I Am Thinking Today About the Women in Texas

My only tattoo which I got right after Brett Kavanaugh
was confirmed to the Supreme Court    

How many women in the U.S. found out today that they are pregnant? Hundreds? Thousands maybe?

Of those women, how many live in Texas?

Today I am thinking about those women.

For some, this is joyful news. Some of these women probably have been trying for a baby for months or years. Some probably didn't expect or plan for it, but are still excited despite it being a surprise. I am of course happy for all these women.

For other women, though, today is the worst day of their lives. However they came to be pregnant, they do not want to be pregnant. And their state government has put a bounty on their heads if they decide to do anything other than carry to term. Their state government has given their neighbors 10,000 reasons to remove their bodily agency and make their lives hell. The question of with whom to share this news just got a lot more complicated. 

Let's get one thing straight: Whether or not to have an abortion is a decision that no woman wants to be in a position to have to make. Being grateful to have a choice is not the same as enjoying making it. I don't think it's wild to suggest that if it were possible to travel back in time and not get pregnant vs. have an abortion, most (if not all) women would choose the former. The barriers of time and space, however, result in many women having to make a decision they would prefer not to have to make. 

Still, nearly all women who make the decision to get an abortion don't regret it. The few who do make a lot of noise. I don't want to discredit their pain. It's real, it's their truth. But given that it is such a slim minority, it is what researchers would call statistically insignificant and should not be the focus of the debate. 

Another thing: Banning abortion will not make abortion obsolete. Women with money and privilege will still get them. So restricting access to abortion only harms poor women. The women who can't afford to take off work to cross state lines. Who can't afford the procedure. Who can't get a ride. Who can't arrange childcare. It only makes dangerous abortion drugs and procedures more common than safe ones. 

Almost 1 in 4 women in the U.S. will get an abortion before age 45. How these unplanned pregnancies occur should not, from a policy standpoint, matter. The woman who was raped is no more or less deserving than the woman whose partner's condom broke, or who forgot take her birth control pill, or who grew up in one of the 26 states where sex education is not mandated (or one of the 5 states where abstinence is the only method of pregnancy prevention that is allowed to be taught). It doesn't matter if you're 14 or 40.

I was 25. I was living in New York and I went to a clinic referred by my OBGYN. It's not a particularly remarkable or harrowing story. And I'm in the 95% who do not regret the decision I made. But this isn't about me; I only share this information because I don't think it should be taboo to talk about or that anyone should feel ashamed about having gotten an abortion for whatever reason. Bottom line: If a woman is pregnant and does not want to be pregnant, she should be able to get an abortion if she wants one. The End, thanks for coming to my TED Talk. 
Finally, an existential question that might seem crazy to ask: Is it always better to be born?
I'm thinking of babies born to people who don’t want to be parents, who don’t have the means or skills to properly care for a child. Who don’t have a stable, safe environment in which to raise a child. Who struggle just to feed and take care of themselves. I think of the struggles facing the children born to those parents. Who may end up being emotionally or physically abused or neglected, who may come to understand that they were/are unwanted. Against all odds, yes, some of them will thrive. But some most definitely will not. 

Not to mention we’re also in the middle of a mass extinction event. We feel like the world is ending because, well, it is. The planet is literally dying and the earth's ecosystems are collapsing. I'm thinking of the tremendous challenges ahead for future generations. Do we really want to be making it harder for people to decide whether to bring children into this world we are in the final stages of destroying?

Anyone born now is going to grow up dealing with the catastrophic repercussions of our climate science denial (not mention other reckonings coming like the backlash of unchecked capitalism and the hard work of dismantling white supremacy and systemic inequality etc etc). The unborn that some want so desperately to protect - I wonder, are we essentially consigning them to an existence defined by pain and struggle? Dropping them into a hopeless, unsalvageable situation they cannot fix?

These are questions I think about, when I think about having children. The future of our species is an open question, but I'm pretty sure policing reproductive health and forcing women into motherhood is not the solution. There are people alive right now who are suffering due to a lack of resources, from healthcare to clean water to housing to education, who are more deserving of our energy and attention.

