#we’re asking for our medical issues to be treated the same as a thin or straight size person’s issues are

[atlanticcanada]

There's so much demand: Accessing primary care a challenge in N.B.

The New Brunswick Health Council has published the results of a survey on accessing primary care in the province that confirm what many in health care already knew: the system is stretched thin.

According to the 2022 survey, only one in three New Brunswick residents who have a primary care provider could get in to see them within a five day period last year.

Council CEO Stéphane Robichaud said accessing primary care continues to be a challenge and there are many factors contributing to the trend going in the wrong direction.

“There's a higher proportion of people right now that feel a bit overwhelmed when it comes to navigating the system. So that does speak to an uncoordinated, not properly organized resource in how it tries to meet the needs of citizens,” said Robichaud.

The survey states almost 51 per cent of people could get an appointment with their care provider within a five day period back in 2020.

However, that number shrunk to thirty-four per cent last year.

“It's a significant drop. It's worrisome and I think it speaks to the fact that we're adding options, practice options for these physicians, but no one is really keeping an eye on what's the impact on time spent in their own practices,” said Robichaud.

Nearly two-thirds of the population that have a family doctor reported using other services like after hours clinics, pharmacists and the emergency department because their health care provider was not available.

“But the resource itself is staying the same. So what that means is time is being taken away from their own family practice to operate in these other settings,” said Robichaud.

In a statement to CTV News, New Brunswick Medical Society [NBMS] President Dr. Michèle Michaud said the survey confirms what physicians are often hearing from patients – access to primary health care services in a timely manner is a struggle.

“The fact that access has become more challenging over the past few years is not surprising, and can be attributed to a variety of factors,” said Michaud.

One of those factors is burnout, which was made worse during the pandemic when many family physicians were asked to help cover gaps in the health system.

That left them with less time for their own practice.

“The resulting burnout led some healthcare providers to scale back their practice or leave the profession entirely,” said Michaud. “Family physicians also deal with increasing amounts of paperwork and other administrative activities that take away from the time they are able to devote to seeing patients.”

The NBMS also said New Brunswick’s older population is contributing to the challenges faced in primary care.

“Our population is one of the fastest aging, most chronically ill in the country, meaning patient health issues are more complex and time-consuming to treat, which results in longer office visits that leave physicians unable to see as many patients,” said Michaud.

Expanding collaborative care models and bringing more family physicians to the province, and keeping them here, are key strategies according to Michaud.

Robichaud said it’s not a simple fix.

“We need to address who is accountable at the end of the day,” said Robichaud. “In 2018, the council made a recommendation that regional health authorities should be made accountable for primary care.”

Dawna Melanson recently hurt her knee, but hasn’t been able to get an appointment with her family doctor.

She was told to call Telecare and she received the number for a couple of walk-in clinics.

Melanson said it’s been a struggle for her to access care.

“I would say all around for all New Brunswickers, since COVID everything is harder to get things done. It's harder to get in to see a doctor, it's a longer wait,” Melanson said.

“Overall, it must be hard for new people coming into New Brunswick to get health care.”

That's exactly what Laura Corazza is experiencing upon moving back to the province from Italy. She’s having a hard time accessing primary health care, but said she’s fortunate people have been very helpful in giving her a hand in trying to search for a doctor.

“So far, I've come up empty handed. There's so much demand and the waiting lists are extremely long and very few doctors,” Corazza said.

For more New Brunswick news visit our dedicated provincial page.  

from CTV News - Atlantic https://ift.tt/ke2lXNu

[hazel2468]

So, something I see (and say) a lot is that fat/plus size folks should be able to go to the doctor to get medical treatment and not have everything be made about their weight. And I hear a lot of pushback to that- “Shouldn’t doctors bring that up? A doctor is SUPPOSED to care about your health!”

So I figured I would give y’all an example of what I mean when I say “I want to be able to get medical treatment and have it not be made about my weight.”

I’ve been to the doctor for breast pain twice in my life. Once when I was in my first year of college, and once during my last year of grad school. The two experiences were vastly different.

First time around, I go in because I’m having pain in my left breast. I don’t feel anything, but something hurts. I sit down in the doctor’s office, in she comes. I tell her what’s going on. And right away she hits me with “Well, maybe losing some weight would help.” Didn’t examine my breast. Didn’t ask me much else. Just spent the next ten minutes telling me that it probably had something to do with me being fat and then sent me on my way. I learned basically nothing, just that I “probably” didn’t have fucking breast cancer.

Second time. I’m in grad school, and this time I actually feel a lump, so of course I panic. I go to the doctor. She has me take off my shirt and all that, and then asks me some questions. When did it start? Is the pain worse or better than when I called about it? Can I still feel the lump? Has this happened before? I answer, she gives my boob a few good pokes and all that. Checks the other for good measure. And then gives me answers.

She tells me I have fiberous breasts, which is normal. Tells me it was probably a cyst, since that happens sometimes and, given my symptoms and the exam, it seems to be gone now. I tell her I get those in other places a lot and she nods and says “Yeah, probably a cyst.” She tells me to keep an eye out and call her if I feel any more lumps- even if it is just another cyst, she wants to make sure. She says I could go for a mammogram but because I’m only 24 and the symptoms are subsiding it isn’t needed, in her opinion, but she would be happy to set one up for me to put my mind at ease. Then she shakes my hand and leaves. We spent about 30 minutes together.

This is what I mean when I say “I want medical treatment without it being made about my weight.” The first doctor assumed, right away, that the problem was because I am fat. And because she assumed that, she didn’t check me, didn’t ask me questions she should have. There are horror stories out there about people who had treatable illnesses that later killed them because they weren’t caught in time.

“Shouldn’t doctors care about your health?” well, only one of these doctors actually seemed to. The one who did her job, who checked me out, who gave me answers and not only made sure I didn’t have something serious going on, but who put my mind at ease about my health. Who gave me signs to look out for and things to DO if this ever happens again. The other... The other lectured me about my body size and then shooed me out of her office without saying the words “lump” or “exam”. That, to me at least, doesn’t sound like caring about my health. The words “health” and “body size” are not synonomous and, in this case, my size didn’t have anything to do with it. There was no reason to bring it up because it wasn’t part of my medical concern.

I want to be able to walk into a doctor’s office and say “I have a problem” and have the doctor go “Okay, let me take a look at your problem”. I’m lucky and privileged that I have managed to find doctors who do that- who address my issues and history and ME as a whole person. But I’ve also had a lot of experiences with doctors who respond to “I have a problem” with “Well try losing weight”, no matter what the problem is. And that’s not okay. That KILLS people. And that’s why quality medical care for fat/plus size people is such an issue.

[eatyourchancletas]

SUMMARY |  y/n l/n; the trauma surgeon who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and is taken hostage by the terrifying mafia known as ateez. despite their situations, love arises between the doctor and san; but when an enemy comes in between the group, breaking trust and belief between the members, what will san choose to save; his newfound love or his brothers?

