He may be mad, but there’s method in his madness. There nearly always is method in madness. It’s what drives men mad, being methodical.
–GK Chesterton
Do you agree or disagree? Discuss. Be sure to show your work.
Why is it that our memory is good enough to retain the least triviality that happens to us, and yet not good enough to recollect how often we have told it to the same person?
–Francois de La Rochefoucauld
I seem to do this more frequently these days!
As I passed by a large concrete planter in downtown Santa Clara I happened to notice this. Risperdal is the brand name for Risperidone, a medication used to treat schizophrenia and for short-term use with bipolar disorder. I was well-acquainted with this drug for several years when I worked at a non-profit mental health center in Austin. I worked on the Assertive Community Treatment team, which assisted people who had multiple hospitalizations. Each of us had a caseload of ten people, and each client received intensive care: medication management; being taken to doctor’s appointments, the grocery store; in some cases I managed the income they received from Social Security Disability (paltry though it was) and helped them budget for rent, utilities, and so on. It was an intense job, and I burned out on it. I learned a great deal about myself in the process. It was humbling.
Husband came to bed at 3:30 a.m.; I awoke, and he told me he’d hurt his back. It’s the same muscle that I’ve been dealing with, the Latissimus dorsi. (That daughter of ours is gaining weight, and she requires many hours of holding and jiggling.) My back has been mildly better, but yesterday I carried Claire in the Infantino sling while doing housework, and when we got to the pediatrician’s office I sat down and the muscle spasmed again. It hurt like hell. I used ibuprofen, Icy Hot, and the heating pad all day.
Now Husband is hurt. He couldn’t get comfortable and was still awake when I arose at 5:30 this morning. He’s been doing all the lifting I could not, so what will we do? And I’m worried about him too. I don’t want him to be in pain.
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Daunting responsibility + new baby + inexperience + two tired and physically compromised parents – local family – established close community = SCARED AND LONELY
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Although we have friends here who are willing to help us, I commented last night to Husband that I feel lonely and vulnerable out here. Now that he’s hurt, I feel more so. There is something about family that feels more secure — if they live nearby. With friends it’s equally difficult to get beyond the feeling we are imposing. With family, there is an assumption that imposition is acceptable (whether that’s proper to assume, or realistic, is up for debate). I have the idea that local family assistance is easier because it is one unit, and members tend to communicate and collaborate. We have lots of friends locally, but they don’t know each other, and it’s up to us to speak up and coordinate assistance. When we barely know what day it is, that’s hard.
Also, local family means that they have their own homes and routines. Visiting family is lovely, yet it’s also stressful for everyone, because they are away from their own spaces and routines, and their 24/7 presence in our home is disruptive too. They also are unfamiliar with the city and have limited or no transportation, whereas if they lived here that would be one less concern (and one more way in which they could help by running errands). It’s also costly for family members to travel; we’re mindful of this effort on their part. It’s just that local family equals shared history and familiarity with geography that provides a valuable infrastructure to life. (This is an argument to join a religious community and become really involved, I suppose. That would be the Unitarian Universalists for us. But we need the support now, and it takes time to cultivate intentional family.)
I know we have resources. I know we are better off than many. Yet I feel, in this moment, rather sad. The nearest blood relative (to one or the other of us) lives 875 miles away — my mother-in-law, and she’s in China at the moment. (She’s willing to visit us anytime we ask once she’s back. Yet again, see above paragraph.) My sister-in-law from Austin is visiting in early November. We very much look forward to that. Now we just need to live through each day and it’s challenges until then. No self-pity party for us. I’m acknowledging the situation and my feelings about it — now it’s time for chin-up, stiff upper lip, positive thinking, and finding solutions.
Action feels good to me. I realize control of externals (the world, other people) is an illusion, but I can direct my own intentions and behavior.
Friday morning I awoke after admittedly too little sleep, still feeling on the verge of tears, but also feeling less hopeless. (Please note: I think there’s a difference between feeling less hopeless and more hopeful. By the end of the day I felt more hopeful.) I proceeded to act on several fronts. I called my doctor and left a message. Husband had gotten up with The Bean (one of our many nicknames) and experienced how she is in the morning: Alert! Alert! Alert! He wasn’t exactly tuckered out, but it did make him start researching portable swings.
Shortly after noon we got out. We went to Target and purchased a portable swing. She loves the one we have so much; it’s a monster size and not easily moveable in our multi-level home. Plus we figured it would help when we go see friends. Since my aunt and uncle recently sent a money order baby gift, we decided to splurge. We also stocked up on more binkies and diapers. At home Husband assembled the swing and tried it, and The Bean responded positively and immediately.
