Women's Work

Keepers

 Does anyone, or eveyone, else have a shelf of "Keepers"?

These are the books in my house that will never be donated or sold. Or even traded or lent, lest they never come back.  There are short stories (The Beggar Maid, Alice Munro), memoirs (I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and the rest of the set by Maya Angleou,) and series (Harry, of course). Mostly fiction, some non (Ophelia Speaks, Sara Shandler), some poetry (The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran). There are lots of women (Toni Morrison, Laurie Colwin, Ann Patchett, Alice Walker), and a few men (Nick Hornsby, David Sedaris). Some of them are classics (my beloved Jane Austen collection) and some are new finds (The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, Schaffer and Barrows). Some are heartbreaking (Paula, Isabel Allende) while some are inspiring (Hannah's Gift, Maria Housden). Some are pure fun (Bridget Jone's Diary, complete with post-it note additions made when my single friends and I passed it amongst ourselves one year) and others are downright ridiculous (The Fascinating Girl, Helen Andelin).

Many of these books have been read and re-read several times over, while some of them haven't been opened in years. What they all have in common, though, is that just a look at the spine brings to mind a particular character or scene. A quote or a question. A feeling. The satisfying memory of a good read.

One Woman's Work

Not too long ago, my sister had a baby. We live several states apart, but I got to see her many times and kept in touch as often as possible through the 40 (plus) weeks. During the pregnancy and especially after the birth, I thought often about all she was experiencing and enduring to bring this baby into the world. About this thing that women do that is so commonplace and yet so extraordinary.

Her pregnancy was the result of IVF, so she tracked her period, scheduled blood tests, submitted records and kept appointments. And then, after the transfer, she self-administered progesterone shots for 8 weeks until it was confirmed that the pregnancy was well established. That's one shot per day. In the butt.

Then there was the ultrasound to determine the health (and number) of the embryos that were thriving at that point (just one!). No big deal, really, but those vaginal one are, well, you know. A bit invasive to say the least. As is the load of paperwork that comes along with an IVF pregnancy and any medical procedure, so there was that to deal with too.

After that, things were pretty standard. Shifting work and childcare schedules to accommodate monthly and then weekly appointments with the midwife. A growing belly that brought on back pain. A baby that kicked just when she finally drifted off to sleep. Swollen ankles. Exhuastion. Par for the course, right - this was her fourth pregnancy, after all, so she certainly knew what to expect. So did her sons, I guess, though the youngest was none too thrilled to find that her lap was getting smaller and her breastmilk less available than it had been before.

The baby didn't come on his due date. In fact, he didn't come til 12 days later, so those last days were surely filled with plenty of  thoughts of "enough already". Each day past the due date brought prying quesions about how she was feeling and speculation from the mid-wife on just how big that baby was going to be (10lbs.).

My sister is a very private person, so for her to share any of this with another was probably a difficult thing to do. But share she must, for this pregnancy was much talked about and the baby's birth was anticipated by all. She endured lots of questions and many belly pats form family and friends, though I know she'd have rather they kept their hands to themsleves. She shared details of every procedure and appointment and let me come along for ultrasounds and baby checks. And when the time care, she let me be a part of the birth. So I saw firsthand not only that baby's precious head as it emerged but also the extreme effort and pain that it took to bring it forth. I heard her say that she couldn't do it and then watched her as she did. I am still in awe of the work she did in those hours.

And why, you ask, wouldn't she do all of that? Go through so much? That, after all, is what women do. But here's the thing: that baby wasn't hers. I got to be there because that baby was mine. Which makes it more than just women's work. That, dear reader, is love.

Hairstory

Funny thing happened the other day…I got my hair cut. The event in and of itself is no big deal, of course. In fact, as a short haired gal I typically go under the scissors every 4^th week or so. But this time I was back in my hometown and got it cut at my mother’s salon - not the same one that I went to growing up but many of the stylists from that time started this one and are still going strong. Seeing the men and women that I remembered from all those years ago brought back a lot of memories and got me to thinking…what is it about our hair? Am I the only one for whom specific cuts and styles are connected with particular moments in life?

