Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

(Don’t) Call the Midwife

I watched the much-awaited "Call the Midwife" Xmas special the other night. And I'm very disappointed. Why is it that series cannot seem to stay brilliant for longer than a couple seasons?

I have been a devoted fan of “Call the Midwife" since it has been available in the States. I loved the focus on the interrelationships among the midwives themselves, among the nuns themselves, and then between the two groups. Each episode focused on particular people they worked with out in the community, mostly women, many of them poor. We saw how the people lived and the roles the keen midwives/nurses played in dealing with deprivation, abuse, and need.

When there was a boyfriend on the side, it was often an interesting dynamic. For example, after much blushing and shuffling, the super-tall, physically awkward, downwardly mobile Chummy (played by the comedian Miranda Hart) married the dorky local constable after a clunky and sweet romance.

This week’s 90-minute Xmas special – a teaser meant to keep us hooked in until we are served the third season – seems to have lost that special unique approach. Instead it relied on a big disaster (a device often used – as in “Grey’s Anatomy” – when a series is no longer able to come up with authentic human stories) which led to much of the town being crowded into a hall from which emanated no noise whatsoever when one heterosexual couple or the other had their private moments in conveniently empty rooms.

The midwives we grew to love as we watched them develop through pride in their profession and their ability to do good in the community have been turned into simpering, giggly girls all tittering over love of a good man. This was discouraging.

Americans see this show very differently than the original British audience. I read an article in The Independent newspaper in which the writer/producer  Heidi Thomas explained, “In America, midwifery is a minority profession… Over here 82 per cent of babies are delivered by midwives, but in America only 8 per cent of babies are – and they’re often [from families who are] Christian or follow an alternative hippy way of life. It’s seen as quite radical.”

No longer radical. If this special indicates the tone that the third season is going to take, the nuns are no longer going to be nuanced and prickly characters, the midwives are soon going to be just a bunch of wives, and the show is going to be more Hollywoodish schmaltz than a tribute to the potential of socialized medicine to support communities.

Queer Obamacare: Only Young Muscular Christian Gay Men Wanted

The supposedly LGBT coalition of “organizations who want to help lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people stay healthy” by signing up for Affordable Care has come out with a stupid ad campaign for the last week of enrollment in Obamacare. The Christmas-themed (!) ad targets young, healthy, hunky, handsome gay men. As for the rest of the queer community? Oh, have they left anyone out?
 

My Google Alert Surprise

I have a google alert set for “Sue Katz.” One of the benefits is that I find out when my journalism has been published – or stolen. I also hear inadvertently what’s up with all the other people named Sue Katz – at least those with any sort of public profile.

In another part of my own state lives a Sue Katz who is a painter and I always imagine that she’s pissed off that I own suekatz.com. She seems quite an accomplished artist with frequent showings, according to our shared goggle alerts. Oddly enough, a friend of mine was on the west coast at an artists’ conference when she met this Sue Katz. “Oh,” says my friend, “I know a writer named Sue Katz.”

“Yeah,” responds the painter Sue Katz glumly, “I guess you mean the pornographer.”

It’s not really one of my biggest identifications – I’d put activist, union girl, wordsmith, rebel, short story lover, smooth dancer, and tea addict before pornographer, personally, but that’s just me. I feel for her. Did I mention that I own suekatz.com?

I wonder if she experienced the same shock as I did when I opened my google alert today only to discover:  “Sue Katz Obituary.” In my personal opinion, and perhaps it’s just me, I feel even less like a dead person than a pornographer or, for that matter, a painter. I won’t be attending the services or the interment, but I’m thrilled to see that this particular Sue Katz and I are on the same page: she’s asked for donations to be given to her local public library in Ohio. Cool.

My Catastrophic Luncheon

Anne, the first of my elder students to arrive, nearly tumbles into my apartment asking for ice. The ugly lump on her temple is accented by her crushed eyeglasses, sitting askew on her face. “I was looking the other direction,” she says, mad at herself, “and tumbled straight down on that one step outside.” The landlords painted it bright yellow, but she wasn’t paying attention. That’s the thing you learn working with elders: pay attention. The wrong moment of distraction can change or end your life. “At least,” she says, “I didn’t break this.” She hands me an exquisite jar of blueberry and cherry jam.

