Thursday, December 18, 2014

Worth

Someone recently inquired how many oxen, camels, and cows my father was asking for me.
And we both laughed.

Having a bride price is such a foreign concept for my American mind. My Dad does not have a list of things he would like to aquire in exchange for my hand in marriage (Except maybe another Giants fan to add to the mix). He does not expect to cash in at my wedding. In the same vein, my husband will not think he needs to bring livestock to the rehearsal dinner. Although that would be cool.

My bride price was set by my Nigerian boss, Dr. Chris, at a fair rate for my age and ability. As a 19-year-old college student with very few [known] health problems I could go for a good chunk of change. But what about today? After some years have gone by and life has taken a few unexpected twists and turns, is my bride price still a fair deal? Lets do the math shall we...


As of October 2008, Caitlin Baird's bride price is $20,000 USD

Depreciation: Age. - 1000 per year x 6 years 

Education: + 2000 per degree 

Trade: Employment + 2000

Debt: Student loans - 8000, Subaru - 8000 

Physical Wellness: Failing heart - 10000

Nice smile: + 200

As of December 2014, Caitlin Baird's bride price is [drumroll please....]  $2,220 USD


So my Dad is still making money--Awesome! And I don't qualify as a spinster yet--Bonus!

But does that price reflect anything? 

The easiest answer is No. I made up the qualifications in our math lesson so it holds absolutely no value. Anywhere. And I was taught that I am a priceless individual whom God loves and is a benefit to the world. You can put no price tag on me.

The harder and maybe more realisitic answer is Quite Possibly. 

We live in a world where we love to "give value" to things. People sue to get back what they believe they lost in an emotional life event. Designers and architects and artists are given the chance to set a price on their creation. It's the reason people stocked up on Beanie Babies in the late 90s. It's the reason people look at logos. It's the reason I paid a week's worth of wages to see U2 from behind the stage.

We agreed with the price.


My heart continues to be burdened with stories of tragedy around the world of people not finding value: in other people, in health, in percieved beauty, in forests and animals and oceans. People who don't find value in hope. In goodness. In God.

But there are some who get it.

My Nigerian friends give me a new and beautiful perspective on having a bride price. The men I talk to have had to work for the women they love, some of them for years. There are respectful conversations between families as prices and payments are negotiated. The women, in return, know they were worth it. Everyone I have celebrated with sees value not only in each other but in their community, their commitment, and their hard work.

I need to remember that the people who I see as full of hate, who are killing chidren and running cartels and encouraging addictions, have a bride price. As much as I want to call them worthless, just as strongly as the desire to call myself priceless, they are still loved by YHWH. 

In the spirit of this season (and because I am a Sunday School teacher) remember that we are all bought. None of us has a blank price tag. And Jesus has enough to pay for each one.

May we all be given a fair bride price. May we see the worth of everyone and everything. And may it all be worth it.

Sunday, November 9, 2014

[In]Dependence

As a child I never had a problem asking for help. I didn't find it embarrassing to admit to a teacher I could not understand the assignment. It was never an issue to cry and ask for a band-aid when I scraped my knee. Why try to climb the giant rocks near our campsite when my cousin could drag me up there by my arms once he reached the top? Reminding people I needed help was a good thing.

My Grandpa used to tell the story of when I was a preschooler eager to get on my water wings and jump in his backyard pool on a hot day. He walked outside to water the lawn and I followed, holding out my bathing suit, "naked as a blue jay!" I knew I couldn't get my arms and legs into the right holes of that pink one-piece and Grandpa had the ability to dress properly. I didn't care if the neighbors saw me naked and helpless--I needed assistance!

I don't know when that changed.


Independence (cue Destiny's Child!) is a phrase worn around by women my age as some badge of honor.

Are you dating anyone? No. I'm independent.
Are you working a full-time job? Sorry, my independence keeps getting in the way.
Is your permanent address still your parent's house? Yes, because my independent lifestyle thwarts my plans from settling down anywhere for more than six months.

... Not that I want to settle down. I am independent!

