Hope for the New Year

Every now and then, people surprise me. I have an acquaintance in my e-mail address book who forwards me every piece of crap that comes through her inbox: pictures of Jesus surrounded by unicorns and rainbows and kittens and teddy bears, poems telling every one of the 3000 people in her address book how special they are, blond jokes, urban legends about serial killers, "if you don't forward this to 400 people in the next 10 seconds you will have catastrophic bad luck" messages and of course, long diatribes against liberals full of animated GIF images of waving American flags and praise of George W. Bush.

For Christmas she sent this video on global warming, which I watched in order to mock it. "Oo, a 'let's do nothing because global warming isn't real' video! This should be good blog fodder," I thought. Well, it was good blog fodder, but not in the way that I thought. The argument was succinct, cogent, intelligent and logical. It's Al Gore in less than 10 minutes. It's what I've been saying for years. It makes me want to divorce my husband and marry the guy in the t-shirt in the video.

So maybe there is hope. Or maybe she just forwards everything that comes through her inbox without reading it.

Have a safe, happy, green New Year!

It says something... ~ by Jay

...when it's easier for me to find time to blog at work rather than at home!

I'm finishing up a couple of admissions to inpatient hospice and then headed home to continue the Great Household Organizing project, as well as prepare for the imminent arrival of Sam's brother and sister-in-law and our niece. So likely no blogging from me again until Jan 1st, when the relatives leave.

Of course, I said that last weekend and then I blogged anyway. So who knows?

Happy New Year!

Decisions ~ by Jay

11:00 AM: "I need you to talk to the oncologist. I tried to tell him I didn't want to have any more chemotherapy treatments but he won't listen to me". Sadie is 58 but looks much older; even before she developed acute leukemia last summer, she'd been worn down by her chronic psychiatric illness and the difficult life that often brings. But she's survived the brutal induction chemotherapy and has been in remission for six months. She's had three consolidation treatments, and is scheduled for a fourth treatment next week. Sadie is sure that the oncologist hasn't looked past the diagnosis of bipolar disorder which she sees so prominently written on her chart each time she's in the hospital. "He thinks I'm nuts, but I know what I want, and what I don't want. I want the rest of my life to be comfortable, no matter how long that is".

I look down at my chart where I, too, have written "bipolar disorder" on the problem list and wonder if I've also failed to look past it. Today it's easy to ignore it; Sadie is calm and coherent. She understands the implications of her decisions. She knows the leukemia is likely to come back and she knows that one more chemo treatment won't make that much of a difference. For the moment, that's enough. I call the oncologist and he readily agrees. I don't broach hospice care with either of them. She isn't having any symptoms right now, and she still wants transfusions if she needs them. So we'll watch, and wait, until the cancer comes back.

3:00 PM: I've always looked forward to seeing Martha in the office. The transport aide from the assisted living facility would bring her in with her oxygen and her walker, and one of her daughters would meet her. They'd sit in my exam room and joke about the way the bus driver's butt looked in his jeans. Martha would say "I like a man with a tight butt" and she'd laugh. About a year ago, Martha stopped joking as much. If I went in to see her before her daughters arrived, she'd say "Oh, I'm miserable, but I don't want them to know". She complained of pain everywhere, pain I couldn't treat, because the medication made her drowsy and she started to fall, or it made the shortness of breath from her lung disease even worse. Lately she's been in and out of the hospital every few weeks, and it's clear that the assisted living facility wanted her family to move her somewhere else. I couldn't tell if the repeated hospitalizations were happening because she was really getting worse, or if it was just the facility's way of getting rid of a problem.

They finally succeeded with the last admission, about a week ago. They refused to take her back when she was ready to leave the hospital. Today I am seeing Martha in the nursing home. She looks about the same, still complaining of pain, not otherwise changed. I examine Martha - no joking this afternoon - and sit down to talk with her daughter. Neither of us want to send her back to the hospital for this pain, or for the episodes of confusion that come and go. But we're not sure it's time to say "do not hospitalize". If I write that order, that means no hospitalizations at all, not even if something more serious happens. We discuss all our options, and decide to wait. I'll come back and see Martha in two weeks. If she really does seem to be declining, we'll go ahead; if not, we'll wait some more. Meanwhile, she'll get a bit more attention and some intensive physical therapy, I'll treat her depression more aggressively, and we'll keep trying to do something for the pain.

4:00 PM: One more visit before I can go home. This is my partner's patient, Sherry. I've never met her before, and I don't really meet her today; she barely wakes up when I examine her. Sherry had a stroke three weeks ago, and didn't improve significantly in the hospital. Her son, Tim: "She's always been really independent. My dad died when I was three, and she raised us by herself. She wouldn't want us to do anything that would prolong her life if it means she would stay in a nursing home". I confirm what he's already heard from the doctors in the hospital. There's virtually no chance she will recover enough to leave the nursing home. Her life had already been restricted by her heart disease and her developing dementia, and the stroke has taken away what meaning and joy remained. We agree to stop all the medications except the ones that are controlling her symptoms.

Then Tim starts talking about his brother. Mike lives in another state, and doesn't come to visit very often. When Sherry had her stroke, Tim was ready to tell the hospital to stop all medications then, but Mike called and asked them to wait; he was sure she had the will to recover. He hasn't seen her, though; Tim's been coming every day to visit and watched her try to communicate, seen her paralyzed arm and leg and the droop in her face. He honored his brother's wishes, but now he's sure it's not going to get any better, and last night he found the power of attorney document that Sherry signed 10 years ago. After he goes home today, he's going to Email his brother and tell him that the decision's been made, the medications have been withdrawn, and it's all legal and aboveboard.

I've talked with my partner about Sherry, and I've seen her living will. I know Tim is following the instructions his mother left, and I'm comfortable with his decision. I tell him what I've told so many other people over the last 20 years: this is the hardest thing you will ever have to do, and it's the greatest gift you can give someone, to let them go even when you know how hard it will be to lose them. He has the added stress of knowing he may also lose his relationship with his brother, but he's not willing to sacrifice his mother's wellbeing to maintain it. We agree on what we will do, and I offer to speak with Mike, too. I can see Tim relax his posture; he's been holding himself upright, his shoulders a bit hunched, his head forward on his neck; now he sits back into the chair and turns his hands up on his lap. I hope I've helped him feel that he's not in this alone.

Decisions at the end of the day, decisions at the end of life.

This Just In, Public Policy "Duh" Edition ~by Jay

Here's a news flash: having health insurance improves your health.

From a structured review:

The apparent health benefits of going on Medicare were especially pronounced for those with cardiovascular disease or diabetes who had been previously uninsured. Before age 65, their health declined much faster than that of those with insurance. But this trend changed at age 65, and by 70, the expected health differences between the previously insured and uninsured were cut in half.

Wow, you mean being able to see a doctor, buy a glucometer, get your laboratory testing done, have access to nutritional and educational support, and have some of your medications paid for might actually reduce the complications of serious health problems? Really? Wow. Who'd have thunk it?

I mean, even our President knows that people who need health care can always go to the Emergency Room, where the doctors and nurses undoubtedly have lots of time to help patients manage chronic illness. After all, it's not like they have to deal with, say, emergencies or anything.

Being Rude ~ by Jay

Today was an odd day. Had three home visits scheduled, but the second patient I was supposed to see died on Sunday so I had a big gap in the middle of the day. Came home, did some more sorting and tidying, and went to the office to help with paperwork. Ended up staying there longer than I expected (big shock) and ran out to grab some lunch.

I went to Panera's, which is always a compromise; I like their soup and free WiFi, but they seem to have deliberately designed their serving system to be slow and annoying, which it was today. Finally I weave my way between tables to a seat with my purse, my computer bag, my tray of soup and my mug of hot chocolate, and as I'm trying to settle myself in without spilling something, the man at the next table says "So who is that for?"

