The Wounded Platoon

Tragic, just tragic, in so many, many ways. Many victims here. While it is long, it is well worth watching. And so important.

This, in addition to traumatic bereavement in families, is why the CTB is so important, and clinicians well-trained in being fully present in healing relationships with patients is one very important factor for many.

As a society, this should serve as a clarion call for change.

"It is not from ourselves that we learn to be better than we are." -Wendell Berry

A Grieving Mother's Manifesto

These yellow butterflies are in honor

of Alec and Asher... I will never forget you darling boys.

I am a mother. I am a bereaved mother. My child died, and this is my reluctant path. It is not a path of my choice, but it is a path I must walk mindfully and with intention. It is a journey through the darkest night of my soul and it will take time to wind through the places that scare me. 

Every cell in my body aches and longs to be with my beloved child. On days when grief is loud, I may be impatient, distracted, frustrated, and unfocused. I may get angry more easily, or I may seem hopeless. I will shed many, many, many tears. I won’t smile as often as my old self. Smiling hurts now. Most everything hurts some days, even breathing.

But please, just sit beside me. 

Say nothing. 

Do not offer a cure.
Or a pill, or a word, or a potion.
Witness my suffering and don't turn away from me.

Please be gentle with me.
And I will try to be gentle with me too.

I will not ever "get over" my child's death so please don’t urge me down that path. 

Even on days when grief is quiescent, when it isn't standing loudly in the foreground, even on days when I am even able to smile again, the pain is just beneath the surface. 

There are day when I still feel paralyzed. My chest feels the sinking weight of your absence and, sometimes, I feel as if I will explode from the grief. 

Losing my child affects me in so many ways: as a woman, a mother, a human being. It affects every aspect of me: spiritually, physically, mentally, and emotionally. There are days when I barely recognize myself in the mirror anymore.

Grief is as personal to me as my fingerprint. Don't tell me how I should or shouldn’t be grieving or that I should or shouldn’t “feel better by now.” Don't tell me what's right or wrong. I'm doing it my way, in my time. If I am to survive this, I must do what is best for me.

My understanding of life will change and a different meaning of life will slowly evolve. What I knew to be true or absolute or real or fair about the world has been challenged so I'm finding my way, moment-to-moment in this new place. Things that once seemed important to me are barely thoughts any longer. I notice life's suffering more- hungry children, the homeless and the destitute, a mother’s harsh voice toward her young child- or an elderly person struggling with the door. There are so many things about the world which I now struggle to understand: Why do children die? There are some questions, I've learned, which are simply unanswerable.

So please don’t tell me that “ God has a plan ” for me. This, my friend, is between me and my God. Those platitudes slip far too easily from the mouths of those who tuck their own child into a safe, warm bed at night: Can you begin to imagine your own child, flesh of your flesh, lying lifeless in a casket, when “goodbye” means you’ll never see them on this Earth again? Grieving mothers- and fathers- and grandparents- and siblings won’t wake up one day with everything ’okay’ and life back to normal. I have a new normal now.

As time passes, I may gain gifts, and treasures, and insights but anything gained was too high a cost when compared to what was lost. Perhaps, one day, when I am very, very old, I will say that time has truly helped to heal my broken heart. But always remember that not a second of any minute of any hour of any day passes when I am not aware of the presence of my child's absence, no matter how many years lurk over my shoulder.

So this year, on Mother’s Day, don’t forget that I have another one, another child, whose absence, like the sky, is spread over everything as C.S. Lewis said.

Don’t forget to say, “How are you really feeling this Mother’s Day?” Don’t forget that even if I have living children, my heart still aches for the one who is not here —for I am never quite complete without my child. 

My child may have died; but my love - and my motherhood - never will.

Becoming::::::Unhinged

It's been a long week. Too many newly bereaved families. Too many big decisions about life. Certainly, stress.

I was looking forward to a quiet evening, at home, unwinding with my beautiful family, anticipating the weekend. We thought about yoga. We contemplated a bike ride. But a movie and the chocolate colored pillows spread across the crismon carpet sounded so much better by the time I'd answered my emails from the day.

