OLD 210 West Magazine

No baby, no baby, no baby - wham!

Sure, it can be prohibitively expensive. And yes, daily medication is a pain in the ass. But Natalie Miller Moore wants to make sure she always has the option to control whether and when she gets knocked up, regardless of the current political administration.

By Natalie Miller
210 west Content Editor [send email]

Health Center = $7
Planned Parenthood = $18
Health insurance = $20 co-pay
Control of your fertility = priceless

It’s that time of year again, when I have to get back into the stirrups to get my fix. My pills, I need ‘em. The “pill,” aka "b.c.,” the only current prescription drug I’m on.

In Virginia, birth control is a hot topic in the state legislature via debates on letting college students get the morning after pill at their health centers. Pretty much every woman my age that I know is taking birth control. For this 50-something man to claim any kind of right to tell a public university or an adult woman anything about this topic seems insane to me. I know that controlling fertility is certainly linked to your physical and mental health, if not your financial and emotional stability.

My first encounter with the topic was my best friend in 5th grade, born of a one night stand her mother had in college, who said that she would go on the pill the first day she could so that wouldn’t happen to her. My Catholic schooling covered “Family Life” from fifth till eighth grade. The basics of reproductive plumbing were covered in health with disinterest. Then in 12th grade there was “Human Sexuality,” which included charts on the rhythm method, but not discussion of any other birth control. I’m not kidding.

So the college atmosphere was a change for me. I didn’t have sex my freshman year, but could see it coming, so I went to the health center to talk to my doctor about the possibility of going on the pill. She seemed shocked that I was just there to get some information. I guess most college girls come in after the fact.

So, I started taking Ortho-Cyclen, a type of birth control pill, at 19. It was a bit like an initiation to a club. There’s the discreet compact, and the subtle tiny pill-popping at the dorm sink. Eventually, most of my friends and roommates were taking it.

I never had much trouble getting my pills until I moved to Virginia two years ago. We moved in such a rush that my prescription had run out. I couldn’t get an appointment before I was supposed to start taking them. As a last resort, I found an Internet site that would have me take a quiz about my health and then have a doctor call in a prescription for me. So, a doctor in Florida called a pharmacy in Virginia for me to get the medication I had been taking daily for 5 years.

When I did get health insurance with my job in Virginia, I found that “b.c.” wasn’t covered because it wasn’t “medically necessary.” The insurance companies have taken a lot of heat for this, and rightly so. How can the prevention of a pregnancy caused by Viagra-induced sex not be covered, but the Viagra can? Also, it makes no sense fiscally, as the cost of prenatal care and delivery of a child are thousands of dollars more expensive.

When my birth control costs got outrageous, nearly $40 a pack, I decided to turn to my old friend Planned Parenthood. I know most people have very little interaction with them, but they are fabulous friends to women without health insurance. They charge a sliding scale of fees based on how much money you make. You don’t need a referral. The people there are dedicated to keeping women healthy, even at the cost of a nice waiting room. I think they must spend most of their facilities budget on security measures keeping clinic bombers out – even if the clinic doesn’t perform abortions, which many don’t.

I think the perception of birth control has long been young women’s sexual liberation and free love and fraternity bimbos and divorcees. Think about this: A woman who wants 2 kids will still have to use birth control for at least 30 years. I became fertile at 13…my mother’s fertility lasted until she was 48. That’s an expectancy of 35 years.

And since I’ve been married, I’m put on the other side of the issue. It would not be a tragedy if I got pregnant. No one would think I’m ruining my life. No one would judge my sexual activity. But that doesn’t mean I need to control my fertility any less. I live in an 800 square foot apartment. My husband and I work in jobs heavily affected by seasonal conditions and the strength of tourism to the area. Once, I had to pay for gas with a pile of dimes from the money jar. We want to be more prepared to welcome a child.

This is why birth control is important, so that people who are working toward something do not become derailed by an event that is often permanent. I am not discounting accidental pregnancies that turn out wonderfully for the parents and child. But an unwanted pregnancy can be bad for opportunities for both parent and child. My high school boyfriend and I disagreed about what we would do if I got pregnant, so we never had sex. Most teens never have that discussion beforehand.

