Let’s be creative! That’s so… BLEEP!

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Who here has an obsessive personality and voted “Most Likely to Grow Up Alex Forrest” in High School? ME! I just cannot let it go.

Here’s what I wrote last week about the epidemic of the phrase “That’s so gay!”…

Let’s start with the word “Gay”.

Let’s start with banning the usage of the word “gay” as a substitute for “stupid, dumb, ugly, undesirable, etc.” from your schools.

Since I wrote “That’s so Gay” is NOT so funny! This has nothing to do with sense of humor… last February, “That’s so gay” has been gaining popularity as just another common expression. I am hearing (and seeing on Facebook) this phrase more and more often, from children younger and younger who have no idea what “being gay” means. As the phrase takes on the facade of familiarity, moving into the realm of the vernacular, taking on the identity of an idiom (because what exactly does it even mean in this context?! Children or the immature adults only know to prevent this phrase from ever being used on them… but what exactly does it mean?!) it is becoming harder and harder to fight it off.

I am tired of hearing “That’s so gay.” I really am. There are so many words in English to choose from to denote your distaste for something. Get a thesaurus. Get a book of classic insults by Shakespeare. Wilde. Because when you are so concerned about being called “gay” that “That’s so gay” becomes a popular insult, you know, you sound like a Homophobe to me. And you know what they say about Homophobes… How about this, let’s give “That’s so Beck” a try.

Once again, this is the case of “I must have been under a rock” since ladies and gentlemen, there IS has been a champaign to stop this madness, to bring awareness to the harm done by such a “harmless” phrase.

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I was really excited initially, “OMG! There IS a movement right now so I can simply jump on the wagon without having to feel so frustrated, with my panties all tied up and nowhere to go!”

Upon further investigation, I realized that the campaign was launched in 2008 by the Ad Council to dissuade people from using “That’s so gay” when they mean “stupid”. In 2008, people. That’s like the last century, no?! And we are still dealing with the same shit, and it is getting worse and worse every day.

I have been staring at this Twitter counter for a while now.

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I don’t know what’s happening with this campaign, movement, PSA. Is it still in vogue? Was it ever? But I saw this, I thought my proposed replacement phrase THAT’S SO BECK! has legs!

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Let's be creative! That's so..... Bush? As in the plant bush, really. Scout's honor.

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That’s so…

What clever, witty, humorous sayings can you come up with as a comeback?

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Watch the PSA commercial with Wanda Sykes from 2008 for inspiration if you wish. It’s as per usual HILARIOUS. (Warning: Just don’t read the comments… Trust me.) As for effectiveness? Let’s just say it was done in 2008 and I don’t remember ever hearing about this, until now. Sorry I’m all Rah! Rah! one second, and then Debbie Downer the next.

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One Ellen DeGeneres is not enough

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If you look at the ratings, the crazed fans (“regular Suzy homemakers” many of them) in the audience, the 4.5 million followers on Twitter, her No. 3 position on the Twitter ranking (behind Ashton Kutcher and Britney Spears *Yes, I know* BUT ahead of POTUS), you’d be convinced that Ellen DeGeneres has gone mainstream. For goodness sake, Ellen is a CoverGirl! She is able to mention her wife Portia de Rossi in the mundane way that spouses mention each other in their conversations with other people without raising any eyebrows.

Wanda Sykes has a show on Fox.

The primetime TV show “Modern Family” on ABC includes in its main characters a suburban couple with an adopted daughter who happen to be gay without any trace that would possibly remind you of Jack from Will and Grace.

If you put your blinder on (and force yourself to forget about Prop 8), you can tell yourself that, yes, gays and lesbians have been accepted as “one of us”. Or at the very least, homosexuality is now broadly accepted as yet another piece of fabric weaved into this complex, multi-faceted world that we live in.

You would be wrong.

