbreaking.

I continue to be befuddled by the gay-marriage debate. What's the problem?

Why can't two people who love each other enough to get married get married?

I wrote the following more than four years ago. I'm still waiting for an answer:

I would truly appreciate it if someone who is not gay and who is against gay marriage could explain to me how allowing gay people to get married weakens the institution of marriage.

That seems to be the prevailing argument against granting gays the right to marry.

And I don't get it.

If churches want to ban gay marriage on Biblical grounds, that's up to the churches. But civil marriage is a legal union. It has no religious roots.

So why is it that my gay friends, who have been in loving, committed relationships for years, aren't allowed to get married because it will "weaken the institution of marriage," but Britney Spears can get married in Vegas, get it annulled 55 hours later, and basically say, "It was just a joke, y'all."

That doesn't weaken the institution of marriage?

The fact that "starter marriage" has entered our lexicon, that couples get married with a mutual shrug, saying, "Eh, if it doesn't work out, we'll just get a divorce," that doesn't weaken the institution of marriage?

Honestly, I don't get it.

I hope to get married some day. But if my friends Dick and John want to get married (they've been together longer than most straight married couples I know), how does that in any way alter what marriage will mean to me?

It doesn't. It won't.

Marriage: Two people who love each other and want to spend their lives together, right?

What am I missing?

'Donna was singular.' ...

In 1987, days before our high-school graduation, Sheila signed my yearbook. She included a P.S.: "If I don't see you sooner, I'll see you in 10 years."

I didn't go to our 10-year high-school reunion. Nor did I go to our 20.

In early September, Sheila found me on Facebook. I was happy to hear from her. I asked about her life.

She replied, "Life kind of sucker punched me a couple of years ago. My daughter, Donna, named after my Mom who died of a brain tumor when I was pregnant, was diagnosed with a brain tumor in 2007. She's 4 now and on hospice. That's the extreme Cliff Notes version. Other than that, pretty damn good."

"Well, that knocked the wind out of me," I wrote in response. "But I so admire you for living life every day to its fullest. What an amazing lesson for all of us."

Oh, I had no idea.

In the ensuing weeks, I would visit Donna's CaringBridge site and look at the pictures and videos her parents posted and read the posts they wrote.

Sheila was the editor of the yearbook she signed for me. She has always had a way with words. And she married a man, Jeremy, who writes with equal eloquence.

They began their CaringBridge journal on March 25, 2007, two days after Donna's diagnosis. The first sentence reads, "Donna was diagnosed with a brain tumor on Friday."

On October 19, 2009, Donna's Daddy, as he is known on the site, wrote, "This morning, sometime between 12:30 and 2, her parents sleeping on either side of her, Donna's heart stopped and she died. Her death was very peaceful."

But Donna's story continues in all who came to know her.

I asked Sheila for permission to write about her daughter and share the information about the charities to which donations can be made in celebration of her life.

Sheila replied that she would be honored to have me write about Donna.

But the honor is mine, entirely. I have been moved beyond measure by the life of this little girl. I never had the honor of meeting her, but she has inspired me to do more, to be more, to love more, to dance.

In celebration of her love of dancing, her parents, extraordinary people by all standards, are establishing a scholarship in her name. As Sheila has written, "If Donna can't dance, others should, and money should not be the obstacle to this."

Those who would like to contribute may send checks to:

Donna Quirke Hornik Fund
2649 W. Greenleaf Ave., 1E
Chicago, IL 60645

In addition, the family is encouraging donations to two charities that meant a great deal to Donna. The first is Children's Memorial and Dr. Stewart Goldman – Dr. Stew – who treated Donna with such care:

Neuro-Onc Research Fund
in honor of Donna
Box 30
Children's Memorial Hospital
2300 Childrens Plaza
Chicago IL 60614
Or their website:
https://secure.childrensmemorial.org/friends/foundation/donations.asp

In the field marked “My gift should benefit…” please type in, “Dr. Stewart Goldman.”

The second is Jill's House in Bloomington, Indiana, where they stayed for three months during radiation treatment.

Jill’s House
751 E. Tamarack Trail
Bloomington, Indiana 47408
812-339-JILL(5455)
http://jills-house.org/donate.php

As her parents so lovingly wrote in her obituary, "In her too brief life, Donna danced on the stage of the Auditorium Theater, consumed a mountain of macaroni and cheese, worried the winter trees were lonely and cold without their leaves and finally enjoyed the big girl swing all by herself. Donna was singular."






















Photo credit: Joel Wanek

Meaningful ...

Lately, I am too easily riled.

