Linda Orsi Robinson

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

Sunday Morning ~ Harsh Winds and Anniversaries

Mau ndi mphepo, sungachere msampha. ~ Words are like the wind, you cannot catch them in a trap.

~Chewa proverb

February 5, 2023

Hi Everyone,

Friday night, I laid awake listening to the wind howl and the house crack. The temperature was twenty below zero and the wind blew constantly with gusts to forty miles per hour. I knew if the power went out my pipes would freeze quickly. The furnace chugged away but the house couldn’t stay warm. I got up several times when I heard banging, worried it was the furnace or a door blowing open or something hitting the house. Each time I’d find nothing amiss and crawl back under piles of quilts to lie awake and pray we didn’t lose power. I thought of the comfort I have and worried about those with less insulation, an unreliable furnace, or exposed pipes. It was harsh. The wind chill was forty-five below zero, the warmest place in Maine.

This weather event coincided with the anniversary of another sleepless night twenty years ago. Hard to believe two decades have passed since my life changed course, jumping the track from married to divorced. I wondered what kind of couple we’d be now if that twisted turn had not sent us into new worlds. Would I feel less worried about the cold? Or would I be trying to reassure him? Would he make more work for me? Or would he take care of things so I could rest? I fantasized various scenarios. 

I was twenty pounds underweight back then, having eaten only enough to stay alive for the previous six months. Food would not go down my throat, so I lived on a few tablespoons of yogurt a day. The “heartbreak diet” my friend calls it. On February 3rd of that year, I’d tearfully accepted the reality he wasn’t coming back. I knew I’d need to take care of myself if I were to get though it and, for my kids’ sake, I wanted to. If it weren’t for them I imagined withering away into nothingness rather than face what I saw then as failure. That evening my sister called and I cried to her as I did every time we talked. I was going to court the next morning where it would all become final. “I can’t do this!” I wept. She told me to cover my head with castor oil and go to sleep. “What? Castor oil?”, I choked out. Yes, she assured me, it was an Ayurvedic remedy guaranteed help me get grounded. “Cover your head with it, wrap a towel around it, and leave it for the night. I swear this will help.” she said. 

At the time, I would have done anything to feel better, and it was a healthier option than drinking myself to death. I opened a cabinet and saw I had some castor oil. I thought, what could it hurt? So I did it. I stopped crying, poured castor oil on my head, rubbed it into my scalp, and wrapped my head in a towel. I planned a good breakfast. I needed to start eating I decided, no matter how I’d have to force myself. I’d get up in the morning, make a nice breakfast for the kids before school and I’d eat some myself. We were going to be starting a new life as a new family. I wanted it to be a healthy first act. See! The castor oil was working already!

The court appearance was at nine the next morning. I set the alarm for six and made a list for myself. I’d get up, shower, and wash the oil out of my hair. I pondered what to wear: what does one wear to get divorced? A power color? An outfit he liked? Should I be worried about how I looked to him? Make him regret this? I laid out a skirt and sweater I felt good in. I decided I’d be in good cheer when I woke the kids, give off the air that all was normal. I’d have a special breakfast ready for them as they ran out with wet hair and no hat. I wouldn’t complain about that. I’d be nicer. 

I went to bed. Twenty years ago the night was cold but the only wind was in my head. I tossed and turned, I had nightmares, I cried, I prayed for a huge meteor to hit the earth so morning would never come. 

At 4 a.m. the phone rang and a nurse told me a patient was in labor and moving fast. Shit! I jumped in the shower to wash my hair. Water. Off. A. Duck. The oil wasn’t washing out. After three rounds of shampoo, I toweled it dry, looked in the mirror, and saw my hair sticking straight up. Ugh! I patted it down, jumped into jeans and a sweatshirt, threw on a hat and coat and ran to the car. It took me twelve minutes to get to the hospital at night driving over the speed limit. The police knew my car and sometimes followed me but usually just let me pass. I parked and ran up the three flights of stairs into my role as midwife. 

It was her third baby, so I thought surely she’d deliver in plenty of time to be home for the morning I’d planned. But she lingered at seven centimeters. At six o’clock I thought, ok, scrap the breakfast for the kids. I called them to say I was at the hospital so get themselves out the door. Who knows if they ate anything. “This baby will be here any minute”, I thought. “I’ll still be able to feed myself before court”, I thought. As six o’clock gave way to seven, then eight, with no baby I started panicking. I called the doctor I worked with. “Mary, can you come cover my patient while I go get divorced?”  She said she’d be right over; my friends were so good to me. The court was only minutes away so I had until 8:45, but had no idea how long it took to get divorced. The laboring woman was in the shower so I stuck my head in to tell her I had to go run an errand and I’d be right back; the doctor was covering for me. She panted through a contraction and nodded. 

I jumped in my car and sped to the courthouse in my scrubs remembering the hour I’d wasted deciding what to wear. I ran in and saw my soon-to-be-ex-husband sitting in the hallway looking terrified. It should have been a moment when I’d comfort him. I thought of his refusal to talk to me, how he walked away as I cried. and thought, “Wow, he looks like shit.” I said nothing. I started pacing, hoping the whole thing would be quick. I was neither sad nor devastated as I’d imagined, only impatient. I needed to get back to this birth. We had no lawyers, no witnesses, no nothing. This DIY divorce cost sixty-one dollars. We were the first case and were called in right on time. Raise your right hand, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, blah blah blah, yes yes yes, hurry this along. The judge read our names, the date and place we were married, and asked if this was correct. This should have been a very sad moment, but all I could think was, could this judge talk a little faster? We both said, “Yes.” He read the terms, he asked Joe if he knew what he was agreeing to? He said, “You know by law you are entitled to half of the house?” I thought, will he shut up? Don’t drag this out! I didn’t want this! Joe did! So let him lie in the bed he made! But I tapped my foot and said nothing. White-faced, Joe said, “Yes.” There was no mention of all the money missing, all the secrets he held, all the months of me begging to understand what was happening. Nothing. And all I thought was, I need to get back to the hospital.