PAIRING | choi san x male reader

INFO/CATEGORY | mafia au, fluff, light angst

WARNINGS | violence, weapon usage/mention, foul language, lower case writing

[chapter index] [playlist] [previous chapter]

AUTHOR’S NOTE | woops, finally have chapter 3 here! alex wasn’t able to finish it so i (monnie) did, but alex edited it so it was a smooth process. please like and reblog!! feedback is greatly appreciated!! please excuse any mistakes!

WORD COUNT | 4.7k

TAG LIST :; @jonghoshoe​  if you’d like to be added to the list please say so in our inbox/ask box!

hongjoong had gathered everyone around, gaze settled upon his members. “this mission is very important. we’ve managed to get a good deal. he says if he manages to make a good first impression with us, he’ll be willing to work with us at a smaller price.”

everyone nodded along, understanding what he was trying to say: don’t mess this up. 

the leader continued as everyone seemed to catch the drift, “but we’re going to be very careful with this. we don’t put ourselves out there, so i don’t know how he knows our reputation enough to want to further business before we’ve even started.”

seonghwa perked up, arms tightening around himself, “that means old business is talking.” hongjoong nodded, letting him know they were both on the same page.

after a moment of silence, hongjoong sucked his teeth and looked up at y/n, eyes holding an emotion the older couldn’t read. the two held eye contact for barely 3 seconds before hongjoong spoke in yeosang’s direction. “i want you to stay here with y/n,” at those words, the younger gave a look that explained his feelings very well, y/n thought.  

yeosang thought this was bullshit, but he couldn’t speak out on it because he trusted hongjoong knew well enough. “don’t take it personal, i don’t trust y/n fully. we don’t know what can happen.”

yeosang could only nod, deciding against disobeying hongjoong’s orders. 

“alright, everyone get ready. we leave in an hour, i wanna get there early. scope out the place.”

y/n felt ashamed and angry. 

ever since the group left for the mission, almost an hour ago, yeosang has been rude and treating him like he was the cause of all his problems. he felt ashamed because yeosang’s bruteness made him feel, somewhat, small and embarrassed, like it was his fault they were in this situation.

“get out of my way,” yeosang had shoved y/n on the way to the kitchen. the older stared dumbfounded, patience wearing thin.

“a simple excuse me would’ve been nice.”

yeosang scoffed, opening the refrigerator. if there was one thing that bothered him, it was being on babysitting duty. 

“yeah, well i’m not exactly in the mood to play around and be all goody-two-shoes. so you know what would be nice?” he directed a sharp glare to y/n, not giving him a chance to answer his rhetorical question, “if you would fuck off.”

y/n bit his tongue, sizing up the smaller. his thoughts blocked his irritation, taking in the fact that yeosang was a gang member. he’s pretty sure size wouldn’t inconvenience the younger when handling a physical situation, much less a verbal one.

the doctor went to walk away as yeosang placed a plate in the microwave, until he noticed red markings on the skin of yeosang’s wrist, his shirt sleeve sliding down as his arm lifted. “are you okay?”

“last i checked, i didn’t ask for some psychological evaluation. so for the love of god-”

“no- i meant your wrist… is your wrist okay?”

a barely noticeable blush covered yeosang’s ears, “i’m fine. it’s nothing.” 

y/n’s head tilted, an unsure look on his face.“do… do you mind if i take a look at it?” 

yeosang stilled, the low hum of the microwave filling in the silence. he hesitated, but decided against it, knowing yunho had told him he needed to get it looked at because there wasn’t much he could do.

his eyes drifted to y/n, his arm slowly gravitating in the direction of y/n, a silent approval. the doctor carefully walked forward, gently grabbing yeosang’s hand and pulling the sleeve slightly. a small gasp left his mouth, the sleeve barely pulled back but the wound already looked pretty bad. “do you have a first aid kit?”

the metal lid of the small trash can clinked as it swung back and forth, ointment-clotted swabs and bandage wrappers crinkling within the confinement. “thank you,” yeosang’s voice was small, his upset mood dissipating as time went on. 

“it’s no problem,” y/n finished wrapping yeosang’s wrist, careful not to make it too tight, “that was a second degree burn though… how’d you get it?”

yeosang looked down, a blush settling on his cheeks. his head dropped and his feet swung under the medical cot he sat on. he mumbled something, biting his lip afterwards, and y/n’s eyebrows furrowed. “i’m sorry, what was that?” and yeosang mumbled once more, y/n still not hearing what he said. “huh?”

“i said i burned myself trying to help seognhwa hyung make your meals!”

y/n blinked, “oh.”

and for the next few moments, it was deadly silent, the ticking of the wall clock echoing. y/n couldn’t take the awkwardness any longer, clearing his throat, “well, next time you get hurt, please don’t be afraid to come to me. it’d give me something to do, i already feel pretty useless and lonely here, to be honest.”

yeosang looked up, his feet no longer swinging, and a confused look on his face. “you’re not useless. we wouldn’t have kept you alive if you were.”

at that moment y/n inhaled, not knowing how to respond to that. “uh, jeez, that uh… hm, that makes me feel better… i guess?” a moment passed before the two chuckled, a comedic break turning out to be a lot more comforting than they expected. 

minutes passed, their conversation dying down into light replies and subtle smiles when yeosang asked a question that threw the doctor off. “do you know anyone by the name of heeseung?”

dozens of thoughts raced through y/n’s mind; why does he want to know? is heeseung okay? did he do something he wasn’t supposed to? 

“. . . yes.” but y/n couldn’t ask any further because before he knew it, yeosang had nodded and gotten down from the cot, walking out of the infirmary area.

meanwhile, miles away the others had arrived at the meeting spot, every member cautiously looking out for anything strange. seonghwa began pulling in closer to the black van adjacent to theirs, letting hongjoong and wooyoung scout to make sure this was the man they were meeting with.

after confirmation that this was dongwoo, they holstered their weapons within the waistbands of their trousers and exited the van. 

“have you got it?” hongjoong cut to the chase; he was quite a brute person when it came to work. and dongwoo and his people wanted to make a good first impression? he’d see how well he could handle him.

“yep, got a truckload of ak-47’s, m16’s, and a couple 9mm’s. all smuggled from america.”

hongjoong pursed his lips, an impressed nod making dongwoo’s ego subtly inflate. word on the street said no one had successfully managed to smuggle weapons, specifically guns, to ateez without the korean law getting too heavily involved. the trader always got caught, and ateez always made sure to utilize their connections and silence those who they couldn’t trust to keep their mouths shut. 

hongjoong had to go to some expensive lengths just to get the glock 17’s they used now. the quality of the gun proved its worth though, they learned. however, it was rare that they resorted to guns—they didn’t rely on them unless they themselves were in danger or if someone needed to be silenced quickly.

“looks good to me,” hongjoong complimented, turning his head slightly toward wooyoung, “bring out their payment.” 

wooyoung nodded briefly, bringing his hands from behind his back, a large herbal drink-branded bag being showcased. dongwoo raised a brow, peeking over and catching a glimpse of the rolls of cash that filled the bag to the brim.

“thank you for your service,” hongjoong beckoned wooyoung to hand the bag to dongwoo, before he went to step toward his shipment.

