Tag Archives: sexual harassment

communication, condescending twatbags, healthcare, mental health

My personal triggers from Amy Silverstein’s heart transplant saga…

Good morning, people. It’s about 10:00 AM, and I’ve already been kind of busy. My day started at about 5:00 AM, which is when I usually wake up nowadays. I can’t believe there was a time when I could sleep until noon. That sure isn’t the case today!

I got up to do my usual morning routine, then did laundry, to include washing the sheets. I have a love/hate relationship with washing the sheets. I love how fresh sheets feel, but I hate the process of washing them and putting them on the bed. I never got the hang of making hospital corners. Bill is home today and could help; he is an expert at hospital corners! But he’s teleworking, because he was kind enough to take Noyzi to the vet for a dental. I didn’t want to bother him. He did come up and help me put the pillow cases on, which of course is the easiest part of that chore. I decided not to do the duvet covers today, because that’s the most annoying task related to washing the bedding. I’m just not in the mood to fool with it today.

After that was done, I moved more of my massive music collection to the new computer. I got through the Ks, although it sure wasn’t easy. Went from Keb’ Mo’ to Laura Branigan. That took a couple of frustrating hours. Then I forced myself to stop, so I could write a blog post. When I did that, I realized I had a pretty good case of writer’s block, and nothing was urging me to write today. Too bad I don’t have that feeling more often, since I often feel like my blog posts cause a lot of avoidable problems… like strained family relations and unpleasant interactions with strangers. But then I realize that I have my supporters, too. Yesterday, one of them, regular reader “dle”, left me a comment on my review of Amy Silverstein’s book, My Glory Was I Had Such Friends.

In my brief comment exchange with dle, I mentioned a few parts of Amy’s book about her second heart transplant that triggered me a bit. I had wanted to address them in the review itself, but decided not to, because my review was pretty long. I had included comments about Silverstein’s first book, Sick Girl, that I thought were important. I know that sometimes I have issues with brevity, and people only have so much time and attention span to dedicate to blog posts. So I didn’t comment on the parts of Silverstein’s story that really disturbed me a bit and made me feel a lot of empathy for her situation. I guess I’ll do that today, since I have a bit of writer’s block.

In this blog, I have mentioned on more than one occasion that I have a real problem trusting healthcare providers. I experienced some traumas at the hands of doctors that have left me very nervous at the prospect of seeing them for treatment. I know it’s crazy, given my educational background. I used to work with doctors before I became an overeducated housewife. A couple of them were also my classmates in my public health graduate program. But there’s a difference between being “colleagues” with medical doctors and submitting to them for care. I know intellectually that most doctors are responsible and decent and do their best to provide excellent care. However, I have run into a couple of them that left me with lingering issues. Being in Amy Silverstein’s medical situation would be a special kind of hell for me. I probably would have given up on life many years before she finally succumbed.

The first part of My Glory Was I Had Such Friends that “triggered” me a bit was Silverstein’s story about how she needed a pacemaker. Because of her vast experiences with medical procedures over decades of care, Silverstein had an aversion to the drug, Versed. She didn’t want to be “put out” for most of her procedures. Getting the pacemaker was no exception. She wanted to be conscious for it. Her physician, Dr. Wayne, was vehemently against the idea. From the book:

She nods and turns to greet the doctor who’s just come in—a small, quick-moving man with wiry gray hair.

“I am Dr. Wayne. Hello, Mrs. Silverstein.”

“You can call me by my first name if you like. I’m Amy.”

“Hello, Mimi.”

“No, it’s Amy,” I say, and then immediately think to correct myself for fear that he might call me “Itsamy.”

Dr. Wayne’s speech is choppy, perhaps due to his jittery manner.

“Today I will put in a pacemaker.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what you gotta do.”

“I’ll give you medicine for sleep . . .”

“I’m not going to sleep.”

“Not really sleep. Just very, very relaxed. Like sleep.”

“Nope. No sedation at all. I do everything without sedation unless it’s a surgery. This isn’t a surgery, is it?”

“Not exactly surgery, but—”

“Good then. No sedation.”

The doctor whirls away from the exam table and mumbles under his breath loud enough for the nurse and me to hear: “No sedation! For a pacemaker! Sheesh . . .” He heads into the hallway to scrub up. The nurse remains behind, tending to an array of syringes and small metal utensils.

“I don’t want to give anyone a hard time,” I tell her, “but I’ve had lots of experience staying awake through hard stuff. And I don’t like being put out.”

“You wouldn’t really be out. Just relaxed. We’d be giving you some Versed . . .”

Versed! No way. I’d like to ask her how many times she’s had Versed, because I’ve had it plenty and it’s a nasty sedative. Instead, I press my lips closed. Check your attitude, Amy.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 89-90). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Amy has had enough experience with Versed to know that she really, really does not like it. And it’s her body that’s being worked on; her comfort should be paramount. However, the doctor turns out to be a nasty piece of work. Continued from the book:

That’s what Scott told me just before we headed out to LA. We had a long talk one evening, mulling the challenges we knew would be coming and trying to anticipate what else we might face. “If you’re going to die,” Scott said, “and let’s be honest, you might—you need to think about how you want to act at Cedars, how you want to hold yourself in the end. With your friends—do you want to be loving, or bitter and angry? And with the doctors and nurses—do you want to earn their respect for the way you’ve lived these twenty-five transplant years, or do you want to show how you’ve been wrecked by them? It’s all about how you want to be remembered,” he said.

This was not the first time that Scott had attempted to remind me of my better nature. There had been plenty of instances through the years when frustration and fear overtook me, transforming qualities like self-advocacy, determination, and attention to detail into alienating misbehaviors. The constancy and complexity of transplant-related illnesses would crescendo from time to time, to a point where it felt unbearable—and where it would imbue me with a distorted sense of self-righteousness: Give me a break—I can’t be bothered with decorum. I’m too sick. And then I would rage against Dr. Davis’s missteps, calling him inane, or I wouldn’t pick up the phone for days when friends called to check in, or I’d yell at Scott for no reason at all and then cry and cry and cry. Then came the heavy regret: “Scotty, I’m just so, so sorry . . .” and he would close his eyes and shake his head. “You’re dealing with unbelievably scary stuff, I know. But you’ve got to find a way to stop taking it out on the people around you.” If I didn’t, he said, I would send everyone scurrying away.

I tried to do better. With each successive medical crisis, I got a little more adept at keeping my fear from spiraling into anger and spurring me to lash out. But I found that the success of my efforts was only proportional to the health challenge at hand: the more life-threatening it was, the less I was able to contain my angst. What degree of self-control, then, would I manage to exert in the face of this retransplant? I was yet to find out. But it spooked me to notice that, in light of what awaited us in California, Scott had rephrased his usual advice about how I might carry myself in the hardest of circumstances. For the first time ever, he was framing his words in a context of finality, asking me not about how I might want to be perceived but rather remembered.

I just want to be remembered without everyone misunderstanding me. I know this doesn’t speak to the self-reflection Scott hoped for. But right now, this is what comes to mind as I contemplate how I might explain to this nurse my aversion to Versed. I know my stance is unusual; when patients hear that they’re getting a drug to help them relax before an invasive procedure, they see no reason to object. But long, hard-earned experience has taught me this: Versed messes with your mind. It’s a powerful, tricky sedative that makes you think you’ve slept through the procedure when actually you were awake the whole time. Versed is, simply, a forgetting drug, but its powers of erasure are imperfect. Somewhere in your mind (and certainly in your body) there is a flicker of awareness that something happened to you (for instance, you might have been screaming in pain throughout the procedure), but you can’t quite get at it, so an anxious ambiguity scratches at you and festers. There is a cost to not being able to access and process our own pain and suffering—some might call this post-traumatic stress. I’ve experienced it myself, and this is why I’ve come to insist on keeping things where I can see and process them—without Versed.