I must have looked blank, so he grins and says "The hot chocolate. Is that yours?"

This seems like a small friendly gesture when I write about it, but it felt really intrusive. I didn't want to make conversation with some man just because he thought I should. I'd been standing too long already waiting for my lunch; I was later than I wanted to be; I'd already made small talk with the other people who were in line. So I said "And why exactly would you think that's any of your business?" He said "Well, it's such a big mug!" and clearly expected me to be charmed by his cuteness. You know, grizzled older guy who's really a big cute lug, everyone melts for him. I said "I'm not the sort of person who finds this entertaining" and he said "Well, Merry Christmas to you, too". He and his companions, who clearly thought I was exceedingly ungrateful, got up and left.

You know what amazed me? That I didn't feel bad. I still don't. I hadn't made eye contact with him or in any other way suggested that I might be open for conversation. I doubt he would have made that comment to a man, even if he was carrying a big mug of hot chocolate, or to me if Sam had been with me. I'm all for civility and friendliness in public spaces, but when men assume that women are available for chit-chat and obliged to respond just because they don't happen to be in the company of their own man, it pisses me off. I wanted to have lunch by myself; it was the first time I'd been really alone since Friday afternoon and, dammit, I didn't want to talk to anyone.

So there it is, for all to see: I have been rude and I don't care. I've violated the first rule of womanhood and refused to be accommodating. I don't want to hear that I overreacted; I don't want to be told I need a vacation. Whatever the reason - extended family togetherness, the prospect of a week on call, annoyance at the restaurant staff - I'm entitled to need some time without having to respond to someone else's choice for how I use it. So there.

My Santa Story ~ by Jay

No, we don't do Santa. We don't do Christmas. But two weeks ago I was sitting at my desk when two of my office staffers were talking about their shopping. I realized that one was trying to figure out what to do for her son, who had announced that Santa was bringing him a train table. You know, one of those low tables with trains and scenery and drawers. Michael is four, and he was quite convinced that Santa was bringing him just what he wanted - but his mom and dad couldn't afford one, not even the knock-off models at the warehouse store. Michael's mom said "I don't know what I'm going to do".

I stood up, walked out to her desk, and said "You're coming to my house to take the one in our garage." When we cleared out our daughter's room, we took the train table out and we hadn't found anyone who wanted it. She stared at me and then said "I have to hug you". And she did.

A few days later, Michael and his mommy and daddy came and took the train table and the trains and the scenery and the extra set of portable metal Thomas trains, too. Everyone was happy.

Last weekend, Michael went to see Santa at the mall. His mom told me that Michael sat on Santa's lap and was asked the usual question - "What do you want me to bring you?" Michael looked up at Santa and said "Don't you remember? You already brought me a train table. I just came to say 'thank you'.".

What to Do, What to Do... ~ by Jay

So do I reply to the blatantly insensitive everyone-should-agree-about-Christmas post on a forum I frequent? The poster is the self-appointed mayor of the community, an arrogant ass who has already declared himself uninterested in anyone who has the temerity to disagree with him. Use a Mac? Concerned about the treatment of traditionally targeted groups in society, or on the forum? Support some attempt by the listowner to contain rampant sexism in posts? Well, you clearly don't deserve to have an opinion, so go away.

Responding to him won't change his opinions or behaviors. He's one of those I'm-so-brave-I'm-not-PC types who thinks that voicing bigotry is a badge of honor, and he's beyond my reach. But I know I'm not the only one who shuddered at that post, and I feel that if I remain silent I'm an accomplice in my own invisibility.

I recognize this discomfort. My need to speak up has gotten me in trouble at work and created struggles for me socially for as long as I can remember. This isn't the I/E thing. It isn't about being the center of attention - I get that, too, and it's a very different sensation. When I want to perform and get applause I'm excited, but I don't feel a compulsion to act, and I don't become blind to the responses of others. When I feel invisible, I lose track of the other people in the room, and I speak without thinking. I've permanently alienated people with control over my career, and I have a reputation for steamrolling over groups - the opposite of how I see myself and how I wish to be. I do it because as much as I crave attention and approbation, as much as I need to have others like me, I need to respond to injustice more than I need to be liked. Invisibility is a threat to my very survival.

Thanks to a wise woman I met years ago, I've come to understand that my terror of being invisible may come from my sense of Jewish history, and the cost of silence in the face of injustice. It's my internalization of the poem that encapsulates the Holocaust:

When the Nazis came for the communists,
I remained silent;
I was not a communist.

When they locked up the social democrats,
I remained silent;
I was not a social democrat.

When they came for the trade unionists,
I did not speak out;
I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for the Jews,
I remained silent;
I wasn't a Jew.

When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out.

I am a Jew, and I cannot remain silent. I'm learning - slowly - to moderate my responses, to recognize the signals and to choose my responses. I'm learning that even when I fail to do that, I am still the person I want to be, and my skills and gifts are still valuable. And it's a lot easier online, where I can type out the first angry thing that comes into my head and then delete it, or send it to more sympathetic listeners, or expand it into a blog post. But I am a Jew, and I cannot be silent.

What to do, what to do....

Happy Holidays ~by MPJ

WARNING TO THE SATIRE IMPAIRED: This post makes heavy use of sarcasm and irony, forms of humor in which one says the opposite of what one means. If you are satire-impaired, please proceed with caution. Two Women Blogging will not be held responsible for damage incurred due to impalement on a rapier wit.

---

While relaxing with my daily dose of news from the biased liberal media today, I learned that there is a War on Christmas being waged. This war, I learned, was the work of Godless liberal atheists in league with Jews, Muslims and sundry other non-Christians who are determined to destroy Christmas, and by extension all of Christianity, by forcing people to say "Happy Holidays" round about this time of year, instead of "Merry Christmas."

My first thought was, "Damn it!" They're onto us!" Yes, I admit it. It's true. We all have been plotting against Christmas for years, but until recently, no one had caught on. Oh sure, conservatives knew that we hated Christmas. After all, it's hard for people like us to decide which we hate more: Christianity or America. But as we sat fiendishly plotting over our gingerbread lattes, we were certain they didn't know that we had plans to actually ban the holiday, and the religion itself, entirely.

In fact, we formally declared war on Christmas in 1998, but few took notice at the time. That year, prominent conservative spokespeople were unable to alert the public, as they were all too busy locking themselves in their bathrooms with bottles of tequila, pictures of Monica Lewinsky and copies of the Starr Report. But eventually, as the sweet hold of government-authorized, taxpayer-funded porn loosened, they began to see what was going on.

Sure, there are some liberals out there who are reading this and thinking, "Wait! But I didn't get an invite to any plotting party. I didn't know we declared war against Christmas either!" And to them I say, "Dude! Damn it! Stop getting so stoned that you can't remember what happened five minutes ago!"

I have to admit, it's so depressing to have one's hateful, rage-filled plots to destroy Christianity constantly disrupted. Now we can't even destroy Christmas? It's just a little piece of Christianity, come on, in the spirit of the season, give us evil heathens something! It makes me want to weep! Wait, let me grab a linen hankie embroidered with my family crest. And a drop of Chardonnay never hurts (unless it's cheap Chardonnay, and then it hurts a lot).

Ok, I've composed myself now. I'm ready to reveal the details of the diabolical plot. We were going to start, as you all know, by forcing store clerks to wish us all a cheery, "Happy Holidays!" Yep, stores switching from "Merry Christmas" to "Happy Holidays" isn't in any way related to the unfettered capitalist free market. It's not an attempt by businesses to appeal to the maximum number of consumers and drum up the maximum amount of business. After all, how could that be? Only Christians shop, right? The commercialization of Christmas has nothing to do with businesses and profits and advertising and marketing and sales. It has nothing to do with the soulless consumer culture born of free market capitalism.