First of all, as you are well aware of, there is a fight raging on in Washington over “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell”. I can’t do my frustration justice without simply asking you to watch my beloved Jon Stewart proposing a ban on Old People from serving in the Senate. Naturally “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” would apply also should this ban go through…

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon – Thurs 11p / 10c

A Few Gay Men & Women

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor

Health Care Reform

Earlier we were outraged by what happened to Constance McMillan, the lesbian high school student in Itawamba, Mississippi who wanted to wear a tux and bring her girlfriend to the prom and was denied this request by the school board. At the same time we were amazed and impressed by this young woman’s poise, resolve and courage when she didn’t take the easy way out by simply backing down and instead took her case up with ACLU. Such a story naturally hit close to home for Ellen: She invited Constance to be on the show to tell her story and presented Constance with a scholarship of $30,000 (from an anonymous donor) at the end of the interview. Later when a federal judge ruled that the school board violated her rights by cancelling the prom (without ordering the district to hold the prom as planned), Ellen sent yet another strong message to Constance, and also to her viewers.

You’d thought such outrage would have taught the school district, the parents and the students involved to rethink their position and learn a lesson from this. But no…

Last Friday, Constance was sent to an effectively “fake” prom which was only attended by 5 other students. The principal and teachers were also there as chaperons. Two of these students were reportedly disabled. (One had to assume that they have also been directed to this “fake” prom). In the mean time, a privately-held party organized by parents was held in another location attended by, you guessed it, the other students. “The parents didn’t want Constance there, and they didn’t want to get sued.” Some reports said.

The "Secret Prom" Constance McMillan was not invited to. She lucked out judging by the photo...

You’d think that people would eventually wake up one morning and realized such cruelty is unbecoming of a human being and relent. But no…

The other students have been identifying themselves as victims because Constance ruined the prom and their memories of senior high school. As a normal teenager would do when they have an ax to grind against somebody, they started a Facebook page called “Constance quit yer cryin.” (I just spent an hour reading some of the things being posted on that Facebook page. My jaws are still on the floor…)

All this is unbelievable isn’t it? Well, no worries. Because our fellow human beings never disappoint. What is even more unbelievable, more outrageous, more horrifying, and more saddening is the case of Phoebe Prince in South Hadley, MA, who killed herself in January after cyber and emotional bullying. The most un-fucking-believable part of this? Her tormentors went to her Facebook the day after she hung herself (and discovered by her 12-year-old sister!) and mocked her. Right there on the memorial page.

It’s been two months and every time when I think of her and this story, I cannot stop cursing and crying.

Finally on March 29, nine teenagers were indicted for their involvement in this case. I sure hope I will not hear about Facebook page set up by supporters of the Hadley 9 bemoaning how Phoebe Prince has ruined their lives.

What happened here?

The teachers have been blamed for Phoebe Prince’s death; the school district/board has been blamed for the prejudiced decision against Constance McMillan.

How about the parents?

What I am seeing is a severe case of Undeserved Sense of Entitlement and Lack of Accountability.

Teachers don’t teach you this at school. Nor should they be responsible for building characters and moral fortitude for the kids. It is the parents’ job, isn’t it?

Don’t get me wrong: I am not so smug as to assume that I will be able to understand my children when they turn teenagers. But as a parent, you have got to try as hard as you could. Now I know you did not try hard enough if you were organizing a private party just so you could exclude the gays and the disabled. The disabled? WHAK? Does the Bible say something against the disabled too?

Candace Gingrich-Jones on HuffPost put out a call for action:

“We can all learn a lot from Constance McMillan and how she has handled herself — when we see something that doesn’t seem right, it probably isn’t. And it is the responsibility of every one of us to take some kind of action on behalf of fairness. Whether you bring up bullying at the next PTA meeting, write a letter to the Itawamba County School District, or call out your friends or co-workers when they say ‘faggot’ or ‘that’s so gay,’ you are improving the climate for queer youth — and adults. Do something.”

DO SOMETHING.

Let’s tell our kids that “the buck stops here.” The buck has got to stop with them. Let’s tell them that we understand peer pressure and how hard it is to survive high school, but they have to be the one that speak up. If not to their peers, then to an adult. If malicious rumors are being circulated about someone, the least they have to do is to NOT continue the chain. Break the cycle of cruelty. Sometimes all it takes is one person to stand up or stay back or speak up.

LET’S DO SOMETHING.

Baby steps. All of us.