It took less than five minutes. Twenty-four years of marriage was over in less than five minutes. How very strange. My best friend. My rock. The father of my children. Now a ghostly stranger sitting there, someone I didn’t even know. I put on my coat and ran down the steps to my car.

I got back to the labor floor as the woman was getting out of the shower. The nurse and I helped her to bed and the baby was born twelve minutes later. A boy who turned twenty years old yesterday at 9:46 a.m.

My hair was really soft and shiny after that. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Our Own Words

Sunche adati: kamve a pansi. ~The anteater said: go and listen to the words down below.

~ Chewa proverb

January 15, 2023

Hi Everyone,

At times in my life, my words have been taken and twisted into a story that suited someone else. It is infuriating, and depending on my investment in the relationship, my reaction and the incurred damage varied. A lot depends on what’s worth fighting for. What price is worth paying? Do I let it go? Rise above it? Walk away? Sometimes. But what about when my life and livelihood is at stake? I have survived sexual assault but never reported or went public about it, fearing maybe it was my fault, or my story wasn’t worth telling. But every untold story has a consequence.

I am teaching the History of Women’s Health Care at the local college this winter. The term started this week and in my introduction I highlighted how little we know about women healers as they were not formally educated, couldn’t read or write, and were defined by men. Burned women did not leave us their stories. How different would women’s lives be if we learned about historical female healers through their own voice? What role models would we have aside from the few who were wealthy and educated? When women did speak their truths, they were often not believed when their stories didn’t fit the male narrative. Punishments were severe. The legacy lives on.

For a writing exercise I asked the class to write about a time when they did not feel heard. I wrote about when I’d broken my leg skiing and the cast was too tight. My toes were swollen and the doctor made a cut down the side of the cast to loosen it. A timid six year old, I told him he was burning my foot. He continued cutting saying he was not cutting my foot. My mother told me to be quiet. For weeks afterward I complained my foot hurt because it was burned. She said it wasn’t possible. Three months later when the cast was removed, there was a burn scar on the top of my foot. I yelled, “I told you!” and everyone in the room chuckled. No one apologized for not believing me: not the nurse, not the doctor, not my mother. My leg healed, the doctor got paid, and my mother never mentioned it again. The scar on my foot and my psyche are still there. At times in my life when I don’t feel heard (my husband’s infidelity, my boyfriend’s abuse, my boss’s neglect) I would point out facts and evidence while screaming to myself “My foot is burned!”

I finished watching The Crown a few weeks ago and, still in a royal mood, watched a bit of the Harry and Meghan documentary. I didn’t expect it to be something I’d stay engaged with but it had a visceral impact on me almost immediately. I hadn’t heard any reviews about the show, it only popped up on the screen because I’d just watched The Crown. I ended up binging the whole thing, surprised at how it affected me. I thought it illustrated deeply seeded racism, an attempt to call it out, and a struggle to have a story heard. My foot was burned.

I was on a flight from Abu Dhabi to Washington when Harry and Meghan got married. Since it was a seventeen hour flight, I watched the entire thing: celebrities arriving, the gown reveal, the ceremony, the music. A captive audience, I barely noticed when a meal was served. I love weddings. And, from what I knew about this couple, I loved them. I was in Malawi when Harry was there to see the over-populated elephants moved from one game reserve to another. On our great end-of-service road trip, George and I met people in Botswana who’d met them. We stayed at a camp where they got engaged. The staff referred to William and Harry as “The Boys” who treated the staff with respect. Harry’s advocacy, given the privilege he was born into, fascinated me. I could not imagine losing a mother in such a public and violent way. How do you ever heal from that? She was horrifyingly hounded to death. Then to live within an institution that neither comforts nor acknowledges the brutality? How anyone comes out of that with their sense of humanity intact is beyond me. 

When Charles and Diana were married I bought into the idea that the monarchy was good for tourism. (I made this argument to one of my sons recently and his response was, “Oh yeah, like no one goes to France anymore now that they don’t have a king?”) The British economy was in trouble in the early ’80’s and the cynical side of me thought pulling this young beautiful bride out of a hat and planning a royal wedding was an economical booster shot. I didn’t buy the story that the prince was “Marrying For Love” as one headline said, but who knows in these weird arranged compilations of power. At least she was British and they weren’t trying to annex another country through marriage. That was progress, I thought. 

I remember reading in TIME magazine about a reporter who said he was dragging a camera with a lens the “size of a bloody Howitzer” to hide from a distance and shoot photos of Diana putting sunscreen on Charles’s back when they were on their honeymoon. I turned to my husband and asked, “What’s a Howitzer?” “A gun”, he said, “a really big gun”. I remember looking at those photos, which seemed harmless to me then, not understanding how they would destroy her. Her story was always told by someone else, and when she did speak, the final ax descended.

So this flaying of Harry and Meghan for telling their story is getting to me. People who have not read Harry’s book nor seen the documentary somehow feel entitled to take their words and twist them. Some (paid?) commentators frame them as privileged people “whining”. I didn’t see it that way. I admire them for speaking out against an unfair and exploitive institution. Does their privilege mean they must remain silent? Meghan’s story of her experience being black is her story and I’m glad she told it. I’m glad I could hear it. For those who don’t think she’s black enough, you are entitled to your story, too.

