Linda Orsi Robinson

Sunday Morning ~ Common Ground 2023

Padutsa khasu sipanama. ~ Where the hoe has passed one can not lie.

~ Chewa proverb

September 24, 2023

Hi Everyone,

Because of the pandemic and travel, it’s been a few years since I’ve been back at the Common Ground Fair, a wonderful fall event. The Maine Organic Farmers Association produces an immense agricultural fair focused on organic and rural living. The innovation, the commitment to the environment and living close to the earth, the political action, it’s all so encouraging and hopeful. I’m thinking of a hoe and how it leaves its mark, how it cradles a seed, how it fosters change. This fair always inspires me to advocate and think creatively.

For the past twenty-five years the nurse-midwives in Maine have had a table here in the Health and Healing tent, sharing space with naturopaths, yoga instructors, reiki masters, reflexologists, nature spas, chiropractors, and other midwives. There have probably been a few others over the years I’ve missed but it is an interesting and loving environment. Struggling to educate people about what we do, we decided years ago this would be a great venue. Over twenty thousand people a day come to this fair, many interested in alternatives to corporate health care. We are able to talk one on one with people, direct them to care in their part of the state, answer questions, listen to their stories, help find advocacy, educate them about their rights, and encourage them to promote those rights. 

The fair is remarkable in many ways. There are talks given all day long over the three days, in a wide range of topics. Farming, gardening, forestry, livestock, cooking, herbs, environment, and whole living. Health falls under that last category and each year I put in a proposal to talk about some pertinent issue in women’s health. This year I spoke about what is happening in rural Maine with maternity care as yet ANOTHER hospital has closed its maternity ward. My time slot wasn’t ideal, but ten people came and they were energized. As I spoke, the fury about what is happening to women welled up and there was no one there shooting me down. The audience was all over it. Then I thought I’d summarize my presentation in my blog and see how far it spreads.

I acknowledge the privilege I’ve been afforded. I was able to pursue my career in nursing and midwifery at an early age, without discrimination. My passion for working toward justice for women has grown steadily, though now morphs from clinical practice into teaching and advocacy. I have worked with marginalized communities and have a fair amount of international experience that guides me toward a global perspective when discussing health care for women.

When we talk about problems within our health care system we don’t frame it in terms of human rights, but I think we should. The frustration about how long it takes to get an appointment, short and impersonal office visits, long commutes for care, limited choices of practitioners, all sounds more like inconvenience than what it really is: a glaring abuse of human rights. The media and public relations teams at hospitals minimize the effect of vanishing services for pregnant women, but I believe we need to reframe these problems and describe them using a human rights perspective. 

The World Health Organization defines universal rights for childbearing people including:

*Freedom from harm and ill treatment.

*Information, informed consent, and respect for choices including refusal of care.

*Confidentiality and privacy.

*Dignity and respect.

*Equality, and freedom from discrimination.

*Timely healthcare and the highest attainable level of health care.

*Liberty, self determination, and freedom from coercion.

In order to advocate for these rights we first must know they exist. Then we need a voice to speak out in support of them, and then we need the energy to persevere in maintaining them. It’s a lot to ask of women who live in poverty and are struggling to survive day to day.

When I moved to Bar Harbor in 1992 there was a movement, initiated by local women, to create a health center that specifically addressed the needs of women. At that time, maternity care was controlled by a doctor who did not provide the respectful care women sought. Alternatives were home birth or traveling to a nurse-midwife an hour away. The board at the Mount Desert Island hospital was sensitive to the problem of families leaving their community for their birth. It was, and still is, an economic factor for communities. Where people have their births influences where they obtain health care for the entire family, so not only is it morally and ethically responsible to provide this service, it behooves a community economically.

Founders of the Women’s Health Center envisioned a setting where women could feel safe, heard, and have their needs specifically addressed. The endeavor was not without controversy. There was pushback from the existing establishment but it is a story of what is possible. The practicing OB/Gyn there at the time was not supportive. He ultimately quit in protest, leaving the hospital without this specialty. There was a lot of discussion about how we would continue providing maternity services without him, the major factor being the ability to perform cesarean sections if needed. Our general surgeons stepped up and committed to being on-call and willing to do this and for the past thirty years that community has provided a place where people could have a respectful, safe, birthing experience. We worked with home birth midwives to create a safe transfer system for those choosing home birth. Midwives and doulas could remain with their patients if they had to have a hospital birth. Outcomes have been excellent. But instead of becoming the norm, the MDI hospital has become the outlier. 

Access to maternity care in rural settings is becoming more and more difficult. In Maine, hospitals in eleven communities: Calais, Millinocket, Lincoln, Greenville, Pittsfield, Blue Hill, Bridgeton, Sanford, Rumford, Fort Kent, and now York have eliminated maternity services. 

Maternity services in rural areas close because they are not financially lucrative. Think about what this means. An essential service, one that will be needed as long as the human race exists, is eliminated. They argue that specialists are too expensive. Well, I argue specialists are not needed in those settings. As we’ve demonstrated in our community, midwives and general surgeons can provide the service safely and with excellent outcomes. Why isn’t this held up as a model? When these services disappear women must travel hours to get both prenatal and birthing care. On bad roads and in unreliable cars, they miss work, leave families, and often abandon getting care altogether. Is it any wonder that our maternal mortality rates are rising?

Volumes of data demonstrate better outcomes when women are cared for in their own community. For all it’s touting of evidence based practice, our system feels free to ignore this evidence. Obstetricians are not needed in rural hospitals that can’t afford them. Midwives are. A general surgeon can perform a c-section if needed, a surgery well within their capability, but most refuse to do it. So why do doctors have the right to refuse necessary care? The argument we hear is “they don’t do enough of them to keep their skills up” but I reject that argument as invalid, and discriminatory. I’d be embarrassed to say that if I were a surgeon. Small hospitals have requirements for skills training for other procedures they do few of, but again, for this one affecting only women, they are allowed to refuse.

