A Misdiagnosis: Or “Would Someone Please Tell Me What the Hell is Wrong with My Son!”

Our English medical term “diagnosis” originates from the Greek term “diagignoskein,” to know apart, to think through, with wisdom enough to discern an illness apart from its symptoms, or so it was in 360 to 470 BC, in the days of Hippocrates.

When I began working in the healthcare field in 1991, I did so with enthusiasm and a sense of trust. But then one of my children became ill and I realized how silly I was. A mother usually knows what to do when her child is in pain, has a fever, or has the flu. But when our motherly instincts and at-home remedies have been exhausted, we somehow think taking our child to the doctor will work. Sometimes it doesn’t.

In 1994, when Matthew, my second child and the first of my three sons, was just seven years old, he began having symptoms that were difficult for me to explain to his physicians. But I tried. About every three weeks, Matthew was sick for two to three days at a time. During these days, he could not keep even clear liquids down, he vomited as often as every 20 minutes, and lay nearly comatose for hours on the sofa when he wasn’t trying to get to the bathroom to puke. When he was trying to get to the bathroom, he walked like an old man, his chest and head bent over his abdomen, struggling to maintain even a slow and shuffling gait. He stretched his right arm behind his back, holding his hand steadily in place as if to keep something on the inside from falling out. He stayed in the bathroom for 10 to 15 minutes at a time, often producing nothing but dry heaves. Then, he’d return from whence he came and slowly recoil his twisted body back inside our fluffy brown tweed sofa, the softest bed in the house. I tried so many times to palpate his abdomen, back, or side, just to see if I could find an obvious trigger point for his pain but the second I touched him he quietly pleaded, “No, Mom, don’t.”

During the time of his illness, I was employed as an administrative assistant in one of the local family practice offices, so this is where I began my inquiries. During one of Matthew’s spells, I took him in to see one of the younger physicians, hoping he was more up to date on new developments, new techniques, new treatments for complicated things. I remember taking in a sample of Matthew’s vomit, just yellow bile really, securely wrapped in a ZipLock bag. I thought maybe there was a lab test that could reveal abnormal levels of something, because it seemed to me that my son’s body was somehow producing it’s own poison. “No, we don’t need that,” he explained. I wasn’t embarrassed.  I felt worse than that. I felt dismissed. Silly Mom. That young physician then sent us on to a seasoned gastroenterologist who ordered a few standard tests. I wasn’t impressed by him.

I was impressed by my son, a sick, young boy, obedient and kind when asked to drink a disgusting chalk-like Barium milkshake in preparation for his upper GI study. This wasn’t Steak-n-Shake and never once did Matthew complain. These results, along with an abdominal ultrasound, were negative, so the problem wasn’t with his digestive tract. But the gastroenterologist didn’t send us anywhere else. I felt dismissed. Again.

My thought process went something like this, “So if there’s not a problem with his digestive tract, maybe we should look somewhere else, you think?” It seemed to me when Matthew pulled his right arm back behind his side, that he was reaching for or even cupping his right kidney. I never believed the human body is all that complicated. My favorite book when I was Matthew’s age was one of those 9-1/2 x 12 inch hardback anatomy books for kids, where each system of the body is illustrated on a different color of cellophane. I spent hours as a child lying on the living room floor, layering each cellophane page on top of the other, mesmerized by the visualization, each system synchronized with the next, an entire universe contained within our skin.  Studying that human body book as a child, I never believed I was reading any great mystery. Was I asking too much of Matthew’s physicians? All I wanted was for one of them to actually give a shit, to point out to me on one of those cellophane pages exactly where Matthew’s pain was coming from, why, and what needed to be done.

After the gastroenterologist discussed with me what he couldn’t find, I thought it might help if I mentioned a few more details. Did he think I was insane? What could a 31-year-old mother-of-four know anyway? I tried to have a say, but I guess I just wasn’t loud enough or rude enough. Instead, I was trying to be nice when I explained, “Sometimes, after he has been on the sofa a few hours, he turns over, switching sides from left to right, then about 30 minutes later he has to pee, and then when he pees, he pees for like five minutes. I mean, he just pees and pees and pees. Could this have anything to do with his pain?”

“Maybe,” the gastroenterologist said, then – nothing. He turned the discussion back to Matthew’s abdomen, throwing these symptoms under an umbrella diagnosis. Except umbrella diagnoses are not real diagnoses at all. He used bigger words, but this is what I heard, “Well, we’ve ruled out this, and we’ve ruled out that, so this is what I’ve got left – I think he’s having abdominal migraines.”

I thought, “Okay, Doc, nice cop out. No, actually, not even a nice cop out, just a lazy one.”

It was difficult for me to see my son laughing and playing, loud, boisterous even, and then suddenly, without warning, completely shutting down, collapsing, deflating like a balloon when it’s losing helium. I thought back often to his birth day and then to his infant and toddler years. He was born long before physicians blurted out the baby’s gender on a four-month ultrasound. My water broke three weeks before his due date. During labor, as his shoulders passed one by one through my vaginal canal, I knew I was giving birth to a boy, wide-shouldered and strong, with the episiotomy to follow causing more pain than his delivery. But that beautiful boy with his thick pouty lips was worth every stitch.

Matthew’s demeanor, even as a newborn, was pretty calm, mellow even. He rarely cried. I really only remember one rough night with him when he was about five days old. He just cried and cried and cried. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t wet. Maybe I was just too busy. Too busy keeping the house clean. Too busy entertaining Jessica, his 20-month-old sister. Too busy nursing him and changing his diaper. Too busy to just hold him. I finally picked him up out of his crib about 2:00 a.m., because my two previous attempts to calm him down were literally, utterly, unsuccessful.  I carried him gently downstairs and sat with him in that chintzy, $89.00 honey-oak-stained Bentwood rocker, the most unsnuggly rocker in history. But I tried to snuggle him close anyway, his head propped up on my right shoulder so I could whisper in his ear, “I’m so sorry, Buddy, Mommy’s just been too, too busy. I’m so glad you’re finally here.  I waited so long to see your face and hold you in my arms. You’re such a good boy, so handsome, and strong.”  I don’t think I made it through the second sentence before he quieted and listened and listened and listened as I continued to whisper, to talk only to him, for probably the first time in his life.

As an early toddler, he liked to crawl under our clunky 80’s wooden coffee table, roll onto his back, position his feet flat to the top, then push, lifting both wooden legs at one end of the coffee table about five inches off the floor. Some pretty serious leg presses for a 12-month-old. On his second birthday, as I was getting him ready for bed, I had a little talk with him. “So, now you are two! You are such a big boy! And mommy is having another baby soon, so I’m going to need your help. I think you are big enough to start wearing big-boy panties. Joshua is still a baby so he can’t do that yet. But I can’t have three of my kids in diapers, that is too much work for mommy and that would just cost too much money! I think you are big enough to quit wearing diapers. Besides, they get wet and stinky and that’s not fun!” That child never wore a diaper again.  He certainly didn’t talk back because he really didn’t start talking until he was three. But he understood every word I said. After his second birthday, I only remember him having one night-time accident when he was about four. He was sick, I think with the flu, and running a fever, so I kept pushing fluids down him. That one night-time accident was actually my fault! Seeing him in pain at eight made it difficult for me to believe I was a good mom. My instincts were so much sharper when he was small.

Dr. Burnt-Out-on-His-Job prescribed Imitrex for Matthew’s “abdominal migraines.” But he wasn’t trying to sell medication, he was selling a theory and I wasn’t buying it. I think he was waiting for me to say “Thank you,” but I didn’t. He just kept talking to me, “With your history of migraines, blah, blah, blah, as he gets older, this pain will most likely transition to a more typical migraine.”

I was thinking, “So, you really don’t know what the hell you are talking about, do you?”  His explanations sounded like the 37th replay of The Little Mermaid. At one point in the conversation, I just quit listening. I didn’t believe my history of migraine headaches had anything to do with Matthew’s recurring pain. My migraines were triggered by my menstrual cycle and Matthew didn’t have any ovaries. Besides, I personally was a participant in an Imitrex study just a couple years earlier and I certainly didn’t believe this was a medication an eight-year-old should be taking. I felt defeated. Where was my Hippocrates?

Another year passed, then another, and another.  I Googled a hundred variations of “pediatrics, nausea, vomiting, dry heaves, yellow bile, back pain, weakness, lethargy, abdominal migraines, routine vomiting, vomiting every three weeks, recurrent vomiting, incorrect diagnosis,” and on and on and on. The only comparable illness I found was something called “cyclic vomiting syndrome,” which, like abdominal migraines, is not really a diagnosis at all.  The most popular website focusing on this disorder included hundreds of parents who asked all the same questions but found no answers.

Matthew’s sick days were normal to him, normal to his friends and siblings, but they were never normal to me.  If it had been me, I don’t know that I could have lived through it. The only things I could offer him were a cold washcloth, which he kindly accepted then brushed aside when I wasn’t looking, and a bottomless glass of Sprite with heavy ice, kidding myself, “He might be able to keep it down this time.”

When he was ill, he seemed to crawl inside himself, like he crawled into that sofa, an attempted disappearing act, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. When he was well, his laughter filled the room, deep from the gut, loud. He did all the normal things normal boys do. When he was in third grade, he was on TV, line dancing with his class to The Electric Slide. For Halloween that year, he dressed up as a magician. I made him a silk black cape with sparkling silver crescent moons and stars, a six-foot scarf scrunched up his sleeve, a rabbit or something under his hat. He played soccer and baseball, never the best because Matthew wasn’t raised by parents like that, but unless he was sick, he never missed a practice. In fourth grade, he played Alfred Hitchcock after his creative writing group wrote a skit. He loved the Three Stooges, Charlie Chaplin, and The Big Ear Boy. Oh, and aliens. Always aliens. He saw every documentary he could find on Area 51 and built a UFO. He won third place in the fifth grade science fair for his presentation on black holes, researched entirely on his own.