Those in power will define you in a way that keeps you in their power. I tell my class we must practice telling our story because we have not been taught to do so. We must practice listening to others tell their story because we have not been taught to do so. Hopefully, someday the words down below will save us.

Love to all,

Linda 

Sunday Morning ~ Cold Christmas

Chikumbutsa nkhwangwa ndi cisanu. ~ It is the cold that reminds us of the ax. 

~ Chewa proverb

December 28, 2022

Hi Everyone,

Living in Malawi we were always prepared for power cuts. It happened nearly every day for at least a few hours. We always kept plastic buckets filled with water in the house along with a large filter for drinking. The climate was tropical and power outages had little to do with weather. It was more of a rationing issue. Candlelight was the norm. We had good solar lights which were easily charged; it was rare the sun didn’t shine for at least part of the day. We went to the market often and didn’t have quantities of food to spoil. Being powerless was woven into daily life. Cooking with charcoal outside was simple. Headlamps were fashionable. 

In Maine, it’s a different story. Weather is the predominant factor in power outages, but even then it takes a mighty storm to bring the system down. It’s a rare thing, and affects the area catching the brunt of the storm. In Malawi it’s more like regular overloads of the power network like the one at Niagara Falls we experienced in 1965. (Egad, that is so long ago and I remember it vividly.) It’s an extremely rare event, so we don’t set up our lives to accommodate. We assume this utility will always function and outages are usually resolved quickly, within a few hours. Disruption is profound when it fails for extended periods. The cold outside makes lack of heating  more dangerous than inconvenient. Though, I will say, food doesn’t spoil. By Christmas my kitchen was much colder than my fridge. So there’s that.

Our power went out on Friday afternoon (the 23rd) when the wind was blowing trees over in rapid succession and the temperature was an eerie fifty degrees. It was such a strange storm. I had a thought to get in the car and head over to ocean drive to see the surf on the cliffs, but when I went to feed the chickens I could barely stand up against the wind. Looking up, I saw huge trees at forty degree angles and thought, “Nope. I’m going back in my house, which still has a roof on it, and fill a bathtub and bottles with water.” Power outage was a safe bet. The roof stayed in place, but many trees came down, several across the power lines. And that was just on my road. After hours of pouring rain, the temperature dropped thirty degrees in two hours. Everything froze as the rain turned to snow, which, is less romantic when the power is out, the house is getting steadily colder, and I have no backup heat aside from the inefficient fireplace. How on earth did people survive with just these things?  No wonder no one bathed and wore every piece of clothing they had. They had no need for closets.

My house is well insulated and I can use the gas on my stove to cook, so am better off than many. It never got below freezing inside my house, so that was good but I was envious of people with wood stoves. I had no plans for the holiday, thank God. I was glad to be alone not  worrying about the comfort of guests. 

Twenty hours without heat and the house was getting colder on Christmas Eve, so I decided to go into town where I’d heard they had power. I thought perhaps there’d be a festive atmosphere with people gathering to warm up and charge phones, you know, just like a Hallmark movie. Silly me. Many people were getting lunch at the Thirsty Whale but I’d call it more anxious than festive. The damage wasn’t just my road. It was everywhere. And it was snowing making the roads messy and slippery. And my car, having gone a whole two months without a problem, decided to raise my anxiety level further and flash the alternator light, barely making it up the hills on the slippery roads. Ugh. No sweet romance came out of the excursion. Those movies are bullshit. I wasn’t even going to make it to church. At least the fish and chips was comforting before heading home to the increasingly cold house. After a visit to neighbors to toast the situation, I came home, lit a fire and candles, and had a friend here to spend the night. Her apartment was colder than my house. She had a six o’clock flight in the morning and was lending me her car while she was gone for two weeks. Christmas eve dinner was cheese and  left-over soup. We drank hot toddies and made the best of it. Cozy is a bit of a stretch, but with the fire and candles, the lighting was nice. She never took her coat off. We went to bed early. Under piles of woolen quilts on top of down comforters it was like luxury winter camping. I was fine with it, but my friend, not so much of a camper, was glad she was leaving in the morning.

When I got up at 4:45 to take her to the airport I saw a light downstairs and thought, wow, she has a really strong flashlight! But it was electricity! The power had come back and I thought, God bless those guys who worked all night to get us this convenience! I ran to the basement to prime the water pump and get that going again, then made tea and quickly did the dishes before  dropping her for her flight. The stars were shining and so was my mood. Our tiny little airport is only ten minutes away so the drive was easy, and I felt better knowing I had a reliable car to use while I saw about getting mine repaired AGAIN. I got home to see flashing red lights where the tree was over the wires and thought, great! They are out in the early morning cold taking down that tree. These guys are great. I texted neighbors down the road to tell them the whole road would be restored soon. Turns out, that was premature. I saw the flashing lights and made that all up. Fifteen minutes later I heard a big explosion and the power went off again. When they turned on the power to my end of the road, the live wire still on the ground started a fire, the fire department came, the transformer blew, and boom, all gone. 

Just as this harsh reality set in, my friend texted to say her flight had been canceled. So I drove back to pick her up, and in the increasing light could see the tree across the wires had not been touched. She dropped me home then went to her apartment where the power had truly been restored and she could be disappointed about her trip in comfort. 