So I'm thinking today about the women in Texas. They need more than my thoughts, however. They need all the help and protection they can get, so here are some places I am sending my money:

TEA Fund
Avow

ACLU Texas

Fund Texas Choice

Whole Woman’s Health Alliance

The Lilith Fund

National Abortion Federation

Center for Reproductive Rights

Jalapeno Hands

This person is in for a world of pain

Last Sunday, I experienced pretty severe pain due to my exposure to capsaicin, the compound in jalapeno peppers that makes them hot (and has been weaponized into pepper spray). Apparently, it was not wise of me to de-seed and slice two dozen giant Whole Foods jalapenos without wearing gloves. Thus I bring you the latest chapter in my unusual medical misfortunes (which have included a kidney stone, an allergic reaction to jellyfish and a bellybutton cyst).

My Super Bowl party was a classic Katie Vagnino hapless debacle even before the kick-off. As usual, what started out a small, low-key event escalated out of my control. The guest list went from less than six to ten people, and the menu expanded from just chili and chips, to chili, 9-layer dip, cornbread, guacamole, and bacon-wrapped jalapeno poppers. I really needed a sous chef. Especially when around 3pm, it dawned on me that when I had looked up the kickoff time online (6:30), that was in EST. I keep forgetting that I no longer live on the East Coast, you guys. So at 3pm, I had TWO hours before my guests would start arriving, not three. FML.

I lowered my head and got chopping and initially, I was making good time. I got the chili on first, then made the guac (one of the 9 layers in the dip). Around 4:30, I started prepping the poppers, figuring, we could eat them at half-time (they only need about 15 min in the oven). I cut up about 6 of them and then remembered that I hadn't yet put on any make-up. I know it's the Super Bowl and whatever, but I did not want to receive guests (some of whom I had never met) without my face on. So I washed my hands thoroughly (or so I thought) and went to the bathroom. Oh, VANITY.

You can probably guess what happened next -- I accidentally touched my eye and all hell broke loose. My face turned splotchy and red, my right eye clenched shut, and yes, I started screeching. My BF Chris was there and immediately got online to find the cure: milk. I needed to put milk IN MY EYE. Somehow, we managed it as a team effort -- I dribbled enough in that the pain started to abate. Then predictably, the doorbell rang. Party time!

I opened the door with a giant milk stain on my shirt and my right eye still swollen shut. Fortunately, my guests were gracious enough to not run away in terror. 

You would think the absurdity ends there, but it doesn't. I abandoned the poppers for a while, but the unfinished task bothered me. Those jalapenos had gotten the best of me. I had promised in the Facebook event invitation that there would be jalapeno poppers. SO GODDAMMIT, I was going to finish. I just wouldn't touch my face.

So I made them. And they were delicious, stuffed with a cream cheese and spicy mustard blend, and wrapped in bacon. They were gone in minutes. Everyone enjoyed the food, drank beer, watched the game. After a rocky start, the party ended up being okay, more than okay. 

Then about an hour after everyone left, my fingers started tingling and not in a good way. Tingling transitioned swiftly into burning and a Google search of "finger burns from peppers" confirmed that I had "jalapeno hands." 

There were dozens of sites where people told stories similar to mine -- chopped or handled jalapenos and had burning hands as a result. But the problem was the everyone had different suggestions as to how to best relieve the pain. Based on internet suggestions, I tried soaking my hands in:

--cold milk
--vegetable oil
--hot water with dishwasher soap
--lemon juice
--nail polish remover

Cold milk worked best, but only temporarily -- I soaked my hands for literally two hours but the second I took them out, the burning came back. Around 1am, I needed to try to find a solution in order to sleep. I couldn't bring a bowl of cold milk into bed with me (though I'm sure my cat would have been psyched). One woman on a website insisted that urine (because of the acid) would do the trick. I considered peeing on my hands. It was a dark hour.

But I didn't. And then another "natural" remedy caught my eye: saliva. As one commenter astutely noted, your mouth doesn't burn for hours when you eat jalapenos, so it must be doing something right.

