As for The Kissing Game--or, no. Sorry. Too close to my own family’s never-ending reality for comment. If I could even make the attempt, there would only be an endless stream of curse words and a babble of choke-filled, snot-nosed tears. I’m the only white person in my family; had it been otherwise, I’d have surely gone crazy or killed somebody long before now.
A land for women--at first glance, what a wonderful concept! (I’d have appreciated this article better had the author refrained from SO many references to “dykes” and “butches.” I prefer less highly charged descriptions.) When I played rugby, I was one of two women on my team who weren’t gay. It was profoundly disheartening for me to see how very often the dominant/submissive roles were played exactly as they are in male/female relationships; not a single gay relationship in this group had managed to steer clear of it. With Black women, I think such groups don’t give enough attention to men and children (who do need men, especially since almost half will BE men, but even girls need to at least be familiar with the other side--and good grief, but men surely do NEED US). On the other hand, the notion of getting away from men is very appealing, having been ruled/threatened/harassed by patriarchy all my life and throughout my 33-year marriage. Would I be truly happy in a land disconnected from the larger world and devoid of men? Despite the patriarchy, I sincerely hope not.
I was a career woman. I thought I’d never marry. Then, surprise! I did. And he wanted to have two girls by me. We needed no medical help, getting pregnant was simple. But the first pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage. I took a week off from work, missed the test for my next promotion--and thereby sealed my fate to never get another, although I had one of the highest scores, later on. I was told to wait three months before trying again but we started right away--I didn’t have time to wait. I threw up every single day of this second pregnancy, sometimes up to six times a day. I had hyperemesis gravidarum, but never mentioned it to my doctor; before Kate Middleton had it, nobody knew what it was. I even threw up in the hospital during delivery.
Ever the stoic, I declined the epidural. Morgan weighed 9 lbs 4 ozs and was beautiful. But I had another girl to fill my quota & with a stitched peritoneal scar barely healed, we tried again. I had two more miscarriages; putting my best face forward, I casually told friends my body was killing off the unwanted boys (and it’s true that more male fetuses end in miscarriages), and I learned there actually IS something to being “a little bit pregnant” as each time, my hormone levels were in the 700s when they needed to be in the 70,000s. (Ever since, I am enraged whenever some pol derides being “a little bit pregnant.” What idiots men can be.)
In one or the other of the D&Cs used to scrape out the dead remains (now illegal in many states), the hospital equipment gave me Strep B. For my 5th pregnancy, at 43 years, I was told that unless this baby received antibiotics as she came through the vagina canal, she would contract Strep B to be a vegetable: deaf, dumb and blind at 6 months. Then I was fully dilated but the doctor didn’t check, it was 5:28 p.m. and she was dining out with her hubby that evening, so she ordered Pitocin to force huge contractions. There was only one, Sloan was already in the birth canal. The contraction broke her nose. I was shunted out of the hospital each time by very early the morning after birth. Nobody mentioned breastfeeding, although I had asked. (I almost starved Morgan by her third week.)
My body no longer functioned as it had. I had played rugby at 29. In my late 30s and early 40s, I Jazzercised 6X a week. Now, the first time I tried Jazzercise, a metatarsal bone in my foot broke. Bumping into things, I broke toes. I learned that a fetus takes from its host what it needs--if the mother has a big calcium deficit, the fetus can dissolve all her teeth for itself.
My disability insurance required me to return to work 6 weeks post-partum, which I did, full time. Where I had always noted my environment as I drove to work, I now got there and back in a complete blur. I had hired a nanny when Morgan was two weeks old; she stayed ten years, which made life easier, but not always in a good way. I couldn’t leave for work until she arrived and we’d updated each other. At work, I was constantly harassed for my tardiness, while guys showed up much later than I without recrimination. And I was doomed to look 7 months pregnant for the rest of my life, because at 43, the skin is no longer resilient; that pregnancy pouch was as obvious as on a kangaroo.
