NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2005

• Moving Forward, Looking Back -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
• Band of Mothers -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
• Beginning Again -- Regina Walker
• Resurrection, Part 2 -- Regina Walker
• It's Like Angry Sex...Only, Tastes Better -- Elizabeth Thompson
• In Search of a Second Opinion -- Stacey Greenberg

Moving Forward, Looking Back

In the Summer of 2002, after having spent a year writing about my personal adventures in motherhood, I had accumulated a dozen or so essays in my portfolio, and was frustrated. Not with the writing process, put with the submission process. I guess I thought national parenting magazines were going to read my essays, recognize my genuis (lol) and immediately offer me my own column.

When that didn't happen, I began submitting to smaller regional markets and online publications. I experienced moderate success, and my essays were posted here and there. I soon realized that smaller niche markets online suited my writing style. After all, I didn't want to write happy-sappy 1000 word tributes to motherhood with neat and tidy endings. I was writing about the joyous, and not-so-joyous, moments of mothering. I wanted to write THE TRUTH.

Not seeing the truth out there, I did what any creatively-frustrated woman would do -- I decided to take things into my own hands. In the Fall of 2002, I launched a webzine called The Philosophical Mother.

I had given birth twice. How hard could self-publishing be? Once upon a time, I had worked in public relations, so I knew to design newsletters for non-profit organizations. Why not design one for myself? I also knew I could take advantaged of new technology which allowed almost anyone to create online magazines, with virtually no start-up costs. While I had never created a website before, my experience in desktop publishing allowed me to get the hang of page design fairly quickly.

The response to my new baby, The Philosophical Mother, was neither immediate nor grand. Nobody was knocking down my doors to read my words. And I learned a quick lesson about the Internet -- You can build it, but that doesn't mean they're going to come.

There are thousands and thousands of websites out there. Sites with the best placement on search engines get the most hits. It takes money for advertising and marketing, if you really want to be make a big splash. Word of mouth helps, but they have to know you're out there, in order to talk about you.

I tried not to let this get me down. I told myself that if nothing else, the webzine was a good way for me to showcase my own writing. It forced me to write on a regular schedule, and allowed me to create an easily accessible online portfolio of my work. It gave me something to focus on besides laundry, shopping, and caretaking. And it fed my creative soul.

Still, as I began posting to the site, I felt as if I were stranded on a deserted island, cut off from the rest of the world. I was unsure if anyone would ever get my "message in a bottle." I held my breath and waited for a response.

In January of 2003, I returned from vacation and found my inbox full with submissions from other mothers. My call for submissions had run in Poets and Writers Magazine over the holidays, and apparently a lot of people had seen it. I had a response from the outside world. Perhaps, I was on to something. Perhaps other mothers were dying to talk about the same things I was dying to talk about.

They had received my message in a bottle, and sent back their own. Contact had been made. There was no turning back.

Over the next three years, I continued to receive submissions from all over the place. Several wonderful writers became regular contributing columnists, and together we posted a monthly webzine for mothers (and fathers) who who wanted to share their honest (sometimes brutally honest) tales of parenting.

Looking back, I am proud of my little webzine that started in the imagination of one woman but expanded to touch the lives of thousands of others. There are over 300 essays in our archives. And sometimes, I go back and read through them just to reconnect with the place and time that these essays represent.

I moved on from The Philosophical Mother in December 2005. My filmmaking and screenwriting began to fulfill my creative energies. Plus, I no longer felt comfortable sharing my children's stories as they aged, and became aware of what Mommy was writing about them online for strangers to read.

Still, the stories I shared, as well as the stories of others, remain here in our archives. They are here so that others may enjoy. They are here so that others may understand. Motherhood can seem lonely and isolating at times. But we are all connected. We are not alone. We struggle, but we get through it.

I survived, and so will you. Our stories bear witness to it all.

***********************
Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold

Band of Mothers

When I was young and single, I wasn’t anything like the women in Sex and the City. My girlfriends and I never sat around over lunch discussing every intimate detail of our sex lives. In reality, us girls talked, but with more modesty and vagueness.

