Brewhaha

I’ve been running at warp speed these past few days at the AWP (Associated Writers and Writing Programs ((I think))) conference and bookfair that was here in Chicago. Now my body and head are playing catch-up. And a terrible job at that. I think I’m coming down with a cold/strep/mono.

At least, thank God, I’m not needing any contraception—because I might be out of luck there.

Yeah, I’m just now getting around to reading about the LATEST brewhaha. I write here LATEST because it’s all truthfully beginning to run together in my head. I can’t keep up.

Most of the time I try not to pay any attention to what “the other guys” are saying—as I’m not voting in this primary—on the federal level. Even that Susan G. Komen thing, which was irritating, I thought to myself—give it 2 days, then see where that decision lands them. Did anyone else see the word similarity between Komen and Women??

I like to say I’m a feminist, but in the back of my head I have to ask myself—what does that mean? Really—what does it mean? I care, of course, about women’s issues. I don’t want to see Roe VS Wade overturned because I think there needs to be a choice. I strongly believe in equal pay for equal jobs (notice I didn’t use the word “work”). I’ve never thought though that there was a War on Women.

Until recently.

Okay, maybe there have been scattered skirmishes, I’ll acknowledge that. But I’ve been way too busy raising my daughter to stand up for herself to get involved in some draconian law getting passed in South Dakota. Funny how things tend to work themselves around, leveling out to where they end up affecting all of us.

ALL OF US.

When I finally heard about what the Rush brewhaha was all about. I sat there like, SHUT UP! I couldn’t believe my ears. For real?

 Now I thought don’t any of these men have daughters they care about. Maybe not. But I know FOR SURE y’all had mamas.

So as I stood over the grill this morning making pancakes for 300 people’s breakfast, I thought about my mom and the kind of health care that was offered to her. One might say, that was another era, another time. Yeah, the one I was born into. Pre-choice, pre-pill. Mom had very few alternatives. Even the idea of women’s health was usually handled by a male gynecologist.

The story goes that when Mom found out she was pregnant again 4 weeks after having my sister, she quit her doctor.

Of course, I’m glad she had me. (YAY!) But she had almost no help or services offered. She was alone in a house with 4 kids and the last 2 were only 12 months apart. Equal work? Dad left each day to go to his job while Mom literally worked all day and most of every evening.

And here’s the thing: when she went to her doctor to tell him she was tired, depressed, feeling overwhelmed, he put her on tranquilizers.

That’s how it was done back then.

And it took most of my growing up years for her to get free of them. I cannot tell you the misery Mom went through because of the toxic mix of pills prescribed to her by her physician.

So Rush—put an aspirin between her legs? Really? Give the little lady an anti-depressant and she’ll quit her harping and feel better? Really?

All I can say is that you’ve stirred up the hornet’s nest and gotten yourself a brewhaha.