Assignment #5: Write a feature story. I chose to write the following piece for Mothering Magazine based on my recent research and reading in my quest to become a doula. The statistics of the modern birthing scene are frightening and devastating and deserve to be uncovered. We'll see if I ever get the chutzpah to send this to the editor of Mothering Magazine!
Let’s just say that I’m an advocate of crisis management. If Chicken Little’s sky is truly going to cave in one day, then I’d like to read up on how to live successfully in a sky-less world. I rarely do or buy anything without researching the pros and cons, so with the thought of starting a family sometime in the next five years, it seemed only appropriate to read every book and magazine ever printed on the subject. The deeper I delved into my quest of understanding pregnancy and birth, the more aware I became of how scared I should be to have a baby.
My research produced astounding statistics that could turn many would-be mothers into birth control junkies. In a recent documentary, The Business of Being Born, former talk show host Rickie Lake fills the gaps between the miracle of life and the alarming statistics about our current maternity care system. Did you know that the United States has the second worst newborn death rate and the highest maternal mortality rate in the developed world? What about the fact that doctors and insurance companies are teaming up to make sure that women can’t get coverage for home birth, even though it’s the cheaper option?
Most doctors admit to chemically advancing a woman’s birth process, speeding up her delivery so that he can make it home in time for dinner. That same statistic fits pretty snugly with the fact that the Cesarean Section rate has increased by 46% in the last decade, making one out of every three births a C-Section. This increase, as most doctors will divulge, is a defense mechanism against getting sued and losing their malpractice insurance. This trend has become so widely accepted that mothers are now voluntarily electing for designer births where they get a c-section and a tummy tuck right after the doc pulls the baby out. What these women don’t know, or are choosing to ignore, is that recovering from a c-section takes almost four times longer and carries far more risk to both the mother and the baby than a vaginal birth.
Book after magazine after website, my research has led me to believe that a lot of high-ups in the medical field don’t trust the natural process of women’s bodies. If they did, they wouldn’t spend so much time convincing women that they don’t know how to give birth. Fearful of everything that could go wrong, instead of trusting what could go right, women are more than obliging to accept the too common cocktail of unnecessary modern birthing practices and interventions. Given a little time and space, most of these women would be able to give birth without the thick layer of fear factor action that doctors seem so fond of.
Call me crazy, but I think I might go find Chicken Little to ask her if the sky has fallen in. I had no idea about the predicament of the modern birthing scene. I’ll be glad to admit that hospitals give me peace of mind in a crisis, but giving birth shouldn’t be an emergency. In certain instances, yes, birth is an emergency, but in most cases it’s about creating life and celebrating a new person.
For all the fear I found in my research, I also found hope. The kind of hope that comes from knowing your options and learning how to set boundaries with your doctors. Knowing what questions to ask and doing what’s best for your long-term physical health and mental happiness. There are groups out there like the Coalition for Improving Maternity Services that are advocating for a medical system that improves birth outcomes and substantially reduces costs to both hospitals and families. It’s comforting to know that the partnership between modern medical technology and big business is being challenged and that I, an individual capable of making decisions, can help shape my future birth by reading up and speaking out.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Icy Sparks, by Gwen Rubio
Assignment #4: Write a book review. I hope this doesn't sound like a cheese-ball review...I just feel like reviews are so contrived and opinionated that it doesn't really matter what I say here. You might love the book or you might want to throw it at me after you get done reading it. Just give me some warning so I can duck out of the way.
I belong to a book club where it’s more about eating and gossiping than it is about reading the book. When I first joined, it took me three months before I actually read one of the selections. Not because I didn’t like the book, but because the only way I could finish reading a novel in a month was to take a weeklong vacation to the beach. I figured my time was short as a member in this elite group if I didn’t put forth some serious effort, so this month I ignored everyone I knew until I turned that last page. I wanted to show the girls at book club that yes, I can indeed decipher the printed word.