I get into word skirmishes that cannot be won, not because I do not have facts behind me, but because those with whom I tussle will not budge.

I do not believe that they believe that they are right. I believe that they know they are wrong, but no one wants to be on the wrong side of an argument when the right side is clear. But admitting to being wrong is for some intolerable. They would rather stand, resolutely, in their misguided ideology. Continue to insist the sky is puce. That does not make it so.

But tonight, the messages from the universe are coming at me fast and furious, and some things, for the moment, cease to matter.

That is not to say that I do not place great importance on politics and the news of the day. Never before has more been at stake.

But last week, when the daughter of a high-school friend passed away, I went for a walk and marveled at the fact that life looked exactly as it had the day before. For almost everyone, tomorrow will be a lot like today. But for my friend, that day was 180 degrees different from the day before. Her life was changed forever. And her husband's. And their families'. And, in a small way, mine.

Love is what matters. Those we love. Those we've lost. Last night, I dreamt of my high-school friend. In my dream, I was walking the 3-Day and she and her husband, even in their grief, had come out to cheer us on. I approached her, tears streaming down my face, tears streaming down hers, and she asked, "Do you remember me?" And we held each other tightly and cried.

I will see her on Saturday. She will not have to ask if I remember.

Another friend's mother is very ill. All that's left to offer are prayers and comfort. Soon, more lives will be different in marked ways.

I take too much for granted. I vow to change. And then I think that I do not change enough. But maybe every vow to change is change enough, an incremental shift, a small, small step that moves me along.

Still, I have not done enough. There is no such thing as enough. And so I vow to do more.

But for now, I offer what I have: my love to my family and friends and those I have yet to meet.

Hard-Pressed ...

As I don't do most mornings, I'm trading comments on Facebook with my pal Rick about the demise of newspapers.

And my coffee hasn't even kicked in.

I can say that I come from a newspaper family not because my last name is Graham – because it's not – but because my grandfather (on my mom's side; I never knew my grandfather on my dad's) worked at the Chicago Sun-Times as a pressman. My mom has a nifty tie bar that her dad was given when he retired that's in the shape of the odd building that used to rest along the Chicago River, which was torn down to make way for yet another monument to Donald Trump's ego.

Many years later, I would work in that building, too, as Jeff Zaslow's assistant for a couple of summers in college. He and Diane Crowley took over the space vacated by Ann Landers. The walls were painted over but the pink carpet remained.

Like Ann, in one way alone, I too made my way from west to east, from the Sun-Times to the Chicago Tribune. What I thought would be a six-month stint turned into a nearly five-year stay.

While I was there, I witnessed the beginnings of the paper's online presence begin to take shape.

The Trib and I parted ways in 1997. And while 12 years is not an insignificant passage of time, it's been a bit staggering to watch the implosion from then to now. Sam Zell's purchase, of course, just hastened it all.

Yesterday, as I read about the Chicago News Cooperative, I heard the Tribune's death knell chiming in the distance.

Some true Tribune heavy-hitters will be competing against their former paper. It's another nail in the coffin of the paper that likes to think of itself as the world's greatest. If folks in Chicago can get the New York Times with a side order of local news, there's really no reason for them to get the Tribune anymore. It's not the paper it used to be, and many prefer the Times but feel the need to get a local paper as well. The CNC is eliminating that need.

I still know a few people in the Tower. And I surely don't want them to lose their jobs, though if they did, I suspect they'd find new gigs without much travail. They've lasted this long in the climate of industry-wide cuts because they're very good at what they do. Others could segue into teaching. Others could write books.

Or perhaps they could go to work for the CNC.

My newspaper days are over, save for the occasional freelance story. It's not that I wouldn't go back to a paper. It's just that most newspapers aren't hiring. Two Chicago dailies in bankruptcy at the same time does not spell good times for the future of newspapers.

Though I know several kids in journalism school. And I'm confident that they'll find jobs when they graduate. There will always be a need for folks to gather and disseminate news. They've grown up in the Internet age. They don't have to make the mental transition from ink-on-paper to the virtual world.

But it all begs the question: What will I wrap my dishes in the next time I move?

Thwarted ...

So, I want to be up and about and moving normally, but my back is laughing at the notion.

Like this.

Fullness ...

Every day, my heart teeters on the brink of overflowing.

It is often too full. It exceeds its capacity. The excess rolls down my cheeks in salty streams.

I don't know from whence emotion comes. My heart? My head?

I do know, however, that they, together, often rope in other parts.

Friday night, I wrote: "I can take only shallow breaths. There is scarcely room in my lungs for anything but grief."

