Tuesday, December 26, 2017

The future of the force is female

Christmas 2017 was not what we expected. On Christmas Eve morning, Portland got hit with an ice storm.

Xmas morning
Romie was happy
 to have us together!
We were sad when our plans to attend our wonderful church and participate in its Jazz Christmas service were dashed. We found some brave Uber Eats driver to deliver Thai food to our door, watched "Home Alone" and "Elf," and hunkered down.

It still hasn't melted yet, but we've ventured out a few times. One of the highlights was to see "The Last Jedi" on Christmas Day. I loved this movie. NO SPOILERS HERE, I promise!

Contrary to the boys' club of the early Star Wars movies (and nearly every other action flick with the exception of "Wonder Woman" and the all-female "Ghostbusters"), nearly every scene had a woman in it. Many of them were women of color even! REPRESENTATION MATTERS! Apparently some little boys men have themselves all worked up about this and have tanked the Rotten Tomatoes audience as a result because they can't take the rebalancing of gender in this film. For example:

As Refinery29 writes, "Translation: strong women are fine, but only if the men are stronger."

Even though Princess Leia was a badass, she was the only female lead in the first several films. As usual onscreen, she was surrounded by men. New York Magazine put together a montage of all the lines spoken by a woman other than Leia in the first trilogy. Those lines totaled one minute, 23 seconds, out of 386 minutes! As my wise husband said, "No wonder so many Star Wars nerds are men."

In "The Last Jedi," it's clear that women and intersectionality are the lifeforce of the resistance. We get my new favorite Star Wars character, Rose, who's a mechanically minded woman from a working-class background. We get women leading the resistance...and even some villainous females, one of which is a fierce fighter in one scene. We get women working together for the common good, and overruling and outsmarting a few mansplaining men who are ingrained with toxic masculinity, questioning women's decisions and leadership.

Mike and I both cried several times during this movie, because it so clearly represents what's going on in the world right now...the underdogs fighting the Evil Empire, the warmongers profiting at the expense of the marginalized, and the complete lack of morality among the ruling elite. The rebels in the Resistance are trying to create a better world for themselves and future generations. And then there's dear Carrie Fisher in her last appearance on screen. The film's poignant plot makes her role even more bittersweet.

As the Intercept says, "If  'The Last Jedi' has a political takeaway, it’s for political revolution and a bottom-up transformation of not just who’s in power, but who gets to decide how that revolution happens."

This was the year of the woman, as shown in this montage of feminist moments in 2017. We are so tired of getting less, getting groped and catcalled, and getting the brunt of things. We are rising, and we are no longer taking your mansplaining shit.

Women are coming into their own, standing up for justice and the marginalized, collectively gathering to resist, and finally reclaiming the word "feminist," and this is the movie and these are the heroes we need:

Go see it!

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Broken down and tired: a lament

#meat13, the age when
I was sexually assaulted
Trigger warning: First of all, for all those women, men, and nonbinary folks out there who've been sexually assaulted, harassed, or abused, you are in my heart. This is a bit of a trigger-inducing rant, so bear with me.

Those who know me rarely see me depressed or feeling down. I'm a naturally cheerful, resilient, optimistic person. But this week I am feeling emotionally exhausted and depleted. As a 7 on the Enneagram ("the enthusiast"), depression can hit me, from out of nowhere, like a ton of bricks. I truly hate being depressed, and I'm eager to feel like myself again.

