Phantoms

After

After

The pain relief was immediate. I woke up from surgery, and even though my nipples were on fire, I couldn’t sense the nerve where my shoulder connects to my neck. I’ve known that joint by heart for years now. I had reached the point where I thought it didn’t hurt when I simply knew where the junction was, as opposed to feeling pain radiate outward from it. Even the chest fire was mild by comparison, the sort of pain I used to associate with nursing, intense cold, and drastic hormone shifts.

But, as with any surgery, breast reduction came with a few unexpected complications, the largest of these involving physical sensations. The doctor correctly assured me the fire would be gone within hours, because breast tissue has few nerve endings. But my chest gurgled and glurped for days as air pockets shifted and liquid drained. It didn’t hurt, but I could sure feel it happening. I didn’t lose any actual feeling, after all.

And then there was the other thing. The doc migrated my nipples north without ever disconnecting them, so they were the same as ever, but in a new position. Before, they hung to my belly button. Cramming them into a bra used to mean relocating the lowest bits by a good six inches. Not any longer. No cramming for me. But my breasts are having a bit of an adjustment to their new home.

You know how people who have lost had a limb or digit still sometimes get sensation in it? Well, I didn’t lose much tissue or many nerve endings, but I’ve still got that problem. Phantom boob syndrome, I suppose you’d call it.

There was a particular feeling that I only experienced when I wore nursing bras. When the supporting bra structure pushed too firmly against the underside of my breast, while my nipple chafed against fabric at exactly the wrong height, it meant one thing. My breast had crept up in stealth mode and disengaged the cup security hook to flop free and dangle loose in my shirt, usually leaking milk everywhere.

It’s been years since I’ve nursed, but I’ll never forget what that felt like.

I’m used to having my breasts curl under in my bra, so the most sensitive bits are a little sheltered from fabric contact.  But my new boobs chafe. Plus, the nipples are far higher on my chest.  Add to that the fact that I have to wear a bra twenty four hours a day for the first six weeks, and I’m a walking recipe for sensory chaos.

Every once in awhile, I’ll notice my chafed nipples rubbing against my bra from their new vantage, six inches higher than the old one, while I feel pressure along the band line. And I’ll have a moment of panic that I can only curb by sticking my head in my shirt to ensure that neither prisoner has escaped into the wider world.

I’m always shocked when both of them are resting happily where I put them in the first place, directly inside the bra, nipples forward, sagging not. They, I presume, are sniggering to each other because they can still taunt me, even if they can’t make my back hurt.

Crime Writers (A Rant)

Really 3If someone said “Nothing against women writers, but all of my favorite crime fiction authors happen to be men,” how would you respond?

Fuck you.

Probably, then I’d walk away.

If I didn’t. If I stayed and kept chatting, I’d add something like this:

Seriously. It’s the twenty first century, and you appear not to notice how offensive the phrase “nothing against women” is, or how it suggests, right off the bat, that you find the women’s works inferior. Also, you are an idiot if you didn’t notice you’re talking to a woman mystery author, so you are implying that you have no desire to read my work at all because it’s sure to be inferior to a man’s writing. So why should I waste my conversation on you?

If, perhaps, the statement came from a student-type or someone who I thought was asking out of ignorance, someone who might be willing to change a viewpoint or attitude, then I might give the more didactic answer.

By ‘crime fiction’, you seem to imply ‘hard hitting thrillers’. Are you sure they’re all men? Are you sure it isn’t just men in the forefront of your mind? And are you sure you’ve read enough women crime writers to know whereof you speak? Consider the things you enjoy in crime writing and look closely at those genres. There are women scattered throughout.

Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers are rather hard to dismiss. And what about Margery Ellingham and Ngaio Marsh? (Why no, Ngaio wasn’t a man. Please, don’t confuse author with character.) Modern example? Patricia Cornwell, anyone?