One Ellen DeGeneres is not enough.

Let’s start with the word “Gay”.

Let’s start with banning the usage of the word “gay” as a substitute for “stupid, dumb, ugly, undesirable, etc.” from your schools.

p.s. Here’s my angry musing on the increasing popularity of the usage of “Gay” as an insult…

The increasing popularity of the usage of “Gay” as an insult is indicative of the underlying homophobic mentality permeating in our society, despite decades of working towards acceptance by the “mainstream”. This is, the way I read it, part of the backlash against the gains made by gays and lesbian. They have co-opted the word “queer” so that now it conveys pride in self-identification in some specific uses. It is then not too far off to see the co-opting of the word “Gay” as revenge by the not-so-enlightened amongst us: they are trying to turn the previously neutral and PC “label” (for lack of a better word) into a slur. “You took an insult word from us so that we can no longer hurt you with it. Guess what? We are going to turn how you have been identifying yourselves with into a insult equivalent of anything undesirable…”

Clever maneuver by the not-so-tolerant.

What does this say about how we really feel about those who are different from the “norm” deep down, behind the door, if we allow the use of this word on the playground and in the school hallways as part of the litany of insults that our kids can hurl at each other?

…………………………………………………………………………………….

And, like a bad infomercial on TV, THERE IS MORE!

The drama continues here on the Facebook page set up by the adults from Itawamba, Mississippi. It is easy to see where the kids have learned their prejudices and bigoted attitudes. I don’t want to sound naive to say that I am shocked by the ugliness found there. But despite all my cynicism, I am still shocked.

Athletes

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I don’t know where my oldest gets his athletic prowess. I guess we lucked out.

He started gymnastics at our park district when he was three years old because I did not like the idea of sitting in the sun, the rain, or the cold for ball games. When he was seven, he was asked to join the newly-formed Boys Team and he started his “career” in competitive gymnastics. It did sound impressive when I told people that he went to the State Championship. I am not one of those pushy and hyper-critical parents. I am amazed by the gymnastic moves my oldest can do, with ease, and most of the time, with grace. But I will be completely honest: there will be no Olympic medals in the future. He is good, could definitely do better, but not that good.

We attend his meets and hold our breath and watch, ready to comfort him or to cheer him on. It is getting harder and harder to sit in the audience since every event now involves the risk of him falling off or falling down. I don’t think I will be able to watch without having a heart attack as they start doing more and more dangerous “tricks”.

How do parents of Olympic athletes quiet their hearts when it is happening? What happens if something wrong happens to your child’s routine? How do you stop the ache in your heart, fortify it, and find the right words to comfort your heart-broken child? I used to wonder about that.

As my oldest reached the higher level in gymnastics, the routines became harder. Because he grew in height without packing on the pounds, his muscle strength (or lack of) does not allow him to perform as well as before. This became very obvious when he attended his first competition this past season. Less then half way into his floor event, he fell, sat heavily on his bottom, not once, but twice. I could hear the gasps from the audience even in the noisy gymnasium. I will be brutally honest with you: it was painful to watch. I wanted to turn my head and close my eyes. NOT because I was embarrassed, please believe me when I say this, but because the urge to go to him right away and hug him was so strong that I physically felt ill. I had to sit on my hands to prevent them from flying to my mouth or chest and bite my lips so I didn’t break down and cry.

But he got up and finished his routine. He was not frazzled. Much to my surprise, when he exited the floor, he was neither in tears nor pouting; he walked back to where his team was sitting and fist-bumped his coaches.

THAT was one of the proudest moments I have had as a parent.

He has learned to fail. Or rather, he has learned the ability to not get bogged down by an accident or a mistake and forge ahead. He has learned the ability to remain calm and focus on what is ahead. An ability that I am sorely lacking.

Several days later when I was sure it was safe to touch upon the subject, I asked him with a frankness bordering on admiration,

“What was going through your mind when you fell and sat on the floor? How were you able to get up and continue with the routine? How did you find the strength to be so brave?” I was truly amazed by this young person’s (“My own son!”) will power to remain poised under such duress.