In seventh grade, he joined the Chess Club, his favorite extracurricular activity, where he developed friendships he still has today. He was never really a nerd, though. I remember one summer he and a couple buddies were playing around with some songs, writing parodies about crushes they had on each other’s moms. And when the group was getting a little ornery, Matthew was always the good kid. One evening, when his younger brother, Joshua, and one of their friends, Brian, snuck out at night to throw water balloons around town, Matthew didn’t go. He did, however, help them back in the house by putting a chair outside below their bedroom window so they could climb back in. In eighth grade, for the Georgetown Fair Talent Show, he wore an Hawaiian shirt with a dime store lei and sang the Beach Boys’ Kokomo. In band, he played the trombone. His cancer-stricken, dying band teacher loved him, wanted him to keep playing then go to college on a scholarship.

At sixteen, he traded in his trombone for a guitar and a girlfriend. About that same time, I told him he had to start detasseling corn so he would never work a harder job in his life. He pulled his two younger brothers along so they could all pitch in on video game equipment. When the younger two earned enough money for the purchase, they quit. Matthew kept going. He played a cook in the mess hall for a M.A.S.H. play.  He was moved into Honors English where he made the valedictorian a little nervous. Matthew said the valedictorian would ask him after every assignment,“Wait! What just happened here? You’re not allowed to write better than me! How did you do that?”

When he was a senior in high school, he fell in love with an older girl he met at work. At 18 and six months before he graduated high school, he married Lidiya, a beautiful, outgoing, and determined 21-year-old from the Ukraine. And she wasn’t even pregnant. He just didn’t want her to leave the country. She already had a bachelor’s degree and spoke three languages, so why she was only able to obtain a temporary work visa for McDonald’s, I’ll never know. The only real concern I had at the time was that she didn’t seem very impressed with Matthew’s interest in his high school theatrical productions, making some statement like, “In the Ukraine, most classmates laugh at guys who like to sing and dance, everybody calls them gay, but I know he enjoys it, so it’s okay.” I shrugged this off as a cultural difference because other than this, she was pretty amazing, an instant hit with the family.

Lidiya loved to play Scrabble with us. When it comes to this game, my children are vicious. Because, well, they learned from the best. When my stepfather taught me how to play when I was in sixth grade, he was merciless. And this is how I taught my children to play just as soon as they started reading. I never let them win, ever, until they actually did. My boys were never the quarter back or defensive line types but different games can teach children similar things: It’s not over until it’s over. Hang in there. Don’t get lazy because you’re losing. Don’t get lazy because you’re winning. Celebrate your opponent’s brilliant moves. Don’t be obnoxious with your victories. And never cheat, not even when no one is looking, because you’ll always know the truth.

Lidiya never seemed more at home in the United States than when she was sitting at our oversized kitchen pub table playing Scrabble engaged as the rest of us. We allowed her to use Russian, German, and Polish words so we could learn new words from her, too. And even though I always allowed a dictionary at the table to encourage learning, I don’t recall her ever needing to check a spelling. When I purchased a Scrabble board for her at Christmastime, she cried. But more importantly, when Matthew was sick, she took care of him, she cried for him, and she comforted him. Instead of me. I loved her to death but it’s hard for a mother to turn the care of a sick child over to someone else, especially another woman. I knew he was in good hands, but they weren’t mine. And Matthew’s symptoms just kept getting worse.

By the time he was 20, Matthew’s vomiting episodes crept closer and closer together and the severity of his pain increased. The newlyweds were in the emergency room every two weeks, for months. One physician finally gave Matthew a standing order for Demerol as needed because it was the only medication that offered him any pain relief. Finally though, Lidiya said, “Enough.” And she found the voice I could never seem to find, loud and strong, advocating for my son. During just another ordinary visit to the ER, she told Matthew, “We are not leaving this hospital until we find out what’s wrong with you. Between his adamant wife and a new insightful resident on call, some progress was finally made. After studying Matthew’s paper chart in a time when so many physicians were still handwriting notes, the young resident finally said, “You know, I don’t think it’s abdominal pain. I think we should look at his kidneys.” The same instinct I felt when my son was eight.

The resident immediately ordered an intravenous pyelogram (IVP) with contrast. This test is performed by injecting a contrast dye into the urinary tract then studying images to detect any dysfunction in the patient’s kidneys, ureters, and bladder. The test revealed Matthew’s right kidney was inflamed and his right ureter was blocked, specifically in a state of reflux, backwashing urine into his kidney instead of flowing correctly towards his bladder. On repositioning, Matthew was asked to switch sides, moving from his left side to right, the same sequence he performed on the sofa when he was small. This set of imaging revealed his right kidney beginning to drain, though inefficiently.

After the pyelogram, Matthew was finally consulted by a nephrologist, a kidney specialist, who then performed an immediate procedure to clear his right ureter laparoscopically but no clear pathway could be made. His ureteral tissue was so mangled that an attempt to tunnel through the blockage was unsuccessful. As is common practice with most diagnoses, treatment plans progress as conservatively as possible but what came next was pretty extreme.

Matthew underwent a right nephrostomy, meaning they cut a hole into his right kidney, inserting a tube which they left hanging outside of his body, taping it down over his hip and onto his outer thigh where they hung a urostomy pouch, allowing his urine to bypass his ureter completely, draining down his leg into a baggie. Not real sexy. He was instructed to continue with this drainage technique 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Recommended tincture of time – six months. Hoping this extended length of time would allow his right ureter to rest, to heal, to untangle itself, to open just enough that his next laparoscopic procedure might prove to be successful. It wasn’t. In fact, his first laparoscopic procedure produced such a large amount of scar tissue that his condition was only made worse.  When Matthew learned of this, he said, “Enough! I want my right kidney removed. Just take it out. It’s only functioning at thirty percent anyway. Lots of people live a normal life with just one kidney. And that’s what I want – a normal life. Not a year from now, not a month from now, today.”

Though his nephrologist advised against it, Matthew persisted. He was finally given a referral to Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, where Matthew’s request for a right nephrectomy, a right kidney removal, was granted. Matthew said he woke up from that procedure completely pain free, a feeling he had not experienced since he was in Kindergarten. He was given all the normal living-with-a-single-kidney precautions, such as avoiding contact sports, drinking too much alcohol, keeping an eye on his blood pressure, drinking fewer carbonated beverages, and drinking a lot more water. Matthew was like, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever, can I just get out of here?” Because he had a life to start living.

It’s been 12 years since his surgery, but I still worry. After every visit or phone call, he answers all the same questions depending on what band wagon he has fallen off of or hopped back onto at any given time, updating me correctly whether he’s eating healthy or not, exercising or not, drinking too much alcohol or not, smoking or not. And as much as I try not to nag, I just can’t help myself. I always leave him with the same reminder, “You only have one kidney!” Just in case he forgets.

During a recent conversation with him over dinner, we reflected a bit on his illness. I found myself apologizing for not being more adamant with the physicians when he was younger. He stopped me and wouldn’t let me finish. He said he wouldn’t change a thing about his childhood because that illness taught him so much about life and relationships most people never learn – patience, empathy, respect, his words most convincing when he said, “I never wanted my friends and family to quit having a good time just because I was sick.” He has such a resilient spirit and I believe one line from his own song lyrics describes his attitude best, “This could be the day that everything changes.”

It would be lovely, I suppose, if I could end this story on that note, to say he’s living happily ever after. Maybe in some ways he is, but he’s no longer with Lidiya. Just one month after receiving her green card, just after their fifth wedding anniversary, she left him for James, Matthew’s best friend and business partner for a charter bus company they were planning to launch together. It wasn’t supposed to happen to him – that young Russian bride cliché. But Matthew’s okay. Of course, for months, for two or three years even, he wasn’t. Then he began pouring his heartbreak into song. Healing. On hearing a few of his new tunes, his younger brother, Joshua, started playing talent scout, dragging Matthew to Cowboy Monkey downtown on Tuesday nights for open mic at the bar where Matthew became a rock star.

One Tuesday evening, several months after Matthew began performing on stage,  Lidiya and James arrived at Cowboy Monkey and claimed a table.  Champaign, Illinois is a small town. Did their ears perk up once word got around? Or did they just pop in on Matthew and his groupies by accident? Were they hoping to hang out with him after the show, catch up a little, maybe clink drinks? I don’t want to believe there was any ill intent on their part. I don’t want to believe that Lidiya even thinks like that. But I do know Matthew walked up to them, guitar in hand, raised both eyebrows a bit, which always means he’s serious, and said, “I think you both need to leave.” He hasn’t seen them since.

He’s been driving a semi trailer for a over a year now, traveling across the country, at home with his autonomy, writing songs, his guitar playing the ever faithful lover. He’s living mortgage free and pretty comfy, his cab complete with a bunk, video games, and a flatscreen TV. He’s investing in his future. “Because,” he explains, “If I can do this for five years or so, I can just pay cash for a home, out West I think, on a few acres of land. Just gettin’ my ducks in row. Who knows? I might just meet the right girl somewhere down the road. Lidiya and I were just too young, that’s all. I’m taking it slow.” I’m glad he’s not in a hurry, thrilled when he pops in for a surprise one-on-one visit with me when he’s not far from town. We stay up into the wee hours of the morning laughing out loud over a Scrabble board. He never keeps score and lets me win. Again. But I taught him to be a better player than that and the fact that he lets me win without a real fight kinda pisses me off. But I keep my mouth shut. I’m just glad he’s home.


A Seance for the Matriarchs: Female Voices of Britain’s New Woman

Lisa Frazeur
Academic Submission May 2018

A Séance for the Matriarchs
Female Voices of Britain’s New Woman

For girls born in between – in between social classes, in between religions that tear us down instead of build us up, in between fathers, in between homes, in between our mothers’ ability to consistently love us as they should, in between husbands, in between lovers – this séance is for you. This séance is for me. Here, may we find our worthy ancestry and claim our greatest inheritance, that of wisdom, not of wealth.

But before we direct our attention to the inspiring New Woman of the Twentieth Century, we must first meet her as a girl, more specifically, The Girl of the Period, as so vividly captured by a dubious séance-crashing fortune teller.

