The Love and Joy of All My Babies

I recently discovered a 1952 nonfiction film called All My Babies: A Midwife's Own Story. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, I really loved this film. It is a beautiful, touching, and instructive view into what it was like for black women in rural Georgia to birth their babies in the early 1950s. Less than an hour long, it was sponsored by the Georgia Department of Public Health and, according to the synopsis,

shows the preparation for and home delivery of healthy babies in both relatively good and bad rural conditions among black families at that time. The film is in addition both a deeply respectful portrait of "Miss Mary" (the featured midwife) who is revealed as an inspiring human being and a record of the actual living conditions of her patients.

There is so much love and so much joy in this film! And the one live birth that is captured on film – so peaceful, so beautiful. This mother is a woman of relatively good socio-economic status, as evidenced by her modern home, new shoes, and live-in housekeeper. She has successfully birthed two children already, and she is confident, calm, and quiet during her labor and delivery. Such an inspiring birth to watch. (I birthed my children in a hospital with a doctor, a choice I have no regrets about making. I chose to forego any pain medication and birth my babies as naturally as possible, and I can tell you I was not nearly so calm or quiet during either of my births as this mother was – not by a long shot.)

There is some fear and grief depicted. The other mother lives in very poor conditions and has little emotional or physical support. This is her second pregnancy – the first resulted in a stillbirth, and it is apparent that neither she nor her husband have recovered from the devastating loss. This mother has no confidence – she cannot get motivated to eat properly or start collecting the items she will need for the birth and the baby – she assumes this baby will also die. The baby is born premature, but healthy. It is a relief to see this mother four months postpardum looking healthy and stable, coming into her own as a mother. The baby is thriving and the father is so delighted with his young son he can hardly stand it. Although this father presents an unsympathetic character earlier in the film, with his anxiety and apparent lack of support for his wife, he expresses so much joy for his baby.

Which brings me to the portrayal of men in this film. Men are absent from much of the footage, but they are present in the background. There is the white male doctor at the clinic that the midwife takes her clients to see (this is 1952, let’s not forget). Then there are the fathers – waiting outside while their wives labor in their bedrooms, taking care of older children or chopping wood to keep the fire going so that water can be heated and instruments can be sanitized. In this world, although they certainly share in the joy of their new babies, the men have a supportive role. This is ultimately a film for and about women. Women birthing babies. Women attending to them. Strong women. Capable women. Loving women. Supportive women. Joyful women.

In a film like this, race must also be mentioned. This film specifically shows black midwives attending to the home births of black women. There is no indication that white women in the same area during the same time period gave birth in similar circumstances (at home, attended by a midwife). Also, the two white people in the film – the white male doctor and his white female assistant at the health department clinic – are people with obvious power and status. The white female assistant instructs the pregnant women on nutrition, and helps deliver and set up the incubator in the poor household in which the premature baby is born. It is clear that these two individuals have social status and power, and while relations between them and the midwives and families are polite and professional, there is a palpable dynamic between them.

You can watch All My Babies at SnagFilms.com. If you want to learn something about natural childbirth, learn about birthing practices in a particular time and place (this film was selected in 2002 by the Librarian of Congress as a "culturally historically and artistically significant work" for permanent preservation in the National Film Registry) or just see an inspiring, beautiful film celebrating love, joy, midwifery, and babies, I highly recommend you go check it out.

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This post was submitted as an entry in the Feminist Odyssey Blog Carnival. You can find links to the other entries here. Check it out!

Ina May Gaskin on Rising U.S. Maternal Mortality Rate and More

Democracy Now!'s Amy Goodman interviewed famous midwife Ina May Gaskin. They talk about the rising U.S. maternal mortality rate and midwifery in the U.S. in general. You can watch the interview here, where there are links to download the audio file and read the transcript as well.

A few choice quotes:

We don’t have feedback to our obstetricians, to our hospitals or maternity wards, to find out what we’re doing wrong and why the United States is one of four countries in the world where the maternal death rate is going up, not down.

and

Insurance has incredible power now, power that it didn’t have 70 years ago. It’s the reason that doctors aren’t learning to do breech deliveries anymore...it’s one of the huge reasons that we have very few midwives in this country. We need 120,000 more easily.

