#mother told me how they prescribed her sister something to lose weight

[catsatopmydesk]

They could just give you meth back in the eighties huh

[masonsfm]

better late than never , am i right folks ! 

。· . ˙ ☀ ⌈ madelyn cline + cis female + she / her + the maverick ⌋ yo , have you meet that POGUE , mason sterling , yet ? — no ? well , to give you a little heads up before you do , they’re a TWENTY-TWO year old , FREELANCE PHOTOGRAPHER / BARTENDER , and have been living in coston for TWENTY-TWO YEARS . since i’ve known them , they’ve reminded me of GRAINY PHOTOGRAPHS DEVELOPED ON FILM, LIGHTENING BUGS MAKING THEIR FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE SUMMER, NOTES SCRIBBLED IN THE MARGINS, WHITE COTTON SHEETS ON A CLOTHESLINE, AND A MIDDAY NAP UNDER THE SUMMER SUN . usually they’re quite INTUITIVE & EMPATHETIC but just make sure you keep an eye out for them around town because i heard can be quite RESERVED & UNFORGIVING as well so here’s hoping they aren’t the ones to undo this whole peace pact they have going on this summer . but just between you & me , i kinda hope it all falls apart . the rivalry keeps this whole boring town interesting 

hi kids! i’m b and this is my sweet mason who is a lil too curious . . . a lil too stubborn . . . and prob shouldn’t be climbing trees anymore . i’ll tell you why in a minute .

BACKGROUND.

near the muddy waters of the cut, surrounded by tangled woodland, there was a two-bedroom house with a leaky roof and an old dog named arlo constantly snoozing on the front step. the sterling residence was nothing to look twice at, but it was home for the first eleven years of mason’s life. she lived there with her dad, matthew, and her mother, charlotte, and things were never quite easy.

mason was a save the marriage baby, a last ditch effort to rekindle love that was slowly fading to nothing... and it worked, for a little while. but as she got older and the novelty of a shiny new baby wore off, things between her parents got rocky again. they were constantly fighting over, well, everything, but money was the root of a lot of it. her dad worked two jobs and still didn’t make much, especially when her mom had a habit of blowing it on things that were far from necessary.

everyone in the cut knew it, too, the way the sterlings were falling apart.. mason knew it was bad when her friends parents’ started bringing it up to her, just checking in to see if she was okay. and she was, for the most part, until the other shoe drop and her mom moved out, revealing she’d been having a long term affair with someone on the other side of the island.

charlotte (mason’s mom) moved out and went full kook in no time. she remarried in a lavish summer ceremony, taking on two picture-perfect step children who were just a little older than mason, and beginning her picture-perfect life in an old plantation house turned mansion. back in the cut, matthew (mason’s dad) still struggled with two jobs and was rarely home, but if you asked, mase would’ve told you she was perfectly happy with that.

a judge presiding over the custody battle for mason, however, was not, and due to her father’s work schedule and lack of supervision in the cut, her mother was granted nearly whole custody of their daughter and at twelve, she moved to the figure 8 and, for five days out of the week, wasn’t allowed back on the rougher side of the tracks.

they called her macy and insisted she always wear shoes when leaving the house. she had a new room, a new wardrobe, and come fall, a new school. her mom signed her up for piano lessons and shoved her back into ballet classes, to keep her occupied, and without any subtlety at all began molding mason into the kind of kook princess that her older step sister was. one day she’d have a coming out party. she’d wear a white dress and take a knee on the stage as a debutant. high school would come and she’d be a cheerleader, a prom queen. her mother had what’s best for her planned out to the very last detail.

her only saving grace was weekends with her dad. she got to head back to the cut for two or three days most weekends, and there she could be whatever she wanted with her father’s full support. unfortunately, though, a lot of her friends noticed the prim and proper new clothes and the perfectly manicured nails. those who didn’t know better saw mason going full kook as well.

with the friends she grew up with slipping away, and the first year of a new middle school being an absolute nightmare, mason decided to give in... mostly because her father, whose heart is too big for his body, asked her to. she was macy, kook princess in training, taking after her older step sister and quietly doing as her mother said. she kept to herself, for the most part, ran through the motions with only so much as an occasional eye roll, but as time passed, it became more difficult.

she missed the cut. she missed friends that liked her for her. she missed having weightless shoulders. it seemed that everyday she was trying to live up to expectations her mother had that she could never meet, that she would never meet because they just weren’t her. so if she couldn’t be prim and proper, she could at least be pretty, right?

tw eating disorder, anorexia

early on, around the age of 14, she started to become hyper-critical of how she looked . . . and how it wasn’t reflective of this older stepsister her mom was in awe of. over time she developed anorexia nervosa, which took form in habits of rarely eating, at first but then progressed into compulsively exercising. it took a toll on her physically and mentally, and eventually she was just kind of the shell of who she used to be.

her father was the first to notice, and thus began a fight that would last two years between her parents. custody was called into question again, all while mason was in therapy and on a prescribed diet to get back to normal weight.

by 15, her father had accepted a newer higher paying job as a director the wildlife center, and he’d stepped back into the dating game. mason spent every other week with him, and her mental health seemed to only increase when she was back home in the cut.

by 16, a final decision was made, granting matthew full custody of mason after a judge took her health and wants into consideration. this was the same time that they moved in with the bauers , and none other than miss finley bauer became, after a little bit of a rocky start, the sister she’d always wanted.

things were good for a long while, and they’ve stayed that way for the most part. heading back to school with the pogues had its hitches, and there are still people who think she might’ve gotten a little too close with the kook side of things, but for the most part, mason moving back was a homecoming. she saw her mother every other weekend and on some holidays, and though she wasn’t made to be a deb, she still had to participate in a few things like midsummers and what not. this time with a little more of a mason spin on it, quietly causing a little trouble where she could. 

she did exceptionally well in school, and by the time she graduated high school, she’d saved up enough and snagged enough s

cholarship money to attend columbia university in new york where she studied journalism. she loved the schoolwork but sorted hated the culture of the city and struggled to find her place. sophomore year she had an ED relapse, but got through it with the insistence of her family.

she recently graduated from columbia with honors, and now she’s back in pogue territory with no idea what the fuck comes next. she doesn’t know where she wants to live, or even if she’s ready for the real world. with grad school and a big girl job on her mind, she’s preoccupied and lost in her thoughts a lot of the time, but she’s happy to be home and happy to be taking a year off to figure it out in coston.

PERSONALITY. 

mason’s got a quiet sort’a nature about her. she’s never the center of attention or the star of the show, and she doesn’t really care to be. part of that quiet nature comes from the unacknowledged lack of self confidence that still lingers under the surface, but most of it just stems from the fact that she was an only child or a misfit child for a long time, so she’s used to keeping to herself. quiet gives her the ability to observe.

that said,.. she’s a bit of a nancy drew type. definitely intuitive, definitely curious, definitely a little too nosy for her own good. it’s what makes her so good on the journalism front, her need for answers and her ability to act on a hunch. if mason’s gut is telling her something, it’s generally right.

she’s an introvert for sure but that doesn’t mean she’s... not friendly. she might not be the first to strike up a conversation, but she’ll hold it for sure. with a bit of a dry sense of humor and a straight faced delivery, she might even shock you. overall, she’s very sweet. very easy to be around.

being observant and intuitive really leans into her being empathetic in that she’s . . . good at people. again, you might not know it since she does a good job of keeping to herself, but she’s very easy to be comfortable around, very easy to spill your secrets to, very easy to trust. which is fair!! because she’s quite trustworthy

though she doesn’t give out her own trust so easily and that absolutely stems from her mommy issues

she’s quite .. .. unforgiving with that sort of thing, too. once you lose it, it’s gone. once you break it, it’s broken. 

super laid back which occasionally looks like apathy . . . but. that’s far from the truth

she’s passionate about a lot , but she’s not going to waste her breath arguing with someone who isn’t willing to learn or compromise.

fearless in a very quiet way like . . . the way i explain it is this: if a whole group was arguing ab who was going into a haunted house first, she wouldn't participate in the argument. she'd just kinda .. . blink . .. and then turn her flashlight on and walk in first

always up for adventure. that little shrug and ‘why not’ sort’a vibe when you ask her to do something is actually a hard yes from miss mason

level-headed as fuck, will keep you sound of mind in a fight

loves being outdoors, especially by the water

rides a longboard everywhere despite having a car

has broken her left wrist twice due to falling out of trees. still has not learned her lesson and will continue to climb trees bc it’s a nice place to sit and read ig chill out tarzan

super mellow. if she were music, she’d probably be a bob marley song

will answer your question with a question bc one: she doesn’t like talking about herself and two: she’s genuinely curious

honestly very smart . . . like clever as the devil and twice as pretty but book smart too . . .. good for her bc her mun could neVer

will not take help if her life depends on it i s2g this idiot could be sinking in quicksand and she’d be like ‘it’s fine i can gET OUT ON MY OWN’

freelance photographer, mostly for the coston paper

bartends at a local dive on fridays/saturdays, otherwise catch her in an ugly tennis skirt lookin uniform at the clubhouse serving old men shitty bloody marys and wishing she could commit murder when they hit on her 

loves her people relentlessly but chooses them very very carefully

did not like living in new york one bit lemme tell ya

always carrying around a film camera. always. 

writes in the margins of all of her books... and even in the margins of her own notes for annotation purposes

brain always running at 139871 mph which is why she’s in her thoughts a lot like she rly is just trying to sort it out

CONNECTION IDEAS.

childhood friends . . . that stayed friends even as she crossed into kook territory . . . and that didn’t stay friends and have since drifted 

the one (1) kook that prob welcomed her and honestly is still pals with her because there’s a genuine friendship there not just a toleration

a skinny love that was at it’s prime during childhood like these two were gonna grow up and get married, had their first kiss on a dare while sitting in a literal tree, old old friends that idk mayb they’re still pining because that like never went away!! or maybe ‘you’ve changed’ and now it’s uhhh.. different

an ex on the kook side would be a fuckin adventure especially if it was after she moved back to the cut and was like i waNT nothing to do with ANY of them . .. , except that one i like that one

an ‘enemy’ aka someone she just never clicked with and they’ve been at each others throats since high school

u KNOW miss mason sterling is all about her girl gang shit so gimme that

the brother she never asked for! never really wanted! but, begrudgingly, needs

ANYWAY THAT’S MASON!!! overall. . . .. she's mellow. v calm, v levelheaded, v to herself. observant and a lil nosy. fearless to a fault on occasion, and stubborn in her independence. loves her people, but chooses them carefully. shouldn't be climbing trees. uHhHhhHhhH hit me up on discord or like this and i’ll come bother u for PLOTS so we can get this thing poppin’ ok that’s all

[thedancemostofall]

notes on eating

Ruby Tandoh on Sugar

The idea of a monolithic, wondrous, dreadful sugar would hardly have made sense to medieval cooks. Sweetness was not a category, but a seasoning

In many cultures, this sugar-salt symphony is still foundational. “The food I grew up eating every night — that is to say, Persian home cooking — is all about balancing the plate with sweet and sour, salty and rich, crisp and soft,” says Nosrat. “Fresh and dried fruits — pomegranates, sour cherries, dates, raisins — all regularly found their way onto our dinner plates. So I have always been drawn to a little sweetness in my food.”