Eliza Lynn Linton (1822-1898)
Linton was born surrounded by beaches on the Isle of Wight. Because she was motherless by the age of five and because she grew up educating herself through access to her father’s library, she seems to belong among us. On first impression, we begin to sympathize with her, maybe even admire her. Yet, upon closer observation, we find her voice fatigued with repeated messages of patriarchy.

In her essay, The Girl of the Period, Linton writes of social warnings, shaming girls for innocent curiosities like splashing their feet through a rippling creek and letting down their pinned-up hair to blow wildly in the wind. Surprisingly, a woman herself, and an independent one at that, Linton doesn’t seem to be on our side. Bearing the burdening label of the first paid female journalist in Britain, it may simply be that she not only knew who buttered her bread, but who churned that butter as well. Her words ting a patriarchal tone, so sure of herself, cold to thoughts of differing opinion, and scolding without love like a resentful and obligatory stepmother.

Linton’s most notable essay, “The Girl of the Period,” first published in the Saturday Review in London on March 14, 1868, when she was 46, is a somewhat ironic rant in the sense that all Linton abhors in girls is all that we, as mothers today, hope their daughters to be – original and free.

“The Girl of the Period is a creature who dyes her hair and paints her face
. . . a creature whose sole idea of life is fun. . .whose dress is the chief object of
such thought and intellect. . . Her main endeavor is to outvie her neighbors in the extravagance of fashion. . . If sensible fashion lifts the gown out of the mud, she raises hers midway to her knee. If the absurd structure of wire and buckram, once called a bonnet, is modified to something that shall protect the wearer’s face without putting out the eyes of her companion, she cuts hers down to four straws and a rosebud, or a tag of lace and a bunch of glass beads. . . .But the Girl of the Period does not please men. . .All men whose opinion is worth having prefer the simple and genuine girl of the past, with her tender little ways and pretty bashful modesties, to this loud and rampant modernization, with her false red hair and painted skin, talking slang as gibly as a man. . .She will not see that though men laugh with her, they do not respect her, though they flirt with her, they do not marry her. . . all we can do is wait patiently until the national madness has passed, and our women have come back again to the old English ideal, once the most beautiful, the
most modest, the most essentially womanly in the world.”

Are girls really any different today than they were then – the dyed hair, the painted faces? My goodness, if Ms. Linton could see us now with our short skirts and hair accessories, what cheesecakes we must be! Did she ever see tattoos or were those only displayed in traveling circuses among bearded ladies and siamese twins? And what girl doesn’t want to have the nicest handbag or the nicest pair of shoes in the room? How different is this than grown-up boys with all their grown-up toys? Isn’t it about time we quit apologizing?

Linton continues with the same ranting voice throughout many of her essays, placing men and women of British society into such simple and ridiculous classifications that we might find her writing published today in the Sunday Comics. In her essay “Little Women,” Linton refers to specific female characteristics as distinguished by two simple body types, small and large. Her voice is as confident as Darwin’s though she provides us with no scientific evidence.

“. . .the little woman is irrepressible. Too fragile to come into the fighting section of humanity – a puny creature whom one blow from a man’s huge fist could annihilate – absolutely fearless. . .what can be done with her? She is afraid of nothing and can be controlled by no one. Sheltered behind her weakness as behind a triple shield of brass, the angriest man dare not touch her, while she provokes him to a combat in which his hands are tied. She gets her own way in everything and everywhere. . .”


“But, in general, the large-boned woman obeys the orders given, because, while near enough to man to be somewhat on a par with him, she is still undeniably his inferior. She is too strong to shelter herself behind her weakness, yet too weak to
assert her strength and defy her master on equal grounds. . .”

then yet again,

“ – the pert, smart, pretty little woman, who laughs in your face and goes
straight ahead if you try to turn her to the right hand or to the left. . .as if you were talking a foreign language she could not understand. . .You may see her stepping over barriers, slipping under the ropes, penetrating to the green benches with a red ticket, taking the best places on the platform over the heads of their rightful owners. . .You cannot turn her out by main force. British chivalry objects to the public laying on of hands in the case of a woman. . . more particularly if she be a small and fragile-looking woman. . .If the battle is between her and another woman, they are left to fight it out as they best can, with the odds laid heavily on the little one.”

I am still surprised by the way we judge people based on appearances. An overweight interviewee is lazy. A teenage girl with large breasts is “easy.” A tall man is more intelligent than a short one. The physically handicapped are mentally incompetent. The homeless are given no more regard than a stray dog. Until we become aware of our own prejudices, we will continue to pass them down from generation to generation, and there will be no end.
In her writing, Linton appears to uphold Victorian tradition and she makes little to no reference regarding the value of a female’s strive for independence. Yet, in her own life, choosing divorce after only a few short years of marriage, she seems to contradict this advice, and rejects the idea that a woman should sacrifice her personal preferences and desires for the advancement of her husband’s career and place in society. Did she publish any essays justifying her decision to leave her family? If so, where are they? Are her essays credible or did she make a pact with the patriarchal devil to maintain her independence?

Alice Mona Caird (1854-1932)
In 1888, at the age of 34, Scottish writer, Caird, began publishing a series of articles refuting Linton’s biased attitudes. Caird was one of the first female writers to support the idea that women’s “social evolution was not biologically but historically determined.” In The End of the Patriarchal System, she compares and contrasts the male and female “spheres,” bringing to light society’s distorted ideology.

“. . .the woman of the nineteenth century. . .sees her brothers going forth
into the world with a thousand advantages, to her denied. For them a good
education, encouragement in study, fostered talents, cherished opportunities;
for them a good start in life, so far as lies in the power of parents to bestow, and on the father’s death, the inheritance of the bulk of his property. For her, there is nothing but discouragement, opposition. . . the one thing left to her, if she would not displease all her family and friends is to marry, and so provide herself with a home and competence. . . Thus, the woman must struggle with other women for the sole means of livelihood that has hitherto been recognized as fitting for her sex; the family claims from her duty and obedience, as of old, but it expects her to provide for herself. On no account must she go out of her ‘sphere’ . . . She must pay taxes, but she may not vote; she may be divorced for unfaithfulness, but she may not divorce.”

In Sons of Bondswomen, Caird gracefully bends toward social understanding and away from blame when she writes:
“A man has been brought up, from earliest childhood, to regard a woman
as of less importance than himself; he sees her trained to minister to his comfort, and to make herself pleasing in his eyes. He finds the respectable British matron eager to see her daughters marry well. . .does she not know. . . that if they do not marry well, society offers them small chance of doing well in any other way?”

Here, Caird offers whispers of hope, the possibility that men are capable of understanding the errors of patriarchy, but she makes no promises for change. More eloquent prose can be found in two of her novels, The Wing of Azrael, a story of marital rape and revenge, published in 1889, and Daughters of Danaus, the story of a New Woman trying to balance her ideals within a marriage, published in 1894.

My name was supposed to be Lance Emery, Emery after my paternal grandfather.  The only Lance I know of was on a soap opera.  My father was Emery’s firstborn son. My mother named me Lisa Ann, not really that far of a stretch from Lance Emery, I guess. I wonder how long she had the girl name as a back-up. And then of course there was that whole “Elvis’ daughter’s name is Lisa” thing going on, so there were always three or four Lisas in my class, the reason everyone called me by my maiden name, “Creekbaum,” instead, which couldn’t have been any worse. If they’d gone to college, I’d probably be Elizabeth instead, and able to reach a little higher towards that glass ceiling. If I’d been a boy, though, I might have been a quarterback. My dad would have loved that.

Three years after I was born, my mom gave birth to another girl. Shame on her! Mom named her Sheryl Kay, Sheryl because it meant “little Shirley,” Shirley being our mother’s name, the two sharing the same middle name as well. After my parents brought her home from the hospital, my Dad said something like,“I just don’t understand why we couldn’t have a boy.” Well, as I understand it, that’s kind of the guy’s call. He never considered for a second that we might enjoy playing football. Five months later, he hopped in his car, complete with a new set of tires, and headed for the Gulf of Mexico. Fifty years later, he has four amazing grandsons he barely knows. He also has three amazing granddaughters capable of changing the world, but whatever. At least for him, though, maybe he should have thought grandsons someday might just be worth the wait.

Sarah Grand (1854-1943)
Francis Elizabeth Clarke was born in Northern Ireland. Her father, a naval officer, died only seven years later. By 16, she was married to a 39-year-old widower, David Chambers McFall, an Army surgeon with two sons. His financial security enabled her to travel and pursue a writing career. In 1871, she gave birth to their only child, David. Following some success as a contributing author for magazines, she published her first novel, Ideala, in 1888. Two years later, longing for independence, she left her family and took a new name – Sarah Grand. Her son, it seems, was emotionally supportive of her decision. When he was older and began his acting career, he also took the last name of Grand.

The Heavenly Twins, Grand’s most well-known novel, was published in 1893. It is the story of a girl and a boy, born in the most equal of states, to the same parents at the same time, yet raised within the confines of the extreme gender roles of the period. And how dare the author allow the female to be born first! Early in the book, the main character, Evadne, has a conversation with her father when, unbeknownst to him, she analyses his every word, his every contradiction in logic. Yet, as any good girl would do at the time, she keeps her thoughts quietly to herself. In the first few pages of chapter one, Grand opens a window into Evadne’s psyche:

“Her mind was prone to experiment with every item of information it
gathered, in order to test its practical value; if she could turn it to account she
treasured it; if not, she rejected it, from whatever source it came. But she was not herself aware of any reservation in her manner of accepting instruction. The trick was innate, and in no way interfered with her faith in her friends, which was profound. She might have justified it, however, upon her father’s authority, for she once heard him say to one of her brothers: “Find out for yourself, and form your own opinions,” a lesson which she had laid to heart also. Not that her father would have approved of her putting it into practice. He was one of those men who believe emphatically that a woman should hold no opinion which is not of masculine origin, and the maxims he had for his boys differed materially in many respects from those which he gave to his girls. But these precepts of his were, after all, only matches to Evadne which fired whole trains of reflection, and lighted her to conclusions quite
other than those at which he had arrived himself. In this way, however, he became her principal instructor. She had attached herself to him from the time that she could toddle, and had acquired from his conversation a proper appreciation of masculine precision of thought. If his own statements were not always accurate, it was from no want of respect for the value of facts; for he was great on the subject, and often insisted that a lesson or principle of action is contained in the commonest fact; but he snubbed Evadne promptly all the same on one occasion when she mentioned a fact of life, and drew a principle of action therefrom for herself. ‘Only confusion comes of women thinking for themselves on social subjects,’ he said, ‘You must
let me decide all such matters for you, or you must refer them to your husband when you come under his control.’ Evadne did not pay much attention to this, however, because she remembered another remark of his with which she could not make it agree. The remark was that women never had thought for themselves, and that therefore it was evident that they could not think, and that they should not try. Now, as it is obvious that confusion
cannot come of a thing that has never been done, the inaccuracy in one or other of these statements was glaring enough to put both out of the argument. But what Evadne did note was the use of the word control.”