Sober Thoughts on Mothers Day

"We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies,
Our husbands shall not come to us reeking of carnage,
For caresses and applause.
Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn
All that we have been able to teach them of
charity, mercy and patience." ~ Julia Ward Howe

Mothers Day in this country was initially proposed as a day for peace activism. Julia Ward Howe wrote her famous Mothers Day proclamation in 1870, being distraught by the death and carnage of the Civil War. She called on mothers to come together and protest what she saw as the futility of their sons killing the sons of other mothers. She called for an international Mothers Day celebrating peace and motherhood. (source)

I want to relate a short story to you. During my first year of graduate school, I had a position teaching College Algebra in the Mathematics department. My first semester, one of my students was an Iraq War veteran. He had a knee injury necessitating his return to the U.S. for treatment. He was completing his service at the local Air Force base and taking classes as his schedule allowed. This war veteran was a kid. Seriously, I don't know if he was even 20 years old. Still baby faced, with clean cut dark blond/light brown hair and blue eyes. Seven years since I taught that class, this boy/man still haunts my memory.

This kid came back from war alive, a fact I'm sure his mother celebrates every day. I imagine my own dark blond/light brown haired and blue eyed son going off to learn to kill or be killed and my stomach absolutely turns.

It's been about 10 years since this country has been at war. How many mothers do not have reason to celebrate this Mothers Day? How many mothers will be spending the day mourning the loss of their children at the hands of war?

Ten years. Ten years!

My next door neighbor has 4 children, between the ages of 5 and 10. None of them have ever known a world without war. How long, I wonder, will it continue?

This year on Mothers Day, I remember the mothers of sons and daughters that are no longer here to celebrate them. May we all live to see peace in our lifetimes, so that our children and the children of all mothers may live to to celebrate all their days.

Remembering My Father - One Year Ago Today

One year ago today, my father died. It kind of hit me like a slap across the face today. For some reason, I have no idea why, I feel drawn to writing about the moment of his death. It sounds terribly morbid, I'm sure. I'm not sure if Mel from Stirrup Queen's recent post on birth and death has had me thinking back to those last 2 days, or of this is some kind of therapy that I need to get through. Nonetheless, please be forewarned that I am going to reveal details of my father's death here, so if such a topic would disturb you or cause upset, you may leave this site now.

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I remember quite clearly the phone call my mother received early in the morning from the hospital. She told me that we needed to go now, that this was it, time to say goodbye. I left SchmoopyBoy with the husband at my mother's house and accompanied her to his hospital room. I knew it was going to be bad, but I simply was not prepared for what I saw. There he laid, completely unconscious, on full life support - the very state he made us all promise he would never be in. It was too much to take, and I lost it. So much for being strong for my mother.

The unbelievable thing about it was the rapidness of his deterioration. When I had first arrived in town 2 days ago, his eyes were open. He held the pictures of him and SchmoopyBoy we had taken at our last visit. It was so like all the other times he had been in and out of the hospital. He did have a twitch in one of his arms, and it was verified that the twitch was being caused by seizures. The doctor wanted to put him on a seizure medication. I challenged it. The twitch was a bit of a annoyance, particularly when he was trying to eat, but ultimately harmless, and the doctor even admitted that it might go away on it's own - it would just take longer. I argued for a bit that he was already on so much medication, if this was unnecessary we shouldn't approve it. In other words, I was 'the difficult one' trying to stand in the way of my sick father getting some relief. I relented. Perhaps I should not have. The next day his condition was exponentially worse. He was unable to open his eyes or eat - both conscious and unconscious. The doctor said that the seizure medication was making him sleepy, that it was counter-productive for his condition to be in such a state - unable to eat, unable to cough up the fluid filling his lungs - and that he would discontinue the medication. But it was too late. The next morning we got the call.

I do not think I can fairly blame the seizure medication. I do not blame myself, the doctor, or my other family members for insisting that he get the medication. It is entirely possible that his condition would have deteriorated regardless of it. For crying out loud, he had originally gone into the hospital for a routine pace-maker installation. The vast, vast majority of patients walk out of the hospital after a day or two. Going into respiratory failure and congestive heart failure the night after the surgery put him off the bell curve altogether.

Back to the morning of March 28, 2010. I met my sister at the entrance and told her that this was it, this was goodbye. My mother sat down in a chair on the side of the room and started to cry. I sat beside her and put my arm around her. My sister stood next to my dad and held his hand. After a few moments she announced simply "He's gone". My mother and I jumped up, and sure enough, all the monitors showed flat lines. He had waited for us. He had waited until all three of us got a chance to arrive, so we could be together and say goodbye before he left us. It appeared peaceful. It appeared painless.