My stance on abortion has developed into an insistence on birth control. I believe it answers both pro-life and pro-choice stances. Prevention of pregnancy is preferable to termination of one, both sides must agree to that. So, I say, pro-lifers start promoting birth control, because abstinence has a high failure rate. And pro-choicers, choose birth control before sex rather than deal with the issue afterward. There cannot be the lack of accountability that currently exists in the concept of “abortion on demand.”

I think that free birth control and limited use of the morning after pill could prevent nearly all abortions. A bold but possible solution, given to us by science.

By the way, my insurance now covers birth control pills as a prescription drug, but doesn’t cover erectile dysfunction drugs. Interesting.

Losing its luster

Steroids, the Yankees and an all too powerful players union have taken all the fun out of Spring Training for Zach Baker.

By Zack Baker
210 west Writer [send email]

As a lifelong baseball fan, this is supposed to be like Christmas Eve. Spring Training is here and, as long as I can remember, the Spring is like waiting to open presents. In this case, the presents are opening day, and baseball games every night.

This year is different.

Maybe it’s the steroid scandal that is hanging over the sport, or maybe it’s the financial disparity between teams.

Maybe it’s the fact that my two favorite teams—the Indians and the Reds—are not expected to compete this year.

Or maybe … well, who knows. The point is, I’m just not feeling it this Spring, the way I usually do.

In simpler times, I would look at a player and wonder how many home runs he would hit. Now I wonder if he’s on the juice.

I used to wonder if the Indians could trade for a number one starter. Now I wonder if they can afford it.

It’s possible that these problems have always existed, and I was just blinded to them by youth, and the fact that my teams were competitive. Still, the Alex Rodriguez trade to the Yankees did crystallize a few things for me.

The first thing is that baseball can not survive in its present form under the current system.

Don’t get me wrong, because I don’t think that getting Alex Rodriguez helped the Yankees one bit in their goal of winning the World Series. It doesn’t matter.

Someone once said that perception is reality, and never was that more correct that in the sale and advertising of professional baseball, where season ticket sales are a primary source of cash revenue.

There are three teams that have sold a great deal of tickets before the season; the Yankees, Cubs, and Red Sox.

And why not? All three made significant moves, allowing their fans to believe that this could be their year.

If the last three years are any indication, the year will probably belong to an underdog. The Angels, Diamondbacks and Marlins all came out of nowhere to win championships, after all,

But none sold all that many tickets. Baseball needs a better economic system, if only to change the perception of the fans. Fans need to believe that their team has a shot every year. That’s why the NFL has done so well,

The second thing is that baseball needs to clean up.

The steroid policy is a joke, an absolute joke. There are no punishments for a first offense if you’re caught on the juice, just treatment.

Now it’s time for some facts. The only ones that give a damn about steroids are the fans and the media. The Players Association, which is so powerful and so evil that they rival Charles Foster Kane, has used the power to make steroids into a cigarette.

Don’t believe me? Read this quote from players Association CEO Gene Orza, from an article on ESPN.com:

"I have no doubt that they are not worse than cigarettes. But I would never say that to the clubs as an individual who represents the interests of players, 'Gee, I guess by not allowing baseball to suspend and fine players for smoking cigarettes, I am not protecting their health.'”

No, he’s serious.

This guy must not read up on steroids much, and must have never followed pro wrestling. There is a reason why wrestlers drop dead so often before they reach 50, and I can guarantee you it isn’t from smoking. Besides, smoking is not illegal. Steroids are.

See, the problem here is that the MLBPA isn’t interested in the players, they are interested in the strength of the union.

I would love to ask any high ranking official in the MLBPA, under oath, if the survival of baseball is more important, or the survival of the players union is more important.

I bet we already know the answer to that one. That’s why baseball has no salary cap, no strong revenue sharing, and fully guaranteed contracts that even the players themselves aren’t allowed to get out of.

I’d tell the players union to go to hell, but they seem intent on taking the game there already.