How has sweetness — something we are evolutionarily programmed to like, for survival — come to stand in for sex and escapism and hedonism? Humans are metaphor machines, and our mouths are liminal places where food and words mingle, where hot dogs, tagliatelle, and Nigerian puff puff meet “my name is,” memory, and “I.” True synesthesia — the blurring between one sense and another — is relatively rare, but its logic pervades our language, so that trumpets might sound hot, or sadness taste sour. One study found that honeycomb toffee tastes less sweet when eaten whilst listening to a “bitter” soundtrack than when eaten whilst listening to a “sweet” soundtrack. And our senses don’t just crisscross randomly — “How come silence is sweet but sweetness isn’t silent?” one paper asked.

https://www.eater.com/2018/8/6/17631452/ruby-tandoh-sugar-history-kara-walker-will-cotton

Taffy Brodesser-Aknery on Losing it in the Anti-Dieting Age

About two years ago, I decided to yield to what every statistic I knew was telling me and stop trying to lose weight at all. I decided to stop dieting, but when I did, I realized I couldn’t. I didn’t know what or how to eat. I couldn’t fathom planning my food without thinking first about its ability to help or hinder a weight-loss effort. I went to a nutritional therapist to help figure this out (dieting, I have found, is its own chronic condition), and I paid her every week so I could tell her that there still had to be a way for me to lose weight. When she reminded me that I was there because I had realized on my own that there was no way to achieve this goal, I reminded this wonderful, patient person that she couldn’t possibly understand my desperation because she was skinny. I had arthritis in my knees, I said. Morality and society aside, they hurt. I have a sister with arthritis in her knees, too, but she’s skinny and her knees don’t hurt.

I went to an intuitive-eating class — intuitive eating is where you learn to feed yourself based only on internal signals and not external ones like mealtimes or diet plans. Meaning it’s just eating what you want when you’re hungry and stopping when you’re full. There were six of us in there, educated, desperate fat women, doing mindful-eating exercises and discussing their pitfalls and challenges. We were given food. We would smell the food, put the food on our lips, think about the food, taste the food, roll the food around in our mouths, swallow the food. Are you still hungry? Are you sure? The first week it was a raisin. It progressed to cheese and crackers, then to cake, then to Easter candy. We sat there silently, as if we were aliens who had just arrived on Earth and were learning what this thing called food was and why and how you would eat it. Each time we did the eating exercise, I would cry. ‘‘What is going on for you?’’ the leader would ask. But it was the same answer every time: I am 41, I would say. I am 41 and accomplished and a beloved wife and a good mother and a hard worker and a contributor to society and I am learning how to eat a goddamned raisin. How did this all go so wrong for me?

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/08/02/magazine/weight-watchers-oprah-losing-it-in-the-anti-dieting-age.amp.html

Oprah- how did i let this happen again?

"How Did I Let This Happen Again?"   Photo: Matthew RolstonFour years ago, when Oprah managed to get down to a trim and fit 160 pounds, she thought she'd hit on a foolproof formula for permanent weight loss. Then life—in the form of a thyroid problem and a killer schedule—intervened. Last year she was back up to the 200-pound mark and knew something had to change. After a desperately needed time-out to reflect and recharge, here's what she's learned, what she's doing differently, and what's next.You know how bad you feel when you have a special event, a reunion, a wedding, a bar mitzvah, and you wanted to lose that extra 10 to 40 pounds, and you didn't do it? So the day comes and now you've got to try to find something to wear that makes you feel halfway decent, and you have to figure out how to hold in your stomach all night and walk backward out of the room so no one sees that your butt keeps moving even when you stop. Multiply that feeling by a million—make that more than 2.4 million for every Oreader—and you'll know how I've felt over the past year every time I had to shoot a cover for O. If you're a regular subscriber, you'll notice you've not seen a head-to-toe shot all year. Why? Because I didn't want to be seen. " In 1992 I reached my heaviest, 237 pounds. I was 38. Then, four years ago, I made it a goal to lose weight, and I appeared on the January 2005 cover (left) at a toned 160 pounds. I thought I was finished with the weight battle. I was done. I'd conquered it. I was so sure, I was even cocky. I had the nerve to say to friends who were struggling, "All you have to do is work out harder and eat less! Get your 10,000 steps in! None of that starchy stuff!" Bam! Karma is a bear of a thing. So here I stand, 40 pounds heavier than I was in 2006. (Yes, you're adding correctly; that means the dreaded 2-0-0.) I'm mad at myself. I'm embarrassed. I can't believe that after all these years, all the things I know how to do, I'm still talking about my weight. I look at my thinner self and think, "How did I let this happen again?" It happened slowly. In February 2007, at 53, I started to have some health issues. At first I was unable to sleep for days. My legs started swelling. My weight started creeping up, first 5 pounds, then 10 pounds. I was lethargic and irritable. My internal clock seemed totally out of whack. I began having rushing heart palpitations every time I worked out. Okay, I've never loved daily exercise, but this was different. I actually developed a fear of working out. I was scared that I would pass out. Or worse. I felt as if I didn't know my own body anymore. After many trips to various doctors, I received a diagnosis. I had hyperthyroidism (an overactive thyroid that can speed up metabolism and cause weight loss—but of course didn't make me lose a single pound) and then gradually started moving into hypothyroidism (a sluggish metabolism that can cause fatigue and weight gain). My doctor prescribed medication and warned me that I must "learn to embrace hunger" or I would immediately gain weight. Believe me, no part of me was prepared to embrace hunger. It seemed as if the struggle I'd had with weight my entire adult life was now officially over. I felt completely defeated. I thought, "I give up. I give up. Fat wins." All these years I'd had only myself to blame for lack of willpower. Now I had an official, documented excuse. The thyroid diagnosis felt like some kind of prison sentence. I was so frustrated that I started eating whatever I wanted—and that's never good. My drug of choice is food. I use food for the same reasons an addict uses drugs: to comfort, to soothe, to ease stress. I switched doctors and still gained weight. At one point I was on three medications: one for heart palpitations, another for high blood pressure, another to moderate my thyroid. Who knew this tiny butterfly gland at the base of the throat had so much power? When it's off, your whole body feels the effects. [For more information about thyroid disorders, see The Truth About the Thyroid.] I followed my doctor's orders to the letter (except for the part about working out). I took the prescribed medication religiously at the same time each day. Being medicated, though necessary, made me feel as if I were viewing life through a veil. I felt like an invalid. Everything was duller. I felt like the volume on life got turned down. I realized this to some extent, but I wasn't fully aware of the effect of the medication until I had a conversation with my friend Bob Greene. He'd given up lecturing me about working out and eating well, but we were walking together one day and he said, "I think something's wrong. You're listless. Your movements are slower, even when you're just doing normal stuff. Twice I've told you something and you don't remember it. There's no sparkle in your eyes. I think you're in some sort of depression." Me—depressed? I hadn't thought I was, but definitely something was off. I felt like the life force was being sucked out of me. I always had an excuse for being tired. It took extra effort to do everything. I didn't want to go anywhere, and I didn't want to be seen any more than I had to. I could oversee a show and a magazine that tell people how to live their best lives, but I definitely wasn't setting an example. I was talking the talk, but I wasn't walking the walk. And that was very disappointing to me. Immediately after that conversation with Bob, I called my doctor. "All this medicine is making my life feel like a flat line," I said. So my doctor slowly weaned me off it, except for one aspirin a day. (By the way, never suddenly stop taking prescribed medication, especially heart and blood pressure medication, without checking with your physician.) That choice was the beginning of my road back to health—and back to myself. Regaining my footing hasn't been easy. What is true for every one of you is also true for me: Life's responsibilities don't lessen just because you aren't feeling your best. In my case, the show literally must go on. Many days I didn't feel like going to work, but sick days aren't an option when more than 300 audience members have bought plane tickets and arranged babysitters so they could come to a taping. I think I hit bottom when I wanted to stay home even from a show as fun as the one we did with Tina Turner and Cher in Las Vegas. I was supposed to stand between them onstage, and I felt like a fat cow. I wanted to disappear. "God help me now," I thought. "How can I hide myself?" Later, as I was interviewing both of them about their ages (at the time, Tina was 68 and loved being older; Cher was 61 and didn't), I asked myself, "Who's the real older woman here? I am." They both had more energy than I did. They didn't just sparkle; they glittered. At the close of our 2007–2008 season and the beginning of my summer hiatus, I still had other commitments. I make at least four trips each year to check on my girls in South Africa. No matter what continent they're on, a group of 150 schoolgirls is a lot to manage. By the time I left South Africa, I knew I needed some time to do absolutely nothing. In July I was able to take a break. I went to sleep and woke up whenever I pleased. I sipped soy milk, downed vitamins, snacked on flaxseed, and allowed my body to restore itself. Some days I exercised by walking with my dogs in the hills of Maui; gradually I started working out on the treadmill, at first with a heart monitor to make sure there were no palpitations (it was a black box smaller than a BlackBerry, which I wore on my belt). By the end of the summer, I felt I could do a full hour of cardio without dropping dead. Next I tackled the food addiction, which is ongoing. As far as my daily food choices go, I'm not on any particular program. I've gone back to the commonsense basics we all know: eating less sugar and fewer refined carbs and more fresh, whole foods like fish, spinach, and fruit. But in order not to abuse food, I have to stay fully conscious and aware of every bite, of taking time and chewing slowly. I have to focus on being fully alive, awake, present, and engaged, connected in every area of my life. Right now. What I've learned this year is that my weight issue isn't about eating less or working out harder, or even about a malfunctioning thyroid. It's about my life being out of balance, with too much work and not enough play, not enough time to calm down. I let the well run dry. Here's another thing this past year has been trying to teach me: I don't have a weight problem—I have a self-care problem that manifests through weight. As my friend Marianne Williamson shared with me, "Your overweight self doesn't stand before you craving food. She's craving love." Falling off the wagon isn't a weight issue; it's a love issue. When I stop and ask myself, "What am I really hungry for?" the answer is always "I'm hungry for balance, I'm hungry to do something other than work." If you look at your overscheduled routine and realize, like I did, that you're just going and going and that your work and obligations have become a substitute for life, then you have no one else to blame. Only you can take the reins back. That's what I'm doing. These days I've put myself back on my own priority list; I try to do at least one hour of exercise five or six days a week. As I work out, eat healthfully, and reorder my life so there's time to replenish my energy, I continue to do the spiritual and emotional work to conquer this battle once and for all. My goal isn't to be thin. My goal is for my body to be the weight it can hold—to be strong and healthy and fit, to be itself. My goal is to learn to embrace this body and to be grateful every day for what it has given me. In 2009, dare I, dare all of us give ourselves all the love and care we need to be healthy, to be well, and to be whole? I know for sure that for each moment of this brand new year, I'm gonna try.

https://www.oprah.com/spirit/oprahs-battle-with-weight-gain-o-january-2009-cover/all

The unhealthy truth behind “wellness” and “clean eating”

I spoke about this purity fetish to Nigella Lawson, whose guilt-free approach to eating helped to reconfigure my attitude to food when I was at my most vulnerable. "I despair of the term 'clean eating,'" she said, "though I actually like the food that comes under that banner. ['Clean eating'] necessarily implies that any other form of eating—and consequently the eater of it—is dirty or impure and thus bad, and it's not simply a way of shaming and persecuting others, but leads to that self-shaming and self-persecution that is forcibly detrimental to true healthy eating."

Our diets become a moral issue when this is the food culture we foster, and gluten is just the start of it. "I wish people would recognize [this] before saying, 'Hey, try this cool elimination diet—you've got nothing to lose,'" lamented Alan Levinovitz when I asked him about this modern cult of elimination dieting. "Nothing to lose? No, there's a lot to lose."

https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/jm5nvp/ruby-tandoh-eat-clean-wellness

Why we fell for clean eating

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/aug/11/why-we-fell-for-clean-eating

[trey-ff]

ONE.

SONYA

“Thank you.” I replied to the manager before hanging up the phone. I had just ordered something to eat from one of my favorite take-out restaurants, Sorrento. Though I was nine-months into my pregnancy, the cravings that I had developed months prior never seemed to cease, no matter how hard I tried to integrate healthier options into my diet for me and my unborn son’s sake. Losing this baby-weight would be a son-of-a-bitch.