I’m thinking about how important it was to me to grow my hair out from the short pixie cut I’d had for years in order to look the part of "ballerina" when I joined our local performance company. For a while I had to shellac it to my head and pin on a bun fashioned out of pantyhose to create the look. Even once it grew out though I still didn’t have the soft locks that the role of “little Victorian girl“ required for the Nutcracker - I slept in huge prickly Velcro rollers before each performance just to tame it enough to make do.

Of course all of that was the price one paid for art, right? But on the home front one had to deal with, first, Dorothy Hamill and then Farah Fawcett. Every tweenie bopper had to have those hairdos, but I could never pull them off. When I opted out of the performance company after a couple of years, I went to one of the women at the salon, thinking that, finally, with just the pre-teen scene to deal with, I, too, could have the perfect haircut. Wrong. That cut was a disaster, leaving me with what could only be called, had the term actually been coined then, a mullet. A big curly fro on top and longer hair down the back. All of which I tried to blowdry and curling iron into submission. I cried and cried that night and to this day associate those awkward teen years with that haircut (though a look at pictures from the time confirms that I probably shouldn’t put it all on the hair).

Before senior year, I cut it all off and wore it short again, but it  wasn’t until college when I couldn’t afford haircuts that I finally came into my own with my hair. Letting it grow out had it’s wretched moments to be sure, but “bob” was something my crazy curly hair could sort of manage. There are all sorts of freedoms and independence that come with college and living away from home, but in my memory much of that inner growth is associated with the growth of my hair. My longer curly do was feminine and, dare I say, sexy and I finally felt those things for myself.

Fast forward to the adult years and you’d think that “hair” and “emotional barometer“ would no longer need to be in the same sentence…huh-uh. Several months after I got married and around the time I got pregnant for the first time I cut my hair again. Enough to be called “short”, but really not all that drastic. But when I had the miscarriage I suddenly felt a need to change things, shake them up. To take control in any area that I could. One trip to the hairstylist later and it was super short and red. So red that I just. wasn’t. sure. So I took a picture of myself and peeked at it every few hours to see if time helped my perception of it. Every look at that photo was more shocking - it was just soooo red. It was a full day - and a whole round of email attachments to friends and family - before my husband fessed up to having PhotoShopped the color a few shades brighter for better effect. Fortunately for him, my sense of humor was intact. 

These days my hair is back to brown (though I think about my red from time to time) and I’ve had the same sassy short cut for a while now. The cut I got at my mom’s salon wasn’t one that will likely make history. But then again, let’s give it some time.

Miss Harper

I’ve been thinking about this post for some time now. The idea of it started two topics ago with “culture” but never got written.  In considering that topic, I thought about whether or not I am a cultured person and if so how I came to be and I remembered Miss Harper. In fact I’ve never forgotten her, but she came quickly and clearly to mind in that context. And now with the topic of “learning” I think the time has come to tell you something about her...

Julia Mildred Harper was my ballet teacher. From the age of just about 4, I think, until 16 or so. I remember everything about that experience, vividly. The studio, the waiting room with its photographs and reproduction prints of ballets and ballerinas. The double doors that led into the studio and the long bench where the parents sat on visitation days. The piano and the pianist, the barre and the shiny wood floor. But most of all I remember Miss Harper and what she taught. Not dancing, though I did all right with that. What she taught was how to be a dancer or, in truth, how to be a lady.

She had rules: No fidgeting, of course, and no talking. Lineup at the barre was from shortest to tallest as were the lines of girls across the room when we moved out to the floor. One did not slouch. One wore only pink tights and a long sleeved black leotard. No skirts or spaghetti straps, no sparkle or lace. And if one wore underpants beneath the tights, they should not, under any circumstances, hang down so that they showed around the legs of the leotard. It was advisable to have a tissue handy if needed, but there was only one place to put it and that was tucked carefully into the wristband of your leotard.