“wait, what?”

at dongwoo’s abruptness, san stepped forward, “what do you mean ‘what’? take the deal or leav—” his words died down and he cowered back when hongjoong’s sharp glare met his eyes, immediately silencing him. 

the leader clasped his hands behind his back and made a sharp turn toward the man. “is there something wrong?” his head was tilted and a curious look was on his face, there shouldn’t have been anything wrong with this offer and if there was, there was only a problem on dongwoo’s side. call it being ignorant, but hongjoong didn’t say he never had a problem because he wanted to be cocky and egotistic. it was simply the truth. 

out of every issue he and the others had encountered with a deal, none had gone wrong on their part. it was part of the reason their group was at the top—they were efficient business partners and leaders. something only went wrong when non-mutual expectations weren’t met.

“there’s no ‘we’re looking forward to doing future business with you’?”

a small smirk had taken over hongjoong’s lips, hidden by the hanging of his head. “mr. yoo, we further business with those of the same intentions as us. do you, perhaps, know what those intentions are?”

dongwoo stood dumbfounded; of everything he heard about ateez and their leader, he didn’t think to find out just what their goal was.

“it seems you don’t know, so i’ll tell you. we, ateez, have come this far from one thing and one thing only—loyalty. when i heard your proposition of your first impression leading to cheaper traders, something was a little off,” his eyes squinted and he bought his pointer finger and thumb to barely touch, “you know a little too much, don’t you think?”

dongwoo’s eyes widened slightly but he recovered, however, it was noticeable. “what are you talking about?” 

“someone’s been talking, haven’t they? leaking information about us that they, most certainly, weren’t warranted to give, but you probably don’t know much—you’re not the loose tie that needs to be cut off,” he looked dongwoo dead in the eyes as his own narrowed, “i hope.”

his intimidating stare lasted for a few moments more before a light smile covered his face, eye lightening. “take your payment, we’ll be taking our things and leaving.”

hongjoong gave a nod of his head, him and the rest of ateez splitting up to hook the small weapon-filled-trailer to their own vehicle, dongwoo and his men pulling off once it was unattached. 

“boss, i don’t feel so good about this right now. i think we should hurry and get out of here.” yunho spoke, a hand rubbing at the hairs that stood on the back of his neck. hongjoong didn’t question further, sharing the suspenseful feeling that creeped up his spine, giving a prompt nod.

after 5 minutes were spent attaching the trailer and making sure they were ready to go, seonghwa started the engine and waited for everyone to get in. just as san and mingi were about to get in the van, the screeching of tires sounded nearby.

“get down!” and bullets went flying.

“do you like raisin bran?”

y/n gave a slight nod, folding his hands in front of him. “sure!” yeosang held the box in the air, stopping mid-grab.

“aren’t you a doctor? raisin bran has a lot of sugar…”

y/n shrugged his shoulders, standing to get bowls for the both of them, “i’m a doctor, not a dentist. besides, i’m quite the sugar addict. with the injuries i see and multiple hour surgeries i perform, i need some type of a high—so sugar high it is!”

yeosang laughed, shaking his head and setting the cereal box on the counter before grabbing the milk from the fridge. “quick question doc,” yeosang began and y/n looked at him, setting the bowls and spoons down. “milk first or cereal?”

yeosang held a laugh in when y/n had a visibly offended look on his face, a hand pressing to his chest. “yeosang, please tell me you put cereal fi—”

“shit! y/n where the fuck are you?!” someone had frantically shouted from the front of the house, yeosang and y/n giving each other a worried look before tripping over their own feet to reach the living room.

“oh my—what happened?!”

“fuck,” hongjoong let out a belligerent roar, “get him to the infirmary!”

y/n panicked, grabbing onto the injured man and hoisting him up into his arms, rushing to the infirmary. he looked down at the paled man in his arms, huffing out a breath of air, “don’t worry san, i’ve got you!”

san lies on the medical cot, eyes still and closed and chest rising and falling in a calming pattern. y/n is sitting next to him, checking his vitals every few minutes and making sure his labs are okay. after verifying everything is stable, he sat the clipboard down, closing his own eyes and lying his head in his arms on the cot, dozing off. 

it’d been about 3 hours since san was bought in like this. y/n could’ve laughed at how freaked out he was earlier—san’s injuries weren’t even the worst he’s ever seen or treated, but your emotions and professionalism change when the person lying on your operating table is someone you have a nice relationship with… and when said patient’s fellow gang members are breathing down your neck, reminding you that there’s no other option than survival for him...

“how is he?” hongjoong’s voice startled y/n out of his exhausted haze, the older jumping in his spot.

“he’s fine now. if you’d have been any later, he would have coded… and i can’t do much for coding outside a hospital.”

the leader nodded his head, his chest and shoulders dropping slightly as if he could finally breathe. y/n watched him, watched how hongjoong toed around the cot, staring san’s unconscious form down.

y/n fumbled with his fingers, running over his next words in his head before just blurting them. “is it hard?”

“what do you mean?”

he shrugged his shoulders, looking at the shorter, “being a leader… having to watch over everyone,” he held eye contact with the leader, trying to read his expression, “it must be suffocating when something happens to one of them.”

hongjoong’s tongue swiped over his teeth as he stared the taller down. the air around them was tense—hongjoong knew y/n meant good by his words, but he’s not the type of person to just get emotional with people, especially those who aren’t exactly close to him. the others may see y/n as someone more than a hostage, but to hongjoong, he was just that. a person they were taking advantage of—a person who was only cooperative because his life was on the line.

“we’re going to head back to the shooting scene and see if we can find anything that’ll lead us to dongwoo, son-of-a-bitch. wooyoung and yeosang will stay with you and san… so let them know if you or san needs anything.” y/n cleared his throat, giving a curt nod before standing up and walking toward the cabinets, desperate to escape the awkward and tense aura. 

when he heard the door to the infirmary shut, signaling hongjoong had left, he let out a sigh before starting to occupy himself again. he opened a cabinet, grabbing a roll of gauze—it was time to change san’s dressings.

as he made his way back to the cot, he noticed san was now awake and it caused him to stop in his tracks. “when did you wake up?”

“unfortunately, when it got awkward,” san watched y/n’s face fall, a look of embarrassment overtaking his tired features. he held back a teasing smile, leaning back on his arms, although hissing in pain and sitting back up when the pressure sent a stabbing pain through his side and shoulder. he watched y/n walk toward him and lift his clean shirt to start snipping at the dirtied gauze anchored around his naked shoulder.

a few moments went by of y/n re-bandaging and wrapping san’s wounds before the injured boy’s head tilted to the side. he didn’t know if it was because he was high off pain meds or if it was because he’s been so deprived of seeing an unfamiliar face… but y/n looked really handsome and flattering. even thinking about feeling that way sent a drunk feeling to san’s head, his mind getting lost and going blank in the echoing cavity of his skull. it was no secret to himself that he was rather flexible when it came to his romantic relationships and feelings, but he was still foreign to it.

he decided to push it to the back of his mind, feeling rather rushed and irrational at the moment, “y/n hyung… are you feeling better now?”

the older turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised in confusion, “i should be asking that—you’re the one who got shot in the shoulder and stomach,” he pulled san’s shirt back down, careful not to put pressure on his shoulder. he turned around for a moment before turning back and wrapping san’s arm in a sling.