Padding towards the front-door with a hand caressing my baby-bump, I peered out of the window at nothing in particular. The sun had set and considering I lived twenty minutes from Las Vegas, things were seemingly quiet in my neighborhood for a Saturday night. Then again, there was never that much commotion anyway.

Contrary to what most people perceived Nevada to be, solely based on the outlook that Vegas gave it, it was actually not at all like that. I mean, there were casinos and 24-hour attractions scattered everywhere, but everyday was not some big, never-ending party. At least, not to the people living there.

Just like every other place, we had careers, though, they mostly revolved around the hospitality scene provided in bars, casinos, and restaurants. While there were people who worked for these establishments, there were also people who owned them, as entrepreneurship was another big thing in Vegas. A smart individual knew that in order to be set for life in Vegas, you had to reap the benefits of the tourists, attractions, and nightlife. Essentially, everyone’s income was generated by the tourism because you would never catch a local down on the Strip, unless we were working or entertaining our out-of-town pals.

We had homes, too. Most locals that I knew worked in California, but lived in Vegas, or vice versa. I, on the other hand, both lived and worked in Vegas. Well, as of late, I had been out of a job due to my abrupt pregnancy, but before then, I worked three jobs, all circling hospitality and leisure. I worked as a bartender at a restaurant, a blackjack dealer at a casino, and a server at a nightclub. Yup, I rotated through all of these shifts, seven nights out of the week.

If someone had told me five years ago that I would be doing that shit, I would have laughed in their face. There was no way that a sheltered girl from San Diego who had dreams of becoming an interior designer and had even went to college for it, would throw away her aspirations to be consumed by Sin City.

But, shit happens.

I had first moved to Vegas from California when I was twenty-two years old; that was four years ago. The scene was way out of my comfort-zone, but that was the experience that I was aiming for. I needed an escape from what I was going through at the time and more than anything, I wanted independence. I felt that I had something to prove to my mother and older sister, who had coddled me all my life. I was an adult and could make adult decisions; I didn’t need them.

As one could imagine, being in Vegas by my lonesome at such a young, inexperienced age left me vulnerable to many things. There were times where I had gotten drunk out of my mind, partied until the crack of dawn, even tried drugs; all things that anyone who truly knew me, wouldn’t know me to do. In two years time, Vegas had swallowed me whole and I was spiraling out of control, mostly due in part to the fact that I was hanging with the wrong crowd of people. People who didn’t really want the best for me, people who my father had once warned me about. That was until, Ebony, my sister, turned her concerned visits into a permanent stay.

Growing up, all we ever had was each other so, while our friends and family thought it was insane of her to uproot from her lifestyle just to follow me to Vegas, I was the least bit surprised. She was loyalty personified; she would give up life and limb for me. She was always quite protective of me and when it had been declared that I had been too digested by my newfound life, she felt obligated to be with me and to be honest, I loved having her so close. It provided me with a sense of security and familiarity.

Just as I began slipping into a senseless daydream, my phone was blaring with a phone-call from none other than Ebony. While returning to the living-room, I answered the call.

“Hey, Ebs.” I grinned while carefully sitting down on the cushiony sofa. Grabbing the remote-control, I changed the channel to HGTV, my absolute favorite network. Anything that revolved home design and renovation fascinated me to no ends.

“Hey, what’re you doing?” she asked.

“Watching TV.”

“How are you feeling? You told Mom you were in pain?”

“Just a little,” I admitted, “I don’t know… I’ve been feeling a bit uncomfortable, like, I’m getting cramps or something. I took some Tylenol, but it didn’t really do anything so, I just figured I needed to eat.”

“That’s usually how it feels when you’re beginning labor, Sonya.” she said warningly as I only kissed my teeth. The pain wasn’t as bad as women claimed labor to be; it felt like menstrual cramps, if anything. So, that’s why I took it with a grain of salt.

“I doubt it’s that, I’m not in that much pain. It’s been going on since noon so, if it was labor related, wouldn’t I be in more pain? I told Dr. Eadon and she said that since it’s not too bad, it’s probably just my uterus contracting, which is normal. She said to lower the aggravation, take some Tylenol and if it intensifies, have one of you take me to the hospital.”

“Okay,” she said unconvincingly, “but, you’re good?”

“I’m alright.”

“On a scale of 1-10?”

“A solid seven. I’m not perfectly good, but I’m alright. Now that you got me thinking about it, the pain is starting to bother me.” I admitted. My tolerance of pain was relatively low; I could take a gang of pain, both physically and emotionally, before I finally snapped.

“Okay, let’s change the subject, then. Did you go out today?” she pondered, which made me kiss my teeth because she already knew the answer.

“Now, you know I don’t go anywhere.” I replied. I had grown used to solitude over the last growing months, only ever really contacting anyone over the phone and occasionally going out when pressured enough, mainly by my sister and best-friends. And lately, I had been turning down any and every attempt to hang out. Given the circumstances of my predicament, I preferred to be alone. That’s how it was going to be anyway, I had better gotten used to it.

“Well, I thought maybe you’d have a change of heart with the baby on the way and all. The gang told me that they were trying to throw a baby-shower for you, but you said no.” she said, referring to my best-friends, Ashley, Sasha, Deidra, and Noah.

“Yeah, I didn’t really want one. I wasn’t in the mood for being around people and stuff, you know?”

“I know.” she responded, sounding as if she wanted to add more to the conversation. To avoid her incessant nagging about my newfound introverted personality, I changed the direction of the conversation.

“So, what’re you guys doing?” I asked.

“Pretty much the same thing as you. Mom’s making dinner--it’s spaghetti, you’re not missing out. And, I’m watching TV with the kids.” she said, referring to her five-year old twins, Dedrick and Brooke.

Because I was due any day soon, my mother had taken a leave of absence from her job as a dentist and drove to Vegas to be with us. While I had more than enough space at my home to let her stay with me, I deemed it best that she stay with Ebony and her family, despite her feeling otherwise. It was just that my mother could get overbearing sometimes and I didn’t need that kind of energy suffocating me at such a crucial stage in my pregnancy. That, and I valued my personal space.

“That’s cool. Where’s Aaron?” I pondered, speaking of her husband.

“He’s still at work. Ever since he decided to start doing overtime, he doesn’t get in until about three in the morning.” she explained. Aaron worked in the pharmaceutical trade; he made the pills and liquid solutions that physicians prescribed to their patients.

“That must be stressful on you both, huh?”

“Yeah, it sucks that he’s never home and whenever he is, he’s always sleeping. Then, on top of that, I work, too. It’s just… hectic, but I’m hoping we’ll pull through. It’s an adjustment for everybody.” she explained as I nodded understandably. As long as he was providing for his family and coming home to her, that was all that truly mattered.

“See, and that positive outlook is the exact reason why it will work out for you guys.” I encouraged, hearing her small giggle.

“Thanks, sis. So,” she dragged, indicating that she was about to switch topics, “what’s been going on with you and your life?”

“Nothing really. Just anticipating the big day for when my angel gets here.” I smiled, caressing my protruding baby-bump as I did a million times a day. This would be my first child and though the beginning steps into motherhood hadn’t been the best, I was still excited to be a mother.

“Does this angel have a name yet?”

“Nope. I can’t think of one.” I replied as if it were no big deal, though, I knew she felt the exact opposite. Every time we spoke about it, she declared the importance of having a name prepared before his arrival.

“So, you’re telling me that you still haven’t figured out a name? He’ll be here any day now, Sonya.” she warned as I simply shrugged my shoulders.

“Mom said the name will come when the time’s right. The time just hasn’t been right, I guess.” I replied, gliding my finger across the pad of my purple HP laptop.

“Just don’t choose anything crazy, trying to be unique and all. This girl at my job named her daughter Neon. Neon, for God’s sake.” she complained, earning my laughter.

“People have sentiment behind every name, Ebony. Even though you don’t like it, I’m sure it meant something to her and the baby’s father.” I reasoned, but she wasn’t hearing it.

“There ain’t nothing you can say to defend a crazy-ass name like that. Neon,” she mocked, “I say you name him after Daddy. Keep the legacy alive. I would do that if me and Aaron had another.”

“No, I don’t really like the idea of naming someone after someone else. They always feel that they have to live up to those same expectations. Daddy was an Air Force pilot. He flew all these important missions and broke bread with the best of them. Too much pressure,” I explained, “plus, I would look at him or call his name and start thinking about Daddy every time. It would probably make me cry and think about the what-ifs, you know? And, how would I explain that to my son?”

Our father, Gregory Duncan, was killed in a car-accident four years prior. Some frat-boy piece of shit was driving while drunk and slammed right into him. The impact of the T-bone crash was so strong that despite the security of a seatbelt, his body violently jerked to the left and caused him to bang his head against the side window, instantly leading to his death. The young man responsible was apprehended and ordered to serve six years, though, I didn’t find that to be remotely close to what he deserved. Either way, giving that man his just-desserts wouldn’t have really mended the loss of my father.

He was still gone and severely missed.

“Now that you put it that way, it isn’t such a good idea,” she agreed before moving her mouth away from the receiver, “Dedrick and Brooke! If ya’ll don’t go sit down somewhere, I know something.”

Ebony’s threat forced them to instantly halt their loud chatter, making me giggle. She was the sweetest, most lax mother in the world until they started misbehaving. She was the perfect balance and honestly, the only one that I admired, aside from our mother, when it came to being a good parent.

“Quit yelling at my babies.”

“If your babies would learn to listen, I wouldn’t have to yell. They’re so hardheaded. Shoot.” she chuckled as my laughter continued.

“They’re just being kids,” I defended them before huffing, “I am so hungry.”

“What’re you eating tonight?”

“Well, I just ordered a pizza not too long before I started ordering the baby some clothes. It should be here shortly… I hope.”

“From Sorrento?” she asked knowingly. This wasn’t the first time that I had ordered from there throughout my pregnancy.

“You know it,” I chuckled once she kissed her teeth at my choice, “leave me alone, I had a craving.”

“Don’t cravings only last in, like, the first and early second trimester?” she pondered.

“Listen, I’m milking this thing until the moment this boy pops out.” I snickered, earning her laughter as well. Pulling the phone away from my ear once it beeped, I noticed an unfamiliar number. Shrugging it off, I returned to my conversation with my sister.

“Well, good luck with losing all that baby-weight. And, why are you ordering more things for the baby? You already have a boatload of shit and I told you I would give you Dedrick’s old clothes.”

“I know, I know. I haven’t ordered anything yet. I’ve just been putting things in the cart,” I mumbled while being redirected to the online shopping-cart, “and, thank God you said something. This crap came up to almost two-hundred dollars. Babies are expensive.”

“See? Don’t make the same mistake that I did with these two. All they gon’ do is grow out of the stuff and all it’s good for after that is taking up closet space. Which is exactly why it’s going to you.” she giggled as I closed the web-browser.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

“Wait,” I mumbled, kissing my teeth when the same unknown caller appeared on my screen, “I have no idea who this is that keeps calling.”

“Dun, dun, dun! Sounds like something straight out of a scary movie. Answer it.” Ebony snickered once I placed the phone back against my ear.

“Don’t even scare me like that,” I muttered, not at all a fan of horror movies, “the number isn’t blocked and it’s a local. Probably just a wrong number or something.”

“Or a killer.”

“Ebony,” I warned, breaking into laughter once she did likewise, “you’re the worst person alive, I swear.”

“Oh, you’ve encountered worse than me, sweetheart. Carter?” she said, forcing my whole mood to switch from good to bad in the snap of a finger.

“Why would you bring him up?” I asked, furrowing my brow. She knew how the topic of my son’s sperm-donor tended to make me feel and ever so carelessly, she spoke of him.

“Sonya, don’t trip. I wasn’t trying to offend. It was just bad transitioning on my part. I wanted to talk about him, though.” she explained.

“What about him?”

