I have a bone to pick with Entertainment Tonight. Yes, I know. Self-respecting people don’t even admit that they watch the show, but sometimes I just want background noise, so I turn on the TV while I make dinner. Unfortunately for me, ET always seems to be on at exactly the same time.
In any case, the other night I was halfway listening to the show’s mindless celebrity blather when a clip of an “interview” with Hillary Clinton came on. I put the word interview in quotation marks because the “reporter” was not asking questions of any substance or direct relevance to her Presidential campaign, so in my opinion it doesn’t really qualify. I began to listen with just a touch more attention, because I haven’t yet decided on which Democratic candidate for Presidency I will vote in the primary, but Hillary is definitely up for personal consideration.
About three questions in, the interviewer flashed his over-bleached smile and in very serious tones asked Mrs. Clinton what I can only assume the show’s writers thought was an important question to people of the country:
“Mrs. Clinton, if you win the Presidency, do you have any plans to redecorate the White House?”
Hillary smiled back patiently and calmly said, “I think Mrs. Bush has done a wonderful job maintaining the White House and it probably does not need redecorating.”
Yeah, dumbass, because if she wins the Presidency she’s going to be too busy RUNNING THE COUNTRY to spend any time wondering whether the drapes wouldn’t look better in chartreuse.
This question and its underlying implications completely offended me as a woman and, in my opinion, should infuriate any other intelligent, career-focused woman with ambitious goals. As I interpret it, the question can imply two things: either people do not take Hillary Clinton seriously as a Presidential candidate or they expect her to fill not one, but two prominent public roles—those of both President and First Lady.
In the first instance, the redecorating question sounds patronizing; in other words, “Yes, Mrs. Clinton, sure you’re running for President. But let’s talk about the real issues you’ll be facing: does the Chinese ambassador prefer red of white wine?” Does the public really think that Bill will actually be orchestrating the Presidency from the wings? Do people really think that she is only running because Bill has already served two terms and this is a nefarious way for him to get back into office? Or are they not asking her serious questions just because she is a woman—hey, it’s “nice” that she’s running but no one really takes her seriously?
The second implication would suggest a blatant double standard. Excuse me if I’m incorrect, but aren’t activities such as White House redecorating and Christmas tree trimming typically the duties of the spouse of the President? If this assumption is true, then if Hillary becomes President, wouldn’t Bill be the person in charge of selecting new rugs and organizing Easter egg hunts? Maybe, though, I am grossly mistaken, and in reality the person who assumes responsibilities for these tasks is the woman who lives in the White House. Is the expectation of the people that Hillary will assume all the responsibilities of the Presidency while also filling her old support role? Has any male President in the past been expected to both fulfill his official duties and manage the more unofficial responsibilities of his spouse? Why, then, would Hillary be expected to do both?
Whether or not she is the best possible Presidential candidate, Hillary Clinton’s bid for the Democratic ticket is a step toward changing the perception that the U.S. Presidency is a man’s job. Women hold top offices in other countries around the world, but for some reason, the United States, which prides itself on being an advanced nation, is still stuck with the archaic notion that it ultimately takes a man to lead. I believe that this country needs more women like Hillary—intelligent, successful women who challenge the status quo.
However, shows like ET seriously undermine efforts to change gender perceptions in politics and the workplace by refusing to acknowledge the positions that characterize Hillary’s endeavor and focusing instead on what they think people want to know about her (Will she redecorate? What will she wear to the next debate?). Instead, ET reinforces the idea that a lot of people probably carry—it’s nice that she’s running and all, but really, what does she know about politics?
What’s truly unfortunate is that for some people, shows like ET serve as a primary news source. Some people don’t take these programs for what they are—televised tabloids—and are actually influenced by what is presented. Frighteningly, such influence has the potential to sway opinions at the polls and to ultimately negatively impact the welfare of the country. I don’t know about you, but I for one am appalled that “fluffy” questions about matters unrelated to politics (like decorating, or even religious affiliation) can influence a vote. I wish that so-called journalists would take the initiative to use their public influence to educate rather than to distract for the sake of “entertainment.”
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
Doubt
What happens when you suddenly, for no reason at all, have misgivings? What happens if you've been spending the past year plus of your life staying somewhere, pursuing a career path about which you feel only lukewarm at best, because you wanted to be with someone, and then out of the blue, you find yourself with a sick feeling in your gut, wondering if maybe he's starting to move in a different direction? What do you do when you were always sure that you were the one who was going to leave, and suddenly you feel like you might, in fact, be the one left behind?
I suppose if you're a mature, rational individual, you talk about it. And if you may be (just a little) crazy on the inside, you let it fester ad tear you apart.
But how, how can you ask someone whom you can't even tell you love (and who has never told you the same) if he's stopped loving you?
I suppose if you're a mature, rational individual, you talk about it. And if you may be (just a little) crazy on the inside, you let it fester ad tear you apart.
But how, how can you ask someone whom you can't even tell you love (and who has never told you the same) if he's stopped loving you?
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Disillusionment
Tori Amos has played a major role in the soundtrack of my life since I was fourteen years old. She helped me cope with adolescent angst, and as I got older, she helped ease my broken heart as I learned to love, lose, and let go. Lately I've been finding myself increasingly drawn to lines that reflect a sentiment of regret for unfulfilled hopes. I saw her in concert a couple of weeks ago, and the line that made me cry was "So sure we were all something; Your feet are finally on the ground." Tonight, listening to "Little Earthquakes," I felt a few pangs with the lines "I hear my voice, and it's been here, silent all these years," and "Hair is grey and the fires are burning, so many dreams on the shelf."
Tonight is Halloween. Halloween has for many years been my favorite holiday, topping even Christmas and Thanksgiving, both of which I adore for the abundance of delicious food and the gathering of many of those dear to me. Halloween is a chance for hedonistic fun--a chance to escape your identity and become a character (in public, without fear of being judged as clinically insane), indulge your inner child, eat (lots of) candy, get drunk, and enjoy being alive, in the moment. I always swore that nary a Halloween would pass where I did not dress up and get out in the thick of it. Indeed this year I contemplated my costume long and hard, and eventually I came up with several that would be fun, reasonably unique, and--most importantly since I'm no longer 18 and looking for the attention and approval of strange men--not "a slutty (insert noun here; e.g. nurse, cop, pirate, bumblebee, etc.)." Not to judge, of course. I've been two of those four examples before.
But where am I this evening? Why, I'm curled on my bed with my laptop, typing away and listening to Tori Amos. I worked late today. I finished my run even later and, starving, came home and made a quick dinner, had some tea, looked at some job specs and marked those to which I will be applying this weekend, then got ready for work tomorrow. It was just another day. I never even made one of the several costumes I envisioned; I just didn't have time. I am not out with the thousands of other New Yorkers, celebrating, drinking, and dancing in costume, weekdays and hangovers be damned. I'm being a responsible adult.
I hate being a responsible adult.
I am doing what I swore I'd never do. I'm working for the paycheck, working at a job I don't like at all because I'm afraid to take a pay cut. I'm chained to a computer under fluorescent lights. I don't see daylight for very long, and soon, once Daylight Saving Time is over, I won't see it really at all. I breathe recycled air and endure ridiculous building-regulated climate control. I smile at people I loathe. I endure verbal beatings and tell myself it's a "learning experience." I pretend to care about what I do, when in reality the atmosphere in which I work is so toxic that I no longer care about anything but leaving for the day.
The real world is quickly beating my personality out of me. Not only do I now not dress up for Halloween, but there are a whole host of other things I used to relish that I no longer do. I don't sing loudly in the shower or car anymore; in fact, I hardly sing at all. I don't dance (rather, flail) in front of the mirror for no reason at all when no one is looking. I don't draw. I don't paint. I don't look for cool photo opps. I don't perform. I don't randomly call my friends just to talk or hang out with people with the sole purpose of engaging in a great conversation. I barely write.
I feel like I was once a creative, interesting person. Life was inspiring. Now life is just...life. And I'm not coping well these days. Many mornings when getting ready for work, feelings of deep dread and anxiety settle in my chest and threaten to crush my lungs. I feel like I'm going to scream, going to snap, going to explode. And then I convince myself to make it through one more day. After all, it's not as if I have nothing to look forward to. Weekends in New York can be amazing--there is so much to explore and discover. I have a boy that I (dare I say?) love (even though I still can't bring myself to tell him that). When I spend time with him, everything sort of seems like it's going to be okay.
The problem is that I don't know how much longer I can continue living for the weekends. I swore to myself I wouldn't be this person, a person who wishes most of her time would just pass so she could get to the good parts. I was going to be a person who made a living in the good parts. Then I moved to New York and learned the implications of having rent that is twice the national average. You can't just do whatever you want without regard to the size of your salary--unless, of course, you have a trust fund. Alas, unlike many of my Williamsburg counterparts, I do not. In fact, for the last two years I saved money just in case my father didn't get his job back.
I also don't quite know what to do with myself. I have some realistic goals, a bit of ambition, and every now and then, I still have dreams. But increasingly the dreams are but wistful thoughts that come and go and just leave an aching twinge in their wake. I don't really believe in myself anymore. I believe I can be successful by a certain standard, but I've lost that certain kind of faith that allows a girl to believe in herself and believe that everything is potentially within her grasp. Instead, I'm watching myself reshape my internal framework and expectations of life so that I don't feel like I've let myself down.
But when I listen to Tori, I remember. I remember sitting in my room, listening, memorizing every musical nuance and imitating every vocal inflection of every song. I remember singing my heart out, liking what I heard, and liking how it made me feel. I remember dreaming huge dreams, envisioning what would happen once I got beyond those four walls in that house in the woods and was released into the world. I remember how it feels to be passionate. I remember who I am capable of being.
I want to find that girl again, that girl who is a more innocent and perhaps more unadulterated me. I want to embrace her, tell her that it's going to be okay, tell her that I'm not going to turn her away and tell her that she's silly any more. I want to let her know that we can work together, her with her fire and me with my experience, and together we can still do something; in fact, maybe we can do more than either of us alone.
I want to tell her that I'm sorry for stifling her emotions, for making her be controlled and closed. I want to tell her that it's okay for her to feel, to vibrate with emotion, whether that emotion is excitement or heartbreak or something in between. I want to let her know that it's okay to let others know how you feel, even if it makes you vulnerable. It's okay to cry and to sing and to laugh with abandon. It's okay to dream, and okay to love. I may be older and perhaps experience has given me more insight, but I think that if she forgives me, I can learn a few things from her yet. Maybe there is still time, and hope.
"Give me life, give me pain, give me myself again."