All of this is birthing injustice. All of this adds to the rising maternal mortality rate in our country, the highest of any industrialized country in the world. Most maternal deaths are preventable with access to qualified respectful caregivers WITHIN THEIR COMMUNITIES.

Addressing maternal mortality also means preventing unwanted and unintended pregnancies: this means access for all people of childbearing age to contraceptive services, safe abortion services, and safe post abortion care. 

So, what can we do?

1. We can understand our rights and identify barriers to them.

2. We can speak up locally when our communities are faced with decisions about services. Letters to the Editor can be powerful. Storytelling is powerful. Tell your story!

3. We can educate our legislators and vote for those who will uphold our rights to health care.

4. We must educate more midwives and support diversity of those seeking midwifery education. Many labor and delivery nurses could become midwives if more educational programs were available.

5. We can honor and acknowledge those working within their communities  supporting women in childbirth. 

6. We can facilitate licensing for midwives trained in other countries to care for their immigrant communities.

7. We can support legislation addressing the unacceptable maternal mortality rates in the U.S.

There is a bill before congress called the Midwives for Maximizing Optimal Maternity Services Act  (MOMS bill). This bipartisan legislation will increase access to high quality, evidence-based midwifery providers with federal grant funding for midwifery education programs.  The goal is diversifying our nation’s midwifery workforce. There is A LOT of support for this legislation, but unsurprisingly, Congress hasn’t acted on it yet.

I urge everyone to contact their House and Senate members and urge support for this bill. I can provide talking points on this so contact me if you want them!

I want to reiterate that the crisis in rural America with lack of maternity services is blatant discrimination and a human rights abuse sanctioned by hospital boards and administrators. We need to start calling it such.

When compromised care becomes the norm, expectations are lowered. Vulnerable populations suffer disproportionally. It doesn’t have to be this way. There is a problem and we can problem solve. Don’t believe anyone who says it’s not possible. If we sued hospitals and doctors for discrimination things might change. For some reason this is what motivates them. Just a thought. 

Whew! 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Parcel of Life

Fukusi la moyo sakusungira ndi mnzako. ~ The parcel of life is not kept for you by your friend.

~ Chewa proverb

September 10, 2023

Hi Everyone,

In June I was traveling in Bali and saw a large fire in an open area near a road. It was a hot afternoon and people were sitting around and eating, men in one group, women in another. “Cremation”, my driver said. “What? Did you say cremation? Like a burial? Burning a body?” I asked, rather incredulous. “Yes, a body. A dead one.” he said. And under my breath I said, “I hope so”, not sure if that remark would be offensive. I knew almost nothing of Hinduism. I knew they did cremation like many cultures, but did not know it was so public. This was not something I expected. I saw several cremations during my month there; the family carries the body in a portable (and flammable) temple, and they set it on fire in a park and then serve food and visit while it burns. It’s impressive as I can’t imagine eating during that. I am intrigued by rituals surrounding death and believe they are an important part of life and it’s cycles. 

My cousin, Tom, died August 15th. It was not unexpected; he had been sick for awhile. But it’s still a shock when the end comes. Our fathers were brothers, his older than mine by seventeen years, so Tom was a teenager when I was a baby. My parents chose him for my godfather. As a small child I thought he was very cool: skinny, smiling and teasing, his Brylcreemed hair with a little wave on top. He later became a Navy pilot and when he’d visit in uniform, handsome and well spoken, my parents would get all a flutter when he arrived. It was like a royal visit. As I write this I can see how the happiness his visits brought my family added to my love for him. He drove a convertible; a big red convertible with a white hood. In my adolescent years he’d take us younger cousins for a ride with the top down. We thought he was the coolest person on earth. So free. So competent. So sure of himself without being cocky. I’d always hoped I would find someone just like him to marry. My father and Tom seemed to have a special relationship. They skied together and sat up late in our living room talking when he’d come to visit. Tom seemed to walk the adult/child border with a special skill. He was one of us, the cousins, but he fit in with the adults, meaning my father respected him and treated him as an equal. That was unique. Much later in life Tom and I shared father stories, another peg that bound us, and I gained a deeper sense of connection.

I was in middle school when Tom called to say he was bringing his fiancé to our house. The anticipation was thrilling. My mother scurried around the kitchen all day cooking. She barked at us to get the bathroom clean and vacuum the living room. We sprayed Pledge on the coffee table and polished the silver. It was a big deal that Tom was coming with, what was her name? A fiancé! He’d never even brought a girlfriend before, never mind a fiancé! It was all so exciting. We loved that we were important enough to have an official visit before the wedding. 

When they arrived, we all crowded into the kitchen to meet the guest of honor. My mother was happy and effusive welcoming this soon-to-be family member, and oh! this beauty did not disappoint. She had gone to Vassar my mother gushed to neighbors, as if we were now Ivy League just by having her marry into our family. My father got home early from work, mixing manhattans, a sign this was a really important event. Kathy was beautiful, blond, smiling, poised, and perfect. Of course, this is the woman Tom would marry! She was all at once comfortable in our humble home, a blend of big sister and movie star. She told of how she and Tom met with such ease I sat and wondered at her lack of fear for my father. During dinner my father razzed Tom with, “So you are some romantic guy getting married on Valentine’s Day, huh?” as if a warning not to let any woman get an upper hand. Kathy laughed; Tom laughed, then gaily told the story of how the date was chosen. I sat in my awkward twelve year-old body enthralled. Could this ever happen to me, I wondered? 

That meeting was fifty-four years ago. Quite a bit of life happened between then and now. I grew up to be more of a peer than the little silly cousin. We shared parenting stories, aging parent stories, childhood abuse stories. Visits weren’t frequent, but correspondence was. A few months before my book came out I was joking with him, saying “I don’t expect a pulitzer prize, but I’m proud of it.” His response was, “Why not?! I think it deserves a Pulitzer prize!” He’d asked me hopefully if I’d put my maiden name on it. His support meant a lot to me.

