The inherent evil of capitalism converting holy days like Christmas into its high feasts is obvious. We're obligated to exchange gifts in compliance with the social code that keeps us from being ostracized by those who dismiss or ignore the ethical and social implications of buying crap from a big box retailer. What's worse is how that same pressure creeps into the (un/sub)consciousness of those of us who would never, ever enter a Wal-Mart. Having a child in the United States becomes a capitalist high feast that we often don't even realize we're celebrating. I'm guilty of shopping at Babies"R"Us for diapers and other essentials, fully aware that I'm padding the coffers of Kohlberg Kravis Roberts, Bain Capital Partners and Vornado Realty Trust. I can't bring myself to buy those "hybrid" gDiapers, which require a cloth insert or a certified 100% biodegradable gRefill, at Whole Foods. Yes, I am painfully aware that Whole Foods, which trades on the Nasdaq as WFM and has a market capitalization of $14.63 billion, isn't a moral exemplar of retail giants. Guilty as charged for buying a bulk of our groceries at Whole Foods because it's so much cheaper for organics. But I essentially absolve myself of these consumer sins by admitting the hypocrisy of creating a lesser evils list of acceptable behemoths. What irks me is when I let the herd lead me into thinking I'm making a good parenting decision and end up being duped by the capitalist claptrap.
Today Mike and I took Michael Alexander to see "Sesame Street Live: 123 Imagine! with Elmo & Friends" at Madison Square Garden. It was less spectacle than we'd expected for the ticket price. We got a discount for decent seats, but some poor saps shelled out $164.95 to be close to the stage. That's a whopping $494.85 for two adults and a toddler. But our criticism of the show would be moot had Michael Alexander enjoyed it. He was entertained for a few minutes and cheered when Elmo, the high priest of nearly-2-year-olds, made his first appearance. But a performer (ahem) dressed in a furry red monster suit wasn't enough to maintain Michael Alexander's attention, and a major meltdown made it clear we weren't sitting through this half-assed production. We left during the intermission, knowing a break wouldn't whet his appetite for more of the lame. At least we were seated near parents nice enough to not flinch when Michael Alexander wasn't amused along with what Mike called the "robot" children who were pacified with $6 popcorn. As Mike put it "our son doesn't like crap."
Somehow this was a revelation? Mike and I are proud to admit that our sometimes-precocious, always-boisterous son has sophisticated tastes for a toddler. And we're to blame for raising him in Manhattan and exposing him to celebrity chefs and posh parties. Call us snobs. But we're not above abandoning our comfort zone if we think it will please our son. What we apparently forgot when planning this outing is that Michael Alexander is our son, and we prefer the superb acting and timely interpretation of "Timon of Athens" at the the Public Theater over the clawingly camp overdone schmacting of "The Importance of Being Earnest" at the Roundabout Theatre Company or the so-much-less-edgy than South Park "The Book of Mormon" at Eugene O'Neill Theatre, which was watered down to be quaffable for the lowest common denominator: the flyover country tourist. We expect little more than blah from Broadway's pandering to people who tote bags of sugary sadness from miserable Midtown's execrable M&M's World, so why on Earth would we imagine that an exploitation and misrepresentation of PBS's consistently creative 41-year-old children's television series would wow our fastidious (Mike's modifier) son? I still enjoy the snark and snappy social jabs woven into the dialogue of the show that played a key role in my own childhood. Minneapolis-based VEE Corporation, which has been peddling the production of Sesame Street Live since 1980, is to PBS what Velveeta is to Valençay (OK, sharp Vermont cheddar; I've only ever eaten the commercially produced version of the Napoleonic nosh known as Pyramide.) As Children's Television Workshop co-founder Joan Ganz Cooney said, "Without research, there would be no Sesame Street." Suffice it to say I don't expect the producer of the lackluster Live to be inducted into the National Women's Hall of Fame along with Ganz Cooney.
Mike and I chalk up the debacle to living and learning. We need to seek out the same caliber of entertainment for our son as we do for our too-rare adult nights out. We laughed at ourselves as Michael Alexander led us out of MSG at warp speed. We escaped the eyesore of Manhattan and took Michael Alexander to the park, which Mike pointed out is free and infinitely interesting to our hyper-social, uber-active son. We'd expected him to burn off some calories and steam at the much-touted Play Zone, emphatically advertised as "a fun new way for children to experience their favorite street!" Those mindless money grubbers at VEE Corporation promised: "Children can sit in Big Bird’s nest, twirl in Zoe’s dance studio, visit Elmo’s World and more. You never know who’ll make an appearance!" Ugh, no. Children can line up for photos with character cutouts and press a red button that mutters a one-liner. Weeowee! There's even a LET'S ROCK Elmo! in a glass cage, as if he's doing time in The Rock (Get it? Alcatraz? My mind's been mauled by today's dumbing down.) That's nice! Nearly every 2-year-old in the free world got one of these for the December High Feast of Capitalism, so this was a super special treat! The Play Zone was nothing more than a pop-up mall where we were *forced* to buy a light-up chunk of plastic made by children in the third world to keep our son from snatching one from a far-more-easily appeased owner of this $15 hunk of junk that barely beguiled Michael Alexander for two minutes. The worthless wares were hardly a surprise disappointment. It was the other parents that ignited my passion for fleeing to France or someplace where fake fingernails are frowned upon. A six-or-so-months pregnant baby-making machine from Long Island demanded I "Get him (MA) out of the way!" as she used 15-year-old flip phone technology to snap a shot of her three offspring clad in matching red sweatshirts. I must be applauded for my restraint, as I limited my response to "Maybe your children will learn 'please' from someone else" and took our gorgeous son out of the frame. I sure hope she stopped at Jack's 99¢ Store to get a frame befitting of her photo.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Dolls of the Dead: A Dostoyevskian Tale in 2011
Clearly, what follows is not a traditional Nommersland post, in that it doesn't pertain to the minutiae and madness, and mostly merriment, of my mommying. There's been no time for such fodder, as my contract work has picked up at a very steady clip, with my newest gig as editor-in-chief of the BTM Institute demanding most of my typing time. That, and my monthly Better Investing column, and the writing and editing for a boutique PR firm, and any other work that should fall into my laptop. I'm not complaining! It's the demand of my workload that's driven me to nearly finish the first draft of my first novel, Hedgies. I'd originally promised myself to be done by Thanksgiving, but those paying jobs kept getting in the way. Now the Christmas deadline is firm and absolutely achievable.
Meantime, I offer you my musings on a most macabre misanthropist. I wrote it early last month, when the news broke. I'd tried to find a home for it, but it's apparently not the most sought-after fodder by most news organizations. For those who knew me as a teenage Russian lit scholar, or an early 20-something crime beat reporter, or those who just know me for my infinite oddness, this aberrant fascination should come as no surprise.
Dolls of the Dead: A Dostoyevskian Tale in 2011
By Natasha Gural
Home to nearly 1.3 million people, Nizhny Novgorod is the fifth largest city in Russia. The birthplace of Maxim Gorky, it was named after the Socialist Realist author from 1932 to 1990. It's hardly a humble village, though like most of the vast expanse of the motherland, it seems somehow lost in time despite growing into a major global IT hub. Nizhny's most internationally famous resident of the moment, Anatoly Moskvin, is like a character out of classic Russian literature, though more Dostoyevsky than Gorky. Some of the most horrific characters and crimes in Dostoyevsky's novels and short stories were born from contemporary newspaper articles, not a wild imagination. There's the child who is ripped from his mother’s womb and tossed onto a bayonet, another who is locked in a cold outhouse overnight and the boy who is ripped to shreds by his landlord’s dogs. No doubt Moskvin, who decorated his home with oddly adorned stolen corpses of girls and young women, would have inspired a Dostoyevsky character were he alive and robbing graves in the 19th century.