I was about ten minutes into Icy Sparks, written by Gwyn Rubio, before I realized it wouldn’t be hard to delve into the story of a child with Tourett Syndrome. The story is set in Southern Appalachia and begins with a ten year old girl named Icy who is cared for by her grandparents after she was orphaned by the unfortunate deaths of her two parents. The reader is sent along the path of self-discovery with Icy as she learns how to deal with her tics and outbursts by hiding in the root cellar to let loose the perceived pressure of a pending explosion in her body. Having never met anyone or seen the outbursts of someone suffering from Tourett Syndrome, I was compelled to hop up on you tube to catch a few horrific glimpses of this socially devastating syndrome.
Icy Sparks seems to show the easiest ride between a potentially disastrous and debilitating condition to a peachy keen ending, but the story reads so quickly and effortlessly that the reader gets caught in the delight of Rubio’s prose rather than checking to see if reality is still a factor. I caught myself reading lines over and over again, marveling in the metaphorical glory of each chapter. For instance, when describing what happens to her eyes right before she has an outburst, Icy says, “Out popped my eyes, like ice cubes leaping from a tray.” With her mouth-watering metaphors and uncanny knack for describing what the reader can’t see, Rubio negates any need for a motion picture rendition of her story.
As a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and an Oprah’s Book Club selection, Icy Sparks is proven to be worth the couch time it takes to read it. You will fall in love with Icy, clench your fists in response to her frustrations, and want to climb through the pages to save her from herself.
I belong to a book club where it’s more about eating and gossiping than it is about reading the book. When I first joined, it took me three months before I actually read one of the selections. Not because I didn’t like the book, but because the only way I could finish reading a novel in a month was to take a weeklong vacation to the beach. I figured my time was short as a member in this elite group if I didn’t put forth some serious effort, so this month I ignored everyone I knew until I turned that last page. I wanted to show the girls at book club that yes, I can indeed decipher the printed word.
I was about ten minutes into Icy Sparks, written by Gwyn Rubio, before I realized it wouldn’t be hard to delve into the story of a child with Tourett Syndrome. The story is set in Southern Appalachia and begins with a ten year old girl named Icy who is cared for by her grandparents after she was orphaned by the unfortunate deaths of her two parents. The reader is sent along the path of self-discovery with Icy as she learns how to deal with her tics and outbursts by hiding in the root cellar to let loose the perceived pressure of a pending explosion in her body. Having never met anyone or seen the outbursts of someone suffering from Tourett Syndrome, I was compelled to hop up on you tube to catch a few horrific glimpses of this socially devastating syndrome.
Icy Sparks seems to show the easiest ride between a potentially disastrous and debilitating condition to a peachy keen ending, but the story reads so quickly and effortlessly that the reader gets caught in the delight of Rubio’s prose rather than checking to see if reality is still a factor. I caught myself reading lines over and over again, marveling in the metaphorical glory of each chapter. For instance, when describing what happens to her eyes right before she has an outburst, Icy says, “Out popped my eyes, like ice cubes leaping from a tray.” With her mouth-watering metaphors and uncanny knack for describing what the reader can’t see, Rubio negates any need for a motion picture rendition of her story.
As a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and an Oprah’s Book Club selection, Icy Sparks is proven to be worth the couch time it takes to read it. You will fall in love with Icy, clench your fists in response to her frustrations, and want to climb through the pages to save her from herself.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Decapitating Details
Assignment #3: Write a movie review. I am so sorry to say, but the Science Fiction genre is not really my thing. In some circles, I would be shunned for even thinking about writing a negative review of The Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Thank goodness I don't hang around in the comicbook store in my free time...I might just come home with a few sword gashes and a sign on my back that says "I love Pokemon."
Some people wait until certain movies come to the two-dollar theater, while others wait until society has forced them to rent the DVD. We succumbed to peer pressure for The Big Lebowsky, when poker night was no longer fun because we didn’t catch the endless innuendos and line-quoting from our fellow friends who had latched on to “The Dude” craze. Maybe it was because we saw the movie in the wrong decade, or because we anticipated our induction into this cult too eagerly, but the movie somehow failed to live up to our expectations and while we sat there picking popcorn out of our teeth we just couldn’t reason as to why this movie warranted such a following.