We watched a movie I'd heard about from a friend in Italy. And I embarked on a rollercoaster of emotions from confusion to rage to disgust. Then, even to a softening of my own heart. If you've watched the film, you know what I mean... and then, then I felt surprised- perhaps even consternation- directed at my self for having experienced what I felt, but knew it could not be, empathy.

My emotions were completely manageable throughout the entire duration of the film.

But, the zenith of the movie, the end bedroom scene, unhinged me. Completely, totally unhinged me, as the main character in the film spoke words that I have spoken myself, many times, outloud and reverberating through my own mind.

I turned over on the floor face down, like an ostrich, and tried to breathe through the tears, swallowing them whole and drowning myself in the process. I was quivering as if I'd been left naked in the snow. My heart was pounding. And my body aching from the tension of sorrow. Then, it came over me. "What am I doing?" I thought to myself. I knew better. "Why am I fighting it so much?" So I got up and went to the bathroom and cried. And cried. And sobbed. About 15 minutes later, I felt so much relief. I was tired and my eyes red and swollen, but I could breathe again. Nearly 16 years later, and the grief can, occasionally, return with a fury. How truly reassuring.

No really. How truly reassuring.

Why?

Because it is my grief that has brought me to life. And He visits to reassure me that I'm still alive, amidst the mundanity of chaos. More than many others I've met along my path, I feel so alive. I've never felt depressed, or bored, or mindless in the nearly 5700 days since Chey's death. I've felt many other emotions, but never emotions of complacency or apathy or death (death in the sense of anhedonism, emotionless, or bland). So, my grief revisits me, like a relative from a distant place, often without notice. I may not have time to wash the sheets for His arrival. Or prepare for the extra meals. Or even tidy up a bit. He just shows up.

Nevertheless, when He leaves (and though He always leaves morsels behind He really does leave), I'm always thankful for the visit - eventually.

I woke up this morning, remnants of my guest still visible- my eyes still swollen and stinging and my heart still heavy with grief. But I looked out the window and I noticed the overcast sky, and the birds flying from tree to tree, and how the branches of my emerald palo verde are growing long enough to shade the summer's heat soon. And I noticed the sounds of those I love around me, and the clean water coming from my faucet, and the smell of vanilla in the air, and I know that I am alive. And for all of that, I am grateful.

Resisting grief never works for me. I think because I realize, in some visceral place, that it's in the unhinging when the beauty of life becomes truly salient.

Oh, the movie- "I've loved you for so long..." -- highly recommended.

Thinking of you too and your momma, Blakey.

The Wild Storms

For my dear friend, Pete, thinking of all our wild storms...

MISS you Pete.

I am too alone in the world, and not alone enough
to make every minute holy.
I am too tiny in this world, and not tiny enough
just to lie before you like a thing,
shrewd and secretive.
I want my own will,
and I want simply to be with my will,
as it goes toward action,
and in the silent, sometimes hardly moving times
when something is coming near,
I want to be with those who know secret things
or else alone.
I want to be a mirror for your whole body,
and I never want to be blind, or to be too old
to hold up your heavy and swaying picture.
I want to unfold.
I don't want to stay folded anywhere,
because where I am folded, there I am a lie.
And I want my grasp of things
true before you. I want to describe myself
like a painting that I looked at
closely for a long time,
like a saying that I finally understood,
like the pitcher I use every day,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that took me safely
through the wildest storm of all.

~Ranier Maria Rilke

Death Studies: Spring 2010

The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass,

it becomes a mysterious, awesome, magnificent world in itself.

~H. Miller

Nearly 50 students filled the classroom this Spring, their anticipation apparent in their early arrivals on the first day of class. They were eager to learn that of which we, even in the Academy, rarely speak.

For five days, at least eight hours at a time, they listened, watched, touched, and experienced. We laughed. We cried. We contemplated. We questioned. We wondered. We reached. We grew. We bore witness to pain and loss. And we entered that space willingly and honestly. I don't know if there are words to express what happened in our five days together, but for so many, myself included, it was too powerful to ever forget.