When our fathers’ sister died in February 2020 (at 107 years old), she gave us a gift of a family reunion just a week before everything shut down. Tom had been struggling with a chronic disease for several years by then but was still vibrant. He looked more like our grandfather than the skinny teenager, but when he spoke, his voice and words were Tom. I heard from him less and less after that, then not at all. A devoted reader of these blogs, his comments stopped. For a year I’ve been thinking I need to get to Rhode Island for a visit and planned to go after dropping the grandkids back home before Labor Day. When Kathy wrote and said he had taken a turn for the worse and was no longer talking, eating, or going for treatments, I knew that visit was going to be too late.  

His funeral was another reunion. I remember my mother saying laughingly, “Weddings and funerals! That’s when we see each other! Imagine!” And…here we are. We are the old folks now, and as I looked at his four beautiful sons and their beautiful children I could see Tom will live on. I was comforted by the familiar Catholic ritual and grateful for it. Rituals bring order out of chaos and we need them, whatever they are. I’m sorry for those who lost loved ones during the pandemic and did not have the chance for a familiar cultural ritual. We left the mass at the church where he practiced his faith and proceeded to the cemetery for a military burial with the flag, gun salute, and taps. As the trumpet played it’s final note, a plane flew low over us and I wasn’t the only sobbing person who looked up quickly and looked around murmuring, “Did they plan that?” 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Cycles of Life

Bango likauma, libwera linzace. ~ When one reed becomes dry, another one shoots out.

~ Chewa proverb

August 9, 2023

Hi Everyone,

My cat died Saturday. I knew it was coming but I’m still sad. She was old and getting thinner, though, she maintained her appetite and vomited less and less frequently. Vomiting was her calling card from the day I’d gotten her eleven years ago. She was a feral cat, trapped after many years of reproducing at a local yacht club. I heard they were looking for a home for her and having been plagued by chipmunks and mice, I thought a feral cat would be perfect. I needed a huntress. Or at least a deterrent. She came named Bracy in honor of the cove whose shores she inhabited for several years. I kept her in the cage for a week feeding and talking to her. She took to those activities well, but when I tried to pet her, she’d have none of it. She’d made a living out of being elusive and clearly was setting her terms. She’d been neutered and vaccinated when she was caught, and her right ear was clipped to mark her as such if she refused to be domesticated and escaped back into the wild. After a week, though, when I left the cage door open to see what she would do, she stayed close by. She acclimated to domestic life rather well. In fact, she loved it. Room service was a delight to her after years of fending for herself and family. She vomited daily but it just became part of her routine. She required no instructions on the litter box. I found it amazing how she knew what to do. She rarely went outside, and then only if I did. Gradually she allowed me to pet her head, but did not like to be touched anywhere else. She did not allow anyone to pick her up. She never once bothered with a mouse or chipmunk. They’d walk right by her and she’d barely look up, showing neither contempt nor interest. 

After we’d lived together for about a year I noticed she would come into whatever room I was in, find a spot to lie down and unobtrusively offer her companionship. A few years later she decided one of the chairs was her personal bed and claimed it for her own. A couple of years after that she changed chairs, never going back to her original. Two years ago I noticed she abandoned that one, too, and only slept on the floor. She stopped coming into my bedroom in the morning, refusing to climb the stairs. Instead, she’d give her single “meow” at the bottom of the stairs to tell me she was ready for breakfast. A year ago, she stopped doing that. 

I knew she was old and wouldn’t be with me forever. I worried about what I’d do if she was still alive when I left for Malawi in December. But the sweet old girl spared me the tough choices. Early Friday morning she wanted to go outside, which I thought was odd, as it was raining. She never went out in the rain. I opened the door and watched as she walked out to the pond and lay down at the edge. It looked as if she were watching the frogs. I thought to myself she was dying. I checked her bowl and she hadn’t eaten any of her food from the day before. A few hours later I saw her sitting under a chair on the patio, out of the rain, but still odd she wanted to be outside. She never went outside without me. In the late afternoon I was going to a lecture and looked to see if she wanted to come in but couldn’t find her. I wondered if she’d gone off into the woods to die. It was useless to call her; she’d lost her hearing a while ago. I trusted she knew what she was doing. 

When I got home later that evening she was back on the patio but lying out in the rain. She barely lifted her head when I approached her. I wrapped her in a towel and picked her up. She didn’t fight me. It was the first time in eleven years I’d held her. I brought her in and sat with her in my arms, stroking her head, talking to her, thanking her for the companionship, wishing her well on her journey. She felt so comfortable, breathing shallowly, peaceful. After a while I laid her in her usual spot, and said goodnight. In the morning she lifted her head when I spoke to her, but laid it down again, and a few hours later she was gone. 

I’m grateful to her. I’m grateful she came back to me to die and didn’t leave me wondering what had happened. Sweet thing. During the pandemic it was just her and me. That meant a lot. She asked so little of me. She seemed grateful to have a place to be comfortable in her last years. She decided to go peacefully and naturally, something I wish for everyone. 

Knowing how finite life is, what a gift to live it with kindness and without sacrificing one’s own terms.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Digging

Galu wamkota sakandira pa cabe. ~ An old dog does not dig where there is nothing to be found.

~ Chewa proverb

July 30, 2023

Hi Everyone,

It has been several weeks since I’ve written anything. In my travels over the past nine weeks I kept a hand written journal and tried to make an entry every day, but didn’t. I decided not to bring my laptop with me to Indonesia and found I just couldn’t write a blog on my phone, wondering the whole while how I’d done that in the past. I felt a bit detached from myself and wondered what kind of transformation was happening. Writing every Sunday had become such a part of my life, and I finally had stories to tell. What was my problem? I felt small and insignificant. Every sentence I formed in my head seemed dumb. I decided to let it go and come back to it when it felt right, wondering if what I’d considered a discipline had turned into an obsession. After all, this is not my job. It’s my hobby. I wandered around Bali wondering what I’d do with my journals if I ever got a terminal diagnosis. Burn them? People do that. 

