Fibroadenomas -- seven of them. "Basically, you have a little family in there." I'd rather hoped I'd develop my someday-family in my uterus, not in my left breast. I suppose I should start picking out names.
Alternative takedown: Flavonoid edition
Outsourced to the great Dr. Szwarc. If you'd like a more knowledgeable take on one of many, many alternative treatments out there that claim to cure unending lists of ailments, it wouldn't hurt to take a look at just this one article from Junk Food Science, which regularly examines questionable science reporting and conventional wisdom in its inimitable manner.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes
All I can do is share this, because it made me smile.
When my daughter was born premature and I looked at her with a feeding tube and nasal canula in a plexiglass box, I trained myself not to say she was little or pretty. I trained myself to say she was my big strong girl, because I thought that for her to make it in the world, she would need me to see her that way.
It was in the context of raising feminist daughters, but it works just as beautifully in the context of eliminating ableist privilege.
Thank you, Thomas.
(Small bit of irony: Firefox's spell check does not recognize "ableist" and instead recommends "ablest.")
Predictions
Yes:
And the thing about this argument is that's not the end of it.
... an alleged lack of patriotism will be the main line of argument against Barack Obama.
There's been a lot of talk recently in the feminist blogosphere of dogwhistles. And I would argue that this line of attack is exactly one. The "unpatriotic" whine is usually wrapped up in arguments about Obama being a secret Muslim, a black nationalist, Communist, etc. By extracting out the most innocuous (of the set, not on an absolute scale) and repeating it, the upper punditry and co. can signify to the bottomfeeders that they're on their side, without explicitly saying so, and while maintaining plausible deniability against accusations of racism.
Two cents.
Hey, that feels pretty damn familiar.
What is it? Oh, it's just the foot of Schwarzenegger & co. on our backs.
Dammit, this will never cease to make me angry. For the most part, the disabled already live in poverty, and they have no way of changing that. You usually can't magically become un-disabled. And disability is, by definition, the inability to just "work harder" to make ends meet. It's the inability to work enough to live.
And here we go cutting their benefits left and right (including, apparently, again, COLA for the blind and disabled). With an inflation rate of 4.3%. So that we can ease the burden on those poor yacht consumers.
Deep breaths.
When reporting goes bad
I really can't do much but sigh.
A front-page article on Jan. 14 reported on an ad campaign for the first medicine approved for fibromyalgia, a chronic disorder characterized by widespread pain and fatigue, “whose very existence is questioned by some doctors.”
“I am outraged that a reputable publication such as yours would publish such a nonsensical article about fibromyalgia,” wrote Joanne Nuckton of Tucson, who was angry that anyone would doubt her constant pain, inability to concentrate and “profound” exhaustion. “I request that you publish an article which states a different point of view,” she said.
The article by Alex Berenson, a business reporter who covers the drug industry, did state the view of someone with fibromyalgia and doctors who believe the condition is real and even undertreated. In fact, it gave slightly more space to them than to the skeptics, including the physician who first wrote the guidelines for how to diagnose fibromyalgia in 1990 but no longer believes it is a disease.
The article’s opening lines — “Fibromyalgia is a real disease. Or so says Pfizer ... ” — veered toward sarcasm and may have intensified the negative reaction. Berenson explained that with the article headed for the front page, “we wanted something snappy” at the top.
But even had the first paragraph dropped the attitude and adopted the straightforward, down-the-middle tone of the rest of the article, it might not have satisfied those with fibromyalgia symptoms, because any suggestion of a controversy, to them, is a suggestion that their suffering is all in their heads.
“There clearly is something very different and very wrong with these patients, but the statement that we know what is happening or we know how to treat it is just vastly overrated,” said Michael Lockshin, a New York rheumatologist and editor in chief of the journal Arthritis & Rheumatism.
Lockshin said “there is fairly hard science coming up” about how the brain processes pain signals that may offer better understanding. But, he said, “the science is really inchoate right now.”
That seems like the perfect time for a newspaper to give a balanced presentation of what divided experts believe. I think The Times did. Lockshin put on his editor’s hat and said he thought so too.
If you actually looked over the research (and you'll find more than enough to occupy your time here and here), rather than just picking out two opposing "experts" to interview, you'd find ample evidence that fibromyalgia is an actual physiological disorder, and little to support the idea that fibromyalgia is fully psychosomatic (beyond the extent to which any symptom we feel can be amplified by mental stresses) or "overexaggerated."
And there's more to giving fair consideration to an idea than splitting the paragraphs between pro and con: the attitude of the overall reporting makes a great deal of difference. When you start out with a frame of "the drug company just made this disorder up to pad their profit margin!" you aren't going to be able to manage a respectful article, no matter what you say after that. Keep in mind that we've had a name for the disorder for decades now, and the major drug companies didn't start paying attention to us until the beginning of this decade.
