I Support Planned Parenthood

I'm an angry woman. So today, I put my money where my mouth is. I donated money to Planned Parenthood of St. Louis and to Planned Parenthood Global as well. Before I donated, I did my research. I went to the Planned Parenthood websites and read about where my money will go. My only regret is that I waited so long. I wish politicians--loudmouthed and otherwise--would take the same time to learn. Through many programs, Planned Parenthood keeps women healthy and gives them control--especially in situations and countries where they are largely powerless and voiceless. And it does all this while being spit upon. Lost somewhere in the actions of Planned Parenthood, the squabble over contraceptives and basic sexual health care, and the acrimony of this time lies a "What Would Jesus Do?" moment. I can't place my finger on exactly where that moment would be--but it's not with those who have the power, but rather with the powerless.

Women Are A Private People

When niece Fancy-Free posted her 5 a.m. rant about access to contraceptives, it confirmed what I have been thinking. This winter is a cruelly mean season. Women are under attack for what we do and why we do it. There aren't a lot of women speaking out, in part because we are a private people. Our pain; our periods; our miscarriages; our pregnancies; our infertilites and our sex lives aren't topics we freely lay out to be poked, prodded, judged and cost-accessed by others. But in this lean time of decency, we're forced to do just that. Lost in the sound and fury is our right to live our lives as we see fit, privately. Fancy-Free touched hard on contraceptives as pain relief. I want to touch just as hard on contraceptives as birth control. The women and families who suffer without adequate free access to contraceptives are those that can't afford contraceptives. For hospitals and individuals to drape themselves in "conscience" to deny what's fair to others is a travesty. It takes a village to raise a child, it takes a village to support healthy families. We're all part of the same village. The best we can do as a village is make sure every child is planned, wanted and provided for.  And on our way to being our best, give women back their privacy.

A Few Words From Niece Fancy Free

Confessions of a dirty slut

by Fancy Free on Tuesday, March 6, 2012 at 5:12am ·

Recently, there's been a lot of debate about whether employers should be required to choose insurance policies that include birth control coverage for women. This discussion has degenerated into vicious partisan attacks, claims that birth control is for "recreational" use, and the idea that women only want birth control because they want to have promiscuous sex, thereby requiring employers to provide coverage for birth control is requiring everyone to subsidize those dirty, dirty sluts.

While I want to believe that my friends on Facebook are educated enough to realize that birth control is NOT just for sex, I've decided to come out with a personal example. To be honest, this confession is humiliating, but I value my privacy and dignity less than I value my fellow human beings' health. Here's the face of one of those "whores" who relies on insurance coverage for birth control.

After my first few years of puberty, I started taking birth control. Let's get this straight; that is NOT because I was bangin' every guy in town. If that's what your mind jumps to, my friend Chris Hansen would like a talk with you. No, the reason I began taking birth control, and the reason I still do, is because without it, I have horrible pain during my menstrual cycle. I'm not talking about cramping. I'm talking about shaking all over, puking, screaming, crying, out-of-my-gorram-mind with pain for at least a full day. So independent, so grown-up, but calling my mom and begging her to come rescue me so I could lie on her couch and sob and moan and scream, pleading with my mommy to please please make it stop help me mommy please. I've broken bones, I've been kicked and trampled by horses, I've had that infamously-painful appendicitis. But no pain I've ever experienced comes close to the pain I feel during that time of the month.

Before starting birth control to address this, I tried all kinds of pain medication - prescription and non - and every wives' tale technique in the book, Western and Eastern, to relieve the pain. Not because I thought that birth control was only for evil sluts; thankfully, my wonderful mom didn't raise me to believe such nonsense. I was just reluctant to alter my hormone levels every day of the month to protect me for one or two days. I wanted to try less-intensive methods first. Finally, I caved.

Now, my cramps, while still painful and taxing, are at a manageable level. Now, I don't have to miss school and work and interviews because I'm incapacitated with pain from a cause too embarrassing to explain to professors and employers. Now, I'm not missing out on a day or two of my life each month. Now, I get to live like a normal human being.

At the moment, I'm still on my family's insurance. And thankfully, my mom continues to choose a health insurance plan that covers birth control. But in just a few short years, I'll be on my own, just like millions of other American women. My best option for insurance coverage will likely be on my employer's group plan. And that group plan needs to cover birth control, not only for people like me, but for others with even more pressing needs - like agonizing and dangerous ovarian cysts, or acutely life-threatening endometriosis.

Recently, I had a glimpse of what it would look like the other way. We switched insurance plans to one that doesn't cover the brand of birth control I was on. The blood drained from my face as I stared at the numbers on the pharmacy computer. I left my purchases on the counter and paced up and down an empty aisle, pale-faced, stomach clenched, fearing what would happen to me in just a few short weeks if I couldn't afford my medicine. I called my mom, panicked and trembling, and she advised me to call my OB-GYN. Thankfully, I was able to switch to a different type of birth control that day, one that was covered by our new insurance.

But what would have happened if I needed a specific type and couldn't switch?

What if I didn't have insurance coverage for birth control at all?

You shouldn't have to be a woman, shouldn't have to go what I and others have gone through, to realize that birth control is not just for contraceptive purposes. We're not asking that insurance cover condoms, which as far as I know are ONLY for sex. We're asking that every woman in America have affordable access to hormonal treatment. For some, like me, it's important for quality of life. For others, it's essential for their health and safety. And yes, for others, it is indeed "only" for contraception. "Only" another line of defense between a faulty condom and an unplanned pregnancy. "Only" saving insurance companies thousands of dollars in prenatal care and deliveries. "Only" saving unwilling fathers from being trapped paying child support to a woman they didn't want a baby with. "Only" keeping people who can't afford a baby off of welfare. "Only" preventing abortions. "Only" giving women the right to control when they reproduce, allowing for a better-educated, more powerful workforce and higher standard of living for all Americans.