I’m back in Maine, sitting on my porch swing, sipping my tea and feeling more grounded. The fog has lifted from this island and now hopefully the same will go for my brain. I’m feeling all kinds of ages now. I feel old when I think back to traveling without GPS, carrying travelers checks, and showing up in a strange place without a reservation. My youthful escapades in foreign lands seem like some character in a novel. How did she survive? Travel seems so easy now it hardly takes any adventurous spirit at all. No one has to wait for a bank to open, or look for a vacancy sign. This is all at our fingertips twenty four hours a day. It makes for less stress but fewer stories. I’m not sure where growth of character fits into all this. Cultures and languages blur; our phones can do it all for us. 

My journey started with a train ride to a wedding. Did I even write about that? My godson, little Danny, is now a grown man with a bride. I was one of the old people at the event. Not the oldest, but pretty close. This was frightening. I had childhood flashbacks of stuffed souls sitting together, laughing as they reminisced about events transpiring long before, looking gay and content but, oh, so strange. They were like creatures in a zoo to my young eyes. They danced beautifully, as if they’d been fused together from birth, floating, floating in shoes designed to stabilize. I marveled at their grace. But they were a different species and I did not imagine it possible I’d be cross-bred into one of them. But here we are. I wonder what the children at this wedding thought of us…the elders. We didn’t float to romantic tunes, but tried (and failed) to keep up on the dance floor. I gave up when I did not recognize three songs in a row. 

I felt sort of young again when I hit the road for the next month. The similarities between being young and free and old and free were reassuring. It was nice to be able to take extra days to travel by train. It was nicer yet to not have to rush back to work. I could be flexible like in my younger days, but this time with wisdom and more money. It was great.

I was heading for Bali for an international midwifery conference, held every three years. It was canceled in 2020 for obvious reasons and, always wanting to attend one of these, I’d decided to make it in 2023. I’d never been to Indonesia and it seemed a good reason to go. Since it was a long way for a four day conference, I decided to stay a month and visit a few friends along the way, so after my stay with friends in Santa Fe, I continued west to Phoenix.

Amtrak does not have a route from Santa Fe to Phoenix (an omission I hope will be rectified) so I took an overnight bus from Albuquerque. I desperately hope there are plans for more train routes. The bus got me there, but in much less comfort. The seats were small and full of passengers in various states of mental wellness. The frequent stops made sleeping difficult and I was nervous about my bags being underneath with little security. My bags and I made it safely and I was surprised at how good I felt when arriving. It must have been the excitement.  I was so happy to reconnect with my BFF from Samoa days I barely felt the lack of sleep and was reassured I wasn’t totally over the hill by this ability to rally. After three great days of girlfriend time, my friend drove me to Flagstaff where I caught the night train to Los Angeles. I loved standing on that platform with other travelers, watching the train approach, boarding, settling in, and being rocked to sleep with the rhythmic rattling. Ten hours later I was at the end of the line and debarked at Union Station, a beautiful architectural specimen, where Peace Corps friends were waiting to greet me. 

What took me so long to visit Los Angeles? I’d passed through the airport once. I’d spent one night there thirty-five years ago on my way up the coast, but I’d never stopped to visit the city. I am humbled at how wrong my image of the city turned out to be. I had always thought L.A. was one big traffic jam. Instead, it was one of the most pleasurable city visits I’ve ever had. Now, I know that having friends leading me by the hand, doing all the driving, selecting spectacular sights and venues had something to do with it. We went to little local restaurants where the food was amazing. The landscape was gorgeous, the air clear, the sidewalks a delight. I hadn’t even known they had sidewalks! I am still marveling about it. It was one of the best lessons of traveling: finding out how wrong I was about what it would be like. Three days, a botanical garden and tour of Warner Brothers Studios later, I was headed west again.

I flew from L.A. to Bali via Taiwan with a twelve hour layover in Taipei. This was another delight I hadn’t expected. We arrived at 9 p.m., losing a day in the crossing. I’d slept pretty well on the fourteen hour flight from California and didn’t feel the need to get a hotel for only a few hours so just hung out at the airport. I did not expect such a comfortable experience. In all the many airports I’ve spent time in, this was by far the most interesting and comfortable. Each gate was set up like a museum exhibit. It was fascinating! There were the Tribes of Taiwan exhibit, Birds of Taiwan exhibit, National Parks of Taiwan exhibit, Art exhibits, Spiritual exhibits, it was just amazing! I got a little cart and pushed my bag around for hours reading and learning about a country I knew very little about. It’s such a great model. Around 3 a.m. I curled up on a comfy bench in Gate 3 among the Birds of Taiwan and rested against a big stuffed egg and slept for a few hours. I woke when the airport came to life at six, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and checked out places to eat. I bought a meal for six dollars that consisted of soup, bean curd with fish sauce, cabbage salad, and tea. It was all delicious. All the walking had reduced the swelling in my feet and I was ready for the next leg of the trip. Five more hours to Bali, which, before this trip, I could not find on a map.

I’ll leave Bali stories for next week… something to dig for.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Remembering

Kudya n’kudyabe, kumbuka uko unacoka. ~ You are eating, keep eating but remember where you came from.