Later, the escalators in the courthouse required an overhaul. But AFTER the fix, they sometimes stopped cold midway. One time it stopped and then free fell about 6 feet. I got whiplash but only thought how wonderful it was to suddenly know, viscerally, how the spine worked. It cast out like a trout fisherman would, and then resounded back in reverse. I was fine and did nothing about it. Another time, a security guard pressed the emergency stop without noticing I was on it, and I was wrenched one way and, again, in reverse, my hand stripped off the railing, but I managed not to fall. The next morning, I was paralyzed. It took 20 minutes just to get out of bed. I went to work to report the accident and then went to Kaiser, where a suspicious nurse taking an x-ray wanted to know how I’d managed to put on a bra (32 years of every day--??!). Later, I would learn that fastening it in the back was okay, while fastening a front-closing bra was sheer agony. Soon, I was unable to wear one at all. The drive to work was so painful I feared I might black out and kill somebody. My department head saw I would need lots of time off and so transferred me from a 24-mile round trip to a 60-mile one--at least I was no longer his concern.
It was months after an MRI was taken that I had to fetch it myself, because the doctor read a report that said only, “no space whatsoever between L-5 and S-1.” That struck me, but not him. When I saw that MRI, it looked like the marshmallows of my vertebrae had exploded at the base. It looked like a Rorschach test or an ink spill had been thrown on it. The doctor only said, “That’s where your surgery will be.” No comment about failing to look at the MRI in the first place. Eventually I got to a neurosurgeon who listened to my description of three areas of pain. After the MRIs, he told me I needed 4 surgeries, not one, and that after the last, I would never allow anybody to touch me, ever again. These surgeries attempted to align my neck near the brain stem, that Rorschach mess at the base--and most of my thoracic spine, which required removal of a couple of ribs. That last also required removing my heart from my body and trusting my entire circulatory system to machinery. They found bone pressing on my aorta--had I been in a fender-bender, or if they’d nicked it during surgery, I would’ve become a paraplegic. Now my spine was loaded with titanium implants, but I was no Bionic Woman.
Meanwhile, my inability to care for my children, and my husband’s distance from us while under the same roof (while I claimed gratitude he continued to tough it out instead of leaving altogether) left our family in permanent shambles. He’s passed, my girls are still here and won’t leave until I, too, have shuffled off this mortal coil, but they are not happy.
Years later, that courthouse--constructed as all public buildings are, by the lowest bidder--was finally destroyed, but sadly not before the escalators had resulted in the death of a juror.
As for The Kissing Game--or, no. Sorry. Too close to my own family’s never-ending reality for comment. If I could even make the attempt, there would only be an endless stream of curse words and a babble of choke-filled, snot-nosed tears. I’m the only white person in my family; had it been otherwise, I’d have surely gone crazy or killed somebody long before now.
A land for women--at first glance, what a wonderful concept! (I’d have appreciated this article better had the author refrained from SO many references to “dykes” and “butches.” I prefer less highly charged descriptions.) When I played rugby, I was one of two women on my team who weren’t gay. It was profoundly disheartening for me to see how very often the dominant/submissive roles were played exactly as they are in male/female relationships; not a single gay relationship in this group had managed to steer clear of it. With Black women, I think such groups don’t give enough attention to men and children (who do need men, especially since almost half will BE men, but even girls need to at least be familiar with the other side--and good grief, but men surely do NEED US). On the other hand, the notion of getting away from men is very appealing, having been ruled/threatened/harassed by patriarchy all my life and throughout my 33-year marriage. Would I be truly happy in a land disconnected from the larger world and devoid of men? Despite the patriarchy, I sincerely hope not.
I was a career woman. I thought I’d never marry. Then, surprise! I did. And he wanted to have two girls by me. We needed no medical help, getting pregnant was simple. But the first pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage. I took a week off from work, missed the test for my next promotion--and thereby sealed my fate to never get another, although I had one of the highest scores, later on. I was told to wait three months before trying again but we started right away--I didn’t have time to wait. I threw up every single day of this second pregnancy, sometimes up to six times a day. I had hyperemesis gravidarum, but never mentioned it to my doctor; before Kate Middleton had it, nobody knew what it was. I even threw up in the hospital during delivery.
Ever the stoic, I declined the epidural. Morgan weighed 9 lbs 4 ozs and was beautiful. But I had another girl to fill my quota & with a stitched peritoneal scar barely healed, we tried again. I had two more miscarriages; putting my best face forward, I casually told friends my body was killing off the unwanted boys (and it’s true that more male fetuses end in miscarriages), and I learned there actually IS something to being “a little bit pregnant” as each time, my hormone levels were in the 700s when they needed to be in the 70,000s. (Ever since, I am enraged whenever some pol derides being “a little bit pregnant.” What idiots men can be.)
