What Do Children Want?

My sister and me with our stay-at-home-mom, c. 1955

First, let me say that I have no axe to grind about whether mothers should stay at home or be employed.  I'm not a mother.  I never had to struggle with that.

But I am a former child, and today when I saw this video on the blog of a (militantly) stay-at-home-mom, I thought, yes, it's moving, but there's more to it than this.

See what you think:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?x-yt-cl=85027636&v=EQ3ePGr8Q7k&x-yt-ts=1422503916

When I finished watching, I thought, If someone had handed me a pencil and a piece of paper when I was, say, eight, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have written what those children did, asking for more attention.

I would have asked my mother for consistency, that she never switch without warning between cloying affection and anger, that she always love me.  She was a SAHM mom, and I could have done with way less of her kind of attention.

I would have asked my father for acceptance, that he stop judging how I looked and whether or not the last drawing I did meant I would be a famous artist.  Less scrutiny of that kind,  please!

Working mothers who see the video on this particular blog could extrapolate only that they were being judged for not being at home. It wouldn't have been an endearing video but an accusatory one, trust me. And it's not fair, Mrs. SAHM Blogger!  Staying home does not necessarily make you a good mother.  It's way more complicated than that.

Isn't it disheartening that the Mommy Wars drag on?  So much insecurity and anger.  Isn't life--for parents and children--hard enough?

Of course, the SAHM readers of that blog probably derived Major Validation, and it's unlikely that working mothers would be masochistic enough to follow it.  And why am I reading it?  Sigh.  More time-consuming lurking.














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At the First Meeting, the Doctor Ignored Me

Yep,  he ignored me.  It was as though I wasn't there--the mere wife of the patient.  I scratched off all my nail polish sitting in the examining room (a little stressed?).

Two months later, at the second meeting, the doctor looked at me and said "I don't think we've met."  Then he described a procedure he'd mentioned earlier, that he could perform on Jerry's heart to increase blood flow.  We'd read up on the internet and were worried about the risk, particularly at Jerry's age.  Also, he feels fine.  The doctor said he didn't want to pressure us, but it would be an idea to do it.

 Sketch of what the Oakland doctor said he could do

I came straight home and called Stanford for a second opinion.  Boy, were they accommodating!  I made an appointment in January, a week after we'd see Dr. I-Don't-Think-We've-Met again.   In the meantime, we got a copy of the results of Jerry's last cardiac stress test.  There were contradictions in the summary;  neither of us could figure it out.

Two days ago, we went to appointment at Stanford.

 Entrance to Stanford Medical Center--so busy it could have been an airport.

First, we saw a Fellow in Cardiology, a patient young doctor who listened carefully, asked a lot of questions, and went over the test results.  Then, he studied the list of  Jerry's medications.

Why, he asked, puzzled, did Dr. I-Don't-Think prescribe Drug X?

We weren't sure.

Does Jerry have any cardiac symptoms?  No.

Has he had any change in quality of life?  No.  The Fellow asked me about that in detail.  No.  (The wife exists!)

Oh, and by the way, Drug X and Drug Y, which the Oakland cardiologist told us to have our primary care doctor prescribe, can be very dangerous if taken together.

Mass puzzlement--him, Jerry, me.

He fetched his Professor Cardiologist.  Together they told us they would not recommend the procedure proposed to us by the Oakland doctor.  Not indicated.  Risky.  What would be the point?  He has no symptoms.  Also,  Professor Cardiologist gave us good news that Jerry has the fitness of someone 15 years younger.

We were so relieved when we left that we didn't even care about the thick traffic on 880.

I'm glad, but honest to God, what if Jerry had had a procedure that was unnecessary and risky?  He could have died.  The Oakland doctor had withdrawn his suggestion at the third meeting, but inexplicably, with no additional data, which left us even more confused.  Why did he suggest it in the first place? 

We're transferring Jerry's cardiac care to Stanford, despite the long trek from Berkeley, the currently-wretched Stanford parking situation (construction), and the overall hassle.  I feel shaken and distrustful of my doctors, which I shouldn't, because I have some wonderful doctors who would be the first to suggest I get a second opinion.

As my sister said, Wow.

My friend Claudia M. said, Are you going to kick that twit to the curb?

Yes.

Eating a heart-healthy lunch before the appointment

So, Now I Know the Name of the Boat...

Yesterday, we went to Pt. Reyes in search of a sunny hike (got the hike but not the sun) and ate our sandwiches at a picnic table behind the Inverness Store.  Nearby:  This boat, which ran aground on a Tomales Bay, God knows when.  It's a landmark. 