~ Chewa proverb

May 28, 2023

Hi Everyone,

When my daughter was in elementary school, one of her assignments was to interview a relative who’d lived during World War II. When my husband’s aunt was visiting for a holiday my daughter took the opportunity to get her homework done. We were all sitting around a fire in the living room while Rachael got herself set up with notebook and pencil looking like an adorable junior reporter. She had prepared a set of questions, the first being “What did you think of the war when you were growing up?” Her great aunt replied without hesitation, “I thought it was marvelous!” The entire family stopped what they were doing and gasped! I was expecting a somber answer of praying for loved ones to return safely, or enduring the privations war imposes, but she laughed and repeated, “I did! I thought it was wonderful!” Hoping for some context and not wanting my ten year old to write in her report that war was wonderful, I said, “Gee, Audrey, would you like to say more about that? It’s not the answer I was expecting.” Her response surprised me. She said, “You have to remember, I was a young girl growing up in Boston. What I knew of the war was that we were winning! Our soldiers were the heroes, and the atmosphere was one of victory. It all seemed like a triumph. I knew nothing of what war was really like.” The men in her family all came back alive and victorious. She was being honest about her girlhood memories not cluttering family dysfunction with war-inflicted trauma. She said it was much later in life she learned the realities of that war.

My oldest brother survived active combat in Vietnam. Understanding nothing of what made him so, he was our family hero. Was it just that he came home alive? To this day my happiest family memory is picking him up at Logan airport, uniformed, physically intact, smiling, and alive. My parents were so happy. I had no understanding of their worry, fear, and relief. None. I was just happy that everyone was happy. At age twelve, the nightly news reports had been wallpaper to me. I don’t know if it was denial or oblivion, but there was never any question in my mind he’d come back alive. It was years later I learned what horror that war was. 

I’m in Santa Fe having had a beautiful train ride from Albany, appreciating how vast, varied, and spectacular our country is. I sat in the observation car imagining the landscape through the ages. I thought of the varied peoples inhabiting the land, the wars over control and resources, the pain and trauma inflicted, and how none of this was visible as we passed by. All I could see was the magnificence. If I knew nothing of our history, I’d look out the windows at the bison and elk in the foreground, the mountains behind, the wildflowers in bloom, and think everything had been done right. 

My godson’s wedding was this weekend and my grandchildren were flower girl and ring bearer. They were the only kids there, and after adorably playing their part in the ceremony, they went with a babysitter back to the hotel to enjoy their time eating fun food and swimming in the rooftop pool. When I asked Amelia how she liked the babysitter, she said, “She was good. She is a college student and has her license, which is good in case a dangerous person came into the hotel and we needed to leave quickly. Which, probably wouldn’t happen, but in case it did, I felt better knowing she could drive us away if we needed to leave quickly. Sometimes in an emergency there wouldn’t be enough time to call my parents.” Oh my God, what child should have to think like this? She is nine years old and spoke so maturely. Clearly this had been discussed in school and I could imagine the challenge teachers have in preparing kids for a shooting without terrifying them. My sweet grandchild felt the need to prepare for escape and protection at a luxury hotel in downtown Santa Fe. She is carrying more fear in her young life than any child should. I shudder to think of what survivors of shootings and wars are going through. I wonder what memories she’ll share when her grandchildren ask her how it was to live through a time when shooters came into schools and randomly murdered people. What was it like to live in a country where those who had the power, chose money over your life? Will the victims be considered war dead on Memorial Day seventy years from now? 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Mothering

Ncembere ya mapasa izigona cogadama. ~ A mother with twins should sleep on her back.

~Chewa proverb

May 21, 2023

Hi Everyone,

Mothers Day was a week too early for me forty-three years ago. I was alone in the capitol city of Lilongwe, uncomfortable, bored, lonely, and eager to go into labor. My husband arrived a few days later and after a thirty hour slog of fearful contractions, my son was born, lusty and huge by Malawian standards. Today is his birthday. I spent yesterday with him as he balanced on the roof  fixing some in the greenhouse, a capable, skilled, smart, and sober man. I went up and down the ladder handing him tools wondering how differently the course of his life would have been if our family had been smaller. He grew up fast with four younger siblings. I’m so grateful for him in my life now, having had an estrangement for several years. After all the worrying I did for him during that time it’s endearing to hear him voice worry about me traveling on my own. How sweet. I’d long ago stopped imagining this.

I love being a mother. I wanted to be a mother as far back as I can remember. I find this interesting because my mother didn’t seem particularly happy to me growing up, so it wasn’t from watching her. She was always harried, worried about my father’s reaction to everything, constantly cooking and cleaning, impatient with us, and generally making the role seem tragic. Though she never said so, I knew she loved me and I always longed for my own baby. I treated my dolls as if they were real. I’d scream if someone held them inappropriately. I changed their dry diapers on a regular basis, comforted their silent cries, and loved the feeling of their stuffed cuddles. They loved me back so very reliably. Having my own real live baby in my arms was the most natural and complete feeling for me and despite all the sleepless nights and constant demands, I found mothering babies easy. It wasn’t until they were older I’d spend my nights wondering what I’d done wrong. 

Having a forty-three year old child is surreal. Already facing the fact that I’m aging out of certain fashions and activities, a middle aged child really brings it home. Up until recently I referred to myself as middle aged. Now I realize I’m well past the halfway mark, and am grappling with that more than I imagined. As I plan for my upcoming trip which includes a wedding in Santa Fe and travel in Indonesia, I find all my clothes obsolete. First, they don’t fit me anymore and second, they are too youngish. Between the pandemic, my aging waistline, and the fact that certain styles are no longer becoming on a sixty-something, I’m having a major reckoning. This is hard! I had a basic wardrobe which suited me and would pull out the appropriate outfit for the occasion and put it on. Simple. Summer wedding, winter wedding, all just hanging on a different hanger. Since the pandemic, everything seems to have shrunk. I look at skirts and think, “Did I actually wear that?” It’s harsh. Obtaining a new wardrobe was not in my plans, but here I am. Accepting this is a process. I’ll get there, but need a minute… I digress from my motherhood thoughts.