Bud Selig, fearless leader, is telling everyone not to talk about steroids. That’s like having an asteroid destroy your house and then acting like nothing has happened. Maybe if we ignore it, he thinks, it will go away.

Well, it won’t go away, because it’s as obvious as anything you wish to name.

Baseball has made a deal with the devil, not dealing with its problems years ago, and instead pushing them to the back while they accumulated.

Now, it’s chaos.

Steroids are worse than any drug in the world of professional sports. Cocaine and heroine are worse for people, but they don’t call into question the integrity of the game itself.

If I were running baseball, I would shut down the game for a year and figure out the best way to fix myself. The players union is too powerful, the sport itself is too weak. The owners have showed themselves to have no backbone in negotiations. It’s time to stop negotiating and set a mandate, and stick to it.

Something needs to be done, or else baseball will have as much cultural relevance as Roller Derby.

I used to think the theme for baseball was “Take me out to the Ballgame” or “Centerfield.”

Now I know it’s AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.”

Time to face the music, boys.

Only the good die young.

Living right and living well can be the best tribute, writes Vince Guerrieri.

May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love give us love
--Bruce Springsteen, "Into the Fire"

  I knew two people named Art Canning. The first was a brash boy genius whose talent and intelligence were matched if not exceeded by his own arrogance, ambition and self-absorption. (Please note, some people might consider this a case of noticing the speck in my brother's eye while ignoring the plank in my own. To that charge, I plead no contest.)

The first Art Canning was starting to disappear as he matriculated at the University of Pennsylvania and mature into an adult. However, a diagnosis of Hodgkin's Disease in 2000, when the world was his oyster, sped along the process.

The second was a man, humbled before God and his fellow human beings, caring, considerate, who tried to live a right life and pass along an inspirational message in the face of horrendous tragedy. His insurmountable ego was replaced with an indomitable spirit. If in the first Art Canning, I saw too much of myself, I didn't see enough of myself in the second. He handled cancer with a humor, class and optimism I can only hope for on my best days. He was my hero.

But while cancer helped the first Art Canning disappear, it also took the second from us. Frederick Arthur Canning III died Tuesday night. His funeral was Friday, the day before what would have been his 26th birthday. I was honored to serve as a pallbearer.

Art and I went to school together, but we didn't get to know each other until I was in fifth grade and he was in fourth. We were both identified as gifted, and placed in a special program for the Youngstown City Schools. When I was in eighth grade, Art's family moved around the corner from our new house on Wilkinson Avenue. We carpooled to rehearsals for a Shakespeare Sampler, and our families became friends. Art was one of the gang of guys who played basketball in our driveway and shot pool in our finished basement.

We were cut from the same bolt of cloth, chasing the brass ring. I was editor of the high school paper, but only after Art was editor-in-chief. I was president of the National Honors Society. He was class and choir president. I was a National Merit Scholar. He went to an Ivy League school.

As was the case with many of the people I knew in high school, our paths diverged in college, as I went west to Bowling Green and he went east to Philadelphia. We'd catch up with each other on occasion during summers or college breaks.

He continued his drive until his religious awakening. He righted himself. I tried to self-destruct. I smoked, drank and stared into the abyss long enough that it started to stare back.

John F. Kennedy once said, "Life is unfair." If that was apparent to a man who had known nothing but wealth and privilege all his life, what hope was there for the rest of us?

Early in 2000, Art was poised for graduation and bigger and better things. He had a job lined up on Wall Street and was in his last semester of college when he started to slow down. He was feeling tired and sick, and thought it might have been mono.

It was Stage IV Hodgkin's Disease, a cancer that attacks the lymph nodes. As he was quick to point out, there was no Stage V. He graduated magna cum laude in May after a bank of chemotherapy, came home for radiation treatment and left for Manhattan. He started a Web site, www.artcanning.com, to keep us all apprised. He wrote like a business student, I often told him, giving him grammar and punctuation pointers.

The cancer came back, and early in 2001, Art got a stem cell transplant. He was too sick to come home for a benefit dinner for him. It was supposed to be a small gathering of friends and family. The line for the spaghetti dinner went out the doors of the Brownlee Woods Presbyterian Church. A small army of volunteers were mobilized for the more than 1,000 people who showed up.