Then we went to Purlescence, where Sandi and Nathania helped fit me with the Infantino sling for carrying Claire. It’s not an ideal sling, but it will do until I find another that fits my short torso.
After the yarn store, we went to Borders, where I purchased The Happiest Baby on the Block. The book offers strategies for calming crying called the 5 S’s, three of which we’ve been using:
The book also has a lot of interesting tips, such as the need to meet baby at her level of vigor. For instance, if she’s hysterical, the Shhhing sound needs to be louder at first so she can hear it and become calmer. I tried it last night, and it worked.
I joined a Las Madres play group for babies born in 2007 and live in Santa Clara. I just need to find out when and where the group meets.
I’ve also recognized that I need to find a way to alleviate my physical response to Claire’s crying. I’m hard-wired to respond to my baby, but I’ve been surprised at how anxious the crying makes me, and at the physical discomfort I feel. It’s hard to describe. But then I remembered something. I was eight when my brother was born, and I remember for the first couple of years of his life, when he would cry, I would cry — not every time, but often. When he was born, I felt eager and proud to be a big sister, and I vowed (to myself) to protect him from bad things and bullies — a tall order for a petite girl who herself was often bullied by other kids. I adored my little brother. Even now, when I look at photos of him as a kid, my heart clenches at his cuteness. (Sorry if I’m embarrassing you, T.)
Also when I was a child, upon seeing babies in public I felt a rush of love that felt like heartache; I would say a prayer that they never be hurt by a harsh word or act. I realize now that I was projecting my own wishes for myself as well. I just felt so intensely. In my adolescence and early adulthood I toughened myself to the point where I felt negatively toward children and the idea of having them — this was overcompensation. Sometime in my thirties that part of me healed to the degree that it could, and now as a mother, I’m approaching it from a new angle.
(Of course, I wasn’t an ideal sister. When I was a teen, I didn’t play Mousetrap with him as often as he asked, and I considered him a pest sometimes. I also treated him crappily on occasion. I remember one time: I was 19 and still at home, going to community college. He was 11, and we had a fight before he left for school that morning. I did something I should not have, and he ran out of the house screaming I hate you!. I spent the rest of the day on the campus skipping my classes and crying, agonizing over what I’d done and certain that I’d be a horrible, abusive mother. Eventually I forgave myself, but I haven’t forgotten, although my brother probably has.)
So anyway, I’ve concluded that I may simply be acutely sensitive to crying sounds. Last night I used earplugs to take the edge off. I could still hear Claire very well; the plugs muffled just enough of the sound to make her crying bearable. (An aside: Claire also seems to have incredible hearing and we joke that it’s her superpower. She startles and flinches at sounds that aren’t very loud, like someone in the room coughing once. I don’t want to read into this and assume she will have the same sensitivity, but we noticed this reflex within the first day of her life.)
By the end of the day, I felt considerably more solid and brighter. My OB called in the evening and we had a long chat. She provided me with a couple of referrals for support groups. We discussed my medicine dosage and decided that if in a week or two my efforts at social support weren’t enough, we would increase one of them. We agreed what is crucial is that I not isolate. Husband is willing to help with this in whatever way I need. It was also gratifying to hear her tell me I’m a dream patient in this regard, because I’m aware and proactive and willing to take steps.
It also helped that people left such supportive comments, and that my mother-in-law and mom called. I also heard from my siblings. This evening we’ll see our good friends who are Claire’s godparents (for lack of a better term). Intellectually I understand the positive comments and know I’m being a good parent; my task is to internalize it in my core, and this takes time and repetition, as well as acceptance (of this as the truth, of my vulnerability, of the fact that this just is).
One observation was made that I’m flagging for myself. It was pointed out that writing on the blog, while it helps me, may also be risky. I’m in a different role now as a parent. There are people in the world who don’t understand depression, who are judgmental and self-righteous, and (I’m stealing this person’s words) who may feel justified in taking statements out of context and blowing them out of proportion because there’s a child involved. That’s true. It could happen. So I need to be mindful of what and how I write here.
I would like to think that by writing honestly, it helps not only me, but other readers who feel alone in what they experience. I know that my blog presents me in a certain way: as accomplished, multi-faceted, and many other positive things, and that it can be validating for someone to read how even such a “together” person can also struggle. Sharing the ugly helps dispel either/or thinking: you’re either a good mother or a bad one, you’re either professionally successful or a failure, etc. The road to wholeness is understanding that life is more than either/or, it is both/and. Yet I need to protect myself and my family as well. I don’t know exactly what this means in terms of what I share here, but I’m heedful.
