I have heard the difference between the female brain and the male brain described as a spaghetti brain versus a waffle brain. Women think like a big tangled mess of spaghetti: everything is connected and touching and you can't see where one starts and where the other other ends. To men, it may seem impossible to figure out and that there is no clear direction, but women know there is fluidity in thought. The jumps or conclusions that we make as women are obvious to us because EVERYTHING is connected. The male brain, however, is like a waffle. There are neat little squares and everything goes in a box. Nothing is allowed to occupy a box if it does not belong in that box. One comedian even explained that men have a box that is labeled "nothing" and that they like to frequently visit that box and think about nothing.
People (men-bashers) have said that this attribute makes men simple, as in simple-minded. I gagged a little bit when I wrote that. I happen to appreciate the male brain. I think "simple" is the wrong word, maybe organized or concise is better. I love the balance that the male brain and female brain provide each other. Men and women are different and that's good! I am more emotional than my husband, but that doesn't make him a heartless ass or me an illogical crazy-person. Our differences can and should build each other up. Sometimes men need help to see the importance of feelings, but dammit, sometimes an orange is just an orange. And the fact that men can see that does not make them the less evolved sex.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
His Piéce de Résistance
I look outside the window this morning. Overcast and windy, it appears to be a perfectly blustery October morning. A long sleeve shirt might actually be appropriate attire for this Texas fall day. I check the weather online. High of 80?! Just to be sure, I go to the French doors to step outside onto my balcony. Hmmm... sure enough, it is a warm 65-ish degrees at 8 am. This Texas weather is playing tricks on my mind, I think. It certainly looks cold out, but my thermoreceptors tell me otherwise.
Isn't that how life is sometimes? What is seen doesn't always match what is felt. Many of us experience this in our relationship with the mirror. Lately, I have been feeling quite beautiful. I want to dance around the house and let out a big "EEEEEE!!" I am loved. I am happy. I am content. And that makes me feel so beautiful. But then I look in the mirror. Flaky skin, a zit on my chin, too many gray hairs for my age. This mirror is playing tricks on my mind, I think. I sigh and wish how I felt inside showed on the outside. I'd be a freaking super model. And then there are the days in which I feel ugly with so many things I'd like to fix. Plastic surgery is alluring. Comparisons are made. I look with those same comparing eyes and try to make myself feel better. "You're better looking than so-and-so." "Other women would die to have your abs!" "At least you don't have this flaw! Or that!" And the twisted inner talk continues. A stranger may look at me and think I am quite beautiful, but I don't feel that way.
And I know I'm not alone in this. An estimated 8 million Americans struggle with eating disorders, 7 million of those are females. I can only imagine the number of people who struggle with self-image issues. I'd venture to say close to 100% of humans at some point have felt that they are not particularly beautiful. But it's all a big, fat, ugly lie. God, the Creator of waterfalls, mountains, snowflakes, peacocks, sunsets, clouds, flowers, trees, oceans, and all the beautiful things of this world says YOU are more valuable than the birds of the air and more beautiful than lilies. He created so many marvels and things of great splendor, yet He felt that something was missing so He created man in His image. And even then, something was still missing: woman.
Don't you see it? You are His piéce de résistance, the best part of all creation, the grand finalé. Dear sister, you are His masterpiece. He crafted you with care and saved the best of creation for last. He is the greatest artist of all; no man can match His artistry. Each great artist simply tries to copy His original works. Every sunset ever painted, every woman ever sculpted, every poem ever penned, and every melody ever notated, are simply counterfeits. When we look in the mirror and start picking apart every little thing we'd like to change, it's like looking up at the Sistine Chapel and thinking of all the things we'd like to change about it. When you berate yourself, you are insulting the great virtuoso Himself. You are pissing on the Mona Lisa. You are taking a crap on the Starry Night. You are rolling your eyes at the Statue of David.
If we look in the mirror with the right eyes, we see that there really is nothing to fix. Just like the many wonders of this world, both natural and man-made, we are prized works of art. After all, we are made by the Creator of the starry hosts, in His perfect, loving, and holy image. You see, when we look in the mirror, we are not only looking at a great masterpiece, but God Himself. So please stop insulting him.