I share my thinking with the nurse.

She walks from the tray to my stretcher and lowers her voice. “I agree with you. And too much Versed isn’t good for your brain cells either.” She taps her head. “But Amy, I’ve never seen a patient do a pacemaker implantation without sedation. It’s going to be rough.”

“I hope you’re wrong. But thank you.”

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 90-91). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Then, comes the assault by the doctor. This was the part that set me on edge, although I feel pretty sure that if I were Amy, I’d want the drugs. I’d rather be out cold for these kinds of procedures. Or, at least I think I would prefer to be. So far, I’ve been blessed with pretty good health and haven’t needed this kind of “care”.

Dr. Wayne stomps back in and comes to a stop by my left shoulder. “I’m going to have to give you a lot. Of lidocaine. Because you said no sedation. Sheesh.”

“Fine with me.” I don’t mind multiple lidocaine shots. I’ve accumulated three or four hundred of them for localized numbing in all the biopsies and angiograms I’ve had. From experience, I know that if the doctor gives the first shot slowly—alternating a bit of needle with a bit of lidocaine—subsequent injections will become quickly pain free.

BANG!

Dr. Wayne slams the first shot into the left side of my collarbone.

“Ow!”

“That hurt you,” he says.

“My gosh, yes. Ow. In New York, the doctor gives a little bit of lidocaine at a time so . . .”

“I said you would need a lot of shots. Because of no sedation.”

BANG!

This one feels like it has vengeance behind it. I clench my teeth, determined not to give in. BANG and BANG—two more in rapid succession.

That’s it.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 91-92). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Imagine having a doctor who is noticeably ANGRY because a patient stood up for herself. And instead of realizing that it’s her body and her healthcare at stake, the doctor is cruel and deliberately causes pain, rather than trying to work with the patient and respect her wishes about how her body is treated… or at least trying to assuage her valid anxieties about the procedure. The story continues:

“Ow! Ow! Oh my God! I can’t take it!” I’m weeping now, and I can’t believe I’m crumbling this way. I don’t cry from pain. What pierces my armor this time is the frightening vulnerability I feel at the gruff hands of a masked stranger in a cath lab far from the one I’ve known for twenty-six years. Reciting poetry couldn’t possibly combat what is looming over my body at this moment. A nurse’s tender glance would bring me no ease. The reassuring touch points I’ve come to rely on give way to stabs of surprise—each one of them another fiery agony. I have never known cath lab procedures to be scenes of horror, but I feel myself here in the grip of a ghoul.

“It’s too much for you. Right?” Dr. Wayne glares.

“No, I’m strong as hell. I’ve been on a hundred cath lab tables. It’s you! You’ve got terrible hands—has anyone ever told you that? You suck at this! Just give me the damn Versed.” Oh, I’ve really let loose now. I sure don’t want to be remembered like this, but I’ve lost all control.

“Oh, now you want it? I have to call anesthesia. It will take, I don’t know, an hour. For them to get here. Because you said no sedation!”

I pause, taking a few seconds to muster a conversational tone. “You need an anesthesiologist to administer Versed? In my experience, the nurse just puts it in my IV—at least that’s how they do it in New Y—”

“In New York! In New York!” He galumphs away from the exam table, waving his hands over his head. The nurse follows, and I’m alone.

I’ve never been left alone in a cath lab before.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 92-93). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

What a fucking bastard! I hope she lodged a formal complaint against that man. The story continues, with Amy fretting because she’s alone in the cath lab, with a very flat pillow. Because of her heart condition, she has trouble breathing when she’s lying flat. So there she is, getting “medical care” that has left her traumatized, and will probably put her life in danger (moot now, since she recently passed away). She continues, having explained that she’s feeling woozy:

Within seconds, the green-clad people descend, ghoulish in their masks and puffy caps, gloves and X-ray shields. There are here to slice into my skin, slide their control wires into my heart. One of them pulls back the sheeting from my left shoulder, where scattered injection punctures still ooze blood onto my naked breast.

The Versed sweeps through my IV . . .

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (p. 94). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

After the procedure, Amy is deliberately slow to recover, upsetting her friends and husband. She’s traumatized, terrified, and justifiably angry about how she was treated. Her husband’s response, when he realizes that she’s not responding promptly, like a “good girl”, is to get angry with her. But she’s just been assaulted by a “doctor” who deliberately hurt her because she dared to exercise self-determination.

The second part of My Glory Was I Had Such Friends that triggered me was when Amy found out that she had breast cancer and needed surgery. She, very understandably, got angry and upset with her doctor. Rather than listening to the doctor talk about treatment options, Amy stormed out of her office, leading the doctor to worry that Amy might be a danger to herself. Was it childish? Yes… but remember, this is a woman who had been dealing with this shit for decades. She was tired of it. From the book:

The ordeal occurred just three months before the bad-news angiogram (and four months before I headed out to California): a breast sonogram picked up a strange-looking spot in my right breast. I didn’t worry at first because soon after my first transplant, the regimen of immunosuppressive medicines caused benign fibroadenoma masses to grow in my breasts. They were easily spotted on sonograms and sometimes grew so large I had to get them surgically removed. But this particular spot looked different. When I asked the biopsy radiologist if she thought she’d just put a needle into something scary, she threw up her hands. “Gosh, this is a weird-looking one,” she said. “I don’t know what it is.”

It was cancer.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 145-146). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Amy’s friend, Lauren, was involved in the drama that followed, after Amy got the news that not only did she need another heart transplant, but she also had breast cancer that would require major surgery. She continues:

When she reached me with the news, I froze. “Oh, come on! With all you’ve been through, this is easy stuff!” my breast doctor implored. She couldn’t have chosen more enraging words. I’d known this doctor since I started growing those golf ball fibroadenomas just after my first transplant, and I liked her a lot. But she was barking up a dangerous tree at a tragic moment by trying to turn my years of illness into a rallying call, when I was seeing it as a signal to raise the white flag.

“I’m not doing it,” I said. “I had a horrid open-heart valve surgery just a few months ago. And, frankly, my heart isn’t feeling so great lately. I’m not taking on breast cancer. I’m . . . I’m out.”

Ooh. Nice. I liked the feel of these words as they rolled off my lips for the first time—I’m out.

“You can’t quit now! You have to fight this. You’re just the kind of person who’s going to do great—”

“I’m out! I’m out! I’m out!” Wow, I loved the sound—and the sentiment. I’m free! I don’t have to do this anymore! For me, taking on an additional life-threatening illness was completely unfathomable. It was so beyond okay or understandable or doable or fair. “I gotta go now . . .”

“Go where?”

And this is where I made a really big mistake. “I’m leaving,” I said. “I’m getting in the car now. I’m not doing this anymore.”

“You can’t. You have to do this. Amy! Let’s talk! Would you come to the city and meet with me? I’ll cancel my afternoon . . .”

“Bye.”