Moskvin, who was arrested last week by police investigating a series of grave desecrations, even looks like a character out of Crime and Punishment. Sloppily dressed, his un-groomed graying hair cropped, save for a tuft sticking up in front, with what appear to be bruises (inflicted by cops?) covering his bearded face, Moskvin's mug shots depict a man who looks at least a decade older than his 45 years. His face exudes the kind of hard-living, suffering and turmoil that afflicted the men of Dostoyevsky's sad, tragic, desperate tales. It's a face only a Karamazov mother might love.
Russian media reports chronicled the police discovery of brightly dressed corpses, or dolls as they've been called, propped up throughout his cluttered apartment. The skeletons were covered in stockings and dresses, some with masks, and one with a teddy bear for a face. Dostoyevsky could have been referring to a creature like Moskvin when he said centuries ago that: "People speak sometimes about the 'bestial' cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel."
Described by Russian police as "well-known in academic circles" Moskvin studied Celtic culture at a prestigious Russian university and has written many books and academic papers. Neighbors called him a "genius," who sometimes sleeps in a coffin or on graveyard benches and speaks 13 languages, according to news reports. Perhaps a criminal genius of Dostoyevskian proportion. Authorities believe he visited more than 750 cemeteries in western Russia to build his macabre menagerie, although it's unclear when he started exhuming graves. Russian media reports say he's a well-known "necropolist", or cemetery expert. Hardly a recluse, Moskvin lectured at a local museum and contributed to a local newspaper. He was discrete (until the embellished remains were discovered) and discerning in his fetish, selecting girls and women between the ages of 15 and 26.
Moskvin's arrest came after an investigation into the desecration of graves at several cemeteries in Nizhny Novgorod beginning in 2010, police spokeswoman Svetlana Kovylina said. Authorities initially blamed the desecration on extremist groups. Moskvin is likely to blame his actions and inclinations on a childhood experience; he said he was forced to kiss the face of an 11-year-old dead girl when he was 12 years old. "An adult pushed my face down to the waxy forehead of the girl in an embroidered cap, and there was nothing I could do but kiss her as ordered," Moskvin wrote last month in Nekrolog, publication on necrology. While this might sound strange to most Americans, who are often detached from death and the dead, it's hardly unusual for a Russian. A first-generation American, I was raised Russian Orthodox, and attended funerals from an early age. In my culture it is normal, and expected, to kiss the corpses of loved ones. My maternal grandmother was waked at my parents' home, her body displayed in an open casket overnight before being transported to the monastery where she lay overnight as monks, seminarians and others read prayers and held vigil until the morning of her funeral.
There is something very Russian about Moskvin. It's difficult for me to imagine this story unraveling anywhere else. In a 2007 interview with the newspaper Nizhegorodsky Rabochy, Moskvin said he'd been wandering cemeteries since he was a young boy, in recent years walking up to 30 kilometers (20 miles) a day and inspecting 752 cemeteries across the region from 2005 to 2007. He said he drank from puddles and spent nights in haystacks, abandoned farms and a coffin prepared for a funeral. Somehow this was not depicted as strange behavior. There were no apparent signs that this obsession was more than academic until Moskvin was arrested. As is common in Russian media, there are conflicting reports of how or why Moskvin was caught. One report claims his parents called police after returning from their country dacha, or second home, to the home they shared with him. Police found photographs and nameplates from graves, along with maps of local cemeteries in the apartment.
Nizhny, located some 400 kilometers (250 miles) east of Moscow, is a storied city dating back to 1221 when it was founded originally as Obran Osh by medieval prince Yuri II as a fortress on the Volga River to secure the area from Bulgarian attacks. It withstood many attacks, was destroyed once by the Tatars and rebuilt in the 16th century. By the early 19th century, it emerged as a trade center and host to the major Makaryev Fair, drawing millions of visitors and foreign merchants from India, Iran, and Central Asia. Selected by the Stroganovs, Russia's wealthiest merchant family, as a base for operations, it became renowned for the lavish Stroganov style of architecture and icon painting, developed around the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries. Nizhny was closed to foreigners throughout most of the Soviet era to protect military research and production facilities. Street maps of the secret city weren't sold until the mid-1970s. Nizhny is now a IT hub, housing numerous offshore outsourcing software developers, including an Intel software R&D center with more than 500 engineers. It boasts 33 universities and 25 scientific R&D institutions specializing in telecommunications, radio technology, theoretical and applied physics. Still, there is something very medieval about Moskvin's story. It's one that would hardly shock past residents, like Gorky, who famously said, "A good man can be stupid and still be good. But a bad man must have brains."
Meantime, I offer you my musings on a most macabre misanthropist. I wrote it early last month, when the news broke. I'd tried to find a home for it, but it's apparently not the most sought-after fodder by most news organizations. For those who knew me as a teenage Russian lit scholar, or an early 20-something crime beat reporter, or those who just know me for my infinite oddness, this aberrant fascination should come as no surprise.
Dolls of the Dead: A Dostoyevskian Tale in 2011
By Natasha Gural
Home to nearly 1.3 million people, Nizhny Novgorod is the fifth largest city in Russia. The birthplace of Maxim Gorky, it was named after the Socialist Realist author from 1932 to 1990. It's hardly a humble village, though like most of the vast expanse of the motherland, it seems somehow lost in time despite growing into a major global IT hub. Nizhny's most internationally famous resident of the moment, Anatoly Moskvin, is like a character out of classic Russian literature, though more Dostoyevsky than Gorky. Some of the most horrific characters and crimes in Dostoyevsky's novels and short stories were born from contemporary newspaper articles, not a wild imagination. There's the child who is ripped from his mother’s womb and tossed onto a bayonet, another who is locked in a cold outhouse overnight and the boy who is ripped to shreds by his landlord’s dogs. No doubt Moskvin, who decorated his home with oddly adorned stolen corpses of girls and young women, would have inspired a Dostoyevsky character were he alive and robbing graves in the 19th century.
Moskvin, who was arrested last week by police investigating a series of grave desecrations, even looks like a character out of Crime and Punishment. Sloppily dressed, his un-groomed graying hair cropped, save for a tuft sticking up in front, with what appear to be bruises (inflicted by cops?) covering his bearded face, Moskvin's mug shots depict a man who looks at least a decade older than his 45 years. His face exudes the kind of hard-living, suffering and turmoil that afflicted the men of Dostoyevsky's sad, tragic, desperate tales. It's a face only a Karamazov mother might love.
Russian media reports chronicled the police discovery of brightly dressed corpses, or dolls as they've been called, propped up throughout his cluttered apartment. The skeletons were covered in stockings and dresses, some with masks, and one with a teddy bear for a face. Dostoyevsky could have been referring to a creature like Moskvin when he said centuries ago that: "People speak sometimes about the 'bestial' cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel."
Described by Russian police as "well-known in academic circles" Moskvin studied Celtic culture at a prestigious Russian university and has written many books and academic papers. Neighbors called him a "genius," who sometimes sleeps in a coffin or on graveyard benches and speaks 13 languages, according to news reports. Perhaps a criminal genius of Dostoyevskian proportion. Authorities believe he visited more than 750 cemeteries in western Russia to build his macabre menagerie, although it's unclear when he started exhuming graves. Russian media reports say he's a well-known "necropolist", or cemetery expert. Hardly a recluse, Moskvin lectured at a local museum and contributed to a local newspaper. He was discrete (until the embellished remains were discovered) and discerning in his fetish, selecting girls and women between the ages of 15 and 26.