I sat on the couch, at times sobbing, at times feeling the grief build up so intensely that I could hear the rushing of my blood.

Sometimes, I hold myself back, make myself stop. Other times, I am powerless that way.

More than half my life ago, a cousin died unexpectedly. I loved her but we didn't know each other well. She was quite a bit older and lived in other parts of the world throughout her all-too-brief life.

But I remember her memorial service and my inability to stop crying. I knew I must be affecting her family even more than they were already affected, but my will mattered not. I desperately wanted to be quiet but grief was insistent on having its way.

And I wonder, now, if I wasn't, then, crying for much more than the loss of my cousin. I wonder if in that church, on that day, I was expressing sadness that I had suppressed in many moments past.

I know that Friday's expression was about much more than the sadness that surrounds the last days of a sweet little life. Her story evokes emotions extreme and raw. The unfairness of it all. But inside there is so much I've held onto, held back. Memories of those I miss, those who have passed away but also those who remain, present in the world but lost to me.

My mind may not believe that some are gone but it can comprehend. I cannot call. They will not answer. They are not there.

A reality that becomes more real with time.

But my heart aches differently for the others. I accept their silence, trust that our time had ticked away. But it is strange, to have known someone, to have loved someone, and think of them moving through the world, while I stay on this side of the glass.

Tonight has felt like no time at all. I do not know how the clock has slunk into Monday, do not know why my body does not insist on sleep.

Though my breaths are slightly deeper. There is a resignation to the way things will be, to the choices others will make and have made.

But it is not quite peace.

A Lesson In Loss ...

I have lost those I've loved too soon.

And all I can do is grieve for as long as grief holds me in its grasp. Over time, it loosens its grip, but I do not believe that it ever lets go.

My friend Charles died more than six years ago. There are still days when memories of him make me weep, and I wonder how there can still be tears, after all this time.

L.A. Dave passed away not even nine months ago yet I haven't shaken the desire to pick up the phone. Today is exactly the kind of day during which we would have whiled away an hour. He was my partner in procrastination.

The sadness lingers.

Theirs were lives lost too soon, but lives lived, some semblance of the range of life's rituals completed.

This morning, though, I read the latest CaringBridge entry about a high-school friend's daughter who is living her last days.

She is 4.

And my mind searches for a reason why.

I believe that the universe is a benevolent place.

And there is no doubt that this little girl has brought her parents great joy even as her loss will cause – has caused – great pain.

Perhaps the lesson for those of us who have not had the honor of knowing her is to be more tolerant, more patient, more loving, more kind.

In those simplest of terms, her life has great meaning.

But my heart breaks, yet again.

I Really Want To Write A Post ...

I just don't feel like I have anything to say.

Patrick Swayze ...

Right after he died, I DVRd "Dirty Dancing." (It aired on ABC Family, of all places.)

Tonight, I finally got around to watching it. I can't remember how many years it had been since I'd seen it last.

And it was bittersweet to watch him on the screen. He was an amazing dancer.

But I didn't get really emotional until his song came in toward the end of the film, when he's packing up his car and saying goodbye to Baby.

There was something about hearing him that was far more affecting than seeing him.

And I'm glad his wife has that song to hold on to.

Shelf Life ...

My friend Random is the cerebral sort. Sometimes. Today's blog post features a shot of what I presume is part of Random's bookshelf, with the request that we readers take pictures of our bookshelves and allow a random esquire a virtual view into our bibliophilic psyches.

I don't have the best digital camera – or maybe I just never learned how to adjust the settings to score crisp shots – but I snapped a few shots of a few spots of my shelves.

A glimpse, then, at a random selection. Note the juxtaposition, which I just noticed tonight, of Woody Allen books next to a history of the Holocaust. Weird. If you're wondering why I have two copies of Stephen King's On Writing, I'll tell you: I bought the softcover version, oh, some number of years ago. A year or two later, for Christmas, my father gave me the hardcover copy. Dad is not a fan of Christmas shopping, so I was extra touched that he went into a bookstore and said to a salesperson, "My daughter is a writer. What book should I get for her?" So I keep both copies side by side, heartwarmingly.



And a glimpse at a bit of fiction. And non-fiction. But mostly fiction. I hated The Corrections, in case anyone cares. But as you should already know, I love Animal Dreams.

Thoughts On This Morning's News ...

Where do I begin?

I feel beleaguered when I should feel numb.

I should be used to the incessant outcry from the Right.

I truly wonder, macabre as it may be to consider: If, God forbid, Obama is assassinated, will they celebrate?