“Well, it’s nothing really. The coach has always told us to NOT think about what has happened and just focus on what’s next in the routine. We just need to focus and finish the routine. I don’t notice the audience when I am doing the routines. I just focus.”

Focus. Grace under fire. I believe these are the things that make athletes such special people. Any athletes, no matter the rankings or the scores. They don’t become broken-hearted by a single setback. They just do it again, and again, and again.

At his second meet when my son once again did not place and I once again agonized over what the right things to say to console and encourage him, he bounded to the bench where I was sitting in just one stride, plopped down, and before I could say, “I am sorry honey…”, declared with a smile, “I have achieved my three goals today.”

“I was telling everybody this. I have three goals for this meet and I reached all three of them:

1. I had fun
2. I did better than last time
3. I was not physically or emotionally scarred permanently.”

I laughed and slapped him on his back.

THAT was another one of the proudest moments I have had as a parent.

Hope springs eternal

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Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;

Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore.

What future bliss He gives not thee to know,

But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast:

Man never is, but always to be, blest.

The soul, uneasy and confin’d from home,

Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

Essay on Man by Alexander Pope

Living in Chicago teaches you that even though there seems to be no end to the miserable winter, spring will arrive eventually. And when it comes it is the most glorious, blissful sight.

It teaches you to appreciate spring when it finally arrives overnight, without warning, because it soon disappears as stealthily and as suddenly as when it comes.

It teaches you to be grateful to the wonders that are unfathomable yet are within your reach.

It teaches you the strength of human spirits and will, part of which depends on our ability to forget the physical pains and sufferings that we went through even while we have vivid memories of the ordeals. Of which, child birth is a prime example: if we could remember the pain physically, we would have all stopped at one child.

On the road

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Someone wise told me that having kids will help move the grieving process along. Not easier, but along. She is absolutely right. Your kids force you to face the reality. They are your reality. Your present. Can’t dwell on the sadness when your kids demand that you be there for them. There are responsibilities. Things to be done. Life does carry on.

Of course, having kids also gives you a different perspective because of the unique, innocent way in which they understand it, talk about it.

I showed Mr. Monk, my 7-year-old boy, the pictures of my aunt and me.

“Is this your aunt?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Who is that? Oh, is it you? You look….”

“… Like a boy?” I volunteered.

“Yes… But you are so adorable!”

Then he asked whether he could have one of these for his picture frame because he wanted to have a picture of my aunt in his room. When I asked him which picture he’d choose, he said he couldn’t decide because he “likes both of them so much!” I suggested the one with me waving,

“Ok. I like this one too. But maybe I should show it when you die because it is like you are waving goodbye.” He said matter-of-factly.

This was before I have found a chance to tell him that my aunt has passed away.

I laughed. In a way, it made perfect sense!

Different people grieved differently. I wonder whether for the littlest people, strong emotions like this actually may take a long while for them to process as the concept of death is quite abstract, until you have a chance to figure out what it means “materially”.

We told our kids on Saturday that my aunt has passed away. Mr. Monk who had cried with me when my aunt was unconscious in ICU did not say anything. Not a single tear. His older brother actually got upset at him for being cold-hearted.

Last night, Mr. Monk came up to me with tears streaming down his face, hiccuping,

“I am so sad your aunt died. That means I will never get to see her again!”

He cried himself to sleep while I hugged him.

Today on the phone (I am out of town on a business trip) he found out that I will be going home for the funeral. After the initial crying bout about how he also wanted to go to the funeral, to say goodbye, he asked,

“But you will take pictures, right?”

“Hmmm. Ok. I can take pictures of my family.” Fully aware that’s not what he meant.

“No. I want you to take a picture of your aunt.”

“Hmm. I don’t think I can.”

“Why?”

“Hmmm. Because she is… she is not alive any more?”

“Oh. You mean you don’t show her in front of the church there?”

“No. Honey. I am sorry. We don’t do that in Taiwan.”

“Well, will you take a picture of the funeral then?”

“…. I will take pictures of my families when we get together, ok?”

“Ok.”