Nope, it's part of a plot. Yes, it is all about us, a bunch of secular, nay, blatantly anti-Christian liberals forcing our heretical, sinful, Godless views on others. In fact, I admit it! I have the CEO of Macy's up in my attic right now. Every anti-Christian warrior has one. (In fact, Jay has the CEO of Home Depot.) They want to wish consumers a Merry Christmas, but they are standing blindfolded on platforms holding strings of holiday (oh, yeah, you heard me right, holiday) lights. We've told them they'll receive an electric shock each time one of their employees says, "Christmas." Believe me, we are the reason those employees are not taking home any bonuses this year.

But we all know that's just the beginning. It's not going to be enough to ban the word Christmas from retail store greetings. Oh, no! It's not enough to ask government and public schools to attempt to be inclusive to ALL those it serves. Everyone knows what comes next. We're going to ban the sale of Bibles! Force everyone to call Christmas trees "Holiday trees," and then ban people from displaying Holiday trees in their own homes! We'll ban the exchange of presents! Close down churches! And prayer, anywhere, ever? Don't even think about it!

Sure, we hippie liberals talk a lot of smack about tolerance and peace and equality, but we don't really mean it. Our blackened hearts are filled with seething hatred: hatred that can find no outlet and no relief. But you know what angers us most? Knowing how all of the good Christians around the nation will turn the other cheek to our War on Christmas and celebrate in peaceful reflection on the message of Jesus. Knowing that their faith is strong enough that they aren't bothered or threatened by the fact that people throughout our great nation have many different beliefs.

Just like the Whos in the story of the Grinch, who sang praise even when all of their Christmas trappings were taken from them, Christians will smile at the store clerks, neighbors and acquaintances who wish them "Happy Holidays." Beaming with a radiant light, they'll say, "I know not your religion, and so Happy Holidays to you too, friend. Thank you for giving me a kind word. Because when you do, you are showing me the love of God, no matter what you call it." But unlike the Grinch, our evil anti-Christian hearts will stay shriveled and blackened. Because that kind of a world – one where people are loving and kind, one where people are accepting of each other's differences, one where people show the tolerance and compassion that Christ showed – that's the kind of world none of us wants to live in.

Happy Holidays, you all!

Conversations with my Daughter ~ by Jay

Posting about the stupid adoption display in the Toy Store reminded me of this conversation. It was bedtime, about two years ago, and we were reading "The Day We Met You", one of our favorite adoption books.

Mommy, were there other babies in the hospital when you came to get me?

Yes, there were two or three others.

They didn't have names.

Oh, I think they did have names, but I don't know what they were.

No, they didn't have names.

Yes, honey, they did.

NO, THEY DIDN'T. (getting upset)

(Mommy finally realizes this is important). What would it mean if they didn't have names?

They didn't have names until their mommy came to get them, like you came to get me. I didn't have a mommy until you came to get me.

Oh, sweetie, you had a mommy before I came to get you. Your birthmom, Laura, was there in the hospital with you until we got there. And I didn't pick you out at the hospital - Laura picked us out the week before. I was your mommy before you were born. All babies in the hospital have mommies, and you had two, and they both loved you very much, even before you were born.

Things I Could Do Without: Outrageous Big City Edition ~ by Jay

So we went to the Big City to have some vicarious Christmas fun, and fun there was by the bucketload. We started out with an easy trip in and a comfortable night in our hotel, and then a really, really good breakfast on Saturday morning. I mean really good. So we were in a mellow, anticipatory holiday mood when we went to the Toy Store.

The Toy Store had giant stuffed animals, and toys to play with, and other kids to observe - all very pleasing to our daughter. But the Toy Store also had something that was not at all pleasing to her parents.

This is the Lee Middleton Adoption Nursery. It's a display of dolls in bassinets, lined up behind a window, attended by a saleswoman in an old-fashioned nurse's outfit, complete with cap. Little girls can choose a "baby" to "adopt" from the nursery, and the "nurse" will help them fill out the paperwork and show them how to care for the "baby". In the picture above, you can see a 10-year-old girl rocking her "baby" in the nursery.

We walked past it before our daughter could read the signs, but we saw enough to horrify us both. It's bad enough that toy stores segregate kids by gender, and assume all girls (and only girls) want to play with dolls. It's bad enough that the Cabbage Patch doll Grammy gave her a year ago came with an "adoption certificate" in the box. But this, this abomination is described by the company as the memorable experience of adopting a lifelike baby doll in a realistic setting.

Realistic? Oh, so they ask the girls lots of intrusive questions about their sex lives? They make them list all their addresses for the past 20 years? They fingerprint everyone? Really? All that to buy a doll? Wow.

It's an enduring myth, this idea that adoptive parents go to a place with lots of babies and choose one to take home. If that's what you think adoption is, then I suppose it does sound a lot like shopping - but it's not. It's more like auditioning for a very demanding director, or interviewing for a job you desperately want. We didn't choose our daughter. Her birthmother chose us.

Whenever we go into a toy store, I prepare for the onslaught of popular culture and her pleas for things I don't want to buy. No, you can't have Bratz. No, I don't want to buy you a violently colored plastic water gun. No, it isn't far that there are more fun toys in the boy aisle, but it would be OK if you went in that aisle. No, you're not getting "Mystery Date" for your sleepover (and why on earth are they still making "Mystery Date"?). I'm ready for all that. But an adoption nursery that will give my daughter the impression that I bought her in a store? That I'm not prepared for, and I don't intend to be.

Overheard ~ by Jay

At the Art Museum cafeteria, where we sat next to a mom who was with her three kids and their grandpa while grandma got food:

I want an apple.

I have apples in the bag.

I don't want those apples.

What kind of apple do you want?

A different apple.

Different how?

I don't know.

Well, do you want a McIntosh, or a Gala, or a Fuji, or a Braeburn, or an heirloom, or a Delicious?

(pause)

I want a cookie.

And we're off! ~ by Jay

I'm just about to pack the laptop up and head out of the house. We're taking a weekend trip to see my brother and his wife and inlaws and have some Big City food, along with some vicarious Christmas enjoyment of windows and trees and lights and candy canes and ice skaters.

We'll be back on Sunday evening and I'll be blogging through the holiday week. Meanwhile, we can all take comfort in the coming of the light.

Feet of clay ~ by Jay

I've been working for the hospice for about five months now. This whole process has been new to me, not just the work but the way I ended up with the job. I approached the medical director a year ago and asked him to hire me, and eventually (after a lot of budget-wrangling), they created a position for me. I've never done that before. Actually decide what I want, go after it, and get it? Not my style. So now I have this job, and I love the work, but over the last few days I've realized it's not the happy ending I'd imagined.

I wanted to take the job because I needed a change from my office practice, and I wanted to work somewhere where my communication and facilitation skills were recognized and valued. I also really wanted to work for Will, the medical director, who impressed me as a thoughtful and compassionate doc with values that meshed well with mine. I've know and admired the director of support services, Margy, for years, and I was excited about working with her, too. They both appear to me to be very centered, calm, mindful people. This stands in contrast to my image of myself as scattered, impulsive and driven by my uncontrolled emotions. The truth, of course, lies somewhere in between.

Will, it turns out, has difficulty defining his own boundaries and delegating to anyone else. He has not been able to cede significant clinical responsibility to the nurse practitioner who was working with us, and she's leaving after the first of the year. And today I had a long talk with the chaplain who reports to Margy, and who is frustrated to tears by Margy's dictatorial management style and her habit of changing her mind midstream, leaving her staff looking like they've done something wrong when they were simply following her instructions.

