Harm's way

When President Donald Trump, atop his bully pulpit on Monday, stumbled over the pronunciation of acetaminophen while making his entirely unfounded claim to American women, and, by extension the world, that his administration had absolutely decided without any evidence whatsoever that the drug, when taken during pregnancy, was linked to autism, further instructing that pregnant women should “tough it out” without pain relief or fever reduction, the headlines kept the story aloft as if batting an air-filled balloon between warring toddlers.

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Is it safe?

Presented with this bald-faced lie, the media dug in with all the myriad facts it could muster. These include the known warnings that all drugs can have unwanted effects and that those effects have to be considered against the potential harm of the thing the drug is treating or trying to prevent.

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What can pregnant women do for pain or fever?

They should ask their DOCTOR, not a word salad-spewing former game-show host and his snake-oil selling pals, none of whom seem at all concerned with actual public health.

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The man tweets something out, and entire industries make his words law overnight.

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There is no waiting … except for, maybe, a doctor’s office visit to obtain a prescription for a seasonal vaccine to protect you and your loved ones from preventable illnesses that the government, for no reason other than spite, might now require.

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With all the lather, rinse, and repetition … you’d think our hands would be cleaner.

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But no. It’s all about gumming up the works.

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Where women have legitimate fears and concerns about their healthcare, we now have charlatans in charge … people without a pedigree that should never have been elevated to committee chairs. Instead of due diligence, they are selling raw milk, and treating infections with remedies from farm supply stores. They are acting as if all the answers reside in originalists' remedies.

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Which makes me truly fearful for our kids … who have lived into adulthood because of vaccines and safer remedies for fever reduction – like Tylenol – that studies proved were not linked to Reye's syndrome.

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Like the president just said, pregnant women can prevent autism if they just suffer a little more.

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Maybe one day they will make Leeches and Blood Letting relevant again.

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I worry that the state will turn the endurance of suffering from a matter of faith into a punishable offense if they even suspect suffering had been avoided.​

I hope not.

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But hope, set aside from reason, is something that has a harder time floating lately.

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It shouldn’t be a surprise in a country awash in guns and that is sliding towards authoritarianism, that hope has a lead lining. Why else would our government elevate one political killing over all others? Weaponize it and call for revenge on his enemies?

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In answer to this, more than 50 Democratic representatives signed onto legislation honoring a right-wing activist whose life’s work professed free speech for conservatives to repeat racist, misogynistic tropes, and creating a watch-list for liberal professors to be targeted for harassment.

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It’s not enough to condemn the violence. Of course, it could be if we also got rid of the guns.

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Strong-armed people are not free. And debate isn’t a remedy for a healthy democracy. Although the people doing the strong-arming might be thinking that democracy is the illness they most wish to eradicate.

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Why else would we stay so quiet when they are screaming the ugliest things out loud?

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Maybe it’s because we have debated ourselves into harm’s way.

The Scoop Wars

“I see you got the Whisker 4000 SX,” my neighbor nodded.

It probably wasn’t an exact quote, but it’s what I thought I heard as I tilted my head and stared blankly at her over the fence.

I understood the words individually, but when strung together, they lacked meaning.

“I must have missed an important context. What now?”

“Evidently, you missed the package the delivery truck dropped on your front porch this morning … it looks like you guys got a kitty litter robot.”

“Not guys,” I think sourly. One. Guy.

The H.U.S.B.A.N.D.

He’d be The Guy.

The next realization caused me to erupt into flames.

I know we discussed this ….

We talked about the potential of investing in an automated poop raking machine not only to improve my life (as the chief pooper scooper), but also the lives of our kind and generous neighbors with whom we’ve traded pet care for years. It might also improve the air quality, especially during the summer months when the stifling, odoriferous air tends to stagnate in that part of the house, making the prospect of receiving guests mortifyingly unpleasant.

But aside from the smelly cats, and the man’s guilt reflex being even more reactive than his gag reflex, I had reservations.

The $600 price tag was a big one.

I thought changing cat litter and resolving to scoop at least once a day would be sufficient.

I mean … Even if we didn't have college and car payments and a faltering economy to worry about, I feel like I said quite clearly that I didn’t want to purchase another electrified gadget that measured and analyzed a formerly analog chore that had historically fallen on me to perform.

But the neighbor was right. There it was. On the porch. Blocking the door.

Where would it even fit? The way I saw it, we would have to reconfigure the cats’ powder room (a hallway utility closet) to accommodate its size, which is comparable to a standard washing machine.

I didn't want its smirking, smart technology showing off OR sending reports into the cloud that I would now be required to follow and obsess about.

I certainly didn’t want to be the one to troubleshoot the equipment or re-train the cats.

RE-Train the cats?

I didn’t even have that on my radar until finding a urine-soaked pet bed three days after he’d set up the machine, sans directions.

“One of our fearsome felines is not happy about your new amusement poop ride,” I groused, depositing the sodden textile into a trash bag.

He scratches his head.

“Maybe … it’s the height,” I suggest. The cat is getting older, maybe it's harder for her to make that higher leap? Or maybe the problem is the channeled step, designed to separate the litter from the little paws. Like a grate, the sensation may be something she’d like to avoid?” Perhaps we’ll have to cover it with something so she’ll use it to make the step up?”