Tonight is Halloween. Halloween has for many years been my favorite holiday, topping even Christmas and Thanksgiving, both of which I adore for the abundance of delicious food and the gathering of many of those dear to me. Halloween is a chance for hedonistic fun--a chance to escape your identity and become a character (in public, without fear of being judged as clinically insane), indulge your inner child, eat (lots of) candy, get drunk, and enjoy being alive, in the moment. I always swore that nary a Halloween would pass where I did not dress up and get out in the thick of it. Indeed this year I contemplated my costume long and hard, and eventually I came up with several that would be fun, reasonably unique, and--most importantly since I'm no longer 18 and looking for the attention and approval of strange men--not "a slutty (insert noun here; e.g. nurse, cop, pirate, bumblebee, etc.)." Not to judge, of course. I've been two of those four examples before.
But where am I this evening? Why, I'm curled on my bed with my laptop, typing away and listening to Tori Amos. I worked late today. I finished my run even later and, starving, came home and made a quick dinner, had some tea, looked at some job specs and marked those to which I will be applying this weekend, then got ready for work tomorrow. It was just another day. I never even made one of the several costumes I envisioned; I just didn't have time. I am not out with the thousands of other New Yorkers, celebrating, drinking, and dancing in costume, weekdays and hangovers be damned. I'm being a responsible adult.
I hate being a responsible adult.
I am doing what I swore I'd never do. I'm working for the paycheck, working at a job I don't like at all because I'm afraid to take a pay cut. I'm chained to a computer under fluorescent lights. I don't see daylight for very long, and soon, once Daylight Saving Time is over, I won't see it really at all. I breathe recycled air and endure ridiculous building-regulated climate control. I smile at people I loathe. I endure verbal beatings and tell myself it's a "learning experience." I pretend to care about what I do, when in reality the atmosphere in which I work is so toxic that I no longer care about anything but leaving for the day.
The real world is quickly beating my personality out of me. Not only do I now not dress up for Halloween, but there are a whole host of other things I used to relish that I no longer do. I don't sing loudly in the shower or car anymore; in fact, I hardly sing at all. I don't dance (rather, flail) in front of the mirror for no reason at all when no one is looking. I don't draw. I don't paint. I don't look for cool photo opps. I don't perform. I don't randomly call my friends just to talk or hang out with people with the sole purpose of engaging in a great conversation. I barely write.
I feel like I was once a creative, interesting person. Life was inspiring. Now life is just...life. And I'm not coping well these days. Many mornings when getting ready for work, feelings of deep dread and anxiety settle in my chest and threaten to crush my lungs. I feel like I'm going to scream, going to snap, going to explode. And then I convince myself to make it through one more day. After all, it's not as if I have nothing to look forward to. Weekends in New York can be amazing--there is so much to explore and discover. I have a boy that I (dare I say?) love (even though I still can't bring myself to tell him that). When I spend time with him, everything sort of seems like it's going to be okay.
The problem is that I don't know how much longer I can continue living for the weekends. I swore to myself I wouldn't be this person, a person who wishes most of her time would just pass so she could get to the good parts. I was going to be a person who made a living in the good parts. Then I moved to New York and learned the implications of having rent that is twice the national average. You can't just do whatever you want without regard to the size of your salary--unless, of course, you have a trust fund. Alas, unlike many of my Williamsburg counterparts, I do not. In fact, for the last two years I saved money just in case my father didn't get his job back.
I also don't quite know what to do with myself. I have some realistic goals, a bit of ambition, and every now and then, I still have dreams. But increasingly the dreams are but wistful thoughts that come and go and just leave an aching twinge in their wake. I don't really believe in myself anymore. I believe I can be successful by a certain standard, but I've lost that certain kind of faith that allows a girl to believe in herself and believe that everything is potentially within her grasp. Instead, I'm watching myself reshape my internal framework and expectations of life so that I don't feel like I've let myself down.
But when I listen to Tori, I remember. I remember sitting in my room, listening, memorizing every musical nuance and imitating every vocal inflection of every song. I remember singing my heart out, liking what I heard, and liking how it made me feel. I remember dreaming huge dreams, envisioning what would happen once I got beyond those four walls in that house in the woods and was released into the world. I remember how it feels to be passionate. I remember who I am capable of being.
I want to find that girl again, that girl who is a more innocent and perhaps more unadulterated me. I want to embrace her, tell her that it's going to be okay, tell her that I'm not going to turn her away and tell her that she's silly any more. I want to let her know that we can work together, her with her fire and me with my experience, and together we can still do something; in fact, maybe we can do more than either of us alone.
I want to tell her that I'm sorry for stifling her emotions, for making her be controlled and closed. I want to tell her that it's okay for her to feel, to vibrate with emotion, whether that emotion is excitement or heartbreak or something in between. I want to let her know that it's okay to let others know how you feel, even if it makes you vulnerable. It's okay to cry and to sing and to laugh with abandon. It's okay to dream, and okay to love. I may be older and perhaps experience has given me more insight, but I think that if she forgives me, I can learn a few things from her yet. Maybe there is still time, and hope.
"Give me life, give me pain, give me myself again."
Friday, July 27, 2007
The Weight of the Wait
About nine months ago, I cut off over a foot of my hair. The dramatic shearing wasn’t out of any desperate need for change or self-image makeover; instead, I had been growing it for over a year so that I could donate it to a non-profit that uses donated hair to make wigs for children with either permanent hair loss caused by alopecia or temporary hair loss caused by chemotherapy treatment. I certainly don’t think I’m the world’s savior because of this contribution, but hey, hair grows, and it was no major inconvenience to just avoid getting haircuts for awhile in order to contribute something small that will offer a bit of brightness to someone else’s day.
A few weeks afterward in the corridor of my office building, I passed a man who works in the office just past mine. He smiled and said “Your hair looks great. I heard you donated it to a group that makes wigs for kids with cancer.” When I confirmed that this was true, he said, “I think that’s great; it’s really nice. You see, I have cancer, and I always appreciate hearing that people care.”
Yesterday morning in the locker room of my gym as I was getting ready to go to work after my morning swim, I chatted with a young Polish woman who is usually there at the same time as me. She is pretty, with a soft, round face that is always smiling, but her bright blue eyes belie a hint of sadness that I suspect hides beneath the surface. After we groaned a bit about how early it was and how long the week had been, she began telling me about her motivations for getting up early each day to work out. “After my husband was diagnosed with cancer, I decided I needed to work harder to make myself stronger. That’s why I get out of bed in the morning and come here. It helps.”
Three years ago my grandmother died of gastric cancer; she was 71. Nearly twenty years ago my grandfather died of colon and lung cancer; he was 67. Last week I learned that I have high-grade intraepithelial lesions; this means that there are patches of cells on my cervix that are undergoing pre-malignant changes. If I were to do nothing about it, there is a very high probability that I would develop cervical cancer and that it would kill me. I am 26.
Next week I will have these problematic cells removed during an in-office visit where my doctor will use loop electrosurgical excision procedure (LEEP). A thin, low-voltage electrified wire loop will cut out the abnormal tissue; it will be packaged up nicely and sent off to a lab to make sure none of the pesky cells has gone cancerous, and I will wait and see what my insides look like in three months. Hopefully this will be it; all abnormalities will be removed and I will continue to live a long, normal, cancer-free lifespan.
When my doctor called me last week, I was at work. I hadn’t even been thinking about my recent biopsy because low-grade (e.g., lower risk of becoming cancerous) intraepithelial lesions are extremely common amongst women in their twenties, and there was no reason to think that I would be the exception to the rule. After all, by anyone’s standards I am a really healthy individual—I almost never even get the sniffles, which is no small immunologic feat considering the sheer number of sick New Yorkers in the wintertime who wipe their germ-infested snotty noses on their hands/gloves/sleeves and brush up against you or grasp the same bar on the subway car that you must also immediately grab as the train lurches forward. My doctor’s matter-of-fact news made my heart drop into my stomach. I went into the stairwell and called my boyfriend, then choked back the tears, and returned to my desk to finish my work. I thought I could hold myself together until I was alone and had time to process everything, but unfortunately at the time I also had two houseguests, and alone time was not possible. Embarrassingly, I had a huge meltdown later that night that involved me sitting and sobbing on the fire escape just so that I could be alone.
Maybe I overreacted; after all, it’s not as if I’d been diagnosed with full-blown cancer and have six months to live. But I will try to explain the rationale for my emotional outburst as best I can. First, this procedure scares me. Yes, I know it’s not surgery per se, but I am having chunks of my cervix cut out. It’s going to hurt; lord knows the biopsy hurt enough. A local injection of anesthesia is going to be unpleasant, to say the least, and then, well, afterward there will lots of cramping, and let’s not forget the potential weeks of bleeding.
Second, women who have chunks of their cervix whittled away are likely to have more complicated pregnancies. Of course, you say that if I don’t want children, this should not be an issue to me, but as I tried to explain to my boyfriend, it’s not that I suddenly want children after knowing it’s going to be hard to have them, it’s just that I don’t like having options closed to me. And bang, there’s that door more or less slammed shut. After LEEP, women are less likely to carry pregnancies to term because of greater likelihood or cervical dilation during pregnancy, and that is the mildest pregnancy-related complication.
Third, I am scared what the pathologists might find in the samples that are sent to them for further testing. There is no reason to assume that I do in fact have cancer, but again, there was no reason for me to assume that this was going to happen either. I just feel like I am nowhere near out of the woods yet, and the prospect of going through the full treatment regimen for cervical cancer, the nuances of which I don’t even know yet, terrifies me.
Fourth, I feel a profound sense of unfairness about the whole situation. For as long as I can remember, I have been an extremely responsible individual in all aspects of life. I try to do things that are good in general and good for me in particular. I am very health-conscious and well-educated. I eat well, exercise often, make sure I’m not engaging in any “risk-taking behavior” on the personal health level (unless you count things like SCUBA diving, which is in another category, in my opinion). I encourage other people to be healthier, to reduce their risk of various kinds of disease. I’ve done everything right. And yet I must suffer the same consequences as if I were a much more irresponsible person.
Fifth, I’m angry. I’m angry for the same reason I feel that this is unfair, but I’m angry for a much larger reason than that. I’m angry because Gardasil® came too late for me. In case you are still catching up, Gardasil is the cervical cancer vaccine. If administered to girls (and boys, but that is a longer explanation) before they become sexually active, it is 99% effective at preventing the strains of human papillomavirus (HPV) that are the cause of almost all types of cervical cancer. I did get this series of shots immediately after it was approved by the FDA, but apparently by that time I already had the HPV strain that causes intraepithelial lesions to appear in the first place. Of course, I had no way of knowing, as my Pap smears had always been normal, and there is no other way to tell if you have this HPV strain because there are no symptoms. If this shot had been around when I was nine years old, I would not be going through this now.