About a week after his death, my mother got what she believes was a sign from my father. A sign that he is ok and he wants her to be ok -that she should move on and make a happy life for herself without him. This was enormously comforting for her and she was, in fact, able to move on quite quickly. I, on the other hand, don't know that I've been able to stop grieving yet. Maybe by telling this story I can find some peace. Maybe by articulating "I should have fought harder against that fucking unnecessary seizure medication" I can alleviate some of the guilt that I was too willing to be seen as "not unreasonably difficult" and "not unreasonably obstructionist". I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit and I should have stood by my intuition, which I constantly find so difficult to trust, despite its consistent accuracy. Like I mentioned before, I can't fairly blame the medication for his death. I'm just saying that I am disappointed with myself and don't know if I will ever be able to overcome the "what-if" that plagues me if I think about it too long and too hard.

Well, there you have it. I've now spilled my guts and I don't feel any better for it. Snot from tears mixed with snot from this unrelenting bug I've had for the past week. I am, to use 2 1/2 year old lingo, a snot monster. I will say I am grateful that I was able to be there for his final days, and his final moments. I'm glad I arrived in time to see him coherent, that he was able to see pictures of his grandson that he loved so much before his descent (no toddlers were allowed in his section of the hospital, so unfortunately he couldn't see SchmoopyBoy in person). I do believe he was there, waiting for us to be together before he left that morning. It comforts me that he knew the people who loved him most were there with him, that he knew he was loved and would be missed.

Dad, if you are still watching and listening, I love you. I miss you. Goodbye.

PILAM 2010: Why I write about miscarriage

Why the heck do I write so much about pregnancy loss? I mean, gosh, I have a gorgeous child already, why don’t I quit being such a downer and stick to poo-poo jokes and cute pictures?

Well, for starters and the most obvious reason – writing is therapeutic. My own losses are still fresh enough (can you believe my hCG levels are STILL not back to normal yet?!) that I do get relief from spilling my guts from time to time.

But it isn’t just about me and my own healing. I am very fortunate (or unfortunate as the case may be) to have the support of family and friends who have also experienced miscarriage and can relate to my experience. I am additionally fortunate to have a loving and supportive partner who listens to me when I have a particularly bad day. But not all of us are so privileged.

There are a lot of us. I have found statistics that put the rate of miscarriage in the U.S. at anywhere from 25% to 33%. That’s a lot of women losing babies. And pregnancy loss does not discriminate. It affects women who are white and black, rich and poor, highly educated and illiterate. It can affect a childless woman during her first pregnancy and a woman with four children during her fifth pregnancy. (I do not dispute any evidence that pregnancy outcomes are worse for disadvantaged women, my point is that any woman of any race from any walk of life can lose a pregnancy without notice or obvious reason.)

It happens so very frequently and yet is something that, generally speaking, is not openly talked about much. We are not supposed to talk about it. As soon as the bleeding stops or the D&C is done we are expected to forget it ever happened and move on with our lives as though it were just another period or a procedure not much unlike the removal of a wart on the hand.

This is particularly true for women who have living children. Our grief is invalidated. Our cries silenced because “What are you complaining about? You have children. Why don’t you just get over it and focus on that?”

The loss is real. The grief is real. It is lasting. And I will not be silent.

I write to give voice to those who cannot speak without their feelings being invalidated. I write for those who cannot or will not, for whatever reason, write for themselves. I am not so pretentious as to claim to know what all women feel, for we all experience loss differently and process it uniquely in our own due time, but I write to pay homage to all my sisters in pregnancy loss and to honor and validate their experiences.

For if I speak, if I am heard, if I create awareness that this is indeed real, then perhaps any woman who suffers silent grief, whether as a fresh all-consuming wound or as an ever-present ghost in the furthermost crevice of her mind, might raise her voice and say out loud:

I feel sad. I feel lost. I feel hopeless. I feel scared.

My baby would have born this month. My baby would have turned four this month. My baby would have turned 40 this month... And I grieve anew every year at this time.

I mourn the baby I never had the chance to hold and hug, laugh with and delight in. Yes I love the children I have… But I also love the children I didn’t have.

And the people she from whom she most needs support, rather than saying “Get over it” will respond with empathy and love and warmth.

Be aware. Starting this year, this October, this Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, try to be sensitive, and just be aware.

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This post is part of a series I am writing for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month that I am calling PILAM 2010. I will be writing about pregnancy loss periodically throughout the month of October. As posts are added to the series I will add the links on all applicable posts.

My intro to PILAM 2010 is October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month and includes resources in the Las Vegas area.

For reasons on why I am writing about pregnancy loss, see Why I write about miscarriage.