Isn't that how life is sometimes? What is seen doesn't always match what is felt. Many of us experience this in our relationship with the mirror. Lately, I have been feeling quite beautiful. I want to dance around the house and let out a big "EEEEEE!!" I am loved. I am happy. I am content. And that makes me feel so beautiful. But then I look in the mirror. Flaky skin, a zit on my chin, too many gray hairs for my age. This mirror is playing tricks on my mind, I think. I sigh and wish how I felt inside showed on the outside. I'd be a freaking super model. And then there are the days in which I feel ugly with so many things I'd like to fix. Plastic surgery is alluring. Comparisons are made. I look with those same comparing eyes and try to make myself feel better. "You're better looking than so-and-so." "Other women would die to have your abs!" "At least you don't have this flaw! Or that!" And the twisted inner talk continues. A stranger may look at me and think I am quite beautiful, but I don't feel that way.
And I know I'm not alone in this. An estimated 8 million Americans struggle with eating disorders, 7 million of those are females. I can only imagine the number of people who struggle with self-image issues. I'd venture to say close to 100% of humans at some point have felt that they are not particularly beautiful. But it's all a big, fat, ugly lie. God, the Creator of waterfalls, mountains, snowflakes, peacocks, sunsets, clouds, flowers, trees, oceans, and all the beautiful things of this world says YOU are more valuable than the birds of the air and more beautiful than lilies. He created so many marvels and things of great splendor, yet He felt that something was missing so He created man in His image. And even then, something was still missing: woman.
Don't you see it? You are His piéce de résistance, the best part of all creation, the grand finalé. Dear sister, you are His masterpiece. He crafted you with care and saved the best of creation for last. He is the greatest artist of all; no man can match His artistry. Each great artist simply tries to copy His original works. Every sunset ever painted, every woman ever sculpted, every poem ever penned, and every melody ever notated, are simply counterfeits. When we look in the mirror and start picking apart every little thing we'd like to change, it's like looking up at the Sistine Chapel and thinking of all the things we'd like to change about it. When you berate yourself, you are insulting the great virtuoso Himself. You are pissing on the Mona Lisa. You are taking a crap on the Starry Night. You are rolling your eyes at the Statue of David.
If we look in the mirror with the right eyes, we see that there really is nothing to fix. Just like the many wonders of this world, both natural and man-made, we are prized works of art. After all, we are made by the Creator of the starry hosts, in His perfect, loving, and holy image. You see, when we look in the mirror, we are not only looking at a great masterpiece, but God Himself. So please stop insulting him.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
A Night in a Haitian Hospital
I watch her umbilical hernia expand and contract with every deep inhale followed by a forceful cough. She lays her sweaty forehead down after every coughing fit, exhausted from the ordeal. Her dewy skin smells sickly sweet, almost like warm, melted ice cream. I sit with her in the tiny yellow office to hook her up to the nebulizer. Sometimes we have to turn on the generator just for her. No amount of medicine or breathing treatments will improve Sara's fever and breathing. The decision is made: we must take her to the hospital. My heart sinks at this thought. I have little faith in the quality of care provided and fear the trip would be pointless. This is not the U.S. This is a third world country with limited resources and shoddy hospitals. I am unaware of just how different it will be.
We drive through the streets of Port au Prince in our beat-up, but trusty white van. It is still light out, but the sun is setting fast. Rays of sunlight flicker in between houses as if angels are messing with heaven's light switches. We pass a street market and women are closing up shop, putting away the goods that didn't get sold. Men are hopping over puddles and trying to catch a tap-tap home before they stop running for the night. Children in rags chase each other in the streets where the sewer runs and where chickens peck at nothing but gravel. I see a pregnant woman, with a full basket on her head, squat and relieve herself in the gutter. I wonder how many times a day she has to do that.
There are some things I've grown accustomed to since being here: the absence of personal space; seeing things like people urinate in public; trash on the ground; tiny, concrete houses with corrugated metal roofs all stacked up haphazardly on a hillside. I've learned that 3 o'clock means anywhere between 3:00 and 3:59. I know the proper fair for a tap-tap ride and that refusing to pay higher is acceptable. I'm learning words and customs and that jokingly calling someone crazy is no joke at all. I've grown used to greeting people when you see them and to be warmly greeted in return. My body has mostly adjusted to the warm and humid weather, although my sweat glands have yet to catch up. Hearing children play, laugh, and fill an orphanage with song has become the familiar soundtrack of my life. Doing business with the local ice cream man from the outdoor balcony has become routine. He calls to us and stands back to see us over the gate. Some days we wave him off and other days we pass money down to the gate guard who then does the money-ice cream exchange for us. I've grown to like this ice cream that comes in a cylindrical, plastic sleeve and is very much like a fat, creamy Otter Pop. Not accomplishing a single task on my to-do list has become the rule, not the exception- and not because I was being lazy. I have come to expect difficulties and an insane lack of logic or efficiency.