And thanks for that off-hand slap on the cheek, there: "It doesn't matter what we say; those hypochondriacs would just bitch at us anyhow." Actually, you'll find that if you drop the contrarian-for-the-status-quo attitude, and look at things with an open mind and a curious heart, you'd get far better reactions. I suggest looking to the Los Angeles Times for an example of quality reporting on the subject. Your attempt, on the other hand, fell short. You might consider why. I don't think it's on the reader's end.
So apparently
my humble new home may make an actual difference in who wins the Democratic nomination.
I've dreamed for a while now of casting my vote in the primaries, and in fact finally crossed to the dark side—registered Democratic when I moved here—specifically to enable such an action. But I had figured the whole time that my vote wouldn't make much of a difference, anyhow (especially being a tentative Edwards supporter and all).
So, um.... woobama?
AUGH
School Popularity Affects Girls Weight, NY Times
I'll let the more experienced cover the article as a whole. But I just wanted to pick out this bit:
And as part of other anti-obesity measures, school officials should consider implementing programs to help girls build social skills, they added.
.......
*faint*
Ugh. There's so much in this one little quote, I just can't think of how to address it all.
There's the fact that apparently a girl's position on the social ladder only begins to matter to adults the moment she starts showing a little chub. No mention of the social ostracization, including the emotional harm—all the way up to and including depression and suicide—and the physical harm involved (ask my friend Mike what he faced as an unpopular child in school).
There's the fact that, for goodness' sake, these are children! My husband was a very chubby child, but he grew up to be 5'9, 120lbs, and plateaued at 140 when he was weightlifting. I was a chubby little girl, and grew up to be 5'8" and 125lbs at the highest before I got on my current medication.
There's the fact that you can't just swoop in and "teach" a girl "social skills." The hierarchy that exists in elementary, middle and even high school is far, far more complicated than adults give them credit for. Girls who are perfectly "skilled" socially are still ostracized. Even if a girl is a late bloomer in the social skills department, her position on the social ladder may be cemented enough that it doesn't help her any. And popularity can be based on absolutely random shit sometimes that has not a thing to do with whether you have social skills.
There's the fact that maybe the girl is perfectly happy with the friends she has, and doesn't particularly want to be friends with the girls she perceives as "popular." I knew I wasn't high on the popularity list in high school (and I was beyond skinny, by the way), but I had no delusions that I would lead any better a life if I was. I had amazing friends and I wouldn't have traded them for all the prep cred in the world.
And finally, to state the fucking obvious, there's the fact that maybe, just maybe, these children are unpopular BECAUSE they are fat.
*head.* *desk.*
Update: Just wanted to add a slightly different perspective: Could it be that, besides popular girls being selected in part for their body type, they also feel such intense pressure to remain thin that they'll do anything to keep that status? As usual, it's a double-edged sword here.
Snowday Catblogging
I decided to introduce my sunny California native cats to the wild world of winter this week. They, um, didn't make it very far.
May I add that it is friggin' impossible to correct for white balance in the snow? At least there's a little wiggle room in other settings, but man, you can definitely detect that slight pinkish or yellowish (or whatever) cast to a snow picture. Please, don't ever drop off a roll of snow pictures for me to develop for you.
Mind, body, self
Hot water rolled down my spine, dripped off my face. I was bent over my plastic chair, fingers gripping the handles, back parallel to the ground, losing consciousness in the steam of the shower.
***
I often find myself stuck in uncomfortable positions. I face a conundrum: it would cause more pain to move than it would to stay—and I wouldn't be guaranteed a comfortable position were I to move anyhow. So I remain.
And the specific circumstance is awfully reminiscent of my earlier years. Back in high school, when I relied solely on the occasional acetaminophen to soothe my pain, I would find myself lost in the shower. The water heater was as old as the house—sixty-some years—and probably was showing the same cracks the walls did. But I would turn the hot water all the way up, and gradually, as my aching body grew acclimated to the increasing heat, the cold water all the way down. I would lean against the side of the shower, unable to stand upright, the ambient heat pulsing through my tense muscles, momentarily letting go of the fear of the very visible mold under the caulking, or the fist-sized spiders that occasionally showed their faces on the ceiling.
And I would lose myself. Unable to move.
Eventually my knees would protest in pain, or I would find my back too weak to stay where I was—and I would sit down on the bath tub bottom, undoubtedly cleaned no less than two months previous—or just shut off the shower, so fucking what I only had the energy to wash my hair, everyone will just have to deal with my merely rinsed-off body for the next week, until I find the strength to step back in.