Of all my mother’s children, and there were five, I was the eldest and the quietest one, listening and observing the insanity around me. I was told by my mother “I never thought you were college material.” I was told by my Christian school principal that “Children from broken homes usually end up with broken homes.” I was told by a frumpy female teacher that “Beauty is a curse.” The boys I competed with in acting competitions always won first place because they chose to preach famous sermons. I recited poetry. Not until I memorized Patrick Henry’s speech, “Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death” did I receive any real recognition for my talent. In the school I attended, girls were not allowed to pray aloud to open a chapel service, nor were we allowed the position of class president. We were allowed to prepare tacos when we were trying to raise money for our senior trip. A hundred years later, I was still a hundred years behind.

Grand’s fictional storyline allowed her to speak freely about the double standards in marriage, even so far as husbands running amuck with prostitutes then bringing sexually transmitted diseases back to his wife and, in some cases, his unborn child. Her book contains a societal plea for husbands to be held as morally accountable as their wives.

Shortly following the success of The Heavenly Twins, In March 1894, Grand’s article “The New Aspect of the Woman Question,” was published in the North American Review, and the concept of the New Woman was born. As it goes so often in the publishing world, others took advantage of the opportunity to hop on Grand’s well-oiled bicycle, specifically, Ouida (1839-1908) in her rebuttal to Grand’s New Woman concept published a mere two months later in the same magazine, so conveniently titled “The New Woman. The editors of Punch magazine flaunted serial sarcastic cartoons of women in bloomers, riding bicycles, and larger-than-life masculine-looking females toying with little men. But, also as it goes with the ever-advancing printing press, there is still ever only one original.

“It is amusing. . .to note the pause which the new aspect of the woman
question has given to the Bawling Brothers who have hitherto tried to howl down every attempt on the part of our sex to make the world a pleasanter place to live in. That woman should ape man and desire to change places with him was conceivable to him. . .well inflated with his own conceit. . . ‘If women don’t want to be men what do they want?’ asked the Bawling Brotherhood. . . they pointed to a certain sort of woman in proof of the contention that we were all unsexing ourselves.  It would be rational for us now to declare that men generally are Bawling Brothers or to adopt the hasty conclusion which makes all men out to be fiends on the one hand and all women fools on the other. We have our Shrieking Sisterhood as the counterpart of the Bawling Brotherhood. The latter consists of two sorts of men. . . he who is satisfied with the cow-kind of woman. . . The other sort. . . is under the influence of the scum of our sex. . .but THE NEW WOMAN is a little above him, and he never even thought of looking up to where she has been sitting apart in silent contemplation all these years, thinking and thinking, until at last she solved the problem and proclaimed for herself what was wrong with Home-is-the-Woman’s-Sphere, and prescribed the remedy. . .” When others don’t like what we say, they try to convince us we are delusional, ill-informed, selfish nags.

Thirty years later, when a new edition of The Heavenly Twins was published, Grand’s attitude towards the double standard on gender was just as sincere. In the forward, she wrote, “A man might keep a baby-linen shop if it paid – anything that paid was masculine – but a woman could not drive a pair of horses for profit, however a good whip she was, without the odium of being ‘unsexed.’”

Olive Schreiner (1855-1920)

Appropriately speaking for Schreiner, we have Lyndall, the author’s female protagonist in her first novel, The Story of an African Farm, published in 1883 under the pen name of Ralph Iron (because what authority did any woman have to trespass on man’s territory?) Through Lyndall, a strong yet desperate character, Schreiner is able to share her own hopes, dreams, disappointments, nightmares, and the even darker reality that the space and time in which she lived really was quite hopeless.

When we meet Lyndall, she is a spunky, opinionated girl, probably a bit too much of a realist for her own good. At the age of 12, discussing with her cousin, Em, their contrasting lots in life, Lyndall speaks well beyond her years.

“I intend to go to school. . .There is nothing helps in this world but to be
very wise, and to know everything – to be clever. . . When you are 17. . .you will have this farm. . .but I will have nothing. I must learn. . . I do not want your sheep. . .I want things of my own. When I am grown up. . .there will be no thing that I do not know. I shall be rich, very rich; and I shall wear not only for best, but every day, a pure white silk, and little rose-buds. . .and my petticoats will be embroidered, not only at the bottom, but all through.”

I am Lyndall. At 53, I still want it all – to learn, to travel, to be in a marriage if I choose to, not because I need someone to help pay a mortgage. I worry that I don’t have enough time – enough time to prove to myself, to prove to my daughter, to prove to my granddaughters that we can accomplish anything!
A few years later, contemplating the idea of marriage, Lyndall again belts out,
“I am not in so great a hurry to put my neck beneath any man’s foot; and I do not so greatly admire the crying of babies. . . There are other women glad of such work.” Lyndall posed as Schreiner’s New Woman, a female born a century before her time, disappointed in the education available to her, frustrated with her lovers’ expectations, and ambiguity about the prospect of motherhood.When did this fragmentation of our psyche begin? When did wanting another life become a sin?

“. . . The less a woman has in her head the lighter she is for climbing. I once heard an old man say that he never saw intellect help a woman so much as a pretty ankle; and it was the truth. They begin to shape us. . .when we are tiny things in shoes and socks. We sit with our little feet drawn up under us in the window, and look out at the boys in their happy play. We want to go. Then a loving hand is laid on us: ‘Little one, you cannot go,’ they say, your little face will burn, and your nice white dress be spoiled.’ We feel it must be for our own good, it is so lovingly said: but we cannot understand; and we kneel still with one little cheek wistfully pressed against the neck; and we go and stand before the glass. We see the complexion we were not to spoil, and the white frock, and we look into our own great eyes. The curse begins to act on us. It finishes its work when we are contented. We fit our sphere as a Chinese woman’s foot fits her shoe, exactly. . . We wear the bandages but our limbs have not grown to them; we know that we are compressed, and chafe against them.

And many of us are still deformed, waiting for the right man to remove this ancient binding, to massage our feet, set our toes, our feet, our hearts and minds straight, never realizing our own hands, hearts and minds could do the same. Always waiting to post that diamond ring on our Facebook page.

Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)

Between 1915 and 1927, Virginia completed and published three novels, The Voyage Out, Mrs. Dalloway, and To the Lighthouse. A few months following this successful trifecta, she wrote in her diary, “. . .the truth is. . . I feel the need of an escapade. . . I want to kick up my heels and be off.” Then, like giving birth to the child she never had, she writes Orlando, whose main character holds the same name.

We meet Orlando when he is 15, near the end of the sixteenth century, when his beauty and innocence muses a queen, specifically, Elizabeth I. Virginia lets us watch the boy from a distance as he abandons his notebook, already a poet, for the literal beauty of his surroundings.
“. . .nature has tricks of her own. (One) look out of a window at bees among flowers, at a yawning dog, at the sun setting, (one) thinks ‘how many more suns shall I see set’. . .one drops the pen, takes one’s cloak, strides out of the room, and catches one’s foot on a painted chest as one does so. For Orlando was a trifle clumsy.

He was careful to avoid meeting anyone. . .Stubbs, the gardener, coming
along the path. He hid behind a tree till he had passed. He let himself out of a little gate in the garden wall. He skirted all stables, kennels, breweries, carpenters’ shops, wash-houses, places where they make tallow candles, kill oxen, forge horse-shoes. . . – for the house was a town ringing with men at work at their various crafts – and gained the ferry path leading uphill through the park unseen. There is perhaps a kinship among qualities; one draws another long with it. . .this clumsiness is often mated along with a love of solitude. Having stumbled over a chest, Orlando naturally loved solitary places, vast views, and to feel himself for ever and ever and ever alone.
So, after a long silence, ‘I am alone,’ he breathed at last, opening his lips for
the first time in this record.” He had walked very quickly uphill through ferns and hawthorn bushes, startling deer and wild birds, to a place crowned by a single oak tree.”

When do children today have time to contemplate, to think – about nothing, and everything? To write, to sing, to explore, to ignore? Where are their woods, their creeks, their barns? When we will give them permission to be bored? And why are nannies taking children to pools if the parents know how to swim? And why are kids eating Lunchables and McDonald’s and M&Ms? Where are the wagons, the sticks, the swords, the dragons? Let’s replace a little screen time with a little dream time, a chance to think. Childhood is over in a blink.

By 30, after celebrating his appointment as Ambassador to Constantinople by King Charles II, Orlando becomes a woman, forcing Virginia to change her pronouns throughout the remainder of her novel. “Orlando was kept busy, what with his wax and seals. . .various colored ribbons. . . engrossing of titles and making of flourishes round capital letters, till luncheon came – a splendid meal of perhaps thirty courses. . .with a gesture of extraordinary majesty and grace, first bowing profoundly, then raising himself proudly erect, Orlando took the golden circlet of strawberry leaves and placed it, with a gesture which none that saw it ever forgot, upon his brows. It was at this point that the first disturbance began. . .

