Make a daily wish… May 21, 2008
One of mine came true today…I was invited to read one of my essays on NPR! Listen at Weekend America archived programming here:
Pushing the Ice Cream Envelope
Et tu, Flu? March 13, 2008
Ohhhh, I am so sick of the flu. I have been diagnosing people with flu for about 6 weeks. Every time I think it’s over, another new case shows up. Not to mention that the vacation that my husband and I were supposed to take in February (optimistic fools!) was spent in bed coughing, racked by fever and chills. I continued to cough for 3 more weeks, despite early treatment with an anti-flu drug.
We Americans are just not cut out for this. We like our illnesses like we like our hamburgers–fast and exactly how we expected them. A few lucky souls will get over the flu fairly quickly, on their own. But most people are coming in angry—at me—that they are still ill after 3 or 4 weeks.
In many cases, their flu symptoms were atypical, so they were either mistakenly offered an antibiotic by their health care provider or they absolutely browbeat the clinician into giving them one. Without the correct, non-antibiotic anti-flu medicine, the symptoms can drag on for weeks. So after 2-3 days on the antibiotic pills, horror of horrors, they are NOT better. Then the rage really kicks in, fueled by unmanageable schedules, thwarted plans for spring break getaways, and unreasonable leave policies that either a)keep them at the desk while they infect their coworkers b)cost them vacation time because they are sick or c) result in unpaid leave, a stressor in itself.
The office waiting room is packed with miserable, irritable, coughing folks who have, by and large, grown up in a time when many illnesses are preventable or easily and quickly treated. They believe the 5-day antibiotic they got on day 3 of their viral cold cured them (most colds go away in about 7-10 days anyway, with or without treatment) Antibiotics are seen as a panacea, and honestly, who hasn’t experienced the miracle that 24 hours on antibiotics can effect on that bladder infection or strep throat?
This is what they expect from us, and this is what we cannot deliver. The vaccine was minimally effective this year, and the extra-long winter in our region is making things worse. We’ve learned recently that the influenza virus is a wily little bugger that comes complete with its own little winter coat. http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/99228.php
The older patients, the ones who lived through flu epidemics of the past, are more philosophic. They nod when I show them the quickflu test vial, with its magically appearing pink lines—a line above the blue control line means Influenza A, a line below means B. Resigned to “wearing it out,” they accept my cough syrups and anti-inflammatories and go home to drink lots of liquids and rest. They know that only time will cure this thing, and they’re glad of our care and monitoring. Some of them remember that many people used to die from the flu–some still do, though in lesser numbers. This year, with this batch of flu, we have seen more post-flu pneumonia, more of those patients going on ventilators, and more deaths than usual. Despite all this, most people will eventually recover their energy and stop coughing.
It’s the younger folks who are bewildered, the ones who can’t figure out how to carve out time to be sick, that find fault with us for not returning them instantly to the rat-race that is their lives. They are not philosophic at all, merely impatient, and slow down very little during the flu, which in turn prolongs their symptoms. Most of our world moves at a hectic, ever-quickening pace, and we are used to putting our heads down and lengthening our stride to cope. Confronting an entity such as influenza that demands our time and energy, that insists that we slow down and take time to recover naturally causes a lot of psychic discomfort. It is this discomfort that is spilling over in my exam rooms.
The flu—and once you’ve had real influenza, you realize all of those other little illnesses you used to call “the flu” were but shadows of the real thing—WILL have its way with you. Remember, it had its way with perhaps 100 million people worldwide in 1918. We are fortunate to be a more heavily armed adversary in 2008. Influenza exists. You’ve got it. So stop being angry, take your medicine, crawl in bed and rest. In all likelihood, you’ll be feeling better soon.