My cousin told me that it is actually kind of a silver lining that because of her mother’s passing, family members have been stopping by to my aunt’s house to pay their respect which becomes a great opportunity for families of different generations and relations to catch up, and even for some of them to meet and greet each other for the first time now that the baby is no longer a baby, the young man no longer a young man. The house is now filled with people at all hours, exactly how my aunt would have liked it before she fell ill. My cousin and my other “like-sisters” have been keeping vigil, catching up, consoling each other, and even sometimes joking and laughing, remembering things that my aunt said or did.

We both agreed that my aunt would have liked that. She would like that.

Because I Didn’t Get to Say Goodbye

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I never really look at it this way: I had ~~an unusual~~ a non-standard childhood. My family was poor. It just felt normal to me since I did not know any other way of living. I never gave it a second thought that I slept in the same room with my parents next to their bed on a comforter folded up on three dining room chairs lined up side by side. To this day, I require minimal space when I sleep; I never realized the cause and effect. I did not know to be embarrassed by the fact that my mother worked as a hotel “concierge” who happened to also clean the rooms and change the sheets. I was always well fed and nicely clothed, with lots of fancy stuffed animals and chocolate and candies from Japan. I later learned that my classmates in grade school thought my parents were college professors and we were wealthy.

What do you know? Kids are dumb.

It had never occurred to me how generous and kind it was for my aunt to take me in and to bring me up when my parents couldn’t take care of me themselves. They had to hold down jobs that did not allow raising a young child: odd hours, overnight schedules, long stint abroad, while their older boys though old enough to look after themselves, not old enough to care for another child.

It was the most natural thing. I had never once felt not being part of my aunt’s family, probably because I was not the only niece that she took in. There were always quite a few children living in her house. Some for a couple of years; one cousin was under my aunt’s care until she reached her adulthood. I stayed until I was in the second grade: I remember threatening my mother that I would walk back to my aunt’s house whenever she scolded me. I believe I did quite a few times much to her annoyance.

There was always a lot of food. Elaborate dishes. My aunt was an accomplished cook, capable of whipping up an entire banquet of twelve full courses on her own. Extravagant dishes worthy for a wedding party. My mother subsequently accused me for ruining her interest and drive for cooking because my taste buds were so well-trained (Spoiled!) during those years that there was simply no way my mother could ever match it.

Amongst all my aunts and their friends, my aunt was the prettiest. The most talented. She was not supposed to become the work horse of the family. One of my vivid childhood memories was the first time I saw the picture of her and her best friend, both members of some society for young ladies, all dolled up in classic dresses. It was taken at one of their musical performances. She was gorgeous. “Svelte”. That image of her is what comes to mind whenever I see this word. There were fourteen children in my father’s family. Being the oldest girl, as many of these stories went, my aunt was married to a wealthy businessman, twenty years her elder, which brought a lot of relief to the family.

Family lore has it that she spoiled me rotten: always making my favorite dishes, , taking me everywhere with her, showing me off to all her friends. I wanted to think that I was her favorite, but I know that she managed somehow to make all of us believe that we were her favorite. She was always joyful, and damn it if this woman was not loud. Loud and spunky. Her laughter brought life to all the family gatherings, especially at the numerous wedding banquets.

“Is she going?” We would ask each other, relieved after confirming that she would be present.

She was definitely the favorite amongst all the aunts and uncles.

Every time when I went to visit her, she bragged about how the pearl powder she paid with top dollars and fed me when I was living with her still shows its positive influence.

“You have good skin because of it.” She cooed. So we made my husband thank her that I did not turn out to be a complete dog. “But you really should put on some make-up and lose some weight.” What can I say? That’s the way we show love for each other in this family.

Three weeks ago I found out from Facebook that my aunt was taken to ICU. I immediately called home and learned that they had intubated her and she remained unconscious. Since her organs have been failing due to old age and a myriad of health issues, we knew that she would never fully recover. We were told to get ready for the inevitable, but when, the doctor could not say.

Could be months.

I told Mr. Monk about my aunt, and also my contingency plan of going home when the day comes.

“Why do you want to wait until she’s dead? Why don’t you go home now that she is still alive?”