Next morning, the Duke, as we must now call him, was found by his
secretaries sunk in profound slumber amid bed clothes that were much tumbled. . .The table was littered with papers. . .many were scribbled over with poetry, in which frequent mention was made of an oak tree. . .But at length they came upon a document of far greater significance. . . a deed of marriage, drawn up, signed, and witnessed between his Lordship, Orlando . . . And Rosina Pepita, a dancer, father unknown, but reputed a gipsy, mother also unknown. . . The secretaries looked at each other in
dismay. And still Orlando slept. No suspicion was felt at first, as the fatigues of the night had been great. But when afternoon came and he still slept, a doctor was summoned. . .Morning and evening they watched him, but, save that his breathing was regular and his cheeks still flushed their habitual deep rose, he gave no sign of life. . .On the seventh day of his trance. . .He stretched himself. He rose. He stood upright in complete darkness before us, and while the trumpets pealed Truth! Truth! Truth! We have no choice left but confess – he was a woman.

. . .Orlando stood stark naked. No human being, since the world began, has
every looked more ravishing. His form combined in one the strength of a man and a woman’s grace. . . Orlando looked himself up and down in a long looking-glass, without showing any signs of discomposure, and went, presumably, to his bath.”

Then true to her gender, Orlando marries (a man who used to be a woman nonetheless) and gives birth to a son. By 1928, nearly 350 years after we first meet Orlando as a 15-year-old boy, she speaks with the voice of a New Woman, “‘What then? Who then?’ she said. ‘Thirty-six; in a motor-car; a woman. Yes, but a million other things as well. . .”

Orlando became Woolf’s proverbial public curtsey to her female lover, another writer, Vita Sackville-West, with whom she began an affair in 1922, the same year Virginia and Leonard celebrated their 10th wedding anniversary. Virginia devoured every minute detail of Vita’s ancestry, and sifted through albums upon albums and boxes upon boxes of family photographs until she uncovered just the right images to spread throughout the pages of her novel. Vita also shared with Virginia treasured stories of her childhood home, The Knole Estate of West Kent England, property Vita should have inherited but ultimately lost because she was, unfortunately, born a female. Through Orlando, Woolf was able to return Knole to its rightful owner. Whispers of whether or not the novel’s location was the real main character in the story were widespread. Commercially, Woolf was disappointed in the sales, partly due to the fact that the book was marketed as a bibliography instead of the enticing fictional creation it really was.

Finally, just four short years before her suicide, Woolf replaced this little escapade once again with her more traditional tone, perhaps even a depressed one, in The Years. Here, she introduces the fictional but very plausible Kitty Malone. Kitty was born quite privileged for her time, to an Oxford professor. Unlike the boys she met with similar scholastic DNA, Kitty faced rejection when trying to penetrate the doors and halls most appealing to her. Though experiencing what girls of lower social status could only dream, Kitty grew rebellious of the contradictions slammed in her face at every turn. Just a few pages into the novel, Woolf writes:
“The difficulties, inconsistencies, and complexities of life in Oxford in the eighties for a girl like Kitty were numerous; and puzzling enough to perplex a mind that was original enough to ask them, though not original enough to ask them openly. The only question that Kitty could put openly, and was determined to put to her parents on the 1st of September 1880 – the day was marked with a cross on her calendar – was ‘May I leave Oxford and become a farmer in Yorkshire?’ But however tactfully she phrased it, she knew the question was so wrapped up in all those other questions – about pouring out tea, and standing at the window in a nightgown, and not going for walks alone, and always calling undergraduates ‘Mr,” and never meeting them except with her mother, and talking to rowing men about rowing and reading men about reading; it was so involved also with the opinions of great men. . .who thought that women must be chaste. . . that they could
be laborers but not capitalists. . .that it was an insinuation of the Devil that caused this woman to drop her glove’. . . that the lowest man is intellectually the superior of the cleverest woman; it was so complicated, further, by the fact that there was no way in which a woman could earn a living; and therefore no way in which she could be independent of such opinions. . .”

I wonder if the reiteration here may have been Virginia’s undoing, returning to a reality she would not see changed in her lifetime. Could she not have given us more, herself more, another escapade maybe, another fantasy, another chance? Return us, please, to Vita.

Vita Sackville-West (1892-1962)

In comparison to Woolf, who was raised in a somewhat elitist environment, we have Vita, whose maternal grandmother, Pepita, was the illegitimate child of a Spanish Dancer. Like Orlando, we meet Vita as a young girl, specifically, as she describes herself from one of her July 1920 diary entries.
“. . .the past is misty. I can’t remember much about my childhood, except that I
had very long legs and very straight hair, over which Mother used to hurt my feelings and say she couldn’t bear to look at me because I was so ugly. . . I can remember doing dangerous things on a bicycle and climbing high trees. . .I kept my nerves under control, and made a great ideal of being hardy, and as like a boy as possible. . . I remember stuffing their nostrils with putty. . .none of the local children would come to tea with me. . .

. . .Dada used to take me for terribly long walks and talk to me about science,
principally Darwin, and I liked him a great deal more than Mother, of whose quick temper I was
frightened. . .My impression of her was that I couldn’t be rough when she was there, or naughty, and so it was really a great relief when she went away.

. . . Grandpapa liked children and believed in fairies. . . he used to fill a plate with fruit and put it ready for me to fetch early next morning; he used to sit it in a drawer in his sitting room. . .

. . . (In Scotland) I practically lived at the farm, where I built myself a shanty. I was happy there. Mother was sensible about me. I was always out, either with the guns, or with
the farmer’s boys, or by myself with the dogs. . .I don’t suppose I was ever tidy. . . .

Again, we find acceptance through nature, where one needs not impress but to simply be – the only place we are truly loved “as is.” As a child, I was fortunate enough to spend Sunday afternoons on my grandfather’s farm. I’d take two hour hikes, pretend I was a knight, not a boy, though, still just a girl, but strong and able, with a mind of her own, most importantly – I was alone.
In Vita’s diary, not long after complaining her “khaki playsuits never came with trousers,” we are introduced to Violet as an adolescent. “When I was about twelve, I started to write. I never stopped writing after that.” Upon remembering her first physical relationship with a girl, she recalls, “I acquired a friend with Violet. . . I was twelve, she was two years younger, but in every instinct she might have been six years my senior. . . she kissed me.”
Then, Vita begins speaking from a more mature woman’s voice.

“. . .I want to be frank. I have implied, I think, that men didn’t attract me, that I
didn’t think of them in what is called ‘that way.’ Women did. Rosamund did . . .
The neat little girl who came to play with me when Dada went to South Africa. . .
invited by my mother, not by me; even Violet had never spent more than a week at Knole: I resented invasion. . .the fact remains that by the middle of the summer,
we were inseparable, and moreover were living on terms of the greatest possible intimacy.”

My mind returns again to the idea that we should somehow apologize for being who and what we are at our core if our attitudes tend to lie outside social norms. Social norms are not constant, I’ve seen them change in my lifetime. Trying to stay within moving boundaries can drive a person insane.
In her diary, Vita mentions more than once her feelings of shame over the course of her relationships with women, not from the aspect of giving in, expressing her desires, or sinning, but in a more objective, retrospective way because there seemed to hang over her head the inevitability of causing someone pain, including herself. Though her sexual preference was to be with women, she married Harold Nicolson for the intellectual stimulation and friendship he provided. With him, she could be honest, she could be herself, unlike with many members of her own family.

During her marriage to Harold, Vita and Violet finally eloped. While living in Paris, they lived as an entirely different couple, with Vita dressing like a man, courting Violet in public, and answering to no other name than Julian. Harold remained the ever calm and understanding husband, maybe, in part, because he was allowed his own homosexual escapades without retaliation. Though both had relationships outside of their marriage, when it came to being truthful, the two were exceedingly so.

On December 19, 1922, shortly after meeting Virginia Woolf, Vita writes to Harold.

“I simply adore Virginia Woolf, and so would you. You would fall quite
flat before her charm and personality. It was a good party. They asked a lot about your Tennyson. Mrs. Woolf is so simple: she does give the impression of something big. She is utterly unaffected: there are no outward adornments – she dresses quite atrociously. At first you think she is plain, then a sort of spiritual beauty imposes itself on you, and you find a fascination in watching her. She was smarter last night, that is to say, the woolen orange stockings were replaced by yellow silk ones, but
she still wore the pumps. She is both detached and human, silent till she wants to say something, and then says it supremely well. She is quite old (forty). I’ve rarely taken such a fancy to anyone, and I think she likes me. At least, she’s asked me to Richmond where she lives. Darling, I have quite lost my heart.”

I’m not sure I really buy all of this honesty business. This seems a little immature to me and I wonder if maybe she’s subconsciously asking her husband for permission. Harold, it seems, lived a double life as well. Where are his confessions? His permission slips? I don’t think Vita was as independent as she wants us to believe. Was she ever on hiatus from a relationship? Was she ever alone? Was she ever free?

By August 1926, she confesses, “. . .I have gone to bed with her (twice), but that’s all. Now you know all about it, and I hope I haven’t shocked you. My darling, you are the one and only person for me in the world; do take that in once and for all, you little dunderhead.”

His September reply included, “Thank you for telling me so frankly about Virginia. . . Don’t let’s worry about these things. I know that your love for me is central, as is my love for you, and it’s quite unaffected by what happens at the outer edge.”

In her novel, All Passion Spent, Vita takes us into the subconscious mind of an elderly widow, an experienced woman of her time, perhaps the woman the author becomes in retrospect of her indulgent, whimsical, and frivolous affairs “. . . if I were only young once more, I would stand for all that was calm and complicated opposed to the active, the scheming, the striving, the false – yes! the false. . .”

Surrendering to their love, however sexless it was, Harold and Vita purchased the dilapidated Sissinghurst Castle, in Kent, rebuilding their home, rebuilding their lives, allowing each a separate bedroom and sitting room, with no less the same for each son. Together, in their spare time, and as finances would allow, Vita and Harold also created the new Sissinghurst Gardens, the topic of her weekly newspaper column which ran a consecutive 15-year course. It was not Knole, but it was home.