I left. And then I was driving, blindly. My cell phone rang and it was Scott, telling me that my breast doctor called the local police because she’s worried about me. The police were at the house now, he said, and Lauren was on the way to meet them. He told me to go back home. “I’m out!” I cried, and kept driving.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 146-147). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Amy drove some more to let off some steam. Meanwhile, the cops had broken into her house and ransacked her bedroom, even reading her journals. Her friend, Lauren, was there to deal with the cops, who were there to “save” her life from suicide… A woman who had already had one heart transplant, needed a second one, and had just been told she had breast cancer. She wasn’t suicidal. She was FRUSTRATED… and understandably so. But the cops had violated her house, all because her doctor sicced them on her. Granted, the doctor had to make the call, due to the law. If she believed Amy was a danger to herself or others, she had to call the police, or else face potential adverse legal ramifications if Amy came to any harm at her own hands. And yet, the scenario just seemed so ridiculous to me. Her friend Lauren explains:

“I get a call from Lenny and he says to go to your house because the police are coming. I don’t know if you’re there or not, but I race over,” she explains. “I pull up to your house and there are three cop cars and they are on your lawn—why they didn’t park on the driveway, I don’t know. I go to your door, and the police have busted through the window. I walk in and hear them in your bedroom, so I head upstairs and they’re rifling through your closet and drawers—clothes are everywhere. One of them has got your journal and he’s standing there reading it. I think to myself, I have a job to do. I have to protect Amy. And I dive into conversation with those cops, rambling on and on, pretending to be helpful. They ask me what color your car is, and I waste ten minutes saying, Hmmm, I don’t know. They ask if you were likely to head north or south, I tell them north—because I know you’re much more likely to go south . . .”

I get a call from Lauren, and I don’t pick up. Another call, and I don’t pick up.

“I keep trying your cell, but you won’t answer. The cops are asking me, ‘Would she hurt herself?’ and I tell them no. She got some really bad news and she wants to be alone. I know her well. She’s fine. But they tell me I have to call you again because they want you back here. They put an alert out on your car.”

Meanwhile, I call my breast doctor and the receptionist puts me right through. “Why did you call the police!” I shout. “It’s my choice to fight breast cancer or not. You’ve known me so many years, you’ve seen all I’ve been through—how can you force a decision on me? I can’t believe you did this!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll call them back. It just sounded like you might do something . . .”

“I’m fine. I’m upset because . . . how many times and in how many ways can I be dying? I’m not going to drive off a bridge, for God’s sake! And even if I did, that would be my business.” I’m shuddering with anger.

“But I’m under legal obligation, Amy. I could get in trouble if I know you are going to hurt yourself and then you do.”

“Well, I’m not going to hurt myself. But I am not going to take on breast cancer either. I just had valve surgery. It’s my choice.”

“I’ll call the police and tell them everything is okay, but you have to come and meet me to talk. I’ll meet you at my house or at Starbucks near my office if you want. I just want to lay out what the treatment would be so you can make an informed choice.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you. Four thirty. Starbucks. Now call the police and tell them I’m fine!”

A few seconds later, Lauren calls again, and this time I pick up. She asks me if I’m all right. “I need time alone. I don’t need another person telling me I have to fight breast cancer, blah blah blah!” I tear at the zipper on my winter coat, tugging it down as I shake my shoulders out from underneath, frenzied. I am boiling with fury.

She tells me the police are there. My doctor hasn’t reached them yet.

“I heard. And I know everyone wants me to come home and be a good little breast cancer–valve surgery–heart transplant patient, just racking up the life-threatening illnesses and their shitty, half-assed treatments—”

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 148-149). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

I know a lot of people think Amy should be grateful to have so many people caring so much about her, but at the same time, I can hardly blame her for this reaction. It almost seems like a farce. She’s in such poor health, yet she has so much strength that people think she might off herself. It’s crazy. Lauren goes on to explain that while Amy is seething, the cops are listening. And she has to act neutral, while Amy is yelling at her, calling her “the worst friend”. Lauren then cleans up the mess and even gets Amy’s window fixed, after the police busted it to “save her life”. All because the breast doctor called the cops.

And finally, the last triggering moment for me was reading about how a pharmacist inadvertently told Amy that she had been enrolled in an experimental protocol to which she’d never consented. It ended with the pharmacist running out of the room in tears… From the book:

She had her eyes straight ahead on the screen, keeping up perfunctory conversation while skimming the dense pages. “We’ll be bringing all your meds into the modern age after your transplant. Now . . . um . . . you asked me about whether you can take . . . Oh, wait a minute . . .” She zooms in on some words that elicit a big smile. “Ooh, I see that you’re going to be part of our eculizumab study . . . wonderful!”

“Ecu-lizumab?”

“Yeah. Name’s a mouthful, right? I don’t blame you if you can’t pronounce it. I’m talking about the experimental treatment for your antibodies. You’re going to be part of our NIH study.”

What?

I’d heard a little bit about the study from Dr. Kobashigawa a few days earlier, and someone from the Cedars medical research team dropped off a thick binder filled with detailed information for my review. But this intravenous drug with the mouthful name was a chemotherapy of sorts and had serious side effects, including a significant risk of meningitis. Were I to participate, these treatments were not imminent (they wouldn’t kick in until the time of my transplant surgery). But I had already undergone another potent antibody remedy when I first arrived in California (bortezomib) that posed a risk of blood infections and death. The bortezomib treatments involved a series of direct injections into my belly and many of hours of antibody-cleansing plasmapheresis (plasma removal and replacement) through a thick catheter in my neck. Last I heard, though, the post-bortezomib state of my antibodies was not much better than before treatment; my chance of matching with a heart donor still remained at an inauspicious 14 percent. Feeling fortunate, though, for having at least evaded the dangers of bortezomib, I was not eager to risk another go-round with a second type of antibody treatment—especially an experimental one.

“You’re sure my name is on the study roster—already?” My voice rises.

She pecks at the keyboard, double-checking. “Yup, here you are!”

I jolt upright in bed. “But how can that be? I haven’t said yes!” Pressing my palms against my temples, I begin to reel. “I can’t believe this! Am I being steamrolled into the study?”

“No, no. But the team has decided—”

“The team? I’m the one who’s supposed to choose.”

“Of course you are, but—”

“I have a voice!”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

“Just because I’m . . . sick . . . it doesn’t mean I don’t . . . have a say!” I’m choking on emotion now. Scott steps toward the bed and puts his hand firmly on my shoulder—Easy, let it go . . .

Not a chance.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 183-184). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

This part of the book reminded me of a book I’d read years ago, A Taste of My Own Medicine: When the Doctor Is the Patient, by Edward Rosenbaum, a physician who got cancer and suddenly found himself on the other side of the bed. The 1991 movie, The Doctor, starring William Hurt and Christine Lahti, was based on Dr. Rosenbaum’s book. Dr. Rosenbaum explained how scary and demoralizing being a patient can be, and how healthcare providers lose sight of how patients can feel disenfranchised when they submit to medical care. Especially when it’s delivered in a hospital setting.

Amy then explains why she had this reaction. She’d been in an experimental study before, and it led to a significant trauma. From the book:

I’ve come to think of this particular memory as the strawberry shortcut—a lesson that came by way of a pulmonary lab technician who said playfully, “Let’s take the strawberry shortcut,” when escorting me from the waiting room to the exam suite. It was 1988. I was in my second year of law school, and my doctor wanted to rule out all possible causes of my very apparent breathlessness. Heart problems seemed so much less likely than lung problems in a woman in her midtwenties, so he scheduled a progression of tests that began with pulmonary.

As I followed in the wake of the technician’s perfectly pressed white coat, turning and turning again through a seeming maze of narrow hallways, he called back to me over his shoulder a preview of what was to come. Apparently, I would soon be breathing in some—particles? Nuclear particles? I didn’t understand—I’d never had even so much as a strep throat culture in my twenty-five years of life—so I obeyed with some trepidation when he placed the clear plastic contraption over my mouth, nose, and a good portion of both cheeks. “We’re friends here, aren’t we? So just relax into it and breathe deeply,” he cooed, and I tried. But there was nothing about inhaling the particles he administered that made me feel friendly or comfortable. He noted my reluctance at once. “Oh, you’re going to have to go deeper than that, pretty,” he said.

Pretty?

