Sensible and responsible women do not want to vote. The relative positions to be assumed by man and woman in the working out of our civilization were assigned long ago by a higher intelligence than ours. ~Grover Cleveland, 1905
Language is important. Words create reality or at least, herstory. While each of us feels we are the center of the universe, the sun does not actually rise and fall around us; our planet rotates. And, though most people don’t think that god has a penis, she’s generally referred to as a “he.”
Language nuances matter. They define our roles in relation to the events of our life and, in doing so, define us. I choose to avoid words like “need” or “have to” because they imply that I’ve no personal power. With the exception of bodily functions, it’s rare that I “have to” do anything? I choose to go to work on time, not because I “have to” but because I don’t want to loose my job, not because I “need” it but because I like having a home and food and a closet full of fabulous boots. Besides, it’s just as easy to say “I’m going to go to work” as “I need to go to work.” The former keeps me in charge while the later turns me into a victim.
I believe that the language our culture uses in relation to health-care is a contributing factor to our rapidly declining health. Take, for example, the word “patient.” Its definitions include: “bearing or enduring pain, difficulty, provocation or annoyance with calmness” and “one who suffers.” Forget that! I’ve no desire to be a patient – ever! I prefer the term “client” which means “the party for which professional services are rendered” or “one that depends on the protection of another.”
More subtle, but just as insidious is the phrase “As long as the doctor says its ok.” I’ve been the recipient of this one more times than I can remember. It is, in my not-so-humble-opinion, crazy-making. The only person with god-given authority to make health-care decisions is the one who must live with the consequences for the rest of her life: the client. Don’t misunderstand; I appreciate and respect doctor’s expertise. I seek out their opinions and take them into consideration when I decide what to do with my body.
It is not my intent to suggest that we take influence away from doctors but rather, that we put responsibility back on ourselves. When it comes down to it, we are each responsible for our own health, for what we put in our bodies, the exercise we do (or don’t) do and the health-care decisions we make. Doctors are human. They make mistakes. This doesn’t make them less important to our health and well-being; it makes each of us more important.
Medical errors kill as many as 98,000 people a year. “If the Centers for Disease Control were to include preventable medical errors as a category, these conclusions would make it the sixth leading cause of death in America” – American Association for Justice
About Roanna Rosewood
For as long as I can remember, I wanted one thing: a baby. The eldest of five children, I got plenty of hands-on experience. I knew how to change diapers, rock little ones to sleep and feed babies. But nobody told me about birth. I assumed it to be no more than the unfortunate means-to-a-baby. It wasn’t until I was in full-on labor that I glimpsed the power of birth. Almost as quickly as I did, they rushed in to “save me,” to relieve the pain and cut my baby from my body.
When it was over, I had a beautiful baby boy but had lost a part of myself.
I began to crave birth.
I battled for my birth right for four years. I endured two Cesareans, fought three doctors, two midwives and endless inner demons before achieving a home birth.
It was the single most pleasurable moment of my life.
Let me say that again: giving birth was the single most pleasurable moment of my life. And I live a pretty pleasurable life. I’ve galloped on horseback through high mountain deserts, been sailing around the Caribbean and diving with dolphins and giant sea turtles. I’ve purchased perfume in exotic markets in Cairo and ridden a mechanical bull in a Colorado bar. I laugh, cry, knit and dance with the most-wonderful of girlfriends a woman could have. My closet is full of fabulous clothes and sexy boots. But none of these things has brought me as much exquisite pleasure as giving birth to my daughter.
I have accomplished “important” things. I am the mother of the three incredible children. I’ve worked and volunteered for non-profit organizations, mentored and taught children and women and traveled to Northern Uganda to assist survivors of war give birth. I own businesses, invest in real estate and have had the privilege and responsibility of employing hundreds of people. But none of these accomplishments has been as empowering or life-changing as giving birth to my daughter.
Twenty years ago, while watching blood drip down my own freshly-sliced wrists, I chose to put the razorblade down, embrace life and face my fears. To this end, I’ve parasailed off of Alaskan mountains, fire-walked on hot coals and watched my life flash before my eyes as my lungs filled with water. But none of these moments terrified me as much as giving birth to my daughter.
I’ve experimented with psychedelic drugs and met an angel in a tunnel of blue light. I’ve explored ancient Myan ruins and the depths of a pyramid. I’ve chanted with priests, davened with rabbis, danced with Sufis, sat with Buddhist monks, sweated with shamans, studied with psychics and accepted a gift from a kahuna. But none of these experiences brought me as close to The Divine as giving birth to my daughter.
I live a juicy, passionate and engaged life. But I am not content. My heart pulses a message much more important than my own small existence: Women are strong. It proclaims. Birth is our rite, our connection to The Divine. Living this, speaking it and writing it is my purpose: an endless war-chant coursing through my veins and pouring through my fingertips to you.