I love this tiny little island and her beautiful people, but I cannot get used to the frustrating fact that there are so many obstacles that prevent good things from happening. Maybe it is because of my love for these people that the injustices bother me so much and I refuse to simply accept them. This is a place where one must bring his or her own bed sheet to the hospital if he or she wants sheets to lay on. This is a place where one must send a family member out to buy medical supplies and bring them back because the hospital doesn't have them. All these truths about this country and the health care system here are racing through my mind as we approach the gate of the hospital. The hospital we choose is one of the nicest in the area. It felt like an oasis when I visited the first time. There is cleanliness, organization, and efficiency. People quietly wait in lines. Bed sheets are provided. Staff is dressed professionally. As hopeful as it is, I am still wary.
We approach the guard at the front gate and he asks for our appointment papers. We tell him that we don't have an appointment and need to go the emergency room. He shakes his head and says we can't enter without an appointment. "To the emergency room?" I ask incredulously. I shouldn't sound so shocked. Things that don't make sense happen all the time here. I take a deep breath. I remember a doctor I met the day I toured the hospital. He was a young red head and wore scrub bottoms with Crocs and a t-shirt. He was kind, but hurried when we spoke. "I'm a friend of Dr. So-and-So. He said I could come anytime I needed to," I tried. Apparently the t-shirt and disheveled hair was misleading as he seems to be some sort of big wig around these parts and all of the sudden it doesn't matter that we don't have an appointment. "But only one of you can come in with the child." I don't hesitate; the obvious choice is me. I make my way to the emergency room with a toddler-sized sweat mark on my shirt, a sick girl on my hip, and a diaper bag over my shoulder.
The ER is one giant room with gurneys and chairs, no curtains in between. I check in with a rude, but semi English-speaking nurse. We eventually are shown to our bed and chair and wait for a doctor to come. I feel almost guilty for being there. The room is full of women with very, very sick children. Sara manages to sleep while I hold a mask to her face. One woman's infant is too sick to eat and her breasts have become painfully engorged. She sits with an emesis basin on her lap, exposes her breasts, and begins squeezing her milk into the basin. I take out some crackers and begin to eat. With the first crunch, twenty-two black eyes are on me. My white skin is a built in spot-light itself and everything I do and stand for is on display for all to see. I offer some crackers to the lady next to me and she willingly takes some and then passes one over to a friend. I have a sack full of snacks. I wonder how long it has been since these women have had something to eat. I feel guilty for not sharing more, but I am worried about my blood sugar dropping and becoming a patient as well. I turn to face little Sara. She is chubby and stubborn. She is well enough to fight treatments and medicine and fills the bed with her rolly legs. We are quite the pair; with my white skin and her chunkiness, we are so different from the rest.
A woman next to me begins to yell for help. The nurse at the desk barely responds. It is well into the night and her cries jolt us from our half-sleep. I know by the intensity and abruptness of this mother's cries that something isn't right. The nurses don't seem to care. Her intensity escalates and is in a near panic, screaming, "My baby! My baby!" Her baby is about eight years old and not breathing. Finally some nurses come over and almost too calmly grab a bag valve mask and began CPR. It only lasts a few seconds until they stop all together. As they escort the mother out, her wails echo through the empty corridor and ring in my ears. Three feet from me lays the first corpse I've ever seen. I am amazed at how fast rigor mortis set in. The girl's arms and hands begin to contract and flex inward. We all just stay in our seats while a nurse takes twine and binds her at the ankles and wrists and then places her in a body bag. Sara throws up and the nurse points me toward a janitor's closet. The deceased girl is still on the bed as I walk past it to get a mop. They say the passage of time leads to increased age and weight. I have spent just one night in a Haitian hospital and leave much more than just a day heavier and older.
We drive through the streets of Port au Prince in our beat-up, but trusty white van. It is still light out, but the sun is setting fast. Rays of sunlight flicker in between houses as if angels are messing with heaven's light switches. We pass a street market and women are closing up shop, putting away the goods that didn't get sold. Men are hopping over puddles and trying to catch a tap-tap home before they stop running for the night. Children in rags chase each other in the streets where the sewer runs and where chickens peck at nothing but gravel. I see a pregnant woman, with a full basket on her head, squat and relieve herself in the gutter. I wonder how many times a day she has to do that.