My stomach muscles tightened with angst. I began to shake.

“In . . . and out. In . . . and out,” he coaxed, moving his face closer with each round of inhalation and exhalation until his lips and the tip of his nose were in line with mine, pressing up against the plastic.

I closed my eyes and I felt some tears fall. I’m trapped. My doctor can’t make me better unless I do this test. I’ve got to get through it. Come on, Amy, breathe . . .

“That’s it . . . niiiice,” the technician purred. “And again, for me . . .”

When the test was finished, I hurried off the exam table. “Hey there,” he said, reaching for the door handle before I could. “How about a kiss for the technician?”

“How about a handshake instead!” I snapped, surprising him with a sudden show of nerve. He murmured something about a hot tamale and grasped my hand.

A few days later, I filed a complaint with the hospital and was told there was nothing they could do since I didn’t remember the tech’s name. And besides, they told me, “Maybe he was just trying to help you relax.”

That was the start of my growing a backbone as a patient. Hell, if the same thing were to happen to me now, I’d respond directly with, Kiss? How about you kiss your job good-bye!

Fifty is so much braver than twenty-five, you see.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 184-186). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

I was never sexually harassed by doctors, but I did have one who left me very traumatized due to her being extremely callous. I wish like hell I had complained about her when the incident happened. I don’t know what would have happened. Probably nothing. But at least I would have done something… and that might have made me feel more empowered. I am fifty now… and I was 22 then. So this story really hit home and left me a little triggered. Amy continued:

Though today’s situation was quite different, it preyed on some of my greatest medical fears, those that had developed out of the strawberry shortcut incident and countless others over the years: feeling a lack of agency, feeling uninformed, and feeling taken advantage of. And this is why I felt no trepidation this morning when telling the transplant pharmacist that I wanted to speak with her supervisor: Dr. Kobashigawa. She logged out of the screen at once and backed away from the computer. “I’m sorry to see you so upset about this.”

“And I’m sorry for these stupid tears, but I can’t help it. I’ve learned the hard way never to turn off my brain and hand myself over. I’m not going to agree to ecu—whatever it’s called—without reading through the whole binder and making my own decision.”

“I understand. But keep in mind we’re just trying to help you, Amy. You’ve got antibodies that are going to pose a danger to any donor heart you might receive. You can’t be transplanted successfully without eculiz—”

“I can’t? Are you saying I don’t have choice? That I never really had a choice? Who told you that? Dr. Kobashigawa?” My fingertips fly to my forehead and I begin tapping, tapping. A rush of panic sweeps through me—Have I been duped?

She started toward the door, pulling nervously at the ends of her hair. It was apparent that Becky had let on more than I was meant to hear just yet, and that perhaps she might be in trouble for it. “I’ll, um, ask him to come see you.”

But the memory match had already struck and ignited. All of a sudden there were words in the air—my words—and they rang calm and clear at first, but then echoed back to me calamitous and full of smoky black, as if tethered to distant fires. Whatever I was saying was not of this moment; it was cumulative—and ablaze: “Wow, Becky, wow, wow, wow. As if I didn’t feel out of control to begin with, watching my pulse disappear day after day. Thanks a lot. You sure know how to make a dying person feel worse.”

“That wasn’t my . . . Oh, I am sorry!” she squeaked with panic, tears welling in her eyes. She quickly turned away and slipped out the door.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (p. 186). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

I did feel sorry for Becky, the pharmacist. I know she was just trying to be helpful. And I’m sure it’s a tough job, as today’s patients are often better informed and more outspoken. On the other hand, a lot of people would be calling Amy a “karen” (hate that term) for advocating for herself. Clearly, her issues stem from understandable and considerable trauma. And even though I could understand that a lot of people would find her behaviors very “karen-ish”, as someone who has also experienced medical trauma, I could hardly blame Amy for her response. She probably couldn’t help it.

I have had some good experiences with doctors since my last trauma. However, in spite of that, I have a hard time shaking those memories. It’s kind of like how Noyzi, the Kosovar rescue dog, spooks at sudden noises and movements. He’s had good experiences, but still reacts in an automatic way to those triggers. I’m the same way. I get extremely nervous just thinking about going through what Amy went through. So, when I read her book, I thought of her as brave, rather than entitled and ungrateful. She had backbone, even if she came off as abrasive. And again, I could hardly blame her.

In a way, my recent post about body shaming that got me on my relative’s shit list is sort of the same thing. I used to just take that sort of thing without too much comment. I don’t anymore, and some people think it’s offensive. But my reactions come from valid traumas of the past. I’m sorry if some people find my reactions upsetting, but they don’t come from a place of meanness. They come from trauma. I think Amy Silverstein’s reactions were the same thing. So, I kind of felt a kinship with her… and again, realize that she must not have been all bad. After all, she did have such friends. Wish I were so lucky… but at least I have a wonderful husband.

Well, this post has gone on pretty long, so I think I’ll end it and practice guitar for a few minutes. If you managed to wade through this long ass blog entry, I thank you. And if you managed to understand it on any level, I congratulate you. Until tomorrow….

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Armenia, emergencies, first world problems, funny stories, Germany, Trump, YouTube

When the lights go out in Germany…

Whenever Bill goes away, I’m always soon reminded of how much I miss him when he’s not home. Especially when there’s a heatwave, and I’m sick with a virus.

It got super hot again yesterday and the temperatures were north of 99 degrees. That is historically a rare thing in Germany, but is sadly becoming a more common occurrence, thanks to global climate change. I read in the weather report that we might get a thunderstorm last night. I was actually hoping for that, because I was sweating so much, in spite of the air conditioner and fan we have in our bedroom. Unfortunately, we have portable ACs, and they usually require hot air stoppers.

Thanks to our previous landlady’s total conniption about us trying to be comfortable in her house during previous brutal summers, I haven’t really wanted to install the hot air stoppers in this house. Also, under normal circumstances, we can drop the shutters all the way down and snake the hoses that go with the air conditioners on the floor, and out of the balcony doors. In ex landlady’s house, we didn’t have balconies, so that wouldn’t have worked. The hoses would not have stayed in place. Our current landlord is very cool about us acting like this is our house, within reason, of course. But I’m still kind of traumatized by the behaviors of our former landlady, whom we ended up successfully suing for our deposit.

Even with the shutters down, though, because we don’t have the hot air stoppers, there is nothing to stop hot air from coming in. It usually doesn’t matter too much, since it’s usually not that hot here. At night, if we close the bedroom door, the room gets nice and cool, and Arran isn’t able to sneak downstairs and pee on my rug. But yesterday and the day before were exceptionally hot and sticky days. It was pretty uncomfortable, especially since I’m also not 100% well.

So anyway, there I was sitting in bed when the thunderstorm finally started, at about 8:30pm. I was watching an 80s era made for TV movie on YouTube. Suddenly, at about 8:45, there was a tremendous bang, and there went the power. The room was plunged into darkness, and there was no more air… and I was just sweating like crazy. I put my hair up and even rinsed off in the shower, because it was just so gross. Fortunately, I had just topped up the cell coverage on my iPad, which I don’t usually do unless we’re going on a trip. I did it the other day, because our Internet coverage in this house is pretty unreliable at times, and it’s good to have a cell connection in case it crashes.

The storm dumped some much needed rain and cooled things down a bit, not that I could immediately tell. I was coughing, sneezing, wiping my nose, and getting crankier by the minute. Fortunately, the fire brigade was on the spot, and they responded to the outage very quickly. The lights were back about an hour later. I love that about Germany, because power outages are pretty rare here, and when they do occur, they tend to be very brief.

