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The Fiftieth Year of the Five-Year Mission. Or the Seventh. - Blather. Rants. Repeat.
A Møøse once bit my sister ...
The Fiftieth Year of the Five-Year Mission. Or the Seventh.
We went Beyond this afternoon. Loved it.  Unlike the last installment, which stuck its head way too far up canonical ass, this one introduced totally new people, places and things- but with just enough homages to TOS to keep it real.

I cried once at the end- no spoiler, but it involved both Spocks- but the more significant-to-today almost-cry came much earlier. Jim and Bones are sharing a bottle of Chekhov's secret stash of scotch (his actor, also now dearly departed as Leonard Nimoy is, homages "Tribbles" in a much later scene mentioning the provenance of the beverage).  McCoy toasts his Captain's birthday; Kirk, sadly, recognizes (and I cannot yet find the exact quote) that the occasion is one more birthday that his father never made it to.

So it is here, today.  Sandy would have turned 77 today. And my next and 57th birthday will be the seventh that I will celebrate that she never made it to.

Rarely does a day go by here without my thinking of her in some way- blunt-force, subtle, or anything in between.  Having a house full of spoiled animals constantly invites the remembrances. Watching The Graduate last weekend reminded me of her love of Simon & Garfunkel.  And just this past week, a high school friend who I've reconnected with had a particularly difficult couple of days: she was passing a kidney stone, and was doing it at a place I'd never heard of- something called St. Joseph's Hospital on Route 24 in Bethpage, Long Island.

But Facebook, being Facebook, had to provide a handy-dandy map to the center of her pain.  Route 24 is what I know as Hempstead Turnpike, and that location looked exactly like the hospital that Sandy worked at for most of her time living near my parents' from the early 1970s until not long before she died in 1988.

Yup, it was quickly confirmed that this was the facility once known as Mid-Island Hospital. This is where I was taken in 1969 after falling off my banana-seated bike, where they stabilized me  but never realized I'd ruptured an eardrum, which remains ruptured to this day and made me near-deaf on my right side ever since.  Sandy didn't arrive on the nursing staff until a few years after that, after the first of my nieces was born- but I visited it dozens of times as her husband or my father picked her up from work on occasions I was tagging along.  I always got a kick out of the reserved parking sign in front of the main entrance- THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR ROBERT REED. I expected to see assorted Brady Bunch kids coming and going, but this was a different RR, who actually owned the horsepital through an entity that he controlled known as Simon Cohen Real Estate & Management Company [hereinafter "SCREAM"].

You can't make this shit up. Any more than you can make up a South Asian Star Trek villain played by Benedict Cumberbatch.

Sandy started there shortly before my niece Nicole was born, and never worked anywhere else (that I can remember) until the demons made it impossible for her to work, or cope, or eventually to live. Her last birthday was her 49th, on this day in 1988; I sadly lapped her in 2008, and have now passed her seven times since. I take neither pride nor hope in this accomplishment. Rather, I take pride in having married and brought an awesome kid into the world- as she did, twice, and as each of them has since done, three times between them.  I take pride in respecting those less fortunate than us, and working toward ensuring that they are not margnalized or made illegal by those who have more.  I take pride in remembering the songs and singers who she loved- even if my own singing voice couldn't hold a candle to hers.

I miss her. I am, and shall always be, her brother.
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