And so, I won't. I won't ever forget my Spring of 2010 students and the many miles of journeying we've done together. These brief moments will endure long beyond my tenure at Arizona State. And I hope that, one day, when they need a lesson about life, love, trauma, and death, our time together will be a catalyst for healing, both in receiving and in giving.

Thank you each. Thank you.

Tears of the Young for the Past

Creative expression of trauma is a powerful means by which to share emotional responses of loss with others.

Artist, Kseniya Simonova, 24, is featured in this video as she expresses historic loss through a series of pictures on an illuminated sand table. This mesmeric artist is creating a visual image of the German invasion during World War II.

It's known as the Great Patriotic War in the Ukraine. Tragically, one in four of the population were killed, totalling eight to 11 million deaths out of a population of 42 million.

Can you imagine the collective horror of families?

Beyond the Imagining

"PTSD is caused by contact between the individual and the darkest and most violent forces of human nature. take the victim over the edge of life into serious confrontations with death or uncontrolled violence. Some individuals are therefore transformed and become, at some level, bearers of the traumatic experience." (Blank, 1985, p. 88)

Mass trauma has come to Haiti. Trauma so overwhelming that it is difficult to comprehend, within the limitations of the human brain, the enormity of the losses. I suspect even witnesses on the ground in Port-au-Prince- those seeing with their own eyes- still cannot process the magnitude of this tragedy.

While the mass media is clearly focused today on Haiti, public attention is not long-lived.

Weeks, month, years, and decades after the clean-up of Haiti- when the bodies are gone, buildings rebuilt, freshly sodded playgrounds bless the land, and children's schools are born into the new generation of, as one reporter said, a "better" Haiti, I cannot help but think to myself that this traumatic incident is infinite.

Much like Columbine, September 11th, Rwanda, the Lost Boys of Sudan, even the Holocaust, and other highly publicized tragedies.

Yet, all the media attention brings much needed help. And so, that is good.

But I hope we don't forget that long after the new anti-violence educational programs in Colorado were initiated; long after the last scrap of metal rubble at ground zero was taken away; long after the Tutsi and Hutu basket weavers came together to raise money for orphans in Rwanda; long after the Lost Boys started running track in American high schools-- long after all these things, there remain profoundly painful psychological wounds of the survivors. For some, time does its job well in promoting healing and helping those affected by these tragedies find meaning again in life. For others, the struggle with grief in the aftermath of such trauma will be paralyzing.

So when I hear stories today of the tragedies from years ago, relegated to the back of the public's book of memories, I think of those families, and I imagine how life has changed, irreparably, for them. And in ten and twenty years, I will probably do the same for the countless numbers of people in Haiti who are suffering in ways I cannot begin to imagine.


How to help:

•The American Red Cross is pledging an initial $200,000 to assist communities impacted by this earthquake. They expect to provide immediate needs for food, water, temporary shelter, medical services and emotional support. They are accepting donations through their International Response Fund.

•UNICEF has issued a statement that "Children are always the most vulnerable population in any natural disaster, and UNICEF is there for them." UNICEF requests donations for relief for children in Haiti via their Haiti Earthquake Fund. You can also call 1-800-4UNICEF.

•Donate through Wyclef Jean's foundation, Yele Haiti. Text "Yele" to 501501 and $5 will be charged to your phone bill and given to relief projects through the organization.

•Operation USA is appealing for donations of funds from the public and corporate donations in bulk of health care materials, water purification supplies and food supplements which it will ship to the region from its base in the Port of Los Angeles.

•Save The Children has launched an emergency relief effort for Haiti. Donate to their fund to provide medical attention and clean water to children and families.

**The U.S. State Department Operations Center has set up the following number for Americans seeking information about family members in Haiti: 1-888-407-4747**

Hans Christian Andersen "Historien om en Moder"

"Did you see Death go by with my little child?"

"Yes," said the blackthorn bush. "But I shall not tell you which way he went unless you warm me against your heart. I am freezing to death. I am stiff with ice."