My two years in Armenia in the 90s, where power outages were very common, have caused me to be a lot less tolerant of them in the “more developed world”. I can remember loving outages when I was a kid. They seemed “cool”. As an adult, I don’t think they’re any fun at all. I guess enduring a six week straight stint, without any power at all, will do that to a person. It turned out my Armenian neighbor hadn’t known I was living there, and cut my power so it would go to his apartment. It seemed that a lot of male Armenians in the 90s were all amateur electricians! Once he realized he had a neighbor, my former neighbor fixed my line for me, and I went back to having power for 2 to 4 hours per day. Not long after that, another neighbor harassed me, and I ended up moving out of that building.

Funny story about that. The harasser lived a level down from me, and one night, as I was coming back from a night out, he was in the hall, messing with the hall light. I tried to pass him, and he grabbed my arm and wouldn’t let go. He held my arm in a vise-like grip and kept telling me in Armenian not to scream, but I was petrified, because one of my colleagues was recently sexually assaulted and beaten up in her village, and it landed her in the hospital. Then she had to be medevacked to the States. I had visions of her black eyes, broken nose, fractured teeth, and beaten face in my head, as this guy held my arm and menacingly warned me not to scream. I was so scared that I couldn’t think how to respond in his language, but he could obviously tell I didn’t want to talk to him or be near him. For all I know, he was trying to tell me about the lights, but he had my arm, was telling me not to scream, and wouldn’t let go of me. So draw your own conclusions about what I was thinking at the time.

I informed the powers that be at the Peace Corps office, and they sent one of their drivers to come over to speak to my neighbor. The driver was the husband of the Country Director’s secretary, and he was a big, imposing, Mafia-esque looking guy. He basically told the guy to leave me alone, or there would be big trouble. I was told that my neighbor was pretty terrified, as the Peace Corps driver was quite intimidating, and made it clear that he would beat the ever loving shit out of the guy if he ever bothered me again (or, at least it was strongly implied). I never had any more trouble with him, but I never felt safe in that apartment again. And then my landlady decided to sell it, so I had to move anyway.

Not long after my neighbor imposed six week power outage, Armenia decided to restart Metzamor, a nuclear power plant they had shut down in the late 80s after Chernobyl and a massive earthquake destroyed a good portion of the country and killed tens of thousands of people. When I was living in Armenia, some experts, including a few from the United States, examined the facility and decided it was safe.

The Peace Corps gave all us Volunteers little bottles of iodine pills, in case there was an explosion. They were supposed to protect our thyroid glands. I don’t know… seems to me that if there was a nuclear accident, our thyroid glands would be one of the last things we’d be concerned about. Fortunately, Metzamor was still functional, and during the summer of my second year, we finally got electricity 24/7. That was quite an amazing thing to experience, especially as a privileged American. As far as I know, that’s how things still are in most areas. I’m sure today’s Volunteers will never know the pain groups A1, A2, and A3 endured, back in the early days of Peace Corps/Armenia. 😉

So… as you might be able to understand, I really don’t like power outages, especially when I’m home alone. And that seems to be when they happen the most frequently. Fortunately, I had my two dogs with me to protect me. Even Noyzi, who doesn’t tend to hang around with me in the evenings, stayed in the room with me, even until after the lights came on and I went to sleep. He eventually got up and went into his own room, which required me to open the door for him. Then Arran got me up at 1:30 am for a pee break, and then again at 4:00 am, because he wanted his breakfast. I tried to go to sleep again after that, but was too busy coughing. I’ll probably need another nap today, like I did yesterday.

I’m glad last night’s power outage was short lived, although I did hear that there was a fire caused by the lightening. Again, Germany has excellent firefighters, so the blaze was quickly contained. The weather seems a bit cooler today, so maybe the dogs will finally get their walk. I’ve skipped it twice this week, because of the heat and my sickness. I do feel somewhat better today, except for the coughing and mucous. You know how it is. It seems like it’s always the worst right when I wake up and have to clear all of the crap that settled in my lungs overnight. Again, I don’t know if this is COVID-19. The one test I took said it wasn’t. This virus isn’t like last month’s, though, which also evidently wasn’t COVID. I haven’t had a super runny nose, which is a blessing, since that always causes a wound under my nostrils. I also haven’t had a fever or body aches or any weird symptoms. It really is just like a regular cold, minus the runny nose phase.

Bill is also supposed to come home tonight, after he finishes working today. He’ll probably get home in the evening, and we’ll be grumpy together, as the heat hangs around a bit longer. I told him I want to get out of here… definitely for a vacation somewhere cooler. Maybe we can do something in September, after the Germans have had their holidays in August, but before COVID-19 ramps up again!

On another note, I did manage to catch some of Ivana Trump’s funeral. Or, what was shown outside the church, anyway. I’m not surprised she had a golden casket, or that her rapist ex husband was there.

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complaints, condescending twatbags, rants, sex, sexism, slut shamers

Pro-life men and fat shaming men have things in common…

This morning, I got a private message from someone who read my recent rant about pro-life men who make me want to hurl. I was surprised to get that message. As of this morning, that particular rant only has four views. However, it does have two likes, which is somewhat unusual for my blog. My posts, by and large, don’t get “likes” very often. 😉

The person who wrote to me indicated that she felt my post was “poignant”. I thought that was an interesting observation. Maybe it does seem poignant, though, that a middle-aged woman who has always had the right to choose would be so disgusted by men with “pro-life” attitudes. Very soon, the risk of pregnancy for me, personally, will no longer exist at all. So, if Roe v. Wade does get overturned, it won’t matter too much for me, at least not in terms of whether or not I would be forced to bear children. If the United States turned into an actual Gilead, as depicted in Margaret Atwood’s book, The Handmaid’s Tale, I would either be a wife or a “Martha”. Or maybe I’d just be a “working stiff” who wears grey. The bottom line is, my actual purpose– according to some men– will soon cease to exist. But, you know, even when I was still young, a lot of men didn’t think I was fulfilling my “purpose”. They probably felt like a vagina was wasted on me.

As I was reposting the two book reviews I added this morning, I watched the latest episode of Fundie Fridays on YouTube. The host, Jen, had a guest named Mickey Atkins on the show. Mickey is a social worker, like I would have been if I hadn’t become an “overeducated housewife”. The two of them were discussing Lori Alexander, aka “The Transformed Wife”. Lori Alexander, for those who don’t know, is a very controversial figure on social media. She believes that women’s sole purposes for being is to make babies and be housewives. I don’t generally pay a lot of attention to Lori’s posts, because I disagree with almost everything she says or writes, and I generally don’t think it’s productive to pay attention to her dumb comments. However, sometimes, when she says or writes something that is especially offensive, I will take note of it. I do casually follow Fundie Fridays, as well. I don’t watch it every week, but I do watch often enough. So, even though I think The Transformed Wife shouldn’t have a platform, I decided to listen to Jen and Mickey talk about her this morning as I multi-tasked.

This is yet another great video by Jen and James, and guest star, Mickey Atkins.

Listening to this video led me to look up things I have written about Lori Alexander. In the process of doing that, I ran across some old posts on my original blog about related subjects. It occurred to me, as I was reading, that men who “concern troll, and “fat shame” women, are a whole lot like the pro-life men who make me want to hurl. They REALLY have a lot in common. And, I also realized, that whether or not they know it, a lot of pro-life men and fat shaming men are probably motivated by the same thing… the desire to have sex with, and ultimately control, women. I think a lot of men are, deep down, offended by women who don’t do what society expects of them.