I was reading about the history of Mother’s Day and how it evolved through the ages–– from honoring Greek goddesses to anti-war statements to flowers and brunch for one day––it seems some of the context is missing. Not that taking a day to honor our mothers isn’t lovely, but it feels like what Christmas has become––a bit showy and hollow. I’ve been cleaning out cabinets getting ready for another year away and found some old Mother’s Day Cards. They were store bought by my ex, of questionable humor, and filled with large “signatures” of the kids scrawled with backwards letters. I may have saved them for those writing samples. I sure hope it wasn’t for the quality of the card. 

I’m heading, via the Santa Fe wedding, to the International Confederation of Midwives in Bali. This is a congress held every three years where midwives from all over the world gather to learn and share. I can’t wait to be there. I’ve never been to one and was planning to attend in 2020 when the pandemic intervened. I dreamt of presenting our midwifery ward project in Malawi at the conference but that came to a halt along with the rest of the world. I was pleased to learn that it is in Bali this year, a part of the world I’ve not visited and I’m excited to have a reason to go. The midwives in Malawi (I’m hoping I’ll see some of them there) told me that once you go to this conference it will ruin all other conferences for you forever. It’s that good. I’m excited! I love being surrounded by midwives and the loving support of motherhood. I long to be where the profession is mainstream and everyone knows what a midwife is and what they do. We have a long way to go in America. But, like the mother with twins, we adapt.

It’s been a full month of home improvement and seasonal upkeep getting ready to leave. The summer residents move into my house today, the garden is planted, screens are in, and maybe soon it’ll be warm enough to open the windows. Last night’s deluge was a good test of the roof repair and I think I’m ready to go.  

Tomorrow I’ll visit family in Albany for a few hours before boarding a train to Santa Fe. Next weekend will be the wedding of my godson, then on to Phoenix to visit friends from Samoa, then LA, then Bali. I’m looking forward to having travel to write about. There’s a lot of delayed celebration ahead and I’m not getting any younger.

Cheers to all those who mother and care for others. You are needed and loved.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ New Adventures

Galu wamkota sakandira pa cabe.~ An old dog does not dig where there is nothing to be found.

~Chewa proverb

April 30, 2023

Hi Everyone,

I recently learned I got the Fulbright I applied for and will be going back to Malawi for a year. I’ll start teaching there again in January; I am happy, relieved, and very excited! It was months of nail biting waiting to hear, and I’d convinced myself (for self-preservation) that I’d be rejected. I made a list of other things to do for a satisfying final act to my career. When the email came saying there was a message for me on the portal I was shaking so badly I could barely type in my password. A bit of a thrill-seeker, there’s an edge that feels both terrible and wonderful. It could go either way. I’ve had both extremes of exhilaration and crushing disappointment and was preparing for either…sort of. I kept telling myself it would be okay if I didn’t get it, but that was a lie. It would not have been okay and I knew it. When I saw the word “Congratulations” I jumped up from the chair yelling “I got it!, I got it!!” and had a hard time sitting to read the actual message. I really wanted this. I’m so happy.  

I’ve been in a bizarre professional limbo the past few years as the pandemic shifted so many aspects of life. With gratitude for all the opportunities I’ve had, I’ve been struggling to mold it into a neat package for a graceful transition to retirement. I didn’t feel done. The midwifery ward project I’ll be part of is something I believe in with all my soul. I’ve been desperate to get back there to work on it and felt like this was my last chance. The model is something we need here and if there is any way the seed can be sown, if we can somehow replicate what is started in Malawi, a million good things can come of it.

I listened this morning to a woman tell her story of having to approach death in order to receive the care she needed. This insanity, along with stories of daily mass shootings, makes me crumble inside. Watching what is happening to women in our country I feel an odd combination of outrage and exhilaration. This will turn the tide. It will take work, but the tide will turn with this flagrant abuse of human rights. I thought it couldn’t get worse ten years ago and we’re in territory I had never even considered before. I’m sorry for those sacrificed in the process, the needless deaths of innocent people. I ask myself what my role I should play to make a difference.  

We had legislation swiftly moving through congress in 2021 that would improve access to care for women and allocate money for midwifery education. But now with republicans in control of the house, the bill sits there. I get that legislation is messy and takes time, but my God. The next election must sweep the republicans out completely. Let this be their downfall. We need to repeat this as often as we can on whatever platform we have. Republicans are killing women.

Last month I was part of a birthing justice webinar with two other women, one of whom had a terrible experience in our system, her race being a major factor. Black women have triple the risk of dying in childbirth in our country and her story was a powerful example of how education, empowerment, and midwifery care can make a difference. She advocated for herself, sought out doula and midwifery care, and ended up emotionally traumatized but physically healthy and ready to become part of the solution. The three of us presented again last week to Mano en Mano, an organization advocating for farmworkers and immigrants in Maine, and again, she told her story. She is an educated woman, a strong advocate for others, and has access to resources. Yet, doctors tried to coerce her into agreeing to a procedure she did not need and used her race as rationale. As I listened to her tell her story a particular line took my breath away. She described her feelings of confusion and vulnerability and asked herself, “What was it about my non-white body that was going to fail me?” Yes, I thought, this universal human right, freedom from coercion, is violated regularly all over our country and women are dying from it. The standard “informed consent” is false and misleading. It doesn’t describe the harm our system has done to women. It does not describe the compromised care marginalized communities are forced to accept. It does not describe the inherent racism of their caregivers. Instead, it describes increased risk as if their race is the problem. The problem is us. It is our system. It is what we’ve done to her. 

 I get overwhelmed with what we are facing. I get discouraged by what is happening to my profession. I’ve struggled with how to write about it; my words seem trivial. But, like the house projects I also get overwhelmed with, I’m trying to take the first steps and at least get those done. Then the next step becomes obvious.  And I do believe the tide is turning. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Happenings in 1849

Makumba-kumba mwalema, msakadandaula ndiwo. ~ You are fed up with digging (for mice), so do not complain about the relish you get.