Here's what is wearing me down:
  • Women are posting photos of themselves with the hashtag #meat14 to show that a 14-year-old is not a consenting adult, in response to assholes who say it's okay for a grown adult to "date" a teenage girl ala Roy Moore. Rape apologists are actually defending a child molester, saying this is normal.
  • I'm damn glad that more people are coming forward to call out their abusers, but it is f*cking trauma inducing. The #metoo phenomenon, which I joined publicly last October, is affirming while at the same time being exhausting and tragic.
  • Evangelical Christians are perverting Christianity to defend pedophilia. Alabama state auditor Jim Ziegler compared Roy Moore to Joseph. “Take Joseph and Mary. Mary was a teenager and Joseph was an adult carpenter. They became parents of Jesus.” SERIOUSLY? He also compared Moore to elderly Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth, parents of John the Baptist. Moore's brother compared his sleazy sibling to Jesus Christ, and Moore himself claimed he was in the middle of a spiritual battle. His wife Kay posted that Moore had support from 50 Alabama pastors. How much lower can the Republican party fall? Most Evangelical Christians continue to look the other way, allowing the Bible to be used to defend these perverts, and even supporting him MORE after these accusations came to light. There is no excuse for this behavior, and all people who do not decry it are complicit as hell. It makes me so embarrassed to be a Christian.
  • George Takei, Richard Dreyfuss, and Louis CK join the growing list of celebrities accused of sexual assault and harassment: Kevin Spacey, Harvey Weinstein, the U.S. Gymnastics doctor, Steven Seagal, George H.W. Bush, Bill O'Reilly, Woody Allen, Bill Cosby, ALFRED F*CKING HITCHCOCK!, and the list goes on. It's hard to stomach liberal favorite George Takei being part of the abuse problem, but the interview he gave on the Howard Stern show sealed my belief in his guilt. Hearing Stern and his co-host Robin Quivers laugh and joke about sexual assault made me sick to my stomach. First Takei claimed Russian bots were behind the allegation, and now he claims the statements he made on the show were part of his "naughty gay grandpa" shtick. Is that supposed to excuse his behavior? Really? Naughty gay grandpa? He's just made me feel sicker.
  • The week began with Republicans and the White House saying, "if it's true." Each time that statement is made, thousands more victims decide to keep silent, feeling shame and blame for the attack or abuse. We liberals too are guilty of "if it's true" or "it can't be true." Just take a look at all the support on George Takei's Facebook page, which still has over 10 million likes.
  • This week I'm listening to Janet Mock's great second memoir, Surprising Certainty, and she recounted a date rape, after which she told her then-boyfriend that she had "slept with someone" because of the shame she felt...and because women who are raped by someone they know are told they were asking for it.
  • Each time a survivor comes forward to tell the truth about someone in the public eye, they get shamed and disbelieved...especially if they are an athlete or a celebrity. Sports organizations are the worst. Did you know that 44 NFL players have been accused of rape or physical assault? Remember how long it took for people to believe Jerry Sandusky was a rapist and how some Penn State fans still defend him and his enabler Joe Paterno until the end?
  • The Atlantic published a powerful article yesterday about how liberals have given the first
    sexual-predator-in-chief Bill Clinton a pass. Feminists, in particular, are guilty for excusing and enabling his behavior (see this article by Gloria Steinem). Rape culture at its finest, infecting even the ones who should be attacking it at its core. I've never been an avid supporter of Bill Clinton, but I've also realized I too have been complicit in not calling him out for his behavior.
  • It's been uncovered that taxpayers have unknowingly paid $15 million in settlement fees to women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted by members of congress. Women are not your playthings, assholes.
  • We have a misogynist, perverted perpetrator in the White House--one that is far worse than Bill Clinton--and we who have been assaulted can never stop being reminded of the fact that people who voted for him either don't believe his accusers or perhaps worse, don't care about his vile behavior. Here's a list of women who have accused him of sexual assault, or what Wikipedia calls "unwanted physical contact." FFS. The godforsaken (truly) WHITE HOUSE is defending this creep, while trashing our country by forcibly trying to yank away the tenuous safety net, forsaking the poor, people of color, immigrants, people on low and middle incomes, and everyone else on the margins. Congress is trying to pass a tax plan (and repeal Obamacare) that will hurt or bankrupt millions while lining the pockets of the rich.
  • Gun violence. You know what I mean. Today there was another shooting in California, and my first response was "another one?" Nothing will ever change, because the NRA lines the pockets of people in power and rabid gun owners care more about their guns than actual human beings.
  • This week scientists issued another warning that our time to reverse climate change and prevent global environmental collapse is running out. It's becoming harder to be hopeful.
I looked at my sweet little fifth grader last night and wondered, what will this world be like when he becomes an adult? What kind of irreversible damage is being done with this dumb, corrupt, authoritarian, extremely dangerous, narcissistic sociopath sitting in the Oval Office...and even worse perhaps, Republicans in Congress enabling his horrible actions and excusing his words?

In the past week, we have at least some silver lining. Finally, the Republicans are pulling away from Roy Moore. Today, miracle of miracles, Paul Ryan announced that the Congress would undergo sexual harassment training. #itsabouttime But when will they actually believe the MANY WOMEN who have accused the Predator-in-Chief? How is he any different from Roy Moore, except for the fact that he targeted 19- and 20-year-olds? He's still a dirty old man.

