Finals and other reflections

For the last week or so, I've been bogged down in finals. Most people know the experience as students, but it is no less crazy for faculty. Other than writing assignments and tests (multiple choice questions take forever to write), there's the onslaught of student emails, requests for office hours (after they are over for the semester), late papers, incompletes from previous semesters, etc. Meanwhile, there's the distinct feeling that you are working way too hard and that you should be spending the time on your own research (the only thing that you get credit for in academia--teaching counts for nothing when it comes to job evaluations, promotions and most hiring). So, Mayle definitely has not had first place in my life recently.

Still, I did get the Tati belt (for $100 from Shopbop although I am going to contact them for a price adjustment as two days later, it went down to $75). Right now, I am so broke--read, so in credit card debt--from the Mayle sample sale, so I really can't be spending. But the belt is lovely--along with Braque, one of my favorite Mayle belts ever. Unlike Braque, it fits more than just S waists (I'm small there, but I am not a size 2-4) and the leather is so lovely that it looks like it will last for years and wear well. It will also add some versatility to some of my other Mayle pieces. Looking back on the old lookbooks, belts are a huge part of Mayle's styling, sometimes to toughen up a pretty dress, which Tati will do well. So, in the absence of new items, I can play around with what I already have. Financially, that's probably wise too as I have overstretched myself recently.

In what little free time I had the last week, I became obsessed with checking out ebay. Not for items for me--nobody was selling much above a size 4--again, probably just as well for my poor credit card. But I did notice that older items were being flushed out, probably due to the perception now is the time to sell high and cash out before people either move on to other designers, forget Mayle or realize they overspent at the sample sale and the numerous sales/re-editions/auctions that preceded it. I've seen items I covet appear--the Clothilde in Cassis for one--but only in sizes that won't work for me. I've also seen ludicrous prices asked--and not received--for more mundane, dated or unremarkable items--so there does seem to be some sanity there.

As it is that time of year to reflect, I can say how proud I am of some of my students. I am also proud that my teaching helped them--it may not count for anything in my profession but I can't perform my job if I don't think students matter.

It's the end of another academic year. I look back upon this one as another dud: I did not get the tenure track job I was searching for (although this is not something that was my fault--the market, the bizarre trends in my field and pure bad luck all played a part and I don't think there was anything else I could have done).

I am also bitterly disappointed/devastated that another year has passed and I did not get pregnant. A year ago, just as finals were ending, a dear friend announced her accidental pregnancy. I am not proud of my response--it was anger and deep sadness--I felt she had stolen my dream (she had deep ambivalence about becoming a mother and it was never something on her agenda). To console myself, I told myself I would be a mother within a year. Well that year has passed. I currently have 8 pregnant friends and acquaintances and am supposed to go to yet another shower next Saturday but one of my best friends has advised me to protect myself and not go. It's just so hard to keep buying baby items for other people, smile, give my gift and celebrate when it looks like my turn will never come.

I'm beginning to wonder why I torture myself by continuing to try, especially as many people--including the doctors at Columbia-are cold, negative and uncaring. Trying to have a baby seems like an expensive but academic exercise--take temperature every morning, chart, wear OV watch, test, test, test, rearrange schedules, wait, hope, cry. It's so tough to go along this route and anybody who asks for help from the medical establishment is dismissed with cold statistics from doctors who only care about their liability insurance, being sued and their IVF success rates.

I used to think the big divides in this culture were class (race in many ways is submerged and embedded in class stratification which then perpetuates so much racial difference), age (as we know, the vital years are short and older people, especially women, become invisible and unwanted in the workforce), and disability. All are unspoken and unrepresented. But I'd now add fertility. Having seen the inside of a fertility clinic, I saw all demographics, races and classes of women, none of them making eye contact with each other. Some pretended to be absorbed in work, blackberries or magazine articles, others stared into space. But the sense of a shared bond that nobody could admit to permeated the air, along with a profound sadness that comes with facing fears in an institution that won't give you any hope, lest it be false and they get sued. I wanted these women to be bonding, to hear a note of conversation, confession, even to acknowledge each other. But the atmosphere was so off-putting that I prayed I'd never have to return and face the cold receptionists and the distanced doctors (the nurses were the only ones there to retain their humanity and humor).

I can accept the legal and professional dictats that turn doctors into these cold ciphers of humanity. I've become immune to many students' desperate pleas for grade changes or to be admitted into classes that are so full that there are no more seats left. I understand their pain, the consequences but can't do anything and turn off. Obviously, the stakes are bigger for doctors and I know that they are trained to be distant. But with something like fertility (as with so many illnesses), there is a mind-body equation to consider, so the coldness I faced seems to make things worse, not better. I only wonder how horrible the medical establishment is for those with terminal diseases. I hope I never have to find out. But I now understand why people opt for alternative medicine--it may not necessarily cure you, but you are treated with hope, by people who seem to value you and your dreams. Even if it is a scam, people who are scared, lonely and in despair need to be treated with compassion, not clinically. What I have seen of the medical establishment here makes me very angry.

I've also found out that friends with children cannot believe you are really struggling to conceive--after a point, it just becomes boring to them and they blame you--it has to be your fault, after all. It was so easy for them. Also, you can't participate in the same way--no babysitting to share, the conversation isn't around children (or, rather, it's around their child's milestones and rituals, but your issues--whether to do with fertility or not--are dismissed). Not all my friends are like this--some are deeply compassionate and rounded individuals who welcome a break to discuss politics, academe, fashion, pop culture, art, history and science--but others have started to make it clear that this is clearly my fault and they don't care to hear any more about it.

So, I guess I made up for my lack of posts with this one. With summer school about to start, I have to make some choices as to how to change my life. I'm going to jump back into the Columbia clinic and try for a baby, but my reservations about the atmosphere of the place remain. If I had the opportunity to go elsewhere, I certainly would. I wish I was rich enough to go somewhere where they would treat me--and the others in my situation--with more compassion than sterility--after all, that's an experience we all know far too well. And if anybody can be tough on me, it's me. I don't need to pay somebody else to do that job.