However, the “what-ifs” of the situation aren’t the factors that really make my blood boil. The real source of my anger is that there is now a safe, effective vaccine that has the potential to eradicate this form of cancer. There is also a second cervical cancer vaccine, Cervarix™, in development now that will likely be approved within the year. Cervical cancer is currently the third most common form of cancer amongst women in the United States (and certainly in other areas of the world it is much more prevalent). And yet there are people who protest its use on supposed “moral” and “religious” grounds. The theory goes like this: Almost all cervical cancer is caused by HPV. HPV is sexually transmitted. If you vaccinate against cervical cancer, you are also vaccinating against a sexually transmitted disease. Therefore, if you vaccinate your children against a sexually transmitted disease, you are giving them permission to have sex, because than there will be no negative repercussions from having sex.
Right.
The logic of this particular syllogism escapes me too. The obvious fault is that even though this particular consequence of engaging in sexual activity would be eliminated, it does not change the fact that there are still a whole host of other terrible viruses and bacterial infections against which this vaccine provides no protection, including HIV, herpes, chlamydia, and gonorrhea to name a few, not to mention unintended pregnancy. One of the several less obvious arguments is that even if a young woman remains “virtuous” until the day she is married, there is no guarantee that her future spouse has, and that he is not carrying the strain of HPV that causes cervical cancer. He of course would have no way to tell if he was infected because this strain has no negative repercussions for men, as men do not have cervixes.
However, my understanding of the dissenters’ thinking is that if young girls fear contracting HPV and possibly cervical cancer, then of course they will not have sex (despite the fact that presumably the threat of HIV/AIDS is not a deterrent, by this rationale). There are certain sectors of people who are now vocally proclaiming that vaccination should be optional; that is should be a parent’s choice instead of being something that is mandated (and in the case of the socio-economically disadvantaged, paid for) by the government. (Of course, the people who fall into this category are usually Republican, conservative, Christian, have zealot tendencies, or some combination thereof, and because of this and other reasons, although I am trying to remain a relatively non-judgmental individual, I am beginning to detest them all unilaterally.) These peoples’ so-called moral fervor, as usual, gets the better of them, and not only do they decide not to protect their own daughters from a disease that can eventually kill them, but they are also forcing the poor, the uneducated, and often minority groups to also forego immunity from this particular disease.
Think about it. Those of us who are fortunate enough to be well-educated and who have a basic grasp of modern medicine will at least know about the existence of this vaccine and will understand how it works. We can have the option (and health insurance coverage) to choose whether or not to be vaccinated and to vaccinate our children. However, there are many, many people in this country who are not even aware that Gardasil is around, and even if they may have heard the name, they may not fully understand what it does and how it has the potential to save thousands of lives. In addition, there are countless people who may know about it and understand its benefits but who cannot afford it because they are uninsured or underinsured. $300-500 for three shots (plus time off from work to go to the appointments) is a lot of money when you are living paycheck to paycheck. These people really do not have a choice whether or not to get vaccinated or vaccinate their children; it’s already made for them. The only way that all sectors of society can benefit from this advance in medicine is if the vaccine is made mandatory for all schoolchildren; this way all kids (starting with girls, of course, pending more safety and efficacy testing by the drug’s manufacturer to verify its value for using it on boys, too) will receive it before they enter a certain year of school (and presumably before they become sexually active).
However, if the religious right has its way, there will be no mandatory vaccination for children, and eventually more women will die from a disease that we have the potential to completely stamp out within our lifespan. Case and point: take the July 12, 2007 approval of the 2008 Labor-HHS-Education appropriations bill (HR 3043). I have included the portion of Kaiser Family Foundation* Daily Women’s Health Policy Report from July 19, 2007 that describes the bill:
House Passes Spending Bill That Increases Abstinence Education, Family Planning Program Funding, Bans Funding for Mandated HPV Vaccination
The House on Thursday voted 276-140 to approve a $152 billion fiscal year 2008 Labor-HHS-Education appropriations bill (HR 3043), which includes increases in funding for HHS' Community-Based Abstinence Education Program and for the Title X family planning program, the AP/San Diego Union-Tribune reports (Taylor, AP/San Diego Union-Tribune, 7/19).
CBAE, which gives grants to groups that teach abstinence but not how to use contraception, would receive an allocation of $141 million for FY 2008 under the measure. The program's allocation in FY 2007 was $109 million, and President Bush requested a $137 million allocation for the program in FY 2008. Some Democrats hope the funding level for CBAE will garner support from Republicans on spending bills.
The measure also would allocate $311 million for Title X, an increase of $27.8 million from FY 2007. Some family planning advocates said the allocation is less than historic levels of funding, adjusted for inflation. The bill also would leave in place restrictions on federal funding for abortions. Bush has said that he will veto spending bills that exceed his budget requests (Kaiser Daily Women's Health Policy Report, 6/8). The Senate has not yet acted on the companion Labor-HHS-Education appropriations bill.
HPV Vaccine Amendment
The House bill also includes an amendment, introduced by Rep. Phil Gingrey (R-Ga.), that would prohibit federal funds from being used by states to require human papillomavirus vaccinations for school attendance. Gingrey's amendment passed on Wednesday by voice vote (Gingrey release, 7/19).
"I applaud the development of an HPV vaccine," Gingrey said, adding, "But for states to mandate vaccination for young women is both unprecedented and unacceptable. Whether or not girls get vaccinated against HPV is a decision for parents and physicians, not politicians and bureaucrats" (Lopes, Washington Times, 7/20).
Planned Parenthood Amendment
The House also voted 231-189 to reject an amendment introduced by Rep. Mike Pence (R-Ind.), that would have prohibited Planned Parenthood clinics from receiving any of the bill's family planning funds, CQ Today reports. Rep. Trent Franks (R-Ariz.) called Planned Parenthood a "death-dealing organization." Rep. Rosa DeLauro (D-Conn.) said, "If we value, as we say we do, women's health, ... we cannot strip Planned Parenthood of funding."
Nancy Clack, Planned Parenthood Federation of America vice president for public policy, said, "Planned Parenthood applauds members of Congress for defeating this outrageous attack on family planning and the more than 2.4 million women and men who rely on Planned Parenthood for birth control every year" (Wayne, CQ Today, 7/19).
I cannot possibly go into all the aspects of this bill that anger me (abstinence-only sex education is another long-winded rant entirely) or the ways in which it could have been worse (at least the Planned Parenthood Amendment made it) without writing a novel, so I will focus solely on the HPV Vaccine Amendment.
When I first read this release, I was livid to the point of being practically in tears. I simply could not believe that our policymakers, the people who are supposed to be concerned with the well-being of the American people, would allow their ideology to completely defy common sense. The quote from Rep. Phil Gingrey (a Republican from Georgia, of course) particularly set me off. He said, “I applaud the development of an HPV vaccine, but for states to mandate vaccination for young women is both unprecedented and unacceptable. Whether or not girls get vaccinated against HPV is a decision for parents and physicians, not politicians and bureaucrats.”
Correct me if I’m wrong, but the last time I checked it was, in fact, mandatory for ALL children attending school in this country to be vaccinated for measles, mumps, and rubella, among other diseases before they are allowed to enroll. Therefore I cannot see how a mandatory HPV vaccination is “both unprecedented and unacceptable.” Is it simply because currently the vaccine is FDA approved for females only? Or is it because of the stigma associated with sexually transmitted disease? I fail to understand why a parent would choose to protect his or her child against one disease but not another simply because of the way it is contracted.
My gut emotional reaction to the idea of a parent purposefully denying his or her child protection against a disease (and also that of policymakers denying thousands of women that same protection) is one of abject horror. It appalls me to think that there are people out there who think that HPV and cervical cancer are rightful consequences to engaging in “sinful” behavior. I have cried myself to sleep over the thought that there are parents who would set their daughters and granddaughters up to go through what I am going through now because they think God thinks sex is bad. I can’t comprehend how someone could think that all this tension and emotional turbulence, all the pain of the treatment procedures and the worrying about test results, the recovery time, potential pregnancy complications, and, worst-case scenario, cancer treatment, and if that doesn’t happen, a very painful death, is somehow deserved because a woman did not behave as she was “supposed to” behave.
I would be willing to bet if a vaccine were developed that could protect people against skin cancer, leukemia, lymphomas, lung cancer, or any other type of cancer, there would be very little moral protest about vaccinating the entire nation. If there were a cure for my grandfather’s colon cancer or my grandmother’s gastric cancer, then they would still be alive to see all their grandchildren being born and growing up. If there were a prophylactic drug that could have completely prevented their horrible, slow, and suffering disease progressions and ultimately their painful deaths, then I am sure that no one would have argued its value and its use. If we can stop pain and disease before they even begin, what is the harm in that? Why then would we deny women the same benefit that we would hypothetically give gastric or colon or lung cancer patients simply because they are sexually active? Is my life less valuable that that of someone who contracts breast or lung cancer? If the goal of cancer research is, as so many cancer advocates state, truly to eliminate the disease in all its forms, then we must start somewhere. Science has already made incredible strides in the right direction. When will the rest of society catch up?
As for me, now it's just a waiting game. I wait nervously for the procedure itself and with even more apprehension for lab results, which will come a week after the test. All I can do is hope for the best.
*The Kaiser Family Foundation is an organization that seeks to provide “timely, reliable, and non-partisan information on national health issues to policymakers, the media, and the general public.” See www.kaisernetwork.org for more information.
A few weeks afterward in the corridor of my office building, I passed a man who works in the office just past mine. He smiled and said “Your hair looks great. I heard you donated it to a group that makes wigs for kids with cancer.” When I confirmed that this was true, he said, “I think that’s great; it’s really nice. You see, I have cancer, and I always appreciate hearing that people care.”
Yesterday morning in the locker room of my gym as I was getting ready to go to work after my morning swim, I chatted with a young Polish woman who is usually there at the same time as me. She is pretty, with a soft, round face that is always smiling, but her bright blue eyes belie a hint of sadness that I suspect hides beneath the surface. After we groaned a bit about how early it was and how long the week had been, she began telling me about her motivations for getting up early each day to work out. “After my husband was diagnosed with cancer, I decided I needed to work harder to make myself stronger. That’s why I get out of bed in the morning and come here. It helps.”
Three years ago my grandmother died of gastric cancer; she was 71. Nearly twenty years ago my grandfather died of colon and lung cancer; he was 67. Last week I learned that I have high-grade intraepithelial lesions; this means that there are patches of cells on my cervix that are undergoing pre-malignant changes. If I were to do nothing about it, there is a very high probability that I would develop cervical cancer and that it would kill me. I am 26.