And if any of us were having sexual problems, I never knew it. We just assumed everything was fine and dandy down there. We barely felt comfortable discussing our private parts with our highly-selected gynecologists, let alone our best friends.

However, all that discomfort with my body went out the door once I became a mother. Suddenly, I found myself sharing a common bond with thousands of strangers simply because we had crossed the threshold into motherhood.

I discovered that veteran moms can share “war stories” that are explicit enough to shock those seemingly unshockable chicks from Sex in the City.

After becoming a new mother, it amazed me how many times I found myself sitting in a fast food restaurant sharing the most intimate details of my life with other mothers, while at the same time doling out happy meal prizes. We easily conversed about episiotomies, hemorrhoids, engorged breasts, bowel movements, and other unmentionables as if we were discussing the weather.

Usually, we discovered that while our birthing experiences were similar, they were also each unique and special too. Thus, we found ourselves in a secret sisterhood – bound together by something so enormous that before we had children, even we could not comprehend it.

We were survivors of war. And we had the C-section scars to prove it.

MOMMY BOOT CAMP

Pregnancy, as I see it, is sort of the motherhood Boot Camp. For nine months, future mommies are put through grueling physical tests and hazing rituals. Eventually, this madness culminates in our entry into the sisterhood of Mothers.

The humiliation in Boot Camp is great, starting with the monthly weigh-ins at the OB’s office and culminating in the Hell Night ritual that results in the birth of your child. The many discomforts of Boot Camp include, sleep deprivation, morning sickness, mood swings, fatigue, cravings, bloating, constipation, and varicose veins.

This Boot Camp experience is about toughening us up as mommy soldiers for the real battle ahead: Parenthood.

For as grueling as pregnancy and labor are, parenthood includes the daily skirmishes of “The Toddler Wars” and “The Teenage Rebellion.” Therefore, we are put through rigorous drills for nine to tens months in preparation for what lies ahead.

Motherhood, it seems, is not for the weak in body or spirit.

THE BLOODY BATTLE

As if Boot Camp is not hellish enough, the real terror lies in the fact that all of us mommies-to-be know that the only way to become mothers is to live through the greatest trial of our life: THE BLOODY BATTLE aka LABOR AND DELIVERY.

During the labor, we often languish for hours in intense pain, terrified that we (or our precious cargo) will perish during the battle. However, we push on and brace ourselves for the onslaught.

If we are lucky, Boot Camp has prepared us well. And if we are really, really lucky, the baby will conveniently pop out with one or two pushes and we won’t feel a thing.

Not all labor is "flesh-and-blood" bloody, but more metaphorically bloody. For adoptive mothers, The Bloody Battle of labor, tied up in paperwork and bureaucracy, can lasts for months, instead of days.

SELECTIVE AMNESIA

I find that after emerging victoriously after the Bloody Battle, most mothers immediately begin the process of selective amnesia. We look down at the perfect baby in our arms and forget most of the worst parts of the entire bloody experience. Later on, when others ask about our labor or adoption experiences, most of us will not share the truly gruesome horrors.

Giving life is painful, difficult, and terrifying. However, most of us forget this and willingly sign up for second, third, or even more Tours of Duty.

Many of us are even good at recruiting future moms. Yet, there are times when recruitment gets tricky. While most civilians (i.e. non-moms) do not want to know intimate labor stories, every once in a while you get an expectant mom who demands to hear every detail, so that she can be prepared. My first thought is to scream back at the naive mommy-to-be like Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men – “You can’t handle the truth!”

Instead, rather than destroy the future-mommy’s bliss, I answer, “To be honest . . . it’s really hard. The hardest thing I ever had to do.”

If her face goes blank and I fear she will faint, I quickly add, “But yours might not be. Besides see what you get when it’s done.” At which point I then gesture lovingly toward my own precious offspring.

POST TRAUMATIC STRESS SYNDROME:

Like all wars, returning to civilain life after labor isn't easy at all. Most new mothers are shocked to realize that not only do we no longer fit into our old clothes -- we also don't quite fit into our old lives.

