The Writing Mamas Daily Blog
Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
There But for the Grace of God
She still has all her teeth except for one. The gap occupies the upper corner of her mouth. It’s a dark space that can be easily missed if you weren’t looking closely for missing teeth, the way I am.
Her skin is good. There are no sores, no blemishes. She has the skin of a thirty year old, I have the skin of a fourty-three year old, but we are both thirty-nine.
How can she have such creamy skin and how can she look so young after everything she’s be through? I feel jealous and bewildered by her skin, then ashamed. Do I need to begrudge her this? This is the very least she is entitled to, good skin and youthful looks.
A few theories tick off in my mind; she has good skin because of her Greek heritage. Mediterranean’s are known for aging better than say, Celts.
Maybe it’s because I drink too much and she rarely does. She especially doesn’t like to drink when she is doing methamphetamine, which is often.
Perhaps it’s because I wake up every morning way before I am ready, answering the surprisingly well-articulated demands of my toddler who likes to rise at six a.m. or even earlier. Every morning, when I meet those demands, I feel that I am losing years of my life. Isn’t that what they say in Chinese medicine? That every child takes five years off your life?
She has another theory.
“It’s because I was dead, three times. I’ve stopped aging and that is why. Because I died three times last year, and was in a coma for twenty-eight days”
Now seems like a good time to ask her about what happened, so I do. After some tangential meandering she gets around to telling me. And then we end up talking for more than three hours straight, though it feels as if only twenty minutes have passed.
She was eight months pregnant, and wished she could stop using meth, but she couldn’t. Her neighbor urged her to go for pre-natal care, but she didn’t. She was ashamed of being fat and ashamed of her inability to keep a prenatal appointment.
“I didn’t realize it was a child,” she said.
After doing some speed one night, she felt pains. The possible father of her child urged her not to call an ambulance. They will test your urine, he said. You will go to jail. CPS will take your baby. They will take our baby.
Another friend who was there disagreed. An ambulance was called and she was taken to UCSF, where they had to hold her down because she was scared and thrashing around, calling the nurses around her “a bunch of dykes” and demanding that they get off her.
“The last thing I remembered was a needle going in my vein. After that I was in a coma for twenty-eight days.”
When she woke up she was told her baby had died, and she had nearly died, too. She had three heart attacks while unconscious. Her uterus had been removed. She would never bear children again.
She showed me the scar on her abdomen where they had cut her open. I have seen many caesarian scars before, but none remotely like this. There is a deep and vertical, jagged crevice running from the top of her belly down to the bottom. It doesn’t look like a surgeon made an incision, but rather a greedy or angry person who haphazardly pulled out chunks of flesh by the fistful. The only scars I’ve seen similar to this one are the scars of heroin users who had contracted a horrible disease called “flesh-eating bacteria.”
Many bits about her ordeal don’t make sense and I find myself becoming frustrated and stuck on the small details.
“What do you mean; they wouldn’t let you see the baby in the morgue? They still had the baby in the morgue twenty-eight days later?” Eventually I have to let go of my desire to get the details. Talking to Stacy is like this. Her narratives convey a truth through fantastical stories.
That she lost the child I am certain. I am also certain that she is not lying when she says she’s been homeless for many months. She was released form the hospital soon after waking from her coma, her muscles atrophied and weak. She had nowhere to go.
Then a request for a favor. She believes they stole the baby from her and handed him over to her former neighbor, the same one who urged her to get care. She begs me to take down the address and knock on the woman’s door to check if the baby is there.
“I'm going to want to think about that,” I tell her. I am surprised to discover a small part of me is willing to believe that maybe they did hide the baby from her. Stacy always had the ability to be persuasive. She may not have made it this far if she didn’t have that quality.
I am also surprised that throughout our conversation this child of hers has remained an abstraction to me, which is only natural since he is an abstraction to her.
“I didn’t realize it was a child.”
I gather my things to leave. “Do you have a picture of your kid?” she asks.
I do. I open my wallet and show it to her. He is two months shy of being two years old. Her child would have been 18 months old.
“Doesn’t he look exactly like Don and me?” I ask.
It is not accidental that I point this out. There’s a good chance that her story will change and I will be cast as the villain, the one who conspired to take her child, the one raising her child. I’ve been the object of her paranoid delusions before. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve found it impossible to remain friends with her and hadn’t seen her for two years before spotting her with her pit bull on the express line at the Safeway on Potrero and 16th streets.
You are probably reading this and wondering how I know this person. You may even be wondering why I would associate with such a person.
The truth is she and I am not as different as you may think. We’ve known each other for twenty-two years. We went to the same college together in New Jersey. We both come from middle-class suburban homes.