Next week I will have these problematic cells removed during an in-office visit where my doctor will use loop electrosurgical excision procedure (LEEP). A thin, low-voltage electrified wire loop will cut out the abnormal tissue; it will be packaged up nicely and sent off to a lab to make sure none of the pesky cells has gone cancerous, and I will wait and see what my insides look like in three months. Hopefully this will be it; all abnormalities will be removed and I will continue to live a long, normal, cancer-free lifespan.
When my doctor called me last week, I was at work. I hadn’t even been thinking about my recent biopsy because low-grade (e.g., lower risk of becoming cancerous) intraepithelial lesions are extremely common amongst women in their twenties, and there was no reason to think that I would be the exception to the rule. After all, by anyone’s standards I am a really healthy individual—I almost never even get the sniffles, which is no small immunologic feat considering the sheer number of sick New Yorkers in the wintertime who wipe their germ-infested snotty noses on their hands/gloves/sleeves and brush up against you or grasp the same bar on the subway car that you must also immediately grab as the train lurches forward. My doctor’s matter-of-fact news made my heart drop into my stomach. I went into the stairwell and called my boyfriend, then choked back the tears, and returned to my desk to finish my work. I thought I could hold myself together until I was alone and had time to process everything, but unfortunately at the time I also had two houseguests, and alone time was not possible. Embarrassingly, I had a huge meltdown later that night that involved me sitting and sobbing on the fire escape just so that I could be alone.
Maybe I overreacted; after all, it’s not as if I’d been diagnosed with full-blown cancer and have six months to live. But I will try to explain the rationale for my emotional outburst as best I can. First, this procedure scares me. Yes, I know it’s not surgery per se, but I am having chunks of my cervix cut out. It’s going to hurt; lord knows the biopsy hurt enough. A local injection of anesthesia is going to be unpleasant, to say the least, and then, well, afterward there will lots of cramping, and let’s not forget the potential weeks of bleeding.
Second, women who have chunks of their cervix whittled away are likely to have more complicated pregnancies. Of course, you say that if I don’t want children, this should not be an issue to me, but as I tried to explain to my boyfriend, it’s not that I suddenly want children after knowing it’s going to be hard to have them, it’s just that I don’t like having options closed to me. And bang, there’s that door more or less slammed shut. After LEEP, women are less likely to carry pregnancies to term because of greater likelihood or cervical dilation during pregnancy, and that is the mildest pregnancy-related complication.
Third, I am scared what the pathologists might find in the samples that are sent to them for further testing. There is no reason to assume that I do in fact have cancer, but again, there was no reason for me to assume that this was going to happen either. I just feel like I am nowhere near out of the woods yet, and the prospect of going through the full treatment regimen for cervical cancer, the nuances of which I don’t even know yet, terrifies me.
Fourth, I feel a profound sense of unfairness about the whole situation. For as long as I can remember, I have been an extremely responsible individual in all aspects of life. I try to do things that are good in general and good for me in particular. I am very health-conscious and well-educated. I eat well, exercise often, make sure I’m not engaging in any “risk-taking behavior” on the personal health level (unless you count things like SCUBA diving, which is in another category, in my opinion). I encourage other people to be healthier, to reduce their risk of various kinds of disease. I’ve done everything right. And yet I must suffer the same consequences as if I were a much more irresponsible person.
Fifth, I’m angry. I’m angry for the same reason I feel that this is unfair, but I’m angry for a much larger reason than that. I’m angry because Gardasil® came too late for me. In case you are still catching up, Gardasil is the cervical cancer vaccine. If administered to girls (and boys, but that is a longer explanation) before they become sexually active, it is 99% effective at preventing the strains of human papillomavirus (HPV) that are the cause of almost all types of cervical cancer. I did get this series of shots immediately after it was approved by the FDA, but apparently by that time I already had the HPV strain that causes intraepithelial lesions to appear in the first place. Of course, I had no way of knowing, as my Pap smears had always been normal, and there is no other way to tell if you have this HPV strain because there are no symptoms. If this shot had been around when I was nine years old, I would not be going through this now.
However, the “what-ifs” of the situation aren’t the factors that really make my blood boil. The real source of my anger is that there is now a safe, effective vaccine that has the potential to eradicate this form of cancer. There is also a second cervical cancer vaccine, Cervarix™, in development now that will likely be approved within the year. Cervical cancer is currently the third most common form of cancer amongst women in the United States (and certainly in other areas of the world it is much more prevalent). And yet there are people who protest its use on supposed “moral” and “religious” grounds. The theory goes like this: Almost all cervical cancer is caused by HPV. HPV is sexually transmitted. If you vaccinate against cervical cancer, you are also vaccinating against a sexually transmitted disease. Therefore, if you vaccinate your children against a sexually transmitted disease, you are giving them permission to have sex, because than there will be no negative repercussions from having sex.
Right.
The logic of this particular syllogism escapes me too. The obvious fault is that even though this particular consequence of engaging in sexual activity would be eliminated, it does not change the fact that there are still a whole host of other terrible viruses and bacterial infections against which this vaccine provides no protection, including HIV, herpes, chlamydia, and gonorrhea to name a few, not to mention unintended pregnancy. One of the several less obvious arguments is that even if a young woman remains “virtuous” until the day she is married, there is no guarantee that her future spouse has, and that he is not carrying the strain of HPV that causes cervical cancer. He of course would have no way to tell if he was infected because this strain has no negative repercussions for men, as men do not have cervixes.
However, my understanding of the dissenters’ thinking is that if young girls fear contracting HPV and possibly cervical cancer, then of course they will not have sex (despite the fact that presumably the threat of HIV/AIDS is not a deterrent, by this rationale). There are certain sectors of people who are now vocally proclaiming that vaccination should be optional; that is should be a parent’s choice instead of being something that is mandated (and in the case of the socio-economically disadvantaged, paid for) by the government. (Of course, the people who fall into this category are usually Republican, conservative, Christian, have zealot tendencies, or some combination thereof, and because of this and other reasons, although I am trying to remain a relatively non-judgmental individual, I am beginning to detest them all unilaterally.) These peoples’ so-called moral fervor, as usual, gets the better of them, and not only do they decide not to protect their own daughters from a disease that can eventually kill them, but they are also forcing the poor, the uneducated, and often minority groups to also forego immunity from this particular disease.
Think about it. Those of us who are fortunate enough to be well-educated and who have a basic grasp of modern medicine will at least know about the existence of this vaccine and will understand how it works. We can have the option (and health insurance coverage) to choose whether or not to be vaccinated and to vaccinate our children. However, there are many, many people in this country who are not even aware that Gardasil is around, and even if they may have heard the name, they may not fully understand what it does and how it has the potential to save thousands of lives. In addition, there are countless people who may know about it and understand its benefits but who cannot afford it because they are uninsured or underinsured. $300-500 for three shots (plus time off from work to go to the appointments) is a lot of money when you are living paycheck to paycheck. These people really do not have a choice whether or not to get vaccinated or vaccinate their children; it’s already made for them. The only way that all sectors of society can benefit from this advance in medicine is if the vaccine is made mandatory for all schoolchildren; this way all kids (starting with girls, of course, pending more safety and efficacy testing by the drug’s manufacturer to verify its value for using it on boys, too) will receive it before they enter a certain year of school (and presumably before they become sexually active).
However, if the religious right has its way, there will be no mandatory vaccination for children, and eventually more women will die from a disease that we have the potential to completely stamp out within our lifespan. Case and point: take the July 12, 2007 approval of the 2008 Labor-HHS-Education appropriations bill (HR 3043). I have included the portion of Kaiser Family Foundation* Daily Women’s Health Policy Report from July 19, 2007 that describes the bill:
House Passes Spending Bill That Increases Abstinence Education, Family Planning Program Funding, Bans Funding for Mandated HPV Vaccination
The House on Thursday voted 276-140 to approve a $152 billion fiscal year 2008 Labor-HHS-Education appropriations bill (HR 3043), which includes increases in funding for HHS' Community-Based Abstinence Education Program and for the Title X family planning program, the AP/San Diego Union-Tribune reports (Taylor, AP/San Diego Union-Tribune, 7/19).
CBAE, which gives grants to groups that teach abstinence but not how to use contraception, would receive an allocation of $141 million for FY 2008 under the measure. The program's allocation in FY 2007 was $109 million, and President Bush requested a $137 million allocation for the program in FY 2008. Some Democrats hope the funding level for CBAE will garner support from Republicans on spending bills.
The measure also would allocate $311 million for Title X, an increase of $27.8 million from FY 2007. Some family planning advocates said the allocation is less than historic levels of funding, adjusted for inflation. The bill also would leave in place restrictions on federal funding for abortions. Bush has said that he will veto spending bills that exceed his budget requests (Kaiser Daily Women's Health Policy Report, 6/8). The Senate has not yet acted on the companion Labor-HHS-Education appropriations bill.
HPV Vaccine Amendment
The House bill also includes an amendment, introduced by Rep. Phil Gingrey (R-Ga.), that would prohibit federal funds from being used by states to require human papillomavirus vaccinations for school attendance. Gingrey's amendment passed on Wednesday by voice vote (Gingrey release, 7/19).
"I applaud the development of an HPV vaccine," Gingrey said, adding, "But for states to mandate vaccination for young women is both unprecedented and unacceptable. Whether or not girls get vaccinated against HPV is a decision for parents and physicians, not politicians and bureaucrats" (Lopes, Washington Times, 7/20).
Planned Parenthood Amendment
The House also voted 231-189 to reject an amendment introduced by Rep. Mike Pence (R-Ind.), that would have prohibited Planned Parenthood clinics from receiving any of the bill's family planning funds, CQ Today reports. Rep. Trent Franks (R-Ariz.) called Planned Parenthood a "death-dealing organization." Rep. Rosa DeLauro (D-Conn.) said, "If we value, as we say we do, women's health, ... we cannot strip Planned Parenthood of funding."
Nancy Clack, Planned Parenthood Federation of America vice president for public policy, said, "Planned Parenthood applauds members of Congress for defeating this outrageous attack on family planning and the more than 2.4 million women and men who rely on Planned Parenthood for birth control every year" (Wayne, CQ Today, 7/19).
I cannot possibly go into all the aspects of this bill that anger me (abstinence-only sex education is another long-winded rant entirely) or the ways in which it could have been worse (at least the Planned Parenthood Amendment made it) without writing a novel, so I will focus solely on the HPV Vaccine Amendment.