We return home in a daze, with uncertainty and fear about our new roles. To add to the uneasiness, many new moms discover that instead of feeling blissful, we feel overwhelmed, exhausted, and depressed. Post-partum blues happen to the very best of us. These feelings are intense, and especially disturbing because they come at a time which is supposed to be joyful.

But these feelings are quite normal, caused by wicked hormonal fluctuations, coupled with sleep deprivation, and round-the-clock caretaking.

The goods news is that this initial shock eventually goes away, just in time to go back into battle and have another baby.

WAR STORIES:

The fact is that motherhood, like war, changes a person’s life forever. And it also affects the way a woman thinks and feels about her body.

It is very difficult to be modest after having gone through labor and have had dozens of strangers peek and poke at your private regions. It’s impossible to be bashful when your body has been ripped apart and put back together again. It’s ridiculous not to talk explicitly when so much of who you are seems to be directly tied to your sexuality and physicality as a woman.

As mothers, we each possess a distinct and amazing “war story” to share. We’ve been to hell and back and we’ve lived to tell about it. The victories are mostly sweet and beautiful, but sometimes marred by sadness or unspeakable tragedy. Either way they are ours. And we WILL NOT FORGET.

For there are many stinging defeats scattered along the path to glorious motherhood. We want and need to share these experiences. Mostly, we are ecstatic to find instant camaraderie with strangers who share a common language and understanding of the universe simply because they are mothers, like us.

Motherhood is the ultimate hero’s journey. We begin this journey, like all heroes, with reluctance, and an unwillingness to change. We slowly overcome our reluctance and begin preparing for big changes. Then we are put through a series of physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual tests.

Labor, of course, is our ultimate task – the threshold we must cross in order to complete our journey. It is also the point of no return and the moment in which each of us confronts our greatest fears, and our own possible death. Each mother completes her heroic journey transformed and reborn by the experience, and rewarded with the gift of her baby’s life.

As a mother, I am amazed not only by myself, but by all the other women who have come before and will come after me. Despite the risks and dangers, we do not flinch from our destinies. And while history may never acknowledge women’s sacrifices or accomplishments as mothers, I know that there is tremendous strength and valor in each and every ordinary woman who enters the battlefield of motherhood.

We will probably never get a "Mommy Veteran's Day" parade or a Mommy Memorial to commemorate our heroic accomplishments. So we'll celebrate our deeds in our own way. We will continue to pass each other in the park, and nod in silent recognition. And when we get together, we will talk, and talk, and talk about our experiences -- blood, and guts, and all.

Sure, real war may be the bonding experience that makes all men brothers, but motherhood is that which makes all women sisters.

Beginning Again

“To risk nothing is to take the greatest risk of all.”

To paraphrase Albert Einstein, I have been practicing my own brand of insanity by continuing to do the same thing over and over again and hoping to achieve different results. It has taken turning 41 years old and experiencing an existential loneliness that defies a description comprised of merely words to awaken me to the pattern I have lived a life in.

I am pessimistic by nature though I often disguise myself as a realist. I had always thought my inherent pessimism and avoidant personality shielded me from rejection or profound hurt. Then I had children. Though I remained a pessimist, my heart no longer solely resided within me; protected behind walls and within armor. Instead, it wandered around me in no particular pattern while embodied in two little boys who do not wear armor and who have a penchant for bridges.

At first, I ran behind them with my invisible net at which they would laugh and shriek and then run away faster. So I began to change -- to shift -- to become someone else. I have not so much allowed myself to be hurt but something was born within me when my sons came into being. Part of me awoke and I began to yearn for connection.

But connection has never been my forte so I am not very good at it. I have reached out over the last few years; awkwardly and cautiously and gotten hurt. I feel emotionally like a much younger person. Rejection stings at any age but it seems somewhat more intense now. I realize too that I am mourning the loss of that which I have never allowed myself to have which makes the pain even more poignant.