With a satirical wink and nod to his mastery over the situation, he was adamant that I should not worry-my-pretty-little-head-about-it.

Which I naturally assured him, I would not.

“You know … I’ve had a think and feel as if I overreacted before. I should have told you how fantastic I think it is that you are taking over the cat poop duties.”

Untended Consequences

 I felt the dryness of the tendrilling vine as I grasped the offending weed and gave it a hard tug. It was only afterward - its withered remains sprawled out in a wheelbarrow – that I recognized the sting of a thousand tiny thorns the “volunteer” had used to try and defend itself from my attempts to tear it, stem and root, from its hiding place beneath my admittedly inglorious hydrangea.

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I assume the blame.

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Last year, the blooms were so large and plentiful they obscured their own leafy greens. I didn’t take credit for them, though, since the entire neighborhood was brimming with stunning floral poms.

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My gardening skills, I will tell you, are, almost in their entirety, knowing the difference between the things I’ve planted and the things that came in on the wind. What I think sets me apart from other black thumbs is how I might decide long after the season ebbs which of the weedy plants I will try to nurture next year.

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It’s not pretty, but the planter box is littered with evening primrose, juniper, and any number of seedlings I didn’t plant.

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“This is just one of a thousand reasons gardening is just NOT my thing,” I tell myself as I tend to the burning in my hand more closely.

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The “burrs” looked innocuous enough. Flat, brown little flakes - like loose tobacco - sticking to the meat of my palm. I tried to brush them off, but only managed to transfer them and their burning sensation to my other hand.

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This could be the ghost of a thistle I planted several years ago for its purulent purple flowers. I had the cheeky thoughts back when I’d reluctantly become a gardener that I would only plant risquély named or appearing flora.

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I imagined nonchalantly telling anyone who asked after the identity of the pretty pink flowers dipping their clustered blooms over a shrub of leafy green at the edge of the driveway, “Oh, that’s Hot Lips Turtlehead.”

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No one ever asked.

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I can’t help but think that was the direct result of my directionless care. For instance, I have no idea what pH number my plants would prefer any more than I know how to make the soil measure up. I also never planned for height or color or lighting needs. Which means each season brings a new surprise.

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Some are remarkable, but most of the surprises are unbecoming to a garden.

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I know it doesn’t take as much effort as I think it will. A few weed plucks here, a few pruning clips there, will give the garden enough shape to look landscaped.

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For all the years my children needed tending at the bus stop, the garden looked unlike nature had always intended.

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Those days are long gone. And while I miss them, I have found ways to move on.

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As I clear away the prior year’s leaf litter —- again — I toy with the idea of scrubbing it all. Scorching the earth…. mowing it all down … maybe even paving it over so the fruits of past labor can’t revisit.

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But I won’t.

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I’ll just plan my time better and always wear gloves.

Call, Waiting

We stood on the street corner, full from a late lunch, just looking at each other silently.

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It had been a long day.

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We had driven two and a half hours with a carload of our son’s favorite possessions, and spent another three hours taking them up to his new dorm room in four trips. The last, inadvisable, one was after I talked the boy into eschewing the line at the elevators and opting to carry the last few items up fifteen flights of stairs instead.

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Essentially, what I had done was condemn us to climbing in circles up a dimly lit, non-air-conditioned stairwell. My armload of feather-light things had me feeling like Sisyphus.

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I made it to the eighth floor before I realized I would have to sit down and rest.

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The boy sprinted onward with his much heavier boxes and returned a few minutes later to find me at the 9th floor, making slower and steadier progress.

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“Boys are different,” I tell myself on a loop. Nearly everything we unpacked was a thing he argued he didn’t need.

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The afternoon was turning to evening, and we had done what we set out to do.

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In his new room on the fifteenth floor of a building that also houses a burger chain restaurant and a bank, his bed was made, his bags unpacked, and his computer was set up and working on his new desk.

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I had hidden the cleaning products he didn’t want to bring in the back of the wardrobe he insisted wasn’t included, behind the three-tiered shoe rack (that he also thought was unnecessary but his father had dutifully assembled at my insistence).  

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I want to say this is not my first rodeo – and that in time my son will come to rely on the surprising comfort of a few unnecessary things, like his sister – but I’m not sure it’s true.

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Once we’d finished, I took a last look around. His first-year room looked sparse in comparison to hers. He looked happy.

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His father pressed the hex key that came with the shoe rack into the boy’s hand, and, in a hushed voice, instructed him to tuck it away despite the likelihood that he would never need it again. Our son smiled and closed his hand around the tool.

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It was time to say our goodbyes.

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There was no sadness. No tears.

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He accepted his dad’s bear hug with a quick release and double shoulder taps. He agreed to call or write with news of his first few days, lest we worry. He didn’t need to be reminded that his parents would miss his presence … even though I kept saying it … like a skip in a record.

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He hugged me last. Holding on a little longer than I know he is comfortable. All for me.

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Maybe he knew I would spend the next few days immersed in his childhood, cleaning his room and finding a small lifetime of treasures and literal trash … not to mention seven water bottles, a mostly uneaten Easter Basket he received in 2021, and MY long-lost backpack under his bed.

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Maybe he didn’t know that’s how I would have to get through the first few days of call waiting.