“Have you spoken to him lately? Mom told me about Monica’s assistance so, I was just curious to know if he knew about it, too.” she said, referring to Carter’s mother, who had been purchasing things for her grandson.

After things had gone downhill between Carter and I on account of him abandoning us, I assumed that Monica would follow suit and cease contact with me, too. However, out of undeserved guilt stemming from her son’s cowardice, she stuck around and took on the duties that should have belonged to Carter. Monica was constantly trying to compensate for his shortcomings and wrongdoings by handling the financial matters surrounding the baby. She figured that it was the bare minimum of what she could do.

While I was incredibly grateful for her assistance, I always pleaded for her to keep her money. I wasn’t a charity-case; I had the means and the support to ensure that my son had a stable and secure upbringing. Despite my pleading, she insisted that though her son neglected his role as an active father, she wasn’t going to neglect her role as an active grandmother. She genuinely wanted to be involved and I couldn’t find it in my heart to deny her that opportunity, though, I really wanted no linkage to Carter and his clan.

“She told him that she’s been helping me with the baby and he insisted that she stops. He doesn’t want any attachment to me… or the baby. He thinks that lousy two-thousand dollars that he left me would be more than enough. If any money is needed, it’ll come from him when he feels that I need it, not when I feel that I need it. He just thinks I’m using her for perks and to stay close to him.” I chuckled bitterly.

Being close to Carter was the furthest thing on my mind. It was astounding to me that someone who had once meant the world and then-some to me, could become someone that I strongly disliked, or hated even.

There was a moment in time when Carter and I were inseparable, where I imagined him being the man that I was going to marry. Despite our two-year relationship, long-term commitment was unattainable under our circumstances. My pregnancy came as a surprise for the both of us, though, we both should have been prepared for it with how careless we had become with sex. However, Carter felt ambushed, that I had trapped him. As offended as I was by this accusation, I figured that was just his defense-mechanism. He was scared and lashing out; that’s what I kept telling myself.

I expected that feeling to be temporary, but he was hellbent on believing that I had purposely wound up pregnant and wanted no parts. That was when I started believing that he wasn’t scared; he strongly felt that way and I was just in-denial.

Carter was born into money; his father owned one of the most popular casinos in Vegas, the Emerald League. Around the time of my pregnancy, his father had promised him ownership of the casino once he retired from the business. Carter had already had a pretty high-up position as the manager, but being the CEO was obviously a better fit. Knowing of this eventual monetary gain, women around Vegas threw themselves at him and everyone wanted to be his friend.

Carter was shit under pressure and his father did nothing to mend his worries, either. He constantly filled his head with nonsense about blood-sucking leeches and how it was always the ones closest to you. He wanted to be sure that his lucrative business was left in good hands and that his son didn’t plow through his earnings, or make any dumb decisions that would cause the company their money, or reputation. While that was understandable, it made Carter a lot more paranoid and apprehensive when it came to people’s intentions, including mine.

In the past, me not wanting him for his possessions had set me apart from the others. Now, I was nothing more than one of those leeches that he spoke of. So, in turn for my news on his step into fatherhood, he had his father fire me from the Emerald League, where we had met and where I had worked as a blackjack dealer for three years. To prevent discriminatory and personal accusations from me, Mr. Carson Cage, his father, simply stated that I wasn’t working up to my fullest potential and he had to do what was best for the betterment of the company. Bullshit.

Since then, Carter had tossed me two-thousand dollars and asked that I exit his life with no hard-feelings. He had only requested that I kept things amicable because he didn’t want me to cause him any drama that he knew without a doubt would boil over into his professional life. And, even though I should have wreaked havoc on his ass and dragged his name through the mud, I knew that in hindsight, I would be better off without him. After all, him not being around for his son was his loss, not ours. We were good regardless.

“Ugh, he’s such an asshole. He really makes me sick.” she expressed with distaste.

“You and me both, champ,” I sighed once I heard a knock at the front-door, “I think that’s my food. Call you tomorrow?”

“Is it because I brought him up? ‘Cause I really didn’t mean to--”

“No, it’s just ‘cause my food’s here. I’m about to eat and go to sleep. I’m not mad at you.” I assured her with a smile, hearing her sigh of relief. She hated when we were at odds.

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” I replied lightly, still feeling some kind of way after the discussion surrounding my ex-boyfriend. I wasn’t upset with Ebony for bringing him up; I thought about him regardless. I just hated that my son would grow up without having a father because his father chose to be absent. As much as I claimed that we were fine without him, it was going to be hard raising a fatherless child.

Hanging up the phone, I checked the time on the screen, realizing that my phone-call with Ebony had almost worked in the delivery-man’s favor. He was extremely late with my food.

Arriving to the front-door, I unlocked and opened it to be greeted by a man donned in the pizza company’s attire of a black cap, a black collared shirt with the logo in the left-hand corner, and a pair of jeans. I had never noticed him before, but that wasn’t of importance to me at the moment. I was irritated with everything.

“I ordered this pizza over forty minutes ago. You’re only ten minutes away. You better not even expect a tip.” I fussed, angrily pouting my lips. He snickered and stepped to the right, allowing me a view of his damaged vehicle.

“Well, someone rear-ended me on my way here. I tried callin’ to inform you of the delay, but you weren’t answerin’ the phone.” he explained. So that’s what that wrong number was. That made me feel like a complete idiot for unrightfully snapping on him.

Sighing deeply, I sent him apologetic eyes for being so rude without having any knowledge on his mishap.

“I’m so sorry. That was uncalled for.” I shyly apologized while signing the small receipt before we exchanged the items.

“Nah, nah, it’s cool. You’re pregnant, cranky, and hungry. I get it,” he chuckled, fanning his hand as he began his backpedal down the stone steps, “enjoy your food, though.”

“Wait! You deserve a tip. I know what I said, but it wasn’t your fault and I gave you unnecessary sass.” I giggled, giving him the one-minute finger before scurrying into the living-room for my purse. While rummaging through my bag for my wallet, I felt a popping sensation between my legs, forcing me to anxiously halt what I was doing. Then, a rivulet of water had made its way down my inner-thigh, confirming my suspicions.

My water broke.

“Oh no, oh no. Not right now.” I panted with fright, trying to keep my hysteria and anxiety to a minimum. I had rehearsed for this precise moment, but never for it to happen like this. Placing my palm against my pregnant belly, I blew out a shaky breath and bit down my bottom-lip to suppress the fear.

While taking slow, shallow breaths and contemplating on what my next move would be, the delivery-man reminded me of his presence when he had spoken up.

“Um, ma’am? You can just keep the tip ‘cause I got more deliveries--”

“Wait! Come here, I-I need your help!” I shouted desperately, embarrassed that this was happening at the wrong time.

“Yeah? Holy shit, ya’ water broke.” he said, stating the well-known once he entered the living-room, his face stained with pure shock and petrification. Nodding with a pained expression, I continued to caress my stomach, which was gradually beginning to ache due to the sudden onslaught of contractions and fear.

“I need you to call 911 and get an ambulance here, fast. He’s coming very soon.” I gritted as he nodded understandably and pulled out his cell-phone. Anxiously, he dialed the three-digit number and then, diverted his attention to me with a worried, yet controlled expression.

“Can you sit down?”

“No,” I mumbled, attempting to do so on my own, but failing miserably, “I need your help.”

Nodding, he balanced the phone in-between his ear and shoulder before assisting me to the floor, where my back was placed against the couch as a means of support. While assisting me, the operator answered the phone and he frantically explained the situation. I hated that I had to be so vulnerable, especially with a man that I didn’t know. But, I was desperate and scared out of my mind.

“Yeah, she’s about to give birth, like, right now… Okay, what’re the contractions lookin’ like?” he asked, now speaking to me. While continuing to pant, I thought of my response.

“Around three minutes.”

“She said three minutes… Yeah… Oh, God.” he replied and just by the expression on his face, I could tell that the operator informed him that he would probably have to deliver the baby. Oh, God was right.

HASSAN

To think today had started off as normal as any other.

I woke up, got ready, went out to breakfast with my girl before taking her to work, and then went to my first job, where I worked as a cook. When that shift ended, I was en route to my second job, where I delivered food for this little pizza-joint down on Rainbow Boulevard. I never expected to go from delivering a pizza, to possibly delivering a baby.

“Aight, it’s unlocked.” I assured the operator, who told me that she was sending an ambulance to the home, so I would need to have the door unlocked for the EMTs.

“Okay, great. Now, Hassan, I need you to get a bucket of water and as many towels as you can, okay? Can you do that?” she asked, being as calming as possible.

“Uh, I gotta ask her where all that stuff is,” I grumbled, heading back into the living-room where Sonya, who the operator had told me to learn the name of, was focusing on her breathing, “can you tell me where your towels are? And, a bucket?”

“The towels are upstairs, and a bucket is in one of the cabinets near the kitchen-sink.” she explained, earning a nod from me. Rushing up the steps by twos, I opened the closet that appeared to be a linen-closet and grabbed about four towels.

“Hassan, I need you to also find a shower-curtain. It’ll be easier to clean up afterwards.” the operator explained as I nodded. Going into the bathroom that was positioned to the right of the closest, I simply yanked down the available shower-curtain with all my might, the decorative hooks dropping onto the titles.

Running back downstairs, I checked on Sonya, who was resisting the urge to push, as the operator had directed for her to do. She seemed fine for the most part so, I tossed down the towels and ventured into the kitchen to get the bucket. While underneath the kitchen-sink, I noticed a box of latex-gloves and snatched a pair.

Adjusting the water until it was warm, I placed the medium-sized bucket under the faucet and watched as it filled to the brim, which took approximately one and a half minutes. My phone buzzed with an incoming call; it was my boss. Under any other circumstances, I would have answered, but that wasn’t the time. I knew my ass was fired anyhow.

“Where am I ‘sposed to put the shower-curtain?” I pondered, carefully picking up the bucket and walking back into the living-room. I sat it down at a reasonable distance from Sonya before picking up the shower-curtain.

“Beneath her legs so that if the baby has to come, it won’t leave a mess,” she said, “carefully do this. Remember, she’s in pain.”

“I know that,” I said underneath my breath, tossing the phone aside and kneeling down on the carpet with her, “aight, I gotta move you up a li’l bit so, we can put this shower-curtain under you. Hold onto me.”

Doing as I said, she tightly gripped my arm, probably breaking skin. Knowing that she was in that much pain scared the shit out of me; I was trying my best not to add anymore pain or stress to the situation by being as gentle as humanly possible.

“I really think he’s coming now… more than before. I feel his head.” she whispered, tightly clenching her bottom-lip in-between her teeth. Quickly, I placed two of the towels aside, before rolling up the other two and using them to prop up either of her thighs.

“Aight, I’ma need to… lift this,” I said, referring to her clothes, “I’on wanna make you uncomfortable so, if you want me to wait for them, I’ll--”

“It’s fine.” she assured, pinching her eyes shut as if it pained her to say that. Lifting up the hem to her black nightshirt that basically swept the floor, I mentally prepared myself for what I was about to see. And, what I saw wasn’t as bad as I imagined it to be. The only thing that left me traumatized was the fact that his head was in fact peeking, which meant that he was crowning and this birth was happening now.

Picking up the phone, I decided to inform the operator that as much as we were trying to avoid the delivery from happening at home, all the preparation would not be going down in vain. Li’l Man was coming.

“Aight, I need an ETA on the ambulance ‘cause the baby is crownin’… I can see his head. She can’t keep resistin’ to push.” I grumbled, knowing good and well that the operator heard her intensified panting, indicating that the moment had arrived before they did.

“The EMTs should be there within the next twenty-five to thirty minutes due to traffic, but since you’re saying she cannot wait any longer, you’ll have to do it,” she stated while I placed her on speaker-phone and slipped on the gloves, “wash your hands with the water that I told you to get.”