I spent Christmas morning under a quilt in front of my fireplace wearing a hat and several layers of clothing trying to write this blog. I was surprised my laptop actually worked it was so cold. I thought writing would distract me, but the Dr. Zhivago vibe wore thin as my fingers weren’t moving well and I couldn’t think. I gave up, put gloves on, and read a travel magazine by flashlight.

It was not a sunny day as predicted. That forecast was bogus. It snowed. It was grey. It was cold. I bundled up and went for a long walk. I met neighbors out walking; we commiserated and speculated. The trees were still on the wires. We all acknowledged it could have been much worse. The temps, though cold, were not dangerous. It wasn’t below zero like many parts of the country. No one was dropping bombs on us. The power would be restored eventually and we had food. The generosity of the community at large was remarkable; people were offering what they had to others. I walked until the sun was setting then made my way out of the woods back to the road. I stopped to check in on friends and ended up staying for tea before walking back to my house in the dark. I came upon big trucks with big lights and big chain saws and big buckets on the road and they were taking those trees off the wires! I yelled “THANK YOU SO MUCH!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!” as I scooted underneath. I was going to yell, “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” but it seemed cruel since they’d likely been working the whole time in freezing temperatures. God bless them. It was day three of the clean up and I hoped they’d had some rest. Four hours later there was light. The furnace purred to life and I crawled into bed with a hot water bottle, grateful but humbled at how dependent I am on this utility for comfort and convenience. 

The offers of hospitality from warm homes to those without were a testament to the goodness of human spirit. If we can only nourish and promote those virtues, I just imagine what could be. 

Merry Christmas and Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ New York City

Mau okoma n’kamba, mau oipa n’ndulu. ~ Kind words are like food, bad words are poison.

~ Chewa proverb

December 4, 2022

Hi Everyone,

I met my friend Ruth when I started my first midwifery job in New Haven in 1987. I was fresh out of graduate school, thirty years old with five little kids. Each December I came to New York City for a Sunday afternoon to attend the Christmas party at her apartment. The Christmas brunch was a tradition for years, filled with vibrant, eccentric, creative people from all walks of life. It was so different from the world I came from. Late afternoon we’d scramble for coats and scarfs, chaotically arranging transportation uptown for the party finale: the concert at Riverside Cathedral. It was years before I learned there was a ticket required; I’d thought the concert was free. That’s how generous my friend is. When I moved to Maine it became a weekend trip, and when my kids were in college we’d meet there for the event. Over time the party changed, as all things do, and finally ended; many of the people have passed away. It remains one of my fondest Christmas time memories. It’s been a while since I’ve been here in December, the pandemic being the main reason. I hadn’t planned on it this year either, but two invitations arrived with dates aligned just so, and I thought, sure, I’ll go.  

The first invitation was for a benefit concert on Saturday for the music festival whose board I sit on. I get this invitation every year, but timing has never worked out and I’d planned to pass again. A day later I received an invitation for a celebration at my Nursing School in Boston on Thursday of last week. The timing was too perfect, so decided to make a long weekend of it and attend both. Then I got a ticket to Hamilton for Tuesday so the weekend turned into a week. I love this open stage of life.  

I left home last Wednesday morning stopping for lunch with an old friend and arriving in Massachusetts in time to see my grandson’s Taekwon-do class. Thursday, I’d planned to hit a few museums in Boston before my event at five. But I’d gotten a message that a friend who’d had major heart surgery in Boston wasn’t doing well. He hadn’t answered any of my texts. I called his cell. No answer. Hmm. Was he alive? I impulsively got off the train at Mass General Hospital. They’ll never let me in, I thought. I’ll just go ask at the desk if it were possible to see him. I felt compelled to try.

I went to nursing school in the 70’s and back then Mass General was a behemoth. But that was nothing compared to what it is now. I had no idea how to even approach the place. I descended the stairs at the Charles River subway stop, crossed the street, and saw a clear sign saying, “Main Entrance”. Hmm, never noticed that before in all my wanderings of this neighborhood. A short walk, a mask, and approach the information desk. I asked if I could visit a friend and gave his name. Within two minutes I was on an elevator with a little map showing me where to go. I guess he’s still alive, I thought. The entrance to the Cardiac Intensive Care was a bit more formidable. I buzzed and gave my friend’s name. They told me to take a seat; someone would come get me. Ok. I sat and waited, excited? Is that the right word? More relieved I would get to see him at least one more time. Ten minutes, maybe twelve, and a sweet young nurse presented herself. I followed her in, and all my plans for the day disappeared. It was remarkable, really. This friend is far from home. His family is far away. There aren’t many (any?) visitors, and they let me stay. A long time. I can’t describe what transpired between us as conversation exactly as it was predominantly one sided. He was always a talker and that hasn’t changed. I mostly listened. I laughed when he said something funny. He laughed, saying it hurt as he grabbed his side. I don’t know if he heard my words.  He needed to talk, and I needed to hear him, knowing full well it may be the last time. How odd to be sitting there. I was not in his inner circle of friends, though one of them gave me reports of his status. I told him how loved he was. How he would be missed. We cried. I tried to find a spot on his hand to touch that wasn’t a port for a tube or line. I rubbed his shin, bony now through the sheet and blanket, just wanting him to have some kind of human touch amid the apparatus keeping him alive. Kind words. Kind touch. In that moment, it was everything. I was a hospice nurse before going to grad school and I thought of how similar birth and death are, two similar passages where life is distilled into it’s essence and how human connection and touch are transformative. 

I left there as it was getting dark and walked up Charles Street to the subway.