We believe we are the pioneer women of the 21st century and we should do everything for ourselves. We make our own money which we spend as we see fit. We travel without much of an agenda and are fine exploring the world on our own. We make things out of scraps of wood and eat from our gardens (and go to the nearest Target when we run out of time and energy). We take yoga classes. We don't need a man to prove our worth and we don't need other people's opinions to dictate who we are.  We don't need anybody.

Caitlin Hard-To-Get-Because-She-Freaking-Lives-Everywhere-And-Does-Everything Baird does not need a hand out.


Over the last year this concept of myself has been challenged. It all started with a realization from a doctor that my heart was not strong. Having health problems meant I couldn't choose whatever job I wanted. Not having a stable job meant not having a reliable income. Not having money for rent meant accepting the generosity of family for a place to live. Accepting gifts meant I was no longer independent.

It gets worse.

Two weeks ago I was discharged from the hospital with my arm in a sling, a weak heart hidden beneath it, and a long list of instructions for a month-long recovery plan. ("Only four weeks until you feel great!" said my nurse enthusiastically. She must have gotten married when she was 16.)

So Dad walked me to the bathroom. My friends washed my hand (singular; the one out of the sling). Grandma gave me a shower. My sister and mother dressed me. My brother brought me lunch. And the people who I love sent flowers and cards and prayers.

And I cried.

Losing my idea of independence was not the hard part. Whatever early 2000's pop lyrics I was trying to live out were clearly not enhancing my life. Sorry Beyonce, I like to spend my money on sensible things and go on dates with nice guys who can make decisions.

What hit me is that I never had to ask for help. The people in my life love me so much that they don't need me to speak up about my struggles, physical or otherwise, before they step in. They actually want me to depend on them for encouragement and hot meals and good books to borrow. They want to help me put on my bathing suit so I can jump in the pool.

And I feel the same way about them.

So I'm dropping the IN and embracing the Dependent part of who I am. Dependent on my family, my friends, my community, my God.


All the ladies who truly feel me
Throw your hands up at me

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Where is that Robot?

I've been mistaken for a robot quite a few times in life.

How do you write like that?
How can you remember all of your kids' names?
How can you stomach a Keanu Reeves movie?
Always the same answer: Robot.

In fact, several times as a Trail Guide we would let the joke run too far and I would 'malfunction' during a lesson. Josh Meeker and I liked to watch our sixth graders give a nervous laugh as he reprogrammed me by pushing the correct sequence into my back. We acted like nothing had happened the rest of the week and the girls in my cabin would write home that a cyborg was taking care of them at camp.

I've always appreciated that excuse for the organized parts of who I am.



This past week I landed myself in the hospital after a heart episode that occurred in the middle of subbing for a computer class. Although this is becoming an unfortunate degree of Normal in my life, the way the hospital responded was not. I was admitted to the cardiac ward and put on close supervision. After two days of laying in a hospital bed and reading Tina Fey's Bossypants from cover to cover I expected to go home with the same list of instructions as before: Rest. Feel better. Get back to Normal.

My team of cardiologists don't like my Normal.

Which is why Friday afternoon I lay in the Cath Lab while Surgeon Chris rubbed green solution all over my chest and joked about how he was honored to try out this procedure on me after only watching it twice on Youtube. He told me more about the ICD they were about to implant above my heart. The Implantable Cardioverter-Defibrillator is a small titanium disc with a computer inside and two wires out the top. It reads my heartbeats and is able to step in when things get out of whack, sending an electric shock to essentially jump start my heart. It will help me from passing out and will keep my heart from stopping in a case of Sudden Cardiac Death. It has to be put in now.

As my surgical team finished prepping and joking about various nonsense on their end of the deal they all turned to me.

"Caitlin, honey, you are one of the youngest patients we have had in here lately. Which means we are all excited for this next question, what music do you want to listen to? We pretty much only get asked to play Frank Sinatra and classical music."

The Head And The Heart sounded like the most natural O.R. play list.