I have come to truly believe and accept that when one door closes at least one other opens. But I have spent so much time and energy in the past banging on the closed doors that I have been unable or unwilling to see the doors that newly open for me. I also think I have been afraid. The risk it would take to cross the thresholds of those unknown doorways has been an invisible barrier for me.

I have chosen, though often unconsciously, to remain in darkened hallways afraid of taking a chance. But in risking nothing I have been taking the greatest risk of all. So I am starting to cross some thresholds. Slowly, fearfully but with a grain of faith and hope. And tightly holding a small hand on either side of me.

*************************************
Copyright 2005 Regina Walker

Regina Walker is a psychotherapist in NYC. Her work has appeared in numerous publications including Hip Mama, widdershins, Mamaphiles 2, Moondance, Motherverse, and Literary Vision. She can be reached at cswcasac@aol.com.

Resurrection, Part 2

“Karma is a boomerang”

I have been remembering my dreams lately. This is an enormous anomaly as I normally sleep the sleep of the dead and awake feeling that merely a moment has passed.

My dreams recently have been invaded by people whom I have lost. I dreamed of my father the other night who died nine years ago of cancer. In the dream he is apologizing for never really being there for me. I walk through the dream simply dumbfounded that he is there at all. I remember little of what he said to me in the dream and when I awake, of course, I realize he wasn’t really there.

I have also dreamed of my sister who has been dead for 25 years now. In the dream she is still 19 years old and I am my older, wiser, current version. I am overwhelmed in the dream and bombarding her with questions. “Where have you been? Why did you allow us to believe you were dead so long?”

She responds matter of factly that mistakes happen. She just went away for awhile and she plans to go away again. “You shouldn’t worry so much”. I remember that comment most from the dream as it is something she would say to me often 25 years ago.

I awake from these dreams uneasy and disoriented. Why am I channeling so much of my past? My sister and my father, though close in the sense of biology, remained distant in life. Their presence within the intimacy of my dreams leaves me uneasy and questioning.

And I have been dreaming of other people from my past who have been absent from my day to day life, in some cases, for many, many years. The business that remains unfinished with people in my life both dead and still living emerges.

I am moving away from the belief that I am what I have been through. That belief has limited me but I have not realized it until very recently. Unconsciously and unknowingly I have accepted that what I have done and who I have been before would always be the determining factor on what I could be and do in the future.

I feel in some way I am breaking free. I have begun to see the future as a blank canvas on which the shadows of my past no longer linger. I can create what I want which is both frightening and freeing.

“You shouldn’t worry so much.”

And yet I do. Or I did. Though I fight against myself I know I cannot be in two places at once. The past with all its’ pain and glory is no longer. And the future is mine alone.

**********************************
Copyright 2005 Regina Walker

Regina Walker is a writer and psychotherapist in NYC. She can be reached at cswcasac@aol.com.

It's Like Angry Sex...Only, Tastes Better

By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson

There’s this place I know, out-of-the-way although easily reached, where the sky meets the earth in the midst of gentle rolling hills dressed in soothing shades of green and lavender.

Soothing currents of air, sweetly scented in herbs and berries, gently intersect amid shade and stippled rays of sunshine that fracture the shadows with multi-colored warmth that rouse the little hairs on the back of the neck.

There is peace, and quiet. And happiness abounds.

You can’t get there by car, bus or train and need not pack a bag or a map, because it’s never in the same spot except easy to find.

**heavy sigh**

It’s my happy place.

When I lose all sense of control and nothing seems to go right -- and I’m not right, so the kids are not right -- I go to my happy place.

The kitchen.

**dog begins to bark**

“Daddy’s home!”

**slamming front door**

“Where’s Mommy?”

**banging pots**

“Nevermind.”

**walks into kitchen and loosens tie**

“Any news about Mom?”

**wiping brow, adjusting all four burners to full blast**

Here’s the thing – I’ve spent the last twelve years raising four children and killer dust bunnies – I cannot speak a complete and coherent sentence, consecutively.

