Why I Want Health Insurance Reform

It’s very simple. I want everyone to have access to the same high-quality, timely medical care that currently only the well-off people can afford.

I have worked part-time for minimum wage to put myself through college. I know what it feels like to live without insurance, only I was lucky enough to be young and healthy at the time. I have been self-employed and I have bought my own insurance. I paid more than six-hundred dollars a month for coverage for me and my husband, and yet when I delivered my daughter by c-section, I still had a hospital bill that reached into the thousands because Blue Cross Blue Shield would only cover eighty percent of my approved expenses.

I want the people who get paid by the hour, the ones who don’t have fancy job titles and corner offices, the ones whose jobs don’t come with benefits and paid vacations, the ones who scramble every month to pay the bills and who can barely make it if they have an unexpected expense, to be able to have good health insurance that they can actually afford and to have the peace of mind that you get when you know your medical needs are being met.

Not everyone in America has a secure job and a stable home life that comes with a big house and an SUV parked in the driveway. It’s not a matter of being a grown-up or being lazy and stupid. It’s about a system that is basically unfair, that favors the few over the many.

It’s about a right that is more basic and more important than speaking your mind, or congregating in a place of worship, or joining a political party, because none of these things matter if you’re ill and can’t afford good medical care.

Handmade Birthday Party Invitations

We had a party when my little girl turned five. She and I had a lot of fun making the invitation cards by hand, I cut and wrote them out, while she glued and came up with some ideas. The lady duck in the front is her own design, flower hat and all.

A is for My Daughter

My little girl’s name begins with an A. She is a five-year-old bundle of energy, a smart, inquisitive child, with a strong temper and a will of her own, but also with a tender, surprisingly vulnerable side.

She has become a little lady, tall and slim, with dark, glossy hair that is never long enough. Her features have changed in the past year, her face is thinner and more refined, and she’s grown so heavy I can no longer carry her in my arms. Part of me misses the toddler she used to be, and there’s a hint of sadness mingled with joy and satisfaction as every day my daughter is becoming more independent, and I am not as necessary as I once was. Most of the time, though, I am just happy to see her healthy and content, and enjoying the days of her childhood, safe in the knowledge that she is loved.

I have been challenged by her willful nature, her fearless determination colliding head on with the boundaries I have set, and our struggles with discipline have, more than once, left me feeling bruised and knocked about, but things are quiet now, we seem to have gained some maturity on her side, and calmness and perspective on mine.

I feel good about where we are, and watching her learn new things about people, and about the world in general is a pleasure and an exciting adventure.

Gray Day

I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself today. It’s been one of those days when everything piles on and I don’t have the strength to put on a happy face.

The word “Mama” being uttered every five two minutes jars on my nerves. I am homesick, and loneliness feels like a load on my shoulders that I can’t shake off. I am annoyed, too, that a new text message announcing another week of school closings due to security concerns arrived today. It’s the third week in a row. And to top it all, I have a rash on my face.

So, in order to cheer myself up I have decided to participate in the National Blog Posting Month for this year. I did it in 2007, and even though in my opinion it’s lost some of the fun since they turned it into a year-long thing, I think it will be good for me to have a daily goal, something other than changing diapers, feeding children and answering endless questions from a five-year-old. I love taking care of my family, and I do it gladly, but boy is it hard work. I sometimes think the life of a woman is a life of perpetual servitude.

29 to go…Here’s to a good November!

The First Year in Review

My baby boy is now fourteen months. He is no longer a helpless, fragile bundle of limbs, but an eager explorer of the world around him. I remember the early days of his life and I marvel at how far we have come.  The nights he wouldn’t sleep, the mornings when I felt like death, the throbbing, painful wound across my hips, and the agonizing struggle to get him to nurse, have all been replaced by peaceful nights, hugs and kisses, laughter and learning.

The journey as we got to know each other has not always been easy, there have been stumbles and false starts, the path littered with tears and heavy sighs, but we’ve made it. We have passed the colic pains, the crying fits and ear infections, and I am relishing his budding independence, his sense of wonder and his delighted reactions to every new discovery. There have been many highs full of joy, and some deep, distressing lows. The happy moments have filled my heart and given me a taste of what it means to love someone instinctively, before you even know them. The lows I could do without, but they too have taught me something, I have learned that they will pass, that a cool head will get things done, and that tantrums and crying fits don’t last forever. I have learned too, that sometimes I need help, and that knowing when to walk away and regroup is better than letting anger have its way.

Breastfeeding proved a most difficult, unexpected challenge. I considered myself a bit of an old hand to whom the act of feeding her child came naturally, and my first baby nursed well from the very first day, but none of that mattered with my new son. I decided to give birth in Pakistan instead of making the journey back to the United States, for logistical and financial reasons, and unfortunately birthing facilities here are not built with breastfeeding in mind, even the good, modern hospital where I delivered had a single recovery ward where patients are kept for 24 hours after surgery. My baby was not allowed in the ward due to the risk of infection, and by the time I was moved to my room, my son had taken a dozen or so bottles of formula in his first day of life. We suffered from nipple confusion because he learned to suckle with a silicon nipple, and he didn’t seem to like my breast at all. He was hungry all the time, and whenever I gave in and fed him formula, his obvious relief added to my guilt and anguish.