The logistical issues here are daunting, but what I find myself turning over in my mind are the relationships. I sort of expected to feel disappointed in Will and Margy; after all, my illusions have been shattered. I've seen those feet of clay all idols are supposed to have. I'm amazed that I don't feel anger, or disappointment, or defensiveness. This is also new territory for me, finding that I can continue to admire their gifts and skills while seeing their challenges and blind spots. I realize something, else, too: that my gifts and skills are as real and as valuable as theirs. I've always felt that my failings overwhelmed my gifts, that the moments in which I am not my best self are the moments that truly define me. If I can accept Will and Margy as they are, I can also accept myself as I am and show myself the same compassion. I can forgive myself for my own feet of clay.

I Hate Holiday Charity ~by MPJ

"Are there no prisons?" asked Scrooge.

I overheard a conversation between two women, one of whom was complaining about feeling more depressed and overwhelmed than usual at this time of year by some of the difficulties going on in her life. "Well," her friend said brightly, "why not volunteer at a soup kitchen? Get into what the season is all about!"

Apparently the season is all about making yourself feel kind and good by going to a soup kitchen once a year to ladle out food to addicts and mentally ill people who lack adequate treatment, to people who are poor and have no safety net, to people who have never had the chance for a decent education. And New Year's Eve is the time to par-tay and forget about those people until next year at Thanksgiving. As if people are only homeless and hungry at this time of year. As if no one needs help in, say, August, the month of no holidays.

I know. I should be happy that once a year people drop a can of food in that bin at the grocery store that for some reasons doesn't exist at any other time of year. Or buys a gift for a child that suffers silently in need from January to November. But I'm not.

I get irritated every year that being charitable and caring about others who are less fortunate is an aberration, something we do once or twice a year and then are done. Wouldn't it be nice if we were so busy helping those in need all year long that those gestures we make at this time of year didn't draw any attention because they had become so routine? Or better yet that we've worked so hard to build a society that treats all its members with respect and compassion that we don't have a word for charity at all?

Until then, to Charity, I say in my own way, "Bah! Humbug! I don't need you there all decked out trying to seduce the rest of the world and give them warm fuzzies during the holiday season. You're the same old Charity I hang with all year long. And you look much more beautiful without all that flash. I wish other people didn't need the trimmings to love you."

Fa-la-la-la-la and All That ~by MPJ

My husband (the musical one in the family) tells me that when it comes to Christmas music there are two different types: Christmas carols and Christmas songs. My understanding of a Christmas carol, based on his definition, is that it's something traditional, old, sleep inducing and about Jesus. Christmas songs on the other hand are usually about Christmas and vary from ridiculously insipid to catchy and fun or, when sung by someone like Tony Bennett or James Taylor, beautifully touching. Ok, ok, you can see where my preferences lie.

I like one Christmas carol, just one: "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." Whether that is because it is about "peace on earth and mercy mild," or because I still dig Jesus even though religion and I have our problems, or just because it is the song George Bailey and his family sing together at the end of my favorite movie (ever), It's a Wonderful Life, I don't really know. But put that song on and this lapsed Catholic, agnostic, secular humanist with Buddhist leanings is with angelic hosts proclaiming the birth of Christ with the best of them. (Sh! Don't tell the other liberal heathens; they'll revoke my membership.)

My least favorite Christmas song is "The Little Drummer Boy." Every single time I hear it, I cry. Stupid song. Just thinking about it makes me teary eyed. That penniless drummer boy who has nothing to give but himself and tries his hardest to play for the baby Jesus, who as a newborn, somehow miraculously smiles at him. Oh, how that perfectionist people-pleasing child makes me weep and weep. I'm supposed to feel happy that he spoke his love through the gift of music and was paid with a divine smile, but, all minor key and cold winter night as it is, it just makes me feel sad and sorry for him out there in rags in the snow like the Little Matchstick Girl (my most hated Christmas story). I want to give him a hot meal and tell him not to try so hard, not that it's about me or anything.

And what is my favorite Christmas song, you ask? To which I answer, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." It's bittersweet, and I'm a sucker for friends gathered together and pain and darkness put aside for one day in the lights of the tree. But I'll admit that if I can't have James Taylor crooning that in my ear, South Park's "Merry Fucking Christmas" does come in a close second.

Silver Bells ~ Jay

There's a local radio station that plays Christmas music 24/7 starting on Thanksgiving morning. Despite my attempts to sabotage the radio, we still end up listening to it in the office every now and then. Today I heard this.

Not Christmas music!

I know this is the most trite and overplayed piece of Baroque music on the planet. I know it's a cliche. But it was the processional at my wedding and I don't want it commandeered as Christmas music. It's bad enough every song about winter now reads as a Christmas carol. Not that I every really want to sing "Sleigh Ride" again (the alto line consists of 32 measures of "jingle, tingle, jingle, tingle...". Shudder.), but it's the principle of the thing.

Sam and I were married on December 23rd because everyone was on vacation - we were all in grad school at the time - and our friends could come to our wedding en route home from school. Our first dance was "Greensleeves", an odd choice itself given that it's about love gone wrong, chosen because it's my mother's favorite song and was the first dance at my parents' wedding. I didn't realize it was also a Christmas carol until it was too late to change, and our non-Jewish guests found the contrast between "The Holly and the Ivy" and "Hava Negilah" pretty amusing. Now I find that the processional has also been coopted by the Christmas-industrial complex, and I feel as if my wedding has been retroactively colonized by emissaries from the North Pole.

There is one Christmas song I like:

Not enough big words ~ by Jay

Clearly I'm not using enough big words. Or maybe it's because this blog includes comic strips, which must dumb it down

Get a Cash Advance

I'm deeply distressed by this, so stay tuned for lots of polysyllabic pontificating.

Are you my half-mother? ~ by Jay

Our daughter knows she has a biological half-brother who lives with Laura, her birthmother. Lately she's been talking more about them, mostly confirming what she already knows. "My half-brother's older than me, right? He's in fourth grade." The other night she said "So if Ricky's my half-brother, is Laura my half-mother"?

I couldn't answer. Half-mother? What? Sam said "No, you have a birth mother, and a mommy, and they're both whole". He explained what "half-brother" means, our daughter's attention was caught by something else, and the conversation moved on.

Sometimes I do feel like a "half-mother". That sensation is less acute these days than it was when she was a baby, when I felt obliged to explain to strangers why I wasn't breast-feeding. It comes on mostly when I have to interact with Laura or when my daughter talks about being adopted. Every parent I know has at least one deep-seated fear. I don't worry about carseats or flesh-eating bacteria or kidnappers or school shootings or sexual abuse, but I lie awake at night wondering if my daughter feels she's missing something, and whether anger or resentment over being adopted will surface in adolescence. Or even sooner.

Last week I had a new patient come in who surrendered a child for adoption 30 years ago, when she was 17. "My father forced me to give the baby up. I had no choice". She had three more kids after she was married, and the oldest of those had a baby at 19. My patient is now helping raise that grandchild. She said "I think my daughter would have preferred to place him for adoption but she knew I couldn't handle losing another baby from our family". The next day I read an essay in Brain, Child that told essentially the same story: a teenager, pregnant, forced to surrender her baby when she wanted to raise the child herself. Both my patient and the author of the essay feel regret. They are mothers of those children, and yet they are not.

I know that many - even most - adopted kids are happy and well-adjusted. I know that Laura wasn't coerced into making an adoption plan. And I know that I am a whole mother. But I can't entirely shut out the pain in my patient's voice and on the page of the magazine, or the knowledge that I am parenting this child only because I am well-educated and relatively wealthy. I can't rationalize the essential injustice of the system just because I'm benefiting from it. Some nights I lie awake and worry, and then in the morning I get up and get my daughter ready for school, because that's what parents do.