Moskvin's arrest came after an investigation into the desecration of graves at several cemeteries in Nizhny Novgorod beginning in 2010, police spokeswoman Svetlana Kovylina said. Authorities initially blamed the desecration on extremist groups. Moskvin is likely to blame his actions and inclinations on a childhood experience; he said he was forced to kiss the face of an 11-year-old dead girl when he was 12 years old. "An adult pushed my face down to the waxy forehead of the girl in an embroidered cap, and there was nothing I could do but kiss her as ordered," Moskvin wrote last month in Nekrolog, publication on necrology. While this might sound strange to most Americans, who are often detached from death and the dead, it's hardly unusual for a Russian. A first-generation American, I was raised Russian Orthodox, and attended funerals from an early age. In my culture it is normal, and expected, to kiss the corpses of loved ones. My maternal grandmother was waked at my parents' home, her body displayed in an open casket overnight before being transported to the monastery where she lay overnight as monks, seminarians and others read prayers and held vigil until the morning of her funeral.
There is something very Russian about Moskvin. It's difficult for me to imagine this story unraveling anywhere else. In a 2007 interview with the newspaper Nizhegorodsky Rabochy, Moskvin said he'd been wandering cemeteries since he was a young boy, in recent years walking up to 30 kilometers (20 miles) a day and inspecting 752 cemeteries across the region from 2005 to 2007. He said he drank from puddles and spent nights in haystacks, abandoned farms and a coffin prepared for a funeral. Somehow this was not depicted as strange behavior. There were no apparent signs that this obsession was more than academic until Moskvin was arrested. As is common in Russian media, there are conflicting reports of how or why Moskvin was caught. One report claims his parents called police after returning from their country dacha, or second home, to the home they shared with him. Police found photographs and nameplates from graves, along with maps of local cemeteries in the apartment.
Nizhny, located some 400 kilometers (250 miles) east of Moscow, is a storied city dating back to 1221 when it was founded originally as Obran Osh by medieval prince Yuri II as a fortress on the Volga River to secure the area from Bulgarian attacks. It withstood many attacks, was destroyed once by the Tatars and rebuilt in the 16th century. By the early 19th century, it emerged as a trade center and host to the major Makaryev Fair, drawing millions of visitors and foreign merchants from India, Iran, and Central Asia. Selected by the Stroganovs, Russia's wealthiest merchant family, as a base for operations, it became renowned for the lavish Stroganov style of architecture and icon painting, developed around the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries. Nizhny was closed to foreigners throughout most of the Soviet era to protect military research and production facilities. Street maps of the secret city weren't sold until the mid-1970s. Nizhny is now a IT hub, housing numerous offshore outsourcing software developers, including an Intel software R&D center with more than 500 engineers. It boasts 33 universities and 25 scientific R&D institutions specializing in telecommunications, radio technology, theoretical and applied physics. Still, there is something very medieval about Moskvin's story. It's one that would hardly shock past residents, like Gorky, who famously said, "A good man can be stupid and still be good. But a bad man must have brains."
Friday, September 16, 2011
Pain, Pills and the Pursuit of Healthcare
I've had a trying three weeks. After a laboring Labor Day, I was looking to that post-holiday Tuesday for some normalcy. But that never came. Any chance of respite was relinquished when we had to unexpectedly head back from Massachusetts Sunday night on the holiday weekend reserved for relaxing, subjecting Michael Alexander to a car and train ride extending hours past his bedtime. I abide by the old adage to never wake a sleeping baby (even if I'm miffed I can't find its origin and hate spewing jargon of unknown intent), but I've come to believe it's much worse to force a toddler to stay awake well past schedule. Our only consolation was three early 20-somethings, a lovely woman and two charming men, who made every effort to entertain our son and swap his tears for a delirious fit of exhausted laughter and manic energy. During the car ride to the train station, our perpetually cheerful son cried to convey an agony that ripped my heart to shreds and eroded any semblance of sanity I was able to muster. He's wept passionately only when physical pain from chronic ear infections strikes, so to hear blood-curdling cries brought on by a sudden (yet completely avoidable) schedule change stung deep and hard. That disruption lingered through the week, as his napping was off, making for more tumultuous times. I did my best to avoid the Facebook photos of those who spent Labor Day at the beach, soaking in summer's last hurrah. As I battled the envy of those who kicked off the short work week with sand still in their hair, I hoped I could at least shake off the stress of the last couple of weeks. Instead I faced the most arduous stay-at-home work week, with banal task after banal task for a freelance assignment that's still ongoing, all with Michael Alexander robbed of his naps and struggling to re-acclimate after that torturous journey home. I'd had dreams the week before of someone offering to watch, or at least stay in the apartment for an hour or so while he napped, giving me some time to get ahead on my work. That was a silly expectation! I know better now. What's worse is that week before Labor Day marked a major setback in my greatest personal (non-mommy) accomplishment of recent history. I'd finally started work on a novel, and had been sneaking minutes here and there to gain impressive momentum. Then that first of three miserable weeks reared its ugly head, and all creativity was lost. I haven't managed a word since.
As I trudged through last week, I made every effort to test my physical fitness and exert as much energy as possible in a last-ditch effort to lighten my dampened spirit. It was going great, until last Thursday when I stupidly took a spin class that I know I should avoid like a plague. It involves balancing in second and third position without touching the handlebars. Sure it builds core strength and burns calories, but for someone like me with a severely damaged spine, it's a prescription for pain. Like I said, I know better. I'm to blame. And I've been paying for my bad judgement. My chronic pain -- due to a degenerated spine and slipped discs, caused by scoliosis -- is dull and constant with episodes of excruciating sharp or stabbing pains. But those inexorable episodes rarely last more than a day or two. This was the longest bout of what's regarded by doctors as debilitating pain I've ever endured. Since I'm incapable of slowing down -- both because of my personality which rejects the notion of slothenly couch-sitting or bed-rest, and because I have to care for a very active 17-month-old all day without any childcare -- I have to rely on better living through chemistry.
On Monday, I went to see a spine surgeon, who advised that if I take another hands-free spin class I'll be on his schedule sooner than later. I'm already banned from running (even though I've logged some miles since giving birth), as I was diagnosed with scoliosis and the degenerated spine while marathon training in 2006. I had to see nearly a half dozen doctors back then before finding one who'd agree to treat me if I went through with the marathon. I finished, and would have had it no other way. I've since struggled with cutting out the running as it's by far the most effective cardio, and my metabolically-challenged body needs a lot of intense exercise. The first of three doctors I visited this week gave me a cocktail of three meds, a narcotic painkiller, a hardcore muscle relaxer and an equally potent anti-inflammatory, saying I'd only feel any relief if I stacked all three. True it masked some of the pain, but it took my brain, balance, motor skills, reflexes and ability stay awake past 9 p.m. as prisoners. I was barely functioning during the day, praying I wouldn't pass out while keeping up with Michael Alexander. Clearly that pharma-concoction was a short-term fix, and he referred me to a pain specialist who could better help me cope longer-term.