I have been crying on and off ever since. It took a child to see and point out loud the absurdity of this. I fantasized about going home this June to visit my aunt and also to celebrate my dad’s 80th birthday with him, in person. The thought gave me some respite from crying.

Yesterday I got the phone call. Even though I was prepared, I was not prepared at all.

Yes, she has passed away. No, she never regained consciousness. The doctor had known her time was near and had informed the family to gather around to see her off.

The family. Not the “immediate” nuclear family in the U.S. sense. The entire, friggin’, family. There are no second cousins. We are all brothers and sisters. Nephews and nieces. And for some of us, like-daughters and like-mothers. We are ALL immediate family.

And they did. They were there with her when she went home.

On the phone, my mom kept on telling me that I wouldn’t have been able to do anything even if I had been there. That my aunt wouldn’t have known I was there.

Mom is supposed to say things like this. But I know. I will bear the burden of not being there in my conscience.

Forever I will wish that I ~~got~~ took the chance to say goodbye.

WTF Wednesday: Here, have an MRI

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Thanks to the straight (and stern) talks from you, I went to see a doctor today. Just a random doctor since I don’t really have a family doctor. My Ob-Gyn is the only doctor that I “keep in touch” throughout the years. And oh, yes, my dentist. I have been forced to drop quite a few family practitioners in the past when they 1. suggested that I get my tubes tied after I had my second child, 2. ordered expensive tests that still cost thousands after the 80% insurance pay when the disgonosis turned out to be Achilles tendinosis (So no, nothing to do with my nerves), 3. mis-diagnosed my blood clog as a muscle tear.

I gave the good doctor the litany of my symptoms: nausea & vomiting, dizziness, headache, sinus discomfort (but not pain nor pressure), stuffy feeling in my ears. I shared with him my theory of this being allergy-induced since my “condition” started a month ago when Spring supposedly arrived. I appreciated his gallant efforts in not rolling his eyes in my presence. I also informed him of some new development: running nose, a fever, and possibly the worst chill I have ever had in my life.

After all this, his diagnosis? “Are you suffering a lot of stress lately?”

I am a working mother with two rambunctious boys working full time commuting downtown with the company headquartered in another state 800 miles away and a boss that is scheming to either get me to move there or to get rid of me and a husband that travels 50% of the time for work. So yeah. I guess I am stressed.

“Have you suffered from any head injury? Did you hit your head somewhere?”

Why? You read my blog or my tweets?

“I think this is tension headache.”

Hello? What about the nausea and the vomiting?

“Are you married?”

Do I look tired and not care how I look? Yes, I am married.

“You should ask your husband to rub your neck.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Ha ha. Yes. I should write you a prescription to get him to do this, and if I submit it to your insurance, they may even pay him! Ok. Here is what I want you to do…”

Miracle drugs?

“I want to get some blood tests done to rule out the usual: thyroid, glands…”

Really? Why am I NOT surprised?

“And then I want you to get an MRI. I am worried about the headaches. The MRI is going to come back clean, but I want to rule anything out before I talk to you again. So after you get your MRI, call me, and I can talk to you about Tension Headaches.”

Seriously? Is an MRI even remotely necessary in my case?

Like a good Chinese girl (brought up in a Chinese society let me emphasize this), I did not question the good doctor. And really, should I even question my good fortune? I am blessed enough to be covered by a top-notch health insurance plan: the free health insurance provided by my company is a Cadillac plan. It covers everything. No pre-certification required for most of the expensive tests. If the doctor does not even want to wait and wants me to get an MRI before he even talks to me more, which I am actually able to get right away without having to call the insurance company and go through the labyrinth of paperworks, unlike say people on Medicare, should I not be grateful?

Fine. Call me an ungrateful bitch. But here is what I thought as soon as I walked out of the doctor’s office:

Son of a bitch. He is worried that he may get sued if something happens to me and he did not order me an MRI.

How much of the root cause for the rising health care costs in the U.S. is due to the fear of lawsuits?!

(Yeah, I know. You will be wanting to see me eating my foot if the good doctor was right and the MRI does detect something. THAT will solve all the questions about “What the F is wrong with you?!” in more ways than one. And seriously, if something is growing inside my head, you cannot fault me for being a bitch so would you really still want to see me eating my foot?… So the way I see it, either way, my foot will stay as far away from my mouth as humanly possible. Ha!)