For ideas on ways to commemorate Pregnancy and Infant Loss Rememberance Day, see What Can You Do.

A poem commemorating Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day is posted for October 15, 2010

My post October 15th weekend wrap-up is at Picture Thursday.

A New Year

A late happy Rosh Hashanah to all my Jewish readers out there!

hmm, why do I hear crickets in the background....

Every year since I moved to this town I have gone somewhere different for High Holiday Services. This is a notoriously bad time of year to go shul-shopping, and yet it seems to be my pattern. On one hand, you have all the people like me who only go to services once a year because it would just feel too weird to not go. So the dynamic in the congregation can be not quite as representative as the dynamic the rest of the year. On the other hand, at the most holy time of year, I would expect (hope?) the Rabbi to be at the Top of his or her Game, so to speak. The most Inspiring, the most Passionate, the most Unifying,the most Uplifting.

For the past 6 years I have been disappointed. Which is probably not all that surprising considering my non-traditional experience of spirituality, my overall mistrust of organized religion, heck my "issues" with the very word "God".

Nonetheless each year at this time I find myself driven to continue my quest for The Perfect Spiritual Community, which I have to confess I don't really believe exists in this town. Well, let me rephrase myself. I believe there have got to be other like-minded people with whom I could share community, but I don't know where or how to find them.

This year, I have to say, I think I found something close. It's not a traditional congregation, per se - but a Fellowship - they don't have their own facility, it is run entirely by volunteers, and the Rabbi, from what little experience I have had with him to date, is GREAT! He's funny. He's a goofball. He is a passionate speaker, whose words pull and tug at the heartstrings. No papers to be read from, no standing on the pulpit. Just walking among the front of the room, pouring out bowls of passion to nourish a room full of hungry souls. And we devoured it hungrily and thankfully, with nodding heads and tear-filled eyes.

The prayer book was the traditional Reformed Jewish High Holiday prayerbook, which, eh, doesn't impress me so much. I got the impression from a few passing comments that the Rabbi is also not wholly impressed with it, but he did explain why he follows the tradition from those who have come before him, which I suppose I can appreciate.

There are a couple of Rosh Hashanah traditions that I never knew about growing up, which surprises me considering I grew up attending a Conservative Jewish Synagogue regularly and attended 5 years of Hebrew School 3 days a week. One of these traditions is Tashlich - the symbolic casting off of all the 'crap' accumulated over the past year into a body of water. I like the way Mel from Stirrup Queens described it this year.

And then we all sat down and thought about our year and what we didn’t want to bring with us into this next year. We squeezed those thoughts into rocks and threw the rocks towards the middle of the river.

I've got a lot that I don't want to bring with me into this new year. Wires and beeping machines in a hospital room, and a not-unconscious hand that didn't want to let go. An ultrasound probe in my vagina and a silent, unmoving blob. Loss. Death. Grief. Although Rosh Hashanah has passed, I am tempted to drag the J-Man and SchmoopyBaby out this coming Sunday to Lake Mead, or maybe to Red Rock if all the water isn't dry after a dismal monsoon season. Better late than never, right?

The other tradition that I can't believe I never heard of until I read about it on Stirrup Queens is eating a pomegranate. In all my 37 years, I had never heard of the concept of first fruits and eating a pomegranate at the end of the first day of Rosh Hashanah! What's up with that?! Hey Mom - why you holding out on me?! Mel described it like this back in 2007:

Tomorrow night, technically the second night of the holiday since it starts at sundown tonight, a pomegranate is served as the traditional first fruit. Some Jews believe that the pomegranate contains 613 seeds, the same number as commandments (or mitzvot) in the Torah. As much as we groove on those mitzvot as much as the next Jew, we eat pomegranates for a different reason. We’re trying to get pregnant.

You see, the pomegranate is a symbol of fertility, and eating pomegranates has been adopted by infertile women as a way to ensure good fertility in the coming year. Gee, this little tidbit of trivia couldn't have come at a better time!

Will eating a piece of fruit and throwing a rock into a river ensure that I achieve a healthy, successful pregnancy? My mathematician's brain tells me "No, don't be ridiculous". But will it give me hope? Will it give me healing? Will it give me comfort just knowing that I am doing something to pass the down the heritage of my now-dead father to my son?

Maybe.

And wouldn't it be worth it for that alone?

Here’s a clue…

because I am amazed at just how many people need to catch one.

It is not necessary to remind a woman how old she is the week after she birthed a dead baby embryo into a toilet. It is also not necessary to tell her that her eggs are probably no good because of her age.

