It must have all started when Dorothy Provine, star of the 1960s television series, The Roaring Twenties, began doing commercials for something called Feminine Deodorant Spray (FDS, as it was named). I was around 13 when the show went off the air and could not figure out why women would need a special deodorant, but later caught on when Esquire Magazine, in its Dubious Achievement Awards, gave her the title of “Sweet Peas of the Year.” Provine’s groundbreaking work broke ground for all manner of commercials dealing with all manner of issues, the personal nature of which one would have assumed rendered them taboo. To cite H.L. Mencken, “Nobody ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American people.” Today proved it.
Driving down Main Street in Bridgeport, Connecticut, I saw the sign of the future; somebody’s future, anyway. There, amid convenience stores, travel agents, insurance agents, cell phone dealers and various types of restaurants stood the building which, according to the sign, houses the Center for Gestational Surrogacy. The CGS has no website that I was able to find but there are several others listed on the Web and the first one I went to states that in order to be a surrogate, the first requirement is that you be female. Glad they cleared that one up. But what about the prospective parents?
DISCLAIMER: I HAVE NO CHILDREN LOF MY OWN AND HAVE NEVER HAD A HAND IN THE RAISING OF CHILDREN EXCEPT FOR BABYSITTING MY SIBLINGS. Yeah, that includes diaper changes.
The whole issue bothers me, though, and I suppose there is no reason in the world that it should. However, when looked at through a certain lens, it becomes apparent to me that people believe they have a right to have children no matter what. Having observed various parenting behaviors in public throughout my life, it is my belief that there should be some sort of test given before people are allowed to procreate.
Before running off to Wombs-R-Us, they should be tested for the ability to handle the stress of an unruly child in public places. Before being accepted as prospective parents by Egg-Stravaganza, Inc., perhaps there could be a sleep deprivation test.
Having children may be a right, but I consider it more of a privilege than a right and, I am afraid some people consider it more a rite than a right. Two teenage girls were walking through the shopping mall I refer to as Trumbull Babylon, one pushing a baby carriage and complaining that she could not get her homework done due to caring for her child. The other commiserated but then said, “I really want one, too. I don’t care about the homework.” Maybe the Egg Farm should move to the mall. I can see it now: Eddie Bauer Wombs competing with Womb-A-Rama. Wombs To Go cheek by jowl with Discount Wombs. Victoria’s Wombs going up against Select-A-Womb. For home delivery, just call Dial-A-Womb. The list could go on and on, but I’ll leave it here as I go to bed and curl into the fetal position.
2010-05-13
2010-05-12
Ship of Jerks
It has been two days since I picked up Ship of Fools by Katherine Anne Porter. That is to say, two days since I have read any more of it. Out of 497 pages I have read 290 pages describing sheer hatred, malice, backbiting, detestation, repugnance, disgust, vitriol, abomination, loathing, abhorrence, resentment, petty jealousy, displeasure, anti-Semitism, spite and just overall bad behavior among a group of passengers and crew aboard a second-rate steamer sailing from Veracruz, Mexico to Bremerhaven, Germany circa 1931. There is not a happy character among the bunch except for two out of control children whose fun is always directed toward the misery of others. If there is any joy at all among this cast of misery-laden folks it takes the form of a particularly vile form of Schadenfreude. There are no real chapter breaks in this edition I am reading, so it has been a hate-filled marathon of 290 pages since I began. Little more than halfway through, I needed a break; the real thing is available any time I want to look for it. I can’t wait to see the movie.
Knowing less than nothing about the life of the author I still am wondering how she avoided the despair that leads to suicide. That she lived to be 90 years of age is a sort of miracle if this book is to be taken as evidence of her view of human society. I suppose reading her biography might be advisable. I am open to suggestions as to a good one. Right now I am looking for a copy of Pale Horse, Pale Rider, which apparently is a fictionalized account of her time recovering from the flu which she contracted during the 1918 pandemic. I am also in knowing whether the following quote is attributable to her. "I have lost children in all the ways one can." I would like a citation for this. Apparently, she suffered more than one miscarriage, at least one stillbirth and at least one abortion.
In fact, if anyone knows anything about Porter’s life and/or literature I certainly would appreciate hearing what you have to say.
Next up will be Joan Didion, beginning with, Slouching Towards Bethlehem. I have read nothing but reviews of Didion and have been impressed by what I have read. That is to say, most of the reviewers give her what seems to be only grudging respect, a sure sign I may be on to something good.
Finally, I will confess that my reading of female writers has been pretty much limited to Willa Cather, Eudora Welty, Carson McCullers and Edith Wharton and, among these, only Cather and O'Connor to any great extent. It is good to discover these others, to have one’s horizons broadened, if you will forgive the pun. Perhaps all this reading of women authors is proof of my growth as "an evolving male," as the hip would term the event. It pays to keep up with the evolutionary stuff, I suppose.
Knowing less than nothing about the life of the author I still am wondering how she avoided the despair that leads to suicide. That she lived to be 90 years of age is a sort of miracle if this book is to be taken as evidence of her view of human society. I suppose reading her biography might be advisable. I am open to suggestions as to a good one. Right now I am looking for a copy of Pale Horse, Pale Rider, which apparently is a fictionalized account of her time recovering from the flu which she contracted during the 1918 pandemic. I am also in knowing whether the following quote is attributable to her. "I have lost children in all the ways one can." I would like a citation for this. Apparently, she suffered more than one miscarriage, at least one stillbirth and at least one abortion.
In fact, if anyone knows anything about Porter’s life and/or literature I certainly would appreciate hearing what you have to say.
Next up will be Joan Didion, beginning with, Slouching Towards Bethlehem. I have read nothing but reviews of Didion and have been impressed by what I have read. That is to say, most of the reviewers give her what seems to be only grudging respect, a sure sign I may be on to something good.