“thank you,” the younger softly spoke, before continuing, “i just noticed you’re more at ease with all of...this. it’s almost a complete 180 from when we first met.”

the doctor’s hands froze against his own lap, a sigh leaving his mouth and his eyes fluttering in a blink of realization, “i guess so.”

“they’re not here—”

hongjoong sighed through his nose, looking rather composed; and the others thought it wasn’t much of a deal until the leader kicked the seat in front of him, scaring seonghwa, who was in the driver’s seat. “call yeosang.”

“been here for a while, what’s up.” said male spoke through their communicator, sounding calm and unbothered.

“can you please stop doing th—can you find anything about dongwoo’s whereabouts?”

“give me a sec,” the boy registered, the clicking of a keyboard sounding into the communication device.

“alright so while yeosang’s doing what should have been done, please tell me why there wasn’t an extensive amount of research on this client?” hongjoong was pissed. not only did their transaction end in a one-sided gunfight, it ended up with one of their own having more than one bullet wound.

wooyoung swallowed, knowing damn well the question was aimed at him. “hyung, i did do research. i made sure to look up what links he has with other businesses and everything that i could think of. i’ve never failed at doing so-”

“then why did you fail this time?”

it got heavily quiet, seonghwa looking at his boyfriend through the rear-view mirror. no one uttered a breath and looked away from a fidgeting wooyoung.

“aight i’m back.”

hongjoong ignored seonghwa’s prompting  gaze, “what did you find?”

“nothing. they’re good at covering their tracks and maybe that’s why wooyoung couldn't find much. usually, we resort to hacking, but i’ve never seen these sorts of codes before and if you want me to break the wall down it will take longer than what you’d want.”

the leader sighed once more, pinching the bridge of his nose while bouncing his right leg. “No it’s fine, we’ll just hope dongwoo and his crew don’t appear again.”

“but hyung, isn’t that a little reckless-”

“you shouldn’t be one to speak right now.” hongjoong turned to glare at wooyoung, the younger male pursing his lips and nodding. “everyone get in the car, we're going back.”

“...so i’m not going to try and hack this? aw.”

“what’s wrong?” san frowned as wooyoung sulked while sitting next to him on the cot.

“hyung’s mad with me…”

y/n had his back facing them, trying to arrange the mess that was on the counter where all the ointments and supplies were. yunho had came in earlier to apologize for not keeping it organized, his exact words being “i just clean up their wounds as best as i can, and i’m not really in here unless it’s an emergency.”

san lingered a glance at y/n as if the older would do the same. “is it because of dongwoo?”

the younger nodded with a pout, leaning on san’s side. “mhm, and he hasn’t talked to me since.”

“well you know joong-hyung, he’s…” san thought for a few seconds, and when he couldn't find the words, he bit the inside of his cheek. “ he’ll get over it, just give it time. or talk to seonghwa-hyung, he’ll know what to do, he always does.”

wooyoung whined, “i already did! and he said ‘i can’t do anything’ with that pained smile of his!”

san blinked, “what? you’re lying, hwa-hyung would never fail us-”

“no no, i was there. he talked to hongjoong-hyung before wooyoung came up to him...or at least tried. joong-hyung isn’t talking to anyone right now. that’s why hwa-hyung told you he can’t do anything.”

“yeo, i swear you’re the nosiest person ever. like, please, i’m not sure if that’s good or bad sometimes.” san grimaced after processing yeosang’s comment through the earpiece.

“as far as i know it’s done us more good than bad. plus, it’s my job to be nosy, remember? we all get paid for things, and i get paid for sticking my nose up yall’s business.”

“wait you do that 24/7?” wooyoung frowned.

“uh, no. sometimes i don’t even intend to do it, ya’ll loud as fuck so sometimes i don’t even need the communicators. and i only comment on things that mean something. and before you ask this did not mean anything, i just wanted to join in the conversation.”

san snorted, “then why didn’t you just walk in here?”

“cus i’m busy right now.”

“doing what?” wooyoung grabbed san’s hand and played with his friend’s fingers.

“doing what i was not authorized to do—hack that wall.”

“won’t you get in trouble?”

“maybe,” the sound of him smacking his lips sounded, “but at least i won’t be given the silent treatment.”

wooyoung sat up. “yah! yeosang i will come down there and kick you!” when he heard no response he jumped off the cot and walked out the room, “yeosang i warned you!”

while hearing his best friend yell down the hall, san laughed. his attention returned to y/n who had his head tilted and a confused look on his face. “what’s wrong, hyung?”

“how...were you two talking to yeosang?” 

san hummed, smiling while tapping the clear earpiece in his ear. “we have them on unless we’re showering and sleeping or something. but when we’re on duty we have them on, speaking of that, i’ll tell jongho to get you one-”

y/n shook his hands in front of him as san was about to move, “you shouldn’t move too much, you might reopen a wound. i’ll call him…” y/n’s voice died down when he realized what he was volunteering to do.

at the sudden look of horror on y/n’s face, san laughed. 

“don’t worry, jongho’s just a buff teddy bear unless in danger. but for now, i’ll call him over.” san raised his hand to his earpiece, making y/n question why he couldn’t do that before. “jongho, can you bring an earpiece for y/n?”

san nodded when the younger agreed, saying he’ll be there shortly. he lowered his hand and rested it on his lap. “have you gotten along with anyone here yet?” he tried to spark conversation with the doctor, highly interested in him and feeling the need to know more about him.

“aside from yeosang, seonghwa and you, uh, not really. maybe yunho? i mean, he’s never showed any sign of hatred towards me so i guess we get along decent too...but i haven’t really had a chance to meet the others.”

the younger nodded, “well we may look tough and all, but i promise we’re all chill. hongjoong-hyung is only tough and straightforward when he’s on the lookout. just give him some time and you’ll see how nice and caring he is.”

y/n hummed, “i guess..”

“i have arrived with the product~” jongho smiled while walking inside the room, a box in hand. “once you put it on it will send yeosang a message and he’ll grant access to it.”

san watched jongho gesture y/n to grab it, but he took it before the doctor did. “here, i’ll put it in for you.”

jongho did his best to not snort or laugh, leaning against the wall instead. he watched san help y/n with setting up the earpiece, amused at how san seemed interested in the doctor.

“ok done, yeosang should grant access soon.” san smiled at y/n, the doctor returning it with his own.

a few minutes of quiet tension passed and jongho felt the need to do something; he pressed the button on the side of his earpiece. “yeosang-hyung, are you not going to-”

“give me a second, i just kicked wooyoung out. if he goes up there with a black eye don’t question it, he’ll say what happened without you asking.”

“you didn’t actually give him a black eye did you-”

“if he did then that can easily be taken care of…” y/n commented while watching jongho roll his eyes.

