They’re Talking About My Family

talkingaboutusThe U.S. House of Representatives voted yesterday to strip away financial protections for people with pre-existing conditions. Those people include, tucked away in the millions affected by this legislation, my own family. Here’s what they had to say about me (asthma, allergies), my older daughter (congenital kidney condition and severe menstrual cramps) and my younger daughter (congenital heart defect).

They said we weren’t their problem.

Sorry Jimmy Kimmel: your sad story doesn’t obligate me or anybody else to pay for somebody else’s health care.” – Former Rep. Joe Walsh, IL

They said we should adjust our priorities.

And you know what, Americans have choices. And they’ve got to make a choice. So maybe rather than getting that new iPhone that they just love and they want to spend hundreds of dollars on that, maybe they should invest in their own healthcare.” – Rep. Jason Chaffetz (R-UT)

They said we weren’t “good people.”

My understanding is that it will allow insurance companies to require people who have higher health care costs, to contribute more to the insurance pool which helps offset all these costs, thereby reducing the cost to those people who lead good lives, they’re healthy, they’ve done the things to keep their bodies healthy, and right now those are the people who’ve done things the right way, who’ve seen their costs skyrocketing.” — Rep. Mo Brooks (R-AL)

They said if we were poor, we wouldn’t want health care anyway.

Just like Jesus said, ‘The poor will always be with us,’…There is a group of people that just don’t want health care and aren’t going to take care of themselves…Just, like, homeless people. … I think just morally, spiritually, socially, [some people] just don’t want health care.” – Rep. Roger Marshall (R-KS)

They lied to us.

“JOHN DICKERSON: So I’m not hearing you, Mr. President, say there’s a guarantee of pre-existing conditions.

“PRESIDENT DONALD TRUMP: We actually have — we actually have a clause that guarantees.

“JOHN DICKERSON: Okay, excellent. We got there.

“PRESIDENT DONALD TRUMP: We have a specific clause–

“JOHN DICKERSON: Let me ask you–

“PRESIDENT DONALD TRUMP: –that guarantees.”

They said we could just leave.

People can go to the state that they want to live in…States have all kinds of different policies and there are disparities among states for many things: driving restrictions, alcohol, whatever…” – Rep. Robert Pittenger (R-NC).

They said we didn’t exist.

Less than 10 percent of people under 65 are what we call people with pre-existing conditions, who are really kind of uninsurable.” – House Speaker Paul Ryan (R-WI)

whoareyoureps

This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post. This week’s sentence was “They call me…” and is hosted by the thoughtful, speculative, inspiring Kristi at FindingNinee.com.

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Practice Mom

tween
Every morning when I wake up, I lie in bed and listen to the radio for a few minutes. I am a morning layabout, suddenly, even if it’s just for long enough to hear the news snippets and the day’s weather. Below me, I hear the muffled sounds of my two daughters getting ready for their day. They’ve been up longer than I have.

This year’s mornings, I find I am no longer a lunch-maker, a breakfast-nagger, a pill-preparer, or even a walk-you-to-school mother of young children. This year, my daughters do all of that themselves.

Much like in the early years of my motherhood, when I tiptoed around my own instincts to see what worked and what didn’t, I am auditioning my moments of parenting with my tween and teen daughters. Particularly with my little one — no longer quite as little — I am working on the line between playful teasing and hurtful taunting; on the right time to help her find solutions to her worries and the right time to listen and offer no advice at all. Continue Reading…

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Spring Breaks: 2011-2017

It is April 7, 2011, and my family is giddy.

Sitting around the sticky table of a local frozen custard shop are my daughters and husband, each of them with a mountain of gooey dessert: piles of custard under clouds of whipped cream and rivers of fudge. My younger daughter, aged 5, is grinning ear-to-ear. I’m snapping pictures like the mother of a baby trying solid food for the first time. At one point, I step outside to breathe the fresh air of a world restored.

