My cousin, the murderer...

My family, on both the paternal and maternal side, has been remarkably stable and happy. Each side gets along well internally, and the two sides are actual very friendly with each other, which has always made it enjoyable to attend family events, especially those that involve attendees from both sides. Additionally, in my entire extended family, there have been no criminals, no "ne'er do wells", etc. And, there has been only one divorce -- and that was precipitated by the trauma surrounding the sudden and unexpected death of a teen-aged son.


Then, there's my cousin, Jonathan -- son of my Aunt Joanne, and, well, a murderer.

In May 2002, my cousin failed to deplane a flight from Connecticut's Bradley Airport to BWI, where a professor from the University of Maryland was awaiting his arrival. Jonathan was being flown in to be interviewed for a professorship. He had been a gifted veterinarian for several years and was being considered for a position in Maryland's Department of Veterinary Medicine.

Several calls revealed that Jonathan had missed his flight because the night before he was supposed to fly in for the interview, he had shot and killed his ex-girlfriend, and was now jailed.

While under the treatment of a psychiatrist for depression stemming from the breakup of the relationship with his long-time girlfriend, Jonathan had been prescribed two medications by that psychiatrist. It just so happened that those two particular medications were contraindicated -- meaning that the drugmakers for each had given very clear instructions that under no circumstances should they have been prescribed in tandem. Why, you ask? Well, doctors and drugmakers had observed that patients taking both drugs in combination sometimes experienced homicidal feelings.

Not long after beginning the prescribed pharmaceutical regimen, Jonathan experienced just what had been previously observed. Under the influence of both drugs, and upset by an interaction with his ex-girlfriend, he committed a terrible series of acts. He drove to his parents' home while they were at work, unlocked his father's gun cabinet, removed a pistol and ammunition, loaded the weapon, drove to his ex's parents' home -- where she lived -- found a hiding place in her parents' bedroom, and awaited her return from work.

She arrived home with her younger sister and bounded upstairs. He emerged from his hiding place, confronted her about the demise of their relationship, then pointed the pistol at her and shot her until the gun's clip emptied. Within moments, the poor, 24 year-old girl was dead from wounds to the chest, face, head, and arm.

Not realizing his gun was empty, Jonathan walked downstairs, pointed the gun at his ex's sister, and fired. Thankfully, the gun clicked on an empty chamber. Finally realizing he was out of bullets, Jonathan exited the house and ran. Not long after, the police spotted him. Seeing them, he stopped, said he had just killed his girlfriend, pointed out where he had dropped a blue, plastic bag containing the gun, and submitted to arrest.

Over the course of a year, with a lot of back and forth over his culpability vs. the role of the drugs he'd been prescribed and his physician's incompetence (he apparently had stated his homicidal feelings to the psychiatrist, who failed to report them to the authorities), the state eventually offered Jonathan a plea deal with a 42-year prison sentence attached. He accepted the sentence, which included a no-parole provision required by Connecticut state law. Provided he lives long enough, he'll leave prison at the age of 72.

Until her death yesterday, my Aunt Joanne remained steadfast in support of her son, believing him to be twisted by the drugs into a state he never would have entered unless under their influence. She appealed his conviction, seeking a new trial (the original trial had suffered a number of potentially injurious failings, including incompetent representation and the fact that the judge in the case had been a friend of the victim's family and had refused to recuse herself), and sought a new location for his sentence (the state refused to place him in a facility where he could receive treatment for depression and other mental issues, even after he tried to kill himself while awaiting sentencing). She visited him in prison often, and never wavered from being his biggest champion. Now she is gone, and with her likely goes any hope Jonathan had for a future without bars.