Consider the attitudes that shape your expectations, then go pick up one of their books. Compare them to their male counterparts. Do the women flinch from hard hitting things? I think not.

And for that matter, is it only women who write heart-warming cozies? Can’t a guy pen one of those?(Hint: If you said no, look more closely.) Think about the society that forces one gender to justify its presence in any field and make an effort to be part of the solution. Otherwise, it sounds like you have quite a lot against female crime writers, and you’re on a one person campaign to insult them all. And if that’s the case, kindly refer to my first answer and fuck off.

www.sistersincrime.org/BlogHop

#SinCBlogHop

@SINCnational

This post was written in response to a prompt by the Sisters in Crime, a marvelous writer’s organization of which I am a member. Yes, you have to pay to join. That’s OK. It’s more than blog hops, and quite worthwhile. They gave us lots of options, but practically invited me to rant with that one! And I’m shouting out to a couple of other fine writers here.

As usual, I haven’t figured out the rules yet, but I’m participating anyway. I can’t tell who is supposed to tag whom and when, but take a gander at a couple of other fine authors.

Don’t miss H.A. Somerled, author of technothrillers Angel’s Code and Angel’s Betrayal, who was the one who got things rolling for me with this hop! She swears she once scared Hugh Jackman, but I don’t have the inside scoop. She resides @HASomerled on Twitter, and on her eponymous website.

And check out Elaine Powell (not related), author of #1 Amazon bestselling historical thrillerThe Fifth Night. You can find her @empowellauthor on Twitter or on her site, which also shares her name.

 

How Not To Be

DSC_0288I had a performance review this week at my real job. It was. Simple predicate, no nouns to follow. Was. There are things I can change, things I’m doing well, the usual. I’m not perfect, but I’m doing my job, and I know where I stand. I teach online, so it’s one of the few times a year I make verbal contact with my employers.

But, telephone or not, neutral/positive or not, it was a meeting. And meetings? Oh God, they bring out the worst of my social anxiety.

Now, I’m not talking about parties and conferences. Those get me squirmy, but at a party, at a conference, I can find a job. I’m the random parent who co-opted the cake table and started offering stranger children juice. I’m the person who snatched all the pamphlets so I could hand them out. Because bewilderment from others is so much less painful than the anguish of not knowing when to speak or what my lines are.

And I’m not talking about presentations. With a script, I can pull those off. I don’t enjoy classroom teaching. I talk too much, and mine is an interactive subject. I don’t know how to seal my lips. When I taught in person, I left every day feeling a weight lifted because I didn’t have to talk anymore. (Only by then, I was so wound up, I couldn’t stop.) Still, I can come in with notes and cover the right material. It is a manageable thing for me.

But at a meeting, I can only play guessing games. Often, I’m expected to chime in. Or maybe I’m expected not to chime in. Maybe you want me to say, “OK” at two minute intervals to show I haven’t fallen asleep. Perhaps, the whole purpose of the meeting is to impart information, and I just need to shut up and listen. Only somehow, I missed that memo.  (I always missed that memo).

I’m the person in the back of the room who just asked the most inane question and won’t let the topic go, because I’m missing all the other people’s cues that I’m off track.  I panic in meetings, and I don’t know what will fly out of my mouth. Or, online, off my fingertips. (Because I type way too fast, and “enter” is far to conveniently reached.)

My employers would like me to attend online meetings once a month. You’d think this would be easy. I don’t have to say anything, there’s nothing face to face, and nobody is looking at me. But I cannot be quiet in a meeting. Do you feel the extraordinary pressure of silence as strongly as I do? I’d rather volunteer myself for a thousand activities than endure a full minute of uncertainty. Should I say something here? I don’t know. Is she pausing for questions? Why isn’t anybody asking a question? Should I ask a question?