I mean, in my mind, it makes absolute and total sense. But, one way or another, the words begin mingling with thoughts and, wel, listen:

“They’re releasing her from the hospital today….they can’t tell me what’s wrong with her….but they’re sending her home….called the cardiologist myself…test results aren’t all in….and he’s sending her home….should have some answers in a couple of days….told me not to worry….can’t tell me why I shouldn’t….should have some answers soon….did I mention that they’re sending her home today?”

**ears begin to ring**

“Maybe it’s her heart, maybe not….”

**warning lights begin to flash**

“….I’m thinking…lips turning purple and fingertips turning blue…definitely not good!”

**lips quiver and hands begin to buzz**

“Telling me not to worry….WTF am I supposed to do….sit here…take his word for it and watch everything turn to shit?!?”

**all system shut down…and I am re-routed to happy place**

“We’re having steamed chicken with fresh tomato, garlic and basil salsa. Cauliflower mashed with butter and chives with a loaf of crusty bread on the side. And for dessert, I made you some of my tiramisu. Oh, and I made a pot of chicken soup to take to Mom tomorrow.”

**blank stare**

“What?”

**shakes head**

“You’re nuts!” He says.

And my happy place quickly dissolved into sweltering house overflowing with empty DVD covers and snack food wrappers, bits and pieces of Polly Pockets and dried-up Play Doh, kitchen scraps, empty grocery bags and used mixing bowls.

But the smells were heavenly!!

And I shrugged my shoulders, grabbed my husband by his collar and kissed him deeply. You see, my husband is on a mission -- an ongoing quest it seems -- to successfully synchronize our sex drives.

Lately, we suck.

I don’t mean to imply that we do this in a sexual manner or that it’s not for the lack of wanting.

Our timing is a little off, that’s all.

Most days my husband and I meet at our coffee maker, giggling, whispering and openly flirting with each other.

“Ooooh, you smell good!”

“Yeah, and do I look as good as I smell?”

“Oh yeah – and I bet you taste just as good too!”

“Just wait ‘til tonight!”

And we’d give each other a playful grope before heading in two different directions.

I’d go about my day, typically spent behind the wheel of our minivan, feeling all saucy; my husband would sit behind his desk and fantasize on what exactly it is I have planned for him for the night.

Psst, after 15 years of marriage, I can still be very…um…creative.

We’d sail through supper, rush through baths and homework -- giving each other sexy glances and sometimes a sexual innuendo or two -- skip story time and tuck our four kiddies in for the night.

After all, we’ve waited all day for just the right moment. The children are visibly asleep. We turn down the lights. We get all cozy…and then swiftly fall asleep.

To be honest -- after a full day of coping with tons of extended family issues, cajoling four unhappy children and juggling a book of nasty customers (or visa-versa) -- even the best laid plans are usually the only thing getting…you know…around this full house.

Oh well.

Later, watching the kids clean the last of their plates and listening to their praises of, “That chicken soup was awesome,” and “You are the best cooker, ever,” I sipped on a deliciously crispy glass of chardonnay and found myself feeling pleasantly full.

“How was dinner?”

**taking the last of my bread**

“Great! But, you didn’t have to cook on such a hot day.”

**finishing my wine**

“You know how I get….when I’m all nervous or pissed off….I have to cook!”

**shaking his head**

“Yeah, I’m sorry you feel so shitty, but it’s like, I’m sort of excited, too.” He says.

**synchronizing watches**

“At least, I know I’ll be eating well for the next couple of days.”

**laughing and snorting wine through my nose**

“Yeah, it’s kind of like angry sex….only….it tastes better!”

*******************************
Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson

Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.

In Search of a Second Opinion

I was a “good girl” growing up. I did what I was told for the most part and didn’t ask a lot of questions. In college I quickly learned that the way to get good grades was to tell the professor exactly what s/he wanted to hear. I was a “go with the flow” kind of person with very few expectations.

But when I got pregnant, something changed. I started questioning everything. I’m sure it is a typical maternal response, but I found my newfound inquisitiveness somewhat thrilling. Formerly unused parts of my brain started to flutter and tingle, much like the baby growing in my belly. I shocked a lot of my friends and family by having a homebirth, not vaccinating, and doing other things that aren’t deemed mainstream.