What an Addict Looks Like ~by MPJ

It's amazing the kinds of preconceived notions we (even those of us who live with addicts or are addicts ourselves) have about who addicts are, what they look like and what they act like. I suspect it's another attempt at control: we want to believe we can identify addiction and avoid having it as part of our lives or we want to believe those other addicts are much worse than we are.

I have met wives of sex addicts, who (usually early in their recovery) share about what kind of man they are going to marry next time, now that they've been married to a sex addict and know better. Next time they are going to marry men who are well educated. Next time they are going to marry men who treat them like princesses. Next time they are going to marry men who aren't verbally abusive.

One of these women worked in an administrative position at the prestigious university my husband attended for graduate school. She said the graduate students she met there were nothing like her husband and she wished she would have married someone like one of them. They were well educated and kind to her. I said, "But my husband is one of those men, and he's a sex addict, just like your husband."

A friend of mine from the very prestigious college I attended is a recovering alcoholic. When I mentioned this to my mother (who can't yet admit that she herself is married to an active alcoholic), she spluttered, "But, but... But she went to BigName University!"

People who are well educated are not supposed to be addicts. People who are kind to their spouses and friends are not supposed to be addicts. People who are successful in their careers are not supposed to be addicts. People who are religious are not supposed to be addicts. People who are wealthy are not supposed to be addicts. People who are white or female are not supposed to be addicts, and oh, definitely not both white and female.

Addicts are men, usually minorities (or maybe minority women, like crack whores). They're dirty and disheveled, maybe their clothes are even tattered. They're poorly educated and can't hold jobs. They don't go to a church or temple or mosque. They're mean and nasty. They curse and yell. They beat their wives. They're poor, maybe they even live under bridges. Right?

The truth is, addiction knows no boundaries of race or gender or religion or education or socioeconomic class. You can't keep yourself safe from addiction by running with the crowd that looks right or even, to the eyes of most of the world, acts right. That crackhead living under a bridge is an addict, but so is the wealthy, religious, Yale educated President of the United States. Too bad he's not a woman, so I could really make my point. But I'm hoping the next president will be, and she may not be an addict, but she is married to one.

Controlled substances ~ by Jay

R over at Recovery Discovery posted about her former family doc, the one who supplied her partner with prescription drugs during a year of worsening addiction and then dismissed their concerns about addiction. You can bop over there and see my comment: he was wrong. No question. I'm really clear about that. And I'm angry. Irresponsible prescribing endangers patients and it makes my life much more complicated. I feel only irritation and anger toward R's ex-doctor, my clueless colleague.

20 years ago I worked with a colleague on a small research project on addiction. Then I studied brief interventions and motivational interviewing and started to teach workshops about smoking cessation and screening for alcohol abuse. As I learned more about addiction, I also learned more about pain management and prescription drug abuse. Paradoxically, learning about addiction made me more comfortable prescribing narcotics. I started out saying "no" to everyone who asked for narcotics or tranquilizers, but with more clinical experience I began to prescribe them more often. Now, even outside of my hospice work, I spend more time trying to convince people that narcotics are safe than I do saying no. Docs like the one R describes make my job harder, and they make the DEA nervous. That makes me mad.

And then another thought creeps in around the edges of the anger: I wonder why. Why did he write the scrips in the first place? Why did he keep filling them earlier and earlier? Why did he try to convince R and her partner that this wasn't really a problem? Maybe he's an addict himself - but maybe not. Maybe he's just a decent doc trying to relieve suffering. R's partner was in pain; she created symptoms to get more drugs and he believed her. One of the primary tenets of my life is that I believe my patients. If they say they're in pain, then they're in pain. I'm uncomfortable with the conversations I hear my colleagues have about "real pain" as they struggle to decide whether or not to prescribe narcotics. My mantra is "It's all real pain, but it's not always appropriate to treat with narcotics".

So who decides when it's appropriate? I do. And how do I know I'm not doing precisely what R's ex-doctor did? I prescribe narcotics for chronic pain that's not caused by cancer, or other terminal diseases. Many primary care docs won't do that. What makes me think I'm better than they are? Well, I take a careful history for previous problems with drugs and alcohol, as well as a family history; I don't prescribe to anyone unless I have a continuity relationship; I don't replace lost prescriptions or provide early refills. Is that enough?

The literature tells us that we are more likely to suspect addiction in people who don't look like us. Most docs are white. People of color are far more likely to get inadequate pain treatment in emergency rooms than white people. Textbooks tell us that sickle-cell anemia is associated with addiction, when there's no evidence to support that claim except that the patients with sickle-cell are black. Physicians will tell you that someone doesn't "look like" an addict, but what that often means is that the patient is someone we can identify with - the same age, the same race, similar educational background.

So here's another emotion creeping in around my edges: fear. Am I letting something slide by because I don't want to see it? Is one of my patients getting scrips from multiple docs, or lying to me about her symptoms, or selling her pills on the street? The faces I see when I worry about this are all young, most of them younger than I am, and most struggling financially so that they are unable to pursue some of the other avenues of treatment I recommend - or maybe that's a ruse. Those are the patients who look least like me, so they're the ones I think of most quickly as addicts. The woman just my age who's had three back surgeries; the man in his 60s who couldn't sleep through the night because of his hip pain; the retired nursing supervisor who can do her housework again because she takes a long-acting narcotic - those aren't the faces I see in my fear.

So now what? I believe in what I do, and it's entirely possible that R's doctor feels precisely as I do. I hope that if one of my patients comes in and tells me she thinks she's addicted, and shows me the records of her overuse, that I would send her to detox rather than patting her on the head. No, I don't just hope that, I know that to be true. But I will still look a bit more carefully at those refill requests next week. And I'll try to remember that the narcotics are the controlled substance, and not my empathy for my colleagues.

A Good Cause ~ by Jay

For those of you who don't read Feministe, I'm reposting this here:

Consider donating some money to Pretty Bird Woman House

Jackie Brown Otter created The Pretty Bird Woman House after the brutal rape and murder of her sister, whose Lakota name means Pretty Bird Woman.

PBWH provides emergency shelter, advocacy support, and educational programs for women on the Standing Rock reservation who have been victims of domestic violence or sexual assault. It opened on January 5, 2005.

Recently, the Pretty Bird Woman House was forced to move out of its original location after a number of break-ins through the exterior walls left it in such bad condition that the women could not safely remain there. The staff are now sending women to 2 other shelters off the reservation, which reduces their ability to serve Standing Rock’s women and strains the resources of the other shelters.

PBWH really needs a permanent house for the shelter. There
happens to be a house for sale near a police station. The purpose of this fund drive is to raise enough money to buy it or another suitable one in a safe location. Won’t you help?

They’ve put a bid on the house, but need money for the deposit and for the security systems they need to help prevent the same thing happening again.

You can pay by credit card at the link above, or send a check to the following address:

Pretty Bird Woman House
P.O. Box 596
McLaughlin, SD 57642

Approaching family ~ Jay

Every year around Chanukah, we read the story of Joseph and his brothers. I don't have any idea what this conjunction meant in ancient times, when the Torah was first broken into portions, but these days we read this powerful, complex story when most of us are about to encounter our own families, often after a prolonged separation. Even though we don't celebrate Christmas, Sam and I will spend the next few weekends with either his family or mine, and I can't read the story of Joseph's reconciliation without thinking about my own life.

Today’s parshah begins “Judah now approached”. In the first verses of vayigash (approach), we hear the end of one of the most dramatic stories in the Torah. This narrative arc, starting when Joseph’s brothers sell him into slavery, has spanned four weekly portions. We have been following Jacob’s family for a month, during which they have fought amongst themselves, lied to their father about Joseph’s death, experienced and avenged the rape of Dinah, taken time out for Judah to dally with his daughter-in-law, Tamar, and finally the 11 remaining brothers come to Egypt to petition the prime minister for food, only to be tricked and framed and asked to surrender Benjamin to imprisonment. And now the denouement: the prime minister is really their lost brother, Joseph.