I climbed into bed warily. And started sucking on my fingers. And holy Jesus, IT WORKED. The miracle of science!  My mouth did burn a little, but it was nothing compared to the pain on my fingers. Saliva is strong shit, man! After about thirty minutes of licking and sucking on my hands (yes, I know, gross), the pain subsided enough for me to pass out. And when I woke the next morning, it was totally gone.

Jalapeno hands. I don't recommend them.

I bet I know more about feline diabetes than you do

Maude's diagnosis has put her in some very distinguished company.

A recent vet visit revealed that Maude's long streak of perfect health is finally over. She is diabetic and I must now give her twice-daily injections of insulin and feed her special food. It is certainly the beginning of a new chapter in our lives together.

But I'm coping -- and doing lots of internet research. Cornell University College of Veterinary Medicine has a very helpful video series featuring some adorable cat actors. And this website has some very dramatic rhetoric: "Your Emotions Will Be Raw" cautions one section; another warns that:

Gone are the days of putting out food and water, giving a quick pat on the head, and hurrying out the door ... Friends, relatives, and co-workers may make insensitive comments that you are crazy to care for a chronically ill pet. Although it is difficult, try to ignore the unsupportive people - they do not understand the special bond of love that you share with your pet. Their inability to have compassion for an animal means that they will never experience the pure and unconditional love that can be shared between a human and a companion animal.

Damn!

I'm going to be the best caregiver that I can and take it one day at a time. Apparently, feline diabetes can go into remission and not all cats need insulin for their entire lives. Honestly, though, the syringe is tiny and Maude doesn't seem to mind so far. And if anything, she likes her new food more than the stuff I was feeding her. So we're adjusting. Our emotions are a little raw but we'll pull through. Feline "diabeetus": it's not a death sentence.

You give me fever

...."You" in this case being strep throat. I've got it, and my temperature today at the doctor's office: 101.8. Is it hot in here, or is that just me?

Having a fever really validates that you're sick. It's like the ultimate trump card, definitive proof that you are not well and thus cannot go to school, work, etc. No one questions you if you have a fever. I rarely get fevers, which is maybe why I still find them sort of exotic. As a kid, I always hoped the thermometer would give me numerical evidence that would make it seem merely coincidental that I had been struck down by illness on the very same day as my math test. Unfortunately, my temp was usually a stubbornly normal 98.6 and I had to rely on my acting skills to get out of school.

Today, however? Today I have an actual fever. Which sucks, because from what I can tell, it's gorgeous out. But I'm contagious and thus have to spend all day indoors, with only Maude to keep me company. And let's face it, she's not the greatest conversationalist. And even if she were, I can't really talk anyway since my throat is so sore. I cannot swallow without severely wincing and/or crying out. I've tried Chloroseptic, lozenges, gargling salt water, and copious amounts of ibuprofen (seriously, I practically OD'ed on Advil yesterday, taking 6 times the recommended daily dosage), but nothing soothes the pain.

I've had tonsillitis twice and strep throat several times. Apparently, my tonsils just aren't up to their designated task, which is to keep me from getting sick, not make me sick. From the Wikipedia entry on "tonsil":

These immunocompetent tissues represent the defense mechanism of first line against ingested or inhaled foreign pathogens. Like other organs of the lymphatic system, some believe them to be involved in helping fight off pharyngeal and upper respiratory tract infections, but there is no conclusive evidence to that effect.

Immunocompetent? More like immunoINcompetent if you ask me (zing!). I give my tonsils about a D- and that's being generous.

Another thing about tonsils: they are really ugly. Seriously, this is the stuff of nightmares:

Let's get a closer look, shall we?

I'm sorry, but THAT'S FUCKING DISGUSTING. That picture came from a decidedly anti-tonsil site that had this to say about tonsils:

Although the tonsils and adenoids, when healthy, do help fight infections, sometimes they cause much more trouble than they are worth. If the tonsils are frequently or chronically infected, they are no longer working properly. In fact, they have been 'subverted' by the enemy bacteria, acting as reservoirs for infection.

In other words, your tonsils can become TRAITOR TONSILS!

I hope, right now, a battle is taking place on my tonsils and that the antibiotics I took this morning are kicking some serious ass. This is what I imagine the antibiotics look like:


TAKE THAT, STREP THROAT!