It hasn't been that bad since I began actively treating my condition. Shower frequency is, pitifully, a rather accurate measure of health in my case; I find myself able to soap up two or three times a week now, rather than my previous two or three times a month. And while I normally feel some weakness and trembling after my shower, I am normally able to get through my scrubbing routine unimpeded.
***
I have a relatively complicated relationship with my body. I suspect the same of many pwd.
I inevitably find myself attributing agency to my body wholly separate from the mind: the squishy, palpable lump of physical stuff versus the spiritual, incorporeal being. Whatever it is that "I" am, as a person, exists in the latter, and resides in the former. I am my mind, stuck in my body.
This is not so much a rational theory, but it is a rational reaction. When you struggle, day by day, to complete routine, rudimentary tasks, and the solitary obstacle is your own physical body—you may find yourself facing that same mind/body split.
You cannot turn over in bed at night; you hurt too much to so much as shift your arm, which is in searing pain in its current position. You are due for your medication, but it lies beyond arm's length, and you are so sapped of strength you cannot muster the power to force your tired bones into such a position as to reach the bottle. You find yourself trembling and unable to stand, and therefore unable to put together a small and simple meal to feed yourself. Depending on your condition, you may find it even more difficult to muster the appetite.
It hits at the heart of the concept of privilege, doesn't it? Most don't even have medication to take, much less having to break down all the little steps involved in taking it, and think over each one, and how to overcome one's limitations to achieve it. That even ignores other forms of treatment, from acupuncture to physical therapy. As glurgy as spoon theory is, Christine nails the dilemma when she says:
... everything everyone else does comes so easy, but for me it is one hundred little jobs in one. I need to think about the weather, my temperature that day, and the whole day's plans before I can attack any one given thing. When other people can simply do things, I have to attack it and make a plan like I am strategizing a war. It is in that lifestyle, the difference between being sick and healthy. It is the beautiful ability to not think and just do. [emphasis mine]
It's hard not to feel that you are constantly fighting your body when every breath, every step is a struggle.
And so I've thought for years now: ever since I came to the slow realization that I was not normal, that none of the other children felt the routine pain I felt, day by day, that there was a reason I was having trouble keeping up with my peers in phys ed. That moment, when that elusive concept first became obvious to me—though I continued to struggle with my former delusion, day by day—that was the day I learned to hate my body. That was the day I came to know my body as the enemy.
After all, I still existed in there, somewhere—all the same thoughts, hopes, feelings, fears, and dreams of that blossoming young child that had been there yesterday—but I suddenly became aware that my body was not working with me in those things. And it never had been.
And so it became my adversary.
When I first began receiving failing grades on my high school progress reports, shattering my former 4.0 record: my body was my adversary.
When fell so behind in school after a particularly awful flare-up that I was still making up tests on the day before my graduation ceremony: my body was my adversary.
When I had to drop out of college only six weeks after I'd begun, because I had so overworked myself that I was bedridden for weeks, and housebound for months afterward: my body was my adversary.
When I had to drop out of college two years later, having successfully completed fifteen of the forty-five units I'd attempted, not in so bad a physical state but knowing I soon would be if I continued: my body was my adversary.
It has been a consistent theme throughout my short life. No matter what I seek to do—even when it's something that will make my physical self better on the whole—I must consider how my body will prevent me from doing that, and, if possible, how to overcome it.
***
My eyes found a vague reflection in a splash of water on the floor. I was breathing heavily. Stuck. I stared at the wavering reflection, cream and grey on white, and searched out the shadow of my eyes, while a similarly blurry thought formed in my mind.
My body isn't the enemy, I realized.
It's not my physical self that creates all my problems.
It's all the external expectations of it.
Disability isn't the result of individual defects, deviations from the able-bodied norm. Disability is the result of a society that fails to accommodate these differences.
What if we saw these differences as variation, not deviation? After all, we fully expect our children to be born with any number of different eye colors. Why is it any less when it comes to physical and mental abilities?
Can you shape a world in your mind where there is no norm? What does it look like? How does it differ from the world you live in today? What do you expect of people as a whole in order to support those currently disadvantaged?
The more I think, the more confused I become. It seems impossible to structure society so that everyone is brought to a similar level of ability across the board. But it does seem possible to structure society so that those fully-abled work to make up for those straightforwardly lacking, and everyone works with each other in full expectation of a wide range of ability across the populace, and all of this is seen not as hassling and burdensome, noble and heroic when someone takes it on—but as mundane, everyday, simply expected, no different from separating out your recyclables or driving on the right side of the road: something that everybody does, because it isn't that hard to do, and it benefits yourself as well as those around you, so it's stupid and even outright reprehensible not to.
That is the world I want to live in.
For now, maybe I can make peace with my body. Maybe I can come to understand that my body is not working against me, but that I—the singular person, from cerebellum to nerve ending—am simply working against a set of expectations that are stacked against me from the beginning.