Judah set this in motion several chapters ago by suggesting that they sell Joseph into slavery, and now he brings the conclusion around by approaching the throne of the brother he once despised. Judah, for whom the Jews are named; Judah, who fathers the line that will include King David; Judah, who sold his brother for money, expelled Tamar from his household against Masoretic law and then bedded Tamar when he thought she was a prostitute – Judah finally does the right thing. In this story I see hope for change and transformation. I see a man who is able to grow up and grow past the wounds of his childhood. Judah and the other sons of Leah were understandably hurt by their father’s preference for Joseph and Benjamin. In the opening verses of vayigash, as he approaches to beg for Benjamin’s freedom, Judah shows more compassion for his father than his father has ever shown for him. He puts aside his own justifiable rage and jealousy and instead places his father’s peace of mind over his own life. The text doesn’t tell us when this change happened, when Judah began to see past his own feelings and act on his empathy for others.

Perhaps Judah’s own losses, the sudden and inexplicable deaths of Er and Onan, helped him understand his father’s pain. Perhaps he is defending his own honor, for he promised Jacob that Benjamin would return. Perhaps he has truly repented and regrets his role in Joseph’s betrayal. The Torah does not tell us, but leaves us to fill in from our own experiences. I am comforted by this ancient story of redemption and reconnection, by the thought that if we approach, we can heal even the deepest of breaches. I hope Judah offers us a model for change.

It is clear in the story that Judah’s personal transformation isn’t enough to heal the division with Joseph. Judah approaches, and then Joseph says “Come, draw near to me!” As soon as he reveals his identity, he expresses forgiveness: “I am Joseph your brother whom you sold into Egypt. And now, do not be pained and do not be incensed with yourselves that you sold me down here.” Judah approaches; Joseph reciprocates. Whether or not we agree with Joseph that it was God who sent him into Egypt, we can appreciate his openness to reconciliation. Judah’s transformation was necessary but not sufficient; Joseph had to change, too.

I've never sold my brother into slavery, but I can see myself in this story. My brother, four years younger than I am, is brilliant, good-looking and funny, and he has all my mother's anxiety with very little of my father's optimism. I'm in the family business - everyone in my family, it seemed, was a doctor. My brother did something that seems much harder to me - he found his own path into a different professional world, and he's been very successful. I look at him and feel unaccomplished. I think for years he looked at me - apparently happily married and moving ahead in a career that the family openly approved of - and felt as if he was struggling by comparison. We can't talk about this, or at least we don't talk about it. I feel as if he holds me at a distance. He keeps a wall around his emotions, at least a barrier between the two of us, and even when our father died he didn't let me through.

We're not in conflict; we don't argue, and when there's a family crisis we can manage it together. We'll never come to blows about money or stuff; we'll never stop speaking to each other in anger. But we don't laugh together, or play together, or have real conversations. We each make our living communicating, albeit in different ways and in different media, but we can't have a real conversation.

Like Joseph and his brothers, we are separated in part because of the way our parents treated us. There was no overt favoritism, but my mother's own issues about her relationship with my brother make it very hard for me to feel comfortable around him. It took me a long time to realize that she talks about him so much because she, too, worries about staying connected to him, and because she so much wants us to be close to each other. It's not my brother's fault that my mother won't tell him what time he needs to be at her house for dinner, even if that means I have to drive two hours and wait to eat, or wait with a hungry child. But for years I thought he was being inconsiderate. Now I talk to him directly and we agree on a time, and he's very accommodating - and my mother thinks I'm being much too demanding.

When I read today's parshah, I felt as if I were standing at the foot of a throne, looking up at my own brother - knowing he's my brother, and wishing to approach. But it wasn't enough for Judah to approach Joseph; Joseph had to reciprocate. I don't know what my brother wishes for our relationship. He may be perfectly happy with it the way it is. For the moment, I will stand and wait for some sign that he will meet me halfway.

A Letter to 13-Year-Old Me ~by MPJ

This is cross posted from my other blog.

A few months back, Guilty Secret wrote a letter to her past self. I thought this was a great idea and always meant to steal it from her. Then I saw that R.E.H. at Ramblings of a Madman was participating in a meme where you write a letter to your 13-year-old self. So, I thought, "Damn, the 13-year old me wants to be friends with the 13-year-old Guilty and have my heart broken by the 13-year-old R.E.H. I have to get in on this now." So, in spite of the fact that I have other letters to write, I decided to skip ahead to this one. And I have to tell you all, this time travel thing is cool. Not only did I send a letter 25 years into the past, I somehow managed to warp time and tag Jay and Mama before I had even started writing this myself. Fortunately, I did not have sex with anyone, so I'm pretty sure I'm not my own grandmother...

Dear Me,

I know you've been dreaming about this day and waiting for me to make it back to visit, because you're pretty sure that if you live all the way to the year 2000, there will be time machines. Well, I've made it to 2007, and I'm sorry I can't yet come back and pay a visit personally. I so want to (you know I do, because you're me), but this letter will have to do for now.

I know you want me to tell you what's going to happen. You want to know if you're a rich and famous writer. You want to know if you're married, and you want to know who you married. And you figure if you are a rich and famous married writer then you're happy, and if you're not, then I'm going to have to tell you where I misstepped so you can get us there to Happyland.

Now, I know you've been watching The Twilight Zone obsessively. And I know that in one of your favorite episodes there is a young woman about to get married. She's torn between the stable man she has promised to marry and the unpredictable man she passionately loves. And on her wedding day she's chased by a crazed woman on horseback. That crazed woman turns out to be her future self, trying to warn her against the wrong choice, but in her fear, she never stops to listen.

That image of a woman on horseback, chasing herself, trying to warn herself against taking the wrong path, is going to continue to haunt you. I know you want me to tell you the right choices to make. You don't want to make mistakes, and knowing me, you know I've kept track of every misstep. You want me to warn you where I went wrong, so that together, we can do things perfectly and end up right where we want to be. I don't think you're ready yet to hear that there are no wrong choices, that the episode is based on a false premise, that her other path would have been equally bad in a different way had she chosen differently. So, I'll explain it in a way I think you can understand.

It's like that Ray Bradbury story where the guy goes back in time to hunt a dinosaur, and he has to be very careful to stay on a particular path and only to shoot the dinosaur that was going to die anyway. But he gets scared and sickened and runs off the path, where he steps on a butterfly, and stepping on that one butterfly changes the course of history. (By the way, I'm pretty sure that's how we ended up with the president we have now, and when I find the person who stepped on that butterfly, I am totally going to kick his ass. I know that's meaningless to you now, because you don't care about politics, but next year, when you are 14 and in high school, you are going to have this amazing teacher who is going to change all that. And when you get to be me, you are going to want to join in the ass whooping.)

I can't tell you where you went wrong, because even the things that didn't go the way you planned, even the times where you got hurt, even the moments where you really embarrassed yourself (and oh, is a big one coming) all happened the way they were supposed to happen. Change any of those moments, avoid any of that pain, and you lose what turns you into me. Step off the path, however hard the journey is and however sick it makes you, and you risk crushing that butterfly on which our future is built. I know you'll agonize over it and double think everything, because, let's face it, that's what you and I do. But if you just do things the way you're going to do things, without any interference from me, we'll end up right here where we're supposed to be. No matter what you do, you can't make any real mistakes. Trust me.

I also know that what you're looking for in life is someone to understand you: that best friend, that lover, that partner. The other reason you desperately want to meet me is because you think that I will understand; I have to understand, because I've been there. I don't want to crush any butterflies, but I will tell you this: that quest for understanding, has led me back to you. You have to figure out for yourself where to look, but I will tell you to keep looking. And I don't think time will get too out of joint if I tell you that 13 (and ok, sorry to say it, a little bit of 14) is as bad as it gets. You'll never be this lonely again in all your life. Even when life hurls its worst at you (and it's going to hurl some painful stuff), you are going to look at it and say, "Well, at least it's not as bad as junior high."