A lot of men think it’s a woman’s duty to be pretty, friendly, agreeable, and sweet. They think it’s her role to be willing to have sex with them– and only them. She is to turn them on and, when she gets pregnant, be willing to have their babies. This doesn’t necessarily mean that the man will feel like he needs to stick around and help raise the babies. It’s only that to be “good”, a woman is to be attractive and appealing. A smart woman with an opinion– especially if he doesn’t think she’s attractive– is offensive to a lot of men. And women who get pregnant, and then decide to reject the pregnancy, are repulsive to certain men.

Notice that I specified “certain men”. Not all men are like this. My husband, Bill, is not like this at all. He’s a kind, supportive, loving man who doesn’t mind that I’m overweight, opinionated, and often unlikable to other people. Bill loves me for who I am, not what I look like, and not just for my sex parts. I realize that I am extremely lucky, too. I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I did. My husband is an absolute gem.

But I know from my past life, and even incidences from my current life, that not all women are nearly as lucky as I have been. Every once in awhile, I run into a guy who seems determined to remind me of what they think should be my place. I see them do it to other women, too. They firmly believe that women are here to entertain them, satisfy them, attract them, and serve them. They aren’t here to be someone in and of themselves.

So how did I come to this conclusion? It started with a post I wrote on my original blog about a group called “Overweight Haters, Ltd.” Back in 2015, a woman named Kara Florish was riding on The Tube in London when a middle-aged male stranger placed a business card on her lap.

The man quickly got off at the next stop and disappeared in the crowd, leaving Kara sitting there, stunned. Kara posted on Twitter, commenting:

“I am not upset myself. I am smaller than the national average and not exactly obese, but this is hateful and cowardly and could potentially upset people struggling with confidence and eating disorders. Please tweet and share this if you are also outraged. Plus – to the person who wrote this card, go back to school, you can’t spell ‘beautiful’.”

I didn’t actually write about this incident until several years later. Florish wasn’t the only one who got a card from this vile group. In another article from The Guardian from 2015, it was reported that another commuter, a man named Sean Thomas Knox, witnessed a woman getting one of the cards. According to the article:

“Young man just got on train at Oxford Circus, gave printed card saying YOU’RE FAT to overweight girl. He jumped off. She read it, [and] cried.

“Am 99.9% sure this wasn’t staged. She didn’t even realise I was watching at first. Her stunned, desolate reaction was very real. Then tears.”

Knox described the man who handed over the card as a “hipster.. smartly, trendily dressed” with a beard. “Perhaps it was a piece of conceptual art,” he tweeted 

“It lasted a few seconds, but the card in that photo [Florish’s] is the same card I saw, in the girl’s hand. And her shock was real.”

I’ve seen a lot of comments fat shaming men leave for women online, too. They often couch their opinions as “concern” for women’s health. But, when it really comes down to it, I think men are less concerned about health as they are their own sex drives. A lot of them seem to think it’s a woman’s duty to be pretty for them, so they will want to have sex with them. And then, once they have sex, if the woman gets pregnant, she should want to have the baby. To not have the baby is to reject the man. A lot of pro-life men simply can’t deal with that kind of rejection. It’s a terrible assault on their egos. Notice, too, that a lot of pro-life men– especially those who are religious– also pressure women to be pleasing to them and pretty, but not sexy or, heaven forbid, slutty. Slutty women end up as handmaids, you know… or they work at Jezebel’s. 😉

Think I’m way off base on this? Consider something that happened to me back in February 2018. I read an article about a woman who had given birth to a baby girl she named Parker. The woman then left the newborn infant outside in the cold. Parker later died. Her mother was arrested and charged with murder, which was eventually reduced to a conviction of manslaughter.  She was sentenced to nine years in prison.

For some reason, a man decided that the comment section was a good place to rail against abortion, even though this story had NOTHING to do with abortion. He pointed out that had the mom aborted Parker, people would be applauding her choice. A lot of women responded to him, including yours truly. I dared to tell him that I didn’t think men really needed to chime in on this issue, since it’s never their lives or health on the line when someone gets pregnant. A few days later, I got a private message from someone who was looking for advice on apartments in Alsace. After I responded to the PM, I noticed I had another one from a “stranger” named Jason. Jason wrote this to me:

For some reason, a lot of men think the worst thing a woman can be is “fat”. So they add that to the word, “cunt”, to be as insulting as they can possibly be…

Interesting that Jason, who is presumably “pro-life”, doesn’t realize that I used to be someone’s developing fetus. And yet, he felt the need to invite me to commit suicide. Sadly, when I complained about this to Facebook, they said there was “nothing they could do about it.” However, I’ve been “on restriction” all month for writing a comment that referred to “dumb Americans”. Go figure.

Now, I’m not going to tell you that I enjoy being referred to as a “cunt”. It’s not a nice word. And no, I don’t like it when people call me “fat”, because I know that’s basically akin to “ugly” in some people’s opinions. Nobody likes to be insulted. On the other hand, I am already married to a wonderful guy who doesn’t think I’m a “fat cunt”, and would be devastated if I died. But this comment did make me realize that Jason must be very, very frustrated by women who aren’t afraid to speak their minds, and would happily deny men, both access to their cunts, and respect for their views.

You see, my guess is that Jason isn’t gay. He probably really enjoys having sex with women. And a lot of women have probably denied him sex. At the same time, he’s presumably here because some woman had sex and got pregnant. He probably passed through his mother’s “cunt” when he was born. So he actually owes everything to a cunt, doesn’t he? But he thinks that, as a man, he should have power over women. A woman who tells him and his male brethren to STFU is very threatening and offensive. So he calls me a vile word and advises me to kill myself. Makes a lot of sense, right?

As a woman, I have been sexually harassed by men, even though I don’t think I’m conventionally “beautiful”. It started on the playground when I was a little girl, when little boys would try to make me give them some “sugar” (I grew up in the South in the early 80s, and that was a euphemism for kissing). It continued as I got older, when bigger boys would grab me and try to touch me or kiss me, and when the neighborhood pervert, who referred to himself as “The Home of the Whopper”, showed me pornography. Then, it continued when boys would make comments about my body– negative or positive– or try to humiliate me with cruel jokes and pranks. In college, I remember meeting a guy at a party, and within a couple of hours, he was trying to stick his tongue down my throat. I was shocked and horrified, and I asked him to stop. He then proceeded to treat me like I had given him blue balls or something.

I got harassed when I lived in Armenia by men who exposed themselves to me. It happened three times that I can remember. I was lucky. I knew a woman who was harassed and violently assaulted. She had to go into the hospital. On a trip to Turkey, a man felt my legs as I tried on shoes that I desperately needed. Another man grabbed my breast when I was trying to find a bathroom. Not two hours later, when I was changing clothes, a different man came into the dressing room, called me “sexy”, and asked me to come with him. The female friend who was traveling with me was also harassed, although she wore men’s shoes and had shaved her head. The trip, which was mostly amazing, culminated when we got stuck on the border with Georgia and the customs manager propositioned me. And no, I wasn’t looking sexy. I had on shorts, a t-shirt, and wore no makeup. He still wanted to have sex with me… and, of course, that was ALL he wanted. He thought I would give it to him, because I’m an American woman, and women from the USA are supposedly “loose”. I was a virgin at the time.

A couple of years later, when I was back in the States, I worked at a country club. One of the members, a guy named J.J., was notorious for hitting on all of the women who worked at the club. It didn’t matter if the female he was targeting was a minor who was still in high school, or if it was the matronly dining room manager who was in her 60s. None of us were spared his attentions. One day, he followed me into the linen closet, which unfortunately was in the men’s locker room. Thinking the locker room was empty, I had gone in there to get tablecloths and napkins. He cornered me, and tried to paw at my breasts and kiss me. It was absolutely appalling, and yes, I said “No”.