Fate has been exceptionally good to me, and I continuously reap enormous blessings.
Fate and, well, luck, have not been very good to her at all. Since leaving college she’s experienced some incredible “hard knocks.”
We hug and I leave. I don’t know when I will see her again, or if I will see her again.
By Ellen Catalina
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Her skin is good. There are no sores, no blemishes. She has the skin of a thirty year old, I have the skin of a fourty-three year old, but we are both thirty-nine.
How can she have such creamy skin and how can she look so young after everything she’s be through? I feel jealous and bewildered by her skin, then ashamed. Do I need to begrudge her this? This is the very least she is entitled to, good skin and youthful looks.
A few theories tick off in my mind; she has good skin because of her Greek heritage. Mediterranean’s are known for aging better than say, Celts.
Maybe it’s because I drink too much and she rarely does. She especially doesn’t like to drink when she is doing methamphetamine, which is often.
Perhaps it’s because I wake up every morning way before I am ready, answering the surprisingly well-articulated demands of my toddler who likes to rise at six a.m. or even earlier. Every morning, when I meet those demands, I feel that I am losing years of my life. Isn’t that what they say in Chinese medicine? That every child takes five years off your life?
She has another theory.
“It’s because I was dead, three times. I’ve stopped aging and that is why. Because I died three times last year, and was in a coma for twenty-eight days”
Now seems like a good time to ask her about what happened, so I do. After some tangential meandering she gets around to telling me. And then we end up talking for more than three hours straight, though it feels as if only twenty minutes have passed.
She was eight months pregnant, and wished she could stop using meth, but she couldn’t. Her neighbor urged her to go for pre-natal care, but she didn’t. She was ashamed of being fat and ashamed of her inability to keep a prenatal appointment.
“I didn’t realize it was a child,” she said.
After doing some speed one night, she felt pains. The possible father of her child urged her not to call an ambulance. They will test your urine, he said. You will go to jail. CPS will take your baby. They will take our baby.
Another friend who was there disagreed. An ambulance was called and she was taken to UCSF, where they had to hold her down because she was scared and thrashing around, calling the nurses around her “a bunch of dykes” and demanding that they get off her.
“The last thing I remembered was a needle going in my vein. After that I was in a coma for twenty-eight days.”
When she woke up she was told her baby had died, and she had nearly died, too. She had three heart attacks while unconscious. Her uterus had been removed. She would never bear children again.
She showed me the scar on her abdomen where they had cut her open. I have seen many caesarian scars before, but none remotely like this. There is a deep and vertical, jagged crevice running from the top of her belly down to the bottom. It doesn’t look like a surgeon made an incision, but rather a greedy or angry person who haphazardly pulled out chunks of flesh by the fistful. The only scars I’ve seen similar to this one are the scars of heroin users who had contracted a horrible disease called “flesh-eating bacteria.”
Many bits about her ordeal don’t make sense and I find myself becoming frustrated and stuck on the small details.
“What do you mean; they wouldn’t let you see the baby in the morgue? They still had the baby in the morgue twenty-eight days later?” Eventually I have to let go of my desire to get the details. Talking to Stacy is like this. Her narratives convey a truth through fantastical stories.
That she lost the child I am certain. I am also certain that she is not lying when she says she’s been homeless for many months. She was released form the hospital soon after waking from her coma, her muscles atrophied and weak. She had nowhere to go.
Then a request for a favor. She believes they stole the baby from her and handed him over to her former neighbor, the same one who urged her to get care. She begs me to take down the address and knock on the woman’s door to check if the baby is there.
“I'm going to want to think about that,” I tell her. I am surprised to discover a small part of me is willing to believe that maybe they did hide the baby from her. Stacy always had the ability to be persuasive. She may not have made it this far if she didn’t have that quality.
I am also surprised that throughout our conversation this child of hers has remained an abstraction to me, which is only natural since he is an abstraction to her.
“I didn’t realize it was a child.”
I gather my things to leave. “Do you have a picture of your kid?” she asks.
I do. I open my wallet and show it to her. He is two months shy of being two years old. Her child would have been 18 months old.
“Doesn’t he look exactly like Don and me?” I ask.
It is not accidental that I point this out. There’s a good chance that her story will change and I will be cast as the villain, the one who conspired to take her child, the one raising her child. I’ve been the object of her paranoid delusions before. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve found it impossible to remain friends with her and hadn’t seen her for two years before spotting her with her pit bull on the express line at the Safeway on Potrero and 16th streets.
You are probably reading this and wondering how I know this person. You may even be wondering why I would associate with such a person.