“I’m wearin’ gloves,” I grumbled, watching intently as Sonya slipped off her rings and tossed them aside, making me curious, “what you doin’?”

“I need this baby out. Even if that means I have to do it myself.” she gritted, no longer fighting back the tears that I expected to see way before, considering she had no opiates, or an epidural to assist with the pain.

“Nah, I gotchu’. Just trust me, aight?” I grumbled, watching her nod and move her hands aside. Pretty much ignoring the operator, but only for the sake of Sonya, I placed my hands on his head, while hers held her shirt out of view. Guiding as slowly and carefully as possible, I encouraged for Sonya to push because I didn’t want to harm her or the baby by pulling.

“I can only do it during my contractions,” she rushed out in one breath, “alright… now.”

After getting her words out through a painful grit, she pushed as well as she could, making some progress. With the operator coaching the both us, she was able to get his head out--which was the hardest part--within fifteen minutes, However, I noticed the umbilical-cord was around his neck, forcing my breath to hitch up. Oh, hell no.

“T-the cord is wrapped around his neck. What should I do?” I asked the operator, shakiness evident in my tone. I was trying to remain calm for Sonya; if I stayed calm, she would had been more likely to. But, I couldn’t even front. This had to be the most nerve-racking shit that I had ever endured in my whole life.

“Just loop your finger underneath it, and gently loosen it until you can get his head out.” she coached. There was blood and other pregnancy potions all over the place; thank God for that damn shower-curtain. Again, the sight and the situation was stressful, but I was trying my best to stay leveled for her.

“Okay, you got it,” Sonya breathed after intently watching me hold his head up, and remove the cord, “I need to push again.”

“Aight.” I grumbled, bringing both hands together underneath his head so that I could catch him when she pushed the rest of his body out. Aside from light grunts and whimpering, she was very collected and silent while she pushed. I thanked God for that because all that obnoxious screaming and hollering would have made it more difficult for the both of us.

“That was a good push. He’s almost out, Sonya. You can do it.” I encouraged. When she felt his shoulders finally slip out, she reached down, moved my hands aside, and carefully pulled the rest of his little body out in one swing. The umbilical-cord was still attached to him as she brought him up to her chest and held him close while his cries rang off like a siren. I grabbed the spare towels and wrapped them around his back, ensuring that he stayed as warm as possible.

“He’s here,” I informed the operator through a breath of relief, “can you hear ‘em?”

“Yes, I hear him. That’s good, he’s breathing. Tell Sonya to wipe away any amniotic-fluid on his eyes and nose to help him further breathe.” she said. Considering she was on speaker-phone, Sonya followed her orders on her own. After doing so, she gingerly guided her hand up and down his back.

“What do we do about the umbilical-cord?” I asked, removing the stained gloves and tossing them on an empty spot on the shower-curtain. Falling back from my kneeled position, I grabbed the phone.

“Nothing. The EMTs have informed me that they’re on your street. They’ll be there to sterilely cut the cord. Just stay with them.” she explained as I nodded and looked over to Sonya, who was already staring at me.

“Thank you so much. I could never repay you for this.” she said genuinely, briefly tearing her watery eyes from me to stare lovingly at her newborn son.

“Well, you could always start by givin’ me that tip.” I joked, earning a round of soft giggles from her as I laughed, too. Not even a moment later, the EMTs were barreling into the house to find us seated on the living-room floor. I stood up and stepped aside so that they could tend to Sonya and her son.

While two EMTs crouched down to assist them, one pulled me aside and asked questions concerning the home-birth before showering me in the ultimate praise for my actions. Though I valued the appreciation that they were showing, I was no hero. I was just at the right place, at the right time.

[jimothysomebody]

An Entry, Unknown & Radiant

It is midnight, February the 21st. One day shy of the 8th anniversary of my Dad's passing. It is strange to remember the power that tragic loss once held over me. I suppose it was sometime after his passing that I finally came to terms with my mortality. If a pattern should continue, my father passing away 2 weeks shy of his 54th birthday, my grandfather passing away at 57, either myself or my father's son will barely get accustomed to 50, if either of us make it so far. Glioblastoma Multiforme, they told us. “Brain Cancer”. It is a vicious, evil affliction. The weight my father had struggled to lose (He was probably around 200lbs) all came back, courtesy of the steroid he was prescribed. He was probably between 350-400lbs once more. His memory failed, his speech was labored, it crippled him in a way I'd never seen a human being deteriorate before. I've lived roughly half as long as he did now, and the thought of only being allotted another 26yrs on this planet is a haunting one, but it is all the same a possibility I accept.

My relationship continues to go well, very well. My gentleman, I believe, is in the early stages of psyching himself up to look into buying a home. The one he's entertaining looking at this weekend is a very nice home, he would be very happy there, we could be very happy there. The idea of living so far from home, regardless of how well taken care of I would be, worries me. My mother's health is often on my mind. After losing my father, the fear of losing my mother became all to real, all too constant. Not to suggest I'd prefer to be nearby when she passes, regardless of where I am it would be traumatic, there is really nothing ideal. In this stage of her life, though, I suppose the guilt could weigh heavily on my soul, being far away and not as invested in her life. Not as close as I could be to help when she needs me, if she needs me. My sisters, despite all living within 30 minutes, seldom visit my mother. Truly visit her. Not to drop kids off because there's a snow day the following day, or a scheduling conflict with work, or whatever other reason her service is needed. Despite this bitching, I myself am guilty of having visited in the past with ulterior motives, but I've likewise visited genuinely for the sake of visiting, helping her when help is needed. I swore to my father on his deathbed I would take care of my mother. The promise to the dead is not nearly as important as what was promised itself, and it is regardless one I intend to keep.

I've lived with an ex, once before, in what now seems so distant a time and place. Though there are the less than pleasant occurrences that enable myself to hear the echoes and feel the ripples of past traumas from the disintegration of that relationship, I don't fear or dread the idea of living with him, believe it or not I rather look forward to it. I love this man, and I would move mountains for him, as he would likewise for me. The things that bother me most, I suppose, is the distance from my home, from my family, and the fact that I've only just now begun building and inventing my life, my identity, reconstructing my own soul. To fully share in that experience with someone else after everything I have endured, overcome and accomplished... that uncertainty, that having to do it all over again, I suppose that is all that I dread, and in the grand scheme of things they are not so insurmountable. I am more adaptable than I give myself credit for.  

I want to take care of him, as he likewise does for me. I want to be all he needs of me, and then some. I want to care for our home with him, wherever that may be, clean, cook, plan fun and exciting things to do with him. I want to share my life with him, shape and form our lives together and truly do and become something beautiful with him. Though obstacles yet remain, though I am worried, I am confidant. I don't know that I every truly believed such an outcome for me was possible, and yet here I am, here we are, at the precipice of this unknown and radiant possibility.

[drlauralwalsh]

A love letter to my Dad

Today marks seventeen years since an incredible man left us. You probably didn’t know him but if you know me, you’ve see more than glimpses. I always capitalize the D in Dad when I write about him. In his short 53 years on earth, he left profound lessons in love, work, and selfhood.

John W. Linebarger, Sr. holding his daughter, Laura in 1974. In a generation that favored stoicism and prescribed rules of order, my Dad didn’t stand out in the ways you’d expect.  He was quietly the glue that bonds people together. Until his mother died in 1991, he called her every Friday to stay in touch.  The youngest and most fair complected of four, he also glued us to his siblings, Aunt Su Su, Uncle Dick (whom he shares a mirror image, only in olive), and Aunt Ann.  Connected to his younger sister by my middle name, I was always told the extra “e” in my Anne was an acknowledgement that I’d be different. 

Parental Influence

After a diversity training at work, he dropped some lesbian history on the 16 year old me.   He was my first introduction to the pink triangles that symbolize gay solidarity. Years later, after I was out, he sent me NASCAR bumper stickers from a race he’d attended.  The stickers read, POWER OF PRIDE, and his cheeky note said, “How funny that NASCAR is promoting the gays.” He once quipped, “I like your rainbow lifestyle,” and I assured him no man would ever replace him. About ten months prior to his unexpected death, I started a philosophical journey.  He was sick for about four years with an unknown ailment. A part of me must have known he was dying but it’s not something you expect at 27.  I had decided to research everything I could about what happens after death. The internet in its infancy, I read fiction books and wrote long journey entries.  One book, What Dreams May Come by Richard Matheson was brutal and beautiful.  You may have seen the movie with the same moniker, released with Robin Williams as the star in 1998.   As is often the case, the book was better but the movie did do it justice.  This book, along with Daniel Quinn’s A Newcomer’s Guide to the Afterlife and later, Neale Donald Walsch’s Conversations with God, Book 1 formed the basis of my spiritual beliefs.  Throw in some Cherokee about ancestors and that’s me in a nutshell.  

Daddy Daughter Bond

Although….changed, my relationship with my Dad continues to this day.  In the copious grief books I consulted, key elements stood out and comforted me.  More of what I learned is in the essay, Sorry My Dad is Dead.  Absorbing specific traits from him, I bring him forth in this world.  Calling beloved people in my life,“bud” Passed on from his mother whom I knew as“Mimi” is a private conveyance of love through three squeezes.  I ask for and see signs of his presence, most recently the somewhat viral video of two ladies and a cardinal.  When he comes to me in dreams, I always light up telling him, “Hey!!!!  I haven’t seen you in forever!” Since I inevitably wake up crying, I assume he limits these visits in his care of me. Influenced by my wife, an orphan who’s lost both her parents, the last few years have lead me down a different path.  Today used to mark a national day of mourning, grief evidenced and emanating from the cells in my body. I would think it was obvious I’d lost an important person, that my world had stopped, pivoted.  These days, I try hard to round him out. He wasn’t the sum of his dying days - the fatigue, edema, and weight loss. He was goofy and silly. A scrapper moving up through the engineering ranks, he achieved his career dream of becoming CTO - Chief Technical Officer - in cable tv world.  He was also morose during the winter holidays - something I’ve recently come to understand with more depth. After losing his architectural fortune in the 1930’s market crash, his father became an alcoholic and died when my Dad was a teen. My Dad recalled many scarce Christmases, a pair of socks his only gift.

Lessons and Mottos

One lesson I’ve reframed I call the it-should-be-obvious.  Fluffing the plume of his feathery confidence, he believed his abilities were evident just by existing.  All you had to do was meet him and you’d sense his competence. Passing this message to me, he instilled the notation that others will naturally understand my awesomeness.  One one hand, what a powerful gift - I am valuable just by existing. On the other, I’ve found that it’s sometimes necessary to actually tell people stuff instead of waiting around for them to notice. Another motto, the-cream-always-rises-to-the-top, was a lesson in integrity.  “You’re the cream, Laura,” he’d proclaim. Gossip, office games, and getting caught in meaningless minutia were only a few of the activities that lowered a person.  From this, I incorporated the ideal that, relying on my own gold standards of performance, I must impress myself first.

Dead Parents Club

I know death tends to idealize a person but I don’t care.  I’m comforted by the lasting impression of him. He and my Mother created the foundation of me.  Since nothing is truly verifiable, I create my own version of sanity. Two things can be true at once; objective reality and what I’ve made of it.   People who lose a primary caregiver, no matter the age, join the Dead Parents Club.  It can be a vast wasteland of loss or a close knit community of understanding. Pulled towards others in exclusive clubs like this, I get a sense of gravity from each member.  Pain and loss, in all its forms, realigns priorities. When you’ve been through the fire, you’re forged in steel. Enjoy this article? Support these ideas with a like, your comment and share it! Read the full article

[simplyem]

Body Image & Suffering from and Binge Eating Disorder

You wouldn’t think I suffer from an eating disorder if you just look at me. From the outside, I look perfectly normal, despite being a bit overweight.  I’m not thin/Anorexic like stereotypical eating disorders. 