Boston College has a beautiful campus. I walked through the main entrance marveling at the lit spires and wondered if, as a student, I appreciated the beauty. The reception was a celebration of the 75th anniversary of the nursing school. I was surprised it was that young actually. This school was a baby when I was here! I was hoping I’d see some of my classmates, but I was the only one from the class of ’78. I met women who graduated in 1953 when the school was located downtown on Newbury Street. The provost at the time would not allow women to intermingle with men and fought with Cardinal Cushing who pushed for the nursing school to be part of the campus. Cushing finally got his wish in 1960 when Cushing Hall was built and where I attended classes. I loved my education there and love how it directed my course in life. There was a lot of reminiscing during cocktail hour. A graduate of the class of ’68 told me there were 5,000 men and 1,000 women on campus when she attended BC. She leaned over and said quietly, “We were never without a date.”

Friday, I took the train to the Big Apple and after getting settled and fed, Ruth and I walked to see the Bergdorf window displays. Saturday we walked uptown to see the lace exhibit at the Bard Graduate Center, and later I dressed up and walked up Madison Ave. for the benefit, where I spent the evening with some old, old money and good music. A woman at my table asked where I was staying. I told her I stay in mid-town with a friend but I also have a son in Brooklyn. She looked at me and said dryly, “Everyone has a son in Brooklyn.”

I love New York.

Happy holidays my friends. Kind words and lots of love. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Food Glorious Food

Uchembere ndi kudyerana. ~ To be a mature person is to help one another with food.

~ Chewa proverb

November 20, 2022

Hi Everyone,

Yesterday morning, I listened to a community radio show hosted by my friend, Ron. The topic was food. Authors and editors of the book Breaking Bread, Essays From New England On Food, Hunger, and Family spoke about their relationship with food and the role it has played in their lives. In the afternoon, I went to the high school production of Oliver! Both moved me deeply. 

Listening to reflections on family’s relationships with food and how it shapes our characters and bodies, I got weepy.The essays are beautifully written and spoke of love and connection through food. The cultural descriptions were evocative and I found myself missing my aunts and mother. It’s Thanksgiving week, so food is on everyone’s mind and comes up at least daily in conversation. The menu doesn’t vary here much, though food magazines are trying harder to be more diverse and inclusive. It’s also the anniversary of my mother’s passing and her birthday was during Thanksgiving week, so my emotional response didn’t surprise me. Feeding others was part of my mother’s fiber. It was how she cared for us. So much of my childhood was spent watching her in the kitchen. She started preparing supper as soon as lunch was over. The radio played the voices and I contemplated how food shaped my life while peeling apples and preparing for holiday guests.

I had a dinner invitation last evening and couldn’t attend the final performance of the high school musical, so though I don’t usually do matinees, I spent the afternoon at the theater. I knew several of the kids in the show, was present at some of their births, and heard it was exceptionally good. And I love musicals. Since I’d spent the morning thinking so much about food, about how our table was always filled with nourishing, varied foods, always fresh, always prepared with effort and care, that I nearly sobbed at the opening scene. While marveling at the tremendous job they’d done building the set, as the orphans sang about food, I found myself choking up. The costumes were fantastic, the voices sweet, and I thought about hungry kids dreaming of a decent meal. I thought about when the story was written and I realized I have not read the original book by Dickens. Highlighting social inequities in remarkable prose I wondered about his ability to capture the essence of injustice. His writing is complex but funny. I made a mental note to download it at my first opportunity. Hearing Dickens read to me is how I prefer to ingest him.  I imagined children sentenced to workhouses, hungry. In my pensive mood it all seemed contemporary.  Slight changes to the set and costumes and, I thought, this is now.  Kids go to school hungry. Hunger is the reason for many behavioral problems and poor academic performance. Families live where there are no grocery stores only convenience stores filled with substances barely edible that I don’t consider food.   

My kids were raised on show music. Not having a television in the house when they were growing up, we played cassette tapes of show music all the time. We sang together and we knew every word. When my oldest was only three, he listened to Oliver intently and ask nervously, “Why are they selling the boy? What will happen to him?” I thought at the time it was remarkable he could comprehend what they were even saying in the song, and I exploded with love for this child who was already so compassionate. I could see on his little worried face he related to the boy. Trying to understand the world we surrounded him with, I wondered how it would affect him. I was a young mother and was reminded daily of what an overwhelming responsibility it was to raise a child. I never wanted him to be hungry.

How could I have listened to that music thousands of times and not grasped the depth of the story? The music made it lighthearted somehow and the fun family time together listening and singing was what I associated it with. But yesterday, I saw it completely differently. The kids acted the roles so well that the depiction of desperation, spousal abuse, resignation of fate, and the sheer injustice of being born into difficult circumstances was highlighted in a way I hadn’t considered before. Again, it all seemed so current. 

Dickens gives us a bright ending for Oliver as he lives happily, and well-fed ever after. But Nancy, a character just as lovable as Oliver, gets beaten to death by her abusive boyfriend. I was horrified at this realization. It’s not such a fine life for her after all, is it? Was it the remarkable performances by these students or my mood that influenced me? Probably both. 

I’ve been contemplating where to focus my end of the year donations and both of yesterday’s experiences brought food pantries, hunger, and food justice to center stage. We have enough to go around. 

Wishing everyone a Happy Thanksgiving with hearts and bodies nourished and loved.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Grateful for Side Rivers

Madzi atupa ndi a m’njira. ~ The waters become plentiful because of all the side rivers.

~ Chewa proverb

November 13, 2022

Hi Everyone,

I woke to the news that we kept the senate and on this rainy, gray, glorious Sunday morning, I am grateful. The candidates I supported in Maine all won, though my ballot initiatives did not. I can live with this. I am happy this morning. 