As I fell asleep to guitars and violins and harmonies I realized this might be a game-changer. After months of unexpected hospital visits and rearranging plans and missing important events I need a change. It gets so tiring to not know if you will remain conscious for the whole workday or will need to set up an evac while you are out on the trail.

I woke up in recovery with a computer in my chest, already reading my data and watching my heart's every move, which they printed out to show me before finally allowing me to go home.



ICD.
No, this device won't strengthen my heart and there is a chance I will eventually need a transplant.
No, this won't overall give me more energy or a healthy blood pressure.
Yes, this will leave a scar and it will hurt like a bullet wound for a week.
But it will keep me alive, which sounds like a good first step.

So Tinkerbell (as my sister has lovingly named it) was added to my life with hopes of improving it. My recovery time will be longer than I would like but will give me the chance to properly rest. Finding Normal will be easy once I'm back on my feet.

And I am finally able to use my robot excuse with an ounce of validation.

Oh heaven go easy on me.



Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Day 41: ...You’re Going Where Now? (October 14, 2008)


The only other time I have kept a blog was during the autumn of 2008 which I spent working with the wonderful community of Faith Alive in Jos, Nigeria. As an American 20-year-old college kid with no clinical training it was quite an honor to be asked to come, along with my dear friend, Adrie, and be a part of the Faith Alive Family to assist in their medical clinic and programs. I like reading my daily logs again years later but strongly feel the pangs of missing I have for these friends and this place so far away. Six years have passed but I am still Sister Kate (the Owibo).




           Biana informed me last night that if I wanted to I could devote the first half of this day to helping with HIV testing at the Jos prison. I jumped at the chance to see something new and help out in a way that I didn’t realize was a possibility. I met Simon in front of the Clinic after breakfast and we hopped in the van for a short ride across Jos. We pulled up to the prison and met with Esther (a young woman from the lab) before walking through a large metal gate escorted by uniformed guards. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I braced myself for the worst. Metal bars, mean armed guards, sickly looking prisoners, I thought I would be walking into a concentration camp. Thankfully that is not what met me behind the entrance. What my surroundings instead turned out to be looked much more like a college campus than a jail. A large green was surrounded by six or seven large run-down dormitories with a large letter of the alphabet painted on the side. To one side of the lawn sat a row of classrooms, a small garden, and a chapel. To the other side were some poorly made wooden buildings where food was being prepared in bulk in the traditional Nigerian style--with lots of fresh air. Simon led us to the classroom area where they set up a small testing center (one table with the proper swabs and needles) and the men filed in immediately. I was sent next door to the chapel where I would be helping out with registration. I walked in to a room with 75 Nigerian men and realized that this was the first (and possibly only) time in my life where I would be the only white AND female contribution to a crowd. What a feeling.

            The man with the paperwork introduced himself as Prince before we quickly developed a system of patient information processing. Simon told me that I was the authorized Faith Alive staff for the day, which I found out meant I gave my signature on every person’s paper next to “Doctor Presiding.” Never again in my life will I enjoy that level of prestige. Two others jumped in to help and for the next five hours the quartet of writers took information, copied data, and got prisoners on their way to free HIV testing. It is really cool to be working for an organization that, with as little resources as it has, believes in the power of free services. Most of the men that got tested today would never be able to afford this important step of their medical life, even if it looks very cheap to the developed world.

            It was truly an amazing experience as I spoke with prisoners and realized how happy they were with life. None of them looked depressed or angry or hungry. They looked like people I would run into on the street in my neighborhood. I did not get a chance to discuss the Nigerian penal system much today, but Prince did inform me that most prisoners are only serving sentences for a few months. There are virtually no women at this particular prison (although I assume it resembles demographics all over Nigeria) and most of the men we registered today were in their early twenties. It was strange talking to a prisoner who said he was 20, my age, and realizing just how different our years have looked. When we had a lull in the almost-constant traffic Prince asked me geography questions that he has been trying to figure out. I was able to explain some of Great Britain’s makeup as well as help him out with learning country capitals, something he has worked on for a while. In return, he helped me in his area of expertise; the Nigerian states and tribes. You can learn so much from former strangers if you take the time to listen.