I should have been suspicious when the pain specialist I was referred to was able to see me the very next day, without my even droning on about the severity of my situation. I'll spare you the brunt of the saga of this horrific experience, as some of you may have read my reviews. (It's the first time I've written a negative review online, and I was very generous to not mention he was essentially trying to defraud me.) Long story short, I gave the woman who made the appointment my insurance and personal information, and she'd promised to call back that day if there was any potential problem with the insurance. She never called. Mike confirmed the doctor is in our network. When I arrived for my appointment, there was nobody at the front desk and I waited some 15 minutes before the doctor, with his name embroidered on his top, came to the desk. I had to alert him I was a patient, and he handed me a pile of paperwork. Another 20 minutes later, he came to call in the patient scheduled a half hour after me. The other patient was kind enough to point out that I was ahead of him, so the doctor called me to the front desk to inform me I'd have to pay hundreds, maybe more, up front because of a "network deductible" and refused to bill me through my insurance. He said "that's the way we do it," and that he'd "reimburse you if you overpaid." He said I could pay him and then seek reimbursement through my carrier. Naturally, I walked out. My back pain worsened by the time I left the office as my stress mounted. This esteemed doctor illegally denied me treatment. Mike spoke with the insurance provider after my failed visit, and was told we should never pay up front for a network doctor. Mike then called the doctor and left a voicemail message. The doctor called back Mike, again insisting "that's how we do it." A woman from the office called back later to apologize for her "mistake," for not calling me back about the insurance and for giving the doctor "wrong information." Of course I've never received a direct apology.
I am so grateful Mike recognized how agonizing this experience was, and that now with a drug-addled brain and rapidly rising anxiety, I was in no condition to call doctor after doctor in search of an honest one who'd accept our insurance, abide by the law and make time to see me almost immediately. After calls to multiple in-network doctors, Mike reached a woman, who after putting him on hold for 20 minutes, understood the urgency and booked me first thing in the morning. I've finally found a doctor who carefully listened to my concerns, examined me and recognized how the emotional stress was exacerbating my physical pain. For the last 24 hours, I've been truly managing my pain, with medications that don't leave me nearly catatonic. Hopefully the cortisone injection will kick in, too. I'm slowly regaining my full capacity to react and respond to sudden movements. Another day or so and I should be back to some reasonably functioning state. I'll be damned if I let another week drain my creative conscious.
Disclaimer: While Natasha Gural-Maiello makes every effort to post accurate and reliable information, she does not guarantee or warrant that the information on this blog entry is coherent due to her recent wranglings with Western medicine.
As I trudged through last week, I made every effort to test my physical fitness and exert as much energy as possible in a last-ditch effort to lighten my dampened spirit. It was going great, until last Thursday when I stupidly took a spin class that I know I should avoid like a plague. It involves balancing in second and third position without touching the handlebars. Sure it builds core strength and burns calories, but for someone like me with a severely damaged spine, it's a prescription for pain. Like I said, I know better. I'm to blame. And I've been paying for my bad judgement. My chronic pain -- due to a degenerated spine and slipped discs, caused by scoliosis -- is dull and constant with episodes of excruciating sharp or stabbing pains. But those inexorable episodes rarely last more than a day or two. This was the longest bout of what's regarded by doctors as debilitating pain I've ever endured. Since I'm incapable of slowing down -- both because of my personality which rejects the notion of slothenly couch-sitting or bed-rest, and because I have to care for a very active 17-month-old all day without any childcare -- I have to rely on better living through chemistry.
On Monday, I went to see a spine surgeon, who advised that if I take another hands-free spin class I'll be on his schedule sooner than later. I'm already banned from running (even though I've logged some miles since giving birth), as I was diagnosed with scoliosis and the degenerated spine while marathon training in 2006. I had to see nearly a half dozen doctors back then before finding one who'd agree to treat me if I went through with the marathon. I finished, and would have had it no other way. I've since struggled with cutting out the running as it's by far the most effective cardio, and my metabolically-challenged body needs a lot of intense exercise. The first of three doctors I visited this week gave me a cocktail of three meds, a narcotic painkiller, a hardcore muscle relaxer and an equally potent anti-inflammatory, saying I'd only feel any relief if I stacked all three. True it masked some of the pain, but it took my brain, balance, motor skills, reflexes and ability stay awake past 9 p.m. as prisoners. I was barely functioning during the day, praying I wouldn't pass out while keeping up with Michael Alexander. Clearly that pharma-concoction was a short-term fix, and he referred me to a pain specialist who could better help me cope longer-term.
I should have been suspicious when the pain specialist I was referred to was able to see me the very next day, without my even droning on about the severity of my situation. I'll spare you the brunt of the saga of this horrific experience, as some of you may have read my reviews. (It's the first time I've written a negative review online, and I was very generous to not mention he was essentially trying to defraud me.) Long story short, I gave the woman who made the appointment my insurance and personal information, and she'd promised to call back that day if there was any potential problem with the insurance. She never called. Mike confirmed the doctor is in our network. When I arrived for my appointment, there was nobody at the front desk and I waited some 15 minutes before the doctor, with his name embroidered on his top, came to the desk. I had to alert him I was a patient, and he handed me a pile of paperwork. Another 20 minutes later, he came to call in the patient scheduled a half hour after me. The other patient was kind enough to point out that I was ahead of him, so the doctor called me to the front desk to inform me I'd have to pay hundreds, maybe more, up front because of a "network deductible" and refused to bill me through my insurance. He said "that's the way we do it," and that he'd "reimburse you if you overpaid." He said I could pay him and then seek reimbursement through my carrier. Naturally, I walked out. My back pain worsened by the time I left the office as my stress mounted. This esteemed doctor illegally denied me treatment. Mike spoke with the insurance provider after my failed visit, and was told we should never pay up front for a network doctor. Mike then called the doctor and left a voicemail message. The doctor called back Mike, again insisting "that's how we do it." A woman from the office called back later to apologize for her "mistake," for not calling me back about the insurance and for giving the doctor "wrong information." Of course I've never received a direct apology.
I am so grateful Mike recognized how agonizing this experience was, and that now with a drug-addled brain and rapidly rising anxiety, I was in no condition to call doctor after doctor in search of an honest one who'd accept our insurance, abide by the law and make time to see me almost immediately. After calls to multiple in-network doctors, Mike reached a woman, who after putting him on hold for 20 minutes, understood the urgency and booked me first thing in the morning. I've finally found a doctor who carefully listened to my concerns, examined me and recognized how the emotional stress was exacerbating my physical pain. For the last 24 hours, I've been truly managing my pain, with medications that don't leave me nearly catatonic. Hopefully the cortisone injection will kick in, too. I'm slowly regaining my full capacity to react and respond to sudden movements. Another day or so and I should be back to some reasonably functioning state. I'll be damned if I let another week drain my creative conscious.
Disclaimer: While Natasha Gural-Maiello makes every effort to post accurate and reliable information, she does not guarantee or warrant that the information on this blog entry is coherent due to her recent wranglings with Western medicine.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Rest Easy: Study says we're not smothering our son
Michael Alexander is suffering from his sixth double ear infection in less than a year. He's on his seventh round of antibiotics. (Eighth if you consider the course of Cefdinir we had to cease because he's allergic to the one specifically designed to treat ear infections.) He's not eating, save for milk and an occasional bite of anything we offer -- and we've tried everything, and none of us is sleeping through the night.
Last night I was plagued by nightmares as Mike and I took over the living room so Michael Alexander could have his own serene space to sleep after waking in the wee hours as he's done every night for the last two weeks or so. We've been coddling him more than usual, as we have trouble coping with his pain and our inability to do more than what the doctors say. Unless you count letting him sleep with us when he wakes around 2 a.m. We moved into the living room last night, partly because we worry maybe we shouldn't be letting him share our bed so often. After all, there's so much concern over the potential physical and mental health risks in this Puritanical, litigious and generally un-compassionate country of ours.