When I first read this release, I was livid to the point of being practically in tears. I simply could not believe that our policymakers, the people who are supposed to be concerned with the well-being of the American people, would allow their ideology to completely defy common sense. The quote from Rep. Phil Gingrey (a Republican from Georgia, of course) particularly set me off. He said, “I applaud the development of an HPV vaccine, but for states to mandate vaccination for young women is both unprecedented and unacceptable. Whether or not girls get vaccinated against HPV is a decision for parents and physicians, not politicians and bureaucrats.”
Correct me if I’m wrong, but the last time I checked it was, in fact, mandatory for ALL children attending school in this country to be vaccinated for measles, mumps, and rubella, among other diseases before they are allowed to enroll. Therefore I cannot see how a mandatory HPV vaccination is “both unprecedented and unacceptable.” Is it simply because currently the vaccine is FDA approved for females only? Or is it because of the stigma associated with sexually transmitted disease? I fail to understand why a parent would choose to protect his or her child against one disease but not another simply because of the way it is contracted.
My gut emotional reaction to the idea of a parent purposefully denying his or her child protection against a disease (and also that of policymakers denying thousands of women that same protection) is one of abject horror. It appalls me to think that there are people out there who think that HPV and cervical cancer are rightful consequences to engaging in “sinful” behavior. I have cried myself to sleep over the thought that there are parents who would set their daughters and granddaughters up to go through what I am going through now because they think God thinks sex is bad. I can’t comprehend how someone could think that all this tension and emotional turbulence, all the pain of the treatment procedures and the worrying about test results, the recovery time, potential pregnancy complications, and, worst-case scenario, cancer treatment, and if that doesn’t happen, a very painful death, is somehow deserved because a woman did not behave as she was “supposed to” behave.
I would be willing to bet if a vaccine were developed that could protect people against skin cancer, leukemia, lymphomas, lung cancer, or any other type of cancer, there would be very little moral protest about vaccinating the entire nation. If there were a cure for my grandfather’s colon cancer or my grandmother’s gastric cancer, then they would still be alive to see all their grandchildren being born and growing up. If there were a prophylactic drug that could have completely prevented their horrible, slow, and suffering disease progressions and ultimately their painful deaths, then I am sure that no one would have argued its value and its use. If we can stop pain and disease before they even begin, what is the harm in that? Why then would we deny women the same benefit that we would hypothetically give gastric or colon or lung cancer patients simply because they are sexually active? Is my life less valuable that that of someone who contracts breast or lung cancer? If the goal of cancer research is, as so many cancer advocates state, truly to eliminate the disease in all its forms, then we must start somewhere. Science has already made incredible strides in the right direction. When will the rest of society catch up?
As for me, now it's just a waiting game. I wait nervously for the procedure itself and with even more apprehension for lab results, which will come a week after the test. All I can do is hope for the best.
*The Kaiser Family Foundation is an organization that seeks to provide “timely, reliable, and non-partisan information on national health issues to policymakers, the media, and the general public.” See www.kaisernetwork.org for more information.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Biohazard Burial
Today I watched a miscarriage.
I stood by, offering reassurance that protocol was being followed. Her husband held her hand and smiled at her, told her it would be okay, murmured that the blood was probably nothing and that, yes, the exam was uncomfortable, but it would all be over soon. She fussed at him and told him to stop messing with her hair but smiled back up at him around a nose that crinkled in discomfort.
Such a nice, polite couple--one whose halves by all appearances love one another. They were nothing like the girls and women I see in the ER all the time, who come in with complaints of unexplained abdominal pain and who walk away reeling, faces plastered with looks of shock, horror, and sometimes revulsion when they learn they're pregnant. No, this was a couple who wanted--and deserve--a child.
She'd been bleeding for days. Not a lot, but enough to be concerned. The PA cleared away accumulated blood to see if there was an opening in the os. She laughed when she realized that at first she had thought he'd said he was looking for an opening in her ass. She waited patiently as he soaked up the blood and completed the exam. When it was all over, the PA asked her to wait just a moment as he gathered up stained gauze so he could dispose of it properly. He told her she could dress, and as we left the room, he asked me to follow him.
"I think she's discharging some tissue too. But I need to look at it and I don't want to do it in front of her. I don't want to scare her."
We went into the back room where urinalysis samples are typically collected, and he unwrapped the soiled package with gloved hands.
"Yeah, it's a good bit of tissue," I said. Not to be graphic, but as a woman, I recognize this kind of discharge. The PA examined it more closely.
"Oh no. Is that what I think it is?" he asked. There, amidst the darker clots, was something small, luminescent, milky white. I stepped closer.
"Oh god."
A pearl of tissue, something I had never seen before in real life, but a thing I could instantly recognize. A tiny amniotic sac, no bigger than a marble, and inside, an embryo.
"She just passed her baby. Yeah, you can see it. I'll have to get official confirmation from one of the doctors, but..."
My heart stopped momentarily. My eyes started to well with tears, which I stifled in an attempt to be professional. As the PA walked around the corner, I walked the other way toward the wheelchair bay and allowed myself a few seconds to grieve for this couple, patiently waiting in the GYN room, still thinking they were going to be parents in fewer than nine months.
Don't get me wrong here. I will clarify from the outset that I am strongly pro-choice. I don't mourn that another child will not enter the world. I mourn instead that that particular child will not enter the world--a child conceived by two people who love one another and who want to give parenting an honest effort.
I don't often think about pregnancy. I don't want children. In fact, the thought of the whole process has always kind of, well, grossed me out. But today, seeing that pea-sized embryo in a medic's hand, I just got it. I understand how crazy and fascinating life's astonshingly fragile beginnings can be. I can begin to see how people can love something that really isn't anything yet and how profoundly the act of creating life can affect people. And god, I hurt for that couple. I know that right now they are at home, and that they are devastated.
The PA told them almost immediately. He said there was no question, and he didn't want to lie to them and keep them there waiting on test results that would tell them nothing we didn't already know. He thought instead that it would be better to offer them that time in the GYN room to grieve and to comfort one another. I agree. No one in Urgent Care ER would die if they didn't get a room in the next 20 minutes or so. But part of them had just died, and it seemed only right to give them some time to come to terms with that.
I never fail to be flummoxed by how life's most seemingly commonplace moments can totally floor you, how they can change everything.
I stood by, offering reassurance that protocol was being followed. Her husband held her hand and smiled at her, told her it would be okay, murmured that the blood was probably nothing and that, yes, the exam was uncomfortable, but it would all be over soon. She fussed at him and told him to stop messing with her hair but smiled back up at him around a nose that crinkled in discomfort.
Such a nice, polite couple--one whose halves by all appearances love one another. They were nothing like the girls and women I see in the ER all the time, who come in with complaints of unexplained abdominal pain and who walk away reeling, faces plastered with looks of shock, horror, and sometimes revulsion when they learn they're pregnant. No, this was a couple who wanted--and deserve--a child.
She'd been bleeding for days. Not a lot, but enough to be concerned. The PA cleared away accumulated blood to see if there was an opening in the os. She laughed when she realized that at first she had thought he'd said he was looking for an opening in her ass. She waited patiently as he soaked up the blood and completed the exam. When it was all over, the PA asked her to wait just a moment as he gathered up stained gauze so he could dispose of it properly. He told her she could dress, and as we left the room, he asked me to follow him.
"I think she's discharging some tissue too. But I need to look at it and I don't want to do it in front of her. I don't want to scare her."
We went into the back room where urinalysis samples are typically collected, and he unwrapped the soiled package with gloved hands.
"Yeah, it's a good bit of tissue," I said. Not to be graphic, but as a woman, I recognize this kind of discharge. The PA examined it more closely.
"Oh no. Is that what I think it is?" he asked. There, amidst the darker clots, was something small, luminescent, milky white. I stepped closer.
"Oh god."
A pearl of tissue, something I had never seen before in real life, but a thing I could instantly recognize. A tiny amniotic sac, no bigger than a marble, and inside, an embryo.
"She just passed her baby. Yeah, you can see it. I'll have to get official confirmation from one of the doctors, but..."
My heart stopped momentarily. My eyes started to well with tears, which I stifled in an attempt to be professional. As the PA walked around the corner, I walked the other way toward the wheelchair bay and allowed myself a few seconds to grieve for this couple, patiently waiting in the GYN room, still thinking they were going to be parents in fewer than nine months.
Don't get me wrong here. I will clarify from the outset that I am strongly pro-choice. I don't mourn that another child will not enter the world. I mourn instead that that particular child will not enter the world--a child conceived by two people who love one another and who want to give parenting an honest effort.
I don't often think about pregnancy. I don't want children. In fact, the thought of the whole process has always kind of, well, grossed me out. But today, seeing that pea-sized embryo in a medic's hand, I just got it. I understand how crazy and fascinating life's astonshingly fragile beginnings can be. I can begin to see how people can love something that really isn't anything yet and how profoundly the act of creating life can affect people. And god, I hurt for that couple. I know that right now they are at home, and that they are devastated.
The PA told them almost immediately. He said there was no question, and he didn't want to lie to them and keep them there waiting on test results that would tell them nothing we didn't already know. He thought instead that it would be better to offer them that time in the GYN room to grieve and to comfort one another. I agree. No one in Urgent Care ER would die if they didn't get a room in the next 20 minutes or so. But part of them had just died, and it seemed only right to give them some time to come to terms with that.
I never fail to be flummoxed by how life's most seemingly commonplace moments can totally floor you, how they can change everything.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Funeral for a Friend
This should be a wedding, not a funeral. There should be smiles through the tears, tears shed for joy, shed because now in addition to daughter, sister, friend, girlfriend, she becomes wife, and perhaps someday mother. We should cry because we know she will change and her relationship to us will change, but we know she will be happier for it. She should be standing here, laughing, pleased that so many people came to share this moment with her.
I couldn't escape these thoughts, the feeling of everything being so wrong.
But instead of standing before the assembled crowd, Amy lay still in that polished wooden casket at the front of the church--beautiful, tiny Amy, her face probably still framed by those perfect strawberry ringlets, except this time her eyes won't light up with merriment and mischief. They'll never light again.
I've been to funerals before, including funerals of those close to me, the most memorable being my grandmother's, just a shade over 3 years ago. In most of those instances, though, even though the deaths weren't necessarily expected, they made sense in my schemata of how life progresses; the older people in your life slowly fall away. This, however, was my first funeral for someone my age that I'd considered a friend. I'm having a hard time with it still. I ache. My sinus cavities feel like I've been crying for days, which isn't entirely untrue, and a general malaise has settled itself in my breast. It just aches. I can't stop thinking about it, about her, about her dying (god it's such a difficult word to utter). I can't stop thinking about--and hurting for--all those who were closest to her, those people whose lives now have big gaps that used to be filled by Amy.