Rebecca Solnit's brilliant essay, Let This Flood of Women's Stories Never Cease, affirms that perhaps this is the beginning of the end of not believing survivors. Maybe this drastic pulling off the bandage and exposing the bloody wound beneath the scab will make things better for survivors. Maybe people will start to realize how extremely rare it is for people to lie about these things (only 2 to 10 percent of accusations). I hope survivors keep telling their truths, even though it's incredibly traumatizing for them--and for other survivors like me.

"What would women’s lives be like, what would our roles and accomplishments be, what would our world be, without this terrible punishment that looms over our daily lives?" --Rebecca Solnit

But I will rise up.

Resilience is my new middle name and will be my next tattoo. I know this exhaustion and broken-down-and-tired feeling is temporary. You abusers, assaulters, rapists, and defenders of these villains will not win. Part of my healing is writing this all down. Thank you for listening.

Please join me in dismantling misogyny and rape culture by believing survivors and calling out enablers and accusers. Help stop rape culture now.

If you are a survivor, I'd like to tell you about an incredible art project and tribute to survivors. It's called Mere Objects: Participatory Art Honoring Those Who Have Experienced Sexual Violence. It's free to participate in the project, and I'm still pondering what I will send in.

And I'll leave you with one of my favorite songs, which is giving me hope this week:

Rise Up by Andra Day

You're broken down and tired
Of living life on a merry go round
And you can't find the fighter
But I see it in you so we gonna walk it out
And move mountains
We gonna walk it out
And move mountains

And I'll rise up
I'll rise like the day
I'll rise up
I'll rise unafraid
I'll rise up
And I'll do it a thousand times again

When the silence isn't quiet
And it feels like it's getting hard to breathe
And I know you feel like dying
But I promise we'll take the world to its feet
And move mountains
We'll take it to its feet
And move mountains 
And I'll rise up
I'll rise like the day
I'll rise up
I'll rise unafraid
I'll rise up
And I'll do it a thousand times again
For you

All we need, all we need is hope
And for that we have each other
And for that we have each other
We will rise
We will rise

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Celebrating the wonder of Brian Doyle

Brian Doyle was a prolific and gifted writer, editor, philosopher, father and husband, friend, and prophet who expired from this world far too soon.

The first time I met him was at the Wild Arts festival when I bought one of his books for my dad, called Spirited Men: Story, Soul and Substance. He struck me as a bit quirky and sarcastic, probably bored out of his gourd in the book signing room while all the bird lovers seemed to be more interested in the avian arts and crafts. I wasn't sure how I felt about him...he left me a bit off balance.

The second time I met him was at the Search for Meaning book festival in Seattle, after I heard him read from his book A Book of Uncommon Prayer: 100 Celebrations of the Miracle & Muddle of the Ordinary, when he had a packed lecture hall laughing until we peed our pants a little, wiping away tears from our eyes, and singing Amazing Grace a capella in perfect harmony. He wept freely as he recounted the friends he lost in the World Trade Center on 9/11 and read his gorgeous tribute to those victims, "Leap." In a culture that rabidly suppresses and insults male vulnerability and emotion (with homophobia at its roots), BD (as his friends call him) did not fear going deep and sensitive, regularly baring his soul raw to audiences far and wide, both in his writing and his speaking. He felt, loved, and lived with a wonder and a passion that was unparalleled and freely expressed. I loved the experience and had to buy his book.

This entailed waiting in a long line that moved like hard honey, because BD had a significant conversation with every person before he signed their books. By the time I reached him, I had read several of the poem-prayers, and I'd found the Prayer for Editors and Proofreaders. I told him how much I liked it, and we fist bumped.

A few months later I decided I wanted to feature BD's uncommon prayers in the April A to Z blog challenge. I emailed him to ask his permission, and he responded by connecting me with his publicist, who gave permission as long as I included a link to Broadway Books, BD's favorite local bookstore. Of course, I obliged. And so I began a month of reading his poems every day and writing about what they meant to me. You can access all those posts here.

Late last year I read that BD had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. His response was to tell people he wants people to keep laughing.