The American Academy of Pediatrics cautions against co-sleeping in the first year due to an increased risk of sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS). Doctors, nurses and other medical professionals go so far as to scare parents into believing this will happen. I understand they're scared of being sued, but new parents have enough to fear without the added AAP propaganda. While co-sleeping with your toddler is common in many cultures and countries, about a third of U.S. *experts* discourage it, another third think it's OK -- even beneficial -- and the rest are just scared to say anything. The threat of lawsuits silences far too many alleged experts in this country. Funny, though, how those with no training or data to back up their claims are constantly offering their opinions.
Researchers from the Stony Brook University School of Medicine in New York, led by Lauren Hale, associate professor of the preventive medicine graduate program in public health, released a study in the August issue of Pediatrics that shows bed-sharing or co-sleeping with your toddler does NOT lead to an increased risk in behavioral or learning problems later in life. "There seem to be no negative associations between bed-sharing in toddlerhood and children's behavior and cognition at age 5 years," the study concluded.
The "overwhelming majority of mothers and babies around the globe today" share a bed in what is "an unquestioned practice," according to Dr. James J. McKenna, professor of anthropology and the director of the Center for Behavioral Studies of Mother-Infant Sleep, Notre Dame University. It's common in much of southern Europe, Asia, Africa and Central and South America, and is prevalent in the countries with the lowest SIDS rates.
Trust I take every study avere sale in zucca, even as I may mention only those that suit my sentiment.
My sanity seeks equal doses of starlets and science.
"Children will tell you how lonely it is sleeping alone. If possible, you should always sleep with someone you love. You both recharge your mutual batteries free of charge."
_ Marlene Dietrich
Last night I was plagued by nightmares as Mike and I took over the living room so Michael Alexander could have his own serene space to sleep after waking in the wee hours as he's done every night for the last two weeks or so. We've been coddling him more than usual, as we have trouble coping with his pain and our inability to do more than what the doctors say. Unless you count letting him sleep with us when he wakes around 2 a.m. We moved into the living room last night, partly because we worry maybe we shouldn't be letting him share our bed so often. After all, there's so much concern over the potential physical and mental health risks in this Puritanical, litigious and generally un-compassionate country of ours.
The American Academy of Pediatrics cautions against co-sleeping in the first year due to an increased risk of sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS). Doctors, nurses and other medical professionals go so far as to scare parents into believing this will happen. I understand they're scared of being sued, but new parents have enough to fear without the added AAP propaganda. While co-sleeping with your toddler is common in many cultures and countries, about a third of U.S. *experts* discourage it, another third think it's OK -- even beneficial -- and the rest are just scared to say anything. The threat of lawsuits silences far too many alleged experts in this country. Funny, though, how those with no training or data to back up their claims are constantly offering their opinions.
Researchers from the Stony Brook University School of Medicine in New York, led by Lauren Hale, associate professor of the preventive medicine graduate program in public health, released a study in the August issue of Pediatrics that shows bed-sharing or co-sleeping with your toddler does NOT lead to an increased risk in behavioral or learning problems later in life. "There seem to be no negative associations between bed-sharing in toddlerhood and children's behavior and cognition at age 5 years," the study concluded.
The "overwhelming majority of mothers and babies around the globe today" share a bed in what is "an unquestioned practice," according to Dr. James J. McKenna, professor of anthropology and the director of the Center for Behavioral Studies of Mother-Infant Sleep, Notre Dame University. It's common in much of southern Europe, Asia, Africa and Central and South America, and is prevalent in the countries with the lowest SIDS rates.
Trust I take every study avere sale in zucca, even as I may mention only those that suit my sentiment.
My sanity seeks equal doses of starlets and science.
"Children will tell you how lonely it is sleeping alone. If possible, you should always sleep with someone you love. You both recharge your mutual batteries free of charge."
_ Marlene Dietrich
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Getting It Off My Chest
A new study from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention shows that less than 4% of U.S. hospitals provide the full support that new mothers need to successfully breastfeed. Finally, a study that doesn't slap me with guilt.
The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends babies be fed nothing but breast milk for about the first 6 months and continue breastfeeding for at least a year. My son's pediatrician, my obstetrician, countless women and a few men -- mostly strangers -- who have no business telling me how to raise my son and, of course, the highly-paid breastfeeding specialist (I can't recall her exact title or name, but I remember every pound of propaganda she delivered without ever offering an ounce of useful advice) all extolled the virtues of this "natural" act and insisted I should do it, often citing the AAP's recommendations as dogma.
The first few weeks after Michael Alexander was born were fraught with frustration, guilt and feelings of inadequacy, all because I was having trouble doing "what's best for your baby" -- breastfeeding. I was able to eke out enough milk for about two months to keep my son healthy, but it was obvious he needed more than I could provide. I'll describe to anyone who asks privately about my painful, failed attempts at pumping. Suffice it to say the futility compounded with the constant "encouragement" to "keep trying" drove me to tears most days. It's not surprising to me that a study by researchers at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill published this month in the journal Obstetrics & Gynecology found "Women with negative early breastfeeding experiences were more likely to have depressive symptoms at 2 months postpartum."
A voracious consumer of medical data and studies, I was inundated with reports by experts insisting I was robbing my son of essential nutrients and future health by not lactating. My OB suggested I pay for a private lactation consultant, a service not covered by health insurance. It wasn't until I sought the free advice of La Leche League that I was offered any support from someone other than my loving husband, mother, mother-in-law and other dear family members and friends who advised me to ignore the professionals and (totally unqualified) propagandists who kept insisting "You can do it!"
A woman at La Leche, who identified herself only as Heidi D., asked me a series of medical questions, including whether I had thyroid disease or polycystic ovary syndrome. I have both Hashimoto's Disease, an autoimmune disease in which the thyroid gland is gradually destroyed by a variety of cell and antibody mediated immune processes, and PCOS. Of course, my OB is well aware of both these conditions. Heidi D. cited a study which found that a third of women with my condition can't produce any or enough breast milk. It was one month and one day after my son was born that someone, an authority even, dispensed any evidence that this lack of lactation may not be my own fault or failure.
While La Leche is obviously an advocate of breastfeeding, it's where I found an ally who understood that this "natural" act can be unnatural, even impossible, for some of us. As Heidi D. wrote me in an email on May 20, 2010: "Baby needs to eat! and if there isn't enough breast milk, formula is a heck of a lot better than kool aid :)"
It made me think back to New York-Presbyterian, where dozens of esteemed (ahem!) medical professionals who knew I suffered from a double endocrine-autoimmune affliction, never, ever suggested this might ever hinder or hamper my efforts to breast feed. That breastfeeding specialist, who came to my room at least once a day with her pep talks and pamphlets, certainly never considered my condition. What's worse, is she never showed me how to breastfeed or pump, and she certainly never suggested that I might have a problem or what I should do if my ability to be a "good mother" eluded me.
I still get angry when I think about my overall experience at New York-Presbyterian, and have since spoken to other *new* mothers who say they will never return to that hospital. I'm especially upset about that specialist whose voice I hear every time someone else drones on about the importance of breastfeeding. She repeatedly applauded my decision to breastfeed, making me feel like I had to stick with it no matter what. Even at the hospital, I suspected I wasn't producing enough for my son, as he'd suck (sorry to the squeamish) and suck for up to three hours (yes, three hours!) and still seem hungry. Not once did she or any of the other staff suggest that maybe this wasn't normal, despite telling me that he "should be satisfied in 20 minutes."