Finally, I will confess that my reading of female writers has been pretty much limited to Willa Cather, Eudora Welty, Carson McCullers and Edith Wharton and, among these, only Cather and O'Connor to any great extent. It is good to discover these others, to have one’s horizons broadened, if you will forgive the pun. Perhaps all this reading of women authors is proof of my growth as "an evolving male," as the hip would term the event. It pays to keep up with the evolutionary stuff, I suppose.
2010-05-02
Oh, Frabjous Day, Calloo, Callay
Well, the rest of the radiology report finally came through and there is news to report. Compared to the scan that was done on February 4 of this year, “The mass involving the anterior rib cage and pleura has significantly decreased in size and currently measures 1 x 3.8 cm decreased from 3.1 x 5.5 cm.” Amid all the medical terminology there is not much of interest beyond the material quoted above except for the final statement which reads, “Impression: Marked improvement in the patient’s known metastatic lesions predominantly involving the right chest wall. Complete resolution of the small right effusion.” The small right effusion was a bit of fluid in the lung and that obviously has disappeared. Good news all in all and I am grateful for it as well as for all the thoughts and prayers that went into this and, I hope, will continue to go on.
The radiology report was good, but the timing here could be improved. The timing involved concerns the infusion. I get four bags of one of the 5-FU and each bag takes 24 hours. Ideally, this works out to 96 hours. Ideally seldom works out. In fact, it looks as though my Monday departure may not come about until Tuesday. The separate bags of the 5-FU get interrupted for fluids and other stuff, such as anti-nausea meds, etc. And sometimes the pharmacy gets backed up; it seems I am not the only patient here.
But overall, the news is good and that is what I am thankful for. Another day in here will not make that much difference in the long run.
The radiology report was good, but the timing here could be improved. The timing involved concerns the infusion. I get four bags of one of the 5-FU and each bag takes 24 hours. Ideally, this works out to 96 hours. Ideally seldom works out. In fact, it looks as though my Monday departure may not come about until Tuesday. The separate bags of the 5-FU get interrupted for fluids and other stuff, such as anti-nausea meds, etc. And sometimes the pharmacy gets backed up; it seems I am not the only patient here.
But overall, the news is good and that is what I am thankful for. Another day in here will not make that much difference in the long run.
2010-05-01
More Chemo Plus Cardinals and Forsythias
It’s been a while, but not much has been going on in these parts. One round of chemo follows another. Right now, it is May 1, a Saturday, and I am here at St. Vincent’s chained to the IV tree for my tri-weekly 96-hour chemo. I’ve been here 48 hours and should be out of here in another 48, although it never seems to work out that way. I usually don’t get out of here until late Monday or even Tuesday. Then it is back here every Thursday for a short chemo treatment. No end in sight so far.
A chest and neck scan was done on Thursday when I came in and the neck came back perfectly normal, but there is no word yet on the chest. This is most likely a clerical error, i.e., someone sent one part of the report and failed to send the second part. My chest and neck have been violently separated and have been apart for two days as of this writing. Leaving neck and chest to find one another, let’s visit my house or, more accurately, the house where I rent a room.
In the mornings I like to take my coffee out to the patio in back where the sun shines. It is a nice, warm spot and the birds chirp, tweet, twitter, caw and whatever else it is that birds do vocally. Mostly these are wrens, sparrows, crows, and some unseen species whose calls I cannot identify. There are bushes and trees and some of the birds feed on the ground under the bushes. There is one bird in particular that comes every morning. He is a cardinal who feeds on the bushes and trees. I first saw him my first morning out in back and then it was a few days before I saw him again since I was in the hospital. When I came out of the hospital, though, he was there the very next morning. The cardinal was my Dad’s favorite bird, so I call him, “Buford.” He doesn’t seem to mind.
Forsythias were one of Mary’s favorite signs of spring. Among the bushes out back at my place is a forsythia. One morning, while the wind was blowing particularly hard, the forsythia blossoms were being blown everywhere, but mostly toward the neighbor’s yard. It was pleasant surprise, then, when a single forsythia blossom landed on the table next to my coffee cup. It was a nice reminder but I did not see it blow away. It went while I was having a sip of coffee. I don’t even know what direction it went. It was just gone.
A chest and neck scan was done on Thursday when I came in and the neck came back perfectly normal, but there is no word yet on the chest. This is most likely a clerical error, i.e., someone sent one part of the report and failed to send the second part. My chest and neck have been violently separated and have been apart for two days as of this writing. Leaving neck and chest to find one another, let’s visit my house or, more accurately, the house where I rent a room.
In the mornings I like to take my coffee out to the patio in back where the sun shines. It is a nice, warm spot and the birds chirp, tweet, twitter, caw and whatever else it is that birds do vocally. Mostly these are wrens, sparrows, crows, and some unseen species whose calls I cannot identify. There are bushes and trees and some of the birds feed on the ground under the bushes. There is one bird in particular that comes every morning. He is a cardinal who feeds on the bushes and trees. I first saw him my first morning out in back and then it was a few days before I saw him again since I was in the hospital. When I came out of the hospital, though, he was there the very next morning. The cardinal was my Dad’s favorite bird, so I call him, “Buford.” He doesn’t seem to mind.
Forsythias were one of Mary’s favorite signs of spring. Among the bushes out back at my place is a forsythia. One morning, while the wind was blowing particularly hard, the forsythia blossoms were being blown everywhere, but mostly toward the neighbor’s yard. It was pleasant surprise, then, when a single forsythia blossom landed on the table next to my coffee cup. It was a nice reminder but I did not see it blow away. It went while I was having a sip of coffee. I don’t even know what direction it went. It was just gone.
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