She pressed the blackthorn bush against her heart to warm it, and the thorns stabbed so deep into her flesh that great drops of red blood flowed. So warm was the mother's heart that the blackthorn bush blossomed and put forth green leaves on that dark winter's night.

And it told her the way to go.

The Story of a Mother, Hans Christian Andersen

I read The Story of a Mother in 1995, only a year following Chey's death. The horrors of the story were matched only by the very reality I faced every morning when I awoke, in the evening before I closed my eyes, and in the space between them. I related so much to his careful construction of the story because I'd often personified Death. He, this abstract being- the enemy- came into my life, through my front door, into my home, and into my very own body and took her against my will. By so doing, I could begin to process my own unthinkable experience. Yet, the story evoked only indescribably painful emotions at that time, and I could not yet begin to see (note the relationship to the mother's loss of her eyes in the story) the entire picture of His "taking of her".

Angie, Dallas' mother, shared with me an artistic rendition of the story. The symbols had entirely new meaning to me, more than 5600 days, nearly 135,000 hours, and countless tears later... and this morning, I wept. And wept.

Words and Broken Bones...

"Passed away, gone to be with the Lord, expired, departed, went home".

These are all very nice euphemisms for the ‘D-word.’

"It was God’s will. Time will heal. Everything happens for a reason. You’re young so just try again. God needed an angel to tend his garden. At least she's not in pain anymore. At least you have others at home".

Yet, more euphemisms intended to comfort the bereaved. I don’t like death euphemisms. I prefer to tell the truth. My daughter died and I don’t like Death for taking her from me. Often, my frankness affronts others.

Death was an abstract entity before Chey's death in 1994. I knew that Death was a part of life, yet somehow, its potential soiree in my life seemed too comfortably distant for reality. Frankly, I rather feared Death, avoiding discussions about Him. Once in awhile, I would hear a story about a friend’s parent who died and I would think to myself, “One day, Joanne, mom and dad are going to die. You'll have to face it one day.” But my insulated idealism quickly hurried the reality of Death out the back door.

Naïve? Perhaps so, but it is oh so comfortable.

Then, Death found me. He knocked on my door, not concerned with justice. Or timing. Without thought to the crime He was about to commit. Death came, and He left me in the carnage. And, instead of minding proper order, He violated every righteous law of nature and took my little girl one hot summer day. I tried to fight. I kicked and screamed. I hated Death and begged Him to leave her and take me instead. I negotiated everything I had. To no avail. I lost myself in the war.

I did not even recognize myself in the muddy waters of grief. I was hollowed. Every cell in my body ached for her presence. Like Gretel, I collected crumbs, trying to find my way through the darkest forest I’d ever faced. And before I knew it, the minutes turned to days and days to weeks and weeks to years. I’m often not certain how I survived. I’m not certain that I did survive.

Seven years passed, and my mother suddenly died. I felt like Death was taunting me again. I watched my mother die as we disconnected the tubes that forced air into her lungs. I thought about many things as she was dying. I thought about how much I'd miss her- and I missed her for my children. I thought of how thankful I felt to have had 65 years with her. I thought about how much my father was going to miss her. I thought about Chey and wondered if she’d be there to greet her grandmother. I thought about how unfair it was that Death and I had to dance once again. Then, yes, again, five years to the day after my mother's death, it was my father's turn. I felt orphaned.

What wreckage Death had brought.

It has now been nearly 5,600 days since I buried my little girl. But love does not decompose as flesh. Edges from her photographs are worn from too much handling and the colors are fading but my love for her transcends time. At times, I juxtapose scenes from our two worlds, and I imagine the moment when I will see her again. I am not sure what follows this life but I believe that something does.

So while this was not a path of my choice, it is a path I must walk with careful consideration. And as time passes, I have discovered new meanings and insights about her death, and more importantly, her life. She has taught me that love is unconditional, that you cannot sit back and watch injustice; that Death is not to be feared because love is much, much bigger and stronger; that it is okay to dance in the rain; that time is merely perception; that one person can truly change the world; that kindnesses last forever; and that words really can ‘break bones.’