*Ok, I know I'm abusing the ALL-CAPS. But cut me some slack: I have a fever, remember?


WTF ADDENDUM: I have just learned from my doctor that my throat culture came back positive for Group C strep. Apparently, I have an unusual strain -- A & B are the common ones. All Wikipedia says about group C is:

Includes S. equi, which causes strangles in horses,^[10] and S. zooepidemicus - S. equi is a clonal descendent or biovar of the ancestral S. zooepidemicus - which causes infections in several species of mammals including cattle and horses.

I HAVE CATTLE AND HORSE STREP???!?!?!?!?

Am I unknowingly a cow or a horse?

I am stunned by this new development. Fortunately, the antibiotics I am taking should work against my weird farm animal variety of strep. Thank God for small favors.

Sorry for the unannounced 2-week hiatus

Blog!

I have not forsaken you, despite the evidence to the contrary. I've been traveling....and there's a big post coming soon about my trip to Puerto Rico, a.k.a The Enchanted Isle (or "Echanted Isle" as one poorly edited website called it).

For a little teaser, I will say that it was a great trip, with just the right balance of physical activity (hiking, kayaking, salsa dancing) and lounging around by the pool and on the beach. And of course, it wouldn't be a Vagnino vacation without a Mysterious Medical Ailment! In addition to my tan, I have come home with approximately 117 itchy red bumps, mostly on my forearms. Can you guess which of the following is to blame? (Answer to be revealed in the next post)

A. Mosquito
B. Jellyfish
C. Poison Ivy
D. Chupacabra
Tune in soon for photos and more details....

Fall cold

Ladies and gentlemen, it's true: I have been felled by the fall cold that strikes many a weak-immuned person.


As thoroughly documented on this blog, my immune system is a total asshole. I have the Bernie Madoff of immune systems. And given the erratic temperatures in Boston lately, it should come as no surprise that I woke up this morning with the telltale scratchy throat and achy sinuses. I look like hell and I feel like crap. Or wait, maybe I look like crap and I feel like hell?

Beyond the obvious culprits (weather, white blood cells that don't do their frickin' jobs), someone or something else must be to blame. In between sneezes, I compiled this list of suspects:

1) Sneezing chick who sat next to me on the T last week (you know who you are)

2) Any of my undergrad students at the Emerson writing center, because let's face it, dorms are cesspools of disease

3) The Republican party

4) My cat, Maude

Ok, so some of these are more likely than others, but still, it's smart to cast the net wide in any initial scapegoat search. When I find out whose responsible for my nasty cold, THEY WILL PAY.

Not only does this woman have a cold, she is also suffering from severe 80s hair

"Do you practice aggressive belly button hygiene?"

That's a question I never expected to be asked. And yet last night, in the Tufts Medical Center ER, I found myself answering it.

"Um, I mean, I try to keep it clean and rinse it in the shower, is that what you mean?"

"Do you ever....stick anything down it? Like a paperclip? To try to dig out lint?"

"Uh....NO."

But let me back up. I guess I should first explain that people in my family take weird trips to the emergency room all the time. Two summers ago, my 23-year-old brother somehow got pericarditis (an infection of the tissue lining the heart, less serious than it sounds) in Paris (hey, that has a catchy sound to it..."pericarditis in Paris"). This past week, my mom's cat scratched her in the face and she had to go to the hospital to get stitches. And of course, who could forget my adventures with Frances the kidney stone.

So I was not that surprised that after a quick visit to my doctor due to some unexplained upper abdominal discomfort in my navel region, she told me I should go get it checked out ASAP at the hospital, where she predicted I would get an CT scan to rule out appendicitis.

The first doctor of many to examine me last night, after asking if I'd ever pierced my belly button, concluded that she'd "never seen anything like it before." I will spare you the details, because they're gross, but I will say that there was pus and it was freaky. Really, is there anything more horrible than pus?

So she went and got doctor #2, who asked the unusual question about belly button hygiene. Apparently, pus oozing out of your navel is a common side effect to shoving random objects down there. Who'd have thought?