Onward…
No wonder we’re importing dangerous and potentially lethal products from China. Consider how Chinese citizens live.
Environmental woes that might be considered catastrophic in some countries can seem commonplace in China: industrial cities where people rarely see the sun; children killed or sickened by lead poisoning or other types of local pollution; a coastline so swamped by algal red tides that large sections of the ocean no longer sustain marine life.
–Joseph Kahn and Jim Yardley, New York Times
The article mentions that the leading cause of death in China is cancer from pollution, and that almost half a billion people have no safe drinking water. Only 1 percent of the 560 million city dwellers breathe air considered safe.
The article explores the juggernaut of China’s economic progress and the massive use of polluting natural resources (such as coal) that drives it, and how the Communist government is vulnerable to social backlash because people are suffering horribly. The article provides some interesting if grim statistics about the impact of environmental degradation on human life and on the stability of China’s government and economy. In a country so populous, it seems that all forms of life are considered expendable.
Here’s the entire article: As China Roars, Pollution Reaches Deadly Extremes, by Joseph Kahn and Jim Yardley
We are all inextricably linked to this and directly contribute to the problem, because we purchase items produced in China. Yet it seems impossible to avoid Chinese-made goods. I look on packaging to see where an item is made and usually only see that it’s “distributed by” an American company. What can we do to protect ourselves? What will we do? And can that have any impact whatsoever on the quality of life in China?
I took my last pregnancy photo last night (actually Husband snapped it). I am in my full glory, having donned a bathing suit to take a cooling dip in the pool. I feel a bit shy, because I am a big, big girl. I wasn’t always, but I started the pregnancy big, and this is what I am now — the Venus of Willendorf, almost. Mika wrote his song Big Girl (You Are Beautiful) for women like me. Click below to see the photo.
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Millions long for immortality who don’t know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
–Susan Ertz
The following is a random brain-dump.
On my way to check my mailbox I crossed paths with a neighbor who, I had observed from a distance, has a cute little boy. We began chatting. Her son is three now, and it turns out that she was 44 when she had him. Elation! Another middle-aged mother to befriend. I enjoyed chatting with her and plan to follow up on this.
At my local yarn store last week I met a woman and her six-month-old son. We struck up a conversation and discovered that our husbands work for the same company. In fact, they know each other! We met today at a coffee shop to become better acquainted; there’s an immediate rapport between us.
I joined Las Madres, and once baby is here, I’ll find a neighborhood playgroup.
This whole pregnancy/motherhood experience is like an induction into a huge club of millions of women. It provides easy conversation fodder and a basis for some very interesting chats with any other woman who has been through the same. Even if you have nothing else in common, you can easily connect. It’s pretty remarkable to be “on the inside” of something.
My friend stopped over Monday night to discuss with me and Husband the logistics of how she’ll assist with my labor. I feel that I’ll be in good hands overall. Actually, after the conversation I felt pretty jazzed about the experience rather than anxious.
We did go see The Bourne Ultimatum last weekend. I think it’ll be the last in-theater movie we see for awhile. Throughout pregnancy I’ve felt hot often, and lately I feel as though I’m burning up. In the air-conditioned theater I began sweating and feeling dizzy; at one point I pulled my shirt up from my belly to tuck it under my “shelf” and rolled my jeans down to my hips (so my belly could get cool). What I really wanted to do was just take the damn shirt off, but even in a darkened theater that would simply not happen. On the way home is was 60 degrees outside but Husband ran the A/C in the car. My husband likes it cold. When I want it so cold that he’s chilly, that’s extreme!
The movie, by the way, was all right, but not my favorite of the series. I could have used less of the metal-crunching car chase, and the weaving-through-the-crowded-market-to-avoid-the-assassin scene went on a tad long.
We are “all growed up” now; last week we signed the legal papers for our living trust, will, legal guardians for our daughter, and health care directives. We each got life insurance policies. It’s sobering business to deal with, but now we’ve confronted the mortality issues and done our best to responsibly provide for each other and our child if something terrible happens. We can tuck it all away and get on with living. The next task (after she’s born) is to establish a college savings fund for her.
