Its A Girl!

Sorry I haven't posted in a while.  Had semester finals and then a Doctor's appointment in which we found out that its a girl!  Clara Marie.  Yeah?  Oh yeah, I like that name.  

Anyhow, I promise to be back soon with my typical antics.  See you all soon!

Blood Stains, the Smell of Disinfectant and the RH Bill

Blood stains. I saw them everyday for months during a certain period in my life. Blood on the floor, on hospitals gowns and on previously pristine white sheets. The room could almost be a set of a horror movie if not for the dozens of crying babies and nursing mothers..

For weeks it was always the same routine. Everyday, I would march the hallway armed with my medical artillery. Thermometer, stethoscope, a sphygmomanometer and a piece of paper. The whole bond paper will be filled with vital sign statistics after my round was done. Temperature, blood pressure, heart rate and respiratory rate. One column for the mother, one column for the baby. Multiplied by a hundred.

I would always brace myself upon entering the ward because I know an hour of repetitive vital signs taking will pass before I get to leave and inhale fresh air again. Imagine this: 12 single sized hospital beds, 4 mothers per bed plus baby. Sometimes we get a 2-3 pairs of mother and child per hospital bed on a good day, but 6 pairs on a toxic shift. And yes, you did the math correctly. That's a dozen people sharing one mattress. They would sleep while sitting down. Sometimes, the brazen ones would sleep on the bare floor.

I have to give credit to the hospital for doing the best they can. A few times per day, someone would wipe the floor with a heavily scented disinfectant, gather soiled hospital gowns and change the blood stained bed sheets. But with mothers and babies pouring in like giving birth is the newest craze of the nation and there is a million pesos to be won if a baby came out of your womb, there was still a lot to be done.

The odor of lochia mixed with the sharp sterile smell of industrial antiseptic would always haunt me on my way home. It stuck to my uniform and even my hair. While riding a jeepney, thoughts of these mothers cramped all together in clumps while their babies cried in discomfort occupied my mind. Furthermore, snippets of their stories would replay in my head like some eerie documentary montage about the status of women in some God-forsaken country. But this was not some African jungle miles from where I live, this was home.

I remember once overhearing a conversation, while giving medication, between my patient and her mother. A newborn baby girl was sleeping at their side. The grandmother was scolding her child because she would not stand up for herself when her husband got angry at her for giving birth, for the 3rd time, to yet another girl. He told her that he still wanted to try to have a boy, despite his meager income. I tried butting in to say that the father always determine the sex of the baby and it was not and will never be the mother's fault for giving birth to a beautiful baby girl but they looked so heated I didn't dare trespass. 

Social Services were always in our part of the hospital. It turned out, there were too many mothers who cannot pay the hospital fees to be able to go home with their child, hence, they get left behind to stay in the ward until they have the adequate finances to settle the bills, therefore occupying precious space that was supposed to be for newly arrived patients. Many of these families have more than 3 children to raise and take care of. And I wonder, if they cannot settle a less than 5,000 php hospital fee, how much harder would it be to feed, clothe and educate their existing children?

Thirteen. The age of the youngest post-partum mother I've ever cared for. Giving birth at thirteen was not record breaking by any means, but it was still bewildering for me to think how much different her life would be  compared to other girls her age. I witnessed an instance one time where her baby was crying and she didn't even know how to pick up her own child from the bed. Her 'bedmates', veteran mothers with 3 or more children and counting were trying to teach her how to carry her baby but all she looked was lost and defeated.

I always enjoyed watching mothers fill-out the birth certificate forms in the lying-in area. The choice of a child's name must have been an important decision for the couple that most commonly include both parties' ideas. It will be the name the baby would be forever identified with. However, I was shocked by the percentage of women who would look at their husband's / unwed father's faces in a clueless haze asking him what he wanted to name the baby and even to the point of what spelling should the name be spelled in. It was the image of absolute reliance and incapability to decide that struck me the wrong way.