From an early age, I was quite aware of my body. I remember one time in kindergarten there was a fire alarm on a rainy day and someone who I assume it was a teacher telling my friends and me to get in a car. One of the girls told me to sit on her lap and I remember thinking “no, I’ll break your lap”. Now, 17 years later and thinking about it, it was a ridiculous thought. I was a healthy kid at 5. I also remember being in the dressing room at the age of 7, seeing the size on a shirt and thinking it was too big of a number and felt self-conscious for the first time with clothing that I felt this way,

During this time family was busy with my little brother who was just two. And since my two older sisters are close in age so they’d always be together doing “big kids” stuff. I know at that time I felt lonely a lot of the time because I’d have to just play by myself. Having a little brother that was recently born, took away the attention from me. For 5 years, I was the youngest, I had all the attention.  And for that just to fade in an instant was big to me, because now everyone way paying attention to the baby. I knew he was a baby and had to be taken care of but I felt abandoned by everyone. On my 6th birthday everyone brought over baby stuff for my brother and you can imagine as a 6-year-old I was highly disappointed. Writing this now I feel like I sound spoiled, which as a little kid I was.  I was a princess that was kicked off her throne by the little prince. I had a lot of animosity for my brother, that animosity came out with me just bullying him. 

On top of that, as time went on I got slightly bigger. I think it was when I was in 3rd grade that I started binge eating. I remember the beginning of comments on my weight started during that time by my peers and family. The unhelpful comments only increased as time went on. And the concern comments my family just turned into body-shaming. As I entered college I gained the voice to tell them to stop. But my mother would just respond with “we say these things because we love you.”  Yes, I do understand their concern for health reasons but to compare me to other girls and tell me to lose weight so I’d look prettier does a lot to a person’s self-esteem, especially for a girl who is still in her awkward faze.

I had no control of my emotions because I didn’t know how to. I wanted to lose weight, but how could I when I hated myself and always felt in and out of my head. I unknowingly had bipolar and ADHD that contributed to me being unable to regulate my emotions, so I never learned any skills to help me. My binge eating wasn’t a lack of control, it’s a coping mechanism for me.

 I have so many examples of people commenting about my weight when it was none of their business. Once when I was visiting my family in France my cousin’s aunt randomly started talking to me she told me that I had to lose weight to look beautiful so I could get a man to marry me. 

First of all, who the Fuck was she to tell me this shit. I seriously just met this lady and she be here talking smack about me? Like the fuck. I want to inform everyone that You don’t need a husband/wife and You don’t need a need to be Thin to be beautiful. Body size does not determine beauty because beauty is subjective. For me, personality and character matter more than outward beauty. 

As Coco Chanel once said, “Beauty begins when you decide to be yourself.” 

For those reading know that you are beautiful no matter what. Just be yourself and live your life. 

Today, control and mindfulness is something I am currently figuring out in therapy.  Being aware of myself, my emotions, and being in a good environment. 

 I need everyone to know that an eating disorder doesn’t happen to thin anorexic people. It happens to bigger people too.  With any eating disorder, it’s not because we lack control, it’s because it’s a serious mental illness with people who are pressured by today's beauty high beauty standard and whatever is going on in their life. 

If you suffer from an eating disorder or assume you are then I urge you to go to a mental health profession. For my binge eating disorder, I do know that I am prescribed Adderall for both Adhd and Binge eating because it suppresses the appetite. It works for me but may not work for you. Know that everyone body process medication differently.  

I hoped I helped someone or at least told an interesting story. 

Please Stay Strong my lovelies, 

Linh ❤

[listentowords]

Grand

It was the beach where I used to live. Where I remember a different childhood life. Ten minutes drive from the main road that fell through the suburb of Wattalla. From the turn-off where a statue of Mary stood somewhere alongside the highway that connected the only International airport in the country to the rest of Colombo. The highway, as long as my childhood memory can remember, that used to be obstructed with military checkpoints; but not anymore.

It was the beach where I saw your footsteps. The sea was covering the traces, but the deep giant damp steps were yours. I could always identify the path you walked like recalling the national anthem of my motherland even though I’ve never heard it for almost all of my adult life. My childhood memories are now stubborn. They no longer listened to my request of recall. We’ve had words, we’ve had conversations about bitterness, and they don’t seem to like my adult self. But there were still things left behind that I could pick up and recognise without much trouble. Your black leather shoes were on the dry sand waiting for their occupant; you never wore socks – at least this was what I can remember. I felt your presence close by, you were back from a very, very long walk; just that the sun had business somewhere else, and I was having trouble spotting you amongst the crowd in the distance. There is a notebook in my hand so I’ll write till I wait for you. Till you come into closer view, I will spend my time with a blue ball point pen, an exercise book (double ruled in blue and red) and words.

The name I chose to address you was established before my birth. From my older sister, five years after, I unknowingly stole the term. The same name my grandmother addressed her father. As my memory holds, my mother followed to use the same with her grandfather. My sister picked up the same for you; for our grandfather.

I still remember how you most passionately wielded into your body with waving arms, the classical music you listened to in awe. In those moments I saw aspirations hovering above your head, there were dreams of being a conductor. When your music surrounded you, at home, despite wearing your white sleeveless t-shirt and striped blue sarong you would have fit effortlessly into the middle of an epic orchestra.

Only now I understand that the walks you took were no easy feat. They were always a couple of days long, few cities apart. And always to visit someone in need of your smile prescribed through your stethoscope. They needed your presence and advice; though they never realised. We were always commissioned to rub your feet after they were weak from many kilometres of street. You always paid us with forgotten gems from history which were never brief and chocolates to keep us from falling asleep. Now my sister has your old stethoscope. She has taken over the task of prescribing your smiles. The patients who still come looking for you find cures from her.

My walking habit maybe something I picked up from you, I think. I’ve been walking the paths that you would have wanted to see, and been learning the history you wanted to teach.

The coffee cup that was made for you always lasted many more takes before it was all pure water. The kitchen always had a fresh brew in a flask dedicated to you. Good food and drink you appreciated, we always knew when you enjoyed a meal when your right eyebrow gave its approval of excellent taste. My caffeine habit I picked up from my father, but having it strong and black, I think came from you.

The low wooden ceiling of your room made it look like a captain’s cabin on an ancient ship. There I used to speak to you when I wanted the world to disappear and the universe to fade out of sight. It smelled of old books and spilled coffee. Your books were alive when no one was around. They listened to your thoughts and constructed maps to places in the world you couldn’t travel to. I used to think and still do that all the books you read were an inhuman feat. In your room, I wandered alone sometimes when you were not around. There was a squeaky bed in the middle of the room and where maybe I’ve taken nap or two. It may have been the books whispering to me because the dreams I had were always about me sailed into the Siberian Sea.

You warned me of the poison that came out of the television screen. You pulled out the chess board and invited me to play whenever you saw my mind blurring to the rays of a cathode tube. I always lost the game of chess I played with you. There was no mercy for the single digit old me. Your smile of victory was proof that you were into the game and didn’t leave room for mistakes. But your greatest challenge was to make sure I learned. It was always challenging to go to war with you and humbling to lose my king to you. You told me to always protect the queen but also warned me to not to get fooled by her power. There was that one afternoon in the house in Kotte I managed to finally win a game from you. And you suddenly realise the teenage grandson had finally beaten you. Your smile of defeat was proof that you didn’t let me win. There no more bulky cathodes filling up the living rooms of middle-class homes. But lately, I’ve been addicted to new type of screens. I keep changing channels looking for reality and truth. I’m constantly feeling more and more under someone else’s control. I may have forgotten my chess moves, I think you will beat me soon.

The evening before your last long walk you were sitting on a hospital bed. For a soul who was always making everyone else well, you were looking out of place in that place. You wore your upside down smile; the last time I saw you. You asked why I looked upset. The weight of impossible Sri Lankan advanced level math exams, my Shakespeare character practices in ‘Comedy Of Errors’ and organising an English-Day school function was spinning webs in my head. There was confusion in my mind and the lack of sense to understand what was really going on in your space. I think, as usual, you knew something heavy was crawling inside my head. At that moment, you lent me your upside down smile; my last prescription from you. Though I don’t realise, I still occasionally use your borrowed smile; it’s still in good shape. But on that night fear caged my words and numbed my face. The evening before your last long walk, all I could do was nod my head.

It’s getting darker now. I can see the fishermen loading their boats for another night out at sea. I can see a small ship anchored close by near the Pegasus reef. An ancient but sturdy ship. One which would have a wooden cabin for the captain, just like your old bedroom. A captains room with the speaking books and the squeaky iron bed. The type of ship which would withstand the Russian seas and break through the Arctic ice. Its hull and body were painted with black stripes over pale blue. Stripes running around similar to the pattern of your blue sarong. I can see the dim yellow electric lamp inside; illuminating the brown walls of the ship’s bridge. There is a mug of steaming black coffee next the instrument panel.

I know you may know some of this, but I thought I should repeat. If I don’t meet you soon, I’ll write these down, slip the paper inside an empty brown ginger-beer bottle, seal it and throw it into the sea. I still try to believe that magic exists in this crazy place and old souls among us are just visiting from a future state. And there are tricks in words inside air tight bottles floating in the sea. They sail tirelessly looking for the person to whom they were written to or a mind they can sufficiently fill.

The pale blue ship, it’s beginning to vanish out of sight. There is a shadow of a tall man waving a Nila-Kuura (a sparkler) in the dim room. He’s wearing your old watch with a black leather strap. He keeps shifting his wrist to look at the minutes on his hand. The ship’s not moving but blurring into the winds of the Indian Ocean. It seems like wizardry or some new kind of technology. It’s blurring like it’s trying to travel forwards and backwards in time. The captain in the shadows, I think it’s you. You have patients in out-of-space, in history or in some future place they eagerly wait.

This message in a bottle will ask directions from the whales whose minds you have cured. It will jump through time with the help the stars you’ve walked under. They will follow broken maps and even take miniature flights to the universes you wander. They will come swimming to the sea you anchor.

This was a dedication piece to my late grandfather, written a year or so ago. It has been almost 20 years since he passed.

[viralhottopics]

21 Nurses And Doctors Share Their Most Insane And Hilarious Stories Of A Patient Faking It

1. A Mother Finds A Way…

“Had a mother come in and INSIST that her child had Silver-Russell syndrome. You can go read on it. It’s not that easy to fake, as it’s a bunch of metabolic conditions mixed with congenital abnormalities.

The kid was small, but not that small (around 6th percentile). He didn’t weight much (5th percentile). All of this, with a right arm length 2 cm more than the left side, were borderline criteria for Silver-Russell. Did genetic testing, which came back negative, but 30% of cases are negative.

So the deciding factor was one of the ‘soft’ criteria of hypoglycemia. Once she heard about this (she printed out 30-40 articles on the disease), she came back with the kid in a coma. But when the kid was in the hospital, he was never hypoglycemic. He went home, and came back in a coma a few weeks later. Again, as soon as he was eating normally at the hospital, he was never hypoglycemic.

She starved her child into comas repeatedly for the diagnosis of Silver-Russell. She was also a ‘bougon,’ people who live off welfare and make a game out of it. By the way, she was in a wheelchair when at the hospital. Once I had enough of her bullshit and walked into the room after only knocking once. She was walking around normally and jumped into the wheelchair as soon as she saw me.

I believe it was for money since in Canada/Quebec, you get money when your child has a genetic disability… God, if it was legal, I would have slapped some sense into that her.”

2. It’s A Miracle!

“My husband is a firefighter and EMT and he told me about a time where they were called for a man seizing. When they got there a guy was lying face up on the floor not moving and then started faking a seizure. They stood there saying things like ‘Oh wow. This is a bad one. But if they did X then we should really be worried!’ and the patient would suddenly start doing X behavior. Apparently this went on for a while until he miraculously woke up in the ambulance asking for opiates.”

