The Big Ugly.

When a girl is a Mraz-loving, artsy-fartsy, tree-hugging, feminist who writes poetry, chances are she’ll be in the minority of her peers when it comes to her pro-life leanings.

In this society of politically correct niceties, the pro-life activist is labeled “narrow-minded” at best, and all too often considered a bigot.  It’s “bad form” to even suggest you don’t support “a woman’s right to choose.”  No wonder the issue of abortion is one so many people tiptoe around and avoid confronting: akin to religion and politics, the abortion debate has grown into the sore spot where both of those sensitive topics meet.  Where the ruling of Roe v. Wade was intended to settle an issue, it has created a bloody divide instead.

I have not really delved into this issue myself for the simple fact that I was considering my audience.  Which is exactly why I should have brought it up sooner.

* * * * *

This election has been making me physically ill.  I have been useless at work lately, getting my work done, but not as efficiently as I should.  I have been preoccupied to the point of exhaustion.  I have been having nightmares about not getting to vote, about showing up late, or not being registered.  I have awoken feeling as though I had spent hours crying.

* * * * *

Do you really know what a partial birth or late term abortion is or how one is performed?

“But,” some assert, “Obama supports restrictions on late term abortions and only really supports the procedure when the mother’s health is endangered.” The Partial Birth Abortion Ban affords the senator and fellow pro-abortion fans such a loophole, one that allows partial birth abortions to continue under the guise of “protecting the mother’s life.”

For the record, The Partial Birth Abortion Ban Act of 2003 states:

Hundreds of ob-gyns and fetal/maternal specialists, along with former Surgeon General Koop have come forward to unequivocally state that “partial-birth abortion is never medically necessary to protect a mother’s health or her future fertility.”  In fact, the procedure can significantly threaten a mother’s health or ability to carry future children to term.  The American Medical Association has said the procedure is “not good medicine” and is “not medically indicated” in any situation.

… so why is the loophole necessary if not to abuse it?

* * * * *

Do you know what infanticide is? 

 * * * * *

My second child was born premature.  The span of 50 minutes from when my doctor confirmed that I was “going to have this baby today” to when I actually delivered was among the most frightening experiences of my life.  We were fortunate that he was not dangerously early. But still, his lungs were underdeveloped, so he was swept away as soon as he was delivered, taken to be teathered to a ventilator, IV, feeding tube, heart monitor…

But because he was wanted, he survived.

 * * * * *

Without the Born Alive Infant Protection Act, a premature baby who is marked for abortion but survives is not afforded any right* to medical care for the simple fact that the child was unwanted by the birth mother.  (*Due to the language of Roe v. Wade, we apparently can’t just say “a baby is a baby — care for it.”)

The Born Alive Infant Protection Act prevents the disposal of such children.

Obama opposed the bill.

* * * * * 

I am aware that abortion is not the only issue at stake this election.  Nor is it the only life-affirming issue to up for consideration: the war, poverty issues, and health care fall under the same umbrella.  However, I believe the issue of Life is the most important issue.

To consider a child to be less than human simply because he or she is not wanted by his or her birth mother, to me, that is evil.

Let’s put it this way: if you witnessed a mother walk up to a train track and lay her newborn down on it and walk away, would you rescue the child?  Or would you leave the child to die because that’s what the mother wanted?  Isn’t that question absurd?! You don’t even have to be smarter than a 5th grader to know it would be wrong to leave the child to die.

But that’s exactly what that man is choosing.

And as far as I can see, any person who cannot make such an obviously straightforward moral choice ought not be handling any other matter facing our nation.

 * * * * *

I expect I’m down to only one reader from now on.  But maybe I can sleep tonight for a change.

The middle: where to start

What if you knew you were immortal … as long as you never fell asleep? What if you knew that the second you hit REM, you would leave your fleshy confines, never to return?

To what lengths would you stay awake? Would you “not go gently into that good night”? Or would you do what you could to tie up loose ends before welcoming the sleep to end all sleep?

At one point in my life, there was no question that I would welcome, not fight Dylan Thomas’ “good night.” But since then, I have celebrated a few more birthdays, married my (somewhat unlikely) soulmate, and been blessed with two amazing children. I’ve managed a handful of creative accomplishments that — noteworthy or not — I am proud of. All of these things are attachments of sorts, “loose ends” I can’t tie up, no matter how much time I might be given.

But still there are days I live for sleep.

I don’t know where I’m going with this.