See, I grew up in an environment where women held all the cards and did all the decision making that has to be done. I couldn't understand how these women could just depend everything on their spouses without having an opinion of their own. More than once, the mothers would always pass the birth certificate form to the father despite our request that they fill it up themselves. I could sense their hesitation and awkwardness in handling something important and it pained me to witness how crippled their sense of self worth were. Empowered, these women were definitely not.

She was 16, pregnant on her second trimester and was having respiratory problems. During my night shift, I went into her room almost every hour because she was having a hard time breathing despite already being administered Oxygen via nasal cannula and positioned in high Fowler's (almost sitting). I took her Vital Signs more frequently and in the process, got to know her, and the father of the child who was watching her, a little better. She was a sweet girl, well-mannered, soft spoken, with lovely eyes. I thought that she shouldn't be undergoing this kind of life-threatening condition at her age, that maybe, a little more guidance and information could have made a long way, but I do commend her strength in such adversities.

Shift ended. I endorsed the situation and went on my way. It was the last day of my stay in the ward and I felt pretty accomplished. I learned a lot and got to meet interesting people along the way. I wished the best to all the patients I've met during my stay and said a little prayer for those who may be needing a tad more help than others. I slept soundly that night. The next day, I learned that Lovely Eyes and her baby died in the delivery room due to respiratory complications.

So call me whatever names you want, threaten me with eternity in the fiery depths of hell.

These are the reasons why I support the RH Bill.

Purple Ribbon Campaign for the RH Bill

Fresh from the irritating loss from the Pilipinas Got Talent-ish text poll in ABS-CBN's HARAPAN Reproductive Health Bill debate last May 8, pro-choice advocates show that they are not daunted by a survey which costs 2.50 pesos per text vote.

Celebrities, politicians lead Purple Ribbon campaign for RH Bill 

No less than former President Fidel V. Ramos and world-renowned singer Lea Salonga led on Wednesday the launching of the "Day of the Purple Ribbon for Reproductive Health," a gathering of public figures supporting the controversial measure.

Several politicians, celebrities, members of the academe and popular personalities pledged their support for the passage of the bill, choosing a purple ribbon as a symbol for their advocacy.

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In the same event, Ramos even urged President Benigno Aquino III to prioritize the proposed measure.

"Mr. President, with due respect, for you to do the right thing, you should now certify the RH bill as urgent," he said.

Meanwhile, Salonga said she can be "ambassadress of reproductive health."

"I want people [to be] armed with as much information as possible... to decide for themselves what is best for them as couples. That's what I'm hoping for," she said.

Salonga added that the proposed RH measure is vital for the welfare of women. — LBG/RSJ, GMA News 

Just yesterday, an online Purple Ribbon campaign for the RH Bill was launched by netizens to show their support for the (hopefully) future law that has been waiting in the congress for more than a decade now. The new Purple Ribbon logo made by TeamManila has been made available as Twibbons for citizens who may want to proudly voice out their support for women empowerment, education and better quality of life for the poor.

And yes, like the Reproductive Health Bill itself, you are presented with a CHOICE. How great is that? Please feel free to use them on Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr etc. and spread the word. 

The war is far from over. While Pro-RH debaters are armed with reason, reality and concern for Filipino women, the other side is loaded with century old scriptures, twisted logic and breast cancer. It is not an easy fight but it is a cause that we are willing to uphold despite the name-calling and the threats of eternity drowning in an ocean of flames.

~Uncle John's Cast Iron Stomach

It was a regular, average Wed ness day Wednesday evening.  I was downstairs munchin' on my ol' school mini pizza that earlier I'd popped in my now beloved toaster oven.  I was flip floppin' between watching tv and being on the computer, I could hear Uncle John upstairs playing.  He sounded like he was havin' fun.  Hoppin' here and there overhead.  I paid nooooo attention to him and remember thinkin' 'Awwww...Uncle John, still bein' spry, havin' fun.  Good on him" and goin' about my general BBG bidness.