I took off the Autumn semester from teaching fitness to elders after 10 years without a break. But we all miss each other, so I invited eight of my 60 students over – those who have stayed in touch over this break. I wanted them to come for tea and cake but in fact, anything later than lunch would dump them into winter darkness on the way home and none of them drives in the dark. So it was dice dice dice for my chicken salad, my potato salad, my egg salad, and my cuke salad. That’s it. They got my whole repertoire all at once.

We’ve had days of weather anxiety in the run-up, with snow last night and slush and rain this morning. I convinced them to come.

I give Anne a bag of frozen tater tots to press on her wound and settle her into my one comfortable chair. I’m glad to have her there as it is a delicate old rocker, and she is petite. Guests have broken it in the past and it’s a bitch to get fixed.

The other seven women, most in their 80s or 90s, arrive unscathed in two more vehicles. I sit them in a motley circle of chairs and couches, storing their walkers and canes and bags nearby. It involves moving all the furniture in my crowded living room, assisting them in getting to and sitting down in a seat, and then returning the furniture, only to have to move something else when it comes to the next guest. I serve them. They like the food, go back for seconds. After everyone has eaten, they take turns nodding off. They are revived by the dessert our baker, Doreen, has brought: three kinds of cookies.

The first carload sets off: the driver must drive in daylight. It’s a not a matter of choice. Two minutes after they head down my hall, one returns to knock on the door. Why isn’t my elevator responding? I check it out. Dead. I call down to the office. A wire has become disengaged but we have to wait for the guy to come from New Hampshire to fix it. Our building’s original single elevator was installed in the 70s and most technicians are too young to know anything about that generation of elevator mechanisms. There’s only one guy who knows it, having been specifically mentored by a retired elevator fixer who was a specialist in this old technology. But the mechanic lives in New Hampshire. There will be a wait.

Those women decide to descend the seven stories to the ground and I return to tell the news to the others, most of them with a serious complaint. One is on her first outing since being in the hospital. She is very shaky on her walker, unable to stand on her own for even one second. Yolanda walks with a much-needed cane due to stenosis of the spine. Another is over 90 and recovering from a broken hip – she doesn’t venture out of the house at all without another person. Doreen has pneumonia she has been unable to shake, and is very weak.

What to do? Yolanda, a leader, says, “If we take it slow and stop to rest, we can all make it.” The one with the walker is always game – she’s ready to try. She of the mending hip is reluctant and Doreen just nods – speaking causes her to cough. “Anyone who wants to wait for the elevator to be fixed, is welcome to stay here and I’ll drive her home later.” They live in a town about 45 minutes away.

Everyone bites the bullet. We stand at the top of the stairs. I carry the walker and bags and descend backwards and sidewards first in line. Behind me is the woman who can’t really stand. She holds onto the banister with both hands, although her body is facing forward. The twisting can’t be comfortable and making her legs take those steps – she probably hasn’t done a lot of steps for many years – is double work for her. What a trooper. The reluctant woman transforms herself into a cheerleader. “Only six flights to go!” she says playfully to the others. In the back, Doreen wheezes but persists.

What a drama. Someone should be filming us – it is a disaster movie just awaiting some romantic tension. I think about the elderly disabled couple who live down the hall from me on the 7th floor. What would I do if there were a fire or other emergency? How could I possibly help them?

We stop and take in the view every landing or two and the ground is coming up fast to meet us. In the lobby, where my students collapse onto couches for a breather, the landlord greets them with an apology saying that I am his favorite tenant. This isn’t the first time he’s said that to me – but I imagine he is very practiced at it with many others.

Once outside we see it is snowing and I help Yolanda, the driver, to get the others into her vehicle, a task that easily takes a quarter of an hour. Everyone insists they’ve had a great time and wave as they go. I turn around towards the building, as I perch on the one step that took down my friend Anne. I remember that I am facing seven floors of steps. I hate going uphill, hate it. But I think of my stalwart students and ascend without complaint. Who, I wonder, were the architects who built a nine-floor high-rise with one elevator and what were they thinking?