“yeah i did-”

“no he didn’t.” wooyoung butted in, it sounded like he was munching on something. “it was the other way around-”

san chuckled, shaking his head at his friend's bickering. he realized y/n’s earpiece was successfully connected when he saw the older grin. 

“i bet they both have a black eye.” y/n nodded to himself.

jongho rose a brow, a grin prominent on his features. “and how much are we betting?”

y/n hummed, “thirty bucks.”

“i wanna bet too~,” san grinned, “let’s check it out then. can i move now?”

“hmm...i’d say no but you probably wouldn’t really listen to me so... as long as you don’t make sharp movements.” 

san cheered, extending his free arm to get help in getting off the cot. “let’s go then!”

“hello?” 

“mrs. l/n! how are you? it’s heeseung...lim heeseung.”

the woman on the other end of the phone gasped in what sounded like happiness, “heeseung! It’s been a while since i last heard of you, is something wrong?”

the nurse leaned back into his couch, “well i called to ask if you've seen y/n…”

“i see...well we haven’t heard of him for quite some time now. we thought it was because of work you know? but you two are close aren’t you, i assumed you would know about his whereabouts”

heeseung sighs softly, “well we were close before we broke up...i called because he hasn’t appeared at work for almost two weeks now. everyone knows y/n is a workaholic so it’s rare for him to miss days. and i wanted to ask if i can go to the police and file a report.”

“have you checked his apartment? you do know where he lives right?”

“i do...”

“well if he isn’t there then yes, go to the police station. please let us know if you find anything!”

“of course, thank you.” heeseung smiled painfully to himself, bidding farewell to y/n’s mother before hanging up. soon after he turned off his phone and sighed, he really hopes y/n is at his apartment and only took a vacation.

y/n couldn’t help but bust out laughing when the three of them walked inside the kitchen. wooyoung did indeed have a black eye and so did yeosang. 

"darn it." jongho huffed as y/n ended up winning the bet.

seonghwa stood there confused, spatula in hand as he's setting out their plates for dinner.  "and what's this about?" 

san grinned, "we made a bet to see if yeosang and wooyoung gave each other a black eye or not. and luckily y/n ended up winning." 

"would that be called a doctors intuition?" yeosang rose a brow while glaring at the plates seonghwa handed him. 

"good question." y/n chuckled while walking up to the second oldest. "need help?" 

"oh, yeah, thanks." seonghwa smiled while gesturing to the drinks. "set them on the table, everyone will serve their own drinks."

"got it. oh, and after dinner, i'll need you two to come with me so we can take care of those shiners." 

“yeah yeah...”

[dragonsfictavern]

Helping Hands

Five x Unrelated Female

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2.8K

𝗮/𝗻: So with the new season of TUA having come out today, I thought it would be the perfect time to post a little oneshot I thought of. This would be a little before Five got himself stuck in the future. Background information is the reader was born on the same day as the academy kids and she has her own powers. But her family didn’t give her up for adoption. She was raised in an abusive home and often went to the academy for solace. She was in the academy and went on their missions. She just wasn’t adopted by Reginald. Reginald often called her Number 8 or The Extra. Reader is closest to Five, Klaus, and Vanya.

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: Experiencing, signs, and talking about child abuse.

My stomach aches with every step I take. My hand laid flat against it, as if that would ease the pain. There was a gash across my hairline, my lip was split and blood dried across my chin and throat. It hurt to breathe too deeply and every step I took made me believe as though his hands were personally gripping my ribs and squeezing tightly. The last of my injuries consisted of a throb in my ankle.

I turned the corner, staying along the side of the walk as to not get knocked by the busying New Yorkers. I grip at their gate and limp along, with the gates help, until I reach the Hargreeves main gate. I open it and step up the stairs.

“Ah, dammit,” I grit out. The pain in my ribs increases with each step. My stomach churns and I fear I may vomit. I stumble up and lean against the side of the wall.

I lift up my fist to knock as loudly as I was physically able. I wait… and wait. No one answers. I bang my fist on the door again.

“Will someone answer that door?!” I hear the voice of Reginald Hargreeves snap from inside the home. I knock again; with a little less power than before. My breath quickened and I fought off a groan. “Will someone get the damn door?! Grace! Pogo! Anybody!” He shouted once again.

There was silence. Or at least I couldn’t hear anything. I waited patiently. I knew not to bug Mr. Hargreeves too much. If he couldn’t help, I would just go to the free clinic. Maybe they would be able to help. I wasn’t sure if they were able to help me without an adult present though… I was only thirteen. But I couldn’t go back there.

My mind was so overwhelmed with thoughts of what alternatives I could possibly go to that I didn’t hear Mr. Hargreeves himself open the door. I jump, finally noticing that he was standing there, looking at me with his beady eyes.

“Number 8!” He exclaimed, seeming as surprised as he was able. “What are you doing here? There is no mission, today,” he states. I exhale sharply, looking down at my shoes.

“I-I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t know where else to go,” I say timidly. I don’t dare look back up at him. I feared too greatly that he was going to send me away. He doesn’t say anything, nor do I. The tension in the air was thick and yet I wasn’t sure what to make of it. So I finally look up.

Mr. Hargreeves eyes were already looking at my face. He looked with an understanding eye as he took in my injuries. This was not the first time I had shown up at the door on non-mission days in this type of condition. I also suspected that this wouldn’t be the last. His gaze moved all the way down to my swelling ankle. When he finished assessing the damage, he clicked his tongue and nodded.

“Well then, we better get you inside and get those checked on,” he stated. He stepped back and opened the door wider for me. I peered into the foyer and saw a glimpse of Vanya peeking her head from the living room. “Come now, we haven’t got all day,” he snaps. I exhale, looking down at my ankle. I wasn’t sure I could walk on it for much longer.

“Uh, sir?” I look from my ankle to him and down again. He realizes the issue and thinks for a moment, his lips pursed.

“Number Five!” Mr. Hargreeves shouts.

In an instant, a circle of blue appears out of thin air and Five steps out of it. His eyes instantly connect to mine. I smile brightly, instinctively standing up straighter and forgetting the ankle. I wince and stumble back again the wall around the door. Five’s eyes widen. He shoots from out of the house and is carefully guiding my left arm around his shoulder. I hop, finding my footing and finding myself very close to him. I pray my cheeks don’t flush.

“It happened again?” Five asked, jaw clenched tightly as he looked in my eyes— purposely avoiding the cuts and bruises.

“Yes,” I admit softly. I looked back into his eyes and I was entranced. We were dangerously close, so close I could see every speck of gold in his green eyes.

I had probably been in… like, with Five ever since I knew what liking a boy meant. Once I got over the fact that they too had cooties, the fact that cooties were not a thing, and the fact that I found boys— specifically Five, very attractive. I hadn’t admitted them and I didn’t plan on it. We were young and had all the time in the world. What’s the rush?

“Come on, come on! We cannot keep this door open. Come in, the two of you. Five, help her down to the infirmary,” Mr. Hargreeves demands, turning around and walking deeper into the house. Five doesn’t move. He keeps staring at me.

“I hate this keeps happening,” he grits out. I push myself closer to him and squeeze my arm in an awkwardly done hug.