A bit later, I wandered upstairs for whatthefuckever, and discovered that Uncle John had indeed been having fun.

...Yep. 

Havin' fun destroyin' shit:

(So long oven mitt.  How 'bout them purple nails?)

Ugh. 

For starters that was my 2nd favorite oven mitt.  Of the precisely two that I own.  (TMI:  the other being of the silicone variety.)  Then I considered the heavy duty silver stuff, that I can only imagine is not particularly good for d oh double g consumption.  Double ugh. 

I, of course watched Uncle John like a hawk.  I gave him a press on his belly area to see if he seemed tender, or troubled by it's contents.  Thankfully it seems Uncle John has the constitution of Hercules.  By virtue of some crazy ass strong canine digestion and evacuation system he seems to be feelin' fine. 

For the official record, I'd left the damn oven mitt on the counter.  Evidently, not far enough back that on his lil' schnauzer tippy toes he couldn't reach that mitt.  Something has to be super close to the edge for him to be able to appropriate it, so I could only be sooo angry with him, as I, apparently, share in the blame.  Great.  Now I'm losing to a dog. 

(Note to self:  Don't cook anything big.  You now have no way to hold sumthin' hot with two hands.)

Never.
A.
Dull.
Moment.

Modeling

Modeling, its something I do now and then.  I have a few shoots coming up soon and I was taking a look back at what I've done so far.   Its been fun.  One of my favorite photographers to work with has been Johnathan Heasley.  Below is some of his work from about a year ago.  If you'd like to see more (and more of me) check out his website at: http://johnathanheasley.darkfolio.com/

This one was one of my brave moments.

I'm shameless.

~Learn Something New Day

I love learning something new.  Doesn't really even matter what.  I'm just curious by nature, which I guess is slightly better than being naughty.  (My humble and utmost apologies for that sad ass OPP maker's reference.  That was uncalled for.)

(Random side note:  I just spent :30 of my life, that I'm never getting back, mind you, attempting to figure out why a semi colon [after the word 'for', above] kept happening when I thought I was touching the period key.  Backspace, delete, push period key, see semi colon, repeat x4.  Turns out I have an errant fleck o' dust on just that spot on my screen.  Welcome to my life.)

A few postings back I made mention of not knowing that it was a wheelbarrow.  All my life I thought it was a wheelbarrel.  (A Day In Review: Saturday/May 2011)

I think I've also mentioned that I was a grown ass girl before I knew what a foundry is.  Honestly in all of my Catholic school education I don't think that word was ever uttered.  I remember the night I discovered the existence of the mythical "foundry".  How can I recall so clearly?  ....(insert harp-y music here)...

I was out 'Schmidtin'" (aka: going to a joint called Schmidt's) enjoying an adult beverage and enjoying flirting with some guy who at some point told me he worked in a foundry.  Once he fielded the question, "whaaaat's a foundry?"  My follow up was "what do you make?"  His answer:  $21.00 an hour. 

...And how do you not remember a conversation like that? 

Foundry (fowndree)
noun
Definition:
1. workplace for casting metal or glass: a building equipped for the casting of metal or glass
2. making castings: the skill or practice of casting metal or glass




I've never been one to be ashamed of what I don't know.   Some would say that's because I don't have the good sense to be embarrassed.  I say better to be the real you and learn some shit vs. pretending you know something ya don't and not learning.    I guess, I'd rather be looked at as the girl who learned sumthin' than the girl who just went on being ignorant.  Maybe that's just me?


The total tonnage of things I don't know about stuff and junk is staggering.  But today the load got a little lighter.

The other day when I met up with LB2'd and the Godkiddies, I spied this sign:

Because I'm not ashamed, I don't mind tellin' ya, not only do I not know who the fuck Paul R. Gingher is, I also have noooooo fuckin' clue what a Natatorium is.  Do you?