~ Chewa proverb

April 2, 2023

Hi Everyone,

I’m thinking about next Tuesday and how much the future of our country depends on outcomes of that day. It’s not only the potential to see justice prevail, which, would be very sweet but I won’t chill any bubbly quite yet. It’s Wisconsin I’m worried about. The very consequential election there could be a tipping point. 

Wisconsin, a very nice state, I have dear friends there, can mean life or death for women. The state has been gerrymandered into right wing oblivion while we ate their cheese and paid little attention. It is a really important state right now. It could have swung the last election toward our demise if it weren’t for a few good people. And since the overturn of Roe this past summer, a law in Wisconsin from 1849 banning all abortions is preventing any abortion services being provided. Yes, this law from 1849, seventy-one years before women had the right to vote, is now  killing women in Wisconsin. But! There is an election this Tuesday in Wisconsin that can change that! It’s an election for a state Supreme Court justice that will either maintain the right wing majority on the court, or tip the balance 4-3 to reason and sanity. This is a choice between Janet Protaseiwicz a progressive judge supporting women’s rights, and an extreme right winger, Dan Kelley, who is anti-women and equates affirmative action with slavery.

Wisconsin courts haven’t ruled yet whether this1849 law is enforceable, but according to Fuck Bans Action Plan on Crooked Media “abortion providers have suspended services in the state for fear of violating the law, which makes it a felony to perform an abortion at any stage of pregnancy, unless it’s to save the life of the pregnant person. Last year Democratic Attorney General Josh Kaul sued to block that state law. That case is currently winding its way through lower courts and will almost certainly end up in the Wisconsin Supreme Court, which currently has a 4-3 conservative majority.”  So, replacing the retiring–– extremely conservative–– justice with a pro-choice justice would create a majority that could save Wisconsin from becoming another state where women are not safe. 

If you know anyone in Wisconsin, call them and tell them to vote for Judge Janet Protaseiwicz. Please. She can also prevent more gerrymandering and maybe reform some already in place. This could be huge if there is another contested election. Having a majority on this Supreme Court ahead of the 2024 presidential race means they’ll decide election lawsuits in Wisconsin, a critical swing state.

Or send a get-out-the-vote donation:  https://votesaveamerica.com/roe/

For perspective I looked up what happened in 1849. 

Events include:

*Louis Pasteur got married.

*Frederic Chopin died.

*James Polk became the first U.S. president to have his picture taken.

*The University of Wisconsin opened. It had one room and twenty students.

*A patent was granted for an envelope making machine.

*Elizabeth Blackwell became the first woman to earn a medical degree! 

*Vancouver Island was given to the Hudson Bay Company. (You know, they just gave it to them)

*Great Britain formally annexed Punjab in India.

*British seize Tigre Island from Honduras 

*The first poultry show opened in Boston!

*Harriet Tubman escaped slavery for the second time. 

All this happened while Wisconsin was banning abortion. For the next hundred and seventy four years no one thought to update that. Let’s do our part to help with some upgrades.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Lucky 

Linda, madzi apite, ndipo uziti ‘ndadala’. ~ Wait, let the waters flow away, and you will say “I am lucky”.

~ Chewa proverb

March 26, 2023

Hi Everyone,

I used to be irritated when someone told me I was lucky. It implied I hadn’t worked for what I had. But now I recognize how good fortune, providence, divine intervention, luck, however one chooses to describe it, has been a recurring theme in my life.

When I went to Malawi in 1979 as a young wife and eager to save the world, my husband and I attended the missionary church in our village. The priests there, happy to see practicing ex-pats, invited us to Sunday dinner afterward. They were White Fathers, and though they were indeed caucasian, the order was named for the color of their vestments. Originating from France and Canada they devoted their lives to service far from their homes. I hear the criticism of missionaries but my experience didn’t support it. I saw them as selfless and giving, providing needed services: schools and hospitals. African priests now run these missions, but back then they were seminarians. Our time there was the beginning of long and meaningful friendships with these men and we saw them almost every day. They acted like proud uncles when my baby was born, baptizing him, visiting, caring, fretting about me. It was lovely.

Fr. Richard, the priest who baptized my child, left Malawi in 2019 for a retirement home between Quebec City and the mountain where I ski. I visited this week, wonderful to be with him again, like slipping on an old comfortable sweater. At the end of the week I stopped to have supper with him on my way home, and looking around his room, I thought the covering on his bed was too rough, too shabby, too basic. This man deserved a quilt with more meaning, softer, warmer, one that would soothe his aches during the night. I’ll make him one, I thought, I’ll use Malawian fabric and soft flannel for the backing. I’ll consider the design as I drive back to Maine, five hours into the sunset. I am so lucky to have this old friend and the time at the mountain where so much happiness resides for me.

I was saying goodbye when he said, “Wait, I go with you to the car! But first, I bless you.” He put his hands on my shoulders and asked God to care for me and keep me safe, to care for my children, to watch over them, to keep them healthy. I stood with my head bowed, comforted by the weight of his hands, feeling safe and loved. Any speck of angst within me spilled down a chute from his hands out through my feet into some receptacle I imagined in the basement. I thought, I am so lucky. We made the sign of the cross and said “Amen”. I lifted my head and he turned toward the door, then turned back quickly and said, “No wait, now you bless me.” I had never been asked this before. I have always taken his blessing as an unreciprocated gift. After all, I was not licensed for this. His head already bowed, I put my hands on his shoulders, now shorter than mine, and asked God to watch over him, to give him strength and shield him from the pain of aging. I asked God to help him know deeply the good he has given this world and surround him with the love he sowed.” We said “Amen”, he lifted his head with the air of routine and said, “Ok, now we go.” as if we had just finished putting the leftovers away instead of having a deeply spiritual moment. I chuckled following him into the hallway. I love this man. 