            Around 1:30 we packed up our things, prayed with the staff that helped us, and went back through the checkpoints. Greg was nowhere to be seen outside so Simon put his hand on my shoulder and, with big eyes asked me, “Cait, are you able to walk more than a kilometer?” I realized he was worried about me so I suppressed a laugh and told him that I was a fine walker, even wearing a skirt. It was hot but we knew it was going to be our only option when Simon spotted the red Faith Alive van down the street. I think he was much more relieved than Esther and I. I made it home for a late lunch and declined the invite of the trio to go to the Museum Shops in order to get a needed nap. Some days you just need the extra sleep!

            E-mailing at the Clinic was followed by a nice Baba dinner. We weren’t sure what our activity for the night should be so Jon suggested turning on the television where, on our favorite Arabic channel, The Life Aquatic was just starting. Oh Wes Anderson. So our day ended with a wonderfully bizarre movie and, because NEPA has neglected us for an entire 24 hours now, we got ready for bed without the need for any other entertainment.  

Sunday, October 12, 2014

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words


pppppffffffftttttt.

"For as many years I have been doing ultrasounds this stuff still grosses me out," he said as he squeezed the jelly onto the wand. "At least I can promise this gloop will be warm."

I clenched my fists as he traced a slimy line across my skin. We both looked up at the monitor.

"It's big," he said after a first glance, "but I guess you already knew that."

I nodded. This wasn't the first time I had stared at a screen of what hid under the layers of skin. I could feel what I was carrying around inside of me; I sometimes pushed on it to see if it would respond.

He turned up the audio and we listened to the beats. As a woman with a good sense of rhythm I can tell when someone or something is losing track of it. This sounded like the fourth-grade version of myself on a drum set--trying hard but failing to make anything that could be mistaken for music.

"There is one more thing we need to check," he said as he took on-screen measurements and typed in figures. "And that is in color."

The ultrasound went from black and white to a rainbow of hues. It almost looked like I had a lava lamp inside of me. The center of the screen turned red and then orange with every beat while the rest of the screen shifted between shades of blue.

He looked at the colors for a while before he hit the keys and created a message I couldn't quite make out on the bottom of the screen. His expression hadn't seemed to change but I knew from his pause that he may have seen what he needed.

"Can I ask you what you saw?" I didn't know the confidentiality rules between a technician and a patient.

He looked down at me and half-smiled. "I saw that there isn't a strong blood flow... a problem I know Doctor S. will talk to you about in your follow-up."

As if I needed any more problems with this attention-seeker, this thing that I had been bonding with over the past few months, after all we had been trying.

He entered the last pieces of information typing with one hand. "Do you want to take a picture of it before I turn off the machine? I've seen plenty of patients snap a shot on their cell phone to post on Facebook."

I started to laugh.

After the handful of ultrasound images I have seen friends post proudly displaying growing babies in their wombs this just wouldn't compare. Their shots encourage the cyberworld to place bets on genders and guess how many weeks until the arrival. They talk about names and nursery themes and pregnancy cravings. My ultrasound wouldn't get any comments that said 'Congratulations!' or 'So excited to meet Him/Her!' It wouldn't get any likes.

"No, thanks."

He took the wand off my chest and the image disappeared.

I would have to show the world a picture of my failing heart some other time.

Monday, October 6, 2014

Tous Les Mêmes

Paul Van Haver may, in fact, be the most beautiful man in the world.
Followed closely by Gael García Bernal. And Taye Diggs.


As a woman whose first crush was on "The Blond Boy in Hook" I can claim an unhealthy dose of celebrity crushes over the years, from my favorite high school bands' drummers (Nathan Young) to French actors (Jean Dujardin) to creative directors (Benh Zeitlin) to those ones I can't quite figure out (Aziz Ansari for the win!). And I'm not ashamed!

... or am I?

This past weekend I got to see the most beautiful man in the world, commonly known as Stromae, perform at The Fulton in Hollywood. As Gavin and I waited in line with dozens of scantily-clad twenty-somethings I saw hand-drawn signs, specialty Stromae t-shirts, and lots of cleavage all screaming the same thing: "Notice Me!"