We had precisely the same reaction to The Lord of the Rings Trilogy. I now understand why I waited seven years to see this endless piece of cinema, much to the chagrin of the two boys I babysat for so long ago. For about three years we had nothing to talk about because they were obsessed over the trilogy and wouldn’t eat dinner until they recounted to me every decapitating detail of this nightmare-inducing movie.
With each increasing hour, the grip around my abdomen covering the eyes and ears of my yet conceived children grew tighter. As soon as one hideous and completely understaffed battle was won by the good guys, another one came along with even more grotesque characters who were pretty likely candidates for what the monster under the bed looked like in my childhood. According to The Internet Movie Database, this trilogy is rated “PG-13 for intense epic battle sequences and frightening images.” Now, I’m the first one to admit that I’m not big on battle scenes or science fiction for that matter, but this movie series goes above and beyond any semblance of kid-friendly content.
Aside from frightening little children, we grew restless of this story’s incessant need to fill up the space between the beginning and end with so much pomp and circumstance of war, terror, and ugly enemies. I am fully aware that this film began life on the pages of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Hobbit and then flourished into a multi-billion dollar enterprise, with box-office totals coming in second to Titanic, so who am I to say that this movie is better off in pieces under my car tires in the driveway?
There were, however, several redeeming qualities of this trilogy. One being the landscape of New Zealand, two being the special effects, and three being the lucky chance that Viggo Mortenson was cast as a main character. It seems improbable that he could take on so many of his freakish enemies at one time, but it was all the more attractive when he emerged from battle without a single scar or beauty-diminishing sword gash. If I could have Mr. Mortenson save me a time or two in battle, I’d seriously consider scraping the DVD off my driveway, gluing it up and becoming a member of the trilogy followers.
Some people wait until certain movies come to the two-dollar theater, while others wait until society has forced them to rent the DVD. We succumbed to peer pressure for The Big Lebowsky, when poker night was no longer fun because we didn’t catch the endless innuendos and line-quoting from our fellow friends who had latched on to “The Dude” craze. Maybe it was because we saw the movie in the wrong decade, or because we anticipated our induction into this cult too eagerly, but the movie somehow failed to live up to our expectations and while we sat there picking popcorn out of our teeth we just couldn’t reason as to why this movie warranted such a following.
We had precisely the same reaction to The Lord of the Rings Trilogy. I now understand why I waited seven years to see this endless piece of cinema, much to the chagrin of the two boys I babysat for so long ago. For about three years we had nothing to talk about because they were obsessed over the trilogy and wouldn’t eat dinner until they recounted to me every decapitating detail of this nightmare-inducing movie.
With each increasing hour, the grip around my abdomen covering the eyes and ears of my yet conceived children grew tighter. As soon as one hideous and completely understaffed battle was won by the good guys, another one came along with even more grotesque characters who were pretty likely candidates for what the monster under the bed looked like in my childhood. According to The Internet Movie Database, this trilogy is rated “PG-13 for intense epic battle sequences and frightening images.” Now, I’m the first one to admit that I’m not big on battle scenes or science fiction for that matter, but this movie series goes above and beyond any semblance of kid-friendly content.
Aside from frightening little children, we grew restless of this story’s incessant need to fill up the space between the beginning and end with so much pomp and circumstance of war, terror, and ugly enemies. I am fully aware that this film began life on the pages of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Hobbit and then flourished into a multi-billion dollar enterprise, with box-office totals coming in second to Titanic, so who am I to say that this movie is better off in pieces under my car tires in the driveway?
