A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Abortion Clinic

How can I stress enough the disquiet at having to take a girl for a fourth abortion?! I simply cannot. Anger, frustration, disappointment and sadness welled as a congealed concoction which together should have a name, since frequently, they all do come together. As if they all got the same invitation to a party.

"Are you goin' to Hope's stress-fest?"
"Hells yeah, can I catch a ride?"

So I brushed the unwelcome emotions from my heavy shoulders and got my ass out of bed early so I could be greeted by graphic and gory signs depicting abortion horrors. And so the very religious protesters could shout at us and menace us as our car pulled into the very recently fenced-in parking lot.

This fence was so new I thought I could still smell the sap on the wood. In spite of this shining and spectacular diversion, protesters had set up a soap box to loom over the fence with a megaphone. I shit you not. Recollections of my Toys for Tots episode with Prosti-Preacher telling us we were "goin' ta heeeellll, you can't do this alone, you need Jeeezus to help youuuu..." sprung up in my mind. We were jeered, and chastised, berated and pleaded with. And the only emotion they evoked was anger. I wanted to go around the fence and shove the little man off his step ladder. Sadly, the police were watching, supposedly for our protection, although I suspect for the protection of the obnoxious, prostelatizing, ranting protesters as well. I admit that at moment they were in more danger than I. (wink wink) I held a my hand up in a peace sign to the window at the woman approaching the car as we entered the lot.

After our charge was all checked in, G and I went to grab some grub. And to kill some time until it was time to pick her up. I won't explain "Chilly Willy the Madman of South Blvd. McDonald's" cuz G wants to tell that tale. And folks...that one is gonna be good. We should even get a song or a poem out of it. ;)
When we were called to report back to the clinic, I mentioned that the protesters had probably taken a break for lunch since it was after noon now. G snickered. And then we turned the corner. and he was dismayed and saddened at not being able to blast them with Linkin Park's "One Step Closer" out of his windows.
Exactly the song they make ME think of. "Shut up when I'm talking to you!"

How is it that love can turn from electric spark, from buzzing excitement and deep roiling passion, and bright burning embers, to powdery filthy ash? How does beating pulsing heart turn to cold diamonds, cutting our beloved to splinters when we go? How can we cause so much pain to someone we only wanted to hold dear for what seemed would be eternity?

I have no answers. For all of my experience, I am at a loss as to how Eros dies. When even still, I care so deeply and do not wish to cause harm or pain, I know the romance is dead. If only I could erect a kind headstone. A poignant marker for this beautiful thing that did exist.

I have had my mourning. I have grieved. I am closer to acceptance. But he will start at anger. And somehow I have to believe that the anger is not at me but part of his grief.

He has been in denial for a long time. And while I have moved painfully through the anger, bargaining, and depression, he has not. I think I am ready for acceptance now. So I will be the one to make the arrangements. But when I tell him our love has died, and he has to face it and emerge from his fog of denial, he will hate me for bringing the news. For the knell rung out for him to hear.

Inaugeration 2009

This year, we swear in to office a true president of the People. This moment has been coming to us for quite some time. The intense power and dense winds of change are more palpable than ever.

I was in first grade, at P.S. 224 in Brooklyn, NY, during Dr. Martin Luther King Day. The teacher rolled a television set into our classroom for us to view footage to Dr. King delivering his famous "I Believe.." speech. At the age of 6, I was impressed and touched profoundly by that speech and the man who delivered it. I was of a minority demographic, and could relate to much of the injustices dealt minorities in our country.

I grew up believing in an America that year after year seemed to be slipping through our fingers. Perhaps a bit of an idealist, I knew in my heart, that in my lifetime we would see a President of great change. Great as in enormous, as in wonderful, astoundingly impressive even.

Here we are. A man my own age, who grew up with the America I grew up with. A man who I believe wants America to be healthy, respected, deserving, and just, as we always believed her to be in our hearts. America was an underdog, a champion for those who could not stand up for themselves, a champion wielding successes in the name of what is right and true and good.

Barack Obama represents all these things to me. I see the chance for an upswing of positive influence and reactions across the country, and throughout it's people at a time when we need it the most.
This is our chance for prosperity of the heart and redemption.

The Perfunctory New Year Blog

January 3, 2009

The New Year was ushered in at my house without fanfare. Anyone who knows me for any significant period of time (for this purpose, three months) knows this is aberrant behavior for me.

I love a party. I love to play games, throw streamers, have cake fights, blow bubbles, drink the bubbly. Be the bubbly. We are talking partying like it's 1999.
Maybe not 2009.

I have learned a thing or two about ailing lately. It sucks. It blows. It bites. It is a kill joy. It makes joie de verve hard work. I always thought joy and delight came naturally. Hmph.

My wonderful son got me out of the house for the first time since my health took a sharp dive. I am dizzier than Dean. I am as unsteady on my feet as a drunk. Normal endeavors like walking and cooking are laughably challenging instead of part of the functions of life I have taken for granted as second nature. We ventured out and I held on to my surroundings as if I were on a plane in serious turbulence. I appeared to the world tanked. Stewed. Juiced. I was frustrated on the inside. I walked past a store window and caught my reflection in the glass. I looked older than I ever have and as disordered as I felt.
I followed my young, healthy, strapping son as he applied for work around the neighborhood. And I felt helpless, useless, outmoded. Past tense. There are stirrings of desire for grander schemes in my life. There are flashing ideas of what I could do. But I feel incapable, ineffective and inconsolable.

This was written January 3rd, while I was in the throws of severe Cymbalta withdrawal, that saga continues as you shall see....