The truth is she and I am not as different as you may think. We’ve known each other for twenty-two years. We went to the same college together in New Jersey. We both come from middle-class suburban homes.
Fate has been exceptionally good to me, and I continuously reap enormous blessings.
Fate and, well, luck, have not been very good to her at all. Since leaving college she’s experienced some incredible “hard knocks.”
We hug and I leave. I don’t know when I will see her again, or if I will see her again.
By Ellen Catalina
Labels: Ellen Catalina, San Francisco
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Sunday, November 18, 2007
Perfectly at Home
Today I find myself in the unenviable position of having to entertain guests in my home. These are not just any guests, but guests I haven’t yet personally met.
Three weeks ago I placed in ad on craigslist announcing my intention to start a parent-run childcare co-operative. At the time, I felt at the end of my rope parenting my toddler alone day after day. I suspected there were others out there who felt similarly and that they would be as reluctant as I am to pay for a daycare service. Through the Internet my suspicions were confirmed and I was able to electronically communicate with parents who responded to my ad and who were interested in building this thing with me.
Tonight is the night we will meet in my home, and there is only one problem: I don’t feel ready.
For one thing, there are dirty dishes in my sink. Also, my carpets are grimy and overdue for a steam cleaning. Oh, and there is a basket of laundry I wanted to fold and put away before welcoming strangers into my abode. And I stink. Did I mention I didn’t have the chance to take a shower today? Which means that in addition to stinking, I also have greasy hair.
What will happen when these mothers come to my house and see my greasy hair and dirty carpets? Will they feel that they couldn’t trust their children with me?
When it comes to art, my aesthetic is to value that which isn’t perfect. I adore the handmade ceramic bowl with an out-of place blob of color that splashed up when the potter lowered the bowl into the glaze. Sculptures crafted from rusty, decaying bedsprings that have been ‘reclaimed’ and reborn as art. Abstract paintings that look so primitive and simple, a child may have painted them.
But when it comes to my home and my appearance, my aesthetic takes a radical departure. I envy the washboard-flat; slightly concave abdomen flashed by a supermodel over the tire that is my own abdomen. I lust after the light, airy, and uncluttered homes I see in “Sunset” magazine, complete with rooms painted in impeccably matched earth tones. I voyeuristically observe the dinner parties featured on its pages, the Pacific Rim cuisine looking delicious, the napkins on the table matching the ceramic “accent” vase poised on the mantelpiece. This is how entertaining should be.
Yet, I’ve rarely been entertained this way. I’m sure the food at such a gathering would be amazing, but would I be able to tell an off-color joke? Drink one too many glasses of wine? Break into an arm-wresting match with my husband and son, bystanders shouting their bets over us? In short, would it be that much fun?
There is a simple remedy for all my imperfections-throwing money at the problem. A housecleaner can sterilize my home and put it into order. Laser treatments can zap the errant hairs from my chin, and a tummy-tuck can help me approximate the concavity of a movie star’s belly. So I can work, and spend, and become perfect, but to what end? Would there be a medal at the end of it all, or a spread in Sunset? Would I win the envy of my peers? Because “perfect” is only perfect when there is imperfection out there.
A perfect home is only enviable because most homes aren’t that way. Most people at some point value their time, their relationships with others, and their lives too much to spend all their time, and money, on making their bodies and homes appear perfect.
The truth is -- I’ve never been close to those who are perfect. I find it impossible to enjoy intimacy with some one unless I can see that they are imperfect, human, and vulnerable. In turn, I cannot expect others to feel intimate with me unless I am willing to be vulnerable with them. Which may mean I have to let them see a dirty dish in the sink. Or notice that when I smile, my teeth are stained yellow.
Tonight I hope to embark on an imperfect relationship with imperfect people. I expect to feel nervous when they enter my living room and see the carpet. But I hope that despite their own imperfections, they are able to sense that I am really nervous because I want them to like me, I want this co-op to work, and I want to like them, too.
And from there we will move forward.
Ellen Catalina Stumble This Post
Three weeks ago I placed in ad on craigslist announcing my intention to start a parent-run childcare co-operative. At the time, I felt at the end of my rope parenting my toddler alone day after day. I suspected there were others out there who felt similarly and that they would be as reluctant as I am to pay for a daycare service. Through the Internet my suspicions were confirmed and I was able to electronically communicate with parents who responded to my ad and who were interested in building this thing with me.
Tonight is the night we will meet in my home, and there is only one problem: I don’t feel ready.