I know her parents are a wreck; parents who lose a child always are, and I wish there was something I could do or say to make this not haunt them for the rest of their lives. Parents expect their children to bury them, not to bury their children. I've known this family for...god, fifteen years, and I know how close Amy was to her parents and how much they loved her. Something will always be missing during Christmas and birthdays. Moving forward, her bright smile will no longer appear in family photographs. Significant anniversaries of hers will never go unnoted, but now they will be acknowledged with mourning instead of celebration. How will they answer when asked if they have children? Do you ever get used to that look on people's faces when they learn your child has died?
Amy's younger sister has been one of my dearest friends for three quarters of my life, and I know Amy was, really, her best friend. I can't begin to imagine just how hard it will be when she picks up the phone to call Amy and tell her some silly anecdote or good news and then puts it down again when she realizes there will never again be anyone at the end of that line. She's known her older sister better than anyone in our peer group for as long as she's been alive. Amy helped shape the person she is today. She was a never-ending source of unjudgmental love and support. They've shared so many memories, so many private jokes, practically a language that no one else could fully understand, and they had so many more to share. Their children were meant to play in the dirt together, finger paint pictures together, perform creative skits they've co-written for their mom's and aunt's joint entertainment. Robin and Amy would see shadows of themselves in these small people and smile at each other knowingly. But now Robin's children will have no adorably petite and possibly redheaded cousins, and she won't call her sister to tell her about the kids or the cats or e-mail her to find out how to care for the baby raccoon or opossum she may one day find abandoned in her back yard.
And Christian...this one hit home for me hard, because just imagining what he must be going through, what he will continue to go through for a long time, still takes my breath away. I can't pretend to fully fathom what it must be like to love someone so thoroughly that you'd change many of your destructive ways, to know that you've found the person with whom you want to spend the rest of your life, to wake up next to that person every day for the past few years, and more than that, seeing her at work every day too, feeling like the luckiest man alive every time she smiles at you, and then having that all ripped away so soon when you thought you had years to share your hopes and dreams and struggles and triumphs. How do you get back in the bed you shared and fall asleep without holding the person you expected to hold until you were both aged, greyer versions of yourselves? Really I barely know him, but I can't stop thinking about him.
I still struggle to make sense of this. I want to find a reason that this happened, to understand why, to reconcile to myself that despite the unfairness of the situation, it's going to be okay because there's really a purpose behind it all.
Yet one thing that's become painfully clear to me is that sometimes there aren't reasons that bad things happen to good people, and sometimes life is just not fair.
When you're young, no one ever warns you that this is what life has in store--that slowly, one by one, you lose the people who mean the most to you, or they lose you. Your elders tell you about all the wonderful things that can happen to you throughout life--finding a passion and a career, falling in love, raising children, creating a home. But people don't talk about death's pervasive presence and how it will play a profound role in the course of your life.
So here: the only thing I can take away from this is that life is tenuous at best. Nothing's a sure bet, no matter how hard we work to lead a good life and no matter how perfectly we construct our worlds. However, the things that really make life worth living are the people we know and love. They add a richness and depth to our short terrestrial experience that can't be paralleled by any kind of object or success, but sadly, we never know how long we have with them.
Of course I can go on to espouse the necessity of making the most of every possible moment, of sucking the marrow from life, but anyone who has ever grown up and lived the day-to-day grind can tell you that all that "dance as if no one can see you" (and do it all the time) crap is not realistic. We should, however, never fail to tell those we love what they mean to us. They're the ones who make the marrow sucking and silly dancing experiences significant. And who knows; tomorrow we may not be able to tell them all the things they do that saturate us with so much joy we feel like our chests will explode, the ways that they fill our lives and allow us to go to bed happy to have lived another day.
I say this in writing, and it will live on the internet in a blog that hardly anyone ever reads. I will sound to the cyberworld like I am a person who is not afraid to love and to express love. In reality, though, I grapple with communicating my feelings for people. I am afraid. I'm afraid that saying how I feel will make me vulnerable to worlds of pain and I suppose I believe that I can control my susceptibility to heartache through rejection or abandonment or death by never orally validating the things I think (despite my best efforts to put those thoughts away). "If you don't want to talk about it, then it isn't love," right? But can I live with that?
So maybe, just maybe, one tiny, tiny good thing can come from this horrible tragedy. Perhaps this confrontation with the reality of life and loss can allow me to stop being so afraid to say what I feel, to stop being so scared of getting hurt that the words I want to say die behind my lips. Because really, wouldn't the haunting ache of things left unsaid be much more painful?
PS. Robin, I love you and your family.
I couldn't escape these thoughts, the feeling of everything being so wrong.
But instead of standing before the assembled crowd, Amy lay still in that polished wooden casket at the front of the church--beautiful, tiny Amy, her face probably still framed by those perfect strawberry ringlets, except this time her eyes won't light up with merriment and mischief. They'll never light again.
I've been to funerals before, including funerals of those close to me, the most memorable being my grandmother's, just a shade over 3 years ago. In most of those instances, though, even though the deaths weren't necessarily expected, they made sense in my schemata of how life progresses; the older people in your life slowly fall away. This, however, was my first funeral for someone my age that I'd considered a friend. I'm having a hard time with it still. I ache. My sinus cavities feel like I've been crying for days, which isn't entirely untrue, and a general malaise has settled itself in my breast. It just aches. I can't stop thinking about it, about her, about her dying (god it's such a difficult word to utter). I can't stop thinking about--and hurting for--all those who were closest to her, those people whose lives now have big gaps that used to be filled by Amy.
I know her parents are a wreck; parents who lose a child always are, and I wish there was something I could do or say to make this not haunt them for the rest of their lives. Parents expect their children to bury them, not to bury their children. I've known this family for...god, fifteen years, and I know how close Amy was to her parents and how much they loved her. Something will always be missing during Christmas and birthdays. Moving forward, her bright smile will no longer appear in family photographs. Significant anniversaries of hers will never go unnoted, but now they will be acknowledged with mourning instead of celebration. How will they answer when asked if they have children? Do you ever get used to that look on people's faces when they learn your child has died?
Amy's younger sister has been one of my dearest friends for three quarters of my life, and I know Amy was, really, her best friend. I can't begin to imagine just how hard it will be when she picks up the phone to call Amy and tell her some silly anecdote or good news and then puts it down again when she realizes there will never again be anyone at the end of that line. She's known her older sister better than anyone in our peer group for as long as she's been alive. Amy helped shape the person she is today. She was a never-ending source of unjudgmental love and support. They've shared so many memories, so many private jokes, practically a language that no one else could fully understand, and they had so many more to share. Their children were meant to play in the dirt together, finger paint pictures together, perform creative skits they've co-written for their mom's and aunt's joint entertainment. Robin and Amy would see shadows of themselves in these small people and smile at each other knowingly. But now Robin's children will have no adorably petite and possibly redheaded cousins, and she won't call her sister to tell her about the kids or the cats or e-mail her to find out how to care for the baby raccoon or opossum she may one day find abandoned in her back yard.
And Christian...this one hit home for me hard, because just imagining what he must be going through, what he will continue to go through for a long time, still takes my breath away. I can't pretend to fully fathom what it must be like to love someone so thoroughly that you'd change many of your destructive ways, to know that you've found the person with whom you want to spend the rest of your life, to wake up next to that person every day for the past few years, and more than that, seeing her at work every day too, feeling like the luckiest man alive every time she smiles at you, and then having that all ripped away so soon when you thought you had years to share your hopes and dreams and struggles and triumphs. How do you get back in the bed you shared and fall asleep without holding the person you expected to hold until you were both aged, greyer versions of yourselves? Really I barely know him, but I can't stop thinking about him.
I still struggle to make sense of this. I want to find a reason that this happened, to understand why, to reconcile to myself that despite the unfairness of the situation, it's going to be okay because there's really a purpose behind it all.
Yet one thing that's become painfully clear to me is that sometimes there aren't reasons that bad things happen to good people, and sometimes life is just not fair.
When you're young, no one ever warns you that this is what life has in store--that slowly, one by one, you lose the people who mean the most to you, or they lose you. Your elders tell you about all the wonderful things that can happen to you throughout life--finding a passion and a career, falling in love, raising children, creating a home. But people don't talk about death's pervasive presence and how it will play a profound role in the course of your life.
So here: the only thing I can take away from this is that life is tenuous at best. Nothing's a sure bet, no matter how hard we work to lead a good life and no matter how perfectly we construct our worlds. However, the things that really make life worth living are the people we know and love. They add a richness and depth to our short terrestrial experience that can't be paralleled by any kind of object or success, but sadly, we never know how long we have with them.
Of course I can go on to espouse the necessity of making the most of every possible moment, of sucking the marrow from life, but anyone who has ever grown up and lived the day-to-day grind can tell you that all that "dance as if no one can see you" (and do it all the time) crap is not realistic. We should, however, never fail to tell those we love what they mean to us. They're the ones who make the marrow sucking and silly dancing experiences significant. And who knows; tomorrow we may not be able to tell them all the things they do that saturate us with so much joy we feel like our chests will explode, the ways that they fill our lives and allow us to go to bed happy to have lived another day.
I say this in writing, and it will live on the internet in a blog that hardly anyone ever reads. I will sound to the cyberworld like I am a person who is not afraid to love and to express love. In reality, though, I grapple with communicating my feelings for people. I am afraid. I'm afraid that saying how I feel will make me vulnerable to worlds of pain and I suppose I believe that I can control my susceptibility to heartache through rejection or abandonment or death by never orally validating the things I think (despite my best efforts to put those thoughts away). "If you don't want to talk about it, then it isn't love," right? But can I live with that?
So maybe, just maybe, one tiny, tiny good thing can come from this horrible tragedy. Perhaps this confrontation with the reality of life and loss can allow me to stop being so afraid to say what I feel, to stop being so scared of getting hurt that the words I want to say die behind my lips. Because really, wouldn't the haunting ache of things left unsaid be much more painful?
PS. Robin, I love you and your family.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Arduous Ardor: Mass Transit Dependence
Staring down the dark subway tunnel at 2 am on a Friday night, wondering when then train will come and knowing that when it does it will still be more than an hour before arriving at my own stop, I muse that my reliance on the subway is like being involved in codependent and not entirely healthy relationship with one very fickle lover.