I find myself resisting non-fiction lately. I’ve set aside the book on aging. I’m attempting to read No god but God: The Origins, Evolution, and Future of Islam, but I haven’t settled into it. However I did devour the novel I was selected to read and review: Gifted, by Nikita Lalwani. I need to write the review for LibraryThing.
I can barely write with my laptop on my lap anymore. Bending over to put on shoes is also near to impossible.
I read a New York Times article on Silicon Valley millionaires who feel poor:
“I know people looking in from the outside will ask why someone like me keeps working so hard,” Mr. Steger says. “But a few million doesn’t go as far as it used to. Maybe in the ’70s, a few million bucks meant ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous,’ or Richie Rich living in a big house with a butler. But not anymore.”
Silicon Valley is thick with those who might be called working-class millionaires — nose-to-the-grindstone people like Mr. Steger who, much to their surprise, are still working as hard as ever even as they find themselves among the fortunate few. Their lives are rich with opportunity; they generally enjoy their jobs. They are amply cushioned against the anxieties and jolts that worry most people living paycheck to paycheck.
But many such accomplished and ambitious members of the digital elite still do not think of themselves as particularly fortunate, in part because they are surrounded by people with more wealth — often a lot more.
By this criteria, we are screwed. Not that we live by this criteria, but the quote is a good example of how skewed perceptions of “enough” are here in the valley. I suppose if you want to “keep up with the Joneses” — a new Ferrari every two years, a nanny, a full-time housekeeper, vintage wines, summer camp for the kids, private music/dance/etc. lessons, country-club membership, new furniture for your new million-dollar home — then even a couple million in your portfolio isn’t enough. Fortunately, we don’t even want to know the Joneses, much less care about keeping up with them.
One of the most common topics of small talk in the valley here isn’t about the weather (which hardly varies) but about housing: Are you renting? Where did you buy? How much are the houses in [insert city] going for? Do you think you’ll be staying in California? How’s your ARM doing? Did you refinance? Friends who were able to purchase because they had dual incomes and are now starting a family are suddenly faced with the challenge of how to afford their mortgage if one parent stays home. When 40% of your gross income goes to taxes and 40-50% of your net income pays for rent or mortgage, those big numbers don’t mean much anymore. It’s crazy here. We periodically talk about moving back to Austin, but it’s not in the cards at this time — probably not for several years, if then.
Well, I guess my brain is now cleared. I just need to figure out what to do with myself for a few more hours, until I fall asleep. I’m like clockwork these days, but I’m shifted. I’m usually awake until 4 a.m., then awake sometime between 10:30 a.m. and noon. Some days I get an afternoon nap, and other days not. Lather, rinse, repeat. I bet I go into labor in the middle of the night.
This post is updated.
The song, Chaiyya Chaiyya Bollywood Joint, was in the Spike Lee movie, Inside Man (a well done caper movie). This music raises the tempo of my heart, tickles my legs to start dancing, and makes my soul feel light and happy. I could listen to it every day as a substitute for my morning cup of coffee. Before I saw the video I had an image of a train — no wonder! It’s been too long since I danced, or since I heard a song that physically pulled me, like an eager man grabbing my hand pulling me to the dance floor. (That did happen, by the way, when I went to a Moroccan restaurant a few months ago. They had belly dancers, and one was a male and female pair. The man pulled me and my friend up to dance along with other women in the center of the room. I felt such joy!) I need to explore other Bollywood music; if the songs are similarly energizing, a CD or two is in order!
If the embedded video isn’t working you can see it here.
Inspired by the Sunday Scribblings topic this week, Phenomenon, I will attempt to articulate my thoughts on two phenomena — two transitions — that are dovetailing in my life: motherhood and blogging.
As my pregnancy has progressed, I’ve had time to begin the process of learning just how much my life will change. I know I won’t comprehend this completely until I’m in it. But as Karen Maezen Miller writes in Momma Zen:
Many of us consciously schedule motherhood for a time when we think we are done changing. We have arrived. We are stable. We’ve figured it all out. No more uncertainties or ambiguities for us. These are the years when we are likely to affix to a career, a partner, a home, and a hairstyle. With enough willpower and self-discipline, we can seem to forestall change for years on end — maintaining our chosen looks and pastimes, our precious privacy, our patterns and preferences, our way.
On the surface I don’t fit all the parameters Karen describes. My hair is a barometer of my moods and changes often. I’ve had a patchwork quilt of a career, having only begun the one I really wanted in 2000 at age 37 only to abandon it in the move to California in 2004. I’ve moved every few years since fledging my parents’ nest at 20. I didn’t want to be single parent, and it wasn’t until age 36 that I met my husband. (In fact, I avidly did not want children in my 20s; I sensed they would blow my life wide open.) I was gung-ho to have kids by age 38, but by then I was no longer the only one controlling the schedule; Husband needed to feel ready as well.