Euphemisms don’t ease the suffering of the bereaved. Telling someone that “God has a plan” or that “They’re in a better place” is often not helpful to many grieving people. Until society starts really talking about Death, using the dreaded d-word, and facing the realization that one day we’ll all deal with it, we won’t get any better at offering compassion, comfort, and camaraderie to those in grief.

So, in the hope that I can help another, I simply say, “My daughter died and I don’t like it. Nor will I ever accept it. Tell me your grief story and I’ll share your pain.”

Center for Loss & Trauma

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

November 16, 2009

CONTACT: Dr. Joanne Cacciatore: 602.574.1000 or Katherine Sandler: 480.861.7511

MISS Foundation Helps Traumatized Families in the Center for Loss and Trauma

Phoenix, Arizona (November 16, 2009) --- The MISS Foundation, through the Center for Loss and Trauma, is opening their doors to help families suffering traumatic loss. Traumatic experiences traverse culture, ethnicity, socioeconomic class, religion, and region. No one is exempt. In the midst of such psychological despair, there is a sense of grief that cannot be explained or described or captured or contained.

The Center for Loss and Trauma is one place where compassionate psychotherapy, counseling, and research can occur, as well as the bridging of vitally important supportive resources to help families in need. Located in North Phoenix, this unique center specializes in providing services to those affected by traumatic experiences, death, grief, and various types of loss. The Center for Loss and Trauma also serves military families, those coping with the death of a child, bereaved families, those affected by natural and mass disasters, victims of crime, families going through divorce or separation, and those suffering reproductive losses.

The mission of center is to C.A.R.E. for the most vulnerable members of society by providing highly specialized, expert counseling to those affected by traumatic loss; advocating with others so they may find hope, healing, and happiness in the aftermath of trauma; providing a place where compassionate research can occur; and educating individuals and society at large about the experiences of the bereaved. Dr. Joanne Cacciatore, LMSW and CEO, is a researcher and an expert family and individual therapist in the field of traumatic death and bereavement. James Jones, LMSW, is a Vietnam veteran and specialist in PTSD. Kathy Crowley, LCSW, has extensive experience working with individuals with chronic illness, abuse, and family stress.

The Center for Loss and Trauma also houses the MISS Foundation, a non-profit family bereavement organization, which offers free services to bereaved parents and siblings. Psychotherapy is provided on a sliding scale basis to those in need.

Dr. Cacciatore passionately explains, “Society’s only appropriate response is offer unconditional support and compassionate care so that one day, having been upheld and cared for, those who have suffered from such trauma can reach out their hand to help another. It is the only way to truly heal."

For more information or to schedule an appointment at The Center for Loss and Trauma, please call 623.979.1000 or visit us online at http://www.centerforlossandtrauma.com. For information on the MISS Foundation’s services, please visit http://www.missfoundation.org and the MISS Foundation’s PSA can be found at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qeHZuuohm-4.

###

I, Rigoberta Menchu

To be a light to others you will need a good dose of the spiritual life. Because as my mother used to say, if you are in a good place, then you can help others; but if you're not well, then go look for somebody who is in a good place who can help you.

- Rigoberta Menchu

Grief is a universal experience that transcends ethnicity, region, and language, weaving all human beings together in a common experience. Yet, I cannot begin to imagine the magnitude of grief experienced by an oppressive, immoral, or criminal government. Nor can I imagine life under the rule of an government that legitimizes the torture of children. Rape and murder. The theft of land, homes, subsistence, and dignity.

Rigoberta Menchu lived this grief daily at the hands of her oppressors. Yet, courageously, Menchu says of her experience, “This is how I came to consciousness.”

Her book, “I, Rigoberta Menchu” confronts the brute ugliness of colonization without aestheticizing reality. Ordinary people would have been defeated by the relentless anguish. Ordinary people would have remained the passive audience of the Imperialist’s stage. But Menchu is anything but ordinary. She possesses the indomitable spirit of resistance, seemingly fueled by the very assaults intended to silence her people, the indigenous Mayans. Menchu is a moral guerilla in a grievously, immoral fight.

