Some of you might know that, when I lived in Israel many moons ago, I became pregnant. (Now you all know.) Not that the TWO MD's in Israel told me that, noooo.
Here's the feather bed dusting portion of the tale. In March of 1978 I was living on Campus, ostensibly going to class at Hebrew University of Jerusalem. I was not actually doing that; I was having too much fun pretending to go to class but actually wandering around the country, alone but mostly with friends. (I was very popular at the Arab Souk; my friends loved to go with me as I knew how to barter, Arabs LOVE to barter, and my friends were all too chicken to barter. I also got to know the High Priest of the Russian Orthodox Church, who's abode was just inside the west entrance of the Souk. We became quite friendly, and pretty soon he was inviting me in for tea and chat [I always went to the Souk covered in long pants, and long sleeves; didn't want to offend any Muslims, and if they'd respect me enough not to shoot me, wearing long sleeves was not so much to ask] and asked me to call him by his first name, Stephen. "Steve's fine," he said, so I did.)
So, some of you might also know that a Sabra I will call T was the love of my life. He came to see me frequently at the campus. The last time I saw him was in October of 1977, then he went back to the merchant marine (or so he said; I have no idea if that was real, but he did own a peacoat).
Around March of '78, my friends began to comment that the left side of my belly seemed to be... protruding (I had anorexia so badly in '76 I was down to 82 pounds and the doctors saved me, but said I had damaged my internal baby machine parts too badly to ever get pregnant. Fuckin' doctors.) So, one friend took me to the campus doc, who poked and prodded and "hmmed" and "I see, I see"'d a lot, and pronounced me as stricken with a tumour.
A second friend, highly suspicious of this diagnosis, took me to a doc IN Jerusalem, and he, too, pronounced that I had a tumour, and should go back to America ASAP to have it removed.
Leaving all of my friends in Israel was hard. Very hard. (The last time I saw T in '78 was early in the year, when four of his army buddies broke in on us, yanked a naked T from our bed, and took him off to one of the wars that was starting. I hadn't told him about "the tumor". Yet.)
So, in mid April, I decided to go back to America, and have this steadily growing, left sided tumour removed. Saying goodbye to my buds took place at my late cousin's Tel Aviv flat, where my darling friend Sheila (whom I owe my life to, and we are still friends) sat in my cousin's kitchen and talked up the dawn.
(There's a story that goes with trying to get on the plane, but later. It's awful skeery and funny, too.)
My friends and I took a Monit (shared cab) to Ben Gurion, and I was finally put on a plane back to the good old U.S. of A.
My mother had made an appointment with my OB/GYN for two days after I arrived. I must admit, I was trembling with not a little fear at what the MD was going to tell me. My mother, as usual, was of absolutely no emotional help. The MD came in, examined me, ran a quick blood test, and informed me that my tumour was about 5 months along, and due in August.
Ruh roh. Surprise!
<(I will use these little arrow-dealies to indicate a new piece of this post, inc. the date: >
My mother, who, at times, could have all the warmth of a codfish, made a swift, codfish decision, without consulting me or taking a breath between the doc saying I was 5 months along and her saying "You're getting an abortion."
???
Alas (you'll understand that "alas" later) there was a major kerfuffle going on in the US at that time regarding an MD giving "late term abortions" because A) That Bryant bitch in Flo'dah made it her mission to butt into other people's medical conditions, and abortion was legal and B) she and the Repulsivans invented the term "late term abortion" to scare the bejabbers out of everyone, as if docs were digging into uteri from Cali to NY, gleefully yanking out 15-23 week embryos, and basketball-tossing them into hazardous waste containers. (In toto, I have worked in labor and delivery units, for over 15 years, at two major LA hospitals) and NEVER ONCE saw this procedure UNLESS the embryo was confirmed as unfortunately, passed away, gone back to heaven and starting over, and the procedure to remove this expired embryo was ALWAYS done in an O.R. in sterile conditions, and always included tears and recriminations against God and/or the women who invariably had to be talked out of blaming themselves because, let's face it, in utero embryo death occurs. It just does.)
The case going on at the time involved precisely ONE woman, who had been raped, and wanted an abortion at 22 weeks (which was legal) but NOW the Insurance Companies stepped in, and stepped up their rates. Sky high. So, a vast number of Ob/Gyn's simply refused to do abortions.
That's where I was. 2/17/15>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Sept.13.2015:
And so, upon hearing this information, my mother instantly said, "You're giving it up for adoption."
O-o-o-okay, Ma.... Little did I know that this kid would be the worst shit Satan ever spewed from an actual woman.
Now, I myself (who else??) am an adopted person. Didn't work out too badly, either. I adored my father, who gave me the greatest gift a parent could give their child: he proved that he was not only human, therefore fallible, but that adults could apologize to their kids WITHOUT A "BUT" screwing up the works. An apology with a "but..." and more words isn't a real apology. It's another slap in the face to the insultee.