3. Whooping Cough

“My mom’s an ER nurse and she said once some crazy lady came in and complained hat she had the whooping cough. And whenever she coughed she followed it with a loud ‘woooOOOP!’”

4. “A Nice, tasty Lortab Might Help, Doctor”

“When I was a resident, I had a patient in clinic that was doing that round-about thing patients do when they want narcotics but aren’t going to directly ask for them. She would hint at having arthritis pain that ‘just doesn’t seem to get better except that one time she took lortab’ and that ‘you know, her friend gave her a Percocet once and it helped a lot’ (never mind the fact that this lady was 100% functional despite ‘debilitating pain’.

At the end of the clinic visit, when I offered a physical therapy referral and stronger NSAIDs (the actual treatment for osteoarthritis), she suddenly sat straight up, looked me in the eye, and said, ‘Doctor, I don’t know how…but I’m totally paralyzed.’

Seriously. She pretended that, all of a sudden, everything other than her mouth was totally paralyzed. She made us send her to the ER (but not before she had my nurse unwrap a peppermint and literally put it on her tongue because ‘her blood sugar felt low’). We had to lift this nutcase into a wheelchair (during which we could all feel her shifting and repositioning…not something a paralyzed person would do) and roll her to the ER to be evaluated for ‘sudden paralysis’.

While in the ER, she suggested to the ER doc that maybe Lortab would fix her paralysis, and when the ER doc rightly refused this treatment, she got out of the stretcher and walked out.”

5.Girl Begins Fake Convulsions Out Of Grief

“Not even a patient but a family member. The family was grieving in the room due to the patient just being made comfort care and not expected to survive the day. A niece of the patient, who was easily in her 30’s, started screaming like she was being murdered and fell to the floor near our nursing pod. She started ‘convulsing’ but her family completely ignored her. Some even side stepped her or literally stepped over her while trying to leave the unit. The niece would randomly convulse while we were loading her onto a stretcher. The charge nurse picked this ladies arm up and let it fall. It some how just softly returned to her side. Finally she was loaded up and we were ready to transport her to the ER. The ladies aunt/mom/sister? looked at the doctor and asked if the hospital was going to pay for her tests. The doctor on the unit said no and ‘miraculously’ the niece shot up and acted like she couldn’t remember what happened. The rest of the family just left her there and told the desk not to let her back in to the unit once she was escorted out.”

6. Kidney Stones From The Parking Lot

“Husband is a Urologist. ER calls with a patient who is reportedly writhing in pain from kidney stones. Patient brought with him a stone he passed for analysis. Hubby walks in, sees one of the regular drug seekers, takes a look at the sample determines it’s a pebble guy picked up in the parking lot.”

7. Drunk Girl Prepares For Her Seizure

“Get called for an unconscious intox’s at a bar. Get her out to the ambulance, she shouts ‘I’M HAVING A SEIZURE’ and starts waving her arms around. I tell her ‘people who have seizures generally don’t announce it first.’ Her response? ‘You’re being very judgmental, I was getting ready in case I had a seizure.’

……gotta stretch, I guess.”

8. Good Guy Car Accident Victim Runs A Con

“I was an intern in a busy trauma ED when a guy walks up the ambulance bay and screams he needs to be seen immediately. They take him back and he starts telling everyone he was in a car accident last night going ‘100+ mph’ on the interstate but did not go to the hospital because he was worried about his friend, the driver. But now he’s losing feeling in his legs and has severe back pain and needs to be seen.

So of course the story is super fishy but we put him on a backboard/collar and get some xrays of chest and pelvis (our protocol for any severe trauma). The radiologist who is stationed in the ED flags me and asks when out patient got a CT scan. He showed me his pelvis x ray and his bladder is super bright: it’s filled with the iodine contrast agent they inject in your veins when you get a CT which is then excreted by the kidneys over the next few hours.

So we confront our patient about why he didn’t tell us about being seen at another hospital and getting a CT. He launches into a rambling explanation about concussions and amnesia. He has, of course, also exhibited several other drug seeking behaviors in his short time in the ED. He decides to leave AMA but not before asking the nurse directions to the nearest hospital, presumably to try the same trick.”

9. Home Nurse Gets Robbed

“My wife’s a district nurse, she drives to peoples homes changing dressings, giving medications etc etc. Her job has her dealing with many people such as gang members and people on home detention, but the worst in her opinion, the people you never trust even a little bit are the methadone patients, according to her a lot of them will try anything to get a little bit more.

She had one not long ago that was being extremely talkative, almost like he didn’t want her to leave the house. Then he started showing her every little lump and bump, wanting her to make sure they weren’t infections or anything. Although he wasn’t making her uncomfortable, she did think it was strange for him as he was normally very quiet and wanted the nurses gone asap.

When she got back to her car the back window had been smashed in but all that was missing was her sharps container and the lockbox the drugs were kept in. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on so she walks back to the house, looks in the front window and sees the methadone dude and another guy sitting on the couch trying to open her lockbox and emptying the sharps container on the floor.

She called the police at that point and despite knowing that some of the needles now on the floor were from an HIV+ patient she had earlier in the day she sat in the car until the PD arrived because you never ever get between a junkie and a fix.”

10. Man Fakes Migraine To Get Out Of Paying For His Meal

“Paramedic here.

Gentleman called 911 from a restaurant claiming he had a migraine and was unable to see properly. He was literally 2 blocks from a hospital.

I’ve had migraines, I’m sympathetic. On the way to the call I was planning my treatment plan so he would be more comfortable during the wait in the emerg.

He was waiting outside, in full sunlight, waving at us. Thanked us politely for coming ‘to his rescue’. Sat in the well lit ambulance, chatting up a storm, making inappropriate jokes, and laughing. Stating the whole time he has 10/10 pain from a migraine, and that only Percocet works to reduce the pain. He has them frequently, and wouldn’t you know it, he’s run out of his prescribed medication, and his doctor is on vacation.

The chef from the restaurant he called from came out and asked for his information. Our patient was ‘unable to pay his bill, due to the pain.’ He conveniently had no ID he could leave with the restaurant, and only had his debit card with him. He promised to come back, once he was feeling well enough to tap his PIN into the machine, but right now he couldn’t. The chef knew 100% the guy was full of shit, but couldn’t do anything.

As someone who has had a vomiting, shaking, vision effecting, migraine in the past, he did nothing to convince he was in actual discomfort. I actually would greatly prefer if he had said, ‘I ate a meal I can’t afford, and I’m addicted to pain killers, can you please take me to the ER.’ Honesty would have gotten him better treatment from everyone involved.”

11. Screams For Pain Meds When Not Having A Seizure

“This JUST happened last week, strangely enough. I’ve been a nurse for 4 years now, and this is probably the worst I’ve seen it.

Young adult comes in with seizure-like activity. We’re a neuroscience floor, so we get these a lot. Complains of severe abdominal pain related to her seizures, apparently. They run multiple CTs and MRIs that come back clean. We put her on a 24 hour VEEG machine (video EEG for those who don’t know). She reportedly has 100s of seizures throughout the night, with full body convulsions, drooling, upper extremity contractions, and will not respond to verbal stimuli. Post ictal, she’s not lethargic, just confused. Doesn’t know her own name, the place that she’s in, or what time it is, but the rest of her neuro assessment is benign. No bladder incontinence during, had perfect control of all limbs.

She screams for pain meds when she’s not having seizures, but is for some reason refusing everything they offer her. Tylenol – nope. Percocet – makes her feel weird. Lidoderm patch for her abdomen – it gives her sores in her mouth. I guarantee if a doctor offered Opiates, she would have been all over that.

After 24 hours of being her, $1000s worth of tests being run all coming up negative, the doctors had no choice but to send her home. She become agitated and seizing again, while the doctor is basically explaining that she’s faking it. He says, ‘I’ll wait.’ She immediately stops.

Security had to escort he out, with me in tow, because I was too paranoid that she would throw herself on the floor before leaving and demand to be readmitted. They recommended an outpatient psych consult for her, which made her even angrier. Lord knows, maybe the seizures felt real to her, but she didn’t need a special kind of help.”

12. A Colossal Waste Of Everyone’s Time

“EMT here. The one that sticks out is the most textbook example of drug seeking behavior.

Get called out to a residence at 2 am (because of course, it’s always 2 am). Guy says he’s having 10/10 finger pain and gingerly holding his hand in the air. Says there was no trauma, just started suddenly and it’s unbearable.

So we load him up, take him the 25 minutes the the hospital. Entire time he’s holding his hand in the air. But we had a full conversation, talked about Football, never once did he complain about pain.

We wheel him into the ER and literally the second we walk through the door, this guy starts in pain. Says he can’t sit still the pain is unbearable, he has to stand up, screaming at the nurse to help. Then he turned to the nurse and said:

‘I had this same issue at a different hospital 2 weeks ago. They couldn’t tell what was wrong. They gave me morphine but that didn’t work so then they gave me dilaudid. That worked. So maybe you should just start with dilaudid tonight.’ And then he went back to moaning in pain.

Nurse and I just looked at each other, we put him in a bed and I drove the 35 minutes back to station. Highly doubt he was given any pain less that night, was just a colossal waste of everyone’s time.”

13. People Really Act Out

“I am an X-ray tech. All the time in the ED you will have patients that come in seeking things. These patients will have a bunch of X-rays ordered. So when you first start the exams they will be in all sorts of pain. They cannot position any body part. Fighting and begging you to not do it. Then after about 15 minutes, when they notice you’re going to do your job. They stop the charade and get through the stack of images ordered on them. It’s quite incredible really.

The other thing that blows my mind is when people want the worst possible outcome of their disease. Like you can feel the craving for sympathy emanating from them. With phrases ‘Ohhh that’s really bad isn’t it’ or ‘Oh man is that the worse you’ve seen?’ Not said with dread, but barely hidden excitement.”

14. Some Of The Most Obvious Fakes

“I have so many of these!!

–Male patient, 18 years old, rolled in unconscious. Mom says he’s been like that for the past four hours. Go to check his lungs when I hear something interesting. I place the stethoscope near his mouth and hear him breathe in normally, but then breathe out by saying ‘breath’. No joke.

–Male patient, 21 years old, admitted with inability to speak for last two hours and respiratory distress. Lungs clear, but we hook him up to oxygen for a few minutes. After he’s taken off, his father comes running and drags me over, saying his sons tongue refuses to go back in after receiving the oxygen. I look at the kid and he’s seriously just lying there with his tongue poking out like a child. I tell them to push it back in. A few hours later the dad tells me the boy is convulsing. I go to see without making my presence known and he’s lying there just fine. The moment I ask the mom how he’s doing, he starts ‘convulsing’. Think of an odd version of the worm, but on his back.

–Female patient, 16 years old, admitted with complaints of recurrent seizures and frothing from the mouth. I look at her and she is literally blowing spit bubbles. I check her reflexes, everything is intact. The moment I turn away to check on another patient, she suddenly becomes ‘rigid’ and the spitting intensifies.

–Male patient, 30 years old, unconscious and completely unresponsive for six hours. This guy was totally dedicated to his act. I initially approached it as a stroke, but when the blood pressure, ECG, reflexes, pupils, etc all are normal….I start checking pain sensation. He slowly began to open his eyes and groan as I asked him to tell me his name, but the moment his Achilles’ tendon was pressed, he suddenly sat up, stated his name, and declared himself cured.

–Female patient, 17 years old, complained of respiratory distress and convulsions. Everything’s normal on admission, and she’s conscious but refuses to eat. Parents are worried out of their minds, and every few minutes she has a ‘fit’ where she would just basically shake from side to side. She let slip to a nurse that she didn’t want to go to school that week, so she was faking an illness. Since she was refusing to eat, the attending wrote up an order for a nasogastric tube (which was inserted and then removed by her in a matter of minutes), and we prescribed her sugar pills because her parents wouldn’t let us transfer her to psychiatry or discharge her. She finally left after four days.”