I love this time change. I know not everyone feels this way, especially night owls, but for us larks, this is the way the clocks should be. As we turn inward and embrace the coming darkness, I try to make sense of why it should matter. It is the same day! The same twenty-four hours! Since I’ve been home so much with the pandemic it should not matter, I tell myself. But I can not deny the lightness I feel. I feel healthier, I sleep better. It just feels more right to me. I’ll enjoy it until the spring change when I’ll get cranky again. 

When I was a junior in high school there was an energy crisis in this country resulting from an oil embargo by OPEC as punishment for the U.S. support of Israel in the Yom Kippur War. Aside from knowing who the president was, I was not very politically aware at that time so had no understanding of the reason for the abrupt change in our lifestyle. The patriotic lowering of the thermostat didn’t affect me much as our house was always cold. I wasn’t paying bills, only listening to complaints about them. Gas prices tripled, up to something like 75 cents a gallon and everyone was outraged. And while I was not the political junkie I am now, I don’t recall a big blaming of Richard Nixon for the crisis, but maybe I missed that.

One of the emergency energy-saving measures was reverting back to daylight savings time during the winter months. I live way northeast now, but I lived in Massachusetts at that time, which is still north and still east. It did not get light until eight in the morning and was dusk by five. I do not recall anyone raving about that and hoping it stayed that way forever. I guess some energy was saved, but I think the saving was counterbalanced by dead children hit by cars on their way to school in the dark. No one drove us to school back then, we either walked to school or walked to the bus stop. And it was well before headlamps were used by anyone except coal miners. 

In addition to the gas prices being a problem, there was a gas shortage. There was a law (or was it a rule?) that those whose license plates ended with an even number got gas on even days, and those ending with odd numbers got gas on odd days. There was no civil war about this, only long lines and lots of bitching. I did not own a car then so I did not care, but I recall no threats of hanging the president up by his balls. But again, maybe I missed this. 

Gasoline was a serious discussion when planning our annual ski trip to Quebec. This trip involved multiple families and we had to do it with only one car.  How could we fit everyone in our station wagon? Could I bring a friend? It was decided that the group would be reduced to eight, and we would all fit into our station wagon, along with the ski gear. It was cramped, but we were jolly about it; skiing was a guaranteed good mood for my father and I’m sure this has something to do with my love for this sport. Thanks dad. 

We drove up in a snow storm on a day when our license plate allowed us to fill the tank.

On that trip, my youngest brother broke his leg. I was skiing with him at the time, heading down to meet the others for lunch. He complained I was taking too long and took off ahead of me. I came around a corner and saw him laying face down in the snow with his leg twisted at a very unnatural angle. I stayed with him while a stranger skied down to notify the ski patrol, and we waited for the toboggan. He was quiet. We knew his leg was broken. I put my hat under his face. The snow was heavy and wet and twelve people broke legs on the mountain that day. Ski bindings have improved since then. He was casted up at the hospital with little fanfare, delivered back to the motel, and propped on his bed. That was Wednesday of ski week. Did we go home? No! We had week long passes! An eleven year old’s injury wasn’t going to ruin our week! So he was left with an empty coffee can to pee in, a Time Magazine to read, and we went skiing. It’s painful to write this now, especially since it was one of our funny family stories for years, but ugh. That poor kid.  

So, guilt aside (not that I was the one making the decision, but I was happy to keep skiing), we skied our final two days and the next challenge was how to get home with someone in a full cast taking up an extra seat in an already crowded car. Our family friend George, “an old Fin” who skied into his eighties, was the only other driver among us so we could have rented a second car. Out of the question, we would make this fit. My brother with his freshly broken leg and in considerable pain, sat sideways in the back seat, his leg propped on a suitcase. Two others were crammed between the suitcase and the door. My friend Karyn and I sat facing each other in the “way back”, our legs intertwined with ski boots and poles. Three were in the front. No one wore seat belts. We drove into a blizzard and the trip took five extra hours, so a mere eleven hour ride crammed in this huge gas guzzling machine. I spent much of that ride patting my brother’s head, asking my father if we could give him an aspirin or something, but he was probably more worried about finding gas.

This little walk down memory lane was triggered by my thoughts on getting through difficult times when we all pull together. Which, is how I feel we came through the midterms. It’s possible! I’ll leave it there. Thank you everyone for all the hard effort! Democracy lives to see another day. 

Love to all,

Linda 

Sunday Morning ~ Something to Chew On

M’kamwa mwa cabe satafunamo. ~ You cannot chew if you have nothing in the mouth.

~ Chewa proverb

November 6, 2022

Hi Everyone,

I’m in shorts on my porch swing on this November morning thinking about what to write about. I’m enjoying the warm air but feel conflicted. I watch the breeze take down the few remaining oak leaves. The light and scene do not suit the temperature. I have no idea which way the wind is blowing, a perfect metaphor for the times. We’ll soon find out. I’m feeling both homebody and antsy for a road trip.

I couldn’t wait to get my drivers license. I took driver’s ed as soon as possible, though it involved asking my father to pay for it, traveling to a different town, finding a ride there, and passing the class. Obtaining a learners permit wasn’t simple, but I was motivated. Though my father balked at the few things I asked for, he paid for drivers ed with little fuss. Relieved, I saw myself more independent, mobile, powerful, grown up. I was dying to drive. I couldn’t wait to get behind that wheel and take our monstrous family vehicle to far away places. The bench seats, both front and back were like living room sofas. We could easily fit four people in the front without seat belts, which weren’t even a thing until I was in high school. Maybe not even then. You opened the car door and everyone who needed a ride got in; number of persons mattered not. Most families had one car and negotiations were required for use. In my experience, the patriarch decided, but it was a good way to hone arbitration skills.