No person should have to choose between buying vegetables and gambling with infertility or death. No person should have to go through agonizing, easily-treatable pain because they turned over an unlucky card. No couple should be forced to rely solely on a thin piece of latex when they could have another line of defense. No woman should be denied affordable birth control.

In the 21st century, it just doesn't make sense.

Cherry Vodka

At the CVS store, at 11 a.m., I found myself stuck in line behind a woman. She was dressed in workout clothes, with blonde highlights overlaying her dark brown hair. I figured her for a West County mom running errands while the children were in school. As I waited, the credit card reader declined her card. That's when I noticed what she wanted to buy: A large bottle of Cherry Vodka. After a few more failed attempts to pay with credit, she dug enough cash out of her purse to buy a smaller bottle of Cherry Vodka. As I left the store, I saw her in the parking lot. I watched as she hopped on a bicycle, CVS bag in hand, and began pedaling in the right lane of busy Olive Blvd. Without a helmet, I noted. Would I have judged her so harshly if she had been a man? I don't know. Would I have even remembered her? Probably not.

Hardlife

The third week of July. Triple digit temperatues. No air-conditioning.  I'm a camp counselor/arts and crafts director. Hardlife was one of the oldest boys at the camp, which was surrounded by Illinois cornfields. He was too old, too restless and too young for where life was taking him.  And I don't know what happened to him. My sharpest image of Hardlife is of his arm. From elbow to wrist, "Tonya" was etched into his tanned skin. Rough, jagged, deep enough to hurt, and permanent. Even in this, I thought, Hardlife's luck is hard. Tonya is not a name to quit carving before it's complete. Hardlife's three siblings attended camp, too. His young sister Sunny belonged to my group. She loved to talk. She told us stories about her 17 cats that she loved, and a story about her dad, whom she didn't love. He ran away with someone he met on the internet. Sunny didn't tell us about her mom's illness. I found that out from Sunnymom when she picked up her children at the end of camp. Hollow-eyed and head-scarved, she thanked me. This week, on Valentine's Day, nephew Footloose texted me from New York City. He wants a tattoo, and as the keeper of the family history, he needed a date. 1883, I told him, that being as far back as one name goes. I envied Footloose wandering New York, looking for a foothold in the banking industry. But I thought what I always do when I hear of a tattoo. Don't carve, ink or etch anything you aren't willing to see through to the very last letter. Life is hard with Tonya. It's even harder with Tony, unless that is the name you meant it to be.

Happy Valentine's Day, Big Guy

I remember my first Valentine's Day with Big Guy. I baked a pecan pie for my sweetie. In the process, I learned why it's not advisable to crack eggs directly into the Karo syrup/sugar/butter mix. The second egg I cracked turned out to be rotten. Big Guy recieved the second pie of the day. Together we have celebrated a lot of Valentine's Days since that first pie. Many, but not all of them, have included a pecan pie. A few of them included black moments, followed by apologies for not-bought cards or gifts. In recent years, most of my card offerings have been lovingly recycled ones--with Big Guy's name scratched out as the "sender." And sometimes "Happy Birthday" scratched out also. Today, Big Guy sprang for the big bucks Valentine, by Big Guy standards: Fresh flowers and chocolates. And what will Big Guy receive?  Ta! Da! A fresh card, with no scratch-outs and the promise of a pecan pie to be baked with fresh eggs, at a future date. I, too, am feeling generous.  Happy Valentine's Day, Big Guy.

Not Gonna Crucify Kay, Today

I came within the width of a cat whisker of joining a movement to villify a local shop owner. Her name is Kay. She sells fancy gifts. A mother with a four-year-old came into Kay's shop. Her child uses a walker. Kay asked the woman and her child to leave, apparently because of the walker. The mother explained that her child moves fine with the walker and didn't want to leave. The shop owner pressed her point. The pair left, mad. Like a public relations nightmare, the story spread on Facebook: A cute four-year-old gets kicked out of store due to disability. When I read about it, I felt the rage of the wronged mother. Then I remembered the jar of applesauce. Four-year-old Birdie broke it at Dierbergs. I was with her, but not watching her. The proof lay in the spilt applesauce and jagged bits of glass. I reported the broken jar to the courtesy counter clerk, but I didn't pay for it. I told Big Guy that the grocery store was at fault. The jar shouldn't have been where Birdie could reach it. I was wrong. And so is the woman out to crucify Kay. No four-year-old belongs in a fancy shop full of breakable items. While a parent may think her child will never tumble into a fragile display, it happens.  And often someone else is left to clean up the mess. I applaud Kay for running a local business. I admire her for spotting the four-year-old and trying to encourage the mother to leave. Obviously, Kay needs a lesson in tact. But perhaps the mother needs a lesson in commonsense. Don't bring children into stores where they don't belong. In stores where four-year-olds belong, everyone should welcome them, no matter how they're packaged.  And usually, that is what happens. What shouldn't come from all of this mess is for a local business to go under. But it could happen. There are a lot of moms taking up this angry mother's cause. On that long ago day at Dierbergs, if a store employee had spoken to me about my wandering daughters, I might have taken offense or even moved my business to the rival Schnucks. But I also might have watched them as carefully as Dierbergs deserved.