All of these rules might have been oppressive I suppose (and I am sure that there were some families for whom they just did not work), but Miss Harper held herself to these standards as well. She wore pink tights and a black leotard herself, though hers did have a skirt. And she wore flat ballet slippers, but they laced up her ankles just like pointe shoes, which, of course, we all wished we could wear. She had short, perfectly styled silver hair and her makeup was impeccable with lipstick carefully applied. And large earrings – usually some sort of pearls clustered into flowers. She was quite statuesque, had perfect posture and a commanding voice. And she was magnificent. Truly.

From her and from that experience I gained a love of dance and movement that continues to this day. Maybe I would have cultivated that same love at a different dance school with a different teacher, but I think what I learned from Miss Harper was something else entirely. Respect. For dance and for the discipline that it took. And through that, for myself.

Uncle Murray's Garden

The end of an era has come for my family. Every year we spend many weekends in Canada on Lake Erie. We pack the weekends with swimming, skiing, biking, tubing, swimming, skiing….you get the idea. The town where our cottage sits is fairly busy with revelers, but only in the summer and mostly on the weekends. So there is little need for a full service grocery there. “Nelly’s” has mostly canned goods and other non-perishables, plus liquor, beer and anything you might need with that (limes, ice and chips). Milk we can get, but there’s not a vegetable or fruit in sight.

Lucky for us, we’ve had Uncle Murray. Not only could you always count on Murray (my husband’s uncle) to stop by one of many local farmer’s stands for whatever was in season, but you could also rest easy that Uncle Murray had planted the biggest, most overgrown of garden that you’ve (or at least I’ve) ever seen. There is something about the soil in Turkey Point I guess and definitely something in the crazy way that Murray planted (I know he’d been known to bury dead fish in the soil from time to time) because each year his garden was truly bursting with goodies from early summer on. Rhubarb and lettuce, then radishes, cucumbers and beans. And zucchini and tomatoes. And raspberries and grapes. And herbs, lots of herbs. His garden has always been a bit of a tangle because he packs everything in so close with no real path between rows. This year he had some trouble with rabbits so he enclosed it with a short fence but never put in a gate so you’d have to climb over straight into the tomato plants.

We didn’t always appreciate the garden. It seemed like Murray had a way of over doing the planting and under doing the picking, cleaning and cooking that the produce required. When he did bring something into the house, it would be a zucchini as big as your thigh and he’d remark on how it should probably be eaten within the next day or so, no matter that you already had dinner ½ way done, only 3 people to feed and were leaving the next day. “Murray!” we’d mutter under our breath and then set another plate at the table.

And now Murray is gone. He died two weeks ago, suddenly. And as we push our way through the thick tomato vines, we realize what a gift we had all along. With every bean and every bite of tomato we feel it. Murray wasn’t a demonstrative man by any means but this was the way he loved you. Turns out it was how he connected with most of the neighbors too – numerous people have stopped by in the last 2 weeks to give us their sympathies and almost every one has specifically mentioned his garden and the veggies he would bring to them over the years.

So as one last tribute to Uncle Murray, I am giving you one of the recipes that made the most of everything the garden had to offer. Gazpacho, summer at its best. And for us, Murray’s Garden through and through.

• 4 cups tomato juice
• 1 onion, minced
• 1 green bell pepper, minced
• 1 cucumber, chopped
• 2 cups chopped tomatoes
• 2 green onions, chopped
• 1 clove garlic, minced
• 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
• 1 tablespoon fresh basil, chopped
• 1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley
• 1 teaspoon sugar (optional)
• salt and pepper to taste

I like to roughly chop the veggies and add it to a big bowl with the juice and other ingredients. And then I pour about half into a blender and puree it. Add it back in with the rest and see how you like the texture. Some people like a smooth soup, but I like mine to have some chunks. To make it the yummiest, serve with sour cream and homemade croutons (dried bread hunks, swirled around in butter that you melted in a skillet along with several cloves of garlic).