There were, however, several redeeming qualities of this trilogy. One being the landscape of New Zealand, two being the special effects, and three being the lucky chance that Viggo Mortenson was cast as a main character. It seems improbable that he could take on so many of his freakish enemies at one time, but it was all the more attractive when he emerged from battle without a single scar or beauty-diminishing sword gash. If I could have Mr. Mortenson save me a time or two in battle, I’d seriously consider scraping the DVD off my driveway, gluing it up and becoming a member of the trilogy followers.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Superstition at its best
Assignment two: Write your own obituary. I must interject and say that I am extremely superstitious and hated the thought of typing my own death and printing it out in ink. My teacher seems to think that I'll learn from this assignment, but all it really made me want to do was cut off my fingers for typing about the end.
Born into a farmhouse surrounded by lush fields, lavish gardens, and the sound of cowbells, Sara Levine began her life in the rolling hills of eastern Connecticut. The product of two idealistic hippies, Sara soon learned that life was more about living than it was about working. On more than one occasion, she was taught that running away from a job was a better solution to toughing it out and that another door would always open after you left the last one swinging on its hinges.
Sara went to college because it was the next thing on the “to-do list” of life but having no idea what to study, she chose a major in Recreation Management knowing it used to be called Leisure Studies. It was a course of learning that enhanced the use of common sense and led her to be adaptable in life, no matter what career path she decided to take. And speaking of careers, Sara always said that having one was the last thing in life she would ever be excited about.
As a world traveler, Sara began to journal the differences between her own life and how it compared to everyone else’s. She felt that traveling to distant places would unlock the secret of life and open up the mysteries of the world’s constant evolution. In her novel, Everyone Else, Sara described how humbling it was to be in the presence of those who “have it figured out and seem to be content with what they have chosen to do with their time.” She was always on the quest for satisfaction, whether it came from people, relationships, food, travel, or scenery.
Early in life, Sara made a few wise investment decisions enabled her to purchase a vacation villa in Southern Spain, for which she gave each of her friends and family members a key to. Each year, Sara hosted a reunion for all her acquaintances, near and far and even paid the price of plane tickets for those who were unable. Sara has willed the vacation villa to her survivors under the stipulation that they continue the tradition of its annual party.
Born into a farmhouse surrounded by lush fields, lavish gardens, and the sound of cowbells, Sara Levine began her life in the rolling hills of eastern Connecticut. The product of two idealistic hippies, Sara soon learned that life was more about living than it was about working. On more than one occasion, she was taught that running away from a job was a better solution to toughing it out and that another door would always open after you left the last one swinging on its hinges.
Sara went to college because it was the next thing on the “to-do list” of life but having no idea what to study, she chose a major in Recreation Management knowing it used to be called Leisure Studies. It was a course of learning that enhanced the use of common sense and led her to be adaptable in life, no matter what career path she decided to take. And speaking of careers, Sara always said that having one was the last thing in life she would ever be excited about.
As a world traveler, Sara began to journal the differences between her own life and how it compared to everyone else’s. She felt that traveling to distant places would unlock the secret of life and open up the mysteries of the world’s constant evolution. In her novel, Everyone Else, Sara described how humbling it was to be in the presence of those who “have it figured out and seem to be content with what they have chosen to do with their time.” She was always on the quest for satisfaction, whether it came from people, relationships, food, travel, or scenery.
Early in life, Sara made a few wise investment decisions enabled her to purchase a vacation villa in Southern Spain, for which she gave each of her friends and family members a key to. Each year, Sara hosted a reunion for all her acquaintances, near and far and even paid the price of plane tickets for those who were unable. Sara has willed the vacation villa to her survivors under the stipulation that they continue the tradition of its annual party.
A new one
Ok, kids. I'm back. It's been three long years since I've posted and I just gave my new writing instructor my url and now I feel the need to make it look like I've been working. I know that no matter what, he's probably gonna rip me a new one for using the ellipses...gasp, in the wrong way!...(Hi Mr. Loewer) but I guess we'll have to duke that one out in the parking lot after class.
I'm going to start by adding my writing assignments for this class I'm taking. Not because I think any of you really care to read about forced subject matter, but because it will give me a start, a kick in the ass, a return to feeling like I've contributed to the literary pool of the internet blog scene.
