a letter to a doctor

I’d like to say “You know who you are.” But you probably don’t. See, for you, it was another busy day in the Emergency Department. Just another string of unfortunate events. You cross your t’s and dot your i’s (or have your nurses do it for you) to the standard minimum, no doubt, for you have far too much paperwork to fill out per patient and far too little time for anything resembling bedside manner.

 

I’m not the only person who has suffered at the hands of a busy doctor. Just google Birth Trauma. Mothers and babies with lasting injuries (both physically and emotionally) abound.

 

In this case, just a few extra minutes of your time could have completely altered the future for me and my family. Those few minutes would have cost you just that – a few minutes. But what they could have saved for us. Months of pain, anguish and torment in a web of corruption systematically designed to utterly ruin people’s lives.

 

This is what happens when our current justice, health and other government systems join forces – for evil, masquerading very eagerly as “Good”.

 

 

Doctor,

 

I came to you broken. I put one step in front of the other, trembling and terrified. I pushed and brought myself before you. My face downcast in deep sorrow and my eyes swollen from severe sleep deprivation and the constant weeping of postpartum depression. My husband had brought our newborn to see you first. Her leg was fractured. It would later be just around 2-3 weeks until it was fully healed. Everyone played the sympathetic part. Reassuring me that accidents happen. But my sense of shame drove deeper than any sympathy could reach.

 

I cried out! Pleading for your help, “Postpartum depression” the stigma I trusted would not sting me this time, not in such a high-end facility as this main line hospital; but there you were. Frozen for not more than a millisecond, I doubt you devoted more than a split second to contemplating your next move. After all, weren’t you trained to handle such a crisis this way? Can I blame you for behaving like an obedient dog, hearing the bell ring and rushing to press the big red button to escape any potential punishment? You were busy. You had to COVER YOUR ASS AND MOVE ON. And it’s expected that I should understand.

 

 

But that split-second decision of yours almost cost me EVERYTHING. Your well-trained, thoughtless action threatened to destroy our family again and again as the minutes, hours, days, weeks and months followed that millisecond you gave me a thought. See, I’ve thought about you almost every day for over a year. I looked you up on Facebook. Wondering if you’ve got a family. Do you have children? But I couldn’t bear to actually check. I hope you never have to experience what your careless ass-covering forced me to experience. I hope any children in your life will never be touched by the horrific system you shoved us into to get us out of your way because you were too Busy that day to actually do your job, hold to your oath (to first do no harm) and be a doctor. You were too Busy playing the puppet.

white girl.

I remember when it sank into my heart and pulled it down to the ground.

I went to a Catholic elementary school, my parents pinched pennies to pay the high tuition that would teach me right from wrong and protect me from the vulgar, cruel world of public school.

I don’t remember what the teacher said, but I remember how it made me feel.

Guilty.

And I didn’t know how to fix it.

I couldn’t stop being white. So I couldn’t stop feeling guilty.

It hurt my heart when I saw “black people” and thought that they hated me for being white.

I cringed and tried to smile when we were at the mall food court, or at Wal-Mart.

I held the door, stepped aside to let them go first in line, grieved for the past I had absolutely nothing to do with.

I felt ashamed, embarrassed, afraid.

Mostly I was ignored or treated as an odd child for these actions.

My mother was confused about my behavior.

I couldn’t even bear to explain.

 

 

In middle school, I met my friend Maya* (name changed) – she was black – and carefree, hilarious and rambunctious. We were in the same nerdy circle of friends – we were in an after-school club called Battle of the Books and another called Kaleidoscope.

We were good friends throughout high school. Her mom wasn’t around much. Her dad lived far away. So we had a lot of fun at her house – mostly messing with expired food and random stuff we found in the garage.

Once, we had a soccer game near where her dad lived, so he came to watch. He was tall and dark with a booming baritone voice. My heart ached for Maya when I saw how much her dad loved her, but he was so far away. This was the only time I had ever met him.