Life isn't fair
As though you weren't given the toy you hoped for in your Happy Meal.
As though you caught all the red lights home.
As though you got a few bad letters after your turn at Scrabble.
Isn't that exactly it, too? You were dealt a bad hand, after all. It's just a game.
It's easy for it to be just a game when you never so much as feel the fallout from your own bad decisions -- after all, you've already been sheltered from feeling the effect of any act God could throw at you.
Sometimes, life isn't fair -- for the rest of us.
Catblogging
Yes, I am quite often late. Comes with the package.
SMACKDOWN.
Buddy's favorite toy -- his printer. It never fails; when I press the power button, he's there before the machine can even power on, watching intently.
I'll save the next set for next Friday...
Harbinger
This is how you know your economy is for shit.
Wal-Mart noted in its news release that gift card redemptions were below expectations and that customers appear to be holding gift cards longer and ''using them more often for food and consumables rather than discretionary purchases.''
We're doomed.
(article), (via)
In brief..... quite perfect
I could cure my pain by steeping myself in tea.
No doubt these sorts of alternative remedies offer comfort to those suffering, and this in particular is tamer than most (which is why I post it with a smile). Any remedy, however, that announces itself via press release, and makes grand, wide-reaching claims of importance while lean on supporting evidence, deserves a critical look.
Sunday Birthday Blogging
After our wedding last May, husband's parents showered gifts upon us. They are quite comfortable financially and can certainly afford to do so, and we were deeply appreciative. There was one problem, though. When we opened the wrapping around what was quite obviously a bedding set, it wasn't what we had registered for. In fact, his mother and brother described walking through the store, seeing what we had chosen, and deciding that what they had chosen instead "matched your carpet better." (Our carpet is blood red. What ever "matches" blood red and yet remains tasteful?)
This is what they picked:
I call it "vomitatious."
Now, his family was doing something incredibly nice for us, bless their hearts, and make no mistake: I adore these people. But this just clashed so painfully with my own decorative taste that it was rather obvious I wasn't really happy with it. There was a little bit of tension for a short while, but I settled down, and we continued cuddling under the orange stripes every night.
Until Friday. I had known it was coming, which is a long story and not at all the typical one (wife drops hints relentlessly, husband finally buys gift, wife snoops and finds it ahead of time), but he presented it with me that morning, and I was very happy when he did. It fits so perfectly with my tastes, and it so very well toned down the bright red carpet, instead of highlighting the pukiest strains of it -- and it's something that can be ours.
That last note is particularly important for me: I made a point when I moved in with him just over a year ago that he needed to stop calling it "my apartment" -- it was ours. I had just abandoned my entire family and network of friends, the place I grew up and the place I made home, every earthly belonging that didn't fit in a box suitable to ship Fedex, and flew 2500 miles across the continent to settle down in a place I had visited once, to live with a man in whose physical presence I had been a total of five weeks previously -- I already felt excluded by default; I didn't need him to reinforce that feeling.
(He, being the understanding person he is, then stopped.)
Anyway, it just makes me happy. Most everything in this apartment came from his parents, but most all of it is also stuff that we are happy with. It's not like he was excited about the orange stripes. We were just both happy to have actual bedding (before that, we had been sleeping on a $15 Target sheet set and a couple old blankets). Now, we have something that makes the place look like ours -- instead of looking like we were renting a room from the in-laws.
Happy sigh.
This drives me batty
Kevin remarks: "Does anyone seriously think that any Republican candidate can kick such major ass among independents in November that he can afford a conservative base that's not charged up and working feverishly to turn out every last vote? I don't." ... Does anyone seriously think that any Democratic candidate is more likely than Clinton to ensure a conservative base that's charged up and working feverishly to turn out every last vote? I don't.
Remind me, again, why the conservative base experiences a collective break with reality when it comes to Clinton?
Could it have anything to do with the fact that she is a woman in a position of power who does not humbly grovel at the feet of the patriarchy? Who has a drop of independence to her? Who doesn't bake cookies and read to children, but attempts to use her position to get something done? Who speaks her mind -- or speaks at all, since she refuses to be the mouthpiece of the patriarchy? Who knuckles down, who hits back when attacked, who unabashedly uses every resource available when trying to accomplish something? Who has "ambition" (what single public figure could ever not)?
I thought we condemned the bigots for reacting with horror and spittle when confronted with such a woman. I thought we vowed to fight them when they act that way. Not to shrug our shoulders, and say, "Oh well. The bigots will say mean, nasty things, and they will surely ensure our defeat, if we are to nominate her." Therefore, if you value your well being, you .... won't.
Does this argument have that familiar stench to anyone else?
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