Busses existed, even in small towns, and I recall no shame in using them, but schedules varied depending on population. Within walking distance in my small suburban town, a train provided regular transport into the big city. I recently passed that train station and barely recognized it for the ocean of cars parked in the enormous parking lot. I struggled to remember if there were a parking lot back in the day? I remember my brother and I taking that train home from college, and when no one was there to collect us, we just walked home. It seemed a long way, since the train came into the neighboring town, not our own, but in reality, it’s probably little more than a mile. There may have been a pay phone at the station, but we likely had no dime to call my mother. It was quicker to walk home. 

I’ve been thinking about all this having spent a month in a rural state without a car. After my Montreal trip, the water I drove through on the off ramp fried my computer module, which mercifully waited to die until I got home. It was a month waiting for the part. Since we’ve been having a remarkably warm fall, I thought I’d get around just fine via bicycle while I waited, and waited, and waited for the call saying the car was repaired. And, although I live on a most gorgeous island with miles of carriage roads to explore the beauty by bike, the roads that actually take you where you need to go have no shoulder, 50 mile per hour speed limits, and large trucks. In my independent spirit I was determined to feel 20 years old again and use this mode of transportation to medical appointments, grocery shopping, and church. Then reality set in and church was the first to go. Riding ten miles at seven in the morning and ten miles home should not have been a problem. What’s a twenty mile bike ride? Why could I not do that? It was the road. Feeling unsafe and vulnerable took some shine off the spiritual outing. In my college days, I rode a road bike all over Boston, day or night, and traffic was hardly a deterrent. Here, I ride a hybrid I bought twenty years ago when going off the road onto the gravel to avoid a barreling dump truck was the only means of survival. I’ve gone soft. It’s not worth it to me now.

Getting around here without a car is difficult if not impossible. Distances are considerable. It’s nine miles from my house to town. Neighbors were generous with their offers to borrow their cars and a friend took me grocery shopping. It was an inconvenience but I knew it was temporary. I did, however, think of those for whom this is a constant problem. Maternity care in rural areas is completely dependent on reliable transportation. It is impossible to get to health care facilities without a car. Those with few resources can’t even afford the gas to travel for care. I love public transportation and use it exclusively when I travel in Europe. But our car manufacturing industry destroyed our railway infrastructure and while I don’t imagine a high speed train transporting laboring women to the hospital in the middle of the night, I do imagine a facility close enough to get to with a gallon or two of gas. There is so much wrong with our systems. There is so much potential.

I am anxious about the election Tuesday. I’m fed up with the media. I’m fed up with hearing about polls. My writing is interrupted by a person going door to door getting out the vote, something I haven’t signed up for. I tell her I already voted so I could drive people to the polls on election day. We talk about our hopes and fears. I thank her for her efforts. I immediately go to Vote Save America and donate to Secretary of State elections. I need to do SOMETHING! I read this morning that Republicans are flooding the zone with their own poll numbers to make it look like they have the momentum. The media buys it and amplifies the message. Democrats panic. I want to believe we can live in a democratic society. It is possible. Let’s be like Brazil I plead to the air. I think of the tiny tick burrowing into my arm at 3 a.m., the one that sent me flying out of bed, turning on lights, flinging it off me as it it were a rattlesnake. We should be like tiny ticks, burrowing into this system, repeating over and over that banning abortion is exactly the same as forcing an abortion. The only way we’ll protect ourselves is to vote for Democrats who will honor our freedom to make our own health care choices. And some public transportation would be nice, too.

Let’s do this.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Saving Our Voices

Cidanonetsa nkhumba sicidziwika. ~ No one knows what made the pig fat.

~ Chewa proverb

October 16, 2022

Hi Everyone,

As I sit and listen to the news of Iranian protests, I wonder what I’d do? Would I be brave enough to risk my life? I have engaged in protests, plenty of them. But I never worried I’d be killed. My admiration for the women in Iran is indescribable. And then I think, it could come to that here. If the current republican motivation continues, women will be as repressed and beaten down as women in Iran. How outrageous is this? Did the women of Iran see this coming? Did they go about their lives in the 60’s with mini skirts and University studies thinking they would be forbidden to cut their hair or show their skin within a few years? Did they think that was possible? And when it happened, did they think it would be sixty years before they’d take a stand? Were they just resigned to this life of repression? What was it about the death of one woman that was the tipping point? No one knows, but it is happening. 

I’ve been thinking about what I can do to help for the mid term election. So much depends on this. For two weeks now I’ve been writing a letter to the editor thinking maybe if I could find the right words, it might make a difference. I finally decided to stop thinking and do it, because, no one knows what made the pig fat. I’ll put this out there and keep plodding. This is what I wrote:

To The Editor,

As I listen to the news about women protesting in Iran, fighting to regain rights they had sixty years ago, I am shaken, wondering how far we will go down that same road. The current trend in the republican party to strip away the rights of Americans is frightening. But there is a way to stop it. On November 8 we must vote Democrat all the way down the ballot, from U.S. Senator to dog catcher; our lives depend on it. This mid-term election is critical. We have a looming national crisis with women’s rights in jeopardy. By voting overwhelmingly Democratic down the ballot we can save future generations from facing what Iranian women now face: risking their lives to have a voice. Voting Democrat in local races is critical to preserve election integrity. In national races it will preserve human rights for women, low wage earners, school children, immigrants, minorities, LGBTQs, and transgenders. If you want the right to earn a living wage, vote Democrat. If you want the right to access to health care, vote Democrat. If you want the right to marry whom you choose, vote Democrat. If you want the right to make decisions about your reproduction, vote Democrat. If you want to make a sustainable energy future for this planet, vote Democrat. If you want to send your children to school without fear of gun violence, vote Democrat. All the way down the ballot, we must preserve Democratic majorities to preserve these rights. Our democratic system, flawed and imperfect as it is, allows us the opportunity to have a voice. We can make it better if we engage. Retaining majorities in the U.S. House of Representatives and U.S. Senate is the only way we will ensure a woman’s right to choose and everyone’s right to vote. This election is our chance to prevent the further stripping of human rights in this country. It is the only way right now. Please VOTE! And when you do, VOTE Democrat!