First, the vast majority of women know how old they are.

Second, if the woman is over the age of 35, I can assure you the thought has already crossed her mind that her age might be related to the pregnancy loss. She doesn’t need you to remind her. Seriously. Most women over the age of 35 have been hearing the news for quite some time that age matters when it comes to fertility. We know this. You aren’t adding any new additional helpful information, and quite frankly, shoving it into a woman’s face when she’s obviously grieving is FUCKING INSENSITIVE.

You know what I need?

I need a way to cope that doesn’t involve poisoning my body with junk food (seriously not productive – this is the only body I’ve got, and I need it to be in good condition if I want it to be a place where a developing baby can thrive)

or lying in bed when I should be sleeping, imagining myself screaming angry obscenities at insensitive jackasses.

Let's take a step back, shall we?

It has come to my attention through a bit of feedback that my last post was a bit... ehem... Out there. Abrupt. Perhaps a bit harsh.

Perhaps that gives you a clue to my current state of mind, at least.

Anyway, by means of explanation, in case my last post wasn't altogetherly clear, I had another miscarriage. My second in a row. I'm reeling quite a bit because I really wasn't expecting it this time around.

Everything seemed to going well. I went in for two blood tests. HCg levels high and rising. Good. Progesterone levels high. Good. Ultrasound showing heartbeat. Good. Blip on the ultrasound screen measuring at 0.5 cm, timing it at 6 weeks 1 day. A little younger than I was expecting but my cycles are long and slightly irregular (31-35 days typically) so OK. The doctor says "See you in 4 weeks." OK, good.

I've been tired. I've been moody. I've been hungry. Yes, I know that sounds just like my normal everyday self, but I was even more tired and moody and hungry than my usual self. And I got nauseous. If I went for too long without eating a little bit, or if I ate too much at one time, I would get nauseous. And so I thought everything was progressing as it should be. I bought some new super cute newborn size cloth diapers that I found on sale. I got a stylish new nursing cover.

Then I go to the doctor. I should be at about 10 1/2 weeks by now. Ultrasound on my belly isn't showing anything. Hmm. Doctor wants to go transvaginal. Delightful. I get an ultrasound probe. There's a large-ish blob. Everything is still. No heartbeat. The blob looks empty, but no, there's something tiny in there. A tiny blip that is measuring at 6 weeks 5 days.

My body has been lying to me for almost 4 weeks. The deception! And you see, this is what makes me so mad. The deception, the betrayal of my body. Leading me on, leading me to think that I had a viable developing baby growing inside me. The nausea! What about the nausea! Do you know, even the day after I found out it was dead, my body had the audacity to make me nauseous again!

This is what is killing me. The fact that now I don't think I can trust my body again. If I get pregnant again, it doesn't matter what symptoms I have or how long I have them. I just won't know. I won't have any idea if everything is ok or if I'm carrying another dead baby for a month.

My doctor was leaving town the next day for a week long vacation. So, we decided to give it one more week to see if my body would get the memo and start taking care of things on its own. We tentatively scheduled a d&c for the week he returns. Well, apparently I have either obsessed over it enough or people have been sending enough kind and healing thoughts, because on Tuesday night things started happening. I do not believe a d&c will be necessary at this point. I'm a little relieved because I wasn't exactly looking forward to carrying around a dead baby for another week and undergoing a surgical procedure. On the other hand I kind of wish I could have gotten the d&c because then they could have sent the tissue to a lab for some analysis to see if they could find a cause.

Thank you to my friends and family that have sent kind thoughts and support. This is a bit of a difficult time. I know I will get through it just fine, and I still haven't given up hope of having another child. Once my body finishes doing its thing and I've healed physically, I will focus on healing emotionally and figure out what my next steps are going to be.

Much love to everyone, and sticky baby dust to everyone who needs it!!

What I haven't been writing about

but haven't been able to stop thinking about (except during the move this weekend - moving is a great distraction)...

The dead baby inside my uterus that won't leave.

Strike 2.

Happy Birthday Pa-Pa

Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you and miss you. SchmoopyBoy misses you too. He is always pointing to pictures of you and exclaiming "Pa-Pa!". He asks me to draw pictures of you with his crayons. I don't do you justice, so I'll include this picture.



Ti-Ti (Auntie, my sister) made Schmoopyboy this shirt with the picture from his last visit with Pa-Pa. I love the way his facial expression is all like "What do you mean I'm not going to see Pa-Pa again? He's right here on my shirt. Duh."