All this rambling reminded me of a post from February 18, 2009, “Americans pay $650 billion more for health care than comparable countries…” when there was absolutely no traffic to my blog… Reading the conclusion I drew more than a year ago,

“In the United States, the ‘average’ consumer of health care pays for only 12 percent of its total cost directly out of pocket (down from 47 percent in 1960), as well as for 25 percent of health care insurance premiums, a share that has stayed relatively constant for the last decade. Well-insured patients who bear little, if any, of the cost of their treatment have no incentive to be value-conscious health care consumers.”

This sounds familiar but now we have the numbers to back up our suspicions:

In order for any health care reform to work and stick, it is important that we carry out the education and cultivation of a new generation of patients that are “value conscious” and treat the burden of health care, even when they do not have to pay for it DIRECTLY, as ultimately their own INDIRECT cross to bear.

I am saddened and a bit ashamed, seeing how I will be getting an MRI after all, albeit begrudgingly. I am only human – I do not want to bear the unnecessary risk of not getting this MRI just to make a point, especially since it is readily available to me. So that puts us in a bit of a conundrum, doesn’t it?

Foot in my mouth after all.

Throw Up

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Preamble

If you have a very sensitive gag reflex you probably should skip this post. Or read it with a bucket nearby.

To the warriors I know and love, Kate and Elly, nobody could know what you and your loved ones went through. Chemo-induced nausea is no laughing matter. And I hope my not-so-amusing musings on throw-up does not offend.

We all know that eating disorder is debilitating and sometimes life-threatening. If you or your loved ones suffer from bulimia, I hope you are not offended by this post either.

Oh, by the way, just to save you from disappointment: I am NOT pregnant.

If I feel compelled to include a long preamble before I feel comfortable talking about a subject, why do I even do it?

Because I am sick and tired of throwing up. I am sick of feeling sick. And I need to purge some knots and bolts inside my cranium shaken loose undoubtedly when my body was rejecting whatever was inside me, with brutal force. This is my mental throw-up. Again.

Let’s start from the beginning, and I’ll share a secret with you. I can hold my liquor really well, and I believe that I can drink most people under the table. Two tricks: will power is Number One. If you are determined to get drunk, you will behave like a fool after downing a non-alcoholic beer. When I feel the buzz, the glittery invitation to Happy Land, “Just let go!” I tell myself, “Do not get drunk. If you feel like screaming, just smile. If you feel like howling, just cry.” The second trick, the Secret, is GO THROW UP. I am a champion at throwing up. No shit. Any businessman (I used the gender-specific term for a reason) worth his weight in Taiwan (and I suspect in many Asian countries) knows how to force himself to throw up when he finds himself no longer able to hold the liquor. You go throw up, you come back, you keep up the good fight at the table. Drinking and deal-making (or whatever it is that you are going after) come hand in hand. Whoever lasts the longest wins.

As a woman you soon learn the trick. You drink them under the table. You beat them at their own game.

So I have that history with vomiting. To some extent, I see it is a way for your body to help you clear the mental department, get rid of whatever doesn’t jive with your insides. At the very least, your hangover won’t be as bad the next day.

With both of my children, I suffered from what they would call “severe Morning sickness” only that my morning seemed to last the entire fucking day.

I am sorry if I am not writing in paragraphs. I am just spewing out sentences now. A period makes a sentence, you see.

I actually lost weight during both of my pregnancies. More than 15 lbs. in the first two weeks. Big boobs, thin waist. What I had dreamed of having all along. Whoever is up there does have a wicked sense of humor. For my second pregnancy, I threw up from the first month until the day of delivery. So combined, I’ve had more than one year of daily practice, practice for feeling the urge, for keeping it down, for letting it go.

By the end, I was a master of it. It’s almost banal.

My husband called it, Worshiping at the porcelain throne.