Now I know pretty soon you are going to be exceptionally pissed that I didn't give you any details about the future, because on Friday, May 13, 1983 you are going to fall in love, true love, real love, for the first time. And you are going to want all the answers about the right way to handle those situations and those emotions. Girl, I said it already, just do what you are going to do. Everything is going to turn out for the best and you're always going to be with me, even if I can't always be with you.

I love you,
Me

A letter to my 13-year-old self ~ by Jay

Pretty cool, isn't it? New high school, open campus, hanging out in the Commons during free period. No substitute teachers. Dad is even letting you wear jeans to school, finally, although you still don't know what to wear with them and you still feel fat and awkward. You're not fat, you know. It would be great if you could relax and enjoy walking or biking or even playing field hockey, anything so you get more comfortable with your own body and start to see yourself as strong rather than ugly. And just ignore your mother and start shaving your legs if you want.

You will get your period someday. Really. You won't be The Last Girl on Earth to menstruate.

And you will have a social life someday, although not this year. Along with that will come lots of feelings. Right now everything seems pretty placid; nothing's all that bad or all that good. It feels like real life, or at least the vision of real life Mom and Dad try to project - always calm, always pleasant, never angry or upset or passionate about anything. Rational.

Rational's not all it's cracked up to be, you know. If I could tell you one thing from my perch here in the future, it would be "trust your gut". You are a creature of emotion, and that's OK. All that stuff you're afraid to feel, all those conflicts you hope will go away when you get older - having access to that is a gift. If you think someone is angry and they say they're not, you're probably right. Trust yourself - identifying the emotions in the room is a valuable ability, and you're good at it.

You have lots of other talents. You think fast on your feet, and you're articulate and smart and funny. Even if you can't sing like Lucy Ford, you are a good actress, and it's OK to love the spotlight - it's not a character flaw. Appreciate yourself. You're pretty amazing.

I know it seems impossible now, but in a couple of years you'll have a boyfriend and you'll be one of two sophomore girls to go to the first senior prom the school ever has. That guy is great - don't worry about him. The next one, on the other hand, you could do without; don't believe what he wants you to think about yourself.

So now I'm torn. I'd like to tell you to take more chances, be braver, risk a little failure here and there, but I don't want you to change too much of what you do, because by making those safe choices and doing what's expected of you, you end up with exactly what you want. It's in a different wrapper than you expect, but it's a life rich with meaningful work, and friends and love and family. But it would be OK to relax and enjoy it a little more while you're on the way. What's coming is going to be good.

This is what being in community means ~ by Jay

It's a snow day here (or, more accurately, a sleet day) and I just slogged home from the office in time for the day care to call and say they're closing, so Sam is retrieving our daughter. Then my friend Shira called from her office at a local college to say she was stuck waiting for a student and her 3 year-old is also at the day care, so I called Sam on his cell and he will retrieve both children and bring them here.

I love this. I love that my daughter will play with a three-year-old, and that she has friends from synagogue as well as school and tap class. Shira has done the same for us when I've been stuck at work, and when she finishes with her student she'll come here and we'll have a cup of tea. The day is warmer and cozier just knowing that we are part of this web of people who take care of each other.

Check Out our New Look! ~MPJ

Jay and I got tired of looking at that same old tired green Blogger template, so we decided to get fancy and change things up a bit. You will notice that we now have a fabulous new banner. That's Jay with the can in her hand by the way. She's calling me on that phone saying, "I got us this nice banner than says Two Women Blogging. You're the other woman. Why don't you ever post to this blog?!" Notice that I am not picking up. "Um, I don't know, Jay. Message? What message?"

We are still futzing with the layout and colors, but I did want to put in a plug for our very talented banner designer: Strumpfkunst! So, go on over, visit her Etsy shop and order one up for your own site. Starting at $14, you can't afford not to. And as if that's not enough, she makes adorable sock monkeys and other stuffed creatures. (Enter her Etsy shop and you may never want to leave.)

A big thanks to Strumpfkunst for helping us spruce up the blog! We love it!

Things I Could Not Do Without ~by MPJ

Oxygen

My husband's acceptance and understanding

My children's smiles

The sound and smell of the ocean

Yoga

Writing

Rest

Time alone

Good vegetarian food

Ice Cream and cheese (yes, they are a separate subset of good food and sorry, lacto-ovo vegetarianism is as far as I go)

Good books

Good friends

Things I Could Do Without ~by MPJ

Unsolicited advice

Cold weather

Unsolicited advice

Leaks in the kids' overnight pullups

Unsolicited advice

Crazy ass political and/or religious e-mail rants forwarded by nutty ultra-conservative relatives

Um, did I say unsolicited advice already?

Meat

Let's see, um... Unsolicited advice.

Socks

Things I could not do without ~ by Jay

Uninterrupted sleep

The feel of Sam's hands on my skin

Words on paper (books, magazines, the back of the cereal box)

My daughter's laugh

The internet and Email

Singing

Hot drinks on a cold day

Sunlight

Clean socks

Conversations with friends

Ritual

Things I could do without ~ by Jay

Slushy puddles

Scented candles burning in public spaces

Potholes

People who deliberately block one lane of a two-lane highway miles before a merge

Billboards that say I should repent

Bumper stickers that say "Aren't you glad your mother chose life?"

WalMart

Car alarms

and one more: typos that I post in public places (fixed now)

Though I walk through a valley of deepest darkness ~ by Jay

Though I walk through a valley of deepest darkness 23rd Psalm, JPS translation

Grief is a path you walk through a territory that is uniquely yours. There is no map, and you can't know how long the journey will take. It helps to have a companion, a hand to hold, a safe place to rest when you are tired, but no one can walk the path for you. I carry the memory of those journeys with me, and each time I have traveled a path of grief, some of it feels familiar. It's as if I'm walking through the same forest on a different trail.

I shudder when I hear someone say "I don't know why, but I can't get over it". We don't get over losses. The death of a loved one, the illness of a child, the childbirth gone horribly wrong, the betrayal of our trust; these are not things we get over. What an odd idea, as if trauma were a river we could walk over or a road we could cross. And as if we would be the same on the other side.

When my father died, someone said "it will be a while before you are back to normal". I knew that "normal" didn't exist anymore. Whatever happened next would be something different. As I emerged from that journey, I entered the life I'm living now; it's been over a year, and that grief no longer defines my days. It's not the first thing I think of in the morning. I've arrived back in my world, but it is a different world, and this is a different kind of normal.

One of the signal commands of our tradition is to remember those who went before us in their struggles and defeats and loves and triumphs and perfidy and betrayal and messy fullness of being. I would not wish to live a life without grief. Grief makes us human. Loss deepens and strengthens our bonds with those who remain, and with others who grieve. One of the privileges my work affords me is to be present for the grief of others, as many were present for me.

I don't believe that it is the hand of God that saves us from the deepest darkness. It is the companionship of those who are witnesses, who walk some measure of the path with us, who don't ask us to get over, but stay with us while we get through. And get through we will.

Only goodness and steadfast love shall pursue me
all the days of my life.

Keeping it real ~ by Jay

I love taking blood pressures. It's part of the ritual of the visit. That's the first time I touch the patient, placing the cuff on her arm, and I notice her clothes and often comment on the color of her blouse or her earrings as I'm placing my stethoscope and taking the bulb in my hand. Something about that action makes me feel like I'm really a doctor, that I'm fully inhabiting my professional identity.