“Me too..” i trail off. Five sighs deeply. “Now help me out, here. I’m feelin’ kinda rough,” I tease. What was meant to be a joke, turned out to be a mistake. Five shakes his head, jaw locked. But he starts to move. He slides an arm around my waist and helps me through the threshold.

When we step in, I look up, surprised, to see Mr. Hargreeves had actually waited. He had seen the encounter. That got my cheeks to flush. I duck my head as we start following him through the house. As we pass the living room, I once again catch Vanya peeking out at me with worry in her eyes.

“Number 7! Go back to your lessons. This is a private matter!” Mr. Hargreeves ordered. Vanya frowned, looking away from me and walking back to her lessons. Five and I glance at each other with a look of regret.

We hated how Vanya was treated just because she didn’t have any powers. I open my mouth to argue and ask her to help when Five squeezes my hip. My jaw snaps shut as I inhale sharply. I tense in his hold before I look over to him.

“Let it go,” he whispers in my ear. That was not helping me right now. I turn my head to him, causing our faces to be painstakingly close. Also not helping.

“But Five…”

“Not a fight fit for today,” he says lowly, finally acknowledging the cuts and bruises on my face. I nod and let it go. For now.

We both continue to follow Mr. Hargreeves when suddenly Klaus comes dancing in, a Walkman in his hands and headphones over his ears. I giggle when Mr. Hargreeves stops abruptly. Five sighs and rearranges his hold on me, pulling me right against his side in the process.

“Number Four!” Mr.Hargreeves snaps. Klaus’ back was facing towards us and his hips were shaking wildly. I giggle again, using my free hand to cover my mouth before it caught Mr. Hargreeves attention. “NUMBER. FOUR!” Mr. Hargreeves yelled. Klaus jumped about a foot in the air before he spun on his heel, ready to give the excuse of a lifetime when he saw Five helping me stand.

“Now what happened here?” He asked inquisitively. He stepped over to the other side of me, eyeing my injuries. “So this has happened once again, my friend?” He asks, moving his left arm to steady his right one as he thrummed his fingers against his cheek.

“Yes, it has. And we’re trying to get her some help. So if you don’t mind moving,” Five says slowly as if that’s the only way to get Klaus to understand something. It usually is.

“Why, yes, dear brother! I would just love to go with you guys to… you know, help out. Check out some things. Make sure our little number 8 is alright,” he gushes, patting my cheek a bit as to not hurt me even further.

“Number Four, you will not be a burden to me right now,” Mr. Hargreeves scolds. Klaus’ smile instantly drops as he meets the eye of his father.

“I would like to help in any way I can,” Klaus states.

“You can’t help!” Mr. Hargreeves shouts, heading down towards the stairs to the left.

“Then I’ll be there for moral support,” Klaus shouts back. Mr. Hargreeves stops and looks at him. Klaus makes a cross over his heart before resting his hand on top of it. “I’ll be as silent as the dead…”

Mr. Hargreeves narrows his eyes before letting out a grunt and heading down the stairs. Five starts moving us as well and this time Klaus follows. He bends down to my height.

“Unluckily and luckily enough, the dead aren’t so silent for me,” he said with a cheeky grin and a sly wink. He bounds ahead and practically skips down the stairs. I see Five shake his head and I couldn’t help but laugh a bit.

“What’s so funny?” Five asks, looking between me and the stairs to help me down.

“You. Klaus. Your family,” I admit. Five scoffs.

“Yeah. My family-“

“Is wonderful.” I interrupt. He stops us, about midway down the flight of stairs. He looks up at me and we seem to have an understanding.

“Maybe they don’t want to make me gauge my eyes out… sometimes,” He admits in a voice so quiet I strain to hear him. I smile and continue down the steps.

The infirmary was in the lowest level of the house. The walls were stone and dark grey. Gourneys were lined up against the wall. Eight of them to be specific. Cabinets, cupboards, and tables decorated the walls. Supplies for any medical emergency. Probably better than any free clinic.

Mr. Hargreeves picks me up and places me carefully on top of a gourney. Klaus sits on the one across from me and Five sticks right by my side.

Grace walks in almost immediately after we settle in and I see pogo waiting in the back. Grace walks up to me and smiles brightly.

“Hello, dear. What happened?” She asks. I look down at my hands and begin to fiddle with them.

“I got hurt…”

“Oh no! How terrible. Well, dear, how did you get-“

“Get the antiseptic, Grace! Now!” Mr. Hargreeves stops her from asking the dreaded question. Grace’s eyes widen before she looks over at Mr. Hargreeves and nods. She makes her way to the supplies. “And we’ll need two wraps and some bandaids. Hurry along now!” He adds. Grace was quick to make haste and bring him all supplies he needed.

It was surprising but Klaus managed to stay decently quiet. The occasional question, whether of what his father was doing, or how I was, he asked. He often repeated questions. Mr. Hargreeves attempted to ignore him but it was becoming difficult. What added to his patience wearing thin was the swinging of Klaus’ legs that hung over the gourney. It created a loud squeaking sound. Five on the other hand stood perfectly still. Stiff, actually. His jaw was locked and his fists were clenched. He looked carefully at what Mr. Hargreeves was doing.

Mr. Hargreeves paid careful attention. He applied antiseptic on my cuts and placed bandaids over them. He had the boys turn around as he had to lift up my shirt to check my ribs. Five had respectably turned around without argue while Klaus had made some quip about how it wouldn’t bother him. His father yelled and although Klaus relented, a wickedly amused smirk danced across his face just as he danced earlier.

Mr. Hargeeeves assured me nothing was broken. Just a few very badly bruised ribs. He left my ankle for last and like my ribs, it wasn’t broken. But sprained. He wrapped both my torso and my ankle. When he had finished, he cleared his throat and stepped back. Klaus immediately jumped off of the gourney.

“So… is she all good doc?” Klaus asked, peering up at him.

“That’s Mr. Hargreeves to you,” he corrected. Klaus frowned before turning to me. “As for you, Number 8. I want you to head to the living room and ice that ankle for awhile.” He holds out his hand out and Grace places an ice pack in it. He holds it out for me to take.

“Thanks for the advice, pop, but I got her from here. I’ll take her off your hands,” Five says with a cheerey smile that was clearly forced. Five quickly takes the ice pack and grabs my hand. He creates a portal and walks through it, dragging me with him. As we move through, I can faintly hear Klaus shout a ‘wait for me.’

I was surrounded by darkness with only Fives hand to guide me. But it only lasted a moment before I was bouncing up and down, having landed already sitting down in Fives bed. I look at the sudden scenery change in shock before my eyes flicker over to Five as he carefully places the ice pack on my ankle before he begins to pace his room. I sigh.

“Five…” I trail off softly. Five stops abruptly, pointing a finger at me.

“He shouldn’t even be near you, let alone hurting you like that!” Five seethes. My shoulders sag as I realize Five had been holding that in since he saw me standing outside of the academy.

“I know,” I say just as softly. He needed to vent this out. I would too if that’s how I dealt with things.