As a starry-eyed small town girl who had only ever been involved with automobiles and highways, naturally I was at once swept off my feet by the subway's urban style and efficiency. I was passionate about the train; thrilled at the swipe of my Metrocard and clatter-clack of the turnstiles that admitted me to the busy subterranean transportation hubs of New York. I always stood anxiously near the edge of the platform so that I could feel the first faint currents that indicated a train's arrival lift the light hairs off my forehead to tickle my face and then experience the rush of air that blew all my hair back off my shoulders as the cars were propelled into the station to come to a screeching halt. I'd eagerly push my way aboard crowded cars and gaze around at the faces of all the other straphangers who doubtless were as enthralled that they too could use such a wonderful form of transportation on a daily basis. My love for the subway was at times overwhelming; how had I ever lived without it, and how could I ever return to a world that only relied on gridlocked interstates and gas-guzzling cars? My subway was such a beautiful thing; it took me everywhere I needed to go, kept me warm when it was cold outside, gave me shelter from the wind and rain, provided light for me to read and endless entertainment if I should choose to just sit back and observe. I thought about the subway all the time, couldn't wait for the moments when I could find myself reunited with it to explore its intricacies, prowl its hidden passages, gaze at the strangely-placed but nonetheless beautiful art and structures that would appear when I least expected them. I threw myself headlong into our new and wondrous relationship, knowing that this was something so real it just had to last forever.
Everything was nearly perfect for several months, but then cracks in our relationship started to appear. I started to notice that despite the initial appearance of overwhelming glamour and good looks, often my train was dirty, and indeed older than it first led me to believe. I began to notice that despite my promptness to our platform rendezvous, I was often left standing, waiting impatiently for long stretches of time. When it finally did show it was never apologetic, although my irritability always subsided after a few minutes of taking a seat. Still, what else could possibly offer me everything the subway had given me since we’d met?
As more time passed, our relationship began to degenerate further, and I began to lose patience. I began to find myself abandoned for longer periods of time, and later at night at that. There I’d be, alone, tired, and sometimes unnerved by the presence of strange and slightly unhinged people around me, and instead of promptly sweeping me to the safety and comfort of my home, the subway would leave me standing there in the chill darkness. Then there would be periods of days, usually weekends, when it just would not come at all; service was suspended and I was left stranded. Sometimes the MTA would give me notice and sometimes it would not; I would find out by being brought to a halt in my descent down the stairs by tape blocking them off and a sign that offered little information and no apology. At first, during these times I’d feel abandoned and nearly helpless; after all, I’d grown so reliant on the subway that I had never really considered other options. Later despair turned to anger, and those feelings of resentment that had begun to simmer below the surface finally exploded into fury. I'd curse, I'd rage and I'd cry until I swore that I was through with the train and its fickle, unpredictable ways. I’d find something else to satisfy my commutation needs, subway be damned. But always, always on Monday mornings I’d find myself, despite my better judgment but compelled by a need bordering on dependence, crawling back to the station and into the awaiting embrace of the train’s sliding doors.
I started to notice other girls around me happily coupled off with other means of transport. There were the handsome tuxedoed chauffeured limousines, the absolute royalty of transportation, clearly in a social class well above my modest means, but dazzling enough to make a girl dream. There were the prosperous-looking black sedans, sleek but not showy, that promised warmth, care, and security. There were the more blue-collar yellow taxi cabs that are in many ways the visual representation of both the city and the American dream; they work long and trying hours, but they have drive and determination, and at the end of the day they make a living and look forward to tomorrow’s promise. Then there were the old-fashioned city buses, which, although often slow, were dependable, steadfast, and offered a view of daylight and life at street level. I even was drawn to the granola-crunchy pedicabs, which promised an environmentally-friendly alternative and could efficiently and uniquely convey you through the toughest street conditions, even if you did arrive a little wind-blown and occasionally frost-bitten. And yes, there was still my old faithful, my personal automobile that sat mostly parked and dusty under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, waiting patiently for me to come back to it and for things between us to be the way they used to be.
Yes I looked, I flirted, and I even had the occasional affair, but in the end, I always came back, always looked past the flaws in the train, and went for another ride. I don’t know what kind of bonds it uses to hold me in its grasp, but I’m nearly helpless against them. Perhaps it’s because the lows are so low, so terrible, that in contrast the highs seem that much better—much better, in fact, than anything I could ever find with any other style of vehicle. Maybe it’s that I can see its potential, can see all that the subway could be if its flaws could be repaired, and I hope against hope that someday it will change, and that perhaps by loving it I can help it change. Deep down, of course, part of me knows that there is nothing I can do; it is what it is, and no matter how much you care, you can’t change a thing’s inherent nature. I wonder, though, if I will ever have the courage and the means to change myself and my dependence on our relationship, or if I will continue chugging doggedly along down those underground tracks, wishing and hoping for something better, until the end of the line.
As a starry-eyed small town girl who had only ever been involved with automobiles and highways, naturally I was at once swept off my feet by the subway's urban style and efficiency. I was passionate about the train; thrilled at the swipe of my Metrocard and clatter-clack of the turnstiles that admitted me to the busy subterranean transportation hubs of New York. I always stood anxiously near the edge of the platform so that I could feel the first faint currents that indicated a train's arrival lift the light hairs off my forehead to tickle my face and then experience the rush of air that blew all my hair back off my shoulders as the cars were propelled into the station to come to a screeching halt. I'd eagerly push my way aboard crowded cars and gaze around at the faces of all the other straphangers who doubtless were as enthralled that they too could use such a wonderful form of transportation on a daily basis. My love for the subway was at times overwhelming; how had I ever lived without it, and how could I ever return to a world that only relied on gridlocked interstates and gas-guzzling cars? My subway was such a beautiful thing; it took me everywhere I needed to go, kept me warm when it was cold outside, gave me shelter from the wind and rain, provided light for me to read and endless entertainment if I should choose to just sit back and observe. I thought about the subway all the time, couldn't wait for the moments when I could find myself reunited with it to explore its intricacies, prowl its hidden passages, gaze at the strangely-placed but nonetheless beautiful art and structures that would appear when I least expected them. I threw myself headlong into our new and wondrous relationship, knowing that this was something so real it just had to last forever.
Everything was nearly perfect for several months, but then cracks in our relationship started to appear. I started to notice that despite the initial appearance of overwhelming glamour and good looks, often my train was dirty, and indeed older than it first led me to believe. I began to notice that despite my promptness to our platform rendezvous, I was often left standing, waiting impatiently for long stretches of time. When it finally did show it was never apologetic, although my irritability always subsided after a few minutes of taking a seat. Still, what else could possibly offer me everything the subway had given me since we’d met?
As more time passed, our relationship began to degenerate further, and I began to lose patience. I began to find myself abandoned for longer periods of time, and later at night at that. There I’d be, alone, tired, and sometimes unnerved by the presence of strange and slightly unhinged people around me, and instead of promptly sweeping me to the safety and comfort of my home, the subway would leave me standing there in the chill darkness. Then there would be periods of days, usually weekends, when it just would not come at all; service was suspended and I was left stranded. Sometimes the MTA would give me notice and sometimes it would not; I would find out by being brought to a halt in my descent down the stairs by tape blocking them off and a sign that offered little information and no apology. At first, during these times I’d feel abandoned and nearly helpless; after all, I’d grown so reliant on the subway that I had never really considered other options. Later despair turned to anger, and those feelings of resentment that had begun to simmer below the surface finally exploded into fury. I'd curse, I'd rage and I'd cry until I swore that I was through with the train and its fickle, unpredictable ways. I’d find something else to satisfy my commutation needs, subway be damned. But always, always on Monday mornings I’d find myself, despite my better judgment but compelled by a need bordering on dependence, crawling back to the station and into the awaiting embrace of the train’s sliding doors.
I started to notice other girls around me happily coupled off with other means of transport. There were the handsome tuxedoed chauffeured limousines, the absolute royalty of transportation, clearly in a social class well above my modest means, but dazzling enough to make a girl dream. There were the prosperous-looking black sedans, sleek but not showy, that promised warmth, care, and security. There were the more blue-collar yellow taxi cabs that are in many ways the visual representation of both the city and the American dream; they work long and trying hours, but they have drive and determination, and at the end of the day they make a living and look forward to tomorrow’s promise. Then there were the old-fashioned city buses, which, although often slow, were dependable, steadfast, and offered a view of daylight and life at street level. I even was drawn to the granola-crunchy pedicabs, which promised an environmentally-friendly alternative and could efficiently and uniquely convey you through the toughest street conditions, even if you did arrive a little wind-blown and occasionally frost-bitten. And yes, there was still my old faithful, my personal automobile that sat mostly parked and dusty under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, waiting patiently for me to come back to it and for things between us to be the way they used to be.
Yes I looked, I flirted, and I even had the occasional affair, but in the end, I always came back, always looked past the flaws in the train, and went for another ride. I don’t know what kind of bonds it uses to hold me in its grasp, but I’m nearly helpless against them. Perhaps it’s because the lows are so low, so terrible, that in contrast the highs seem that much better—much better, in fact, than anything I could ever find with any other style of vehicle. Maybe it’s that I can see its potential, can see all that the subway could be if its flaws could be repaired, and I hope against hope that someday it will change, and that perhaps by loving it I can help it change. Deep down, of course, part of me knows that there is nothing I can do; it is what it is, and no matter how much you care, you can’t change a thing’s inherent nature. I wonder, though, if I will ever have the courage and the means to change myself and my dependence on our relationship, or if I will continue chugging doggedly along down those underground tracks, wishing and hoping for something better, until the end of the line.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Tidal Reflections
You breathe in and savor the salt and faint smell of sulfur that indicates your proximity to the marsh, one foot dangling over the edge of the floating dock, toes touching the water and curling slightly at winter’s first bite. You exhale and feel your muscles relax completely—perhaps the first time in months—as you relish the unseasonable warmth of the south Georgia December sun. The river flows out, sighing softly as water slips past wood, grass, and debris, over mud and out to sea.
You’ve lived your whole life next to the water, and you begin to contemplate how it has threaded its way through your years, weaving itself into the fabric of your being. When you were young, your parents would take you to the pool, teaching you to hold your breath and jump as far forward as you could, away from the side of the pool and into the shallow end, letting your natural reflexes take over from there. Your mother would explain how to cup your hands and kick your legs so you could swim a little farther and a little faster each time, and she would always be there to catch you when you jumped into the deep end. They would take you to the beach and you would stand waist-deep in the surf, waiting with breathless anticipation for the next big wave, and just as its force started to push you backward, you would jump, propelled over the wave of course by your father, who all along was holding your hand, waiting to lift you into your gravity-defying leap.
As you got older, you’d find yourself wandering down the river to sit on the wooden planks of the dock and gaze out to the horizon. You’d think about your small world in the context of the of the large world you could sense just beyond your realm of experience and dream about where you would go and who you would become. Once you could drive, you’d go to the ocean at any opportunity to plunge into the surf and float atop the waves, feeling like you were part of something bigger and that the world held something in store for you.