In one or the other of the D&Cs used to scrape out the dead remains (now illegal in many states), the hospital equipment gave me Strep B. For my 5th pregnancy, at 43 years, I was told that unless this baby received antibiotics as she came through the vagina canal, she would contract Strep B to be a vegetable: deaf, dumb and blind at 6 months. Then I was fully dilated but the doctor didn’t check, it was 5:28 p.m. and she was dining out with her hubby that evening, so she ordered Pitocin to force huge contractions. There was only one, Sloan was already in the birth canal. The contraction broke her nose. I was shunted out of the hospital each time by very early the morning after birth. Nobody mentioned breastfeeding, although I had asked. (I almost starved Morgan by her third week.)
My body no longer functioned as it had. I had played rugby at 29. In my late 30s and early 40s, I Jazzercised 6X a week. Now, the first time I tried Jazzercise, a metatarsal bone in my foot broke. Bumping into things, I broke toes. I learned that a fetus takes from its host what it needs--if the mother has a big calcium deficit, the fetus can dissolve all her teeth for itself.
My disability insurance required me to return to work 6 weeks post-partum, which I did, full time. Where I had always noted my environment as I drove to work, I now got there and back in a complete blur. I had hired a nanny when Morgan was two weeks old; she stayed ten years, which made life easier, but not always in a good way. I couldn’t leave for work until she arrived and we’d updated each other. At work, I was constantly harassed for my tardiness, while guys showed up much later than I without recrimination. And I was doomed to look 7 months pregnant for the rest of my life, because at 43, the skin is no longer resilient; that pregnancy pouch was as obvious as on a kangaroo.
Later, the escalators in the courthouse required an overhaul. But AFTER the fix, they sometimes stopped cold midway. One time it stopped and then free fell about 6 feet. I got whiplash but only thought how wonderful it was to suddenly know, viscerally, how the spine worked. It cast out like a trout fisherman would, and then resounded back in reverse. I was fine and did nothing about it. Another time, a security guard pressed the emergency stop without noticing I was on it, and I was wrenched one way and, again, in reverse, my hand stripped off the railing, but I managed not to fall. The next morning, I was paralyzed. It took 20 minutes just to get out of bed. I went to work to report the accident and then went to Kaiser, where a suspicious nurse taking an x-ray wanted to know how I’d managed to put on a bra (32 years of every day--??!). Later, I would learn that fastening it in the back was okay, while fastening a front-closing bra was sheer agony. Soon, I was unable to wear one at all. The drive to work was so painful I feared I might black out and kill somebody. My department head saw I would need lots of time off and so transferred me from a 24-mile round trip to a 60-mile one--at least I was no longer his concern.
It was months after an MRI was taken that I had to fetch it myself, because the doctor read a report that said only, “no space whatsoever between L-5 and S-1.” That struck me, but not him. When I saw that MRI, it looked like the marshmallows of my vertebrae had exploded at the base. It looked like a Rorschach test or an ink spill had been thrown on it. The doctor only said, “That’s where your surgery will be.” No comment about failing to look at the MRI in the first place. Eventually I got to a neurosurgeon who listened to my description of three areas of pain. After the MRIs, he told me I needed 4 surgeries, not one, and that after the last, I would never allow anybody to touch me, ever again. These surgeries attempted to align my neck near the brain stem, that Rorschach mess at the base--and most of my thoracic spine, which required removal of a couple of ribs. That last also required removing my heart from my body and trusting my entire circulatory system to machinery. They found bone pressing on my aorta--had I been in a fender-bender, or if they’d nicked it during surgery, I would’ve become a paraplegic. Now my spine was loaded with titanium implants, but I was no Bionic Woman.
Meanwhile, my inability to care for my children, and my husband’s distance from us while under the same roof (while I claimed gratitude he continued to tough it out instead of leaving altogether) left our family in permanent shambles. He’s passed, my girls are still here and won’t leave until I, too, have shuffled off this mortal coil, but they are not happy.
Years later, that courthouse--constructed as all public buildings are, by the lowest bidder--was finally destroyed, but sadly not before the escalators had resulted in the death of a juror.