“I’ll hear all laughter,” Doyle said. “Be tender to each other. Be more tender than you were yesterday, that’s what I would like. You want to help me? Be tender and laugh.”

That's what happened a few weeks ago, at the incredible celebration of his life. Packed into the First Congregational Church downtown, we and 700 of BD's closest friends, family, coworkers, and admirers paid tribute. Seventeen of his friends, including well-known Portland writers Kim Stafford, Robin Cody, and David James Duncan spoke for roughly 5 minutes each, telling hilarious anecdotes and touching stories about BD. Broadway Books sold Doyle's books in the back of the church. We laughed and we cried.

We were wowed by Seattle firefighter Jimmy Watts, who was clearly not a public speaker. He'd met Doyle through the shared experience of having a child with heart disease, a friendship I can relate to. He shared a letter he wrote to Doyle about the worn T-shirt he was sending him, offering him hope and courage in his last few months of illness. “You’ve always been a firefighter, Brian” he said.
Doyle's family

BD's brother shared an intimate email, in which Doyle exhorted his brother Peter to stop ragging on him for exaggeration and taking the opportunity to expand on truths, not always being entirely accurate. And author David James Duncan (The River Why, The Brothers K, etc.) went last. He spoke of his intimate, brotherly, loving friendship with Doyle, and I was struck and saddened by (1) his deep loss and (2) how rarely men speak of each other in such terms.

Mike and I had to work wonders to get there that evening, but I was so glad we made the effort. Afterwards, we went to the Fulton Pub (BD's favorite watering hole) with our dear friends Catherine and Brad to toast this amazing man and prophet. They drank some Jameson's whisky in his honor. It felt right and proper to honor Brian Doyle with good food and drink and sacred friendship. This literary, holy evening made me realize I need to read Brian Doyle regularly as a spiritual practice. His writing resonates deeply in my soul.

And I leave you with this: his "Last Prayer," which he published just a few years before he died, in his Book of Uncommon Prayer:

Dear Coherent Mercy: thanks. Best life ever. 

Personally I never thought a cool woman would come close to understanding me, let along understanding me but liking me anyway, but that happened! 

And You and I both remember that doctor in Boston saying polite but businesslike that we would not have children but then came three children fast and furious! And no man ever had better friends, and no man ever had a happier childhood and wilder brothers and a sweeter sister, and I was that rare guy who not only loved but liked his parents and loved sitting and drinking tea and listening to them! 

And You let me write some books that weren't half bad, and I got to have a career that actually no kidding helped some kids wake up to their best selves, and no one ever laughed more at the ocean of hilarious things in this world, or gaped more in astonishment at the wealth of miracles everywhere every moment. 

 I could complain a little right here about the long years of back pain and the occasional awful heartbreak, but Lord, those things were infinitesimal against the slather of gifts You gave mere me, a muddle of a man, so often selfish and small. 

But no man was ever more grateful for Your profligate generosity, and here at the very end, here in my last lines, I close my eyes and weep with joy that I was alive, and blessed beyond measure, and might well be headed back home to the incomprehensible Love from which I came, mewling, many years ago. 

But hey, listen, can I ask one last favor? If I am sent back for another life, can I meet my lovely bride again? In whatever form? Could we be hawks, or otters maybe? And can we have the same kids again if possible? 

And if I get one friend again, can I have my buddy Pete? He was a huge guy in this life--make him the biggest otter ever, and I'll know him right away, okay? Thanks, Boss. 

Thanks from the bottom of my heart. See You soon. Remember--otters. Otters rule. And so: amen. 

You can read other accounts of Doyle's life here:

A remembrance to and for Brian Doyle in the Catholic Sentinel, written by a friend's sister, an English teacher at St. Mary's Academy

The Story Catcher in the Notre Dame Magazine

The Salt Seas of the Heart, a beautiful collection of favorite BD stories from The Sun magazine

And this beautiful obituary written by my friend Amy Wang for the Oregonian

Rest in peace, Firefighter Doyle. You will be remembered with laughter.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Everything possible: my miracle baby is an adult!

Here's one of the many things I learned on the morning of August 23, 1996, 21 years ago today:

If you are in the medical field, never gasp when you are examining a patient.

That's what Lynn, the labor & delivery nurse, did when my obstetrician suggested she look at my cervix again. I'd already told Lynn that I'd felt the umbilical cord come down when I was taking a shower. Lynn told me this was unlikely before examining me and then pronouncing me fine.