Mas tarde. I must go weep for Roger "I have the perfect life" Federer.
Here's the feather bed dusting portion of the tale. In March of 1978 I was living on Campus, ostensibly going to class at Hebrew University of Jerusalem. I was not actually doing that; I was having too much fun pretending to go to class but actually wandering around the country, alone but mostly with friends. (I was very popular at the Arab Souk; my friends loved to go with me as I knew how to barter, Arabs LOVE to barter, and my friends were all too chicken to barter. I also got to know the High Priest of the Russian Orthodox Church, who's abode was just inside the west entrance of the Souk. We became quite friendly, and pretty soon he was inviting me in for tea and chat [I always went to the Souk covered in long pants, and long sleeves; didn't want to offend any Muslims, and if they'd respect me enough not to shoot me, wearing long sleeves was not so much to ask] and asked me to call him by his first name, Stephen. "Steve's fine," he said, so I did.)
So, some of you might also know that a Sabra I will call T was the love of my life. He came to see me frequently at the campus. The last time I saw him was in October of 1977, then he went back to the merchant marine (or so he said; I have no idea if that was real, but he did own a peacoat).
Around March of '78, my friends began to comment that the left side of my belly seemed to be... protruding (I had anorexia so badly in '76 I was down to 82 pounds and the doctors saved me, but said I had damaged my internal baby machine parts too badly to ever get pregnant. Fuckin' doctors.) So, one friend took me to the campus doc, who poked and prodded and "hmmed" and "I see, I see"'d a lot, and pronounced me as stricken with a tumour.
A second friend, highly suspicious of this diagnosis, took me to a doc IN Jerusalem, and he, too, pronounced that I had a tumour, and should go back to America ASAP to have it removed.
Leaving all of my friends in Israel was hard. Very hard. (The last time I saw T in '78 was early in the year, when four of his army buddies broke in on us, yanked a naked T from our bed, and took him off to one of the wars that was starting. I hadn't told him about "the tumor". Yet.)
So, in mid April, I decided to go back to America, and have this steadily growing, left sided tumour removed. Saying goodbye to my buds took place at my late cousin's Tel Aviv flat, where my darling friend Sheila (whom I owe my life to, and we are still friends) sat in my cousin's kitchen and talked up the dawn.
(There's a story that goes with trying to get on the plane, but later. It's awful skeery and funny, too.)
My friends and I took a Monit (shared cab) to Ben Gurion, and I was finally put on a plane back to the good old U.S. of A.
My mother had made an appointment with my OB/GYN for two days after I arrived. I must admit, I was trembling with not a little fear at what the MD was going to tell me. My mother, as usual, was of absolutely no emotional help. The MD came in, examined me, ran a quick blood test, and informed me that my tumour was about 5 months along, and due in August.
Ruh roh. Surprise!
<(I will use these little arrow-dealies to indicate a new piece of this post, inc. the date: >
My mother, who, at times, could have all the warmth of a codfish, made a swift, codfish decision, without consulting me or taking a breath between the doc saying I was 5 months along and her saying "You're getting an abortion."
???
Alas (you'll understand that "alas" later) there was a major kerfuffle going on in the US at that time regarding an MD giving "late term abortions" because A) That Bryant bitch in Flo'dah made it her mission to butt into other people's medical conditions, and abortion was legal and B) she and the Repulsivans invented the term "late term abortion" to scare the bejabbers out of everyone, as if docs were digging into uteri from Cali to NY, gleefully yanking out 15-23 week embryos, and basketball-tossing them into hazardous waste containers. (In toto, I have worked in labor and delivery units, for over 15 years, at two major LA hospitals) and NEVER ONCE saw this procedure UNLESS the embryo was confirmed as unfortunately, passed away, gone back to heaven and starting over, and the procedure to remove this expired embryo was ALWAYS done in an O.R. in sterile conditions, and always included tears and recriminations against God and/or the women who invariably had to be talked out of blaming themselves because, let's face it, in utero embryo death occurs. It just does.)
The case going on at the time involved precisely ONE woman, who had been raped, and wanted an abortion at 22 weeks (which was legal) but NOW the Insurance Companies stepped in, and stepped up their rates. Sky high. So, a vast number of Ob/Gyn's simply refused to do abortions.
That's where I was. 2/17/15>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Sept.13.2015:
And so, upon hearing this information, my mother instantly said, "You're giving it up for adoption."
O-o-o-okay, Ma.... Little did I know that this kid would be the worst shit Satan ever spewed from an actual woman.
Now, I myself (who else??) am an adopted person. Didn't work out too badly, either. I adored my father, who gave me the greatest gift a parent could give their child: he proved that he was not only human, therefore fallible, but that adults could apologize to their kids WITHOUT A "BUT" screwing up the works. An apology with a "but..." and more words isn't a real apology. It's another slap in the face to the insultee.
Mas tarde. I must go weep for Roger "I have the perfect life" Federer.