Enter the first assignment: 500 words on Brit Brit
I have to say that some of the ridiculous lifestyles and absurd choices I’ve watched my friends put together would lay the tabloid headlines of Britney Spears to shame. The folks I like to spend my time with are literally obsessed with juicy, drama-filled lives and think that divorcing their husband is a better alternative to teaching him how to kiss better. It seems like Britney’s custody battle and horrendous driving record pales in comparison to the scandalous things I’ve seen my friends pull off. This all makes me wonder if we’re reading Britney’s gossip to see how bizarre her life is, or if we’re just checking in to make sure the paparazzi would find our lives to be just as news-worthy.
As I’m standing in the longest line at the grocery store, just to make sure I can flip through each and every page of mouth-watering “Britney and friends” rumors, my boyfriend gives me that look. You know, the one that says I should be reading something worthy like National Geographic instead of drooling over the fact that Branjelina is pregnant with twins. I think he’s just scared that I secretly desire the life of four-thousand dollar purses, yappy little dogs, and fake boobs. The fact is, I like my quiet little life where I can sit back and watch my friends try to mimic the worst qualities of movie stars.
I was somehow blessed with parents that had a drama rating of negative three, which means that should I want to create drama in my own life, I would have a really hard time figuring out how. That’s why I have friends who let me listen to the “Oops, I did it again” single while telling me that they messed with their birth control so they could get pregnant.
I could fill the pages of a weekly magazine with the outlandish situations that my friends put themselves in. It leads me to believe that the gossip-laden newsstands aren’t that far from what I have here in my own backyard. In my everyday life, I’d put Britney’s mental breakdown in the category of normal. I mean, if my friends can flip out enough to pop xanax like candy, then I think that we should cut Britney some slack and thank our lucky stars that the camera’s aren’t after us and our bad haircuts, bald monkeys, and baby daddies.
I'm going to start by adding my writing assignments for this class I'm taking. Not because I think any of you really care to read about forced subject matter, but because it will give me a start, a kick in the ass, a return to feeling like I've contributed to the literary pool of the internet blog scene.
Enter the first assignment: 500 words on Brit Brit
I have to say that some of the ridiculous lifestyles and absurd choices I’ve watched my friends put together would lay the tabloid headlines of Britney Spears to shame. The folks I like to spend my time with are literally obsessed with juicy, drama-filled lives and think that divorcing their husband is a better alternative to teaching him how to kiss better. It seems like Britney’s custody battle and horrendous driving record pales in comparison to the scandalous things I’ve seen my friends pull off. This all makes me wonder if we’re reading Britney’s gossip to see how bizarre her life is, or if we’re just checking in to make sure the paparazzi would find our lives to be just as news-worthy.
As I’m standing in the longest line at the grocery store, just to make sure I can flip through each and every page of mouth-watering “Britney and friends” rumors, my boyfriend gives me that look. You know, the one that says I should be reading something worthy like National Geographic instead of drooling over the fact that Branjelina is pregnant with twins. I think he’s just scared that I secretly desire the life of four-thousand dollar purses, yappy little dogs, and fake boobs. The fact is, I like my quiet little life where I can sit back and watch my friends try to mimic the worst qualities of movie stars.
I was somehow blessed with parents that had a drama rating of negative three, which means that should I want to create drama in my own life, I would have a really hard time figuring out how. That’s why I have friends who let me listen to the “Oops, I did it again” single while telling me that they messed with their birth control so they could get pregnant.
I could fill the pages of a weekly magazine with the outlandish situations that my friends put themselves in. It leads me to believe that the gossip-laden newsstands aren’t that far from what I have here in my own backyard. In my everyday life, I’d put Britney’s mental breakdown in the category of normal. I mean, if my friends can flip out enough to pop xanax like candy, then I think that we should cut Britney some slack and thank our lucky stars that the camera’s aren’t after us and our bad haircuts, bald monkeys, and baby daddies.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)