I started to question the motives and assumptions of those of us with Famous Fever. Did all one thousand people in queue actually believe that the man on stage was going to recognize us in the sea of faces? Did we think we would stand out in the crowd by showing more skin or holding a piece of paper? And, if so, what did we think would happen when he saw us?


Caitlin's Daydream: Stromae would notice me from stage because of my hair (if I have one thing that makes me stand out in a crowd it is my blond mane) and search me out after the show. He would track me down walking to my car and thank me in his thick Belgian accent for being so in tune with his lyrics--he could read all my emotions from where he was performing--and ask a little more about my philosophy on life. Because we are both such deep thinkers we would talk with lots of nods and hand gestures for a while about pacifism and a fatherless generation and God. He would suggest that we meet for coffee the next day to continue our discussion. Of course Gavin would come along too since he is more brilliant than I am and could make a case for Team Baird. At the end of our coffee-turned-lunch-date he would suggest I come visit him in Belgium and, later, become Mrs. Van Haver. And then we would both change the world through his European stardom and my big smile.

Reality: Stromae points to Gavin a couple songs in because he is literally a head taller than the rest of the crowd.

Towering Brother steals the show.


And you know what? Gavin and I both felt validated. Not because one of our favorite singers recognized a 6'3" redhead (not hard to do) but because he never pointed to the people with the signs. Or the people with the shirts. Or the people with the lack of shirts. He pointed to the guy who was following along and having a good time. The one person in the crowd who didn't need some musician to validate his coolness or acknowledge his good looks.


So that is why I am ashamed. Ashamed that I get sucked into feeling that only the rich, beautiful, talented people can give me an identity.

I'm a woman with a big heart and a pretty face. I'm a woman who loves well and teaches well. I'm a woman with reachable dreams and a hope for humanity. I'm a woman who is surrounded by amazing people who make conversation and travel and life all worth it.

And I don't need a celebrity to prove it.

Monday, September 29, 2014

Wired

Rumors say its National Coffee Day.

It also happens to be Semi-Annual Caitlin Gets Hooked Up to a Holter Monitor Day.


It is no secret that my taste in beverages is fairly dull. I can go for weeks on end with just water and green tea and not feel that I am lacking anything in life. Staying hydrated is my first, and apparently only, priority when it comes to drinks.

Over the last few years I have tried to make myself someone who has a more varied palate. I make plans to stock my fridge full of gluten-free beers, various ciders, exotic juices, and bottles of Kombucha. Maybe go all out and add a carton of chocolate milk. This great idea lasts a week or two before the grocery list loses any mention of liquids and sticks to the four main food groups: fruits, vegetables, cereals, and baking supplies.

But within the attempts of change there is one thing that has, in fact, stuck: Coffee.

I consider myself a Coffee Appreciator. I'm not a Coffee Addict where I find myself unable to function without a morning cup o' joe and I'm also not a Coffee Connoisseur who is able to judge a shop based on their roasting technique or the aroma when you pour. I'm just someone who enjoys a nice hot beverage to warm my insides and give me a little boost on the days I need to hike eight miles with students or direct traffic in the pouring rain.

I don't need anything fancy. I don't require lots of add-ins. I definitely don't crave a visit to Starbucks. I can make a cup at home and be good for the day. One cup of plain, boring, whatever-brand-Grandma-and-I-found-at-the-store coffee.


When my heart started to act up last spring my doctor was concerned about my fluid intake. She was reassured that I drank enough water (my Camelbak was a permanent fixture to my spine) but mentioned that any sort of caffeine could be triggering my palpatations.

Do you drink soda? A root beer float when it was offered; so maybe three or four times a year.

Do you drink alcohol? Not because of the caffeine, she reminded me, but because if I had a problem with liquor that could be part of what was damaging my heart. I was far from being an alcholic, I was barely a social drinker.

Do you drink tea and coffee? Um...