Sheer determination and my husband’s encouragement made me persevere, but I felt frustrated and useless, and many times I almost gave up. It was much easier to put the struggle on hold, just this once I would say to myself, and make up a bottle, but in spite of that I kept trying every day, hoping to give my baby a chance to learn to latch on properly, all the while pumping to maintain my milk supply and supplementing his feed with formula. I weaned him off the bottle when he was three months old, and now my boy nurses like a champ, the little bear!

My son is that rare thing in our family, a let-me-try-it, I-like-it, give-me-more kind of eater, who rejects baby cereal in favor of olives and tomatoes, bell peppers, chicken and lentil soup. He is easy to please, with a calm, gentle temperament, a healthy curiosity and a streak of wily determination that should serve him well in the years to come.

His wiry little legs carry him as fast as he will go, his face bunched in concentration, his hand pointing towards his goal, a look of expectation and a little bit of mischief shining in his eyes. He loves to be outside, sometimes he comes and grabs my finger, says something to me in his tongue-twisting speech and heads towards the door. Birds and lizards are his friends, he shrieks excitedly when they sit for a minute on the fence, and he hums a tuneless little song as he toddles around our tiny patch of grass.

Maybe the years that have passed since my daughter’s birth, and all the changes that have ensued since then, have made me see things more clearly, have enabled me to handle the unending responsibilities and constant exertions better, but mothering my boy feels much easier. I am more secure in myself as a mother, I trust my judgement more and I’m enjoying the little things in life with more enthusiasm. When my daughter was born five years ago, my life was very different. My husband and I worked constantly, and there was no barrier separating our work from our personal life, the stress and pressure seeping into everything we did, including parenting. Looking back on that time I feel robbed of the serenity that I needed to bond with my daughter as I should have. Living in Pakistan has its drawbacks, to be sure, but being here means that I can stay home and dedicate myself to raising my children without jeopardizing our financial stability, and for that I am grateful.

I am there to witness every milestone, to soothe away the tears and listen to every story. Sometimes I lie down on the bed with my little son, his eyes looking straight into mine, his legs curled against me, and I smile. I smile because I am happy, my heart is open and love feels natural, uncomplicated and free. I am keeping this special time in my heart, treasuring the hugs, the shaky steps and funny faces. I want to keep them safe in my memory forever, the looks and sounds and words etched in my mind so I never lose them, not even when I’m old and dried, and many years have passed.

This has been a magical time, full of fun and tenderness, despite the hard work. My son has been a beautiful, lovable piece of heaven, a soft, roly-poly morsel to hug and kiss, a cooing, smiley face that has kindled my affections with every curl of his lips and every twinkle of his eye. Yet the best part of all is that I know that there is more to come. I am eager to meet the little boy he will become, I am ready and full of hope for the future.

All The Pleasures Prove

My summer in America has begun, and as I mulled words and tried out sentences while writing this post, it became clear to me that every pleasure I have enjoyed since I landed a little more than two weeks ago, from taking a walk in the soft morning sunshine, to the quiet comfort of my parents’ house, is dotted with the odd pebble of something that feels very much like regret. Regret for what I have been missing, regret for what I will leave behind.

I often think with wonder about the roads life makes us travel. Is there a map out there somewhere? Who could have told me I would one day live and raise my family half a world away from home in Pakistan? I would not have believed it had I been told, and sometimes when I walk the narrow, dusty walkways of an ancient market in Lahore, I marvel at my being there at all, like a character in a fantastic story of genies and magic lamps.

It’s been an adventure that has enriched my life, to be sure, and while I admit that many times I feel out of place, and I cast my eyes with longing to my other life in the United States, that isn’t the fault of the place, for it is I who belong somewhere else.

Being in America again after an absence of three years, I look at everything with fresh eyes, and I’m savoring every sight: the color green, the pink geraniums by the entrance in the supermarket, the excited shrieks of my daughter on her first trip to the dollar store, the slow, patient walk of my neighbor and her two elderly dogs, the flags waving in the breeze, the smell of apple cake freshly baked, and the familiar, well-remembered faces of people who have known me since I was fifteen.

I get a soft, gentle feeling of contentment from being at home again, like the comforting, soothing touch of worn-out jeans and fuzzy slippers. It’s the feeling that everything is right with the world, and with my place in it. My mother is busy cooking, my daughter is happy and healthy, and my baby son is learning to walk. There are no alarming news, no power cuts, no scorching heat, no mess, no loss, no feeling of displacement.

I am lulled by the familiar scenes, and the tender embrace of my loved ones feels like a renewal. The days will pass quickly, I know, and the time to leave will arrive before I’m aware, but I will take with me a wonderful sense of belonging and a precious, newly-formed bond between my parents and my children. Life is good.