When Dr. Weaver arrived, she was grave. After she confirmed the umbilical cord had indeed prolapsed, my water had broken, and the baby was in a breech position, she told us she was sorry because it was too early. She would not be able to save our baby. Lynn turned away in tears. They both left us alone to grieve the impending death of the child we'd been waiting for.

In Alaska, 23 weeks pregnant
Back in 1996, obstetricians didn't know as much about premature labor--or at least they didn't educate their patients as well. I'd had near-constant bleeding throughout my pregnancy, and I'd been monitored closely, but I'd never been warned about the signs of premature labor.

Now I know I'd been in premature labor the previous few days. The week before I'd taken a business trip to Alaska and I just didn't feel right. On the evening of August 21, I began having painful stomach cramps...but we thought it was constipation. Mike plied me with prunes. I was actually due to fly to Seattle for a management meeting on August 22, but I had to cancel after waking up at 5:30 a.m. to get ready and then doubling over in pain.

During the day the pain lessened, but it increased again in the evening. I lay awake all night with severe cramps—sharp, shooting pains, like stiletto heels gouging me in the pit of my stomach. I suffered in silence, though, not wanting to wake up Mike. I prayed that my stomach ailment would pass and I’d feel better. How could I have known I was in premature labor? I was barely 24 weeks along.

A few minutes later, Dr. Weaver returned to our hospital room with a tiny bit of hope. She'd called a neonatologist at Legacy Emanuel, who informed her that 24-weekers now had a 50 percent chance of survival. So she gave us a choice: we could have a radical c-section and the baby might live...but all my future births would have to be by c-section. Or I could deliver the baby naturally, and he would die. He was already at severe risk for oxygen deprivation with the prolapsed cord...not to mention countless other risks I wouldn't learn about until later. (We were told after his birth that he had a 50 percent chance of major disabilities if he did survive.)

Before even asking Mike, I told Dr. Weaver I'd take the c-section. Fortunately, we agreed on one thing: our Christopher Hugh was meant to be born. I thought to myself, "No matter what happens, we're going to will this baby to survive." And so he did, thanks to a huge deal of prayers, excellent medical care, his tremendous will to live and thrive, and an enormous dosage of luck.

At the warming bed when Chris was a few weeks old
That morning was the beginning of a four-month stay in the NICU, the most difficult weeks of our lives. Because we spent countless hours staring at Christopher's numbers on the monitor, what better way to summarize the NICU stay than do it in numbers:

1 pound 6 ounces and 11 inches long
1 terrifying bout of cerebral edema/low flow to the brain and 1 damaged kidney
1 slip of paper that said "NORMAL HEAD GETTEL"--the ultrasound report the day after the brain injury, when we'd been told Chris would probably be a vegetable
Tiny little thing
1 dose of septic shock, at 5 weeks old
2 lungs affected by chronic lung disease
2 eyes afflicted with retinopathy of prematurity
2.84 pounds at 10 weeks old
3 surgeries, the first one when Chris was just 19 days old and weighed less than 2 pounds
At least 3 life-threatening crises when we were urgently called to the NICU from home because it looked like Chris would die
4 nights I spent in the hospital before having to leave my precious baby behind in the NICU
Off the vent at last
4 weeks he was the sickest, smallest baby in the unit (until two more 24-weekers arrived)
6 weeks on the ventilator before moving to c-pap
10 weeks in Level 3, the most intensive care part of the unit
10 (?) excruciating eye exams
17 mylar balloons and handmade signs, one for each week he was there
At least 20 times nurses or doctors infuriated me for various reasons!
28 days on a warming bed before he was stable enough for an isolette
Holding Chris for the first time
33 days until we got to hold Chris for the first time (34 days for Mike--we had to alternate days at first)!!!
100 times our nurses did something truly touching or that kept us sane
117 days and nights in the NICU (he came home on December 21, the happiest and most terrifying day of our lives!)
(180 months until Legacy opened a new NICU with private rooms for families, in 2012)
234 nurse shifts and 234 shift changes during which we had to wait in the waiting room
351 visits to the pumping room
(1095 days until he began talking at age 3)

I've written many times in this blog about our NICU journey and Chris' progress through the years, and one of these days we will finish our book. The first few years were full of joy and challenges, as we saw the developmental delays that result from being cut out of your mother's womb 16 weeks early. But even though he came home on oxygen, a couple of machines and monitors, and several medications (he was totally high tech!), and even though he got reflux and was projectile vomiting all over us several times a day...he was always an easy-going, lovely child. Many preemies have a very difficult time adapting when they go home from the hospital, but not Chris. He was just so happy to be with us all the time.