From 1918 to 1961, she published four books of poetry, two biographies (one on Joan of Arc, the other on her grandmother, Pepita), seven novels, and a nonfictional account of her travels in the East, Passenger to Teheren and Twelve Days in Persia: Across the Mountains with the Bakhtiari Tribe.
Lastly, Vita leaves us surprised with a modern day find in A Note of Explanation. Rediscovered nearly a hundred years after it was written, Vita’s work resides with 170 other prominent authors inside the library of Queen Mary’s dollhouse, the front cover of each book no larger than a postage stamp. The dollhouse project was commissioned in 1922 by Princess Marie Louise, Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, as a national gift to the Queen. It was completed two years later on a 1:12 scale.

Vita’s childlike wisdom whispers through the story, a ghost story of sorts, but not quite.

“Perhaps it is not fair to call the doll’s house ghost a ghost, for that implies
that she was dead, and, far from being dead, there was never a more lively or
inquisitive spirit or one who prided herself more on being up to date. She had,
in fact, that particular genius for being in the right company at the right moment which under other circumstances would have made of her a conspicuous social success.”

A bit of a fairytale, a bit of a frolic, we find a delightful and curious lanky pixie flapping about with a bobbed hairstyle and naked ankles. Possibly inspiring Orlando, she’s traveled through space and time, witnessing the most famous of fairytales – Jack in the Beanstalk, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Aladdin.

“So naturally, with this record behind her, it was only to be expected that
she should arrive in London in 1924 to establish herself in the doll’s house that had been built for the Queen of England. . .Now in England, in the twenties of the twentieth century, she was in two minds as to whether she should or should not bob her hair. . .she found herself delighted by the brilliant jerseys and short skirts. . .and by her dark little clubbed head, which
gave her a boyish, page-like appearance unfamiliar to her. . .way back (this was one of her new expressions) in the fourteenth century. . . It must be remembered that all modern inventions were new to her. . .which caused her to compare Aladdin’s palace most unfavorably with the doll’s house.”

As described recently in the “New York Journal of Books” review, “. . .she enjoys sampling the wine from the cellars, taking hot baths in the
commodious bathtubs, and sleeping in the elegant canopy beds which are equipped with warming pans and made up with the finest embroidered linens. . .she is delighted with the modern day conveniences. . .the hot and cold running water, electric lights, a kitchen range. . . the passenger lift (elevator). . . Her activities do not go unnoticed by the dollhouse curators. Each morning when they take off the front of the house. . .they are baffled to find lights turned on, unmade beds, raised blinds. . .the elevator on a different floor from where they left it. . .books removed from the library shelves, and dirty dishes. . .”

With this lighthearted story, Vita finally found a childhood home where she was allowed to be naughty and free! And I don’t believe she intended to take a century to invite us in!

A Note of Explanation, released March 6, 2018, is illustrated by artist Kate Baylay, an art graduate of the University of the West of England, Bristol. After creating the original line drawings, she filled them in with crisp and colorful Gatsby graphics, leading us on a charming, visual escapade.

Forever, a New Woman


Works Cited
Caird, Mona Alison. The Morality of Marriage, and Other Essays on the Status and Destiny of Women. London, George Redway, 1897.

Christensen-Nelson, Carolyn, editor. A New Woman Reader. Broadview Press Ltd., 1985.

Delap, Lucy and Ben Griffin, et al., editors. The Politics of Domestic Authority in Britain since
1800. Palgrave MacMillan, 2009.

Erler, Catriona Tudor. “A Note of Explanation: An Undiscovered Story from Queen Mary’s Dollhouse. New York Journal of Books, March 6, 2018, www.nyjournalofbooks.com/book-review/note-explanation.

Grand, Sarah. The Heavenly Twins. Cassell Publishing Company, 1893.

Grand, Sarah. “The New Aspect of the Woman Question.” The North American Review, Vol. 158, No. 448 (Mar., 1894), pp. 270-276. www.jstor.org/stable/25103291.

Nicolson, Nigel. Portrait of a Marriage: Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson. The University of Chicago Press, 1973.

Ouida. “The New Woman.” The North American Review, Vol. 158, No. 450 (May, 1894), pp. 610-619. www.jstor.org/stable/25103333.

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Richardson, Angelique and Chris Willis, editors. The New Woman in Fiction and in Fact: Fin-de-Siecle Feminisms. Palgrave MacMillan, Ltd., 2002.

Sackville-West, Vita. A Note of Explanation: An Undiscovered Story from Queen Mary’s Dollhouse. Royal Collection Trust, 2018.

Schreiner, Olive. The Story of an African Farm. Cruguru, 2008.

Sutherland, Gillian. In Search of the New Woman: Middle-Class Women and Work in Britain 1870-1914. Cambridge University Press, 2006.

Woolf, Virginia. A Room of One’s Own. Harcourt, Inc., 1929

Woolf, Virginia. Orlando. Wordsworth Editions Ltd., 2003.


I’ve been a medical assistant for a foot surgeon for nine months now. This is enough time to give birth to a child, enough time to create something new. What I see on a daily basis, though, is old. Old people. Old ways of thinking. Old wounds. I recognize now when a toe will heal, when a toe has to go, when a foot will heal, when a foot has to go, when a leg will heal, when a leg has to go. Or legs, yes both. And it doesn’t matter how many times I say, “Please keep your wound clean and dry and do what you’re told.” Because the doctor has quit reminding them. Because he recognizes even sooner when there’s no hope. It’s not that these patients don’t care, they just have more important things to do, like work, and pay bills, and take care of sick children, sick spouses, sick parents, while infection and gangrene fester underneath, too deep down to see, until the doctor starts digging.
Some patients, by the time they are scheduled for an amputation, actually look forward to it. The daily wound care and three to four doctor visits a month become a nuisance. Eventually, they are ready to “Just cut it off,” and move on with their lives with any portion of a limb they have left. There is often a lengthy rehabilitation process, but then the follow-up visits become fewer and fewer and they learn to smile again, and laugh, often even grateful for their care. And I am honored to be a part of it.
I learned very young the meaning of amputation, specifically decapitation. My father is well read in world history and is somewhat obsessed with Napoleon and the French Revolution. Although I cannot recall the details of the stories I heard him tell, I do remember him describing the guillotine, heads being cut off by large falling blades then rolling into baskets. I wasn’t even four yet. Maybe I saw some of his favorite films, which would explain why I was still falling asleep to visions of this when I was in second grade, years after he left. Or maybe seeing him again about that time brought these visions back.
Divorce and custody and child support stories all sound the same to me. Men aren’t good to their wives. The wives eventually start screwing around or ask for a divorce. Men get angry because they are going to lose money in the process. They are rarely as devastated about losing a wife, losing a family. They pay for attorneys who humor them out of more money. Two male egos against a single mother leaves her with nothing but food stamps and powdered milk.
When my mother did find the courage to file for payment of back child support in 1972, I was eight years old. My sister, Sheryl, was five. Dad has bragged to me several times about telling his attorney to keep the case out of court as long as possible and, if the attorney could continue to do so, Dad would make sure he was provided with a well fed retainer. Because an eight year old daughter needs to know these things. The same way a three year old daughter needs to know the mechanics of a guillotine in the French Revolution.
Another move men make in games like this is to ask for visitation because they miss their children and if, by God, they have to pay child support, they sure as hell ought to be able to see the kids. So, off my sister and I fly, by ourselves, to Florida, so Daddy could take us to Disney World. I realize now that I was eight years old at the time, only two years away from wearing my first bra, but when it came to my father, I missed him like the three year old I was when he left.
Back in the day when family met you at the airplane gate as soon as you stepped off the plane, back in the day when reunions were still beautiful, I saw him. He was walking along the side windows of the airport, towards us, still yet to recognize us. I squeezed my way through adults with carry-ons, my arms open wide and waving, and I yelled as I ran towards him, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.” Like the three year old I no longer was. By the time I was an arm’s length away from him, he kneeled down and said calmly but firmly, “Okay.” Then he stretched out his arms, slowly and stiffly, grabbed me below each of my shoulders and dropped my arms down to my sides. Like a guillotine. And I became an amputee. A bilateral transhumeral amputee. I could not have him. I could not hold him. Nor have I ever any man since.


On Quitting

Lisa Frazeur
January 2018

I quit another job last month. Let’s see, how many is that now? Too many if you ask some people, especially my “I’ve been working since I was seven years old when I had my own paper route” husband.

“Yeah, well, we both know what happened to you on that paper route, don’t we? So please stop mansplaining shit to me. You sound ridiculous.” I took the job for him. I took the job for all the wrong reasons. Yes, we are trying to work through some things.

When I use the word “quit,” I mean leaving a job without a two-week notice. It’s a terrible thing to do. It’s not respectful, it’s not professional, blah, blah, blah.
This wasn’t the first job I left over the course of my 36-year employment history. First, there was the Burger King thing when I was 17. After working there a couple years, my new boyfriend left me sitting in the passenger seat of his beige 1981 four-door Ford Escort while he stormed in the restaurant, threw my uniform on the counter, and informed the shift manager I quit (because he didn’t like me working around other guys). I married him for all the wrong reasons (but eventually four very good ones).

Then, there was that asshole of an attorney – an only child who became a lawyer because that’s what his mommy wanted him to do. I was his paralegal. He liked his ground Gevalia coffee sprinkled with a 1/4 tsp of cinnamon on top before it started brewing, just the way his mommy made it. Working for an attorney is a lot like living in a marriage. And this marriage just happened to exacerbate the PTSD I picked up from my first one, so I left.

Then, there was that selfish bitty of a medical office manager. Well, kind of an office manager. The “office” was in a hospital basement, down a long and narrow, freezing brick-walled hallway. I called it “the dungeon.” She hired me so she could take more time off work. I think it was Memorial Day when I wrapped up my personal ergonomic keyboard, held it in my arms like a baby while riding the rickety elevator up to the land of the living, then clocked out without saying goodbye to anyone. Can’t remember if it was before noon or after. Probably before. I don’t contemplate that kind of thing very long. I put up with shit and put up with shit, then magically, one day, it just happens, and “I want out. Now.”