Super Tuesday February 7, 2008
I didn’t make it to the caucus on Super Tuesday, and to be honest, it was probably a good decision. We had record turnouts in Lawrence, KS, and people stood in line in the freezing drizzle for up to 90 minutes. Then they were packed in, shoulder to shoulder, in the midst of cold and flu season. I have been sick most of the winter, and I just couldn’t face it. I’m sorry I missed the excitement, but Obama won so overwhelmingly in KS that my vote wasn’t missed. I lay at home, snug in bed, hemmed in by 2 dogs, and switched back and forth between CNN and MSNBC. Every time CNN started fiddling with their new toy, the “point and touch zoom board,” I flipped, and every time Chris Matthews opened his mouth on MSNBC, I flipped back.
It was an interesting night, and since John Edwards dropped out of the race, I have vacillated between Hillary and Obama, finally deciding on Obama because of Hillary’s support for the war. It was great to see him racking up states, as I believe he can bring about change. At the same time, I was also very proud to see Hillary winning her share. I realize that Obama’s campaign is as much of a first as Hillary’s, but he’s still a male, and in my book therefore still has the edge. As a woman, witness to misogyny and sexism on a frequent basis, I was worried that America still wasn’t ready, still resisted the idea of a woman in charge of our country, despite the existence, past and current, of multiple female heads-of-state around the globe. But apparently, many of us have come a long way baby, and Hillary is a truly viable option. I will absolutely support her if she is the nominee, and frankly, I hope she and Barack end up on the same ticket.
I know, of course, that these results are based on my party only. The Republicans, those lovers of the barefoot and pregnant homemaker, don’t seem at all ready for a woman in the White House, although if Condi Rice–perish the thought!–were in the running, how fast would they change their tune? Hmmm, and could she get oral contraceptives on her government health plan?
By the way, that thought–Rice for President–is the best argument I can think of against anyone who would tell me it’s my duty as a woman to support a candidate simply based on gender.
My evening ended with an email from Barack, who, it seems, understands the personal, best-friends tactic incredibly well.
“Karen,” it said, and here I paraphrase: “we’ve won in Kansas, thanks to you. Michelle and I couldn’t be happier.” It was signed simply, “Barack.” I’m used to getting emails from my congressman that routinely tell me why he doesn’t give a shit about what I think, and end “God Bless You?” (I’m serious). Barack’s personal missive was a breath of fresh air.
So I snuggled down with the doggies, and nodded off to sleep in a land where new possibilities exist–the possibility of a black president, the possibility of a woman president–and I was content.
Queen-size no more? February 7, 2008
I saw a commercial last night for Jenny Craig with Queen Latifah as their newest spokesmodel. I felt sad because she has always been completely HOT, unapologetic about her size, and a great role model for women.
Whether she has health issues, or just wants to be a different size, it is her absolute right to lose weight. I am bothered by the mixed-message aspect, though (multiple size-positive “I’m happy with my weight” articles coupled with the sudden announcement, “I’m a diet spokeperson”). I know this is probably not fair to her, but I felt she was one of the most visible holders of the “famous, full-figured, and f**k you!” banner. I would just really, really like to see a couple famous people stay happy and above a size 12–you know, to represent “the rest of us.” Selfish, maybe, but let’s face it: I get more of a kick out of adoring someone who looks like me. Adoring someone that I could never in a million years resemble smacks slightly of self-loathing.
I also wonder if Jenny Craig put the full-court press on her, or if she was even considering weight loss ’til they came knocking…after all, it behooves the diet industry to eradicate any and all women who are considered beautiful and who are comfortable with themselves and are above a size 14-16. The dearth of real-sized women keeps the rest of us anxious and eager to spend money to achieve thinness. As a health care provider, I am aware of the problems obesity can cause, but I am also acutely aware of the body image issues that plague most women in our society, both women who are large and women who are not obese by any measure. These very issues are exploited by advertisers to drive a multi- billion-dollar diet and fashion industry. So while I love Queen Latifah and feel she has a perfect right to her actions, I’m sad to know we’ll be seeing “less of her.”
Sanctus Ornamentum December 11, 2007
Sometimes I run across things when I’m cleaning or sorting my stuff. Virgin of Guadalupe cards; cards for St. Jude, St. Francis of Assisi. My rosary, tucked away in a jewelry box, lying silent in a soft leather purse. I hold it to the light. Deep red stones flow like drops of blood across my palm: stigmata.