In Memorial - Sam "Schmulic" Goffman

This is my dad at my wedding, which is the last time I saw him healthy. The following week he got the biopsy that confirmed his cancer diagnosis.

This is my dad 6 years later with his grandson, the last time they got to visit with each other.

He went peacefully at the hospital on March 28, 2010, surrounded by his wife and two daughters. This is the eulogy I wrote and recited at his funeral. (Yes, I stole one paragraph from a previous blog post ;)
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Thank you to everyone for coming today. My dad would be so touched to see so many people here, coming to say goodbye. I think he would say, if he saw all of here, "You like me! You really like me!"

My father had many sides to his personality.

He was a trooper and a fighter. My father had a lot of health challenges these past years. Serious, life threatening health challenges. Nonetheless, he viewed most them as minor inconveniences. "I'm gonna outlive half these doctors!" was a common refrain around his house.

He really loved nature, and was the first environmentalist I ever knew. He taught me that the earth was special, that nature could be magical. He held a spiritual connection to nature, which he managed to pass on to me. When my dad picked up bonsai as a hobby, he told me about a Shinto belief that spirits would find beautiful places in nature to reside. It was his goal to create a bonsai tree so beautiful that a Shinto spirit would honor and bless him by making one of my fatherís trees its home. He seemed most at peace outside, planting and tending to flowers, concentrating on trimming his bonsai just right.

Sometimes, after spending a few hours outside working, he would then come inside with the family, and proceed to tell fart jokes... at the dinner table. My father was definitely not one to put on airs, even (or especially) when there was food involved. And he was certainly not one to give up an opportunity for a laugh.

He loved tradition and ritual. Fiercely proud of his own religious heritage, he still saw beauty in the rituals of other faiths. Growing up going to a Catholic school in Shanghai, he was told he would make a fabulous priest, and was a little miffed that they wouldn't let him be the only Jewish alter boy.

Most of all he loved family. His favorite times were when he had his family around him. He was so delighted to become a grandfather almost 2 years ago. He wrote me an email a few months after Justin was born that I kept. I would have liked to quote it exactly, but it is on my computer at home in Las Vegas, and I haven't seen it in a while. I do remember that he wrote "The fact that he is here means I was here, and that gives me such comfort and happiness. I sleep better at night just knowing he is alive." The last time I was out visiting about a month ago, I got a few cute pictures of my dad with his grandson. When I first got in to town on Friday and visited him at the hospital, he held those pictures and smiled. I think that is one of the last things he was conscious of remembering - his wife and daughters by his side, pictures of him and his grandson smiling.
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Good bye, Dad. I love you. You will live forever in my heart and mind's eye.

In case you are wondering

where I've been for the past week, I'm in Orange County, California planning my father's funeral. A proper post will be done when I'm back in town and have more than 5 minutes to myself.

Call to Action: Support the Ride to Conquer Cancer

Cancer has been a struggle in my family for at least three generations. My great-grandmother died of leukemia, my grandmother had a lump in her chest at the time she died in her 90s, and my father has been fighting non-Hodgkin's lymphoma for 6 years now. Given my family history, it is fairly clear to me that I have a genetic predisposition to cancer and will very likely have to deal with some form of cancer in my lifetime. Honestly, I don't know many people who haven't been touched by cancer some way, by either a friend or family member. One of my old friends from my San Francisco yuppy days now lives in Toronto, and is participating in a huge fundraising event called the Ride to Conquer Cancer. I copied and pasted his email below in hopes of helping him reach his fundraising goal. I have donated to this cause, and would love it if some of my readers would also support him!

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I am writing, because I'll be participating in a 2-day major cycling event called The Ride to Conquer Cancer benefiting The Princess Margaret, one of the top 5 cancer research hospitals in the world.

I'll be cycling over 200 kilometers that weekend, from Toronto to Niagara Falls, with thousands of other Riders. All the proceeds will go to The Princess Margaret to support cancer research, treatment, and services. The Princess Margaret is Canada's leading comprehensive institution devoted to cancer research and care, and the work they're doing is leading-edge.

I've agreed to raise at least $2,500, but I've set my personal goal to $3,000. So here's where you come in, because I need your help to put me over the top. Could you please consider making a donation? Use the link at the bottom of this email to go visit my webpage, and please take the time to support me. Please keep in mind the commitment I'm making to end this heartbreaking disease and the personal efforts I'll have to make to accomplish this.