Then, there was that infamous flower shop fiasco. I think I lasted a week. Four years later, I still had back pain from trying to lift 60 pounds of wet floral waste into a garbage dumpster that tried to swallow me alive. I really liked the idea of working in a flower shop. The idea. Never worked so hard in my life for $7.50 an hour. More than the physical strain, though, the most difficult to carry was the backstabbing I witnessed from my two female co-workers. Why is it so difficult for women to be kind to each other? This was definitely a toxic threesome and I didn’t want to “stick around to see if it just might work.”
I don’t think I’m that difficult to please, not really. Just show me a little respect already. I’ve spent too much time in my life being disrespected. I’m over it.

This last time though, it wasn’t another adult, not a co-worker, not a supervisor who disrespected me. Not even ridiculous corporate rules made me want to leave (and some were pretty ridiculous). The culprit this time was a four-year-old boy. I thought I was safe in a room full of kids, especially a room full of four year olds. I have a grandson the same age. “It will be so much fun,” I thought. “It’s a brilliant idea,” I thought.

And I needed a brilliant idea since I lost my 20-year medical transcription career. Once upon a time, it offered secure $25.00-an-hour employment. Over the course of a decade’s exposure to voice recognition technology, mothers in India began training for my job. The profession provides them the means to feed their families on a whopping 14 U.S. dollars a day. And, no, I don’t want any families in India, or anywhere else in the world for that matter, going hungry on my account. I am not a horrible person. Things are simpler than that. I heard (second hand of course) that the medical transcription department head’s explanation went something like this, “When you need gas, you go where it’s the cheapest.” Hence, there are now just a lot of very late female baby boomers out of work these days. I’m trying not to take it too personally. I just wanted, for once, to pick out my own new car, specifically a 2018 cool gray khaki Subaru Crosstrek with a moonroof. Additionally, quite conservatively, I have a 36 thousand dollar balance on a school loan I took out for an MFA in creative writing program at Butler University that may never pay off for me, that I need start paying off next July. If I can make it through this British suffragette literature class. If I can make it through my thesis.

Preschool teaching was supposed to see me through until something more lucrative found its way to me. Seeing those sweet little faces every day was supposed to be good for my soul. Play all day, clean up spilled milk, and wipe snotty noses (after putting on gloves, of course). How hard can that be? Even after raising four children of my own, all born within a five-year timeframe, I’m such an idiot. Somehow, in the course of three months, three weeks, and one day, I allowed a four-year-old boy to make me feel like a piece of shit because I couldn’t figure out how to make him stay on his cot and be quiet for an hour during nap time. I allowed him to turn me into someone I thought I was never capable of becoming, someone capable of wanting to hurt a child. Like, physically. And I’m not kidding.

There were times, as a mother, when I wanted my tween daughter to quit talking back to me. There were times when I wanted my youngest son to just walk away from his older brothers when they were taunting him. There were times I had to discipline all four of them. There were times when maybe I didn’t choose the best discipline options, but until last month, the thought of hurting a child never brought me pleasure. Suddenly, I found myself giddy with the idea. For about three seconds. Three miserable and infinite seconds. What kind of an adult/woman/teacher/mother/nana am I? Scary, that’s what kind. I could barely make it through the day. I was sick to my stomach and it wasn’t because the flu was going around. And the flu is always going around.
The following morning, the day after this three miserable and infinite seconds episode, when I was on my way to work, so conveniently a Friday, I made a left-hand turn on 21st Street instead of a right one. I had no idea where I was going, but I ended up at Kohl’s. I tried on 6 pair of jeans and finally chose the 505 Levi’s. I tested probably a dozen perfumes and settled on the cheapest because “How can I pay for this now anyway?” Then, I went to CVS to pick up the Xanax my husband already picked up for me an hour earlier (because he took the day off – damn it, damn it, damn it). Before I left the store, I purchased some black-brown Almay waterproof mascara (because it’s a lot cheaper than the brands at Kohl’s) and a peace offering for the man of the house, a box of coconut Belvita crackers for him to enjoy with his morning coffee.

That morning, I left the house at 7:30 a.m. When I returned home, it was noon. I had to get back before I spent more money I didn’t have. After parking my four-week-new 2018 cool gray khaki Subaru Crosstrek in the garage, I walked in the back door, into the laundry room, where he was folding laundry. Or acting like he was folding laundry. Because he left his iPad on the coffee table with his e-mail window open, and he never leaves his iPad with his e-mail window open. Not unless there’s an emergency, like his wife walking in the door seven hours early on a Friday. Yes, I’m too hard on him. He looked at me, brows raised high like a condescending father, then asked, “Do I want to know?”

“No,” was my answer. Flat and sharp. Then I hid in my office for two hours until I had to pee. We exchanged maybe 48 words in the next 48 hours, ending our silence with mad sex on Sunday afternoon, after I pushed him up against the wall in the hallway. Because he deserved it. Being pushed up against the wall. Not the sex. Men are so easy. And so difficult.

What bothers me most about quitting this last job is not that I disappointed my husband (I tend to do that quite regularly), but that I let my co-worker down. She’s amazing – the kind of woman you want to leave your children with for ten hours a day, five days a week, even if you don’t have to work full-time. The kids adore her – all 20 of them. Most of them adored me. By day three on the job, my attachment to them was already unhealthy. I was especially drawn to that little boy who insisted the play equipment behind the day care center was a boat, complete with deck, anchor, and ramp. Every day, he invited me aboard. I never declined.

One morning, I read “There was an old lady who swallowed a fly…” I asked the students if they knew any old ladies, suggested maybe their nanas were old, pointed out the fact that I was a nana and I was old. Then, Luke blurted out, “You’re not old, Miss Weesa, you’re new.”

Some day, I would like to tell him “thank you.” Because of him, I now also know I’m capable of kidnapping. I have no moral qualms whatsoever with disappearing with that child to the forests of Whidbey Island, Washington, to raise him as my own for the next 14 years of his life. Yes, I’m that kind of woman, too.

When I accepted that job teaching preschool, I was doomed, doomed to be arrested for either kidnapping or child abuse. Either way, I loose.
It’s the only job I ever quit that I can honestly say I miss.

Thank you, Luke. I wuv you, too.
Miss Weesa

My Summer Sabbatical

I’m a month into the Fall 2017 semester of Butler University’s MFA graduate program in creative writing.  I’m running a month behind, which for me is about right on time. My summer off was supposed to be a pseudo sabbatical, each week’s itinerary filled with potential material.  I didn’t take nearly enough notes.  I thought I’d remember more.  In addition, I probably need to say I am not a world traveler, not really, not yet.

On June 3, I flew to Dublin, Ireland, with my son, Garrett.  He paid for everything.  Except for the five hundred dollar concert tickets for 3Arena, my gift to him.  Well, Eddie Vedder for him, Glenn Hansard for me because he was the closest thing to Van Morrison I could find. But I didn’t start blogging about our Ireland trip until I was already in Paris, France with a girlfriend (no, not that kind) who, upon a devastating break-up, spontaneously cried “I just want to go to Paris and eat bread.” Which I thought was a brilliant plan.  Except for the eating bread part because I had a laparoscopic vertical sleeve gastrectomy planned for June 28. For clarification, this is a surgery which allows seventy percent of your stomach to be removed in about an hour. When I arrived in Paris on July 24, I was still in the soft food recovery stage. I was allowed to eat soup, mashed potatoes, refried beans which I’m still not sure you can even find in Paris, custard of course, and avocados. Bread was supposed to be off limits for pretty much the rest of my life. I attempted to eat a chocolate croissant on day two, buttery layer by buttery layer, OH MY GOD!, but by the time I made it to the chocolate I was nauseated and had to give the rest to Bailey.

Before I go any further, let me just back up a little bit. To Ireland again,specifically Dublin, because while I was blogging about it while I was in Paris, I totally forgot to mention the rain.

When Garrett and I came out of the Vedder/Hansard concert, it was pouring down rain, 10:40 p.m., and about thirty-nine degrees, which I know in March in Indianapolis means it’s shorts weather for every female at or over the age of twelve, but I’m telling you, it was fucking cold. Not only that, I couldn’t find my purse. It wasn’t where they said it would be when they confiscated it during the security check before the concert because it was too big. They did, however, provide a complimentary translucent white garbage bag for me to dump all of my personal belongings into as convenient compensation. My purse was supposed to be hung in plain site in an organized fashion among some six hundred other purses onto one of the many security line rails on the same side of the building we entered. Fans were entering the building on all four sides. That’s a lot of fans. That’s a lot purses. But, apparently, when it rains, security removes all the purses from the rails and throws them against the side of the building. Because they won’t get as wet that way? What the hell? Designer purses, garbage bags, lipstick, and gum were being trampled by stilettos. I wanted to find my purse because it was new, not because it was expensive. I spent forty bucks on it at Marshall’s in Avon. I didn’t really care. Besides, it was black. I would probably never find it anyway. In retrospect, I should have picked up that artsy orange and green canvas handbag I saw in a Dublin shop window the day before. That very purse drew me into the store and threw me back out with a price tag of nearly three hundred dollars. Instead of picking up designer purses I could resell on eBay for a profit, I kept grabbing euro coins every time I saw them. I think I managed to pick up about six before Garrett yelled at me, “Mom, stop picking up money, it’s embarrassing.” Because digging on your hands and knees for a forty dollar purse in a sea of designer ones, on slippery concrete in the cold, pouring rain is so dignifying! Then I found it.

Next challenge, catch the last tram to the hotel. With two hundred Dubliners trying to catch the last tram home. No problem. If you love Dubliners. Turns out we do. With a group of five twenty-somethings directly behind us, we spent the next best forty-five minutes of our entire trip. Laughing. Garrett’s pretty social, me not so much. I was happy to stay a few steps ahead of him and give him this much needed generational bonding time he’s missed for the past eight days. I did, however, take a moment to raise my iPhone above my head, point it in their direction and asked them to say hello to America. They huddled in close to one another in universal gang member fashion and I heard “Hello, America, we love you, we hate your president!” “We hate your president!” We hate your president!” “We hate your president!” Is that five yet? Nope… “We hate your president!” Then they started joking about Salad Fingers and Trump’s small hands. Garrett, in his best yet Salad Fingers impersonation says, “I love rusty spoons. . . let me caress this rusty kettle.” And the most adorable girl in the group slams Garrett a team high five. Like they’ve all grown up together. It’s 2017. They actually have.