If America loses out on an honor, they cheer.

If an honor is bestowed upon us, they jeer.

Obama is damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.

I was surprised by the news this morning that he had won the Nobel Peace Prize, but I certainly didn't think he didn't deserve it. And I think the calls for him to decline it were absurd.

To those who yell that he hasn't earned this honor or that the Nobel committee has embarrassed itself, I submit that they truly do not understand how completely, how grotesquely, the Bush administration had decimated the standing of America in the world.

We are a powerful nation, but we are not all-powerful. We do not have the right to invade sovereign nations. We do not have the right to torture. We do not have the right to detain people indefinitely and deny them due process. We do not have the right.

Obama did not seek the Nobel Peace Prize. He was not aware that he had been nominated.

And in his acceptance speech this morning, he was the height of humility, accepting it not as his own honor but on behalf of everyone who is working toward peace.

At the helm of this nation, he is a calming presence around the world. He may be reviled by many at home and around the globe. But he represents a seismic shift in diplomacy.

Some say that this award was a repudiation of Bush, not an acknowledgment of Obama's accomplishments.

In part, I agree.

But peace is not achieved solely as a checklist.

Obama was named as this year's recipient both for what he has accomplished as well as because he represents the possibility of peace in the future, the foundation of which he is laying today.

We live in a world of instant gratification. But lasting change is made slowly, and sometimes that pace may be misunderstood as doing nothing at all.

So the award was unexpected. The circumstances may be atypical. But what about Obama is typical?

The question on my mind is this: What person, circumstance, or event will reunite our country?

Because today, it feels as though we as a nation are permanently torn asunder.

Where do we go from here?

A Very Special 'Special Comment' ...

I know that many people do not like Keith Olbermann.

I am not one of them. I am very fond of Mr. Olbermann. Keith. He wouldn't mind my calling him Keith.

Earlier this week, a friend of mine pronounced him "bitter."

But I don't think Keith is bitter. I think he is the rational, real, modern-day Howard Beale.

He's mad as hell and he's not going to take it anymore. But, compared to Howard Beale, he looks much better in a suit.

Tonight, Keith devoted the entire hour of his show to a Special Comment about health care.

Typically, Special Comments are only a few minutes long, at the end of a broadcast, often directed at an individual.

Tonight's Special Comment, though, was dedicated to the proposition that, in the end, we're all fighting because we're afraid of death, and that those who don't understand what's being said are fearful that their coverage may be curtailed or cut.

We fear change, he says. We fear death. And "change" to an issue that is dedicated to staving off "death" will logically lead to compounded fear, fear that is understandable. Especially fear that has been fueled by a barrage of calculated misinformation.

(You can watch a bit of tonight's Special Comment here.)

It was a cerebral yet impassioned hour. He spoke of his father's ongoing health crisis. He was able to maintain his composure through it all. I could not have been so composed.

He would like to have proposed a strike against the insurance companies, but he recognizes that such an act would further empower the very entities against which we rail.

And so he proposed something else. Something I think is a master stroke, genius.

His plan, in a nutshell, is this: He wants to offer weekly free health clinics in the capital cities of the states represented by the six key Democrats who are presently blocking reform.

Such clinics have been offered recently in Texas and California. The turnouts have been staggering.

The people who attend these clinics are not statistics, numbers in a study. They are men and women, husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. They are citizens of the United States of America. And they cannot afford health care.

Tonight, Keith did not go into the details of his plan. Details will be forthcoming. Soon.

But in the meantime, I have a prediction:

I predict that Keith will contribute $1 million to this effort. One million dollars. And I predict that he will encourage his viewers to each contribute at least $1. One dollar. Some, of course, will not give any, but others, many others, will give much more.

Establishing these free clinics in these cities will enable people who need health care to benefit from the kindness of strangers and the kindness of medical professionals who are willing to donate their time.

But more importantly, in the grander scheme of this debate, the people who seek health care from these free clinics will, by their presence, demonstrate to the senators of those states that their constituencies are real people in real need.

And once these senators see the throngs of people who will turn out, in the United States of America, to wait in lines for their chances to see a doctor because they can not afford to see one otherwise, once these senators see that what we, as a country, are debating is literally a matter of life and death, I dare them to then look away.

Update, October 8, 2009: Tonight, Keith announced that he will contribute $50,000 toward the realization of the free health clinics he proposed last night. While his contribution is not my lofty notion of $1 million, $50,000 is certainly nothing at which to sneeze. Keith did not make a direct request of his viewers to contribute, but if you'd like to support this effort, click here.