Monthly Archives: January 2012

CalTrans Day 2: 24 Hours Remaining

I took the day off yesterday to visit with a fertility gynecologist. I have been struggling with premature ovarian failure since my arrest. I assumed it was just stress. I mean, being arrested is pretty stressful. Especially when you have NO CLUE they are coming for you.

The doc was very intelligent and mentioned, after unsympathetically mentioning that he sees no follicles anywhere, that only 1% of women with POF do not have premutated x chromosomes.

Say what???

He went on to explain that my daughter’s autism diagnosis is probably fragile x derived. For those, who, like me, are saying “fragile whaaa?”… It’s a chromosomal abnormality on the x chromosome. The good doctor also casually began to rattle off risk factors to me for having these premutated x chromosomes.

He concluded by saying he was 99% certain this was the case for me, but that I can have it confirmed with a blood test. Of course I ran over to my office to have someone draw the massive amount of blood this particular test requires.

Then I spun in circles about it and the fact that my daughter most likely has a 50/50 chance of birthing a child more severely effected than herself. Call me sentimental, but I was looking forward to grandbabies someday. The POF was hard enough to swallow… I mean, who wants to go through menopause and age like a 55 year old before you’re 40? It kinda sucks.

When I was a teenager, I used to say I wanted to be young and then old. I didn’t want to have those awful middle years of adulthood where you aren’t cool at all. Be careful what you ask for.

So, I normally don’t allow myself to wallow in self-pity. I find it to be a huge waste of time. But today I wallowed in self-pity on the side of the freeway.

For the record, CalTrans work ON the freeway is a WHOLE lot harder than CalTrans work off the freeway. I picked up trash. Big deal. But the repetitive motion of doing the same thing the entire day in the heat really messed with my neck, shoulders and right hand (those trash grabber things are tough to squeeze after the fourth hour of repeatedly squeezing it).

The entire of experience was a flashback to jail, only in the sunlight. Same etiquette and rules. Same mannerisms and speech.

Except the head boss guy was kinder to me than the others. He asked me what my crime was since I had not worked there before. I told him and his face softened.

“Midwifery is an honorable profession. I’m so sorry.”

He’s a black fellah in his mid 50s. His age puts him right at the time black babies were still being delivered into the hands of granny midwives. He went on to tell me that he was in the room with his wife when his son was born even though that wasn’t typical. “Jes me and my wife and the doctor. And he’s there tellin me everything he’s doin. I watched a miracle right there. Then two days later, my knees started knockin about how big a miracle that was.”

His words to me were kind after that.

The wind from the vehicles beside us blew clouds of dust into our faces. My eyes, ears, nostrils… black with dirt. My face was smeared with it and sweat from the heat of the sun. My lips were gritty. I don’t mind hard work. If I could have changed the motions of my body occasionally I woulda been alright. It was the repetition that killed me.

Here I am, going to die young of heart disease after aging prematurely and looking like a fat old lady when all my friends are young and fit. Or maybe I will survive the heart disease and live to be old enough to develop fragile x tremors and parkinson’s like symptoms from my mutated chromosomes. Why wouldn’t God have provided me with a partner if I was going to suffer so much? And who would want to marry this fat, saggy, infertile lady now? Why would my children have to go through so much stress now, only to prepare them to have to be left alone or have to take care of a mother who can no longer hold her hands still enough to paint and who yells expletives at them and forgets basic life skills?

As you can see, not a happy place to be there on the freeway. The freeway didn’t make it, my mind did. Sitting there in an emotional cage all my own.

In that moment, I noticed a little lizard in the dirt in front of me. Poor fellah was in shock. His entire home was being hoed and raked and dumped. All he was left with was dirt. He played dead, not knowing what else to do.

I picked him up in my dusty gloved hand. “Poor guy.” I said to him, feeling huge amounts of empathy for such a small little creature that nobody else noticed.

I placed him to the side of my by a tree for shelter.

And then it occurred to me. “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!” These words, attributed to Jesus of Nazareth in the account of Matthew, rang in my ears.