Anyone who knows me well knows my beliefs about life and my self-concept weren’t obvious to me until my late 30s — except the period where I immersed myself in a fundamentalist religion where I was told what and how to think. I depended upon others (often to my detriment) to define and validate me. It wasn’t until my late thirties that I could identify the values I hold most dearly, the words that describe the passion running like a gold thread through my life: education, community, creativity, expression. It wasn’t until I met my husband that my life became stable enough to pay attention to things other than survival. I began creating art in 2002. I relaxed into myself. Poor to nonexistent self-confidence was my major obstacle, and while it remains, it’s much diminished.
Despite all those differences, I am well-acquainted with driving my own life. While my goal in life was not to “arrive” — I didn’t postpone children until I’d reached some ideal state or lofty goal — and while change has been at the core of my life, I often chose the change. There were many things I could not control in my life, but I controlled how I responded to them. With crappy living situations, I went out for walks. I hated my job, so I took classes toward a long-term goal. My finances were tight, so I ate less. I had no money for a social life, so I saw few friends and devoted myself to a pen pal. I wanted better opportunities, so I moved 1800 miles to an unknown city and started over. And now that life is comparatively easy, I still have a sense of control: if I don’t feel like cooking, I don’t, and we eat out or fend for ourselves at home. I can shower when I like. I read for pleasure. I sleep when I want. I come and go as I please. I have plenty of time for my hobbies.
And then, in 2002 I discovered the ideal hobby for me, a writer who doesn’t seriously care about being paid and published: blogging. In my teens I journaled, but this waned in my 20s until I began my pen pal/journal relationship. When I have an audience in mind, writing has more appeal. Blogging provides the instant satisfaction of expression where many eyes will see it and in a format that looks appealing and official. It provides a sense of community with other disembodied “voices” and ego gratification from comments.
It is also a giant black hole for time, and it is my addiction. I spend more hours than I care to admit or are healthy on the Internet. At first blogging felt meaningful, and I developed friends. Periodically I feel compelled to adjust the balance of living online and living in real life (toward less online). But I do much less living than ever. Since finding stability and love, I seek out my cozy home life more; I don’t feel a need to get away (I used to walk for hours, go places, meet people, attend events). This reclusiveness has been compounded since the Internet/blogging phenomenon; I’ve lived increasingly in my mind in abstraction. Inertia roots me. I’m not alone; many people complain they do this too. I justify the time spent by saying, “I’m a writer.” Bullshit. When you’re reading Perez Hilton or TMZ or frittering time at 43 Things, you’re not writing. And increasingly I’m aware that the sense of relationship with others whom I regularly read is harder to maintain. Without occasional shared real life experiences, these relationships are just words on a screen with maybe a photo to give the mind’s eye a visual context.
Soon my life will change dramatically. Karen also writes:
The mother of a teenager once said to me, “I remember when they’re about eight months old and their ego begins to develop. It’s not pretty.” Neither is your own ego, and you don’t have to wait eight months for it to appear! I can see now how much of motherhood, from the very first hour, carries the early warning signs of ego warfare. I want to sleep. She wants to eat. I need to do this. She needs to do that. Not again. Again. It can feel as though someone were eating you alive. And what is being eaten is your ego.
It seems ridiculous to talk about infant care as combat. Your baby’s needs are pure and uncontrived. They are not manipulations. They are not strategic assaults. They are just assaults, relentless and evolving, against the way you want things to be. You love your child, yes, and yet you flail and roar, you cry and whine and tremble with the terror of life beyond your control.
This is what awaits me! Yep, I’m a bit frightened by it. Yet I’m also curious and engaged. I want to give myself to this experience. Will I want to write about it? Perhaps. Then again, maybe I would rather just live it. The blog is not a child, and the world does not need me, simply another voice on a screen. If I gave up blogging, my dedicated readers would miss me, but not much and not for long, because they, too, have real lives.
I always find it amusing when bloggers feel a need to explain an upcoming absence, or to apologize for not writing, or to apologize for “inconveniencing” readers by not writing. But I’ve done this too.