After I convinced him that I had not, in fact, been prodding myself with any office supplies, he said I had to get a CT to see how far the infection had spread. Luckily, it turns out, my infection is "superficial." Not as in vapid, but as in just beneath the surface of my skin and easy to treat with antibiotics. Whew.

But strange, right? Have you ever heard of a belly button infection?

The ER on a Friday night was quite a lively place. My visit lasted just over nine hours and I saw three different doctors and a handful of nurses. I felt grateful, though -- the guy next to me had to get a spinal tap. And I had to listen to it. On the way out, around 2:00 a.m., they brought in a belligerent drunk guy who loudly told everyone in the hospital waiting room to line up and suck his you-know-what.

The worst part? Not the CT scan itself, but the disgusting "smoothie" I had to drink beforehand to make my insides more photogenic. It was just your basic creamy vanilla/barium sulfate blend. Jamba Juice should really take note.

The bitch is back

About a month ago, I blogged about my experience passing a kidney stone, which I named Frances. But the joke's on me, because apparently I didn't pass it. J/k! Good one, Frances! Seriously, you really had me there. What I passed was only a fragment or something. LOL.

I have heard kidney stones described as painful, horrible and nasty, but I want to add another adjective to that list: stealthy. My symptoms went away for a whole month and now they're back. Turns out Frances was just hiding out in my bladder, laying low for a month. Chillin' like a villain. My bladder must be like the Hamptons of my body.

My new theory is that she's hitching a ride to Boston and didn't want to risk it on the Fung Wah bus. Hopefully though, her days are numbered. Shit's getting serious now: I'm most likely getting lithotripsy. Bad news: my insurance is so ghetto right now that I'll have to pay out of pocket for it. Which is why I'm establishing the Frances Memorial Kidney Stone Foundation. If you'd like to make a donation, please let me know. I accept cash, checks, and prescription painkillers.

"This, too, shall pass..."

This phrase became all the more relevant last week, when I learned that I had a kidney stone.

What, you didn't know I was a 60-year-old man? Me either. I beat the odds-- kidney stones are most common in men over 40. But my kidneys are extra, extra special.

When I tell people about my kidney stone, they look horrified and ask about the pain. Men say it's akin to giving birth. Like they would know, but regardless, that's not what it was like for me. Maybe I have a high pain threshold, or maybe the aforementioned men are just sissies. Unclear.

The worst part of the experience for me was getting a CT scan. My doctor sent me to this fancy place on the Upper East Side that specializes in medical imaging technology

Publish Post

(MRIs, ultrasounds, etc). The place was more air-conditioned than the 6 train and very posh -- leather sofas, Sinatra playing softly in the background, tasteful wall sconces. It was like a Swiss chateau; I was even given a complementary beverage. Sadly, it was not a Cosmo, but a liter of cranberry juice, mixed with iodine.

When it was time for the scan, my body failed me again-- it took the doctor 4 tries to find a suitable vein. It brought back the shame of my freshman year of college, when I nobly tried to give blood for the Red Cross. Tried being the operative word, since I was unable to fill the bag in a timely manner, due to my sludge-like blood.

That night, I got my diagnosis: a 4mm kidney stone that had already left my right kidney and was en route to my bladder. Hopped up on painkillers, I settled on a name for my stone: Frances. And then I wrote a song about her:

(to the tune of "Alone" by Heart)

I hear the ticking of the clock
I'm lying here, the room's pitch dark
I wonder where you are tonight
I pee, see nothing, and I moan
And the night goes by so very slow
Oh I hope that it will end soon though
My stone

Till now I always got by on my own
I never really knew pain until I met you
My bladder hurts me to the bone
How do I get out my stone?
How do I get out my stone?


As Lincoln predicted, my kidney stone, like our nation's unrest in 1859, did eventually pass. Frances left me on Thursday, June 5th, at approximately 10:00 pm EST. She is currently in a little baggie on my dresser, next to my hairbrush. I'm supposed to bring her in to a lab for analysis. She looks very small and harmless now, and not at all like this:

Those look like earrings I bought at Cooper-Hewitt recently. That's what came up when I typed in "kidney stones ugly" on Google images.

I seem to be back in good health, but if my sciatica starts acting up, I'll be sure to blog about it.