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.
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