I was lucky to find a family doctor who supported the homebirth midwives and parents who chose not to vaccinate their children. Between Dr. Cool and the information (and people) I found on the Internet, questioning authority soon became second nature to me--especially when it came to my children’s health.

This summer, after weeks of coughing fits, combined with what came to be known as the “cough/puke maneuver,” my three-year-old son was diagnosed with asthma. I was devastated. We have no family history of asthma. I am the anti-smoking Nazi. Second-hand smoke does not come near my offspring. However, we do have several pets and my husband discovered unknown mounds of dust lurking under large pieces of furniture.

Dr. Cool decided to treat Satchel aggressively with a steroid shot and Singulair, but after a few weeks of taking it, I didn’t see much improvement. The fact that Satchel wasn’t getting any better made me a little crazy. I had Warren take him in to see Dr. Cool again, but he ended up seeing the nurse practitioner instead. He came home with a prescription for a decongestant and an antibiotic. Frustrated, I e-mailed Dr. Cool.

Hi Dr. Cool,

You diagnosed Satchel with asthma, gave him a steroid shot and handed me several samples of Singulair. When they ran out, you called in a prescription for me, even though I expressed concerns about whether it was working. You asked me to try it for a few more weeks and keep a chart. I did both.

Satchel has continued to cough and even wake up in the middle of the night and vomit several times a week. He also vomits in the evening and in the morning. There is a coughing fit followed by vomit at least once every other day, if not more. He does not seem to be gasping for air when he coughs, but the cough will not go away. Sometimes he makes some really bizarre noises while coughing.

Warren brought him in yesterday. Erin said she heard no wheezing and prescribed a decongestant and an antibiotic. He doesn't appear sick and has not slowed down in any way over 8+ weeks. I would think if he had a bacterial infection, it would have worsened over the past few months.

I am really frustrated and I just want my child to stop coughing and puking everyday. Please advise.

Thank you,

Stacey
****

Stacey,

I would be frustrated also. The antibiotics are a good idea for such a difficult situation. I would finish that course. Get my nurse to help set you up for chest X-ray if he has not had one. I think he will need to see an allergist or a pediatric pulmonary specialist after the x-ray, even if it is normal. It sounds more like asthma than anything, but should have been responsive to our aggressive therapy.

Dr. Cool

***
Dr. Cool,

Thanks. I will call and set up an appointment for an X-ray. Should I give him the decongestant or go back to the Singulair?

Stacey

***
Stacey,

I like giving him the decongestant, the antibiotic and the Singulair. But, if you see the allergist or pulmonologist, discontinue all meds for four days before appt.

Dr. Cool

***

I really didn’t like the idea of pumping my three-year-old full of multiple, possibly unneccessary, medications. I called the allergist, who was very nice. He said I should go to the pulmonary specialist first. He gave me a name, number, and offered to call on my behalf if I couldn’t get an appointment within the week. I was quite pleased until he said, “Has your son had his DPT shot?” When I said no, he replied, “Well then, we really need to get him in fast.”

That freaked me out enough to google “diptheria” and “pertussis.” After reading a few pages, I was 100% convinced that Satchel had pertussis (a.k.a. whooping cough). Instead of freaking out, I was elated. Now, most people might expect a mother to be upset by the news that her offspring has whooping cough. Not me. The smoking gun, I thought. Now we can cure him!

I called Warren to tell him the good news. “It’s whooping cough,” I told him happily. “We’re off to the pulmonary specialist now.” I felt like Super Mom. I fought for answers until I found one and now I have a same day appointment with a specialist! I thought.

After filling out numerous forms, taking various tests, and talking to a number of nurses, Satchel and I busied ourselves wiping each other with sterile alcohol swabs until Dr. Lung walked in and asked, “So what brings you here today?”

“Whooping cough,” I happily announced.

Dr. Lung looked skeptical. “Is he up to date on his vaccinations?” he asked.

“He hasn’t had any vaccinations,” I chirped.

Dr. Lung looked appalled. “Why not?” he asked.

