Tuesday, May 22, 2007

It's all about health care...

So many of our country's ills could be ameliorated or even solved by universal, government-run health care.

Ok, maybe not our country's problems as a whole, but certainly a whole lot of women's issues.

Take, for example, abortion. The New York Times has an article out today about the new tactic being used by anti-choice activists: abortion is bad for a woman, too. That's absolutely true; how many women go through an abortion and emerge unscathed? It takes an emotional toll that can have repercussions even decades later.

That tactic misses the point of the pro-choice movement, but let's leave that for later. For now, just think about how much universally-accessible, free health care could change the face of pregnancy and child-rearing. A single woman now has to work full time just in order to get health benefits for herself and her child; if she were unable to work -- put on bed rest for a pregnancy-related complication, say -- she would lose her health benefits and her doctor's care. So she would have to continue to work, jeopardizing her health. It's lose-lose for a woman, and it could affect her physical health and her career for the rest of her life.

Now, imagine that this same woman had free health care unrelated to employment. If she were unable to work, there would be a financial burden placed on her, but not an insurmountable one. If she had family or friends to help her out for a while, she could manage, because medical bills wouldn't send her into bankruptcy. She could take an unpaid leave, or leave her job altogether, confident that her health would be preserved and she would be able to find another job when she was able. The child she eventually bore would get the well-baby care that children need, receive all the necessary immunizations, and have all the physical advantages that good medical care provides. If the child had medical problems, the infrastructure would be in place to make life as manageable as possible. Everybody wins, including the woman's employer, who has not had to pay for her health benefits, at least not directly.

Now, to return to the actual point of the abortion choice debate. It would be nice if no one ever felt that they had to get an abortion. Of course it would. But this isn't just about abortion. This is about control and choices for women. Enacting laws to regulate how abortions are offered and to whom is discriminating to women; the real point here is that a woman should have ultimate, unilateral control over her own body and what happens inside it. Full stop.

So here's my message to anti-choice activists: instead of lobbying for legislation to make abortion illegal or unavailable, thus sending desperate women underground for dangerous "medical" procedures, give women the support they need to make choices you can live with. Rather than bring a fist down on abortion altogether, offer a helping hand by using your powerful lobby to fight for health care for everyone, unrelated to employment. Rather than taking away a woman's power over her own body, give her the tools to preserve her own life as well as her unborn child's so she has more options. Don't be paternalistic and patronizing; be collaborative and respectful of a woman's life and health.

And don't forget to line up at the adoption agencies. If you're going to insist that every embryo, wanted or not, be brought to term, then step up and take responsibility for raising them. Put your money where your mouth is.

Next post: health care and working mothers.

Friday, May 04, 2007

The Music of My Life

Seventeen years ago, I walked into the sanctuary of the Presbyterian church for a Bach Choir rehearsal. The orchestra was playing -- it was among the last rehearsals before the concert, and the orchestra was rehearsing before the choir arrived. I walked down the center aisle, the pews around me sparsely populated, and imagined myself a bride. The conductor led the musicians with vigor, and I imagined that it was all for me. This was my dream for my wedding day, something I hadn't really thought too much about -- something I didn't really think would ever happen.

Two years later, I had my wedding after all, but there was no orchestra. There was very little music, and what there was was recorded. No one danced, no one revelled in music. It was rather subdued, actually, with a great deal of food. I married someone who does not share my passion for music, and, even though our wedding date was chosen well ahead of time, we spent far too much time choosing a home and far too little planning the wedding. It was nice, it served the purpose, but it was far from my vague idea of an ideal celebration.

Tonight I sang Bach's St. Matthew Passion with that same choir and that same orchestra. Some of the faces have changed, but the music is timeless. While the whole piece is full of emotion and drama, the last chorus is the most moving. In the story, Jesus' body has just been buried by Joseph of Arimathea, and all of the people who had been close to him gather around. Ruhet sanfte, ruhet wohl, they all whisper. Sleep softly, sleep well. This one chorus is, to me, the most passionate of all of Bach's work, much of which strikes me as beautiful in a matter-of-fact, almost mathematical way. This one's different. One can feel the wild extremes of emotion, from wailing grief to quiet reflection, just as someone very human might react to the death of a spouse.