Menchu considers herself a deeply spiritual woman, called to action by her ancestors and motivated to fight in memory of those she loved and lost while trying to preserve the Mayan culture. She fights, not only for the lives of her people, but for the survival of a culture she loves. Witnessing Menchu’s transformation from paralyzing grief to fortitude awed me. Yet, Menchu’s resolve is congruent with the horror she experienced. The slaughter of her family is Menchu’s ammunition, and she remains determined to speak for her brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, children and elders who were unjustly silenced. She is a true warrior.

While her story is reminiscent of a historic figure worthy of glory, each and every day I witness bereaved parents as heroes for their causes, using their voices to fight policy, to advocate, and to ensure social justice. These, too, are warrior heroes, though, perhaps unsung, who are in that "good place" to help others.

And this, I believe with all my heart, is how we come to consciousness.

So simple, so chimp?

This amazing photo shows a group of Chimpanzees at the Sanaga-Yong Chimpanzee Rescue Centre in eastern Cameroon lined up solemnly near a fence after one of their fellow chimps died and is taken away. Chimpanzees are normally very noisy creatures, but after the passing of one of their fellow chimps, an elderly female named Dorothy, the entire group rushed over to the fence and watched in silence as her body was buried. They sat there by the fence with their hands on each others shoulders as if mourning and consoling each other.


The photo was taken by Monica Szczupider, and the article from Inquisitr, a worker at the rescue center. She said Dorothy the chimp was well into her thirties when she died of heart failure after being ill.

Given the way some families are treated after the death of a loved one, I wonder if we have evolved or devolved... see my other blog/rant for the day below: So simple, so human. Perhaps, it should have been titled: So simple, so chimp?

*Thank you Kim

So simple, so human...

The power of compassion heals.

-Joanne Cacciatore

I've always known, intuitively- viscerally, that the compassionate presence of another human being could heal, not just psychologically, but also the somata (the body). But who knew that a smile or a hug just might curtail the common cold?

A new study conducted by the University of Wisconsin's School of Medicine and Public Health suggests that compassionate interaction with a physician can actually decrease the duration of rhinovirus. Yes, indeed. It's true. David Rakel, M.D., the principal investigator, notes that, "... if you perceive your doctor as empathetic (sic), that might influence your immune system and help you recover faster from the common cold...Out of everything that's been studied - zinc, vitamin C, anti-viral medications - nothing has worked better at fighting a cold than being kind to people."

He added, "...The individual needs to find the clinician with whom they believe they can form an ongoing therapeutic relationship. This also stresses the importance of relationship primary care, where each individual develops a collaboration and relationship with a clinician they trust over time."

Apparently, patients who felt that connection had higher levels of IL-8, a chemical that "summons" cells in the immune system to fight microbial infectors.

Wow. Compassion heals.

Now, if a person can experience expedited recovery from a cold through simple acts of kindness, imagine- just imagine- the powerful effects of truly connecting with another human being during a trauma. No, kindness won't assuage grief, or guilt, or shame, or any other residually painful emotion of human trauma. But imagine the dramatic potential of kindness- empathy- compassion on the long-term psychological well-being of a traumatized person. And taken a step further, imagine the long-term, potential effects to their physical health as well. If a compassionate other can increase a person's immune response, then what happens to a person in the absence of compassion, particularly during a serious or terminal illness- or during a traumatic experience?

I have never understood why compulsory courses on compassionate psychosocial care weren't part of the curriculum in medical schools. It seems so basic- so human- that is, being kind to another. Perhaps, someday soon, at the behest of insurance companies seeking to reduce healthcare costs, this type of training will be an integral part of medical training for both physicians and nurses- and pastoral care and social workers- and psychologists and psychiatrists. Perhaps, one day, the central pedagogy of body-mind-soul will be accepted into the orthodoxy of medicine. And perhaps, one day, as Albert Einstein said, "our humanity will surpass our technology."

Now that's nothing to sneeze at.

Parasitism: Inflammatory rhetoric of the ignorant

But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought.

Political language. . . is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable,

and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.