God has infinitely more compassion on me than I have on others. I can trust and believe that. But even as I did, my heart cried out, “I don’t see it at all right now, God!”

I remembered how, on New Year’s Day, a guest speaker at our church spoke about “the God who gives and takes away” and that it is ok to ask Him why He does. And, I did. Finally after this whole crazy journey, I asked Him on New Year’s Day 2012… Why, God?

And I think I am going to start getting answers. At least, I see now why I went through the pain of losing my third pregnancy. And if I think back, that was the moment that everything began for me. The loss of my third pregnancy was the beginning of a long, seven year path through pain.

As I returned to picking up trash, the next item I grabbed was a photograph of a woman. I looked at it in the trash bag for a moment and wondered who she was and then moved on to pick up more trash to toss in over her.

A strange question entered my mind as I did so. “Why did you have compassion on the lizard and not the woman?”

My response was “The woman was only an image. The lizard was alive.”

The point became clear. This body I’m living in is simply an image of me here on earth. The soul is what is alive. God cares far more about my character and soul development than He does about my temporary comfort in a body that will perish with the using.

It’s a hard lesson. Learned in a very hard place. Somehow it’s easy to think I will live forever, stay young forever, wake up tomorrow… but the reality is so very different.


CalTrans Day 1: 32 Hours Remaining

The paperwork I was given for my forty hours of CalTrans says “misdemeanor” on it. If only! But at least this time I am spared the “riding an animal” embarrassment.

I was able to begin this part of my sentence due to the graciousness of a neighbor of a friend of mine. Linda speaks very broken English. She is the mother of three small children and stays home with them while her husband works. When I met her I was enveloped in the joy and warmth and hospitality I remember so well from when I lived in Mexico City. Even though I had a hard time understanding her (my Spanish is as good as her English), her smile lit up the room. She told me that her entire household is crazy. The only sane ones are her dog, her bird and her guinea pig. I felt right at home.

When my friend told her my story she opened her arms and home and offered to care for my children free of charge while I finished my CalTrans work. As I thanked her, her children ran screaming between us with an automatic nerf gun and a nerf rocket launcher, chasing each other with fiery competition. Her dog growled (my friend told me the dog has an aversion to nerf guns). She laughed nervously. I told her there is a reason hispanics will always have their liberty in California.

I arrived late because the misdemeanor paper more than one error on it. It also said to arrive at seven am. When I showed up, proud that I was so early, the lot was vacant except for one lone worker who looked at me funny.

“I’m supposed to report here for court ordered CalTrans work…”

“Uhhh. They already left at six. Ju gunna need to talk to the boss. Maybe he’ll let you stay or something.”

The boss had pity on me. I thanked him and apologized for being an hour late.

“Well, according to your paper, you’re right on time… just make sure to arrive before six on your remaining days.”

I was shown to the employee facilities and offices across the street and the mops, brooms and cleaners. I’ve done this before. Only the floors and walls are a heck of a lot cleaner than Skid Row. Eric, the guy I first met, reminded me of the rules which included not having a cell phone on the premises.

“A while back one of the workers called someone in his gang and they had a shooting here.”

He didn’t need to explain further. We were in East L.A. after all.

“You might just work here in the facilities… they normally keep one female behind to clean. If there’s more than one female the rest of them gotta go pick trash, but it’s easy. You don’ gotta do nothing wichyor hands. They give you tools to pick stuff up. Is not hard. You’ll do these five days in jor sleep.”

And this was the part of the sentence the judge said would be really hard for me.

Cleaning the staff offices was easy, simple work.

The boss even came out and chatted with me for a bit about how life in the fifties was better than now. I agreed, even though I wasn’t alive in the fifties.

The men let me sign out first since I was a “female.” I was, actually, the only woman I saw all day. I wonder if a we women would treat a man with the same kind of preference if he ventured into a mostly female profession. Like, if an obstetrician worked with all midwives. Oh, wait a minute… question answered. I hung my head in shame for treating the obstetrician I worked with in a patronizing manner. Need to make amends there.