He went back to his pacing before he would randomly stop and kick something before continuing again. I would jump every time. Five began muttering under his breath, saying something I couldn’t even comprehend before he stopped and started kicking his dresser.

“Five! Five stop it!” I shout, not being able to get up and actually stop him. He didn’t listen to me anyway, but rather kicked harder. The wood was starting to chip away. “Five, please! Stop this!”

Five whirled around to face me. “Why haven’t you ever stopped him?! You have powers for gods sakes and you won’t even use them to protect yourself?!!” Five shouts out desperately. I flinch back. His gaze immediately softens and leaves only the remnants of sadness and eagerness. He walks forward and kneels beside the bed next to me. “Why don’t you save yourself?” he whispers. Tears begin to whell up in my eyes.

“Because he’ll only hit harder if I do,” I whimper, tears freely flowing down my face. Five freezes for a moment before sprinting into action. He gets up and sits parallel to my legs on the bed. He takes me into his arms and hugs me as I cry.

“Then I’ll protect you… Sometimes we need others strength in order to gain our own. I’ll—I’ll be your strength,” Five says slowly, making sure his words came out right. Thought the tears continued to fall, I laughed through them.

“When did you become so wise?” I ask him. He shrugs in our embrace.

“I guess I’m just an old soul..”

He keeps me in his arms for a few minutes and I treasure them. Comfort from the boy I liked. Only when we both felt comforted enough to let go, did we slip away from each other. I leant back against the headboard and stared at him. He stared back, a lazy smile on his face. I softly grab his hand and squeeze.

“Promise me you won’t leave. I don’t know how I would handle life without… your sarcasm, of course,” I finish, trying not to make the laugh leaving me sound too awkward. I wanted of say so much more than I did. But I had time. I had time to say all I needed too. I just wasn’t brave enough now. A look flickered over his features before he squeezed my hand firmly.

“I promise.” He nods.

Suddenly the door slams open and Klaus crashes down onto the floor. Five and I instantly look down at Klaus who seemed fine enough just laying on Fives floor.

“What the hell guys..? Why didn’t you take me with you?!” Klaus groans dramatically. Five ignores him and instead looks back to me.

“Only sometimes,” Five says, squinting his eyes and angling his head for a moment. I laugh, shaking my head.

Five moves to sit next to me, looking down at his brother as he nonchalantly grabs my hand and intertwines our fingers. Nothing could stop me from smiling, especially as we both looked down at Klaus who hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor.

“Come on. Get up,” Five says.

“No.” Klaus pouts. “I’ve been banished to the floor and the floor is where I will stay.” Klaus sighs.

“Klaus? We would really like to un-banish you from the floor,” I say. Klaus peaks an eye open and up at us.

“Really?” He asks. We both nod. “Ok!” He scrambles up off the floor and jumps on the bed.

[tanyawritesstories]

DNA test, anyone? | Wolfpack x Reader

So I said a while back that I was going to try and write a fic based on a @clonesandmoans post about the Wolfpack getting the reader pregnant after an orgy and not knowing which one was the father. So, I wrote just that! Hope you enjoy! 😉

Warnings: NSFW, smut mentioned, fluff, described orgy in a flashback, pregnancy, protective good bois

•••

You woke with immediate pain in your entire torso. Dull, aching, constant pain. As bad as that may be, it was a reminder of the mind blowing events of last night. You smiled at the thought, images flashing through your head.

~~

Your brain couldn’t comprehend the amount of pleasure your body was feeling. Your skin was covered in sweat, bruises, and several hands. Gripping, massaging, spanking, all over you. You weren’t sure who was where anymore.

You were pretty sure that Wolffe was the owner of the cock that was in your mouth, hilt deep, choking you. His grip on your hair was just hard enough to cause a little bit of pain that easily flowed into pleasure.

Comet was the one with your tits in his hands, massaging them gently and using his mouth to suck harshly on one of your nipples. He hadn’t used his teeth on them, but his thumb and index fingers pinching and rolling was enough for you.

Warthog was in your right hand and Wildfire in your left. Both your hands skillfully working their cocks to climax. You didn’t know how you were managing to keep your body functions working since your brain had pretty much left you. You were on autopilot at this point.

That left Sinker and Boost to both of your other holes. Boost was in front of you thrusting into your soaking cunt with wild abandon. Not content to stop until he filled you to the brim with his cum. Sinker had filled your ass after working you open, it still stung a little when he slid in as he was impatient and rushed prepping you a little. He was now moving easily in and out of you thanks to his precum and how wet you were.

You were literally being fucked out of your mind by the entire Wolfpack and it was everything you had ever wanted.

~~

By the time the night had ended, every one of them had stuffed you full with each of their cum. Your legs felt sticky at just the memory.

You sat up slowly, wincing as the soreness turned to sharp pains in your lower regions. You stood on wobbly legs, finally standing up straight and not losing your balance. After standing for a few seconds you were hit with an intense wave of nausea. Despite the pain, you ran to the fresher and promptly threw up into the toilet. You figured it was a result of the strange drinks the boys had mixed for you the night before. You had watched them add at least ten different alcohols into one concoction with potentially bad after effects.

You leaned against the wall after emptying the contents of your stomach. Still worth it. You proceeded with your daily duties as a civilian mechanic, doing repairs, safety checking equipment, seeing the boys off to yet another mission, all in a day’s work.

Everything pretty much stayed the same for the next week. Except the fact that you would randomly get nauseous and end up in a refresher, or with your head over a trash receptacle, puking your brains out. You had no idea why. The idea of it being the alcohol was a good one, but it wouldn’t be lasting this long. Food poisoning? But you ate the same thing everyday and never had this reaction. Just being sick in general was an option, except everyone was perfectly healthy, unless a sickness just appeared out of thin air.

You went to a medic after getting tired of throwing up everyday for nearly two weeks in a row. You were hoping it was an easy fix, that there was a medication you could take and make it go away so you could get back to work. That wasn’t the case.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Y/N,” the shy medic began. “It can’t be that bad, can it?” You questioned, concern finding its way into your eyes.

“You’re pregnant.”

The information struck you like a mudhorn charging at you full speed. “What? T-that can’t be right,” you stuttered out. “I ran the tests three times, it’s correct,” the medic assured, “somehow you got pregnant.”

Then it dawned on you. The Wolfpack. That night they fucked you senseless must have overwhelmed your birth control and gotten you pregnant. Your head fell into your hands and you groaned. Fuck. Now what? What steps did you take from here? Do you tell them? That in itself presented an issue. All of them had emptied themselves into you, so who was the father? It could be any of them, it’s not like the baby’s looks or DNA could tell either. You knew if they pulled it up they would only find that it was a clone not which clone.

You sulked back to your room and had no choice but to deal with your situation. You weren’t exactly ready to be a mother, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. You had to tell them when they got back, there was nothing else you could do.

It was another few weeks when the boys finally got back. You were nervous as all hell and decided to tell them after they had gotten settled back in and relaxed some. You didn’t need to add to their stress or dampen their happiness. You welcomed them back like you always did and gave each of them a kiss on the cheek, telling them you had a surprise for them later, so that they knew to set time aside.

