TMI? or not enough?

Yesterday I was reminded of a sad glitch in human compassion. Not many people are willing to acknowledge the suffering of a woman who has miscarried, unless they themselves have experienced one themselves.

This has put me in the highly unlikely position of defending former first lady Barbara Bush. The same Barbara Bush who said of hurricane Katrina victims who were being housed in the Houston Astrodome in abysmal conditions "What I'm hearing, which is sort of scary, is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality. And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them." She also said on the war in Iraq "Why should we hear about body bags and deaths. Oh, I mean, it's not relevant. So why should I waste my beautiful mind on something like that?" Beautiful mind indeed..

Reluctantly, I find myself in a position where I do feel compelled to defend her. George W. Bush writes in his new book about how when he was a teen, he drove his mother to the hospital following a miscarriage that she had suffered. The fetus was in a jar which she showed to him. Hear me; Medical protocol, then and now, requires that a woman bring with her whatever "material" remains from a miscarriage. This is not a sign of anger, depression or character imbalance on the woman's (mother's?) part, but rather a common practice. It is usual to perform an examination both as to learn the cause of the miscarriage and to understand how much has been expelled so that the doctor can know how to further treat the woman who has miscarried.

I too am somewhat uncomfortable that Mrs. Bush showed her teenage son the remains as he drove her to the hospital. But it does not seem to be outside of the range of normal -- or worthy of the media's collective gagging. It was a specimen. Some people might be grossed out by that, some might not -- but when it comes down to it, it is kind of fascinating. From what I understand, it was stated in the book that it had not been kept as a keepsake, which I admit I indeed would have found disgusting. Then again, I also find morbid the thought of people keeping their loved ones' ashes on their mantle. But I would never ridicule someone for doing so, understanding that others find this practice completely acceptable.

So why this strong reaction. Is it merely the thought of human tissue and blood? Or is it that the story had been twisted enough to falsely imply that the fetus had been kept as a souvenir? Is this just a way of bullying the the Bushes because they suck? But what about those of us who suffered miscarriages who don't suck?

Also on the subject of miscarriage, why is it still so taboo to talk about? For the most part, I sensed pressure from those around me to suffer my miscarriages silently. I was told that at least it didn't happen later on when the fetuses were already babies -- but as far as I was concerned, they were. They were MY babies who were very much wanted. (I find it imperative here to mention that unlike the Bushes, I am very pro-choice -- even after having seen the fetus up close). Why was I told by more than one person that this was probably for the best? Even if that is true, what kind of thing is that to say to someone who has just suffered a loss? It is true that the pain usually does heal, (I love my Jonah to bits. Without having miscarried there would have been no Jonah). But I always ALWAYS do wonder who my other babies would have been, had they survived.

Since starting this blog I've been asking myself what I want to write about. I've realized that I would like to use this blog as a jumping off point just to see what comes out of me. If I sense a theme coming on, I will start a new blog. So for now, Peanut Butter Basquiat is a mosaic of whatever comes to me.

Last night I went to a writing workshop that a new friend (in my neighborhood!) hosted. What follows are some samples of what came out of me.

There is a deep sense of peace that I've found. It's been here all along, and I've known it, but somehow didn't trust it. Until my mother died. It's almost shameful to say, but at the same time it's absolutely not. I keep reminding myself of all the things I miss about her, and I DO miss her,but for all except the last year of my life, I've missed me.

And another sample..

The fog makes me feel extremely content. Especially (but not only) when I get to be home. Especially (but not only) on a weekend when it's morning and the house smells like pancakes and coffee and my kids and I are in our pajamas and in no hurry to get anywhere. I like to play with them, sip my coffee, look at the paper and giggle at the silly dance they've performed to get my attention. I love living in the hills when I look out the window, seeing nothing but trees and the mystical-seeming fog floating around and blocking out everything in the world that is not central to my love. The fog has a way of heightening my senses -- music sounds crisper, blankets feel cozier, breathing feels more nourishing.

One more..

There's an astronaut who lives in my house. He used to be a little bear, but that was another time. Though sometimes, when his curiosity has taken him out into the wasteland of rage, and he must negotiate the foliage of his fear, he must alone find his footprints that lead him back up the hillside to the place where again he can steady his pulse, and look in my eyes, and gently touch my eyelashes until again he's my little bear.