As I anticipated it, and even as I sang it, I thought to myself: I want this to be sung at my funeral. If it can't be sung, then a recording should be played at full volume, so the walls shake. Music is a visceral, essential part of who I am, and this chorus needs to be felt in the bones. When I sing it with the choir, I feel the resonance of the singers around me in my body; I hear the passion in their voices, and I see the vigorous direction from the conductor. It is all so compelling; merely listening to a recording is far too passive for this music.

Once on my way down this path, I started to think about other music I would want to have at my funeral. Parts of the Faure Requiem, perhaps, maybe some of the B Minor Mass, definitely some Billy Joel, Susan Werner. But then I stopped short. What am I doing? I thought. It hasn't been that many years since I walked down the aisle in that church and thought about my wedding. Can it be that I've gotten so old that now I can only think of my funeral?

This is disturbing. But there is no other event for which I can plan any music I want. It is the only celebration of me that I can foresee; it's just unfortunate that I can't be there for it. I'd sure love the music..

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Blood is thicker...

I am an only child.

I am acutely aware of this as I grow older, as do my parents. They are all I have of my personal history, the only people who have been there from the beginning. And they are aging at an alarming rate. My parents never thought it terribly important for me to get to know my extended family, and my father's alcoholism and my mother's need for a perfect family facade kept them from socializing much at all. I didn't meet my great-uncle, who lived only half an hour from me my whole childhood, until I was in college. It just never occurred to my dad to take me along when he visited. I have cousins, but they remember me as a precocious six-year-old about whom my mother would babble on and on ad nauseam.

What I do have is very close family friends who lived across the street from us, starting when I was ten years old. They haven't been there from the very beginning, but they've been around the longest. When I think of my family, they and their relatives are part of it, and the children of that family are the closest things I have to siblings. We've rolled our eyes about our parents, wandered freely between our two houses, seen each other through important milestones. They were my best friends, and I'm happy to say that they're still in my life. My children and I spent an afternoon with them two weeks ago, celebrating birthdays.

Oddly, though, when I come home after one of these visits, I feel sad. They are complete in themselves; they don't need me. My "pseudo-sister" has a real brother; my "pseudo-brother" has a real sister. Our children get along like cousins, and we do call them cousins/nieces/nephews even though there is no blood relation. It is clear to me, though, that I see our relationship differently, more intensely. They don't seem to mind, but they don't seem to share the intensity. That's what makes me sad.

One day, my parents will pass, and I will be alone. I have a husband, of course, and children, and in-laws, but that can't take the place of people who knew you when, who can bring up that embarrassing moment that you thought you'd forgotten and share a giggle. I have brothers-and sisters-in-law, but they are mostly Indian, so we've never been on the same wavelength (I feel the strongest connection with my only American brother-in-law -- we can joke about our spouses' odd habits and be reassured that we're not the ones who are weird). We do things differently -- approach life differently, and it's frustrating when my own assumptions, based on a life spent in the United States, clash with my husband's assumptions, and we both feel we're right. I always want to call dibs because we live in my country, after all, and I wasn't the one who chose to immigrate, but I don't want to be completely insensitive. Just, you know, moderately so.

Mostly, that day, I was struck by how comfortable PB's own family and his wife's family were with each other, and how nice it would be to be married to someone from my own country, where our families of origin would have common ground. Now, I feel like I'm constantly on the outside looking in. My mother doesn't much care for my mother-in-law, though of course both are nice to each other. My father doesn't much care for anybody anymore, so he tends to sit in the corner and fall asleep. My mother-in-law and I get along fine now that we don't live under the same roof, and she has stopped pointing out my flaws -- which are legion, I grant, but I don't need to be reminded. I know that she thinks of me as a daughter, and I would do anything for her, as she would for me, but there will always be a gulf between us. We will never understand each other, not in a million years. I and my family can't sit companionably with them on a lazy spring afternoon and talk of nothing at all.

What it comes down to, in the end, though, is this: my husband is a good man, the right one for me. We agree on a lot of things, from tree-hugging to politics to books and movies. We have our ups and downs like everyone else, and we have as many disagreements as everyone else. Everyone has to work through their different expectations, and it never ends. Despite my own feelings of alienation (which are my own problem, dammit!) I do have a husband and children who love me and whom I love. I will not be alone.

Right?