After lunch, we walked as close as we could to the boat to check it out. The treads of my hiking shoes got clogged with mud, but it was worth it.   Was the boat's name "Point Reyes" before or after it became a landmark?

Other photos:

I took only pictures and left a lot of muddy footprints

 

View to the north

To the east

Far left: mud

And there it sits...

Are We All Charlie? Writing Rankly and Frankly...

A blogger I've read for a couple of years, one with a huge following, has decided to write infrequently, eliminate the Comments Box, and not write about her relationships with her children and husband.

Bore, bore, bore.

Yesterday she wrote that if she were told she had only a year left to live, she wouldn't spend the time taking cruises (oh, fine!), but she'd pray much of the time so she could experience a deeper relationship with God.

 What, no cruises?

We are clearly not on the same page.

I'm always telling myself I have only one year to live, just to see if that gooses me into embracing scary things that I'd really like to do, and also more mundane things like getting the bathroom remodeled (check!) and seeing the Eiffel Tower lit up (next summer, if my courage holds up).   I also have this idea that I'd be more forthcoming about what I really think, so I'll start right now:

First of all, "Je ne suis PAS Charlie"!  Americans are not Charlie, although we do believe in freedom of expression, and of course no one should be killed for saying what they think.  But Charlie Hebdo is a uniquely French tradition, and their cartoons can be savage (I have a feeling their cartoons about feminism would really piss me off).

As Adam Gopnik wrote in the current New Yorker, "...it [Charlie Hebdo] kept alive the nineteenth-century style of direct, high-spirited, and extremely outrageous caricature..."  He writes, "The magazine was offensive to Jews, offensive to Muslims, offensive to Catholics, offensive to feminists..." 

Which brings up my next point:  I have to admit I'm squeamish about poking highly irreverent fun at things other people hold dear.  I know--I'm being politically incorrect about being politically incorrect. But I'm not French, and I'm definitely not Charlie.  (Maybe if I told myself I have only a year to live?)

On a more personal note:  This week Jerry and I went to see his cardiologist with questions about his exercise stress test in September and the doctor's subsequent urging that he have a procedure to remove plaque from an artery.

 This is what an Exercise Myocardial Perfusion Study looks like

Oh, how we boned up for this week's appointment!  Much reading online, trying to figure out what a "hemodynamically significant coronary artery stenosis" is, wondering what the risk of the procedure would be.  Long list of questions.

All for naught.  Now the doctor thinks that with no symptoms, there's no need for the procedure.  Jerry should just keep exercising and taking a statin.  Next week we go to Stanford for another consultation.  I hope the message is the same.  A relief, but there's still that old devil, mortality, hanging out in his cave.

Quilting:  Not doing much.  All attempts seem to stall at the moment, but I'm loving my new fabric drawers. 

New drawers in my studio closet

The remodeled bathroom is presenting numerous tart-up opportunities:

Found these objets in a cupboard and transported them to the bathroom.  Jerry picked them up and asked what they were for.  He does not watch HGTV.

Inverness lavender potpourri supplied by Elisabeth Ptak

One of these days, I'll post pictures of the entire bathroom, by which time I guarantee you won't care.

And finally, me finding out the contractor won't be here today (he's repairing some leaky windows):

 Avec reading glasses and slapped back hair--frankly, rankly* me

*Lifted from Adam Gopnik's New Yorker piece

New Year, New Quilt, More Trips, New Mantra

We all made it!  Survived Christmas.  Hundreds of days until it rolls around again.  Yippee!

* * * * *

In my studio yesterday morning:

Strips leftover from a quilt I made three years ago.

No idea what they will all become.  Whatever it is, it will most likely end up as a quilt auctioned off here to benefit the Berkeley Food Pantry.

* * * * *

"Do it now," is what a lot of elderly travelers have said to us, and we're by God doing that in 2015. We have trips planned this year to a) Costa Rica/Panama Canal/New Orleans/Key West and b) Scandinavia/St. Petersburg/Paris/Normandy/England.

The details take up two binders and a lot of my brain.

I've got two blank books...

 ...standing by to join these:

Our trips since 2006.  What are you going to remember on your deathbed? (Not a new bathroom)

 * * * * *

New mantra:  "What would you attempt to do if you knew you couldn't fail?"

Maybe tap-dancing.  Quilts that are a bit more adventurous.   A family history that tells the truth.  A walk across the Golden Gate Bridge. Lots more.  Have to think.

Happy New Year!  Or anyway Post-Christmas...