A week ago, my maternal grandfather, Grandpap R. passed away. Prior to his death, he had been in the ICU about 10 days, including a few days of heavy sedation — meaning he was unconscious.

As I write this, “Details in the Fabric” is playing.

“Hold your own,
know your name,
and go your own way
everything will be fine…”

So I went up to PA this past Wednesday & Thursday for the funeral. As strange as it might sound, it was probably the “happiest” funeral I have ever been to. That’s not to say all eyes were dry. But it was full of laughter as well. It was a family reunion.

God, I hope it’s not our last.

It was wonderful, really. I think 14 of the 16 grandchildren made it in (in addition to all 7 of his children), many of whom I haven’t seen in years. It’s strange and amazing that we’re all part of the same family. Really, in many cases we’re more different than we are the same. But then you notice his jawline, her laugh, the way the three of them stand just like their mother who got it from Grandma. … And somehow we’re all family again.

I think this is the first time I’ve really cried yet about this. Not that I’ve been holding back or in or anything. But I’ve been holding up and keeping busy. Not as a defense, but as a side effect of life. Even up there at the funeral, I took our youngest (and only him) since he could fly free on my lap, so I was preoccupied with him, I guess. At the viewing, it was all foreign and strange to me. The body in the casket was a wax man with too much make-up. I had absolutely no emotional attachment to him. But to the right was their wedding picture. And I got choked up over that, but that was it.

Mom pointed out that difference (between his as opposed to my grandmother’s death 18 years ago) is the difference between a full, long life well lived and one cut too short.

As a point of public note, I request that no roses or chrysanthemums be included in any arrangements for my funeral when that comes. Wait, no. Stick with the no chrysanthemums (mums are ok, but those big ones, no), but let’s restrict the roses to the pretty, less fragrant mini roses: the smell of roses says funeral to me. I hate it. As soon as I opened the door to the funeral home the first time there, it hit me, like a blast of hot air from inside a car that’s been sitting in the July sun all day.

I prefer lilacs be sent in lieu of roses.

I prefer donations to the pro-life charity of your choice be sent in lieu of flowers in general.

No, I’m not quite dead yet. But we never know when this information could actually be relevant.

Ever just feel like screaming out of frustration? I mean, I feel like I’m grinding my gears and spinning my wheels. I feel like there’s so much I’m supposed to do with my life. I feel like there’s something big out there I’m supposed to be a part of. But I don’t know what or where it is. How does one work toward a goal she can’t define?

“Go your own way.”

…which would be …?

it takes some good to make it hurt

I swear, my head is about to explode. Or something. The past few days have been a constant emotional roller coaster.

Starting with Saturday, I actually got some work done in my (lame excuse for a) garden. Mostly I just weeded, but I also spread out some plants and generally just felt good about accomplishing that much. It’s hard to garden with two small “helpers” who would prefer a construction zone for toy trucks over a garden any day.

Also on Saturday and early Sunday, I got a lot of work done on laying out SMR #3. I’m feeling good about how that’s shaping up, but I’m still lacking in the cover department, so I’m starting to stress over my creative block in that arena.

Sunday night, I have learned that a close friend has cancer. Today I was told another close friend’s father has it too. I don’t know how threatening either one’s condition is, which leaves plenty of room to speculate and worry. I’ve felt like crying since, but haven’t.

On Monday, I was offered a notable job opportunity. It would mean big changes from finances to responsibilities to habits. But it’s not clear cut if it would be the best move for me, mostly since it’s still not quite what I want to be doing.

Also on Monday, I made some good progress on a pet web/poetry progress, which I’m sure to blog about in the near future.

Last night I went to a good business class & felt empowered.

Today I finished a big project at work which felt like I’d been working on forever, so that was a relief. Then before leaving I spoke with HR candidly about the job opportunity I’d received. Basically, that was left with me needing to decide what I want. They might match the pay. If I ask for it.

Today, thank God for easy, happy decisions to make: I got the email announcing Jason Mraz’ US
tour info — and he’s stopping within an hour of here! So I’m pre-ordering my ticket(s) tomorrow. Oh, happy day — April 17th!! I so need that! Of course, DH isn’t interested in going. I think if I’d press, he’d come. Or if the tickets were free. But he says he really has no interest. And I’d hate to push him to come, because then I’d feel responsible for him enjoying himself, and I wouldn’t really enjoy it. So, I’m going to try to find a “date,” but I might just “go stag”… it could be fun to be “single” for the night.

Life is crazy, huh?

(I am so freaking exhausted.)