Dealing with The System and The Book of Change

I've started throwing the IChing these days almost daily when I'm stumped by someone or something. I'm not Nancy Reagan, who evidently resorted to divination as a way to advise her husband in world affairs (don't quote me on that, though), but I have to say that the principles of what Jung called synchronicity are wildly informative and resonate for me. The simple ritual of asking a question, throwing the coins six times and then reading the hexagram is enormously healing in this weird, can't quite put my finger on it way. How should I respond to all this vaccination hysteria, my own near-PTSD symptoms because of it and the obduracy of people who refuse to believe there is nuance in science and the American healthcare system?***

Someone suggested that it's in the raging waters that one finds the answers. That was a perfect response to my post the other day where I alluded to the witch hunts of the seventeenth century and the particular practice of throwing the woman in question into a raging river to test her faith. If she drowned, she was a witch. Evidently, God doesn't answer the appeal of a witch or a real witch wouldn't call on God.

I might be a real witch.

Remember when I told you that after dealing with The System for twenty years, I've learned to do one thing a day? Otherwise, I'd go completely insane and jump into the raging river rather than be pushed. Right now, my task is to get MediCal to cover Sophie's drug deductibles. Evidently, this should have been happening for about five years which might have saved me tens of thousands of dollars, but the process to figure out where the snarls are, what the hold-up is, who's in charge, for what and when and how -- well -- it was too much for my little brain. Last week, though, I had a breakthrough. The pharmacist did a little legwork and MediCal denied it because they needed more information. I got through to find out what more they needed. They needed a list of drugs that Sophie had been on to prove why she needed Vimpat and Onfi -- just in case her neurologist was only idly prescribing these drugs when there were cheaper ones to be had. On Monday, I emailed The Neurologist and asked her whether she could draft a letter stating Sophie's drug history -- basically proving it. I gave her a sample letter, just to help her out. Can you imagine how much shit these doctors have to deal with regarding MediCal and private insurers? On Tuesday I called the pharmacist to tell him to hang in there. On Wednesday, I paddled around in the raging river a bit. Today, The Neurologist emailed me the letter (which you can see above), attesting to the many drugs Sophie has been on in her life and the necessity for the two that she's on currently.

Tomorrow, I'm going to call in a refill for the drugs and see what happens. I know you're on the edge of your seat, Reader, so I'll keep you posted.

I'm wading in.





***Hexagram 64

Before the End

The accomplishment of a goal is in sight. It appears that long-impending matters may be brought to fruition with an acceptable amount of effort. Increasing clarity surrounds the meaning of situations once thought to be obscure. At the time BEFORE THE END there is great promise for the future.

A unique and sage viewpoint is present in human affairs. Order can be brought to chaotic situations. Because you are now unusually familiar with the elements involved int he object of your inquiry, you can evaluate and arrange them in whatever way necessary to achieve your aim. It should be a relatively simple matter to bring together groups of people in social or public-minded situations. By penetrating the psyche of each individual involved, you can arrange to gratify their needs within the group mechanism and thereby gain their co-operation....

Yet, it would be a mistake to imagine that by achieving your aim you will bring matters to a close, that good judgement and order will prevail. The time BEFORE THE END can be compared to a lengthy trek over a high mountain. At some point, before reaching the peak, you can see in detail exactly how much further you must travel. You will know what is involved in reaching the top because of your experience in the climb so far. However, when you do reach the peak, which has been in your sight for many long days of effort, you will have done only that. You will have acquired little information and no experience whatsoever about the descending the other side. To rush up and over the top in an overly confident manner could bring disaster.

...The coming situation will be strange to you in every way, unike any that you have experienced. In the near future you will not be able to draw upon the wealth of your acquired experience, for in many ways the time will be nothing short of a rebirth.

On Being A, On Be Coming Crone

What I'm thinking about today is the onset of crone-dom and not in a jokey, silly sort of way, except that there are plenty of crones out there who will probably chuckle softly to themselves that I would deign to believe myself a crone at the tender age of fifty. I feel it approaching, though -- cronedom -- and I feel it as a lassitude and resignation, a comfortable giving-up and giving-in, a sardonic eye tilt and thinning lip, an exasperated descent into temporary insanity, a skill in holding ridiculous paradox, a desire to live and to be done with it, a quickening pulse, a pull between the legs, fullness drooping, a chopped off finger wag, abstraction made concrete.

Crone talk over tea (from left to right):

Watching a child seize, day after day after day after day for years on end imposes a sort of discipline. You can actually live like that.

I dare you, to do what I've done and feel any other way.

Barn's burnt down,
Now I can see the moon.

Red lips, black hair -- they disappeared, but I taste them both, dearie.

Witchy Women

The other day, I was talking to a friend who spends a good bit of her time cleaning up her eighteen year old daughter's poop, among other things related to her daughter's disability. I talk regularly to my friend Erika, who's wrapping up another prolonged visit to the PICU with her daughter whose Angelman syndrome causes not just seizures, but strange bouts of cyclical vomiting and complications that warrant breathing machines and long, sedated weeks in the hospital. I write ad nauseum of the trials and tribulations of uncontrolled epilepsy in my daughter Sophie, but probably less so of the conflict better known as why sweat the small stuff? You know what I'm talking about -- the mindless aggravations of modern, in my case, urban life -- the traffic, the school situation, the incessant driving around of our children, the agony of it all.

Erika and my other friend roll our eyes, generally, at this regular stuff that consumes our days and those of our regular friends. We don't sweat the small stuff as a rule, until we do. Sometimes, it is the small stuff that breaks the proverbial back, and yesterday as I drove around the city, while the terrible devastation wreaked by hurricane Sandy and my good friend's dying sister occupied my heart, it was the small stuff that occupied my brain and, eventually, drove me to, if not weep, then at least scream.

It was the couple being interviewed on NPR whose faith in the Southern Baptist God informed all of their decisions, including their recent "problem" of whether or not they could afford a new bookcase for their living room.  They also expressed bemusement at why they were so financially successful when others -- even family and friends -- were not. Why the hell were these people being interviewed?

It was the woman yakking on her phone while standing in line at Trader Joe's, who dismissively spoke to the cashier bagging her groceries and flicked her hair around her finger. I sunk to the level of contempt when I looked at her long, skinny legs and her three-inch heels and imagined her going up in a blast of fire and smoke.

It was the crap lying all over the Halloween store and the tortured indecision of my son over what to wear for Halloween. Am I a spoiled brat? he asked, as we left the store. You're a spoiled brat if you complain one tiny little bit for the rest of the day, I said, feeling justified given the 1/2 hour wait on line to pay for the costume, the screams and wails of the Halloween sound system and the haranguing I did with the cashier over the price of the Halloween pumpkin mask that was missing one bobble eye.

So, now it's Halloween, and I'm feeling particularly witchy today. I promise, though, to have some cheerful photos of the children frolicking on our urban streets, collecting candy filled with chemicals while I eat chili and drink wine with my good friend, Cara before heading back home to stand at the door and drop candy into the tiny outstretched arms of neighborhood ghosts and goblins and princesses.

Witchy women sweat the small stuff AND handle the big stuff with guile and cunning and sometimes, rarely, uncommon grace.

To all my peeps

But, we are a funny bunch indeed. The humour is black, wry, sometimes twisted. We laugh at shit (literally) that no one would find funny, ever. We laugh at other people, a lot, which seems kinda nasty, but it really isn't in our world...because we recognize our former selves just a bit too much. We are simultaneously patient and impossibly unforgiving of stupidity. We're a scary, edgy bunch with soft eyes and fierce souls.


--Claire from life with a severely disabled child