I wish I didn’t have a blog, that I’d never been bit by that bug. I wish I didn’t feel the need for the ego gratification of the pretty blog format and instant ability to share and show off (Look at me! Look at me!). I wish I wasn’t such an information hound, easily beguiled by trivia, hungry for more ideas. Let me be honest: increasingly I read less and comment less often on other blogs. I don’t really care about the other writer as much. Blogging has become, for me, mostly an avenue of expression and is no longer very reciprocal. But oh, it is so very easy to piss away hours of my life; self-employment was difficult for me because it takes a kind of self-discipline to structure one’s life, and I lack that trait. When I had a job, I squandered less time. The external schedule gave my life a spine.
Well I’ll soon have a job, but one without regular hours, and one that will demand more hours than any job I’ve ever had. I don’t know if I have enough energy or interest to give to this hobby any longer. Recently other bloggers I’ve read have also called it quits, because they felt the time spent blogging could be put to better use achieving their dreams. So maybe I’ll write, or maybe I won’t. It will be interesting to see what impact the phenomenon of motherhood has on the phenomenon of blogging in my life.
I’m especially pleased that I was selected to read and review an advance copy of first novel Gifted: A Novel, by Nikita Lalwani. It was my first choice of all the books offered. You see, LibraryThing has created an Early Reviewers group in conjunction with Random House. How can I say no to a free book?
It should make a pleasant change of reading pace from a book I’ve been devouring today, which is Birth: The Surprising History of How We are Born. It’s excellent if slightly traumatic reading about the history of midwifery and obstetrics, tools and fads, cultural differences toward women and birth, and occasionally gruesome details about what women have endured (and still do in many parts of the world). Some might say I’m dotty to read it at this time, but really I find it fascinating. And it inspires my gratitude that I’ve found a doctor and hospital birthing center that I feel confident about. (I’m also scared of this great unknown event that will happen too. Yet I’m focusing more on the excitement of it. Just wanted to come clean, though.)
To round out the the subject matter, I also began reading What Are Old People For?: How Elders Will Save the World. As a middle-aged mom-to-be, I’m no longer young, but I’m not old — it’s an interesting life stage. I’m often disbelieved when I tell people my real age, because (they say) I look so much younger! And I don’t act old! What is “old” supposed to act like? I tire of this “amazement,” which really isn’t flattery. It’s ageism. I notice it in myself, too, this tendency to look at a woman my age who might have more wrinkles than I, and to judge negatively. Other times I’ve caught myself simply not seeing (I mean, really looking and registering) and older person (in a grocery store line, perhaps). Perhaps this book will tweak my perceptions.
It’s been a rather sober week so far. It’s not that I’m superstitious and worry that talking about mortality will somehow invite it. It’s just that…
Monday involved a long discussion about life insurance and how to start a savings program for our daughter’s college education someday. The insurance part involves discussion of how much one’s life is “worth” and future inflation so that enough insurance is purchased to provide for the survivors. It’s not a concept we are accustomed to pondering. And then there’s the fact that we need to figure out how to pay the premium, which is sizable. Shopping around has proven that the premiums are in the same range regardless of the company; the payments break down to a large monthly sum that doesn’t fit our current budget. Decisions, decisions. The educational vehicle most often recommended is a 529, but this restricts the money to educational purposes only, so we need to explore other options as well. By the end of the meeting my head hurt.
Tuesday we met with a lawyer to discuss estate planning, trusts, and wills. We’ve established guardianship for our daughter if Husband and I die simultaneously. But until the lawyer asked us, we’d never thought about how we want to divvy up our estate if we have more than one child and they have grandchildren, and one of our children dies, do the children of our dead child (our grandchildren) get a her/his share? Or what if one of us dies and the other is left alive but incapable of managing daily affairs (due to Alzheimer’s for example): who do we designate to manage our financial resources? These questions do not ordinarily star in my daily thought show.
Then there’s the health care power of attorney; I’m a believer in making one’s wishes known in case one is ever in a vegetative state. It’s a good idea to make clear if one wants all measures taken to stay alive, or if the idea of living indefinitely on machines isn’t acceptable. Beyond this is the question of whom one designates to enforce these wishes. The spouse is an obvious choice, of course. Yes, but if the spouse is unavailable for whatever reason, one needs to have a second and third choice person designated. It’s all very hypothetical and surreal to discuss these future beings and events, but at the same time, since death is an eventual fact (at least I hope it’s very eventual), it’s like having coffee with the grim reaper. It’s unsettling.
Today’s business is about trying to understand the terms of a recent legal agreement we have come to regarding some personal business. Legalese can be vague, and after reading the agreement I have numerous questions about how we’ll carry out the practicalities of the agreement. It makes my head spin.