We had a lot of goofy jokes, silly pranks, played games and sang songs. We both liked the Beastie Boys for no good reason. We both played Tomb Raider and ran track. (She was a LOT faster than me). We were good friends.

Maya was the only black person in our group of friends (that I can recall). I wonder now if she felt uncomfortable. My mom asked me a lot of questions about her and her family. I started to adopt a little bit of a “charitable” attitude toward her from my well-meaning mom. Thankfully, I don’t think it got to an offensive level.

 

In college, we went our separate ways. It just happened that way. Our conversations had never gotten very deep, and she went in a different direction after high school.

She went to college with a special program because of her skin color. I was just glad we were both able to go to college (we goofed around in class a lot!). But I didn’t realize there was so much controversy over this thing called “affirmative action”. Later, I would find myself questioning whether or not this was more helpful or harmful as a policy.

 

My freshman year, I had a roommate, Renee* (name also changed). She was white – as white as can be – with strawberry-blonde curls. She enjoyed black culture and listened to a lot of R+B and hip hop. Our college had a good population of black students. Since Renee was an extrovert, I tagged along with her and she let me. We joined the Angels of Harmony gospel choir. I absolutely loved it – so much fun. We both sang alto.

While the choir was over half black, the rest of us were different “colors” – white, Asian, Hispanic. (Sorry if I’m not being politically correct. I don’t know what the currently acceptable PC terms are for people’s skin colors). We all sang beautifully together. We’d all get in our gowns, load up a bus and go sing at churches nearby. Some were in Philly. (I went to college in the Philly suburbs). We’d have our concert, listen to the preacher, have “rapture practice” (good fun and keeps you awake during long sermons) and – my favorite part, haha – the soul food buffets. So, so, so good. Fried chicken, greens, mac and cheese, cheesy poppers, watermelon, cornbread… Sweet iced tea… We had a good time! It was only when we were referred to as a “salt and pepper” gospel choir that our skin color seemed to matter.

I loved my friends – all of my friends – in college. It was a Christian college and we were all there to serve Jesus and each other. We had good conversations. The “Multicultural Advisory Committee” (MAC) was another extracurricular group with an emphasis on black culture. I remember we (MAC) having an event with a speaker who was so genuine, so passionate and convicting – and it incited a conversation that I wish we were still having today. (In some ways, I suppose we are, or I wouldn’t even be writing this). The speaker was a black man who was chastising black culture for using the “n word”.

It’s important to note that it wasn’t all sunshine and roses. Racism was a real thing. Privilege and disadvantage were real things. (Obviously, they still are. Besides, I only graduated in 2007!) The majority of my black friends and acquaintances didn’t live in on-campus housing, but had to shuttle over from an off-campus dorm at another college, because they were attending via a special program (sound familiar?) called Urban Promise – which dropped their priority status in the housing lottery… So, as in so many other ways, the black students had extra hassle to get to their classes, get meals, stay on schedule, etc. If I forgot something in my dorm room, I could run back and get it. They didn’t have that luxury. If I needed to change clothes or take a shower, no problem. If I felt sick and needed a nap, I had my own bed in my own private room, on campus. Not all of my black friends had these same luxuries.

The student lounge (called the “Eagle’s Nest” our college mascot is an eagle) became the unofficial “black student lounge” – with nowhere else to go, many black students congregated there to nap, eat, study and, naturally, just hang out. They shared a common cultural history – being away from home 24/7 at 18 or 19 years old, who wouldn’t want the comfort of familiarity? I sometimes spent time in this lounge, but I also recognized that this was a de-facto “sacred space” – never officially designated as such, but nonetheless a haven for black students. I was not jealous, but I was respectful. Others were not always so – essentially, for lack of understanding.

 

I will write more soon, about my adulthood experience with racism and black culture, especially last summer when I was thrown into county prison and had two black cellmates.