So for a few weeks I was left with just water. My Mango Vanilla Ceylon teabags sitting on a shelf and my Santa Cruz Roasting Co. grounds given to a friend. I felt more boring than ever. My mornings in the coastal fog felt colder and greyer. Drinking a glass of water with my oatmeal was hardly breakfast.

Could it be that I needed my coffee more than I realized?

When my heart continued to act up caffeine was ruled out as a major health risk and became something to enjoy in moderation. A win for my morning routine, a loss for any diagnostic conclusions. So I pulled out the tea and headed to Coffee Cat for a victory latte and that was that.


I started off today in my doctor's office talking more about my heart. She hooked me up to wires to read my EKG and then disconnected me to hook me up to more (portable) wires to wear for the next 24 hours. The instructions were clear: Act normal.

So, naturally, I got in the car and drove to my favorite coffee shop for a latte.



Cheers to coffee and cheers to hearts. They seem to go hand in hand sometimes.
http://instagram.com/p/ti56NSGBF2/


Thursday, September 25, 2014

Miss Baird the Hipster

In middle school I never thought much about our sub.

For the most part, the individual playing Teacher for the day was a retired school employee who gave us classwork and then sat quietly and read the newspaper. They dressed semi-professional, walked into class with a cup of coffee in their hand, and called on the students who raised their hands. They were usually polite, clean people who were safe adults to be around for the hour required of their service. 


As a sub, I don't know if I fit that mold.


It's not that I am unprofessional or unsafe. Not by any means. (I'm a frickin' backpacking guide: I can wrap your ankle if you trip on a chair leg in class and properly document the incident to hand to the school principal.) And it's not that I don't fit the stereotypes, either. I usually have a cup of coffee with me when I get to class in the morning and have a drawer at home full of dress pants. 


What makes me different than the subs I grew up with is that I actively want to be a part of the class experience. I think it is kind of boring if I am just another face these junior highers vaguely associate with their education. For them and for me. I am young and have life experience and love to share stories and lame jokes. And sharing goes both ways, you know.



Yesterday in Ms. Swick's English classes we read a short story called 'Raymond's Run' about a young woman taking care of her developmentally and physically disabled older brother. We first looked at it from a literary perspective (What is the theme? What is the plot's climax? Who is the main character?) and then moved into a human perspective. 


Donald Miller's work falls into the non-fiction genre--the human perspective--and I was glad to have read these words just a few minutes before students sat in their seats. I shared this with them from Searching for God Knows What:



I remember when I first learned about people who were and weren't cool. There was a kid in my middle school who never took a bath. He had dreadful buckteeth, so large they came out of his mouth an inch, and so under no circumstances could he close his lips. I used to look at him in class and wonder how his mouth did not dry out. He kept long hair, his family too poor to afford a haircut, and he would wear the same clothes for a week, each day becoming more gray, each week his hair coming more over his eyes, and he had the jumpy feel of a beat dog. He would set his languid body over the papers on his desk, his oily hair coming over his head like a curtain, and in this position he would sit all day, talking to no one, only hoping to avoid the jury of his peers, a constant source of condemnation.
... I get this feeling sometimes that [at the end of our lives] we will wish we had seen everybody as equal, that we had eaten dinner with [people like my classmate], held them in our arms, opened up spare rooms for them and loved them and learned from them. I was just another stupid child in the flow, you know; I didn't know any of these things. I didn't know it didn't matter what a person looked like, how much money they made or whether or not they were cool. I didn't know that cool was just a myth and that one person was just as beautiful and meaningful as another.

After the snickering from the first few lines died off the room turned into a still silence. I closed the book and looked at the faces staring up at me. 


A boy in the back of the room raised his hand, "Miss Baird?"

"Yes, Nathan."
"Is there any more of that book you can read to us?"


So I love the fact that I am spending part of my fall season at my Alma Mater being seen. And heard. And having good conversations with students who are questioning what life looks like outside of their hometown, outside of their home life. It helps me remember there is hope for humanity, that there are world-changers in classrooms who are spreading the concepts of love and peace alongside the ability to define parts of speech and solve equations. 


Because even a sub can encourage change.