And… I have also been fat shamed by men. It started with comments from my father, who would tell me that no man would find me attractive (he also didn’t like my outspoken personality and vulgar language). He would touch me and tell me I had “fat” I needed to lose. Sometimes, he called me names, like “hog”, or referred to me as “retarded”. As I got older, some men would body shame me. It happened a lot in Armenia. I would get stopped by strangers on the street trying to sell me Herbalife, or they would flat out tell me I was “fat”. But it also happened in the United States, or on vacations. Regular readers of my blog might remember when I wrote about the man on SeaDream I who was surprised by my pretty singing voice and said to Bill, “Now I can see why you’d love her.” He made similarly disgusting comments about women, revealing the attitude that he felt like it was a woman’s duty to be beautiful and available to him. And if she wasn’t those things, he could call her a “fat cow” (he literally referred to his late wife in this way– she had just died of breast cancer).

Some men, especially in the military community, are very offended by smart, opinionated women, especially if they’re considered “fat” or not pretty enough. I’ve gotten tons of shit over the name of this blog by men in the military community, as well as some rather clueless women. One time, a military man commented on a blog post I wrote that was shared on Facebook. He wrote, “Ugh. I hope she at least has children.” WTF, guy? I responded that I didn’t have children, and I would be very happy to tell him why I didn’t, if he really wanted to know the gory details.

Frankly, I think it’s probably a burden to be really attractive to men. I remember another incident, back when I was in my late 20s and thinner and prettier than I am now. I was at a bar, and one of my co-workers, who was slim and pretty, was dancing to music. We were friends, but hadn’t come to the bar together. A guy tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to look at him, and he asked me if my co-worker was with anyone. Obviously, he’d spotted her and wanted to meet her, presumably because she was very attractive. But instead of asking her, he approached me, the less threatening “fat friend”. I think I told him that we hadn’t come together and if he wanted to talk to her, he should man up and talk to her. I’m not her “fat friend”, there to help some guy score.

Lori Alexander, who thinks that women need to stay home and pump out babies for their husbands, also fat shames women. She says that it’s a woman’s duty to be pleasing to her man. And if her man thinks she’s too fat, she needs to do something about it. And she needs to let him have sex with her, no matter what… even if it happens while she’s trying to sleep or isn’t feeling well. In that sense, I guess she’s in agreement with famously pro-life mom, Michelle Duggar, who told her daughter, Jill, to be “joyfully available” to her new husband, Derick. The year after the public heard about this advice, the news came out that Jill was one of four of the Duggar daughters who were molested by their eldest brother, Josh. We all know where Josh is right now. Mr. “Pro-Life” father of seven is currently sitting in a jail cell, awaiting sentencing for receiving and possessing images of child sexual abuse… and some of the female children being abused were in diapers!

Josh wanted to save developing fetuses, but he didn’t mind looking at those same, precious babies being abused for his own sexual gratification.

So yeah… I think guys who would like to deny women the right to bodily autonomy are, by and large, not interested in protecting babies. A lot of those guys wouldn’t bother to stick around if a woman got pregnant out of wedlock, and they certainly don’t want more of their paychecks going to providing social welfare safety nets. These guys– Josh Duggar especially– use women for their own gratification and then condemn them as “sluts”. They are repulsed by women they see as sloppy and out of control, whether the lack of control is regarding food or sex. And so, if you pay close attention, you see that a lot of fat shamers and pro-life males respond to women in very similar ways. They have a LOT in common!

I think, deep down, most of these pro-life, hyper-religious, fat shaming guys are obsessed with sex, and controlling women. They hate that a woman has the power to do something they can’t do, and a lot of them are offended when a woman has the nerve to have a vagina, but doesn’t “do enough” to be attractive. Or, worse, she’s attractive, but denies him access to her vagina. Or she gives him access, but then doesn’t want to accept the grand gift of his sperm, which created a developing fetus. Remember… the vast majority of us owe our lives to a woman and her vagina.

I’ll leave you with one last anecdote. A couple of days ago, I read a Facebook post about the 1987 film, Dirty Dancing, which was released when I was 15 years old. A lot of people forget that the reason why “Baby” has to learn to “dirty dance” is because Johnny Castle’s partner got “knocked up” by Robby, the asshole waiter. She had an illegal abortion, which made her very sick. The poster pointed out that the film was a reminder of what could be at stake if women in the United States lose access to abortion. One male commenter wrote this:

What is the script was flipped? What if Robby was a loving caring father that wanted the baby, but Penny knew that if she had the baby, her life would change, and she didn’t want that? Robby would have no legal say in it, and would be forced to see his child killed. Not all guys are douchebags. And not all women are angels. If a person, male or female, doesn’t think they can handle being a parent, then don’t take the risk of it happening.

Naturally, I had to respond. I didn’t even address the fact that this dude used the term “douchebag”, which is, in and of itself, a very offensive and sexist pejorative. Who uses douchebags? It’s not men who use them; it’s women. And, in fact, we aren’t repelled by “douchebags” so much as what comes from using them– the residual nasty smelling stuff from a woman’s private area. It’s the “waste” that is repellant. Personally, I consider the term “douchebag” to be akin to calling a woman a “cunt”, but since that was the term the guy used, I went with it in my response to this hypothetical “loving, caring father” who would be “crushed” that his child would be killed by heartless Penny.

If you don’t understand that it wouldn’t be Robby’s health or life on the line, and you think another person should be compelled to stay pregnant for someone else’s sake, then yes, you ARE a “douchebag” (not that I would use that term). Guys who want to be fathers should find women who want to have babies with them.

It’s as simple as that, folks.

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true crime

Man gets smackdown for butt slapping a reporter…

A few days ago, I posted about Alex Bozarjian, the news reporter whose backside was assaulted while she was doing live coverage of the Savannah Bridge Run 10K last Saturday. There she was, standing there on the side of the route as runners passed her, mugging for the camera, when a man in sunglasses and a baseball cap came up behind her and smacked her ass. Bozarjian’s immediate reaction was one of shock, then anger. But in an impressive display of professionalism and poise, she managed to compose herself in seconds and finish the job. Then she tweeted to the man who assaulted her– one Tommy Callaway– whose identity was discovered due to the number he wore as a race participant.

When I first wrote about this story, Alex Bozarjian had only reported the incident to the police and told her story on CBS This Morning. Since then, the Savannah police have decided to charge Mr. Callaway with misdemeanor sexual battery. Callaway turned himself in to the detectives, was booked at the Chatham County Jail, and then was released on a $1,300 bond. As I mentioned in my first post about this case, sexual harassment isn’t a joke. If you’re dumb enough to do it on live TV, there’s an excellent chance you will have to go to court and pay for your mistake.

Mea culpa! I’m not sure this apology helps his cause, though. Most of the people commenting on YouTube seem to think he’s just sorry he was caught.

Tommy Callaway gave an interview to WSAV, which is available on YouTube. A lot of people are dismissing Callaway’s apology, saying he’s just upset that he got caught. Personally, I think he mostly sounds sincere. He probably does feel some genuine remorse for what he did, and not just because there will be serious consequences. I do think he should have stopped short of offering excuses for his behavior. The bottom line is (no pun intended), he shouldn’t have touched Alex Bozarjian at all.

It doesn’t matter if he was “high” from the race or the race course was “tight”. And sorry, but I’ve watched the clip a few times, and it does look to me like he deliberately aimed for Ms. Bozarjian’s behind. It certainly wasn’t an accident, as far as I can tell. But, unlike a lot of the others who have their pitchforks and torches out, I don’t think he necessarily needs to be strung up and flogged for this. I’m glad he’s being charged, and I hope he gets a punishment that he won’t forget for the rest of his life. I also hope other people pay attention to this example and are reminded to keep their hands to themselves. But frankly, I’ve heard less sincere apologies. To me, he does sound genuinely sorry, even if his apology needs some work. Here’s a hint– a good apology doesn’t include any excuses. It’s a sincere admission of guilt and is focused entirely on the victim.