Of course I am still bitter about this experience, but I am relieved to see my son is strong and healthy, consistently growing at the same rate (97th percentile for height and 75th percentile for weight.) And my long, lean son is happy! He's been happy since I introduced him to formula at two months and whole foods at about six months and organic cow's milk at 10 months.
It's not often that I'll give props to a government agency, but thank you, CDC, for recognizing that maybe mothers aren't to blame for all breastfeeding blunders. The CDC concluded that: "Unfortunately, most U.S. hospitals do not fully support breastfeeding; they should do more to make sure mothers can start and continue breastfeeding." I was shocked that New York-Presbyterian (ranked No. 1 overall in New York and No. 10 nationally in gynecology by U.S. News & World Report) offered me no practical breastfeeding advice and no support when I clearly under-produced. The CDC Vital Signs report released this month says hospitals should: "Show mothers how to breastfeed and how to maintain lactation, even if they are separated from their infants." I was separated from Michael Alexander for what seemed like an eternity after giving birth by an unplanned C-section which I was told was medically necessary. He latched on immediately in the recovery room, but once we made it to our own private room (a topic for a future post) the only instruction I was given was on how to hold my son while he fed. I just wish I didn't latch on to all the bad advice I was given.
I can finally accept that I may not be evil for not being able to breastfeed my son for as long as the AAP recommends. As George Bernard Shaw famously, said: "Even mother's milk nourishes murderers as well as heroes.” Maybe I should have turned to a Nobel Prize winner for advice earlier.
The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends babies be fed nothing but breast milk for about the first 6 months and continue breastfeeding for at least a year. My son's pediatrician, my obstetrician, countless women and a few men -- mostly strangers -- who have no business telling me how to raise my son and, of course, the highly-paid breastfeeding specialist (I can't recall her exact title or name, but I remember every pound of propaganda she delivered without ever offering an ounce of useful advice) all extolled the virtues of this "natural" act and insisted I should do it, often citing the AAP's recommendations as dogma.
The first few weeks after Michael Alexander was born were fraught with frustration, guilt and feelings of inadequacy, all because I was having trouble doing "what's best for your baby" -- breastfeeding. I was able to eke out enough milk for about two months to keep my son healthy, but it was obvious he needed more than I could provide. I'll describe to anyone who asks privately about my painful, failed attempts at pumping. Suffice it to say the futility compounded with the constant "encouragement" to "keep trying" drove me to tears most days. It's not surprising to me that a study by researchers at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill published this month in the journal Obstetrics & Gynecology found "Women with negative early breastfeeding experiences were more likely to have depressive symptoms at 2 months postpartum."
A voracious consumer of medical data and studies, I was inundated with reports by experts insisting I was robbing my son of essential nutrients and future health by not lactating. My OB suggested I pay for a private lactation consultant, a service not covered by health insurance. It wasn't until I sought the free advice of La Leche League that I was offered any support from someone other than my loving husband, mother, mother-in-law and other dear family members and friends who advised me to ignore the professionals and (totally unqualified) propagandists who kept insisting "You can do it!"
A woman at La Leche, who identified herself only as Heidi D., asked me a series of medical questions, including whether I had thyroid disease or polycystic ovary syndrome. I have both Hashimoto's Disease, an autoimmune disease in which the thyroid gland is gradually destroyed by a variety of cell and antibody mediated immune processes, and PCOS. Of course, my OB is well aware of both these conditions. Heidi D. cited a study which found that a third of women with my condition can't produce any or enough breast milk. It was one month and one day after my son was born that someone, an authority even, dispensed any evidence that this lack of lactation may not be my own fault or failure.
While La Leche is obviously an advocate of breastfeeding, it's where I found an ally who understood that this "natural" act can be unnatural, even impossible, for some of us. As Heidi D. wrote me in an email on May 20, 2010: "Baby needs to eat! and if there isn't enough breast milk, formula is a heck of a lot better than kool aid :)"
It made me think back to New York-Presbyterian, where dozens of esteemed (ahem!) medical professionals who knew I suffered from a double endocrine-autoimmune affliction, never, ever suggested this might ever hinder or hamper my efforts to breast feed. That breastfeeding specialist, who came to my room at least once a day with her pep talks and pamphlets, certainly never considered my condition. What's worse, is she never showed me how to breastfeed or pump, and she certainly never suggested that I might have a problem or what I should do if my ability to be a "good mother" eluded me.
I still get angry when I think about my overall experience at New York-Presbyterian, and have since spoken to other *new* mothers who say they will never return to that hospital. I'm especially upset about that specialist whose voice I hear every time someone else drones on about the importance of breastfeeding. She repeatedly applauded my decision to breastfeed, making me feel like I had to stick with it no matter what. Even at the hospital, I suspected I wasn't producing enough for my son, as he'd suck (sorry to the squeamish) and suck for up to three hours (yes, three hours!) and still seem hungry. Not once did she or any of the other staff suggest that maybe this wasn't normal, despite telling me that he "should be satisfied in 20 minutes."
Of course I am still bitter about this experience, but I am relieved to see my son is strong and healthy, consistently growing at the same rate (97th percentile for height and 75th percentile for weight.) And my long, lean son is happy! He's been happy since I introduced him to formula at two months and whole foods at about six months and organic cow's milk at 10 months.
It's not often that I'll give props to a government agency, but thank you, CDC, for recognizing that maybe mothers aren't to blame for all breastfeeding blunders. The CDC concluded that: "Unfortunately, most U.S. hospitals do not fully support breastfeeding; they should do more to make sure mothers can start and continue breastfeeding." I was shocked that New York-Presbyterian (ranked No. 1 overall in New York and No. 10 nationally in gynecology by U.S. News & World Report) offered me no practical breastfeeding advice and no support when I clearly under-produced. The CDC Vital Signs report released this month says hospitals should: "Show mothers how to breastfeed and how to maintain lactation, even if they are separated from their infants." I was separated from Michael Alexander for what seemed like an eternity after giving birth by an unplanned C-section which I was told was medically necessary. He latched on immediately in the recovery room, but once we made it to our own private room (a topic for a future post) the only instruction I was given was on how to hold my son while he fed. I just wish I didn't latch on to all the bad advice I was given.
I can finally accept that I may not be evil for not being able to breastfeed my son for as long as the AAP recommends. As George Bernard Shaw famously, said: "Even mother's milk nourishes murderers as well as heroes.” Maybe I should have turned to a Nobel Prize winner for advice earlier.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Living Between Worlds
There are so many things I've wanted to write about this week. Last week. Every day. It's been tougher than usual this week to get anything done during the hour or two each day while Michael Alexander naps because I've been plagued by anxiety dreams. Last night was the closest to peaceful rest I've had all week. Today I'm stealing a few minutes, while he naps and I wait for the laundry cycle to finish, to get something down in print.
It's when I'm most exhausted that I feel overwhelmed, and this week has been replete with myriad last-minute requests that have made my personal to-do list seem impossible. Stealing (guilt implied and magnified with second reference) these few minutes to write -- albeit with little direction or cohesive thought -- is about the only thing I can call my own.
Summertime in New York amplifies the class divide. I cringe every time I hear another stay-at-home mom (nearly always with nanny in tow) complain in line ahead of me that she needs whatever it is she needs now because "we will not be summering in the city." Summering? (Don't even get me started on how utterly offensive such behavior is to the woman behind the counter who wishes she could have a single summer day off with her kids!) Professionally it's tough to get top people on the phone, as most key decision makers -- especially those in the financial services ecosystem -- leave it to the grunts (that's Wall Street for mid-level execs) to get anything done while they jitney to the Hamptons or jet away to Bora Bora. Personally, it's painful to endure the tales of long weekends, every weekend, ahead of a full month or more of sun and surf.