For one thing, there are dirty dishes in my sink. Also, my carpets are grimy and overdue for a steam cleaning. Oh, and there is a basket of laundry I wanted to fold and put away before welcoming strangers into my abode. And I stink. Did I mention I didn’t have the chance to take a shower today? Which means that in addition to stinking, I also have greasy hair.
What will happen when these mothers come to my house and see my greasy hair and dirty carpets? Will they feel that they couldn’t trust their children with me?
When it comes to art, my aesthetic is to value that which isn’t perfect. I adore the handmade ceramic bowl with an out-of place blob of color that splashed up when the potter lowered the bowl into the glaze. Sculptures crafted from rusty, decaying bedsprings that have been ‘reclaimed’ and reborn as art. Abstract paintings that look so primitive and simple, a child may have painted them.
But when it comes to my home and my appearance, my aesthetic takes a radical departure. I envy the washboard-flat; slightly concave abdomen flashed by a supermodel over the tire that is my own abdomen. I lust after the light, airy, and uncluttered homes I see in “Sunset” magazine, complete with rooms painted in impeccably matched earth tones. I voyeuristically observe the dinner parties featured on its pages, the Pacific Rim cuisine looking delicious, the napkins on the table matching the ceramic “accent” vase poised on the mantelpiece. This is how entertaining should be.
Yet, I’ve rarely been entertained this way. I’m sure the food at such a gathering would be amazing, but would I be able to tell an off-color joke? Drink one too many glasses of wine? Break into an arm-wresting match with my husband and son, bystanders shouting their bets over us? In short, would it be that much fun?
There is a simple remedy for all my imperfections-throwing money at the problem. A housecleaner can sterilize my home and put it into order. Laser treatments can zap the errant hairs from my chin, and a tummy-tuck can help me approximate the concavity of a movie star’s belly. So I can work, and spend, and become perfect, but to what end? Would there be a medal at the end of it all, or a spread in Sunset? Would I win the envy of my peers? Because “perfect” is only perfect when there is imperfection out there.
A perfect home is only enviable because most homes aren’t that way. Most people at some point value their time, their relationships with others, and their lives too much to spend all their time, and money, on making their bodies and homes appear perfect.
The truth is -- I’ve never been close to those who are perfect. I find it impossible to enjoy intimacy with some one unless I can see that they are imperfect, human, and vulnerable. In turn, I cannot expect others to feel intimate with me unless I am willing to be vulnerable with them. Which may mean I have to let them see a dirty dish in the sink. Or notice that when I smile, my teeth are stained yellow.
Tonight I hope to embark on an imperfect relationship with imperfect people. I expect to feel nervous when they enter my living room and see the carpet. But I hope that despite their own imperfections, they are able to sense that I am really nervous because I want them to like me, I want this co-op to work, and I want to like them, too.
And from there we will move forward.
Ellen Catalina
Labels: Ellen Catalina, San Francisco
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Sunday, October 21, 2007
Abortion & Ex
What do you do when you run into the man you had an abortion with, and you’re with your new baby?
His hair looked greyer, and he had gained some weight. It was clearly him, though, and he was coming towards me. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. There was a look of recognition on his face, and a look of resignation on mine.
I was about to run into a man I’d had an abortion with thirteen years ago. And I had my eighteen-month-old baby with me.
I realize that for some people this situation might not feel quite so awkward. Many people have relationships -- most of those relationships don’t work out. Sometimes an unwanted pregnancy happens, some of those pregnancies end in abortion. Couples break up, they hurt, they feel bitter or lonely and then they heal. They meet someone new, they move on. With some luck they marry or move in with a more compatible mate.
Life continues.
The story of this relationship is different. I did find my mate in the ever after, but I’m not so sure my ex-boyfriend ever will. Diego (not his real name) is a paranoid schizophrenic, a man who lives on a limited income provided by Social Security. When off his medications, he is given to paranoid delusions, believes that people are sending him secret signals, when in fact they are merely picking up a pencil that they dropped on the ground or cleaning their eyeglasses with a bit of tissue.
While a smart and kind person, Diego often suffers from poor judgment and insight. Friendships are difficult for him to maintain. So are romantic relationships. Although it’s difficult to connect with people, he has a strong desire to make those connections, to get married, have kids: lead a “normal” life. He is not alone in experiencing these problems. Many schizophrenics complain of similar difficulties, and some are driven by their loneliness to commit suicide.
Diego did not want me to have an abortion when we learned of my pregnancy. He clearly hoped that we would raise a child together in subsidized government housing, supported by Social Security and welfare payments. He argued for us to begin a family, tried hard to reassure me that it would all turn out okay, that we could get by. There was no genetic history of schizophrenia in his family, he said, reading my mind, because I was afraid to say, “I don’t want to have my children live like you do.”