The very thought made me break down and cry.  I can’t do meetings because I can’t tell the important information apart from the unimportant, and silence makes my skin crawl. We figured out a workaround for the present, though I’m honestly not sure how long it will be practical and possible. And I do not know what I’m going to do if I have to attend a meeting once a month. I attend meetings as rarely as possible, because I lose days of productivity to the emotional recovery.

Of course, it didn’t help that I was going straight out of the phone-in performance review and into a face-to-face meeting with the kids’ principal for something she swore wouldn’t be a big deal. I knew it would be. I was right. And even if it hadn’t been, it was a meeting. A second meeting in one day. It was one I’d had no chance to prepare for, even though I’d had all weekend to dread it.  One where absolutely anything could have come up. And oh baby did it, for our older child. (I’ll send details privately to the interested.)

It’s Wednesday. You’d think I’d be better by now. But I’m not.

In fact, if you need me, I’ll be gibbering over here in my corner with my laptop, grading papers and trying to prioritize my notes. Send anti-anxiety medications and strong alcohol please and thank you.

What Happened Until Innocent Until Proven Guilty?

On Jury Duty: Point Four: What Happened to Innocent Until Proven Guilty?

After shot. Sorry. I only have on a bra in the before shot. Ill text it to interested parties with no embarrassment whatsoever, but I do not believe it needs blogging.

After shot. Sorry. I only have on a bra in the before shot. Ill text it to interested parties with no embarrassment whatsoever, but I do not believe it needs blogging.

What the fuck happened to innocent until proven guilty?

People don’t grasp the law. I don’t mean the fiddly bits even lawyers barely understand. I’m talking basics. If I am ever arrested, God save me from a jury of my peers.

In any criminal trial, the defendant is innocent until proven guilty. The burden of proof is on the prosecutorial team. The defendant need not prove innocence. The prosecutor must prove guilt. The judge reminded the jury pool of this as the selection process began.

And yet.

Through their answers, numerous of my peers revealed they clearly presupposed the defendant’s guilt and considered their own presence a technicality.

That guy’s ass was in a fucking sling.

One potential juror said his religion forbade him from judging his peers, and then turned right around and said something to the effect that owning up to your crimes and accepting the consequences was best. Another got up not once but twice to say that repeat offenders shouldn’t be released. We knew almost nothing about this case, particularly not whether the defendant had prior convictions of any kind! The defense attorney followed up, repeating the “innocent until proven guilty” mantra, but it was obvious it didn’t sink in. (Hell, at one point, the prosecutor followed up with this reminder to no avail.)  Neither of these two individuals was ultimately chosen, but they were only the most blatant.

It was the kind of trial that all but invited the presupposition of guilt anyway. Obviously, I can’t talk specifics. But fill in the blank with the topic of your choice. It was the kind of case that , when presented by a newspaper, makes the reader shake the head and say, “yup, happening all the time”. All we were told was the nature of the trial and its overarching theme, but that was enough to send potential jurors into conviction mode.

We knew almost nothing. But it seemed so easy for some to forget the presupposition of innocence.

Moreover, though the case had nothing whatsoever to do with race, there were inescapable racial overtones. The prosecutorial team was a bunch of white guys. The defendant had only a lawyer. And they both were black. Five powerful looking white men on the left. Two black guys on the right, only the lawyer fully dressed out. No, that’s not going to influence a jury. Not at all.  The jury pool itself was more racially mixed, but that front-of-the-room divide was disheartening.

The judge trying the case was not the same one involved in the jury selection ,who was white. I don’t know the trying judge’s race. Plus, I’m sure the prosecutors will call black witnesses and the defense will call white ones (though the prosecutors had a mile long list of potentials while the defense gave few names). So there may be a better visual balance during the actual trial. I hope so. But during the selection, I can’t help but feel like the jury was affected by the appearance of the black defendant and black lawyer against an all-white prosecutorial team.

Maybe juror responses would have sounded the same if everybody at the front of the room had shared a race. Maybe my skepticism is my bias.  Whatever the reason, many in the pool revealed through their answers their ignorance of a basic legal principle.