For the ten months prior to today, my little girl has been on a path to discovery, she and her team of doctors searching for the food protein that’s causing the strange patches of white blood cells in her esophagus, the patches that were keeping her from swallowing well. For ten months, she’s been avoiding a list of common allergens — dairy, soy, egg, nuts, and wheat — and undergoing tests to see if the culprit could be found. Earlier today, we got the news that only one food was left to be added, since all the others had seemed to cause her no ill. Adding that last food — dairy — means that she can eat out at any restaurant she liked. It means that, for the first time in ten months, we can travel without worrying about her food.

We leave the frozen custard shop and embark immediately on a road trip. We feed her everything she’s been missing: restaurant pancakes with butter and syrup, cheese popcorn, candy bars, pizza, string cheese and yogurt. For the first time in nearly a year, I don’t carry a big insulated bag full of food for her. We rejoice, but under the rejoicing is the knowledge that this is just another food trial. It’s both a first meal and a last — this is the last food trial, and everyone expects it to be a failure.

Spring break, 2011: last meal. Continue Reading…

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Meeting the Multitudes

conversation

Last week, I was trying to pick up my older daughter from school a little bit early. She’s a freshman, so this is our first year as parents at the high school and I didn’t know the procedure for early dismissal. I approached the woman at the desk in the security office with my driver’s license and told her my daughter’s name.

“Did you call the attendance office?” she asked.

I hadn’t. Did I need to?

“Ma’am, you can’t just walk in here and take your kid home whenever you want! You have to call ahead so she can get a pass!”

I let that sink in for only a few seconds before I realized that, effectively, she was telling me that she would not release my daughter to me. I tried reasoning; I’m her mother, I’ll follow the procedure next time, she had a doctor’s appointment, I’ll call attendance right now. Nothing worked. After a series of more and more irritating exchanges — during which I got cranky and then apologetic and then cranky again — she told me I could wait outside for my daughter, who would be dismissed with the rest of the school in 16 minutes.

I stomped and huffed and paced outside in the snow, called and rescheduled the appointment, and composed an email to the school administration in my head. As I began to recognize the feeling underlying all of it as panic, I traced it back as far as I could. You can’t have your daughter, I heard in my head. You can’t have her. It reminded me of her early days in the hospital nursery under bilirubin lights for jaundice, me forbidden to take her out of her glowing bed for more than a few minutes at a time. It reminded me of being in the hospital after her little sister’s birth, still numb from my c-section, realizing that I could not move, not even to rescue my big girl from anything that might befall her before the anesthesia wore off. The feeling of helplessness even extended to generational memory from the holocaust, stories of family who had lost parents and siblings in the horrors of concentration camps or Einsatzgruppen killings in the forest. You can’t have your daughter was a triggering sentence for me.

Realizing that I was operating with the deeper, more primitive part of my mind helped a little — it gave me reason for my feelings of panic over a situation which seemed otherwise just annoying and inconvenient. I had only to wait 16 minutes, and my daughter would be there. Still, the story I carried with me — the story of you can’t have your daughter — was powerful. It informed all of my behavior that day. Continue Reading…

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Across the Border

fromthebackI’ve been thinking about resolution and falling action, lately.

In any compelling story, there is a natural building of intensity that leads, as we all know, to a climax. A couple searches for each other, meets, falls in love, and commits or separates, and they’re left different, marked by their experiences. Or: a world is beset by confrontation and battle, factions emerge, one side is victorious or decimated, and a new world is born. Or: a child is born to a yearning mother, grows sick, struggles, stumbles, regains her footing, and is cured, revealing mother and child older, changed, and almost unrecognizable.

That’s the resolution. What happens next? What is in the falling action of my story, the third story, the one with a once-sick now-well daughter, and a once-frightened now-what mother?

My daughter is eleven now, almost three years past her final surgery, two-and-a-half years past the time she first began eating well, two years past her dismissal from all her specialists, two years past the first major gains in height and weight she’d had since her babyhood. I haven’t had reason — real reason, justifiable reason — to worry about her health in the last two school years.

It has been, in many ways, like becoming a mother all over again. Continue Reading…

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