 

 

 

 

son

You’ll be 4 on Monday.

Four years behind us, as we march and dance, giggle and weep, drift and wrestle through the days, weeks, months that will become 5.

Every emotion now blurring together and twisting my insides with terror and delight.

Tears, let them come. For we have fought and we still fight.

No one knows, not really. Daddy sees a lot, grandparents have heard, but no one else has really known what I know.

Because I have spent my days, weeks, months, years, hours, minutes and seconds gazing into your beautiful face and searching for a connection to your precious soul.

Puzzle pieces scattered at our feet.

three nopes.

So, there are three things that are so simple, yet so impactful, in relationships and society as a whole. By saying “nope” when life seems to offer these things as options, we can instantly make a big impact in our relationships and community.

Name-calling. Yeah, this is not okay. I’m not just talking about “Jerk!” or “You’re such a weakling”; those obviously harmful names are already considered unhelpful by most of society. But what about “lactivist”? “Perfectionist”? “Genius”, “racist”, “millennial”, “fundie”, “liberal”? These are considered acceptable terms to give and take however one chooses. The immediate and lasting effects of name calling deserve to be considered. I will go so far as to say name-calling is completely unnecessary. It is God who determines who someone is (and no one is a “what”). Let’s save our breath and watch the effect.

Complaining. Want to get nowhere fast? This is the way to go. Not only does it get you nowhere, it drags you and everyone around you down and keeps you down. Who would have thought that words could be so powerful? But we know they are. Now, for the examples. The obvious complaints of “My car sucks,” “I hate my job,” “I’ll never meet someone,” are very much Debbie Downer material. What about less obvious complaints? “Politics, right?” “Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning!” “I have nothing to wear.” The worst complaints come in as excuses, as we try to make ourselves feel better about something and end up making it much worse in the long run. “The traffic is unbelievable!” “You never listen.” “I just can’t win with you, can I?” These are damaging and unnecessary. Drop ’em. Drop ’em all! Just see what happens to your life.

Can’t. Oooh, you know about this one, don’t you? This one is a CURSE WORD. Yes, really. Every time you say “can’t”, you are speaking a curse over your or someone else’s life. Scripture says that “all things are possible” and that we can “do all things through Christ who strengthens” us. So “can’t” directly contradicts scripture. If you are not a Bible-believing Christian, the power of words still applies. Try to remove “can’t” from your vocabulary. It will have a fascinating effect!

 

 

 

we are not machines

I was just reading this article by a WAHD on working from home, and reading through the comments. I realized that there’s this fairly plain truth about us humans that we are not approaching, let alone embracing, and, even, at times, vehemently refusing to acknowledge, striving to prove the opposite in an exercise of futility.

We aren’t machines.

“Modern” medicine and post-industrial public education propaganda curriculum would convince us otherwise. Breaking us into specialized parts – “the brain” (sometimes with corresponding “nervous system”, sold separately), “the heart”, “the hormones”, “vital organs”, “lymph”, etc. etc. Force-feeding children that dirty dish-water soup of a theory commonly called “evolution” as if it were a hearty, nourishing meal of truth; for 8+ hours a day, at that.

It carries into the realm which that public education aims to propel us – the “workplace”. Where your value is absolutely equal to the sum of your parts. “What were you working on from 9:45 to 10:00 this morning? It’s not in your report?” This is where we start. After proving our fabricated mettle to merit us a degree – that express ticket to a few of the older, outdated stations along a one-way line – we begin at the end. “Entry-level” jobs are essentially designed to exterminate any lingering flame of passion and creativity that may remain after completing a sufficient number of one’s formative years consuming that curriculum that was designed so long ago to make us consumers rather than producers, janitors rather than creators.

[image credit]

Bonus points if you get the reference.

heart

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

broken

The world is broken. I am broken.

