The legend of Jorge Schiavo
Our story begins in September, 1998. Your storyteller was beginning his second year at Georgia Southern and my brother was about to embark on his freshman year at Berry College, located in scenic Rome, Ga. (The economic hub of northwest Georgia, or so we were told).
It was then that my brother came into possesion of a plant. This was no ordinary plant. (Actually, I was trying to be dramatic. It was, in fact, a very ordinary plant.) My brother, feeling the need to give the plant some sort of nomenclature, decided to name the plant Jorge after . . . well, as best I can tell it was after Jorge Posada, the catcher for the New York Yankees. A quick Google search for Jorge didn't turn up anything remotely close to anything my brother enjoyed, so lets just say he named it after a baseball player.
For many years, four to be exact, tucked away in the mountians and academia of Berry College, Jorge thrived, living off of nothing more than tap water and sunlight. But it was a happy existance for Jorge. Girlfriends came and went. I visited once in four years, and that's only because I needed a place to stay when Georgia Southern was playing in Chattanooga. But Jorge was there. When the great sinkhole event of 1999 struck, Jorge was there. When . . . well, it's Berry College, not much else happened, but Jorge was there.
Finally, after four years, Jorge and my brother graduated. After an excrutiatingly long commencement ceremony (Three hours for 300 students?!?), my brother, Jorge and all his junk made their triumphant return to Statesboro for the summer.
Ahhh, but it was not long that Jorge stayed in Statesboro. No, he and my brother packed his bags and set off for Virginia where he would work for a year and gain residency before attending graduate school at the University of Virginia, the Georgia Southern of the mid-Atlantic.
Jorge again thrived in his new surroundings. The poker craze of 2003 and Jorge was there to see it. But my brother wasn't so thrilled up there. It turns out, graduate school was not something he wanted to do, so in May, 2004, he returned to Statesboro in the hopes of finding employment and making a contribution to society.
Jorge adjusted to his new surroundings once again, away from the hustle and bustle of college life, Jorge didn't seem himself. Maybe it was the lack of the cool mountian air. Perhaps it was the adjustment to the city's tap water. Whatever the case, by late winter, 2004, Jorge was in bad shape.
His leaves were drooping, there wasn't the vibrant color in his stem. Things were looking bad for Jorge. Prayer vigils were set up. Mourners set up outside the home, hoping that something could be done for Jorge.
After a few weeks, mom had an idea. A "nutrition stick" could give Jorge the nutrients he needed to live.
Within a few days, Jorge had been given a "nutrition stick" and regaining his health.
But what of the moral implications. Was mom "playing God" by giving this stick to Jorge? Had Jorge even been consulted? Would he want to stay alive by artificial means?
No one knew. It appeared Jorge didn't have a living will and no one knew of the plant's true wishes.
Plant enthusiasts praised the decision to keep Jorge alive. "We support the culture of life," they shouted.
However, the parasites in the area were less than thrilled. "You're taking away our means of survivial," they contended.
It was at this time that Jorge took a last name, Schiavo.
With Jorge Schiavo's wishes unknown, the decision rested on my brother's shoulders. Either he could remove the feeing tube and draw the ire of the plant enthusiats, or he could disrupt the cycle of life by keeping the feeding tube and limiting the food supply for the parasites.
My brother, needing a companion for his move to Washington DC, decided to keep the feeding stick and Jorge's health returned.
They both live in Washington DC now.
It was a difficult time for everyone involved, so if you're reading this, I implore you, take care of your plants.
It was then that my brother came into possesion of a plant. This was no ordinary plant. (Actually, I was trying to be dramatic. It was, in fact, a very ordinary plant.) My brother, feeling the need to give the plant some sort of nomenclature, decided to name the plant Jorge after . . . well, as best I can tell it was after Jorge Posada, the catcher for the New York Yankees. A quick Google search for Jorge didn't turn up anything remotely close to anything my brother enjoyed, so lets just say he named it after a baseball player.
For many years, four to be exact, tucked away in the mountians and academia of Berry College, Jorge thrived, living off of nothing more than tap water and sunlight. But it was a happy existance for Jorge. Girlfriends came and went. I visited once in four years, and that's only because I needed a place to stay when Georgia Southern was playing in Chattanooga. But Jorge was there. When the great sinkhole event of 1999 struck, Jorge was there. When . . . well, it's Berry College, not much else happened, but Jorge was there.
Finally, after four years, Jorge and my brother graduated. After an excrutiatingly long commencement ceremony (Three hours for 300 students?!?), my brother, Jorge and all his junk made their triumphant return to Statesboro for the summer.
Ahhh, but it was not long that Jorge stayed in Statesboro. No, he and my brother packed his bags and set off for Virginia where he would work for a year and gain residency before attending graduate school at the University of Virginia, the Georgia Southern of the mid-Atlantic.
Jorge again thrived in his new surroundings. The poker craze of 2003 and Jorge was there to see it. But my brother wasn't so thrilled up there. It turns out, graduate school was not something he wanted to do, so in May, 2004, he returned to Statesboro in the hopes of finding employment and making a contribution to society.
Jorge adjusted to his new surroundings once again, away from the hustle and bustle of college life, Jorge didn't seem himself. Maybe it was the lack of the cool mountian air. Perhaps it was the adjustment to the city's tap water. Whatever the case, by late winter, 2004, Jorge was in bad shape.
His leaves were drooping, there wasn't the vibrant color in his stem. Things were looking bad for Jorge. Prayer vigils were set up. Mourners set up outside the home, hoping that something could be done for Jorge.
After a few weeks, mom had an idea. A "nutrition stick" could give Jorge the nutrients he needed to live.
Within a few days, Jorge had been given a "nutrition stick" and regaining his health.
But what of the moral implications. Was mom "playing God" by giving this stick to Jorge? Had Jorge even been consulted? Would he want to stay alive by artificial means?
No one knew. It appeared Jorge didn't have a living will and no one knew of the plant's true wishes.
Plant enthusiasts praised the decision to keep Jorge alive. "We support the culture of life," they shouted.
However, the parasites in the area were less than thrilled. "You're taking away our means of survivial," they contended.
It was at this time that Jorge took a last name, Schiavo.
With Jorge Schiavo's wishes unknown, the decision rested on my brother's shoulders. Either he could remove the feeing tube and draw the ire of the plant enthusiats, or he could disrupt the cycle of life by keeping the feeding tube and limiting the food supply for the parasites.
My brother, needing a companion for his move to Washington DC, decided to keep the feeding stick and Jorge's health returned.
They both live in Washington DC now.
It was a difficult time for everyone involved, so if you're reading this, I implore you, take care of your plants.
posted by Luke at 11:37 PM
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