For a time you moved away from the coast to the low, rolling foothills of north Georgia to broaden your mind, but always you’d find yourself drawn back to the water. By some twist of fate you’d inevitably find your residence next to a creek, a lake, or a river, and you’d walk along their edges often as you contemplated how the choices you made today would affect your future, Later when you thought you’d lost your way, the sound of flowing water or crashing waves would bring you comfort, would re-center you, and would allow you to set off once again with reaffirmed confidence and values.
Bittersweet memories of past loves are reflected back from moonlit liquid surfaces—moments that helped define you and the things you hold dear in another can always be resurrected in damp darkness. You were wearing a gold evening dress at a silver pond’s edge when one of your closest friends leaned in and kissed you, then confessed his feelings for you. Years later you found yourself slipping down a river bank with your best friend and partner in mischief in the middle of the night to escape the oppressive heat of your un-air conditioned dorm room at the end of a deep south August. The still air hung heavy with humidity and some kind of unvoiced anticipation as you both groped your way down the forested banks of the Oconee, finally reaching the water breathless and giggling. At your imperative he turned his back as you stripped off your clothing and plunged into the shallow water, and you ducked under and held your breath until he joined you. You resurfaced, gasping for air and laughing because you felt young, free, and deliriously happy. The two of you splashed about and, bit by bit, you began to realize that you were in love with him. An accidental brush of bare skin under water left you breathless and overwhelmed with joy because in his eyes, across that respectful distance he’d again placed between you, you saw that he loved you back. Months after that, you found yourself at the same river, crying as though you’d never stop as he made his way across another ocean and you stayed behind to reconfigure your heart with the pieces he added and the pieces he took away.
Gentle surf was the soundtrack as later you lay next to another boy on a beach—the same boy who’d already once left you feeling as if you’d be better off dead, but who all the same you loved so much you took him back. A waxing moon illuminated the still Florida waters as he confessed to you he’d marry you now if you’d have him, and you clasped him hard against you and choked back tears because you knew you couldn’t, no matter how much you cared about him. Shortly thereafter he left you again, this time for a west coast girl, and you put as much distance as you could between him and yourself, seeking solace in a south Pacific sea. By that deep azure water you wrote him letters you never mailed and then you plunged headlong into the present, submerging yourself completely in that sun-drenched life. Months later, after wandering solo up an entire coast, you emerged from the clear Australian surf and returned home whole again.
Later you found yourself speeding east without destination, blinded by tears and rage, your body wracked by infection and disgust. You stopped at a deserted winter’s shore and stumbled your way down to the sand, letting the bracing north Atlantic chill dry the tears from your face and the pounding sound of the icy surf drive the sounds of betrayal from your head. You returned to your home much later that day feeling purged—and liberated.
After finally giving up on trying to find someone to spread sunblock on your back, you learned to do it yourself and spent many a summer’s afternoon covered in sand in the happy company of your own thoughts. Quite unexpectedly, you were startled out of your quiet state of contentment by a blue-eyed stranger with a raucous laugh, and you soon found yourself searching for starfish on the Jersey shore, unable to stop smiling. The late afternoon’s lingering warmth and entanglements of bare, salty limbs left you feeling intoxicated, and the conversations that continued well after the sun slipped below the horizon gradually allowed you to let down your emotional wall and learn to trust again.
Now just a photograph of a slanted palm adjacent to turquoise water is enough to bring back an entire sensory memory. You can close your eyes and inhale once more the saline sea air, the smell of wet sand, the organic mustiness of drifting seaweed and other vegetation and natural debris. Your skin tingles with the sensation of a warm breeze drying salt water from your bare shoulders, the tickle of sand as it pushes between your toes, the feeling of the sun’s rays gradually turning you brown despite the sticky layers of sunblock you applied and reapplied. Your tongue passes over your lips to taste slightly bitter brine mingled with grit, and the sound of the gently crashing surf as it bubbles and ebbs around your ankles edges any other noise from inside your head and leaves you feeling silently peaceful. Your eyes drink in the vivid colors; the cerulean, emerald, and silver of the water, the clean white of the powder-fine sand, the brilliant azure of the sky, and the golden glow of all your surroundings imparted by a tropical sun. Your emotions range from overwhelming joy to absolute contentment, and you neither think of the past nor worry about the future; all that matters is that moment.
As your wandering mind returns to coastal Georgia and your spot on the floating dock, you sigh softly and roll over onto your stomach so that you can dangle an arm over the edge and touch the surface of the water. You run your fingers along the submerged edge of the dock and brush against the soft and slightly slimy squish of the colony of sea squirts that grows there. Coming home has been good for you; you finally feel rested and at ease after several long months of nearly continuous activity. You also, however, feel nearly ready to head back out into your now broader and more urban world. In this respect, you again feel yourself linked to the river; you are periodically drawn back toward home, but even though you may rest there awhile, you always flow back out toward the vastness of the ocean.
You’ve lived your whole life next to the water, and you begin to contemplate how it has threaded its way through your years, weaving itself into the fabric of your being. When you were young, your parents would take you to the pool, teaching you to hold your breath and jump as far forward as you could, away from the side of the pool and into the shallow end, letting your natural reflexes take over from there. Your mother would explain how to cup your hands and kick your legs so you could swim a little farther and a little faster each time, and she would always be there to catch you when you jumped into the deep end. They would take you to the beach and you would stand waist-deep in the surf, waiting with breathless anticipation for the next big wave, and just as its force started to push you backward, you would jump, propelled over the wave of course by your father, who all along was holding your hand, waiting to lift you into your gravity-defying leap.
As you got older, you’d find yourself wandering down the river to sit on the wooden planks of the dock and gaze out to the horizon. You’d think about your small world in the context of the of the large world you could sense just beyond your realm of experience and dream about where you would go and who you would become. Once you could drive, you’d go to the ocean at any opportunity to plunge into the surf and float atop the waves, feeling like you were part of something bigger and that the world held something in store for you.
For a time you moved away from the coast to the low, rolling foothills of north Georgia to broaden your mind, but always you’d find yourself drawn back to the water. By some twist of fate you’d inevitably find your residence next to a creek, a lake, or a river, and you’d walk along their edges often as you contemplated how the choices you made today would affect your future, Later when you thought you’d lost your way, the sound of flowing water or crashing waves would bring you comfort, would re-center you, and would allow you to set off once again with reaffirmed confidence and values.
Bittersweet memories of past loves are reflected back from moonlit liquid surfaces—moments that helped define you and the things you hold dear in another can always be resurrected in damp darkness. You were wearing a gold evening dress at a silver pond’s edge when one of your closest friends leaned in and kissed you, then confessed his feelings for you. Years later you found yourself slipping down a river bank with your best friend and partner in mischief in the middle of the night to escape the oppressive heat of your un-air conditioned dorm room at the end of a deep south August. The still air hung heavy with humidity and some kind of unvoiced anticipation as you both groped your way down the forested banks of the Oconee, finally reaching the water breathless and giggling. At your imperative he turned his back as you stripped off your clothing and plunged into the shallow water, and you ducked under and held your breath until he joined you. You resurfaced, gasping for air and laughing because you felt young, free, and deliriously happy. The two of you splashed about and, bit by bit, you began to realize that you were in love with him. An accidental brush of bare skin under water left you breathless and overwhelmed with joy because in his eyes, across that respectful distance he’d again placed between you, you saw that he loved you back. Months after that, you found yourself at the same river, crying as though you’d never stop as he made his way across another ocean and you stayed behind to reconfigure your heart with the pieces he added and the pieces he took away.
Gentle surf was the soundtrack as later you lay next to another boy on a beach—the same boy who’d already once left you feeling as if you’d be better off dead, but who all the same you loved so much you took him back. A waxing moon illuminated the still Florida waters as he confessed to you he’d marry you now if you’d have him, and you clasped him hard against you and choked back tears because you knew you couldn’t, no matter how much you cared about him. Shortly thereafter he left you again, this time for a west coast girl, and you put as much distance as you could between him and yourself, seeking solace in a south Pacific sea. By that deep azure water you wrote him letters you never mailed and then you plunged headlong into the present, submerging yourself completely in that sun-drenched life. Months later, after wandering solo up an entire coast, you emerged from the clear Australian surf and returned home whole again.
Later you found yourself speeding east without destination, blinded by tears and rage, your body wracked by infection and disgust. You stopped at a deserted winter’s shore and stumbled your way down to the sand, letting the bracing north Atlantic chill dry the tears from your face and the pounding sound of the icy surf drive the sounds of betrayal from your head. You returned to your home much later that day feeling purged—and liberated.
After finally giving up on trying to find someone to spread sunblock on your back, you learned to do it yourself and spent many a summer’s afternoon covered in sand in the happy company of your own thoughts. Quite unexpectedly, you were startled out of your quiet state of contentment by a blue-eyed stranger with a raucous laugh, and you soon found yourself searching for starfish on the Jersey shore, unable to stop smiling. The late afternoon’s lingering warmth and entanglements of bare, salty limbs left you feeling intoxicated, and the conversations that continued well after the sun slipped below the horizon gradually allowed you to let down your emotional wall and learn to trust again.
Now just a photograph of a slanted palm adjacent to turquoise water is enough to bring back an entire sensory memory. You can close your eyes and inhale once more the saline sea air, the smell of wet sand, the organic mustiness of drifting seaweed and other vegetation and natural debris. Your skin tingles with the sensation of a warm breeze drying salt water from your bare shoulders, the tickle of sand as it pushes between your toes, the feeling of the sun’s rays gradually turning you brown despite the sticky layers of sunblock you applied and reapplied. Your tongue passes over your lips to taste slightly bitter brine mingled with grit, and the sound of the gently crashing surf as it bubbles and ebbs around your ankles edges any other noise from inside your head and leaves you feeling silently peaceful. Your eyes drink in the vivid colors; the cerulean, emerald, and silver of the water, the clean white of the powder-fine sand, the brilliant azure of the sky, and the golden glow of all your surroundings imparted by a tropical sun. Your emotions range from overwhelming joy to absolute contentment, and you neither think of the past nor worry about the future; all that matters is that moment.
As your wandering mind returns to coastal Georgia and your spot on the floating dock, you sigh softly and roll over onto your stomach so that you can dangle an arm over the edge and touch the surface of the water. You run your fingers along the submerged edge of the dock and brush against the soft and slightly slimy squish of the colony of sea squirts that grows there. Coming home has been good for you; you finally feel rested and at ease after several long months of nearly continuous activity. You also, however, feel nearly ready to head back out into your now broader and more urban world. In this respect, you again feel yourself linked to the river; you are periodically drawn back toward home, but even though you may rest there awhile, you always flow back out toward the vastness of the ocean.
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