Further, today involves trying to extract an answer from our health insurance why we were billed out-of-network for a doctor we never saw and when we went to an in-network facility for the service. (This was for the amniocentesis in March.) Each time I call I get a non-answer and come away understanding nothing. And of course I was a knucklehead and paid the bill (sent separately by the doctor) when it arrived months ago, so we’re out that money. The likelihood of getting it back is close to nil.
I also inquired about the coverage for an epidural, since we’ve been told insurance companies sometimes have exceptions. The rep I spoke with read the policy and nothing was explicitly stated about it. The strongest conclusion she could come to is that it’s “probably among the usual and customary services/charges” and thus covered. Gah. I hate PPO insurance. We switched from an HMO on January 1 (which we had to enroll in mid-November before we got pregnant) because we thought we’d be doing in vitro treatment and wanted to use a recommended doctor not on our old plan. Then we got pregnant (yay!) but have been getting bills every month for services. We haven’t changed doctors or the medical group at all! It’s just now we’ve got a different financial arrangement and we see bills for services when we never did before. It’s adding up. I’m sure even our 10% portion of the birth hospital bill will be daunting. We’ll be switching back to the HMO at the next open enrollment cycle.
All of this is a tad overwhelming, and tears overflow because I’m full up already with Big Things going on. This hasn’t led to a desire to write much. I’ll be perkier once we have these decisions made and the documents and processes established.
I had no idea what I was going to make when I started. It seems now that it was an attempt at self-soothing or balance. I drew this while watching Eugene Jarecki’s movie, Why We Fight — a provocative, disturbing, multifaceted analysis of the U.S. military-industrial complex. There’s an interview with Jarecki via the link that will summarize the documentary better than I can. I learned that the term “military-industrial complex” was coined by Republican President Dwight Eisenhower in his 1961 farewell address to Americans. His warning, it seems, went unheeded.
Until the latest of our world conflicts, the United States had no armaments industry. American makers of plowshares could, with time and as required, make swords as well. But now we can no longer risk emergency improvisation of national defense; we have been compelled to create a permanent armaments industry of vast proportions. Added to this, three and a half million men and women are directly engaged in the defense establishment. We annually spend on military security more than the net income of all United States corporations.
This conjunction of an immense military establishment and a large arms industry is new in the American experience. The total influence — economic, political, even spiritual — is felt in every city, every state house, every office of the Federal government. We recognize the imperative need for this development. Yet we must not fail to comprehend its grave implications. Our toil, resources and livelihood are all involved; so is the very structure of our society.
In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist.
We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted. Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together.
–Dwight Eisenhower
You can read the entire speech here.
I swear, it doesn’t take much to make me all soppy and weepy. Some examples:
In the breastfeeding class, I struggled for composure watching a video of a mother learning to get her child to latch on and suckle for the first time after three days of difficulty. Hell, in the infant CPR class, I teared up watching a video simulation of a grandmother discovering her grandson (a plastic doll) in the crib not breathing and providing CPR.
AN ACT OF KINDNESS THAT SHOULD OCCUR MORE OFTEN
My 17 year old daughter and I were standing in line at our local Pharmacy. Earlier in the day, we had, by chance, had a discussion on the high cost of medications for the elderly.
It happened that an elderly gentleman was in front of us in line and was discussing his wife’s prescription with the pharmacist. He seemed sad and somewhat agitated when he inquired as to the cost of the prescription. When the pharmacist shared that it was not as bad as could be at only $38.40. The elderly gentlemen nodded and said he would wander the store while the prescription was filled.
My daughter turned to me with tears in her eyes and asked if we could help. Of course we could! While by no means wealthy, we were not on a strict budget and could certainly do without a movie or lunch out that week. We quickly asked the pharmacist if we could pay for the prescription and he smiled and agreed to allow us to do so. We asked that he tell the gentlemen that it was a “random act of kindness.”
We completed our shopping and happened to be leaving the store at the same time as our new “friend”. We were further blessed with getting to see him greet his wife, who had been waiting in the car, with a box of chocolates. (Presumably his act of kindness…passing it on.)
It is not possible that he was given more joy than we were that day!
–Submitted by Debbie, in an email from the Random Acts of Kindness Foundation
I’ve been awake for a while now
you’ve got me feelin like a child now
cause every time i see your bubbly face
I get the tinglies in a silly place
It starts in my toes
makes me crinkle my nose
where ever it goes I always know
that you make me smile
please stay for a while now
just take your time
where ever you go
I’m going to buy stock in Kleenex.