Like most packrats, my house is a reliquary of broken shards and slivers. Most are secular, some are spiritual. I hold a photo of myself, all dolled up; a tender 7-year-old bride of Christ. I rub my hand against gold-leafed picture frames and envision soaring dark spaces, quiet flickering flames of intention. I imagine that I touch the hem of Mary’s blue gown resting on her sandaled foot in the sacristy.
I left the church long ago, for a marriage that eventually ended. The lessons etched into me by the catechism of Sacred Heart Catholic Church have been washed away over time, leaving a clean smooth place. They have been replaced by a catechism of my own making, one that has evolved over time, unlike the ancient and enduring mythos of the church. But I confess that I still have a bit of a connection left, still a tiny bit of religious umbilical cord. It’s triggered when I see a bit of gilt, or a votive bearing the image of a saint. I am drawn to it as surely as I was once drawn toward the altar, mouth open like a baby bird for the body of Christ.
I run across these items in lots of places, but none more than a local Catholic bookstore. Every so often when someone I know requires a holy medal or a christening gift, I browse a little. I am distracted and then angered by what I see as propaganda—brochures about abstinence that are patently shaming to women, booklets about “The American Holocaust” of abortion, which insults both the victims of the Jewish Holocaust and the women who struggle with this decision. But then my gaze finds something—a card or medal—and I touch it, handle it with tenderness and a quick intake of breath. The holiness is there, present in the simple beauty of the object.
I shuffle through the holy cards of the saints—those gracious and concerned helpers. Who wouldn’t feel affection for these everyday assistants? St. Anthony’s my main man, keeping his eyes peeled for my car keys, a bracelet, a favorite book. I turn each totem this way and that, weighing its aesthetic appeal against my disputes with the Pope. Sometimes I buy, taking home a tiny piece of my childhood in a crinkly paper sack. These items are sanctus ornamentum; items I first associated with a state of grace.
My ornamentum is now much more diverse—trees, warm skin, flowing water, smooth stones, faint moonlight, pen and paper, rising bread, a furry black dog, the scream of a kestrel in the pasture outside of town. These things are my holy trappings now, and give me sustenance. But there remains a desire to create my own holy place, a place with just a hint of the Sacred Heart. In this place there can be no vaulted ceilings, no marble floors, and I miss them. But on the other hand, there are no hard wooden pews either. Just a humble corner filled with objects of everyday worship and a comfortable cushion upon which to sit. My confessional is a smooth white porcelain tub, where I make long-distance revelations to my sister or mother. (Or to myself.) Lying in the steamy water, I dissect my transgressions and triumphs—the latter, sadly, are ignored in the dark recesses of the church confessional. The priest behind the screen had no interest in my glories, only my sorrows, my sins. Here in my sacred space, both have equal import. I immerse myself, and then pull the plug, washing away my sins. And oh, the resurrection of the body! Naked, sinless, shining.
I once thought I left it all behind: the incense, the chanting, the myopic patriarchal dogma. But in these rituals, in these sacred and beautiful objects, I catch a glimpse of my childhood religion, and I am comforted. The black-and-white certainty of the priests and nuns has been replaced. But as I live in the messy gray area that is real life, I am on the lookout for that flash of gold. After all, there’s nothing like a little gilt to catch the eye of an old Catholic girl.
Sirnames October 29, 2007
The last time I looked, there were thousands of genealogy websites on the internet, and each one begins with a search for a name. I spent a lot of time on those sites after my divorce–looking for my ancestors, looking for myself
Growing up, I was uncomfortable with my name–Sikorski. It identified me as an outsider, the Polish syllables as foreign to the German-Swiss citizens of my small town as my lanky six-foot frame and dark hair. My name also set me apart as a remnant, an unmatched set with my mother and her new husband. Everyone else’s name matched that of their parents. For years, my sister and I were the only stepchildren in the community. I spent my school years answering to anything that sounded vaguely Polish (“Sishkory? Sirokski? Sisuski? ”) and explaining why my name didn’t match my mother’s (divorce as a concept hadn’t reached our conservative backwater). At 17, I married; a hasty presto-chango into a new life, a new identity. Our matched pair grew to a quartet—balance! symmetry!—and the absolute unremarkability of our life sustained me. For a time.