There are some things I've grown accustomed to since being here: the absence of personal space; seeing things like people urinate in public; trash on the ground; tiny, concrete houses with corrugated metal roofs all stacked up haphazardly on a hillside. I've learned that 3 o'clock means anywhere between 3:00 and 3:59. I know the proper fair for a tap-tap ride and that refusing to pay higher is acceptable. I'm learning words and customs and that jokingly calling someone crazy is no joke at all. I've grown used to greeting people when you see them and to be warmly greeted in return. My body has mostly adjusted to the warm and humid weather, although my sweat glands have yet to catch up. Hearing children play, laugh, and fill an orphanage with song has become the familiar soundtrack of my life. Doing business with the local ice cream man from the outdoor balcony has become routine. He calls to us and stands back to see us over the gate. Some days we wave him off and other days we pass money down to the gate guard who then does the money-ice cream exchange for us. I've grown to like this ice cream that comes in a cylindrical, plastic sleeve and is very much like a fat, creamy Otter Pop. Not accomplishing a single task on my to-do list has become the rule, not the exception- and not because I was being lazy. I have come to expect difficulties and an insane lack of logic or efficiency.
I love this tiny little island and her beautiful people, but I cannot get used to the frustrating fact that there are so many obstacles that prevent good things from happening. Maybe it is because of my love for these people that the injustices bother me so much and I refuse to simply accept them. This is a place where one must bring his or her own bed sheet to the hospital if he or she wants sheets to lay on. This is a place where one must send a family member out to buy medical supplies and bring them back because the hospital doesn't have them. All these truths about this country and the health care system here are racing through my mind as we approach the gate of the hospital. The hospital we choose is one of the nicest in the area. It felt like an oasis when I visited the first time. There is cleanliness, organization, and efficiency. People quietly wait in lines. Bed sheets are provided. Staff is dressed professionally. As hopeful as it is, I am still wary.
We approach the guard at the front gate and he asks for our appointment papers. We tell him that we don't have an appointment and need to go the emergency room. He shakes his head and says we can't enter without an appointment. "To the emergency room?" I ask incredulously. I shouldn't sound so shocked. Things that don't make sense happen all the time here. I take a deep breath. I remember a doctor I met the day I toured the hospital. He was a young red head and wore scrub bottoms with Crocs and a t-shirt. He was kind, but hurried when we spoke. "I'm a friend of Dr. So-and-So. He said I could come anytime I needed to," I tried. Apparently the t-shirt and disheveled hair was misleading as he seems to be some sort of big wig around these parts and all of the sudden it doesn't matter that we don't have an appointment. "But only one of you can come in with the child." I don't hesitate; the obvious choice is me. I make my way to the emergency room with a toddler-sized sweat mark on my shirt, a sick girl on my hip, and a diaper bag over my shoulder.
The ER is one giant room with gurneys and chairs, no curtains in between. I check in with a rude, but semi English-speaking nurse. We eventually are shown to our bed and chair and wait for a doctor to come. I feel almost guilty for being there. The room is full of women with very, very sick children. Sara manages to sleep while I hold a mask to her face. One woman's infant is too sick to eat and her breasts have become painfully engorged. She sits with an emesis basin on her lap, exposes her breasts, and begins squeezing her milk into the basin. I take out some crackers and begin to eat. With the first crunch, twenty-two black eyes are on me. My white skin is a built in spot-light itself and everything I do and stand for is on display for all to see. I offer some crackers to the lady next to me and she willingly takes some and then passes one over to a friend. I have a sack full of snacks. I wonder how long it has been since these women have had something to eat. I feel guilty for not sharing more, but I am worried about my blood sugar dropping and becoming a patient as well. I turn to face little Sara. She is chubby and stubborn. She is well enough to fight treatments and medicine and fills the bed with her rolly legs. We are quite the pair; with my white skin and her chunkiness, we are so different from the rest.
A woman next to me begins to yell for help. The nurse at the desk barely responds. It is well into the night and her cries jolt us from our half-sleep. I know by the intensity and abruptness of this mother's cries that something isn't right. The nurses don't seem to care. Her intensity escalates and is in a near panic, screaming, "My baby! My baby!" Her baby is about eight years old and not breathing. Finally some nurses come over and almost too calmly grab a bag valve mask and began CPR. It only lasts a few seconds until they stop all together. As they escort the mother out, her wails echo through the empty corridor and ring in my ears. Three feet from me lays the first corpse I've ever seen. I am amazed at how fast rigor mortis set in. The girl's arms and hands begin to contract and flex inward. We all just stay in our seats while a nurse takes twine and binds her at the ankles and wrists and then places her in a body bag. Sara throws up and the nurse points me toward a janitor's closet. The deceased girl is still on the bed as I walk past it to get a mop. They say the passage of time leads to increased age and weight. I have spent just one night in a Haitian hospital and leave much more than just a day heavier and older.
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