By the end of the violent retching, I was literally hugging the bowl. I sometimes invoked the deity in the midst of tears, “What do you want? What else do you want? There is nothing. Nothing left. Can’t you see?” Still, the mythical force inside me tugged at the innards so I dry heaved, gagged, my mouth opened, my rib cage lifted and compressed, air rushed out along with one of the most dreadful, despairing sounds. I imagine I sounded like a banshee. Probably looked like one too.

And surprise, surprise, I have a theory for this too: if men could get pregnant, we’d have found a cure for morning sickness before we’d sent a man to the moon.

Lately my head is constantly inside a toilet bowl. After every meal. I am suffering from perpetual motion sickness as if I could sense the movement made by the Earth.

Somehow my current condition reminds me of the toilet scene from Train Spotting a lot. You know the scene I was talking about. The one when he fell into the absolutely disgusting, beyond description, you have to see it to understand the magnitude of what it means to earn the label “The Worst Toilet in Scotland”, toilet bowl.

My permanent nausea is caused by something decidedly unpoetic: allergy. The chain of reactions goes like this:

Allergy. Sinus. Ears. The little hair in your ears that I always imagine to look like Nemo’s anemone swaying in a vacuum. Dizziness. Motion sickness. Puke.

I walk around all day going about my daily routines, feeling transparent. I could tell the specific locations of my digestive track: Here is my stomach. Here my esophagus. Here my throat. Here my mouth.

Unlike the main character in Sartre’s Nausea who soon started questioning his own existence, the urge forces me to come to terms with my physicality. The whole lot of meatiness. The anatomy. There is no getting away from it. I feel my existence. And it is not really a good feeling to be acutely aware of yourself at all times. I am the red person under a special “Oh no she’s going to puke” detector.

I keep my mouth pressed tightly so nothing would come out by accident. I go about my business: making the kids dinner. Doing the dishes. Gesturing for them to eat their dinner otherwise there’ll be price to pay. Giving them “the look”. At the same time I sense the stuff being squeezed all the way into my brain. Through my cheekbone, the veins, into the temple areas. Behind my eyes.

“Sorry, kids. Mommy has to go throw up.”

“Ok, mom.”

I walk calmly upstairs, change out of my good clothes, turn on the radio, turn on the fan, spray Clorox cleaner on the floor and the rim and the bowl of the toilet, scrub the toilet, flush the toilet. And I get ready for the wave.

The toilet bowls are sparkling clean in my house lately. Because staring at a dirty bowl when I am throwing up makes me nauseous.

ETA: Wisdom gleaned from Christine‘s Comment: “Lesson learned: drink hard and vomit gently.”

“precisely ninety-one centimeters from himself”

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“Having been struck by a 150-ton meteorite, Henry has to adapt to living precisely ninety-one centimeters from himself.”

Once in a while, you come across something that so resonates with you to the point of altering your reality. Or your perception of reality. It’s like, all of a sudden, you can see yourself more clearly. You understand what is going on inside your head. You see what the root of your problem is. Yet to explain that something, or how or why, is completely beyond your command with words. Haunting. That is all you can think of.

Tautology: using something incomprehensible to explain something incomprehensible.

Exactly 91 cm away from himself…

I came across something yesterday. The Bloggess mentioned it as “Painfully poignant: you should watch this”. So I did. And I have not been able to stop thinking about it. Have not been able to stop crying actually.

If you have ever questioned who you are, where you are, what you are, why you are. If you live with the haunting that you may not be yourself. Or that if you are, then who is this other person. If you ever feel/fear that if you lie still long enough, you will for sure float outside of your body and look down back on yourself lying in bed, and you are scared that you may not recognize yourself. If you could almost precisely predict when you will have an existential breakdown.

If you wonder what it is like to have such chaotic thoughts inside your being. Watch this. “Skhizein“, written & Directed by Jérémy Clapin

Skhizein (short film) from Jeremy Clapin on Vimeo.

The Absence of Alternatives

My therapy sessions…

One Ellen DeGeneres is not enough

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Athletes

Hope springs eternal

On the road

Because I Didn’t Get to Say Goodbye

WTF Wednesday: Here, have an MRI

Throw Up

“precisely ninety-one centimeters from himself”

That’s so…

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The Fail Whale is Back!