My good friend asked me to go with her to a local bird store several months ago. I should have known better because this was right after my beloved cockatiel died. As soon as we walked into the store, Ryan, the manager, thrust this little, feather-less creature into my hand and it was love at first flight!
Of course, the story is complicated, but the bottom line is that I am now “mother” to Ethel, my adorable, 4-month old green cheek conure.
This is just a brief introduction, but there will be many more tales to come.
Hint: How Ethel loves to watch what’s on my computer screen and add to its interest by pecking at the touch screen to see what she can come up with next,
Chavo came back – again. He came back to the shelter a few weeks ago, but no one recognized him. I did. Somewhere inside the little, shriveled dog in the kennel hid the big head and broad chest that was once filled out and healthy. At first the dog in this kennel was only vaguely familiar. I looked at his intake card, saw the name Chavo, and looked again at the pathetic dog laying in his kennel, too tired to even get up. This was not the chesty little low-rider pitbull I remembered and loved. This was a sick skeleton with glassy eyes, and foamy mouth.
I wanted to murder the people who did this to him.
It took a village to nurse Chavo back to health. Once his condition became known to the techs and vet, he was quickly whisked to the quiet and protected part of the shelter. Word spread like wildfire about our once robust little low-rider. We all prayed and kept vigil outside his kennel. After two days of not eating and utter lethargy, doc did exploratory surgery on him and pulled a walnut from Chavo’s digestive tract.
And so Chavo began to heal. He ate hungrily and had his own cheering squad urging him through every bite, every step. At first he was allowed just short walks, and we lined up for our turn “at Chavo.” Before long, walks became longer and longer until he was finally allowed back into the adoption part of the shelter.
One day I came looking forward to a walk with Chavo, only to find he’d been adopted. Selfishly, my heart sank. But I heard it was a good thing. Good people. Good for Chavo, and ultimately good for all of us in the village who brought a near-death, low-rider pit back to life and into a home with good, loving people.
The list of terms describing gender preferences is astounding. When I was younger, there was no such list and there were lots of behind the hand whispers and mocking of those who displayed characteristics of gender outside the norm. That is not so much the case at all today and that is a good thing.
What is not a good thing is the accompanying list of pronouns and other terms people want others to refer to them by. We have such a situation where I work and it is stressful trying to remember if this person is a they or them, an anyone or a nobody. Then there may also be a preference for other defined pronoun words. The more comprehensive list of gender-neutral pronouns is as follows:
He/She — Zie, Sie, Ey, Ve, Tey, E
Him/Her — Zim, Sie, Em, Ver, Ter, Em
His/Her — Zir, Hir, Eir, Vis, Tem, Eir
His/Hers — Zis, Hirs, Eirs, Vers, Ters, Eirs
Himself/Herself — Zieself, Hirself, Eirself, Verself, Terself, Emself
Here’s the rub for me. If you want to be called something, that is your freedom. Fine. But on the other hand, it is my freedom to turn down your request. Aren’t there more important things than to insist on being viewed in a very prescribed and calculated way? Why not just be what we are – people!
I work with a “they” who insists on remaining gender neutral and who wrote our department a long tome on why this was important. This person dresses as a boy, but is a woman by physiology and a mother by choice. I am confused because this person is militant in her stand on gender neutrality, yet goes to such an extreme as to dress as a selected gender? This is not gender neutral. This person’s baby is now about 2 years old, no one knows its true sex, and it is called Winter. I wonder how this “it” is going to manage in a very un-gender neutral society.
Most mothers and daughters have their respective “issues” and my daughter and I were not exceptions.
That slammed to a stop.
She called me one morning in tears, asking me to come get her and take her to emergency. I dropped what I was doing, crossed town and bundled her into my car.
Ten hours later she had a D and C. Much to my chagrin, they released her that night at 10 and I once again bundled her into my car and this time, took her home with me so I could make sure she was safe. Only she wasn’t.
Something wasn’t right. One day after the surgery I could see where she’d be sleepy and sore, but 3 days of the same, something wasn’t right. My daughter is stubborn. Too much for her own good, we found out. When she wasn’t bouncing back on day 2 and 3, I said we had to call the doc. She insisted that she wasn’t going anywhere. Day 4 she had a temperature. 103.5. I called an ambulance.
Beyond anyone’s comprehension, my beautiful, intelligent daughter had toxic shock syndrome. People of younger generations haven’t even heard of this deadly malady, which was once associated with tampon use. In fact, her extraordinarily competent doctors had to do a literature review before they came to the heartbreaking conclusion that the source of the Group A Strep, which was feeding deadly toxins into her body, was her uterus. Her uterus needed to be removed.
Her brother, his wife, my partner and I went to see her in the ICU before the surgery. As long as I live I will never forget the color of her face – yellow, orange and gray. Her organs were shutting down, it was explained to me. Her kidneys, liver, and lungs were being slayed by the toxins. I will also never forget the tear that dribbled down her face when they said she had just a 5 percent chance of living if she didn’t have this surgery. Before the took her away, we gave our goodbye kisses, all terrified that it would be the last we’d ever give her while she was alive.
It wasn’t. It was hard looking at her with the tube down her throat when she came out of surgery as well as all the tubes and lines connected to her body. But she was with us and was amazingly aware of much of what was going on around her. It wasn’t fun when they took the breathing tube out, and it wasn’t fun building up her ability to breathe without oxygen. But she did it, exceeding everyone’s expectations about the speed of her recovery.
I have always loved Mother’s Day but this year was astronomically special! I had a wondrous dinner with both my children. And you know what? Those “issues” may be there, but they are miniscule in the light of a cherished life that was on its way to being tragically snuffed out.
I was dubious. The hype has been relentless ever since last spring when the touring Broadway show lineup was announced and Hamilton was among the fare. I mean, I liked the idea of a musical couched in an historical backdrop, but hip hop?
Yep. Showing my age. I am mostly a consumer of classical and jazz music and cringe every time I am at a stop light next to a car with hip hop screaming out its open windows.
I was, simply put, not a fan, until last night.
And now I get it. I get the hoopla and the hype and everything in between because this show is a cultural phenomenon, bringing together races, religions, and generations into toe tapping, head bobbing, and occasional tear-dropping magic.
If you can, try your very best to find a ticket. Join the HamFam and be transported into a fantasy where history meets hiphop.
The Parrot Steward Blog
No one ever reads the same book. We all react to the written word differently. The following are my opinions regarding the books I have read.
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Strive to understand and not to judge.
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