Of course it sounded like a fanfuckintabulous place.  I said something like, "whaaaaaat's a Natafuckintorium*?  (Due to small ears, and my strongly honed ability to censor myself when necessary, I did manage to leave the fuckin' outta the Natatorium question.), and the next thing I knew our legs carried us to the magical and fanstatical NATATORIUM!!!  We opened the door and peeked in.  Eh.  It was ok.  I mean, it was just a room, albeit a room bedazzled with murals and interesting and random seating juxtapositions.  Honestly, somewhat of a disappointment.  No offense to Paul R. Gingher, who I'm sure is/was a tremendous individual.  I guess I just expected a bubble machine, unicorns and a tiara station, or sumthin' equally as appealing.  It did not live up to what it's moniker suggested.

I found myself Googling doing some research to discover what in the world this crazy, new to me word is about.  Turns out..."A natatorium is, strictly speaking, a structurally separate building containing a swimming pool. In Latin, a cella natatoria was a swimming pool in its own building, although it is sometimes also used to refer to any indoor pool even if not housed in a dedicated building (e.g., a pool in a school or a fitness club).[1] It will usually also house locker rooms, and perhaps allied activities, such as a diving tank or facilities for water polo. Many colleges, universities and high schools have natatoria."   

Thank you Wiki.  I cannot attest to the veracity of that info, it is Wiki.  ...There was only so much research I could do, ya know?  (Google.  First entry.  Sold.)  I can say I did not see a pool whilst peepin' in the great Paul R. Gingher.

Sooooooo.

If'n ya didn't already, now you know a new word Natatorium.  (Say it out loud.  It's more fun to say than to actually see.)

...Look at us.  Doin' some learnin' in 'da World.


Update:  I've, of course, been asking people if they knew what a natatorium is.   Much to my surprise, several people did.  Which made me feel slightly stoopid.  While chatting with AnonD I asked the same of her, she like me, was unfamiliar with the lovely sounding natatorium.  I read her the blurb about it and she got very excited as she discovered that she has a natatorium!!  And she really, really does.  She and R have a training pool, which is bigger than the usual training/resistance pool, that lives in it's own separate room in their house.  I've been in the AnonD natatorium!  Needless to say, it's been an exciting day for us both.  I'm proud to say I'm 1 degree from a natatorium. 

~May St. Michael Watch Over 'Em Harder

It's a gray ass, drizzle-y day at BBGHQ.  It feels like an incredibly appropriate setting for the beginning of Police Memorial Week.  I thought about writing something new about my feelings on the week and the folks who strap up, but find myself of the ilk that May St. Michael Watch Over 'Em (May, 2010)  (http://bigbrowngirlworld.blogspot.com/2010/05/may-st-michael-watch-over-em.html) still sums it up best.

The troubling update from the past 12 months is the tragic surge in "Police fatalities" of 37% over the prior year ('09).  The headlines make the reality seem so, I donno?  Distant?  Sterile?  Detached?  I donno, maybe I'm over sensitive about the subject?   But from my personal experience and vantage point, can ya be too sensitive about the 160 regular, and yet stellar Sam Browne wearin' professionals who were taken from their loved ones and friends in service to their communities during 2010?   How can the other 69 Officers have died in the line so far this year, and their families not occupy space my mind, thoughts and prayers? 

While all of the deaths "strike home", it's been a particularly painful year (2011) here in Buckeyeland where we have already sadly lost six LEOs, including Deputy Suzanne Waughtel Hopper, of my hometown. 

I vowed to remember her name.  I generally recall the names of local officers who've paid the invoice of helping keeping me safe with their lives.  I feel it's the least I can do, to remember their name and sacrifice.

Once again I find myself thinking of the families.  The mom's and dads, siblings, spouses, and where maybe where I still identify the most, the kids who are having this week without a parent. 

...And hoping that St. Michael, the patron saint of Po-po, is more diligent in his duties this year.