In the parking lot I worried he might slip on some ice. I said, “Be careful, you may not be used to ice after so long in Malawi!” He laughed, “Yes, yes, yes, I know, I know! You call me when you get home, eh?” I told him it would be too late and I’d call in the morning, warmed by his concern. He looked in the back of my car, saw the skis and said wistfully, “Ah yes, I used to ski.” I said, “Everyone here skis. Of course you did. I bet you were a good skier. I wish I could have skied with you.” I handed him the bouquet of flowers I had in my car. “For your room. For Easter.” I told him I’d be back. He waved goodbye holding yellow tulips, as I pulled out of the parking lot and onto Route 40 south, the sun still high enough to get to the border before dark.

It doesn’t have to be winter to visit, I thought, though winter on the St. Lawrence has been part of my life since childhood. The cold can be brutal but the people never seem distressed by it. Their rosy cheeks and big smiles are framed with fur that speaks not of pillage but pragmatism. The beaver allowed human habitation in this glorious place; a remarkable gift. They exude a sense of joyous survival. Embrace this environment! Conform and be happy! That’s the feeling I have when I am there.

It had snowed the day before, piles of white, soft, fluffy stuff making everything magical. The skiing was fantastic. Gliding down the slopes on sugary snow, it was a postcard of winter into spring beauty. Each trail I descended brought back a thought of laughing with college friends, my siblings, my children, my father. I am so lucky, I thought. I am so lucky to have this place in my heart. I grabbed it, because nothing lasts. Rain will come, the snow will turn grey, and remind me there is always an icy underside. But it melts eventually. Until then we adapt with spikes and sand. Lucky.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Birthing Justice

Tangosauka opanira mphika ali cete. ~  We just suffer, but those who handle the relish-pot are quiet.

~ Chewa proverb

March 5, 2023

Hi Everyone,

As yet another small hospital in Maine closes it’s maternity services, I’m thinking about birthing justice. It’s been awhile since I’ve attended a birth. I know there are many injustices surrounding this event, some of which we are studying in the class I’m teaching. The racial injustice in our health care system affects women, of course. Cultural discrimination is widespread for those giving birth and most just take what they can get. What else can you do when vulnerable and in need of care? 

I’d like to think I’ve worked toward justice for all women but looking more closely at what that means, the hurdles for marginalized populations were always much higher. Working in my small town on an island in Maine, the diversity I dealt with was mostly socio-economic. A rich donor to the hospital? Immediately accompanied by upper management to cut the line. Poor women who have to travel hours in an unreliable car to get to an appointment? They could wait. 

I listened to a researcher speak about how awe affects our happiness and well being. He spoke of finding awe in our daily lives and how it can affect our mood and alleviate depression and loneliness. I thought about the word awesome. It’s used so commonly now as a routine response to ordinary events. But when I think of the true meaning, true awe-inspiring events, the ones that stop us in our tracks, the word seems insufficient. What inspires awe in me, I wondered? Birth is awe-inspiring. Anyone who has experienced it, either as birth giver or birth witness understands this. No matter how I was feeling, whatever my mood or situation, there was no feeling of awe compared with being present at birth. The depth of human emotion, the physical feat, the community support, it is an infusion of joy like no other. Why then do we make this event so hard for women? Our culture has it locked away, expensive and secretive, scrutinized and controlled, mystifying. Depending on reimbursement and the willingness of medical staff to be available, women can have a good or bad experience. I want it to be good. I want safe undiluted awe for all women.  

I’ve emphasized to my class the macro and micro systems in health care. It’s been a dilemma functioning in a macro system in which I did not wholly believe, while thinking my micro service was providing benefit. But I often felt it was enabling, allowing a system to grow more dangerously into a killer of women. The only industrialized nation with a rising maternal mortality, it is astonishing how our medical system can eliminate a critical service for women when they deem it unprofitable. Black women, Indigenous women, Women of Color, die in greater numbers than whites. Rural women have no access to care.

Maternity services close in rural areas because they can’t find an affordable specialist. I argue, specialists (Ob/Gyns) are not needed in small rural hospitals. Though midwives and general surgeons could provide the service safely and with excellent outcomes, hospitals dispose of this viable solution altogether. I’ve argued for years that midwives could provide the needed services, but rural hospitals still focus on the lack of obstetricians willing to practice in these areas, and without a physician willing to be on-call, they close. Subsequently, women must travel. Poor women in rural areas must travel miles, hours, to get both prenatal and birthing care. They must travel to services over bad roads and in unreliable cars, missing work and leaving families, instead of accessing services close to home. There is a plethora of supporting data demonstrating better outcomes when women are cared for in their own community, so why is our health care system allowed to act on only the studies they choose? Obstetricians are not needed in rural hospitals. Midwives are. A general surgeon is needed if an emergency cesarean section is needed, a surgery well within their capability. But if they refuse to do it, the service closes. Our community has been fortunate that the general surgeon agreed to this and I’m forever grateful to him. Why isn’t this a model for other hospitals? Why do doctors have the right to refuse care? Doctors have to follow other rules they don’t like. They couldn’t refuse to care for a person because of their race, so why are they allowed to refuse to do this one procedure? Why are they allowed to abandon a segment of their population? The argument we hear is “they don’t do enough of them to keep their skills up” as if that is a legitimate argument. Where is the critical thinking? There are many ways to keep skills up! That’s why hospital staff does simulation for CPR; because they don’t do it very often. These arguments are empty, invalid, and discriminatory.

This blatant discrimination sanctioned by hospital boards and administrators isn’t portrayed as such, but that’s what it is. Rural and marginalized communities have a muted voice. Compromised care, sometimes fatal, becomes the norm. Tired of their voices being unheard, they stop speaking. After awhile, when education standards are diminished, when expectations are lowered, when poverty and hunger give way to escape via drugs or alcohol, there’s little fight left. Economies of rural towns suffer when maternity services close. Families take their business to the cities an hour or more away. 

I am thinking this over at this stage of my career and life. The calling I’ve had to be there for women in their most awesome moment, needs to morph into something useful on a macro scale. I just can’t pinpoint what that is.

Love to all,

Linda