I felt guilty when I left. I was grateful not to be selected. The trial is scheduled to run long, and it would have caused us pick-up-drop-off hell with the kids. But I also felt like I was one of the few people in the room who understood the very concept of impartiality. I hope there were fourteen others. And that those were the people selected.

Because I repeat, guilty, innocent, whatever, that defendant’s ass is in a fucking sling.

The State of Alabama is Actually a Really Small Town

After shot. Sorry. I only have on a bra in the before shot. Ill text it to interested parties with no embarrassment whatsoever, but I do not believe it needs blogging.

After shot. Sorry. I only have on a bra in the before shot. Ill text it to interested parties with no embarrassment whatsoever, but I do not believe it needs blogging.

On Jury Duty: Point Three: The State of Alabama is Actually a Really Small Town

Alabama is the biggest small town on the planet.

I said before that a large part of the federal jury selection process involves repeating the answers already given on the million page questionnaire. For the most part, the judge could have given us copies of the forms we’d returned and said, “if you said yes and this would bias you, speak now or forever hold your peace.” But he didn’t, and we went through all of it verbally.

A shocking number of us responded to the “aside from traffic violations, have you or a family member ever been convicted of or arrested for a misdemeanor or felony?” question. Now, the judge clearly said we didn’t have to humiliate ourselves. We could approach the bench to respond. In my case, it wasn’t my own dirty laundry, so I didn’t mind saying “It would be faster to ask me what she wasn’t convicted of.” (I suspect this response is one of the reasons I wasn’t selected, by the way.)

But boy howdy, people were willing to proclaim, “I got busted for X when I was twenty,” or  “Yeah, they got me for Y when I was a teen,” in front of a whole room full of people who, as it turned out, were not strangers.

Because not all the questions had already been asked. The ones about interrelationships got mindboggling results. They all boiled down to, “Do you know or are you related to anybody in the judge’s office, the prosecutor’s office, on the defense team, on the rest of the jury panel, or who might take the witness stand?” The judge said in advance there would be a ton of yes answers. He was right.

I’d be willing to bet forty out of fifty people knew somebody. It was all acquaintance stuff. “Lawyer X’s son goes to the same doctor as mine.” “Same gym.” And, my personal favorite, “We live in the same small town, county, whatever.”  Twenty three counties or so in the district, but it was like a game of six degrees of separation. If we’d gone on much longer, we’d have reached Kevin Bacon.

I’m face blind, so it takes me a very long time to associate an image with a name. Often, I randomly (and accidentally) assign people a name in my head (which I promptly forget), and that only confuses matters when I try to remember the right names.

If I stare at a stranger long enough – say a whole morning – I will gradually become convinced that I know that person from somewhere, though I won’t recognize that person  forty minutes after looking away. I have learned to ignore my instincts in this area. They suck.

By the time this question came up, I’d been staring at the rest of the room for hours. I was sure I knew ten of my fellow potential jurors. From somewhere.

I stayed seated when asked, but ultimately realized I do know of one guy (and that if I could associate names, faces, and jobs, I would have been aware of this simply from hearing his name) and that I have absolutely, without question, met one woman at a party. Somewhere. I think maybe Halloween. Possibly. We might both have been involved in planning the party. But I’m not sure. She didn’t identify me, either, so I was at least not alone in uncertainty.

And I wasn’t asking, “Um, can each and every one of you tell me if you know me?”

Because it’s one thing to snark about others, and quite another to admit that you can be an idiot yourself.

Monday, I’ll pound the final nail in this coffin and talk about the law.

The Whole System is Screwball

After shot. Sorry. I only have on a bra in the before shot. Ill text it to interested parties with no embarrassment whatsoever, but I do not believe it needs blogging.

After shot. Sorry. I only have on a bra in the before shot. Ill text it to interested parties with no embarrassment whatsoever, but I do not believe it needs blogging.