Chris truly is our miracle boy, now man! He has lived out "Everything Possible," one of the songs we sang to him daily in the NICU. In fact, he loves music more than almost anyone I know--probably the result of our constant singing to him in the NICU.

He's entering his junior year at Pacific Lutheran University, majoring in theater with minors in communications and politics. He is one of the kindest, most forgiving, enthusiastic people I know. He does not have a mean bone in his body. College has been a great adventure, and I've been delighted to see him get interested in politics and social justice. No matter what he does with his life, I have no doubt he will continue to inspire people.

Chris' birth and survival inspired this blog, Every Day Is a Miracle, based on the quotation by Einstein. He will always be my hero...not just for surviving the odds, but also for living his life to the fullest and appreciating the wonders of the world.

Chris: Happy birthday, wonder boy! 
I am so proud of you and happy to be your mom. 

Saturday, May 13, 2017

When Mother's Day is complicated

On the eve of Mother's Day, I am acutely aware of my own mothering privilege.

With my mom and sister
before the women's march
I am exceedingly fortunate to have a supportive, loving, amazing mom who loved me even before I was born and whose love has never diminished in these 52 years. And I'm also very lucky to have three great kids who love me and tell me so every day!

One Mother's Day many years ago, a friend spoke truth at our church, where we have a tradition of hearing from mothers or children on that holiday, and bravely told us about how she disliked Mother's Day because of her own difficult relationship with her mother. It was raw, honest, authentic, and real. So many of my friends are in this situation. It was a great reminder that this day is not all roses and Hallmark cards.

Summer after my first
Mother's Day
I've had my own share of hard Mother's Days. Like my first Mother's Day, when we finally took our fragile 24-weeker out in public to church. We'd waited until winter had passed and he was less susceptible to catching respiratory synctitial virus, which could kill him. We were so happy to introduce him to our church friends. But I remember the brunch at my parents' house, when I was trying to get him to eat. I was in tears, and he was in tears. He suffered from reflux, so eating was probably painful and uncomfortable with him. But I felt intense pressure to pack calories into him. I was deathly afraid that he would be labeled "failure to thrive." Not the best memories from my first Mother's Day! And then there were more difficult Mother's Days during my season of losses through miscarriage, when I wondered if I'd ever be able to carry a child to term. 

Ever since infertility and coming to know parents who'd lost children--and also knowing many close friends have difficult relationships with their moms--I've become sensitized to the complexity of Mother's Day. So here's to all the people who will not be sending or receiving happy Hallmark cards on this holiday:
  • Mothers whose children have died, in utero or after birth
  • Children whose mothers have hurt them verbally or physically
  • Mothers who rarely hear from their children or feel disconnected from them
  • Mothers who've lost children for other reasons--estrangement, drug use, or other reasons
  • Children who have lost their mothers through death or estrangement
  • Women who have never been able to have children
  • Mothers with babies in the NICU or PICU
  • Moms whose children are ill or dying
  • Moms like my friend Katie who have answered the call of being a foster mom
  • People whose moms have died, especially in the past year
  • Moms who are terminally ill and know they will not be able to see their children reach certain milestones
  • Mothers who worry about their children, especially those who are affected by drug use, depression and anxiety, or mental illness
  • Women who were sexually abused by family members and their moms did not believe them or worse, blamed them
  • Mothers in prison who are unable to care for their children (and cheers to Black Lives Matter for raising money for women in prison to be able to pay their bail!)
You are loved, you are valued, you are worthy. I am holding you all in my heart as you endure this difficult day.

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

If your baby is going to die, it shouldn't matter how much money you make

Jimmy Kimmel redeemed himself after that awful hosting gig at the 2017 Oscars, where he made fun of people's names (all people of color) and thought it would be funny to lift up Sunny Pawar, star of "The Lion" like he was in "The Lion King." Last night he gave the monologue of his life, the most tender and sweet one I've seen on late-night television (video at the bottom).