Eleven exhausting years later, I had outgrown the boy I married and the name he gave me. We divorced, bitterly. To distance myself as much as possible I decided to revert to my maiden name. My sister laughed.
“Why? What does it mean to you?” she asked.
She had a point. Our name and 23 chromosomes were all that our father had given us. In reality, it meant nothing to me. Why keep the name of a man I had never even met? I wanted my new name to be meaningful, and reflect something that was true about me. I decided to create a name from scratch, and in the process, birth a new, improved me along with it, one who would be immune to the mistakes I had made in the past. I would not revert to my old identity: an outcast looking desperately for a matching set to step into. I would find a strong name, one that stood on its own. I spent a lot of time on the renaming project. I searched the family tree, looking for something with an ancestral tie. But one simple fact invaded my consciousness. All surnames of women are rooted in the names of men—given at birth, given at marriage. In some families this is a gift, a source of pride. In my family, as I dug deeper, I found that my female ancestors bore the names of men who abused them, cheated on them, abandoned them, and even murdered them. If there had been time in their daily fight for survival and sanity, did they ever think about their names? Was there ever a woman in our family who had a name she owned, a name that gave her a sense of pride, a feeling of strength?
It would have been nice to go the iconic, one-name route: Cher, Madonna, Liza! “Karen” doesn’t quite have the cachet of those names, and besides, as a nurse, I am expected to be comforting and normative; I am expected to have two names. Otherwise I’m not allowed to handle the narcotics.
My busy life as a single parent curtailed my search for the perfect name. People knew me as Karen C———, and my daughters and I still formed a matched set. Still, every once in a while, I thought about it. I searched webpages about matrilineal societies and their naming customs. My family has always seemed a family of women; my mother, my sister and I formed the core triad, my kind but remote stepfather orbiting somewhere around the edges. My daughters and I re-enacted that family structure. I found little to give me direction, nothing that appealed, nothing that revealed the truth of who I am. One thing was clear, though, and thoroughly matrilineal—the inescapable connection of my female ancestors to the names of men we barely knew or wished we didn’t. Men who, in the end, left us little but a few letters to define our relationship. I gave up. I kept my ex-husband’s name.
Time passed. I met a new man and married him. I hadn’t yet found a name I liked, and his was plain, simple, and easy to spell. It sounded good with my name, an apt trade for an early spot in the alphabet. His name is not his own, either. It is his stepfather’s. His real father refused to give him a name, and left before he saw his son, proving once again that my experiences are not unique.
I hope I will want to share this name forever, but regardless, I think I will be Karen Roberts for the rest of my life. I like its simplicity, its generic feel; the company of 2- million-plus hits on google. This name, with its easy economy and anonymity, reveals nothing true about my nature. Having failed to find one unique name that identifies me, I happened on the next best thing. My name could be everywoman’s name. And so, like a one-size-fits-all gown, it feels just fine.
10 things that suck about midlife September 30, 2007
- Your memory is for crap. What the hell was your name again?
- Gray pubes.
- Eating at home so your stomach doesn’t get upset.
- Avoiding concerts because “They’re too loud.”
- Looking and talking like your mother.
- How young everyone else starts to look. Is that my frickin’ doctor?
- You can’t take up new vices. Your body can’t handle it.
- Your lovely new mustache.
- Hot flashes.
- Knowing you’ll never get that tattoo because of your intense awareness of the “sag factor.”
Let’s face it. Time isn’t really on our side, Mick. These are just a few aspects of midlife suckage. There are benefits, too, which I will write about when I’m not so busy bleaching my mustache and dyeing my pubes.