This ride certainly has a personal note. Having felt the effects of cancer from my mother’s survival of breast cancer this past year, my friend Hector’s ordeals and ultimately losing my closest friend Rick to pancreatic cancer, I want to do what I can to help. Information also shows that over 45% of men and 40% of women will develop cancer in their lifetime. That's why I'm riding. To do something BIG about cancer. I hope that you'll share this incredible adventure with me by supporting me in my fundraising efforts.

Thank you in advance for your generosity!

Click here to donate!

Of Loss and Empathy

I went to a memorial service today. I went to the memorial service of a young woman I never met. I cried. I got up from my seat and hid myself around the corner in the hall because I didn’t want to be seen crying at the memorial service of a woman I didn’t know personally. Of course I was crying more out of empathy for the living, for the people who had prematurely lost someone so dear. But still I hid myself, feeling shame at crying because I, with my happy healthy child and my happy healthy partner, had no right to identify with people who just lost their loved one. Then feeling shame at my shame, shame at not being brave enough to be real and honest and just cry.

My co-worker lost her 26 year old daughter in a horse riding accident last week. Her child. Her only child. A young and healthy woman, newly engaged, optimistic for her future. I cannot begin to imagine what my co-worker has been going through this past week. So I cried for her.

After the memorial, we went to my co-workers home for a Celebration of Life. I was sitting there with a bunch of women from my office that I don’t see very often trying to make small talk and all I wanted to do was run home and hold my child. My only child.

I don’t know what I would do if I lost my child, whether it was from illness or accident, war or act of nature. He is my world. He is my life. He is my breath, my heartbeat, it is his lifeforce that keeps the blood circulating in my body. I have an extremely selfish confession. One of the reasons I want to have a second child is because I do not trust myself to cope in any manner, shape or form if I lost my only child. As a self preservation measure, I must have another child. Without my child’s lifeforce I would cease to exist.

The death of my co-worker’s daughter is not the only reason death has been on my mind lately. My father’s health is failing. Well, it’s been failing for a number of years, but now it seems to be really failing. There has been more than one occasion when I thought to myself at the end of a weekend visit, “This may be the last time I see my father alive” but then he would somehow manage to pull through it and recover.

I was searching for a poem by Dylan Thomas for another post I am working on (that also happens to feature my father prominently) and rediscovered this gem that I hadn’t read or thought of for years. It seems appropriate to print it now.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

If there’s one thing that can be said about my father, it’s that he is a fighter and a survivor. (Ok fine, that’s two things.) I want him to keep fighting. I want him to keep surviving. I want him to watch his grandchild grow up. I want my son to know him not for the things he bought and left for him, but for the person my father is. I want my son to know his grandfather’s story, as told to him directly with his own words. I want my son to know his grandfather’s love of family, tradition, and nature.

Everyone dies. I know this. I accept this. But I am not ready for it to happen to the people near me quite yet. (Is anyone ever ready for it?) I want my father to live and I want my son to live. I’m quite sure my co-worker wants her daughter to live too. So I cried. And when I got home this afternoon I held my child a little longer. I held him in my arms and in my heart, until he demanded to be released so he could return to the important toddler business of crayons and stickers.

Thank You and A Credo

First off, I'd like to thank all my friends and family for their kind words and support. I really am so touched, I even had a couple of out of town friend offer to brave traffic to Vegas on the upcoming 3 day holiday weekend just to come give me hugs and support. Thank you so much, I can't tell you how much I appreciate your warm thoughts.

That brings me to the next part of this post. I've been a bit hormonal lately. Which is to say, anytime someone (John) says something 'wrong' (every time he opens his mouth) I've been having a tendency to react somewhat strongly (like flying into a rage or breaking into tears). Although it's temping to say "I'm entitled to be a bit off this week" the fact of the matter is there is no excuse for not communicating in a more productive manner. So when I received the Gordon Institute's monthly newsletter and saw that it was the Credo For My Relationships with Others I thought it was so aptly timed, I would repeat it here. One note, when John and I took the Parent Effectiveness Training class, our instructor had been studying, teaching, and living the Gordon methods for 20 years. She is a real "Gordon purist" and had us alter the instructional materials a bit because "they redid the teaching materials to make them more up to date, but they changed things in such a way that Thomas Gordon would have never said!" So here is Gordon's Credo for My Relationships with Others, with her minor modifications. This credo is intended for everyone - partners, parents, children, friends, co-workers - if there is a relationship involved, this applies.


You and I are in a relationship which I value and want to keep. We are also two separate persons with our own individual values and needs.

So that we will better know and understand what each of us values and needs, let us always be open in our communication.