On Jury Duty: Point Two: The Whole System is Screwball

The system itself is often dumber than the people wrangled in. For all its specifics on a number of important points, the jury duty summons letter skips a basic bit of information. It doesn’t say, “You will, without question, be here until lunch the first day. If you are selected, you will be present through lunch for the length of the trial. You may bring lunch into the building.”  In fact, it says nothing about eating whatsoever. Nobody on my panel was under any illusion of getting sequestered and fed by the courts (though all of us seemed to know that part.)  But we all thought food from home was forbidden.

It turned out there was a cafeteria. They offered us free sodas and sold cheap nosh, but we were also totally allowed to bring our own. One guy was a diabetic and the administrator had to run around and find him some crackers because he didn’t know if he was allowed to bring his in and didn’t want to risk getting fined.

The summons’ list of don’t-brings is all about metal and electronics, but it isn’t complete.  So people showed up with stuff they thought would be legit. For instance, umbrellas. Um-fucking-brellas. It was threatening to pour when I got there. I was too lazy, prepared to endure a dunking, but another woman had her bumbershoot along and was required to leave it at a random table in front of the exit. Where it was still technically in the fucking building. She could totally have seized it and gone crazy.

The guy at the desk couldn’t take a minute to make sure it didn’t conceal a samurai sword-gun in a hidden central compartment and pass it through? He was already x-raying our shit for God’s sake.

Something that was clearly forbidden gets my “come on” award. No cell phones. The given reason is security. Cell phones can be used to detonate bombs and leak secrets. And a courthouse has to protect against that terrorism shit (a flippant way to put it on 9/11, I suppose)  and protect people’s right to privacy.  But that’s not really why they’re banned, I’m certain.

The real reason is judges would get sick of fining people for contempt after an hour. See point one about stupid-as-shit people if you think most potential jurors would turn off the toys. Half of of all people forget they’re on in the theater, and that’s those folks who aren’t bored and rudely playing games to pass the time.  Imagine the jury pool tainted by the guy on the end who couldn’t remember the trial because he was too busy with peashooters and imp zombies.

But wholly banning them is absurd in the twenty first century. There should be a drop off and safe monitor point where they can be left and where emergency calls can be answered.

Think about it. I suspect many single parents request deferrals on the basis of being sole caregivers. But several were on my panel. They did not request deferrals, not out of stupidity, but because they were willing to serve. But they had to make major sacrifices to do it.

They were out of pocket, worried about their kids. Caregivers, daycares, and schools had no way of contacting them. Not. Acceptable. You want a representative jury pool? You make it possible to serve. You won’t allow phones? You provide an emergency number jurors can give loved ones. Who knows. Maybe there was a number and nobody bothered to communicate it. I find this doubtful.

The summons claims the system wishes to inconvenience the prospective juror as little as possible, but the reality is that only noisy problems are addressed. The system doesn’t want to be hassled with the jurors. And everyone from juror through defendant is completely screwed in the façade.

The king is dead. God save the king.

God bless America.

And give me back my damned phone.

Check in tomorrow to find out how small my state really is

Some People Are Stupid As Shit

On Jury Duty: Point one: Some people are stupid as shit

After shot. Sorry. I only have on a bra in the before shot. Ill text it to interested parties with no embarrassment whatsoever, but I do not believe it needs blogging.

After shot. Sorry. I only have on a bra in the before shot. Ill text it to interested parties with no embarrassment whatsoever, but I do not believe it needs blogging.

In thirty seven years, I’ve never been summoned for jury duty. My number was due to come up, and it did, in the federal system. I knew dates when I scheduled my breast reduction surgery, and the doctor’s office thought I’d be fine to go sit around in a courtroom five days after having my chest sliced to ribbons. (They were right – breast tissue hasn’t got many nerve endings, so I don’t have much pain.) I was not ultimately assigned to a panel, and I don’t have to go back, so it wound up being a short term gig for me.