An example of an insincere apology…

People make mistakes. I believe Mr. Callaway knows he made a mistake. I don’t know why his attorney allowed him to make a public apology, although it’s plain that he’s not disputing that he committed sexual battery. At this point, he’s doing damage control, which seems reasonable to me. I would be even less impressed with Callaway if he became belligerent and denied what he did, which is something I think a lot of truly creepy men would have done in this situation. Think Donald Trump’s reaction to being called out for grabbing someone by the pussy… he dismissed it as “locker room talk” and many people forgave him for that! At least Callaway is showing some sensitivity, and I have doubts that he’ll ever pull such a stunt again.

It’ll be interesting to see what happens to him when this goes to court. I suspect he’ll get a fine and maybe he might even have to register as a sex offender. That might be a bit extreme, in my view, since that would really have an effect on Callaway’s career and home life. I would not want to see his wife and children punished for this incident more than they already are from the embarrassment of it. But I do think a stiff fine would be a good start toward making this better, and a sincere promise that he’s learned his lesson about touching women without their permission.

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true crime

Don’t give me no lines and keep your hands to yourself…

A little mood music by the Georgia Satellites… maybe Tommy Callaway should listen to this song a few times– especially the “keep your hands to yourself” part.

I had another topic in mind to write about today… maybe I’ll get to it later. For now, I want to address a news article I just read about yet another man taking liberties with a woman and apparently thinking it’s funny. The short version, guys, is that this isn’t funny. It’s demeaning, humiliating, and downright shitty. And if you touch someone without their consent, you’re likely to pay a stiff price for it. Sexual harassment is not a joke, and doing it on live TV is really foolish. At the very least, you will be outed and shamed for it, and there is a good chance you could wind up in court, too.

What the fuck?

Savannah, Georgia based anchorwoman Alex Bozarjian, 23, was covering the Savannah Bridge Run 10K last Saturday for WSAV TV. She appeared to be enjoying the scene as she stood to the side, watching joggers pass as they mugged for the camera. Then, suddenly, a man in sunglasses and a baseball cap came up behind her and slapped her on the ass. Bozarjian’s face immediately registered shock and indignation, but she quickly composed herself and went on with her reporting. Below are screen grabs from the video. You can see Bozarjian’s horrified reaction as she’s groped on live TV while trying to do her job.

  • Callaway makes contact…
  • Bozarjian reacts with shock…
  • horror and anger.

Later, she tweeted this:

Damn right…

Eagle eyed observers figured out who that “masked man” was, on account of the race number he was wearing. He was identified as 43 year old Tommy Callaway of Statesboro, Georgia. I know Statesboro. I have relatives who are from that area and, in fact, I’m pretty sure my Aunt Jeanne is buried near there. I’m sure Mr. Callaway, who was also identified as a Boy Scout leader and youth pastor for the United Methodist Church, meant no harm. He might have thought he was being cute and funny, smacking the anchorwoman’s ass. It’s probably how he was raised. And in this age of Donald Trump worshipping pussy grabbers, he may have felt perfectly justified in smacking the ass of a woman young enough to be his daughter. It’s all in good fun, right?

Of course he was wrong, and Mr. Callaway may soon find out how wrong he was in a court of law. Alex Bozarjian, whose Twitter profile reports that she’s a “proud Latina”, was raised in Salem, Massachusetts, and sports an apparently Armenian surname, has filed a police report and is allowing police officers to decide if criminal charges are worth pursuing. Callaway’s attorney, Joseph Turner, issued the following statement:

“[Tommy Callaway is a] loving husband and father who is very active in his community [who is] working with those involved to correct the situation. While we regret the situation, Mr. Callaway did not act with any criminal intentions,”

Callaway has also apparently said that the butt slap was an “accident”. He stated on Inside Edition:

“I was caught up in the moment. I was getting ready to bring my hands up and wave to the camera to the audience, there was a misjudge in character and decision-making. I touched her back; I did not know exactly where I touched her.” 

Callaway added, “I totally agree 100 percent with her statement and the two most important words were her last two words, ‘do better.’ And that’s my intention. I did not see her facial reaction as I just kept on running. If I did see her facial reaction, I would have felt embarrassed and ashamed and stopped and turned around to apologize to her.”

Really? I’ve watched the clip a few times and, to me, he looks pretty intent on making contact with her ass. Of course he wasn’t going to see her face as he was running up behind her, and of course he wasn’t going to look for her reaction as he was racing away. While some might excuse him for that reason, I think it’s an even better reason not to touch people without their permission. Especially if there is any chance you might wind up touching them in an inappropriate place and/or having your intentions “misunderstood” (although I think Mr. Callaway’s excuse is 100% bullshit).

Bozarjian says the slap hurt; he hit her hard. Bozarjian also says that Callaway “took her power”, and she’s claimed she even feels a little bit “guilty”, probably because she’s been shamed by people who think she should just let it go because he was just being “rambunctious”.

Well… what the hell is that supposed to mean? Tommy Callaway is married and has daughters, and he presumably has a mother. Does he like it when strange men fondle them “in good fun”? I wonder what Callaway’s wife, mother, and daughters think of this, watching their husband, son, or dad treating a young woman like a side of beef on live television. It’s probably embarrassing and humiliating for them, too. I know I’d be pretty furious if Bill ever did that. Fortunately, Bill is much more evolved, even though he grew up at a time when guys were allowed and expected to take liberties with women that way, especially in the South. Callaway seems to have a “frat boy” mentality. I’ve run across it a lot myself, especially having grown up and lived in the South, where there seems to be more of an attitude about boys being boys. Lots of guys like Callaway have been taught this behavior is just fine.

I see from Heavy.com that Callaway got married in 2015 and is a graduate of Georgia Southern University. He works in sales for Swedish Match, a tobacco company. His wife has daughters, but it’s not clear if she had them with Callaway. Either way, I would expect Callaway to set a better example and respect his vows to his wife.

But even if Callaway wasn’t married and didn’t have daughters, smacking someone on the ass like that is just a tacky thing to do, especially considering that Bozarjian was working. It certainly would be wrong regardless, but she was acting in a professional capacity, reporting the news. There she was on camera, trying to do her job, when she gets sexually harassed for all to see. Does Callaway go around smacking police officers on the ass when they’re working? What about nurses or schoolteachers? I give Bozarjian true props for keeping her composure in that situation. She did a lot better than this guy did, when he was caught off guard while reporting the news:

He’s clueless. I think he was fired after this gaffe.

Watching the video of the incident involving Callaway and Bozarjian, I was reminded of a trend that was going on a few years ago. Anchors were interviewing people about various subjects when the person suddenly blurted “fuck her right in the pussy.” It started out just being one guy, but the trend soon caught on and others started doing it, because it was “funny”.

Is this funny? Well… yeah, it kind of is. But it doesn’t involve anyone being physically or sexually harassed.

Tommy Callaway has apparently taken down most of his social media by now, but before this blew up, it was revealed that he takes part in a lot of races and running events. However, thanks to his inability to keep his hands to himself, Callaway is now banned from all Savannah Sports Council owned races. Perhaps that doesn’t matter to Callaway, but at least someone is holding him accountable for his boorish behavior on live TV. I’m not saying I think this is something that should ruin Callaway’s life, but I do think it’s good that people have taken notice. Yes, Bozarjian has gotten some dismissive comments from people who don’t think this is a big deal, but others– particularly those in her profession– are coming to her defense.

Seriously, Tommy… keep your hands to yourself!

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