Food and Family

I find it interesting that, for me, this has been the hardest topic to pin down yet. Food really does play such a complicated role in our lives doesn’t it? Through some of your posts and through some introspection, I realize how much I really do think about food everyday. What I’m eating and how much. What my family is eating and when. What I am buying, where I am buying it. It’s wrapped up in my thoughts on health, happiness, the environment, my finances. It’s everyday. So to get at the heart of it, I think I’ll go back to the beginning…food and family. This is where it starts, right? Our approach to eating and food? For me, yes.

For the most part I think my family life laid down some pretty good food foundations. My mom (related to the southern contingent we’ve heard a bit about on this blog) is a “from scratch” cook as was her mother before her. My grandmother makes biscuits without a recipe and without measuring and you’ve never tasted better. Mom can’t quite do that but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cake or muffin or pancake mix in the house. All baked goods are from scratch as is most everything else. Maybe in recent years a few more flavored rice pouches and grocery prepared items have made their way onto the table, but for the most part everything is homemade. As a result I don’t have much of an affinity for processed foods and in fact can be downright snobby about them I’m afraid. Dinner gatherings and holiday parties are exhausting affairs around here because I just can’t stand to put anything on the table that I didn’t make. It just doesn’t seem right somehow.

Even though southern cooking is probably not at the top of anyone's list of “paths to healthier eating,” I think the consciousness with which I try to cook and eat now has it roots in it. My mom’s way of cooking, after all, is its own kind of “whole food”. If there had been a label on any of the meals my mom made for us, I would have been able to pronounce and identify every ingredient. Maybe I’d have gotten sticker shock at the fat content more often than not, but at least I’d know what I was eating.

It makes me laugh now, but, I suppose I should also give my dad some credit for his part in exposing me to the idea of health(y) foods and organic gardening. He became interested in all sorts of green living ideas (solar panels, composting toilets, organic gardening) way before it was cool. At the time, we all filed it away as another example of his crazy thinking. It didn’t help that he insisted on creating these weirdo recipes for things like “Oatballs” and “Nature Boy Pancakes” that, at least in their first iterations, were barely edible. “Ewww, gross!,” we would say and roll our eyes, but just the other day I bought something at Whole Foods called “Laura’s Wholesome Junk Food” that I must say bear a striking resemblance to what “Oatballs” were at least supposed to be. He had it right, even if his methods were a little off.

Another constant in my childhood was dinner at the table. With everyone. Almost every night if I remember correctly. And we talked to each other. There was no TV in the dining room or where anyone could see it from the table. If there was a special program on or, once the VCR came along, a particular movie that we were going to watch, it was like this special occasion where we got to eat in the living room, but otherwise, back to the table. Maybe it is old fashioned, but I plan to keep that tradition alive as much as possible with my own family. Maybe that concept is more related to family than it is to food, but I think it did its part to plant the seed for me that food is fellowship. In fact I could probably write another whole post about fond family memories in which food plays at least a supporting role. But for now…I think I’ll just call my mom.

Patient? Not so much.

Overall I would describe myself as an extremely healthy person. I eat well, my weight is good. I take a dance class every week. I run a 9 ½ minute mile on a good day and have started training for a women’s only triathlon. I used to be able to fill out a medical history form in mere minutes, quickly checking “no” in virtually every box. But the last few years have complicated things somewhat. I wasn’t sure I would tell you about it  (I am new to blogging and my personal rollercoasters usually stay between me and my friends and family), but Jackie’s courage in sharing her story made me decide to share mine.

So here’s what’s wrong with me…I can’t have kids. Yes I do have a son, but that’s a different story that will have to wait, (is “Gifts” on the list of topics? “Family Projects?” “Wonders of Technology?”, “Reactions to the Film “Baby Mama?”), but what I mean is: I can’t bear children.

The journey that lead to that discovery was a health related nightmare. I’ll try to keep the details brief and concentrate on my point, but some backstory is probably important. I guess the account could also be a PSA, so it has that going for it.