George Orwell

Recently, I've engaged in lively debate with a person who asserted that unborn babies - fetuses (Latin- foetus- meaning offspring) - were nothing more than parasitic organisms. I found this to be curiously inaccurate for an intellectual to wantonly assert as well as inflammatory and offensive.

Now,this person is a fellow academic. Not an ignorant person. Or so I thought.

I'm not a professor of parasitology or biology, so I decided to challenge her assertion.

So I went to an expert- Dr. H.D. Crofton- Parasitologist and author of the academic text Parasitology to define the criterion for a "parasite". According to Crofton, each of the following criteria must be met in order for an organism to be classified a parasite:

1. A parasitic relationship is an ecological relationship between two different organisms/species, one designated the parasite, the other the host.

2. The parasite is physiologically or metabolically dependent upon its host.

3. Heavily infected hosts will be killed by their parasites or harm will be done to the host.

4. The reproductive potential of the parasite exceeds that of their hosts.

5. There is an overdispersed frequency distribution of parasites within the host population. That is, the parasite population is not evenly distributed amongst the host population nor is it randomly distributed but clumped, so some hosts have a lot of parasites, most have very few.
(Crofton, H. D. Parasitology 63, 179–193 )

So, frankly, this person with whom I was debating was vagariously using imprecise terminology.

This type of ideological recklessness occurs in academics when scientists do not sufficiently explore terminology...their vernacular is often influenced by suppositions. And suppositions without sufficient evidence are often incited by the sociopolitical context wherein rhetoric is not challenged; rather, it is passively accepted by the majority as absolute in order to satiate an agenda.

In other words, unborn babies are referred to in certain arenas as "parasites" for political reasons. But it's an demagogic- and plain instigative- assertion.

But wait- there is so much more in defense of unborn babies.

And it's beautiful.

Seminal research on fetal microchimerism suggest that when a woman has a baby, she receives, in exchange for her sacrifice, a gift of cells that remain behind and protect her for the rest of her life.

That's because a baby's cells linger in the mom's body and -- like stem cells -- may help to repair damage when she gets sick. It's such an enticing idea that even the scientists who came up with the idea worry that it may be too beautiful to be true. Diana Bianchi, Chief of Genetics at the New England Medical Center in Boston did some of the pioneering research that discovered that moms carry fetal cells in their blood for years and years.

In fact, "fetal cells that persist in a mother's body long after the pregnancy- even decades later- may reduce her risk of breast cancer," according to researchers at the University of Washington and Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center. Their findings are published in the journal Cancer Research.

Robert Krulwich, an NPR journalist spoke to many scientists who agree: He says, "It's not a far-fetched idea. These cells may behave like those famous embryonic cells: They can turn themselves into any cell mom needs. If she's got a bad heart, they can be healthy heart cells. Bad lungs? No problem, they can be lung cells. Fetal cells may be the ultimate repairmen (or repairwomen)."

*******

Wait, wait. This is big people. The cells of every baby I've had- my four living children- and my beloved dead child- are living now, inside me. And they may help to save my life one day. I carry my children in my heart, perhaps, both mythically and literally. Chey's cells live. Inside me. Now that is enough to bring a tear or three to my eyes. As I told Sam on FB, it's gleefully ironic when mother's intuition synchronizes with science, and when the wisdom of the ancients eclipses the jaundice of modern thinking.

Every mother who has lost a child has within her cells that belonged to that son or daughter.

******

So, the relationship between a mother and her unborn baby is most accurately portrayed by the concept of mutualism or symbiosis. Each benefits the other in some very profound and perduring ways.

Thus, there are many scientific facts that should compel intelligent people to cease referring to unborn babies as parasites. Let's begin with the fact that it's indiscriminate and manipulative and ignorant, and reflects poorly on the cognitive capacity of the individual making such erroneous claims.

But, there are even better reasons to stop referring to unborn babies as parasites. It is hate language intended to devalue a woman's baby. And the devaluing of her baby is a devaluing of her self.

It's offensive to women- to mothers- to the babies- and to all those who really love them.

(Another link to Bianchi's research)