I should not (and am ashamed when I do, even silently) complain, as I among one of the most privileged people in the world, what with all that food and shelter and amenities most human beings will never even taste or dream about. But Manhattan, the land of the haves and the have-mores, can transform even the most compassionate soul into a self-loathing want-more.
We're headed to the Cape a week from tomorrow. We've rented a one-bedroom efficiency on a private "resort" on Provincetown Bay. Aaaah ... I cannot wait. We flirted with the fantasy of renting a huge house in Brewster where our friends are staying a week earlier, but the expense -- without another family to share -- was wasteful at best. We pay far too much for rent in a luxury, doorman building. And even though I am a firm believer that you should never pay to stay in a hotel that's not nicer than your home as it's always a disastrous disappointment, that's often impossible -- or at least stupid -- when you take your regular everyday Manhattan expenses into account. If we were wise enough to think ahead and sublet our place for a week, we could easily afford any luxury rental on the Cape. One day, we'll plan ahead and upgrade from a three-figure rental to a four-figure one.
As I await our week of peasant (hahaha) paradise, I am struggling with my aforementioned to-do list, as the tasks I need or want to accomplish (such little luxuries as cleaning out my closet and lugging bags to the charity shop) become more and more daunting as the requests from others mount and my own goals become tougher to attain. I am trying to take deep breaths, to make it all seem doable, but that would require an expanse of time -- like 10 or 15 minutes -- without an email, text series or other digital interference with a personal request of some kind that bumps my tasks off the radar. I treat my days at home like workdays. I prefer phone and email over text, aside from a quick exchange on when and where to meet a playdate; there is NO TV during the day; and Michael Alexander's needs and my freelance assignments (in that order, of course) take precedence over any distractions.
Library story time in the East Village (and, of course, highly-coveted but informal playdates with Michael Alexander's darling friends and their dear parents) may be my only real respite most days, as I have discovered a true community where stay-at-home parents (most without a nanny in tow!) mix with nannies and other caregivers, giving me a sense that I am not alone in this terribly unbalanced world. (More on the dying breed of mommies-sans-nannies to come.) Running errands like grocery shopping can be isolating in a universe where these tasks are often delegated to the nannies while mommies attend to baby-free mommy matters, whatever those may be. Doing laundry in the daytime may be the strangest of all. I can recall maybe a couple occasions (well, not really recall them, but I am sure they have occurred) when another tenant in the building was doing his or her own laundry. It amazes me how those who never go to an office and stay at home all day still send their laundry out to a service. They just drop that red bag off with the doorman and pick it up when they return. And some complain that's too much of a hassle. Really? (In snarkspeak that's "Riiihl-Eee?") So once a week or so, it's me and the housekeepers (a few who double as nannies) in the basement laundry room.
Maybe it's because I wear my first-generation American status like a badge that the housekeepers have always treated me like a peer. It's been nearly 15 months now that I've been home with Michael Alexander, so I've come to know them well. We rarely struggle to communicate, as my Spanglish and pigeon Polish are pretty good. They all adore Michael Alexander. They all confide in me, often about my neighbors. They all offer to help me, though I would never, ever accept such help without providing proper compensation. And they have never, ever offered me their services in exchange for a fee. And I am well aware, through our conversations, that all are seeking additional work. It's as if they know I am living between worlds. A denizen of a luxury doorman building who shudders at the thought of employing sub-wage slaves.
Some days I find this living between worlds amusing. Some days I can laugh at the banal banter of the moms who shriek on smart phones while their nannies chase after their spoiled sons. Other days I am so disgusted, appalled even. And what disgusts me more than bemoaning their existence is when I feel sorry for myself. I really do not want somebody else caring for my son. (I do, however, often miss working full time, but I'll save that for another post.) I consider it a great gift that I can witness Michael Alexander's growth, especially his burgeoning compassion and desire to share with others. It's a quality strangers and playmates' parents notice. They say "it's in his eyes." For that I am so grateful, so proud. There is no greater, truer, human quality than compassion.
We're far from (and may never have access to) the five-figure rentals some of our friends can afford, but I am OK with that. I am excited to see the sea and share a pool with the occupants of eight other humble units for a week. Until then, I'll continue living between worlds, not quite certain where I fit in or if I really want to.
It's when I'm most exhausted that I feel overwhelmed, and this week has been replete with myriad last-minute requests that have made my personal to-do list seem impossible. Stealing (guilt implied and magnified with second reference) these few minutes to write -- albeit with little direction or cohesive thought -- is about the only thing I can call my own.
Summertime in New York amplifies the class divide. I cringe every time I hear another stay-at-home mom (nearly always with nanny in tow) complain in line ahead of me that she needs whatever it is she needs now because "we will not be summering in the city." Summering? (Don't even get me started on how utterly offensive such behavior is to the woman behind the counter who wishes she could have a single summer day off with her kids!) Professionally it's tough to get top people on the phone, as most key decision makers -- especially those in the financial services ecosystem -- leave it to the grunts (that's Wall Street for mid-level execs) to get anything done while they jitney to the Hamptons or jet away to Bora Bora. Personally, it's painful to endure the tales of long weekends, every weekend, ahead of a full month or more of sun and surf.
I should not (and am ashamed when I do, even silently) complain, as I among one of the most privileged people in the world, what with all that food and shelter and amenities most human beings will never even taste or dream about. But Manhattan, the land of the haves and the have-mores, can transform even the most compassionate soul into a self-loathing want-more.
We're headed to the Cape a week from tomorrow. We've rented a one-bedroom efficiency on a private "resort" on Provincetown Bay. Aaaah ... I cannot wait. We flirted with the fantasy of renting a huge house in Brewster where our friends are staying a week earlier, but the expense -- without another family to share -- was wasteful at best. We pay far too much for rent in a luxury, doorman building. And even though I am a firm believer that you should never pay to stay in a hotel that's not nicer than your home as it's always a disastrous disappointment, that's often impossible -- or at least stupid -- when you take your regular everyday Manhattan expenses into account. If we were wise enough to think ahead and sublet our place for a week, we could easily afford any luxury rental on the Cape. One day, we'll plan ahead and upgrade from a three-figure rental to a four-figure one.
As I await our week of peasant (hahaha) paradise, I am struggling with my aforementioned to-do list, as the tasks I need or want to accomplish (such little luxuries as cleaning out my closet and lugging bags to the charity shop) become more and more daunting as the requests from others mount and my own goals become tougher to attain. I am trying to take deep breaths, to make it all seem doable, but that would require an expanse of time -- like 10 or 15 minutes -- without an email, text series or other digital interference with a personal request of some kind that bumps my tasks off the radar. I treat my days at home like workdays. I prefer phone and email over text, aside from a quick exchange on when and where to meet a playdate; there is NO TV during the day; and Michael Alexander's needs and my freelance assignments (in that order, of course) take precedence over any distractions.
Library story time in the East Village (and, of course, highly-coveted but informal playdates with Michael Alexander's darling friends and their dear parents) may be my only real respite most days, as I have discovered a true community where stay-at-home parents (most without a nanny in tow!) mix with nannies and other caregivers, giving me a sense that I am not alone in this terribly unbalanced world. (More on the dying breed of mommies-sans-nannies to come.) Running errands like grocery shopping can be isolating in a universe where these tasks are often delegated to the nannies while mommies attend to baby-free mommy matters, whatever those may be. Doing laundry in the daytime may be the strangest of all. I can recall maybe a couple occasions (well, not really recall them, but I am sure they have occurred) when another tenant in the building was doing his or her own laundry. It amazes me how those who never go to an office and stay at home all day still send their laundry out to a service. They just drop that red bag off with the doorman and pick it up when they return. And some complain that's too much of a hassle. Really? (In snarkspeak that's "Riiihl-Eee?") So once a week or so, it's me and the housekeepers (a few who double as nannies) in the basement laundry room.