Last week his wife gave birth to a baby boy, William (Billy). Three hours after Billy's birth, a nurse noticed that he had a heart murmur and was slightly purple. She quickly sprung into action and soon they discovered that he had a heart defect. Kimmel recalled how the room soon filled up with people, all trying to figure out what was going on with Billy. (And boy can I ever relate to that!) He had to have the first of what will be several surgeries to repair a valve in his heart.

As Kimmel is telling this story, he tears up not once, not twice, but several times, which of course makes me tear up too. Because it takes me back to the NICU and the terror of not knowing if your precious baby will live or die. And I'm sure my wonderful husband can relate to this: "It's a terrifying thing," Kimmel said. "You know, my wife is back in the recovery room, she has no idea what's going on and I'm standing in the middle of a lot of worried looking people--kind of like right now--who were trying to figure out what the problem is."
My own very sick, 1-pound-six-ounce baby
(covered in Aquafor because of his fragile skin)
He cried again when he thanked all the people who surrounded his family with love and care...again, something I could relate to so well. Never have I felt so loved than when our first son Chris was in the NICU for 117 days back in 1996. We didn't have to cook for ourselves that entire time because of the meal train. We had enough flowers to open a florist shop. And we learned quickly who our truest friends were...they were the ones who surrounded us with hopeful messages, prayers, and constant caring.

And what's most beautiful about Kimmel's story is that he understands the privilege he has...of being a celebrity and receiving the best medical care possible for his son. And he outs that privilege by advocating for health care for all. We also were very lucky. Through my private medical insurance, Chris' NICU and followup costs were covered. In fact, we only had to pay $200 for an apnea monitor. Now we'd have to bear a lot more for out-of-pocket costs and premiums, but in the 1990s my medical coverage had only $200/year premium. I can't imagine how much NICU care costs nowadays!

He called out Trump's proposed $6 billion cut to the National Institutes of Health budget, and praised Congress for deciding "to not go along with that." (Even though this could very well change in the next budget.) "They actually increased funding by $2 billion and I applaud them for doing that," Kimmel said.

Kimmel also praised the Affordable Care Act (Obamacare) because our medically fragile babies are born with "pre-existing conditions." Under the Republican plan, they could be turned down for health insurance.

He urged Americans to hold elected officials accountable for their decisions on health care: "If your baby is going to die and it doesn't have to, it shouldn't matter how much money you make," he said. "I think that's something that whether you're a Republican or a Democrat or something else, we all agree on that, right?"

Watch the video yourself and cry along with me!

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Good bones

I'm staying up late tonight, prepping for a procedure tomorrow morning. Those of you middle-agers know what I'm talking about. While I drink lots of fluids, I'm catching up on some TV, like one of my favorite shows, Madam Secretary. If you've never seen it, I highly recommend it! Tea Leoni and Tim Daly, a real-life couple, are the sexiest married 50+ couple on television.

The last episode was serious, addressing slut shaming and male complicity as well as human trafficking. After the secretary's team had a failed mission resulting in trafficked girls dying during a rescue attempt, combined with budget cuts to humanitarian efforts combined with increased defense spending (sound familiar?) one of Secretary McCoy's staff read an excerpt of this poem, "Good Bones" by Maggie Smith, who wrote it last year after the Pulse shooting.

PRI's the World named it as the official poem of 2016. I love it, and I find it perfect for this time in our world. I hope you like it too.

Good Bones
By Maggie Smith

Life is short, 
though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, 
and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. 
The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, 
and that’s a conservative estimate, 
though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, 
a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. 
Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, 
and for every kind stranger, 
there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. 
I am trying to sell them the world. 
Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, 
chirps on about good bones:
 This place could be beautiful, right? 
You could make this place beautiful.

Smith told The Washington Post, “I’m happy for the poem but not the circumstances of its popularity,” she says. “I wish I had written a poem that people share when babies are born or people get married.”

But she doesn't believe the poem is pessimistic. “I don’t think I could write a poem that the world is beyond repair,” she says. Even if the world may seem at times like a dilapidated house that only a fool would buy, it still “has good bones,” Smith says. “My hope is that the poem is a call to improve it anyway.”

My prayer is that our good bones sustain us and keep us strong through the hurricane to come.
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