I rarely snark here, but there are times, and this is one of them, that only a snide and cynical perspective will do. The next few days will include observations from my day of civic duty. None of them will be polite. Let us begin.

Some people are stupid as shit, and I would not want them judging me. (You’ll find this thread woven into the fabric of this series.) Summoned jurors get instructions about how to report, when to report, where to report, what to wear, where to park, and the things forbidden in a courthouse. Also, they complete and return a million page questionnaire.

The Hunger Games wasn’t more clear about the selection process. Prospective jurors will know if they need to even show up as long as they call a certain robo-phone at a certain time.

And yet.

No fewer than three people (of a fifty member panel) arrived unnecessarily. Listen, I called that number. It had an ID for me. It updated me every time. If these people had read the giant 30 point font explanation and followed its simple guidelines, they would have saved themselves a wasted day.

Deferrals aren’t a big deal, yet people fail to request them in advance. For Christ’s sake, my initial date was supposed to be during the time when I’d be in Chicago. I requested a postponement, and it was granted. Permanent postponement was also possible for some. Nobody over seventy even had to write a letter. Service was wholly optional. Tick a box. Boom. Done.

And yet people showed up who would clearly have been released beforehand. If they did this knowing they could, by appearing and making their excuses in person, actually fulfill their duty for three years, I’d understand. But I don’t think so. They were so dumb they hadn’t done the homework.

Here’s an example. One guy over seventy with a horrible back, a weak bladder, and possible dementia (I kid you not) came in. At least three of those qualifications would have been a permanent deferral. He could have completed the process in the mail. But he didn’t bother to read. Nor did his probable caretaker.

Another? Get this.

The jury selection process is basically a period of time during which people answer a shit-ton of questions that they have already responded to on the million page questionnaire. Some of these questions meant people were excused automatically.  If you have, say, been convicted of or are charged with a felony and not had your civil rights restored, you are not eligible for jury duty, and the questionnaire clearly says so and instructs you how to communicate this in advance and save yourself a fucking hassle. One guy on our panel got to leave three minutes into the questioning because he had not, in spite of completing the form, paid attention to this detail.

Going forward, keep this in mind. Some of my fellow humans are not jury material. I would plea bargain my ass off and beg for a judge-only trial before I faced a group of my peers.

Stay tuned tomorrow to find out why I’m skeptical of the process itself.

I hate big boobs (and I cannot lie)

My boobs and I have come to an agreement over the years. They will hang down to my belly button. I will bitch, moan, and threaten to hack them off. It’s a good arrangement for them.

They get to hulk around on my chest, making running and any other bouncy activities impossible. At one point, I tried strapping myself in with an ace bandage. It worked loose. I spent the rest of that jog in the traditional cross-armed clutch known by large breasted women the world over as the “Jesus, these fucking things cancel breathing every time they jounce” run.

They get to humiliate me in public. They tend to pop out in the swimming pool and ocean in all but the least comfortable bathing suits.  I twice duct taped myself into strapless bras to be in friends’ weddings. I did it a third time for my own.

And most of all, they get to hurt me. I have a K cup people. The eleventh letter of the alphabet. And that don’t mean no Keurig size, neither. The indentations on my shoulders are probably permanent. Every time I lose weight, I go up a cup. I thought that was supposed to work the opposite way.

There’s never any question that reduction surgery would be covered by insurance. But the one time I was at the point of scheduling it (back when I was a mere G), I met this guy, realized we’d probably have babies together, knew I’d want to nurse, and, whoops, that was fifteen years and two kids ago now.

I’ve wanted to make the change for some time, but have held back. I don’t want a shitty boob job, though frankly that would be better than the back pain. And I don’t want this to be some vanity thing. I’m not a fan of plastic surgery for its own sake.

And there’s that other Thing. The Big Thing.  Whatever else my boobs may be, they are healthy.