Maybe it's because I wear my first-generation American status like a badge that the housekeepers have always treated me like a peer. It's been nearly 15 months now that I've been home with Michael Alexander, so I've come to know them well. We rarely struggle to communicate, as my Spanglish and pigeon Polish are pretty good. They all adore Michael Alexander. They all confide in me, often about my neighbors. They all offer to help me, though I would never, ever accept such help without providing proper compensation. And they have never, ever offered me their services in exchange for a fee. And I am well aware, through our conversations, that all are seeking additional work. It's as if they know I am living between worlds. A denizen of a luxury doorman building who shudders at the thought of employing sub-wage slaves.
Some days I find this living between worlds amusing. Some days I can laugh at the banal banter of the moms who shriek on smart phones while their nannies chase after their spoiled sons. Other days I am so disgusted, appalled even. And what disgusts me more than bemoaning their existence is when I feel sorry for myself. I really do not want somebody else caring for my son. (I do, however, often miss working full time, but I'll save that for another post.) I consider it a great gift that I can witness Michael Alexander's growth, especially his burgeoning compassion and desire to share with others. It's a quality strangers and playmates' parents notice. They say "it's in his eyes." For that I am so grateful, so proud. There is no greater, truer, human quality than compassion.
We're far from (and may never have access to) the five-figure rentals some of our friends can afford, but I am OK with that. I am excited to see the sea and share a pool with the occupants of eight other humble units for a week. Until then, I'll continue living between worlds, not quite certain where I fit in or if I really want to.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Loss, Legacy and Faith
Eight years ago today, my father, Michael William "Brother Mike" Gural, died. I wasn't by his side. I was here, sleeping after an overnight shift at the AP, because I had a horrible boss at the time. Of course I could have insisted on taking more FMLA leave, but I didn't. I will always regret that.
I think it gets harder every year. That pit in my stomach feels as deep as it did on that train ride home to Massachusetts. I weep as mournfully today as I did when I first saw him in a casket in the funeral home, and when the monks lowered it into the ground.
The loss is daunting and profound. Euripides said, "To a father growing old nothing is dearer than a daughter." My father never got to grow old. He worked and worked and then he was diagnosed with cancer. He suffered and then he died. What stings worse is that he never met his precious grandson.
The pain is incomparable. And that's compounded by my ongoing struggle with faith. I was raised in the Russian Orthodox faith, by a devout mother and her parents, who often hosted the hierarchs and other clergy at the homes where I grew up. We made frequent pilgrimages to churches and monaserteries across the Northeast, including the monastery where my father is buried alongside my maternal grandparents.
As Aldous Huxley said, "My father considered a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing." We spent many hours on Wilbraham Mountain, a short hike from the cul-de-sac where I grew up and my mother still lives. In the early years, it was often Tex (our purebred German Shepard who had been trained as a state police dog), dad and me, and later my sister, too. As much as I love and seem to need the city to keep me sane, I do miss escaping in the mountain. Names are very important to Russian writers, and to me. (I will take any comparison I can fairly make!) My father's mother was Jadwiga Urbanski (city dweller), and his father was Wolodya Gural (mountaineer). I never met them, but in my heart I will always be a combination of the city woman and the mountain man.
In the end, my father chose to be buried by the Russian Orthodox Church. My mother asked him many times (I heard several) if he was sure, as she didn't want him to compromise his principles or make a mockery of her faith. My father went to church on major holy days and was respectful to my mother's cleric friends. He was a spiritual man, but he believed faith was practiced within oneself, not necessarily within a house of worship. Like Henry David Thoreau said, "Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads." But in the end, my father insisted he wanted to be buried alongside my mother (they will share a towering grave marker in the shape of an Orthodox cross), and that he would make the required preparations through prayer and confession. Homer said, "All men have need of the gods." I question how those needs change as we get sick and grow old, and what that means to the next generation.
Like Khalil Gibran, my father respected men of all faiths. "I love you when you bow in your mosque, kneel in your temple, pray in your church. For you and I are sons of one religion, and it is the spirit," said Gibran. It's still hard for me to reconcile that, in the end, my father chose to "pray in your church."
It's easy to use science to dismiss religion. It's much harder to use philosophy. In his last days, my father returned to many of his "life texts," re-reading them in what I think was preparation for what lied ahead. I'm struggling to figure out where my faith fits into his final decisions.
"I would rather live my life as if there is a God and die to find out there isn't, than live my life as if there isn't and die to find out there is."
_ Albert Camus
I think it gets harder every year. That pit in my stomach feels as deep as it did on that train ride home to Massachusetts. I weep as mournfully today as I did when I first saw him in a casket in the funeral home, and when the monks lowered it into the ground.
The loss is daunting and profound. Euripides said, "To a father growing old nothing is dearer than a daughter." My father never got to grow old. He worked and worked and then he was diagnosed with cancer. He suffered and then he died. What stings worse is that he never met his precious grandson.
The pain is incomparable. And that's compounded by my ongoing struggle with faith. I was raised in the Russian Orthodox faith, by a devout mother and her parents, who often hosted the hierarchs and other clergy at the homes where I grew up. We made frequent pilgrimages to churches and monaserteries across the Northeast, including the monastery where my father is buried alongside my maternal grandparents.
As Aldous Huxley said, "My father considered a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing." We spent many hours on Wilbraham Mountain, a short hike from the cul-de-sac where I grew up and my mother still lives. In the early years, it was often Tex (our purebred German Shepard who had been trained as a state police dog), dad and me, and later my sister, too. As much as I love and seem to need the city to keep me sane, I do miss escaping in the mountain. Names are very important to Russian writers, and to me. (I will take any comparison I can fairly make!) My father's mother was Jadwiga Urbanski (city dweller), and his father was Wolodya Gural (mountaineer). I never met them, but in my heart I will always be a combination of the city woman and the mountain man.
In the end, my father chose to be buried by the Russian Orthodox Church. My mother asked him many times (I heard several) if he was sure, as she didn't want him to compromise his principles or make a mockery of her faith. My father went to church on major holy days and was respectful to my mother's cleric friends. He was a spiritual man, but he believed faith was practiced within oneself, not necessarily within a house of worship. Like Henry David Thoreau said, "Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads." But in the end, my father insisted he wanted to be buried alongside my mother (they will share a towering grave marker in the shape of an Orthodox cross), and that he would make the required preparations through prayer and confession. Homer said, "All men have need of the gods." I question how those needs change as we get sick and grow old, and what that means to the next generation.
Like Khalil Gibran, my father respected men of all faiths. "I love you when you bow in your mosque, kneel in your temple, pray in your church. For you and I are sons of one religion, and it is the spirit," said Gibran. It's still hard for me to reconcile that, in the end, my father chose to "pray in your church."
It's easy to use science to dismiss religion. It's much harder to use philosophy. In his last days, my father returned to many of his "life texts," re-reading them in what I think was preparation for what lied ahead. I'm struggling to figure out where my faith fits into his final decisions.
"I would rather live my life as if there is a God and die to find out there isn't, than live my life as if there isn't and die to find out there is."
_ Albert Camus
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