I literally cannot explain what is going on with my life right now. One reason is that I don’t understand everything that’s happening. Another reason is that I don’t know what the legal ramifications are. What I do know and can tell here is that I never expected my life to take this turn and I need to talk about it somehow.

Injustice and corruption, hatred and perversion, evil and ignorance are not sitting idly around, waiting for an opportunity to come along. They are aggressively attacking, strategically moving against any and all good in this world and in our hearts.

Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you. Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same kinds of suffering are being experienced by your brotherhood throughout the world. 1 Peter 5:6-9

one of those posts

After googling for a good sample and coming up empty handed, I’m going to (try to) jot down a “day in the life”/daily “schedule” (if only) of a 3 (as of two days ago! happy 3rd birthday to my little guy!) year old and an almost (tomorrow) 7 week old.

Here’s what I remember from today so far (it’s almost 4 pm already?)

somewhere around 5 am:

baby girl is crying for food. it’s been a little over 2 hours since I went to sleep (I’ll explain later). so, my husband gives her a bottle of the milk that I pumped a little over 2 hours ago. never having fully woken, I pass back out within milliseconds. (my husband is awesome, I know.)

8 am:

My alarm goes off because I need to pump (it’s been 5.5 hours and I aim to pump every 6 hours). I know it went off. However, somehow I did not awaken. Friday and Saturday nights, I got maybe a cumulative 7 hours of sleep (under 2 hours the first night!). So, last night (Sunday night) my body demanded more… and no alarm could overcome that demand.

8:15 am:

That extra 15 minutes you think is worthless? Well, it’s not! My husband wakes me up. He has to go pick up the dog (we boarded her while we were away for the weekend. Yes, all four of us – the 3-year old and the 7-week old included – went to a wedding 4 hours away). Our 3 year old son (still crazy that he’s 3 now! His birthday was Saturday!) is still asleep. Probably from staying up every night at the hotel, screaming and crying for no reason other than he was too tired to sleep (yeah, I know, right? wtf.) Anyway, I need to get the pump going, and baby girl is hungry, too. (God knows I tried to nurse her. For over a month I tried. She lost weight. She was dehydrated. We spent hours and hours with a lactation consultant. So I pump. Have something unhelpful to say? Just write it down on a piece of paper, wad up the paper, and stick it in your bodily orifice of choice.)

8:30 – 11 something am:

The next 2-3 hours are a blur of pumping, poopy diaper, bath time, more pumping, baby care, making breakfast, more baby care… (baby care refers to diaper changes, making and feeding bottles, burping, rocking, etc.)

Around 11 am, I collapse in a heap of tears. My husband was not nice to me earlier (midway through the 3 hour blur) as he felt I wasn’t holding up my end of some unspoken bargain this morning. Ah, the insanity. It’s the season. It’s an ugly season. I don’t love the newborn phase for this reason. Although I do love my newborn. (and somewhere deep down I love my 3 year old. kidding it’s not that deep down)

11 something am to 2:30 pm:

Another blur (it’s kind of all a blur, you know) of baby care, cleaning, dishes, my husband apologizing and talking it out, more cleaning, more baby care, oh and trying to give my 3 year old the attention and quality time he is craving. Also, making him some lunch, reheating leftovers for my husband’s lunch (he works from home – has an office on the 3rd floor of the little 2-bedroom twin we’re renting) and throw some crappy lunch together for myself (some cheese about to go bad thrown on a tortilla and melted in the microwave). My husband makes coffee and takes out the rancid trash (a poop diaper was left there for the weekend while we were away). We both agree, the coffee is what will keep us alive.

2:30 pm

Baby girl is calm in her swing, so I take the 3 year old upstairs for a “nap”. We both know he won’t actually nap, but he can be in his room, jump on his bed, read (or rip) his books, run around, shrieking and slamming his closet door, throwing everything he can get his hands on, whining, singing, laughing, talking to himself and acting like a patient in an asylum. But if he doesn’t have this “nap” time, I will be an actual patient in an asylum, so I try to ignore the guilt as it eats away at my heart the entire time he’s in there. I watch on the monitor to make sure he doesn’t eat lead paint chips (again) (yeah that’s a whole nutha’ story. God, help me.) or take his bed apart (it wouldn’t surprise me at all).