Uh-oh. I put on my I'm a serious, smart mom face. “My husband and I chose not to vaccinate our children for various reasons with the support of our pediatrician, Dr. Cool,” I said.

His face relaxed a little. “Ok, let me take a look,” he said. He listened to Satchel’s breathing, looked in his mouth and ears, etc. “How long has he been coughing?” he asked.

“Three months,” I said. And then I went through the whole game of “is it asthma or is it an infection” that I’d been playing at Dr. Cool’s.

He listened patiently and then asked, “Is anyone else in the house sick? Is there a family history of asthma?”

“No and no,” I said.

“Whooping cough usually only lasts a couple of weeks,” he said. “And everyone in the house would have it.”

My face fell.

“But, I don’t think he has asthma either. I don’t hear any wheezing,” he said.

That cheered me up a bit.

“I can just look at his face and tell you it is allergies. See these dark circles under his eyes?” he asked. I nodded. I always thought of the dark circles as shadows cast by Satchel’s impossibly long eyelashes. “We call those ‘allergy shiners.’ And he has a lot of mucous draining down his throat—enough to make him cough and even vomit.”

Next we had a discussion about whether or not Satchel would allow me to shoot a nasal spray up his nostrils once a day. Then Dr. Lung said he was going to prescribe an antibiotic. “Why?” I asked.

“We know it isn’t whooping cough, but just in case it is, Zithromax will zap it.”

“Okay, so you ‘know’ it isn’t whooping cough, but you want to treat it anyway?” I asked.

He nodded. “I’m also prescribing Zyrtec for allergies.”

“Then can he stop taking the Singulair?” I asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “Let’s get him well and then we’ll start taking away medicines.”

“Thanks,” I said looking for the exit, tallying the medications I was supposed to give my 35 pound child in my head. I dutifully dropped off the prescriptions at the pharmacy, but I told myself that I would get more information before actually giving any of it to Satchel.

I called my boyfriend, Dr. Vaccine, and set up an appointment for the next week. "It's not pertussis," I dejectedly told him, "Or asthma," I added a bit more perkily.

I entered into an e-mail debate with Dr. Cool and tried desperately to get him to say Satchel didn't need to take all of the medications, but he didn't. (Even though I liked questioning authority, I also like to appear cooperative.) After much back and forth I finally wrote him and reminded him of his earlier e-mail that said, “But, if you see the allergist or pulmonologist, discontinue all meds for four days before appt.”

I talked to my doctor friend, my midwife friend, and other parents who all seemed to agree that I had amassed an awful lot of medications for Satchel’s cough. “Definitely don’t give him the antibiotics,” they all advised.

Something inside me still believed it might be whooping cough so I decided to give Satchel the antibiotics anyway. Then a funny thing happened. Satchel stopped coughing and puking and really seemed fine. I was thrilled and confused. By the time our appointment with the allergist rolled around, I wondered if we really needed to go. Since he had been so nice on the phone, I opted to take Satchel “just in case.”

Dr. Vaccine's office was full of extremely nice people who didn’t make us wait at all. I was actually startled by how fast Dr. Vaccine came in the examination room. The nurse conducted the allergy test and the entire staff was amazed at how calmly Satchel handled being poked 20+ times with a stick.

We discovered that Satchel had an extremely mild reaction to mold and dust. Dr. Vaccine suggested covering our mattress and pillows with a special cover and then, like Dr. Lung, prescribed Nasonex and Zyrtec. (To his credit he did say the Singulair seemed unnecessary at this point.) This time I didn’t even bother dropping off the prescriptions.

I feel good about not blindly accepting the asthma diagnosis and not dispersing unneccessary medications, but I wonder if all of my questioning did more harm than good. I dragged Satchel to six different appointments with three different doctors and then didn’t listen to anything any of them told me. The only thing I did listen to was the “it isn’t asthma” part, which I guess is all I really wanted to hear in the first place.

I am really glad that Satchel has returned to good health, even though I don’t know exactly why. I still believe it is important to question authority, but I am going to have to come to terms with the fact that not all questions have answers.

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Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg

Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.