When you are experiencing a problem in your life, I will listen with genuine acceptance and understanding in order to help you find your own solutions rather than imposing mine. And I want you to be a listener for me when I need to find solutions to my problems.

At those times when your behavior interferes with what I must do to get my own needs met, I will tell you openly how your behavior affects me, trusting that you respect my needs and feelings enough to change the behavior that is unacceptable to me. Also, whenever some behavior of mine is unacceptable to you, you will tell me openly so I can change my behavior.

And when we experience conflicts in our relationship, let us agree to resolve each conflict without either of us resorting to the use of power to win at the expense of the other's losing. I respect your needs, but I also must respect my own. So let us always strive to search for a solution that will be acceptable to both of us. Your needs will be met, and so will mine—neither will lose.

In this way, you can continue to develop as a person through satisfying your needs, and so can I. Thus, ours can be a healthy relationship in which both of us can strive to become what we are capable of being. And we can continue to relate to each other with mutual respect, love and peace.

Dr. Thomas Gordon
©1978 Gordon Training International

My Pregnancy Loss Story

So I’m 7 weeks pregnant and I go to the bathroom at work for a routine pee, which, those of you who have been pregnant before will remember, is like every 10 minutes. As I was finishing I looked down. Upon seeing a toilet full of red I just about jumped out of my skin and my first thought was “Gross! Some woman at work had her period and forgot to flush! EEUUWW! Why do people have to be so nasty?! I can’t believe I missed that when I came in!” (yep, when in doubt, blame someone else)

And then the second thought was “Wait a minute, how could I have missed that when I came in. Maybe it wasn’t already there. Maybe it’s…. me?” It was me.

Allow me to start from the beginning. On Friday, January 22, I tested positive for pregnancy. On Monday, January 25, I tested positive a second time. This was somewhat, but not much, of a surprise. We hadn’t been actively trying to conceive the way we were when trying for SchmoopyBaby. We were merely being what I like to call “consciously careless”.

So why didn’t I tell anyone? I felt good. More than that, I felt great. I felt FANTASTIC! I felt too good to be true. Anyone that’s known me for more than a couple of years knows how much I hated being pregnant with SchmoopyBaby. So sick I want to die – that’s the feeling I associate with a healthy pregnancy. This feeling great business – I didn’t trust it. So I kind of had it in the forefront of my mind that this pregnancy could very well end in miscarriage. That is why, after over a week, we told no one but our immediate families.

After the bathroom incident I called my doctor’s office. They had me come in for a blood test and then told me I’d need to come back in 2 days for a follow up blood test. My first results were not good. My hormone levels were lower than they should be for a healthy, viable pregnancy. The writing was on the wall. Of course, I hadn’t stopped bleeding the entire time, so it was completely obvious to me what was happening.

I got official confirmation from my doctor’s office this morning. My hCG level on Monday was 238. On Wednesday it was 61. I called John to let him know the news, and then I broke down. I made a quick dash to the bathroom so no one at the office would see or hear me cry. I don’t know why that phone call affected me so strongly when I already knew I had miscarried. I already knew, I had already accepted, I had already made peace and moved on. There is something about hearing an official diagnosis that somehow makes it more, I don’t know, real, concrete, official.

So why am I sharing this bad news now? I’m sad. I both want to talk about it and don’t want to talk about it, which is why I’m sharing it in the form of a written story. I know it’s very impersonal, but calling everyone I’m close to and telling everyone and talking about it and rehashing it multiple times is not something I am particularly up for at the moment.

Even though I am sad now, I will be fine. Like I said, I was kind of psychologically preparing myself for this possibility, and have more or less made peace with it. Everything happens for a reason, this was just not the right time. SchmoopyBaby still needs me, and I’m not really ready to make him share me yet. He’s not 100% weaned and I was really hoping to have him weaned before I got pregnant again. This takes off the pressure of trying to wean him by some deadline before he’s really ready. I know several women who have tandem breastfed - more power to them, but I know my limits and that is one of them. I can nurse one child at a time, I don’t want to nurse two. Let’s face it, we weren’t really ready quite yet for #2.

Do you love the way I rationalize away any negative feelings? What? I’m a Virgo, that’s what we do.

So no more being careless for me. Next time (and yes, I’m reasonably sure there will be a next time) all necessary precautions will be taken until we are sure we are ready. I’ll eat better, take vitamins more regularly, all that good stuff that creates a healthy baby-making environment. Until then, I appreciate any happy thoughts you care to send my way.