So many women’s breasts are not healthy. One friend of ours has survived cancer not once, but twice. Double mastectomy. Another is fighting it now. (And kicking its ass.) She’s also undergoing a double mastectomy soon, once her term of chemo finishes. And a third friend thought she’d won only to have the fucking cancer come back and metastasize. She fought hard, but she died, leaving her husband and three small sons behind. So my complaints about a sore back and painful exercise seem petty. And it’s hard to cope with a problem when it feels petty.

But a surprising number of friends here in town have had reduction surgery, and all of them swear it’s the best thing they’ve done for themselves. (I say that about my hysterectomy.) So last month I finally nerved up and spoke to a highly recommended doctor.

Long story short, the surgery is tomorrow.

Bye, bye, big boobies. Bye, bye, back pain. Twelve hours from now, I’ll be on my way to something like a C cup. Wish me luck folks and watch for my pain-killer induced, inappropriate Facebook humor.

See you on the other, smaller, side.

 

Like Vegas Only Blander

TrainSam

12 ways a visit to the specialist is like a trip to Vegas

Thanks to bowel issues, we’ve had Sam on the lowest amount of medication he’s taken since early in 2013, and he’s managing himself infinitely better now than he did then. So emotionally, things are okay with him. But we’ve got to get his ass under control.

Back in April, he abruptly lost the ability to feel it when he shat. Completely. Panicked that his meds had caused the problem, I pulled back to only those he had been taking since before it started. That fixed nothing. Now, the pediatrician swears he has a bowel obstruction. There’s a specialist who thinks maybe she’s right.

The cure is ghastly.

And I’m not convinced it’s the correct one, because I’m dubious of the diagnosis. While we were waiting around for three hours at the pediatric GI’s office today, Scott made some other awful observations

1)      No clocks. Anywhere.

Seriously. We arrived at 8:45 for a 9:20 appointment. Without our cell phones, we’d have been lost in timeless Disney Channel limbo until they called us back at 10:40.

2)      You have no idea what will happen next

Sam was afraid they’d draw blood or cram a finger up his ass. He’s experienced both. We waited an hour for the doctor to press on his stomach and agree that she couldn’t feel anything backed up.

3)      Nothing changes, morning, noon, or night

The doctor couldn’t access the radiologist’s formal report to decide what she really thought was going on. We proceeded as if guessing was the best course.

4)      You can’t see outside.

Windows? We don’t need no stinking windows.

5)      Nobody is from here

Judging from her accent, I’d say the doctor is from Africa or possibly New Jersey. Hard to say which. Half the patients are from Prattville, and the others are from places with names like Hope Hull.

6)      Nothing ever comes to a conclusion

The doctor massaged Sam’s stomach and decided it wasn’t distended. I could have told her that, and  other than that, we could have conducted the entire appointment without him. Three hours out of school, and all we really got was a parent consultation, instructions I doubt will help, and a future appointment for when they fail.

7)      Nothing costs what you expect

What’s your specialist copay? Figuring it out is like learning a fucking rewards program. It depends on your insurer and the position of the moon in relationship to Mars.

8)      Everybody’s hands get dirty

Why is there hand sanitizer in the doctor’s office but not the waiting area? Why, why, why? It’s a little late by the time the nurse calls your name.

9)      You’re not sure everybody’s here for the main purpose

This office was in a hospital tower that had everything from a bank, to an open-to-the-public restaurant, to (I kid you not) a barber shop.

10)  You’re never exactly sure what you win or whether it’s worth it.

We’re going to have to torture Sam with a concoction my father would call a “colon blow” before we can give him a pill that might make him able to feel his poop again. Might.

11)  It’s a numbers game

Four months so far invested. A billion dollars spent in pull-ups. At least two specialist trips. And it’s still a roll of the dice to see if any of it works.

12)  If you wait long enough something good will happen. To somebody.

But it won’t necessarily be you.

Enter to win prizes if you’re at Killer Nashville this weekend

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