I forgot my iPhone the day Bailey and I went to The Louvre. Something interesting happened. I paid more attention. The first three rooms we visited were filled with Mary and Jesus sculptures. Which freaked Bailey out a bit. Something about a male adult head stuck on a baby’s body to make the infant appear more God-like. I thought the proportions were odd, but this didn’t creep me out. Maybe because I’m a mother, I found myself noticing different things. Baby Jesus’ fingers often brushed his mother’s cheek, veil, or one of her breasts. She always looked down at him in adoration. He always looked up to her in reverence. I suddenly found myself wanting my religion back. Well, maybe for about two minutes. Without my iPhone, I stared at paintings until I could see the brushstrokes, the hairline space where two colors separated, the way I used to enjoy paintings in museums before I had a camera in my cell phone.

The worst meal I had in Paris was at Versailles. Outside. It was hot and we were tired and hangry. No restaurant on site, just a hut. Everything was served on crusty baguettes, which I physically was unable to stomach. And I don’t like hot dogs either but when I saw them on the menu I was thrilled to order something familiar to me, something I could actually eat. Seven euros’ worth of pureed meat. Which they handed to me on a loaf of crusty bread. Two hot dogs actually instead of one. The ends were dried and curled, the middle sections not quite done. I should have purchased the raspberry jam and Mathilde teabags from the gift shop back inside.

Bailey told me I should blog about walking in Paris. Behind her, pretty much like a puppy dog, a month behind.

(To be continued)

Passport Stamp One – Dublin, Ireland

Yes, I traveled outside the country before June 3, 2017, but only to Mexico with my grandparents for a day when I was a teenager.  I didn’t need a passport then, so it didn’t really count.

When my youngest son, Garrett, turned twenty-six, he began talking about taking me to Ireland – just because.”  Apparently, while growing up, he remembered me saying I would like to go to Ireland someday.  My dream then was to hear Van Morrison sing in his homeland. My internet stalking episodes taught me Morrison had a reputation for sometimes being an ass on stage,  not always interested in connecting with the audience or cooperating with venue staff.  For his sake and mine,  I thought catching him in his own neck of the woods might make for a more enjoyable concert.

In 1994, after a recent divorce, I began exploring different music, just to find out what I liked, without the influence of someone else helping me decide.  During the 1989 film, Immediate Family (with Glenn Close, James Woods, and Mary Stuart Masterson), I heard a song that cut through my heart like a scalpel.  Up to that point, I wasn’t sure I was capable of bleeding.  I was simply a Baptist wife with only Baptist-wife feelings; I seemed to have none of my own.  Like a doll, I performed on cue – apologize, cry, laugh, smile, be quiet, be cute. . .

When we saw a film, I don’t remember ever watching it to the end, all the way through the credits.  I think we were always the first ones returning to the parking lot.  In 1994, while living in Georgetown, Illinois, I rented Immediate Family to watch again on my own.  Just to hear one song – Into the Mystic.  Just to read one songwriter’s name – Van Morrison.  The next day, I drove thirty minutes to Danville, Illinois, to return the film to Blockbuster, then drove northward ten more minutes to the Village Mall to purchase a thirty-nine dollar SONY radio/single CD player and two Van Morrison CD’s (The Best of Van Morrison Volume Two and Moondance).

“Real, real gone.  I got hit with a bow and arrow, got me down to the very marrow, and I’m real, real gone.”  When I heard Morrison belt out those first few lines, somehow I knew I had never really been in love. This song gave me hope, a hope I thought was lost, a hope that maybe someday I would know a love like that, a love that made me want to sing aloud with such tender yet potent celebration.

Bringing new music into my life was only one adjustment I made during this time.  Other than working a few months at Burger King in Havelock, North Carolina, after our first child, Jessica, was born in 1986 at Cherry Point Naval Air Station, I was blessed to be a stay-at-home mom to her, then eventually her three brothers (Matthew, 1986; Joshua, 1987, Garrett, 1990).  All four of our children were born “military brats.”  Their father served as an enlisted Marine from September 1983, just shy of four months after we were married, through July 1991, when our youngest was just shy of seven months old.  This leads me to something else I really wanted to do.

The last military base we lived was on Whidbey Island Naval Air Station in Washington State. I had the privilege of  breathing the emotionally cleansing Pacific Northwest air from May 1989 through July 1991, when my husband was medically discharged due to a pacemaker placement required for a consistently worsening low heart rate.  There was no cell in my body that wanted to leave Whidbey Island.  I thought it would literally kill me.  Most importantly, Garrett was never able to climb the black tourmaline rocks of Deception Pass State Park the way his older siblings often did.  Climbing those rocks with my children were the happiest moments I spent on earth.  Before we left, why didn’t I carry Garrett up just a few feet on those rocks and sit with him firmly in my lap just long enough to take a snap – just one?  I was depressed and numb.  There is a photo of me climbing the black rocks of Deception Pass State Park less than an hour after I found out I was four weeks pregnant with our fourth child.  Garrett’s feet couldn’t touch those rocks then, so it didn’t really count.

On July 3, 2017, Garrett took me to Ireland. We took a three-hour train then a twenty minute taxi ride where we climbed the Black Rock of Banna Beach,  County Kerry, just seven miles Northwest of Tralee, horseshoed by forty-feet deteriorating sand dunes.  It was raining and windy and cool, just like Whidbey Island.

Later during our trip, we went to see Eddie Vedder, Pearl Jam’s front man, whose musical roots run as deep as a Seattle basement, and Glen Hansard, whose beginnings belted out Van Morrison covers while busking the streets of Dublin, Ireland.

I never wanted to Garrett to leave his homeland.  Twenty-six years later, he returned me to mine.  Emotional cleansing.

Having Bariatric Surgery for Weight Loss is Like Having an Affair. . .

Having bariatric surgery for weight loss is like having an affair.  Once the first person knows, then everybody knows.  So before you hear about it from someone else, I’d like you to hear it from me.

My vertical sleeve gastrectomy is scheduled for June 28, this coming Wednesday, three days from now.  Tomorrow is the last day I will eat food as I have known it for the past fifty years. Monday morning, I will begin a two-day clear liquid diet to empty my stomach of all food contents before surgery at noon on Wednesday.

I thought I’d weigh less by now.  I’ve been driving about forty-five minutes one way for weight checks every month for the past six months.  After my first one, I also had a two-hour psychiatric consultation.  That was fun.  Somehow I convinced the psychiatrist my depression and PTSD are “under control.”  Can depression and PTSD ever really be under control? Does there ever come a day when one is no longer “triggered”?  I doubt it.

It took two years for my primary care physician to finally refer me for surgery.  I was having chronic neck and back pain on top of depression and anxiety.  Not the most ideal candidate.  After only minimal improvement after a cervical nerve ablation, six chiropractic and acupuncture visits, I finally felt comfortable enough to start walking longer distances.  I also decided to go to graduate school.  Two years prior, my physician sent me to a nutritionist who I don’t believe weighed an ounce over 87 pounds – wet.  So encouraging.  With all these efforts, I lost about eighteen pounds, then continued to hold steady at 225.  I’m only 5 feet 2 inches when I cheat during measurements.

At my first bariatric weigh-in, the scales read two hundred twenty-two pounds.  Because I fasted for about twelve hours. Over the next six months of monitored weight loss, I only ever made it down to 217 pounds (with the help of mild laxatives and my mom’s water pills the evening before a weigh-in, but I can’t say that).  I’d like to blame my lack of additional weight loss on the bariatric team, because they told me “You are one of our thinnest patients.  You don’t really need to lose any weight before surgery.”  So I didn’t.  In retrospect, I think they should have given me about a fifteen pound weight loss goal.  It seems I need kicked in the ass to accomplish anything.  I hate this about myself.  Self-motivation seems to be my greatest struggle.

So, yes, let me be the first to say “I’m wimping out, I’m being lazy.  Just remove 70 percent of my stomach, without rerouting any of my piping,  because that causes things like dumping syndrome and nutrient malabsorption.  Regardless of how this may read, I’m not an extremist!  I just want to  feel less hungry and have no choice but to shrink my portion sizes, because eating too much will hurt like hell.  So, can we just get this over with already?  I feel no shame.  I should have done this twenty years ago.

I think my breast cancer diagnosis five years ago gave me courage to try new things, care less about what other people think, and to jump at opportunities in front of me instead of always talking myself out of them.  Breast cancer made me want to quit living scared.  Today, I almost like myself.  You can tell me I don’t have any willpower.  I don’t care.  What I want more than willpower is more energy and to live a longer, healthier life.  Bariatric surgery may not be right for everyone, but I believe it is right for me.  And I couldn’t be more excited about it!



Magical Days

About twenty years ago, when I was in counseling for the first time, I was told, “There are no magical days.”  My therapist was referring to specific days on the calendar, like ones I might pick “to quit drinking Diet Coke” or “to start walking everyday” or “to start writing every day.”  I was disappointed in her response.  In retrospect, what I needed her to say was “You need to find the magic in the most horrible of days,” or, “Every day can be magical if we want it to be.”

“Some people don’t want to hear anything negative” are words I heard from a Baptist pulpit, ironically, also about twenty years ago.  My pastor and one of his deacons visited my home one Autumn Wednesday night to inquire why I wasn’t attending church.  I said something like “Well, I thought going to church was supposed to make me feel better; it just makes me feel worse.” We sang hymns about being worms, being worthless.  These sermons felt no different than the forty-five minute interrogation sessions a former lover once used to control me.   I left them both.

I’m still searching for magical days “to quit drinking Diet Coke” or “to start walking every day” or “to start writing every day.”  Today is already wasted. The first thing I ate this morning was a  Goetz’s cream-filled caramel, make that two.  No number of steps shining through the small black rectangle screen of my smokey-blue FitBit bracelet can undo them.  Another magical day lost forever.  Or is it?  I started this blog without knowing how I’m going to pay the $14.99 per month website fee.  Oh, I just realized I clicked the option to pay it up front.  I’m in the clear for a year!  Just like that.  Like magic. At 6:39 a.m.