So, the problem: I have something called Asherman’s Syndrome. Asherman’s is effectively scarring of the uterus. It’s an acquired condition – it typically happens following D&C which is used all too frequently following miscarriage. A form of D&C is also often used if a woman has retained placenta after the birth of a child, sometimes when a woman has abnormal periods and of course to terminate unwanted pregnancies. In my case it was miscarriages. Two. After the second D&C, my period never returned. Thanks to Dr. Google (don’t try this at home) I actually diagnosed myself before my doctors could – Asherman’s is relatively unknown or maybe misunderstood. I don’t want to say “rare”, because the numbers don’t necessarily bear that out, but none of my doctors believed that I could really have it and only one professed to ever having seen it.

Now, a diagnosis of Asherman’s, in and of itself, is not a death knell for your fertility. There are various stages of severity and several surgeons in the US that have had excellent results with uterine repair. In some cases, the scars are flat and on the surface of the uterine lining, in others they form a web across the opening. In my case, the most severe form, the uterus is completely “obliterated’ (as one convivial doctor put it while taking off his gloves and straightening his tie). Flat as a pancake. Picture a balloon with just a bit of air in it – nice uterus. Now picture that balloon after some kid has spit in it and then stuck it in a drawer for awhile - all dried up and stuck together, right? That was mine. Not a nice place for an embryo.  Anyway – I was lucky enough (read: resourceful enough, advantaged enough) to find (thanks to an online info source and support group: www.ashermans.org )a fantastic surgeon in another state who opened my uterus back up. My periods returned but, unfortunately, not my fertility. My uterine lining just didn’t recover enough.

So that’s the backstory, but here’s what I really want to write about…being a patient sucks. It really sucks. The actual diagnosis was devastating, but the fact that I practically had to make it myself was mind blowing. The procedures seemed endless, but sometimes more draining were the calls to insurance companies and clinics. The trips to labs and the filling out of forms. The collecting of papers, the faxing of releases, the answering of questions. The waiting - both for doctors and for results. In short, the management of my own case. J and I talked a lot about how fortunate we were to be educated people. To be financially stable. To be supported by our families in so many ways. We knew for example that it was ok to question the doctor, knew we could get second (and third) opinions, knew we could do what it took. Others, of course, not so lucky.

Don’t get me wrong, the medical stuff sucked too. As I said above, I usually consider myself to be extremely healthy. But what a number something like this will do to your psyche! Suddenly, I felt like a sick person. With all of the blood draws and medications to take. The invasive procedures, the pain. The catheter, for god’s sake. And sometimes I felt like a victim. Whenever I had to deal with that one asshat physician or remind the nurses, after giving the date of my last menstrual period, that “No, I am not pregnant, thanks”. The emotional energy that it takes to weather all of that can’t be overstated. And in the grand scheme of terminal illnesses and chronic conditions, what I got ain’t so bad, right? What must others go through? 

Now, I guess, the Asherman’s is effectively behind me. We could have pursued other medical options to try and fix whatever is still wrong with my endometrium, but enough was enough. With luck and love, we found another way. So it’s back to healthy for me, and I’ll hope it stays that way. But if not, maybe at least next time, I’ll know what I’m in for.

Hobby meet Life

So maybe I misunderstand the word “hobby” but I don’t think I have any. First of all, in my mind, “hobby” applies only to things people did in the Fifties: stamp collecting, model airplane building, bird watching. But the bigger problem is that, to me, a hobby - like Lynn said - is a pursuit that is all consuming. Of spare time and money. A continual thing, persistent.

And it’s not like that with me. I have many interests, but what is most interesting is how my interests have weathered life. How they have shifted over time given different life situations and happenings. Activities that used to bring me joy, have become obligations and things that were once “had to dos” are now welcomed. And back again.