Tonight I had the same feeling about being a parent, even though my daughter wasn't with me at the time. I dropped the babysitter off at her house and stayed parked at the curb until the front door opened, and her mom waved at me. As I took my foot off the brake and drove away, I felt more like a real adult and a real parent than I ever have before. This is also a ritual: watching someone else's daughter to be sure she was safe, waiting for the wave of acknowledgment, driving off into the night on my way back to my own front door.

Out there on our own ~ by Jay

cross-posted from Feministe, where I'm guest-blogging again this weekend
I keep hearing about “helicopter parents” - you know, the ones who hover over their kids all the time. Helicopter parents don’t let their kids make independent decisions. They shelter their kids from any responsibility; they go from orchestrating preschool playdates to directing college applications without allowing the kid any increase in independence. My friends who teach in local colleges complain about the phone calls from parents asking for extensions or arguing about grades or protesting the patently unfair treatment that must have led to little Alistair’s recent C-. There’s a general chorus of disapproval at the way today’s kids are coddled.

The common wisdom says that helicopter parents are afraid to grow up, or they’re afraid to set limits on their kids. They want to be pals with their children and won’t accept adult responsibility. That’s not what I hear in these stories. So many of these anecdotes carry with them a sense of deep anxiety. I don’t see parents worried that their kids won’t like them; I see parents who are terrified that their kids won’t be successful - and I don’t mean successful like wealthy and famous, I mean successful like having a home and enough food and decent medical care. Maybe even the pipe dream of a secure retirement.

Many of us who are now parents have watched the American economy change radically over our lifetimes. We’ve seen interest rates go up and down like unleashed balloons. We don’t remember a time when a high-school diploma was enough to earn a living. We know lots of people who’ve been laid off, or downsized into consultant work without benefits, but not many who’ve worked for the same employer for more than five years. We’ve been told that Social Security won’t survive our retirements, and we’ve seen our real wages and purchasing power fall while the economy expands and CEO salaries rival those of baseball players.

At the same time, the political climate has shifted so far to the right that we can’t even talk about government funding for health care and child care - topics that were part of the national conversation when I first voted for president in 1980. It’s become an article of faith that taxes are always bad, that we can’t trust the government with our money, that we should be taking care of ourselves. We think of the 1950s as the era of the nuclear family, but in the 1950s the family had help from a much better-funded school system, and their kids played on fields and in community centers built by taxes that have since been abolished. Government money paid for jobs in universities and hospitals and defense plants and the industries that supported them.

I’m not much on nostalgia for the good ol’ days. Seems to me that in the good ol’ days I wouldn’t have been allowed to go to medical school, and my white friend MPJ wouldn’t have been allowed to marry her African-American husband, and their kids would have been legally forbidden to attend school with mine. My daughter’s Dominican classmates would have been stuck in a classroom for the “uneducable” because they didn’t speak English. As Billy Joel says, the good old days weren’t all that good. But today could be a whole lot better if we could go it together instead of alone. We need to rewrite the myth of rugged individualism. It’s enough already with the cowboys riding alone on the prairie; let’s choose another image out of American iconography. How about a barn-raising, or a quilting bee, or a gang of field workers bringing in the crops? I’ll take almost anything that helps us face the future together instead of feeling like we’re sending our kids out on their own into a world that offers them no support.

Not so funny ~by Jay

I've changed the advice I give on avoiding cold and flu infections. I used to say "wash your hands like a crazy person". You know, like someone with OCD. Ha, ha, ha. I was a laugh riot.

I stopped saying that about four years ago when someone I knew socially came to see me as a patient and I realized that she'd been in treatment for OCD for years. Had, in fact, lost her chance at an advanced degree and had to make a major career change because of her OCD. Suddenly my little joke didn't seem so funny. Now I tell people to wash their hands every time they think of it - and then again. Not so funny, but at least I don't think I'm inadvertently insulting anyone.

I thought of this today when I heard someone say "I told my kids if they get lice I'll give them up for adoption". Ha, ha, ha. Laugh riot. Except that my kid was given up for adoption. Oh, we call it "making an adoption plan" or "choosing adoption" these days, but if she heard the comment she'd know it applied to her. And I don't think she'd get the joke.

It's not my job to educate the general public about adoption, and I didn't say anything in response to the lice joke; the joker wasn't anyone I knew and it wasn't worth engaging. But I considered it, just for a moment, speaking out of the pain I felt at that throwaway comment. It made me glad I stopped using my laugh-out-loud line about hand-washing, and sorry I'd ever said it in the first place.

Domestic violence follow-up ~ by Jay

I saw the family I referred to children and youth today for the first time since that difficult week. What a relief to see the child for a cold. Well, not a relief to her, I'm sure - she was hoarse and coughing and sneezing - but a normal teenage-kid doctor visit was sure a relief to me. And, better yet, both mom and kid have continued to follow with the caseworker, the incidents have stopped at least for the moment and dad has agreed to enter family therapy.

I also saw Bernadette last week. Much to my surprise, her husband is back living in the house, they've re-entered marriage counseling, and he has agreed to make major changes in the way they manage their finances. She says "I'm not sure where this is going, but I am really clear that it's not going back the way it was, and he knows that".

So...cautiously optimistic about the outcome for both these families, against all the odds.

Good news/bad news ~ by Jay

Good news: I found the box where I stored the gloves and scarves from last winter.

Bad news: Said box contains only one glove belonging to me.

And it's snowing again.

UPDATE: The candles are almost burnt out and we've opened the first night's worth of presents, and Sam bought me a lovely, cozy pair of gloves with the softest matching scarf...mmm. And a gift certificate for two one-hour massages. No more cold, naked hand.

Back, sort of ~ by Jay

I've finished my first weekend guest-blogging at Feministe but now I have to go wrap Chanukah presents. This year we decided to expand the present giving somewhat, which seem absurd given the amount of stuff we just got rid of, but makes more sense when I explain that we didn't expand the presents-to-the-kid. Sam and I stopped giving each other Chanukah presents years ago, but that meant that we had a daughter who thought that Chanukah wasn't just all about presents, it was about presents just for HER. So this year we are giving each other presents and she is giving each of us presents.

I have to admit, I love presents. I love surprises. I even love latkes. So I'll be happily enjoying all of that over the next few days, and while I'm enjoying I'll be thinking of the patient I saw today and the issues of self-disclosure and adoption that the encounter raised for me, and I'll be back to write about that soon.

How did we end up with this much plastic? ~ by Jay

Cross-posted from Feministe:

We really don't buy a lot of toys for our daughter. We're quite restrained, especially in comparison to our cohort of older parents with enough disposable income to buy stuff from those fancy catalogs with wooden toys. You know, the wooden toys kids won't actually play with.

Our restraint has nothing on my mother's talent for excess, though. My mother waited a long time for a grandchild and she is determined to make up for the lost years. Plus there are two older cousins who send us what they're done with. Today we sorted through everything in my daughter's room (we didn't get to the closet) and we tossed an alarming amount of stuff into the garbage, which really bothers me, but there wasn't any choice. Our dish drainer is full of plastic dishes and pots and pans and plastic food, all of which will go with the play kitchen to its next home - the volume is staggering. There's a huge box of stuff for donation, and my daughter is happily going to sleep in a much tidier and pleasantly re-arranged room.

"It's my princess room!" she said. "Really? What makes it a princess room?" asked her generally anti-princess mommy. "It's all neat and clean. Princesses keep their rooms neat and clean. That's how you know they're princesses". We've already recognized that our daughter is a naturally neat person who landed in the home of two not-so-naturally neat parents; when she was four, she said "Mommy, why don't you make your bed every day like I do? It's so much better".

Things I didn't know when I became a parent: that I would end up owning barrels full of primary-colored plastic without ever buying any of it, and that it's possible for a child to be neater than the adults.

Tomorrow we tackle the toy room, this time without her assistance. Some tasks are too nasty for children.