15. Three Hilarious Paramedic Faker Stories

“Paramedic here – I have three stories that come to mind.

Story #1 – We get called to a local Waffle House for a seizure. We walk in to find a man lying on the floor, not moving, but breathing. We start talking to the waitress, asking what had happened. While talking to her, we occasionally look down at the patient, and find him with one eye barely cracked open, watching us; when he sees us looking at him, he closes his eye. This happens a few times. Then the cops show up and find out what’s going on. One of the officers asks the waitress, ‘Did he (patient) eat here?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘How much is his bill?’

‘Fourteen dollars.’

At this point, the officers roll the patient over and find his wallet; the guy has a $20 bill in it. One of the officers takes out the $20, gives it to the waitress, and tells her, ‘keep the change.’ You could see the anger in the patient’s face when he realizes he’s not getting out of paying his bill. He ended up faking a seizure on the way to the hospital (I’m not about to explain how I know it was fake, because I’m not going to give anyone ANY info on how to fake a seizure).

Story #2 – We get called to a fall in the women’s bathroom at Wal-Mart. We walk in, and the manager is FREAKING OUT. We go into the bathroom to find a white female face up on the floor – I’m guessing she weighs at least 350 lbs; there were two friends of hers standing in there with her. I ask her what happened; she says she slipped on a puddle and fell, hurting her back. I look all over the bathroom floor; there’s NO water on the floor. I ask the manager AND the patient’s friends – ‘Do you see water on the floor?’ They all said, ‘No.’ I then tell the patient, ‘There’s no water on the floor, ma’am.’ She says, ‘I’m lying on top of it.’ We’re going to have to roll her to her side in order to get a backboard under her and pick her up; I explain that to her. As we roll her to her side, I check her back for any obvious injuries; I then check her clothing AND the floor she was lying on – nothing was wet. I have the manager (who was grinning from ear to ear at this point) and the patient’s friends look – ‘Do you see water on the floor? Are her clothes wet?’ They all said, ‘No.’ We then roll the patient onto the board, pick her up, and place her on a stretcher.

At this point, I tell the patient, ‘I’m going to be writing up paperwork for this call and your treatment. Part of what is going to be written up is the fact that you said you slipped on a wet floor, and that no water was found either on the floor or soaked into your clothing. This is standard; I have to write up what I’m told in addition to what I see. What you need to understand is this – if you happen to decide to take Wal-Mart to court, they can request a copy of my run report, and it’s going to show what you said and what I found. They can also summon me to testify, and if they do, I’m going to tell them what you told me and what I saw, the manager saw, and what your friends saw. That being said, do you want to keep dragging this out and go to the hospital, or do you want to just get up from my stretcher and be done with it?’

She chose to get up and leave.

Story #3 – We get called to a 13 year old having a first-time seizure. We get on scene, and the entire family is freaking out, except for the father. I walk into the room where the kid was – OBVIOUS FAKER. I turn to dad and have him go outside into the hallway, I tell him the boy is faking, and I ask if anything unusual happened today. The father tells me he found marijuana in the kid’s room, and he was getting on to him about it when the kid started ‘seizing.’ I reassured the father that his son was NOT seizing, and he asked if we could take him to the hospital ‘just to be safe.’ I said no problem. We pick the kid up and put him on the stretcher, and as we head outside to the ambulance, he exhibits more behavior that shows he’s faking.

Inside the ambulance, I tell the kid that I know he’s faking and ask him to stop, but he keeps on. The hospital we take him to doesn’t have board-certified Emergency Department physicians; they use General Practice and Internal Medicine physicians (a LOT of smaller hospitals do this). I bring the kid in and give a patient report to the internal medicine doc and the RN, and I say the kid is ‘faking his seizure activity.’ The doctor had a problem with that – ‘You can’t possibly tell that he’s faking.’ I assure him that, yes, the kid is faking. I explain the situation that led up to him faking, and that I could prove it. The doctor says, ‘I’d like to see that.’

The RN knows EXACTLY what’s going on and what I wanted to do; he’s all for it! So I say to the kid, ‘Bob (I don’t remember his name), we need a urine sample from you, and we need you to wake up to do it. If you don’t wake up, we’re going to shove a tube into your penis, run it all the way into your bladder, and take a urine sample from you. Please, just wake up and give us a sample.’

Nothing from the kid.

‘Okay, Bob, if you don’t wake up in 10 seconds, we’re going to start prepping you to get the tube shoved into your penis. Ten, nine, eight, FIVEFOURTHREETWOONE!’

His eyes opened wide as saucers before he realized we caught him. He then closed his eyes, started blinking, looked around the room, and said, ‘What happened?’ The RN was laughing, and the doc was a little pissed.”

16. School Nurse Doesn’t Stand For Nonsense

“My mother was the school nurse when I was in high school, but she’s been a nurse my whole life. She’s told me a few good stories (obviously without names). But I was lucky enough to overhear one of the students trying to fake an illness to get out of class. The kid, we’ll call him Derrick, was a skud. White trash, moody, and destructive. Not my favorite classmate. But I was laying there when I heard him come in and start his routine of attention seeking. (mom used to let me skip seminary and nap on the empty beds).So my mom runs through all the basics, temp, blood pressure, etc. Well Derrick finally just cuts to the chase, obviously frustrated with the procedure, ‘Look Mrs. S, something is seriously wrong here and I’m not faking it this time!’ He screeched, defenses already 10 feet high.

‘OK Derrick, what’s the problem this time?’ She asked.

‘Well, earlier this morning, I started feeling sick, so I went to the bathroom to throw up. After I was done I looked at the toilet…(dramatic pause) and there where over a dozen whole baby carrots…(another pause, this one I think was for any gasps that might be coming) AND I DON’T EVEN EAT CARROTS!’ He nearly shouted.

Well, after about a 10 second pause and what I’m guessing was the hardest straight face my mother ever had to keep. She said, still fighting back laughter, ‘Well, Derrick your body is producing carrots at an alarming rate. Weird that it only seems to happen during gym, though. Here is a Gatorade and a hall pass to get back to class, see you tomorrow, Derrick.’

He left, stunned to be written off so easily and we had a good ol’ laugh.

‘And I don’t even eat carrots!’ has become a family favorite catchphrase.”

17. Limps On The Wrong Leg

“Student nurse, but this happened when I was at the gym.

Guy next to me fell off the elliptical, somehow got his foot trapped between the foot pedals and went sideways. The surprisingly inept PTs (Personal trainers are usually well trained in first aid) were freaking out and this guy is really hamming it up. Talks of calling an ambulance are thrown about. I offer to step in.

‘AHHHHHH MY ANKLE’ He’s on the floor grabbing his leg. I kneel next to him.

‘Hey bro,’ I greet him. He’s so surprised that I’m there (came up from behind) that he forgets to groan. ‘How much does it hurt on a scale of 1-10?’

‘Erm… 8,’ he says. I look at his ankle. There’s a scratch on it the size of a penny and superficial, hardly any blood. Little red around the scratch, ankle not swollen. I ask him if he can point and flex his foot and rotate his ankle, which he can do with zero difficulty, not even a grimace. I figure he’s probably hamming it up cuz it’s embarrassing falling off a machine in front of everyone, so I get him an ice pack (mostly for show tbh), tell him he’ll be fine, and tell the PTs not to call an ambulance. His sister comes to pick him up in her car and he limps out on the wrong leg.”

18. The Other End Of The Spectrum

“Had an elderly man who was in his early 70s (long term smoker) who came in with shortness of breath, trouble breathing, and a little bit of a cough and occasional production of blood tinged sputum. <— that last one is a bad sign

He also complained of a little bit of back pain he’d been having that started about a month ago after he was helping his son move. When asked to rate his pain he said 2/10 (‘not too bad’).

He has no other history, always had good blood pressure, no cholesterol issues, no diabetes… has a little bit of anxiety/depression, unmedicated.

So we check him out. Reduced breath sounds all across, more so on the left lower side. Tenderness to palpation in the lower back, he jumped when we touched it, said it was about a 3/10 when we touched it.

Check vitals, his blood pressure is 180/85 (this happens with severe pain), he has no fever, and his heart rate is in the 120s (also happens with pain).

Get scans and labs. He has three broken vertebrae, probably pathological (caused by cancer) a pleural effusion (it was malignant, as in, caused by cancer), and a few masses in his left lung. Guy had stage 4 lung cancer that spread to his back, caused his back to break, and he said he had 2-3/10 back pain.

Either he was set on fire in his childhood and then beaten with 2x4s filled with nails then rolled in broken glass… or he was faking not having pain. This is someone who we would describe as a ‘minimizer’.

Not the typical story you expected, I guess.

He got his surgery, and the next day wanted to leave the hospital cuz he had to do some paperwork and pay his bills, didn’t take any of the pain meds offered to him, except at night to help him sleep.

I hope he’s still alive, was a really nice guy.”

19. Domestic Drama At A Crash Scene

“Firefighter/first responder here, I once had a call for a ‘vehicle that struck a power pole’ at 2 am on a major street. We arrive on scene to find a telephone pole snapped in half and a car that had crossed 8 lanes of traffic to hit this pole straight on. We found the “patient” lying on the ground next to her car, laying on her back with arms crossed across her chest clutching her phone. Right next to her were her shoes laid perfectly next to each other by her feet. As I approached her I could see her squint one eye trying to see what I was doing. I know she was faking by all of this and called an officer over to ‘help hold C-spine’ I called her name with no response so next step was painful stimulus, grinding your knuckles into the sternum is an acceptable way to check, the second I said ‘I’m going to give her a sternum rub’ she was awake. Right when we finished packaging her for the ambulance I noticed a man talking to the police obviously drunk. That’s when I noticed she smelled of alcohol too, turns out the woman called 911 to report her own accident and the husband told the police they were drunk, got in a fight, and she decided to leave even when he told her not too, it was a fake suicide attempt to make him feel bad so he pressed charges for grand theft auto and totaling the car.”

20. Avoiding Football Practice

“Medical student here.

Like a month ago at the ER, a mother came with her 10yo son who claimed to have a monstruous knee pain and that he couldn’t move. So when we came to his room he was lying down (important for continuity)

X-ray was normal, knee was normal, not red, no swelling.

Each time we would touch his knee or try to move his leg or his thigh he would scream like we were torturing him, and his scream seemed genuine.

But with every test being normal and no explanation to this atypic pain we were confused and thinking he’s faking it.

So we asked him to try to move his leg on his own and he would barely move it and scream, then we asked him if he felt pain when standing up he said yes, we asked him to get up and surprise : he got up by bending his knee, fastly but we saw it, he was trying to simulate but he didn’t fully succeed.

I mean it was so obvious, he amlost made a 90 angle with his knee and as soon he touched the ground and got up he started to scream etc.

All of that was just the little boy simulating to avoid going to his football training.”

21. Threat Of Large Needle Cures Unconscious Patient

“When I was a junior medical student without much experience on the wards, a homeless patient came in who was ‘unconscious’. Except, she wasn’t. I mean, obviously wasn’t.

The doctor would hold up her limp arm, position her hand over her head and let go. If she was truly unconscious, her hand would hit her in the face. Somehow, every time he let go of her hand, it would swerve at the last minute and miss her face.

In an effort to rouse her, the doctor loudly asked me to go and get ‘the biggest needle you can find’. When I returned, he asked me if I’d ever taken blood before. I replied that I had not. He said that as Miss X was unconscious, this would be an excellent opportunity for me to have some one-on-one teaching on the subject. He also said that this would ordinarily be extremely painful for someone with such a large needle being used.

Unfortunately, she ‘woke up’ at that point, so I didn’t get to learn how to take blood.”

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from 21 Nurses And Doctors Share Their Most Insane And Hilarious Stories Of A Patient Faking It