I hate air travel since 9/11. I’ve been pulled over for extra inspection almost every time I’ve tried to board an airplane. On top of that, changes in airline business practices make flying odious. I never wrote about our Christmas trip, but leaving San Jose was nearly impossible due to massive airline screw-ups and delays (due to a recent merger of one airline with another). We arrived two hours early to the airport; we stood in line for two hours just to check our bags and get boarding passes. We barely made the plane, but then it sat for another 45 minutes. This late start on the first leg of our flight made us miss our Las Vegas connection, which caused us to have to re-book our second connection through Pittsburgh while our luggage went to the original connection point of Atlanta. We did arrive in Syracuse, finally, but it took our luggage another day. Due to the time-zone shift, flying east is hard on the body. So it was, in all, an unpleasant flight experience. At least the trip home was smooth.
So in addition to the fact that air travel is expensive and our budget is tight right now, there are more reasons to stay on the ground. Here’s a sampling. Those of you who have the patience and fortitude to fly, more power to ya.
Over all, this could be a dreadful summer to fly. In the first five months of 2007, more than a quarter of all flights within the United States arrived at least 15 minutes late. And more of those flights were delayed for long stretches, an average of 39 percent longer than a year earlier. … If a flight taxies out, sits for hours, and then taxies back in and is canceled, the delay is not recorded. Likewise, flights diverted to cities other than their destination are not figured into delay statistics.
Right now, it’s far cheaper for airlines to screw over their passengers and say “Sorry, your flight is canceled, please come back tomorrow” than it is to maintain enough staff and equipment to run their operations. After years of cost-cutting, they are running so close to the bone that they can’t deal with problems when they occur.
If airline executives want to run lean, that’s their business decision, but passengers should be adequately compensated when that system fails. This is something that simply switching carriers won’t fix — the problem pervades the entire industry, and in many cities, one or two carriers control most of the flights anyway.
If you cancel your reservation or don’t show up for a flight, the airline charges you a penalty all the way to the full price of your ticket. It’s only fair that when the airline fails to deliver on its side of the bargain, it should pay you.
—As summer air travel horror begins, Congress should give passengers more rights
Debbie Chaklos of the South Side booked a four-day Father’s Day trip to Paris with her father and 17-year-old brother for June 13. Due to bad weather elsewhere, they were still on the tarmac in Pittsburgh when their flight from Philadelphia to Paris took off. No other flights were leaving that night. After failing to get their bags back, Ms. Chaklos said, she called some 25 Philadelphia-area hotels before finding a vacancy.
A US Airways attendant re-booked them on an Air France flight the next day, but, on getting to Paris, they found their three bags were missing. They spent days haggling on the phone with Air France and washing their clothes in the sink before two of the bags finally arrived — 10 hours before the trio was set to fly back to the States. Once back, they realized the bags were lost again.
After three hours of sitting on a runway at LaGuardia International Airport the night of June 19, and the single glass of water and the mini granola bar issued to her long gone, Alice Norris got off her US Airways flight to look for another plane back to Pittsburgh. None was available. She returned to her seat and sat for another two hours before the pilots announced the federal limit on their flight time had run out and the flight had been canceled.
It was now around midnight. The Butler County woman waited through the crowded customer service line, saying she was an inexperienced flier and didn’t know what to do. The customer representative shrugged.
“I’m tired,” Mrs. Norris said.
“I am too,” the rep replied.
“I’m 70,” Mrs. Norris said.
Such experiences are becoming more and more common this summer, with passengers facing mounting cancellations, delays, lost bags, ruined vacations and emotional scenes at the ticket counter. A product of dangerous summer weather and systemic industry problems, the situation is poised to get even worse as the traveling season gets into full swing this week.
Passengers are finding the trade-offs offered for canceled flights — such as hotel rooms — are not as readily offered anymore, and when they are, rooms are sold out. Free ticket offers aren’t as desirable either — why come back to the airport and face a delayed flight again?
That night, while walking around the darkened terminal, Mrs. Norris joined another increasingly common sight at American airports: a group of strangers huddled together for the night. Finding she couldn’t sleep, she returned to another crowded ticket line after 5 a.m., was erased from a 9 a.m. flight before finally finding another close to 11 a.m., all the while thinking of her treatment.
And now, for your viewing pleasure (?) (If the embedded video doesn’t work, click here):Thanks to Jen for pointing out the video.