Linda Robinson, CNM

Bar Harbor, Maine

If anyone feels this message is useful, please use it for your own newspapers. Message, message, message. It might help.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Midwives and Justice

Mimba si kupha namwino. ~ The pregnancy does not kill the midwife.

~ Chewa proverb

October 2, 2022

Hi Everyone,

Having just returned from a midwifery retreat, I looked for a proverb about midwives; this was the only one I could find. I looked into it’s meaning, wondering if it was about pregnancy killing the mother, something happening far too often. I found it was a message about judgement, about being fair and frank; not to judge but to help. So the midwife is a metaphor, but it’s a good message to bear in mind. Spending time surrounded by nurturing women working hard to improve life for others, soaking up some of their strength and energy, I feel a renewed sense of purpose. They model justice.

We began our midwifery retreat as we often do, with a shared meal. As midwives arrived to Nell’s beautiful home on the water, the sun was setting and abundant bird life was silhouetted in the most sublime Maine setting. The water was so calm it seemed impossible another state far south was being ravaged by a storm. We’ve seen our share of those storms but this was not the time for us. Instead, the trees gracefully began delving into their annual fashion show before dropping all their glory to rest. It will be another few weeks before the bare and dark set in in ernest and it was wonderful to have time to absorb the gift. I love this time of year and the setting mirrored the beauty of the group. We poured wine, ladled soup, gathered and talked. The warmth emanating from these women always makes me feel as if I’m being cradled. It feeds and inspires me. I never feel more comfortable with myself than when I’m in their presence. 

Friday evening we invited one of our state senators, a nurse-midwife, farmer, mother, activist, to speak to us about her experience in the legislature and advise us how to effectively help in the November election. She just finished her first term and shared the lessons she’s learned, the growth, and the understanding of how to accomplish progressive initiatives. She was so inspiring. She related her work in the State House to nurturing women though life stages and we reflected how our skills can be used in all facets of life. It was fascinating. Maine has a Democratic governor and legislature right now, so women’s rights are protected at the moment. But that could change if the party in power flips. We all acknowledged we can not let that happen. Our lives depend on keeping the Democrats in power. It’s already bad enough for rural women trying to access care. Our previous governor, a racist and misogynist, is running again and it was hell during his term trying to provide services to those in need. God help us if he retakes the governor’s mansion. It just cannot happen. We talked about how we can be most effective in promoting democratic candidates. Door knocking is hard in this state; houses are far apart and distances are prohibitive. Do postcards really help? Data says, yes. Money also helps. When we asked what we could do, her response without hesitation was “letters to the editor”. This is well within my capability, so it’s on my list for this week. I spent my drive home yesterday thinking about what to write. 

I believe in a woman’s right to decide what happens to her body and her life. That there is any question of this in current times is so ludicrous I get dizzy. I think about myself and what I would choose if faced with excruciating circumstances. I always thought I would not have had an abortion but knowing how hard pregnancy and birth is, I cannot say I’d have made that choice if I were raped. I can’t imagine not being allowed to make that decision for myself. I am enraged at the republican stance on women’s rights to control their bodies. Imagine the tables were turned and there was an extreme population-control mandate. I know people who judge me for my large family. What if they had the power to force me to terminate a pregnancy because they don’t believe women should have more than two children? What if women were FORCED to abort a pregnancy. This control over women’s bodies could go both ways, right? Isn’t this the same argument?  

We CAN NOT and WILL NOT allow men to control us. Any man who takes offense is part of the problem. 

We spent a long time at the retreat yesterday discussing perennial issues with pregnancy complication, access to care, and barriers to practice. I see progress over my forty years of doing this, but many of the issues are the same ones over and over. So many of the problems of access, respectful care, follow-up care, prevention, could be managed effectively if there were more midwives. More and more obstetrical facilities are closing, stating financial reasons–– meaning it is “too expensive” to keep these services available for women in rural settings. They “can’t afford OB/GYNs” or the liability insurance. There is never a discussion among the grand decision-makers to provide all these services with midwives, a safer, well-documented historically effective solution. No, they just eliminate the service altogether, then blame women for not being responsible with their health care options. I maintain we need to change the language in our advocacy to discrimination. Eliminating services for women and those with uteri is discrimination. We can legislate that. We can problem solve. We can do it if we have Democrats in charge. It’s the only way. Losing in this election is not an option. Extremism, patriarchal control, over-medicalization, profit-driven health care can NOT be tolerated. Period. And our only hope is having Democrats in power.

Donate. Vote. Speak up. Never mind who stands where on what issues. If Democrats are not in power, we lose it all. Nationally we need two more senators and we must keep the house, then a woman’s right to choose health care for herself will become law. Vote blue down the ballot in local as well as national elections. It’s the only way to save our democracy and our women. 

Love to all,

Linda