Flotsam

Dear Commenters on a Certain Childfree Site,

Hi! I don’t think we’ve met. I am the mother—excuse me, “Moo”—of the “hideous” “fugly” baby in which you have taken such a keen interest. I confess that this first part perplexes me, as I had always thought the childfree weren’t particularly interested in children, and yet here you are, reading about mine!
Speaking of which, I was shocked to learn that I previously had two other premature babies, both of whom, alas, died after birth. Sometimes when I am on deadline things fall through the cracks, but those really seem like the sort of events I should have made a note of in my day planner.

However it is the medical aspects of your discussion that interest me most. This machine Simone is hooked up to, the one that “circulates her blood or what not”—can you tell me more about it? I asked the doctor, and she didn’t seem nearly as informed as you all. In fact, she denied the existence of this blood circulator entirely! And another thing—you say I should not be permitted to provide medical treatment to my child “when it clearly will not remain alive for long.” I hate to interrupt what I am sure is a busy afternoon of crystal ball gazing, but I would love for you to tell me more about the specifics of my situation. I’m not terribly imaginative, and before now was relying mostly upon doctors and medical journals for information about my daughter’s prognosis, when obviously I should have been paying more attention to signs like being able to “see the veins in that thing’s head and chest.” Actually, I can see the veins in my own chest as well—I always assumed it was due to my natural pallor, but now I am concerned I may not be long for this world.

This morning, on my way from Simone’s room to the salon to have my hooves filed and polished, I overheard a woman at the hospital pharmacy picking up a prescription for her asthmatic son. Thinking of you, I followed her to the secluded parking garage and wrestled the medicine from her hand, reminding her that when it comes to children, “If their lives were meant to be, they will live and flourish!” Later I mentioned to one of the nurses your suggestion that she “go into the NICU one night and unhook the baby’s ventilation machine.”

After I outran security, I called Simone’s doctor.
“Listen,” I said to her, “I know I have been ‘insisting that you keep the poor thing alive–’”
“Actually, we resuscitate all babies born at your daughter’s gestational age.”
“Oh. But what about her ‘terrible disabilities?’”
“I’m not sure what you mean. Statistics show there is an excellent chance that Simone will be just fine.”
“Huh. Statistics. Any luck finding that blood circulator?”

Anyway, I mostly wanted to thank you for drawing my attention to the similarities between Simone’s medical care and “the Nazi experiment involving keeping a severed dog head alive via wires.” The resemblance is stunning, don’t you think?

The experiment you refer to was actually performed by Russians, but “Russian” doesn’t have the same zing as “Nazi,” and god knows as a professional composer of “attention-seeking drivel” I understand the importance of inflaming the passions of your audience.

So that’s all. I would go on, but I have a load of hairshirts to throw in the wash. Being a “martyr” doesn’t leave me much time for my writing. Besides, I am feeling a bit embarrassed about how “tacky” it is to “air my dirty laundry” in such a manner. Some people might say comparing me to a Nazi and my daughter to an artificially animated canine head is a bit tacky as well, but hey, what do they know?

Cordially,
Alexa

P.S. I think she’s beautiful.

P.P.S. How many kittens did you have to sew together to make those lovely caftans?