Then I did a thing that many people would consider cruel and unethical: I moved unilaterally. I had two close girlfriends pick me up and take me to the clinic, where I endured a cheap, and therefore painful, abortion without general anesthesia or sedatives. Afterwards, we drove to the Mission where they bought me burritos while I sat on the curb, cradling my head in my hands over the gutter, ready to vomit if it came, but hoping the nausea would pass and I wouldn’t have to. I never did puke that day, nor did I touch my burrito. They ate theirs, gave me hugs, and dropped me off at my apartment shared with two male roommates, where I changed my Maxi Pad, took my antibiotic, and curled up on my bed.
I don’t remember exactly when I told him, but at some point I did, and he responded with the sadness and disappointment one would expect of a man who had clearly stated that he wanted to be a father and had been denied the opportunity. There was no slamming of doors, no raised voices. This was not the first time this had happened to him and I don’t think he was terribly surprised. He was obviously sad, though. An opportunity lost not just to be a father, but to be “normal.” To do what the world has been doing since the dawn of time: bringing forth and nurturing a future generation.
On the street I pled my case for early release. “It’s good to see you! Where are you living now? So sorry, but I’m in a big rush. I really, really have to go.” He would have liked to linger longer, but let me go on, forever powerless to control the people around him, forever doomed to believe that they are controlling him.
By Ellen Catalina Stumble This Post
His hair looked greyer, and he had gained some weight. It was clearly him, though, and he was coming towards me. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. There was a look of recognition on his face, and a look of resignation on mine.
I was about to run into a man I’d had an abortion with thirteen years ago. And I had my eighteen-month-old baby with me.
I realize that for some people this situation might not feel quite so awkward. Many people have relationships -- most of those relationships don’t work out. Sometimes an unwanted pregnancy happens, some of those pregnancies end in abortion. Couples break up, they hurt, they feel bitter or lonely and then they heal. They meet someone new, they move on. With some luck they marry or move in with a more compatible mate.
Life continues.
The story of this relationship is different. I did find my mate in the ever after, but I’m not so sure my ex-boyfriend ever will. Diego (not his real name) is a paranoid schizophrenic, a man who lives on a limited income provided by Social Security. When off his medications, he is given to paranoid delusions, believes that people are sending him secret signals, when in fact they are merely picking up a pencil that they dropped on the ground or cleaning their eyeglasses with a bit of tissue.
While a smart and kind person, Diego often suffers from poor judgment and insight. Friendships are difficult for him to maintain. So are romantic relationships. Although it’s difficult to connect with people, he has a strong desire to make those connections, to get married, have kids: lead a “normal” life. He is not alone in experiencing these problems. Many schizophrenics complain of similar difficulties, and some are driven by their loneliness to commit suicide.
Diego did not want me to have an abortion when we learned of my pregnancy. He clearly hoped that we would raise a child together in subsidized government housing, supported by Social Security and welfare payments. He argued for us to begin a family, tried hard to reassure me that it would all turn out okay, that we could get by. There was no genetic history of schizophrenia in his family, he said, reading my mind, because I was afraid to say, “I don’t want to have my children live like you do.”
Then I did a thing that many people would consider cruel and unethical: I moved unilaterally. I had two close girlfriends pick me up and take me to the clinic, where I endured a cheap, and therefore painful, abortion without general anesthesia or sedatives. Afterwards, we drove to the Mission where they bought me burritos while I sat on the curb, cradling my head in my hands over the gutter, ready to vomit if it came, but hoping the nausea would pass and I wouldn’t have to. I never did puke that day, nor did I touch my burrito. They ate theirs, gave me hugs, and dropped me off at my apartment shared with two male roommates, where I changed my Maxi Pad, took my antibiotic, and curled up on my bed.
I don’t remember exactly when I told him, but at some point I did, and he responded with the sadness and disappointment one would expect of a man who had clearly stated that he wanted to be a father and had been denied the opportunity. There was no slamming of doors, no raised voices. This was not the first time this had happened to him and I don’t think he was terribly surprised. He was obviously sad, though. An opportunity lost not just to be a father, but to be “normal.” To do what the world has been doing since the dawn of time: bringing forth and nurturing a future generation.
On the street I pled my case for early release. “It’s good to see you! Where are you living now? So sorry, but I’m in a big rush. I really, really have to go.” He would have liked to linger longer, but let me go on, forever powerless to control the people around him, forever doomed to believe that they are controlling him.
By Ellen Catalina
Labels: Ellen Catalina, San Francisco
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