Take gardening for example. When I was single and lived in an apartment gardening might have been a hobby. Something that I wanted to do and chose to spend a sunny Saturday doing for no reason other than because I enjoyed it. Digging beds, planting flowers, even weeding. But now that I live in a house with far too much yard, gardening has become a chore. It needs to be done. It pressures me through the windows: “That back bed is going to hell”, “We’ve got to do something about the front lawn!” Given the time, I am still able to enjoy putting in a few annuals and get a thrill out of picking carrots that started as seeds, but it’s not something that I can follow through on. Not now, anyway, but check with me after the kids are in college.

A different example…knitting. I taught myself to knit with chop sticks when I was somewhere around ten years old. I finally got real needles and played with them here and there over the years, but didn’t really get going til college. Since then it has grown into a favorite distraction, but there have been times when it doesn’t soothe me. Like when I found out I was pregnant for the first time and excitedly, lovingly picked out yarn for a baby blanket. I think I had about 6 inches knit on my pattern in a fabulous green – not too boy, not too girl - when I had the miscarriage. I stopped knitting for almost a year; my once favorite pastime now too painful.  I knit again now, but still haven’t been able to frog or finish that blanket. Or knit any other baby blanket for that matter. My nephews each have one from their Ashley-aunt, but the later born nieces had to settle for sweaters instead.

And the list goes on. Cooking…love to try new recipes, impress a guest, gorge on the goodies, but when it is Monday night and J is later coming home than he said he would and Baby Boy is pulling on my leg howling “Up!” “Up!”…it’s time for take-out. Reading…I’m a reader from way back. But put me in a book club and the pressure is on.

And then there are the interests that have benefited from the pressures of life. Take sewing for example. My sister and I have decided to try out an etsy shop to peddle our wares and my creativity is the better for it I think. The “business” gave me a focus that allowed the ideas to flow. Still have to sew them, mind, but the ideas are going strong. And then there is writing. I have a deadline of sorts for my contributions here, but I have looked forward to each entry so far. It is nice actually to take the time to concentrate on one thing. To consider who I am these days. To focus.

Maybe that can be my new hobby…focusing.

One More

Who am I? I hope the other “assignments” are easier than this one. I feel like I am so many things and so few…

I’m a wife. For five years now. Or longer if you listen to my husband. He likes to pretend that it feels like an eternity.

I’m a mother. A new role for me but one that was a long time in coming. I love almost every minute of my new job, but definitely am grateful for some ‘me’ time each week as well. As I write this I laugh to myself b/c I now hear Baby Boy yelling “Poop!” from his crib where he’s just woken from his nap and know that my ‘me’ time is over for the day. More later…

I am an auditory-verbal therapist. That means that I work with deaf children and their families helping them to learn to hear and speak. I love this too but am feeling good at the moment about doing it only a few days per week. Patience with other people’s children is harder to come by on some days when I want to be with my own or when I need a break from kiddies in general. Consulting makes a nice balance.

I am a crafty craftster. I knit a lot, crochet some and chomping at the bit to sew more. I have my very own “arts and crap” room even, but we are thinking of making it into another baby’s room. Some days I’m not sure which I want more – another baby or a bigger stash.

I’m a sometimes athlete. I run – sporadically - and I’ve done a few short triathlons – in the past. But it seems like just when I get myself in a good groove with training, something happens to break the momentum. Sometimes it is something serious but usually it is just my lack of dedication. I used to be a dancer and recently have sort of re-discovered my dance self through a Nia class at the Y. Really loving that.

I’m 38 - don’t know how I got here. It’s that age (one of them) where I’m too young to be old and too old to be young. I still feel like a kid but find myself in that demographic where you are supposed to “check with your doctor before beginning this exercise program/eating plant/dance class”. That can’t be right, can it?

I’m a transplant - a Southerner living in the cold North. Don’t know how I got here either. Summers here in Michigan are fantastic, but it took some doing to get used to the winters. There is a lot that I love about the town in which I live but I wish it were on the east coast. I do miss my family on many days. I’m so happy to have some of my girls here on Women’s Work with me. I’m looking forward to getting to know them better this way.

And that is me….I’m Ashley.