3 pm

He’s in his room. She’s hungry. I make the bottle (my supply isn’t enough for her every feeding, so we supplement with some formula), take the dog out, then feed the bottle… it’s taking a while. Burps don’t always come easily. I am trying to drink some water while I’m at it. I need to pump. God, help me.

3:30ish pm

He’s still in his room. She’s finally calm enough to put down. I think. I grab the pump stuff. It takes me over five minutes to get set up and grab a glass of water. Just like nursing (only so, so much more work), I get very thirsty while pumping.

3:45 pm

I am finally pumping. Because I don’t pump frequently (yeah, every 6 hours is not considered frequent. Every 2 hours would be considered frequent. That would also be considered severe negligence for my life. My 3 year old would be completely neglected and the baby probably would, too. So I am able to pump every 6-8 hours. God is good and has protected my supply so far – for the most part)

4:20 pm

I am almost finished writing this post. I will have to update later with the rest of the “daily schedule” (yeah, right). Still pumping. Only about halfway through, by the looks of things. It’s hard to get milk to let down with the 90 degree heat, back ache (even with Pumpin’ Pals, I can’t really get comfortable while pumping) disgusting, itchy feeling from not showering in over 3 days (I often choose to pump or sleep if I have any kind of actual free time. Remember that 15 minute snooze from 8 – 8:15 am? I treasure that highly. I sacrificed the opportunity to not be disgusting and itchy and take a shower. Oh well. Trade-offs, as my husband would say.

During this time of pumping, I am:

sweating, itching

stress and guilt over my son’s “nap” time (he’s trying to kick his door down, while screaming)

replacing the pacifier for my daughter to please, please settle down and nap

guiltily messaging my husband knowing he’s too busy with work to respond (I have to vent somehow. I know, I’ll blog!)

cringing from pain from the pump (yeah, even with these “amazing” Pumpin’ Pal shields)

stressing over how long it’s taking my milk to let down

realizing I haven’t peed yet today

wondering if being THIS hungry could help me, I dunno, shed even one measly pound of baby weight? please?

staring at the now-gross plate of leftovers I prepared for my husband and he left sitting out…

More to come! Day’s only half over!

weary and worn

It devours my energy, the leap from stressor to stressor, until I collapse in a heap of tears and exhaustion.

We moved house. I’ve been having a lot of contractions. The baby isn’t due for over six more weeks.

My 2 year old has developed a shrieking habit. We’re still working on the hitting phase.

We are self pay for everything. Health insurance is no longer a viable option for us. We just can’t afford it since the ACA kicked in.

Still, I’m taking my son to a pediatric speech therapist. Looking for a new pediatrician and realizing that he needs to see a pediatric dentist, though I never anticipated that need. Because we practice good hygiene and are careful to use high quality products (and I’m constantly focused on nutrition research), I did not anticipate the need for dental medical expenses. My son has a high, narrow palate, despite my constant attempts to give the best we can afford nutritionally; it’s mainly genetic. It’s affecting his speech, hearing and breathing. It breaks my heart and my bank.

I’m worn, worn, worn. God promises rest for the weary. But I don’t know how to access it right now.

I just want to stop everything for a few days and make the world wait while I catch up.

I feel behind, and overwhelmed. I feel like I’m trapped in a hamster wheel and all I do is run, run, run, until I can’t run anymore.

Well-meaning people sometimes make things worse in their attempts to help.

This makes me angry, but I feel like I can’t show it. So it boils over when I’m alone.

It’s an ugly place to be.

God, help me.

on conflict

This. (from Introvert, Dear)