Those of us who were less close to Jonathan have always had difficulty with the "the drugs did it" defense. His particular series of acts seemed terribly deliberate -- to require planning, forethought, cunning, and execution that most of us consider outside the abilities of a thoroughly drug-addled brain. We thought he must have known what he was doing, and that it was wrong. Though we've been asked to visit Jonathan, to write him letters, to appear as character references, we've just never been able to bring ourselves to support him. He sits in a cell, his talents wasted, his ex-girlfriend's life brutally and unforgivably ended, her sister forever traumatized by the horror of the night her sister died, her parents bereft of a daughter about whose future they will always wonder, his parents bereft of the son they thought of as sweet and innocent, all of us who called him "family" somewhat touched by the knowledge that we shared many holiday and other family events with a boy, then a man, capable of one of humanity's most base and awful acts.

The hits just keep on coming...

My aunt Joanne, who I wrote about in my last post, died yesterday. She was having surgery to address some cancer-related issues and suffered cardiac arrest while on the operating table. Apparently, when they opened her up, they discovered that the cancer was raging much, much worse than they'd thought previously. She'd have been gone within weeks or months if not for the sudden arrest.

Joanne suffered some truly bad beats during the last decade of her life, but I'll be damned if I ever saw her without a smile on her face (more on one of those bad beats in the next post). She was incredibly sweet to Cherie, the kids, an me, and I'll always be grateful for her kindness and generosity. Selfishly, I also wouldn't mind if next year we didn't suffer 3 cancer-related deaths in the family within 7 months. It's a little tough to take.

Cancer rules everything around me...

Until recently, if you'd asked me whether cancer ran in my family, or whether I gave it much thought, I'd say no. Heart disease from generations eating too much kielbasa and other fatty delicacies? Yup. Diabetes in the genes, and from slow metabolism, indulgent eating habits, and not enough exercise? Yes, we've got that, too.

But I always felt blessed that the diseases that spanned generations within my family were "lifestyle" diseases -- and that accumulation of the right habits might help me avoid them altogether.

But lately, it seems that we, either directly or through relationships, cannot escape the presence and action of cancer. My uncle Jack died of pancreatic cancer a few years ago. His wife, my aunt Ruth, succumbed to pancreatic cancer in February. Cherie's dad succumbed to prostate cancer in March. My aunt Joanne is suffering from pancreatic cancer and is probably less than a year out (and maybe much sooner) from falling to it. While on vacation this week, I found out that my father will, on the day after his 63rd birthday, have his second surgery in 3 years to remove a spot of skin cancer on his face.

And, since I had those hiccups earlier this year (which have begun a comeback the last few days), I've been diagnosed with an esophageal ulcer, which now puts me at greater risk for developing esophageal cancer.

At work, a colleague and friend who was originally diagnosed with prostate cancer was recently told that he'd been misdiagnosed and is actually suffering from pancreatic cancer. It's now attached itself to his colon, kidneys, and bladder, and (as he told me while breaking down emotionally during lunch a few weeks ago), has been deemed "terminal" by his new team of doctors.

Even on TV, I can't escape it. One of my favorite TV personalities has long been the author, intellectual, and professional critic, Christopher Hitchens. The rakish, acerbic, professional arguer, most often found clutching a whiskey in hand while articulating a strong and often contrarian position about an issue of the day, his long hair flowing with the rhythm of his argument, was recently diagnosed with and treated for esophageal cancer. Last night, I caught an interview with him conducted by Charlie Rose, and I was stunned by what I saw. The flowing locks are gone entirely, replaced by chemo-induced baldness, save for a few pathetic wisps of hair. The fire in his eyes has been dulled, and the color in his cheeks replaced by sallowness and sagging. I felt, watching him, as though I was staring at his animated death mask rather than at his living face. It was truly awful -- perhaps because a part of me thought I might be staring at a future version of myself.

Son of Teddy Senate Coke Probe

Albino python on cocaine confronts police

Police raiding a drug den in the Italian capital have been confronted by an aggressive albino python which was used to intimidate addicts.

No handicapped Cubans could be reached for comment.

(h/t AoSHQ)