The cancer came back, and he was preparing to move home. He had a going-away party one Monday night in September, and slept late the next day while all hell was breaking loose three miles away, across the East River from his Brooklyn apartment. He watched the World Trade Towers collapse from the roof of his building as the rest of the country learned what he had figured out nearly two years earlier: that we are all mortals, and our time on earth is short.

Early in 2002, he got a bone marrow transplant. That summer, I visited him in New York City. He still had the udder in his chest, where drugs were administered for treatment, but he remained unbowed. Art was starting to make plans for the next stage in his life. A bunch of his friends were in town, and I had traveled with a couple of my buddies. We went to a microbrewery near Union Square, and he led us to dessert at Venero's in midtown. After that, I thought he was going to live forever.

Sadly, it was not to be. Around Thanksgiving of that year, he felt a pain in his lower back. The cancer had returned, and there were no more treatment options. His health declined, but not his faith. He knew God had given him cancer for a reason. I marveled when he called the disease that would make him die a long, painful death a blessing. It made him realize what was important in life. Money, power and prestige go away. The people who love you don't.

They say that a man's greatness can be measured during times of crisis. Art and I were both told in high school that we were destined for greatness. I'm not sure if I've lived up to that, but Art has. He fought the good fight. He ran the race. He kept the faith.

They also say that times of conflict and struggle reveal who your friends are. Friends have come out of the woodwork for Art in his moment of need, and before he died, he made sure that people would pay that kindness to others. Last March, he put on a benefit for the Art Canning Foundation, a nonprofit group he started for people in straits just as dire as his, without the blessing of his support network.

Another 1,000 people showed up for the benefit in March, which also saw the release of his self-published book. Being a Wharton Business School graduate, he knew how to delegate, and he turned the manuscript, culled from the entries on his Web site, over to his friend the writer (that would be me). A few well-turned phrases are mine, as are a lot of punctuation marks, but the heart and soul is his.

The book ended with "To be continued." But everyone knew how it would end. Really, that's the only ending in this life, and depending on what you believe, that's not even an ending.

He continued to take chemotherapy to keep the cancer at bay, and felt better enough for a whirlwind tour of his old haunts in New York City that fall. I saw him that Christmas. After more than four years of treatment, including chemo and radiation, he still had more hair than I did.

After the new year, he got sick, and could no longer take chemo. The cancer started to run its course, and he went into the hospital on Feb. 10. I saw him the weekend of Valentine's Day, but I prefer to remember the active Art marshalling a group of friends and leading us around Manhattan and not the one I saw that weekend, who will still haunt me until the day I meet him again in our Father's house with many rooms.

And now I'm trying to make some sense of this all. I like to think there's a lesson Art would want us to take from this. His parents are both educators, and in his better days, Art thought of teaching or the ministry.

Art and I disagreed on many things. He was a Republican. I'm a little more left of center. He's a Steelers and Pirates fan. I root for the Browns and the Indians. But we both appreciated the music of U2, particularly off of "All That You Can'?t Leave Behind." He talked about how the only baggage he carried was all that he can't leave behind. I, on the other hand, felt the strongest message came from "Beautiful Day."

"It's a beautiful day, don't let it get away!"

I try to remember that Art lived more in his 26 years than most people who live two or three times that long. He sang on the beaches of Normandy for the 50th anniversary of D-Day. He danced down the Canyon of Heroes for the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. He worked on Wall Street. He went to an Ivy League school. He filled every minute with 60 seconds of distance run.

But not only did he live, he tried to live a right life. Maybe that's the lesson we're supposed to take from all of this. I've examined my life since his diagnosis, and came up at first with some survivor's guilt. I've changed since then, for the better, in my opinion. Just as living well is the best revenge, it's the best tribute to those we knew and loved who went on before us and before their time. I like to think that's the lesson Art would want us to take from this.

I tried to make Art a better writer. He made me a better person. I got the better end of that deal. It's almost unfair.