That time came just before they were all about to bunk down for the night.

“So, Y/N, what’s this surprise you have in store for us?” Sinker asked with a wink.

“Well, it’s nothing like the last one,” you replied. You made sure you had all their attention before continuing. “I have something important to tell you guys,” you said, looking at the floor. You chanced a glance up and saw six pairs of eyes boring into you. You took a deep breath and prayed they didn’t flip out.

“I’m, uh, I’m pregnant,” you said, just loud enough for them to hear.

You got the opposite reaction to what you expected. Complete silence. Looking between them you could see each of them thinking, trying to figure it out. Comet was the first to decipher it.

“So which one of us is the father?”

You looked sheepishly at the floor again. “I-it could be any of you, possibly all of you.”

There was silence again until Sinker spoke up. “We’re that good, huh?” You looked up to see the smirk on his face before Boost elbowed him in the ribs and quietly told him to cut it out. An arm wrapped around your shoulders and you looked up to see Wildfire’s eyes looking back at yours. “Are you going to be alright?”

You closed your eyes, the full force of what you had done finally setting in. You were ashamed, embarrassed, and felt stupid. The creases of your eyes began collecting tears and you squeezed them shut harder, causing the tears to fall down your cheeks. You couldn’t hold back your emotions any longer and you broke down in tears. Wildfire pulled you into him and held you tightly as you sobbed into his shoulder, soaking his blacks. You felt the rest of the boys come to your aid, rubbing your back, running their fingers through your hair, holding your hands, anything they could to provide you some comfort.

You quieted down after a few minutes and slowly pulled away from Wildfire only to be taken into Wolffe’s arms. The Commander placed his hands on your cheeks and tilted your face up to look at him, wiping your tears with his bare thumbs.

“It’ll be alright,Y/N. We’ll help you,” he assured, “We will all be with you every step of the way, anything you need, tell us, ok? This baby is all of ours, so we’re going to treat it and it’s mother like the greatest treasure in the galaxy.” The other men echoed Wolffe’s words with their own words of encouragement and promises to be there for you. You found a smile coming to your face, a feeling of calm washing over you.

“I don’t deserve you amazing boys,” you said.

Wolffe kissed your forehead, “No, cyar’ika, we don’t deserve you, or this amazing gift you’ve given us.” Tears rolled down your face, but this time from happiness. Everything was going to be alright.

~~

The next few months were the most chaotic and stressful months of your life. The boys were so attentive to your needs and always there to help you. They hated leaving you to go on missions but they didn’t have much choice, and you assured them that you would be ok. But when they weren’t on mission, at least one of them was always with you.

They also made sure you were in perfect healthy condition. Walking you throughout the ship for exercise, making sure you stuck to a healthy diet and didn’t consume anything dangerous, and not letting you lift anything heavy, no matter how much you complained about some of those things.

Comet was usually the one to enforce your ‘food laws’ as you had nicknamed them. Refusing you things that would make you gain extra weight, and making sure you stuck to the list of foods you were given. He only let your cravings go so far until he took whatever you were eating away from you once you had too much. Usually that caused you to get mad or upset at him, the hormones only making things worse, but he was a firm man and didn’t budge even when you gave him your best puppy eyes. Though he wasn’t all bad, he always made sure you had food and if you were craving something specific he would run to the mess hall and get it for you.

Warthog kept you from working too much, usually he was already in the hangar when you would try and sneak in to get work done. He would notice you but pay no mind until you started doing something worrying. He would rush to your side and lift things for you or pick tools off the ground, go up on ladders, and occasionally escort you away from your workstation if you had been working too long. You would get upset at him too and worry that the work would go unfinished, but he would make sure it got done, by him or another mechanic.

Sinker was always there during your mood swings. When you would suddenly get angry or sad he would be at your side, comforting you or calming you down. He had a way with words and seemed to know the perfect ones to make you laugh when you were sad or soothe you when you were angry. He often dried your tears with his hands, always removing his gloves so you could feel his skin. You got anxious sometimes too, to the point you would be jittery. Sinker would be there letting you do anything to occupy your mind and get it off the anxious thoughts. Usually it was running your fingers through his hair or tracing his vertebrae with shaky hands.

Wildfire had specifically read up on the physical effects of pregnancy and found himself taking care of your changing body. You would wake up with muscle pains and Wildfire would be right there to massage the tension out of your shoulders or back. He would tell you facts and information he read off the holonet about which positions to sleep in to reduce the stress on your body. He would happily do little things for you, like rub your back or scratch an itch you couldn’t reach. Nothing seemed too big or small a task for him. He held your hair out of the way when your morning sickness kicked in and never complained. He would help you take baths and showers, scrubbing places you no longer had access to. Even going so far as to shave your legs and your vulva when you nearly broke down in tears saying you didn’t feel sexy anymore because of it.

Wolffe also contributed where he could, given it was hard because he was the busiest. He would spend time listening to you rant and rave about things that were bothering you or the events of that day, or the fact that Comet refused you cupcakes again. He was good at listening and hung onto every word you said. He often helped you shower too, since you loved to talk and sing in the shower. You taught him some songs and he would sometimes sing them with you. Oftentimes your mutual showering would lead to more adult activities. Seeing you big and pregnant always turned Wolffe on to some degree. Whenever your hormones would go crazy and make you horny, you always went to Wolffe. After finding out about his breeding kink you exploited it every time you were in need of special attention. It drove Wolffe feral seeing you naked and pregnant. He would give you exactly what you needed even when you didn’t know what that was. Whether that was fucking you rough and urgent or slow and sensual, he always knew what you needed. The other Wolfpack boys knew not to get in the Commander’s way when you would comm him asking to meet up in a less traveled part of the ship.

Boost was the most nervous about the situation that had been thrust upon him and his brothers. He hesitated to pitch in and help, not knowing what he could do but feeling bad he wasn’t as excited as the others. It took your assurance to bring him around, telling him that you were just as scared and nervous as he was. He decided that he would help keep you in shape and healthy. He would walk or jog throughout the ship with you, help you through light workouts that Wildfire told him were beneficial for pregnant women. He wanted to support you and therefore mirrored your workouts, making sure everything you did he did too, just so you weren’t alone. It often encouraged you and it became a challenge for you to get Boost to sweat with every workout you did. He was perfectly athletic and if you could get him to sweat and exert himself a little bit then that meant you were doing a good job. He even took up yoga with you, you were both just as bad being beginners and had many laughs and tumbles from trying strange poses. Sinker made the mistake of teasing Boost for doing yoga, you put an end to his teasing with a karate kick to the ass. Sinker never mentioned it again.

By the time the baby was due, the Wolfpack had transformed a corner of the barracks into a nursery. Complete with everything you could need, a crib, changing table and plenty of clothes for the little one. If anyone asked General Plo how any of those supplies managed to make it aboard he would swear he had no idea. But you all knew better. Despite the Force, the Jedi General was not a good liar. But he was a good babysitter.

You went into labor in the middle of the night, waking the boys up with your shouts of pain. They rushed you to the medbay and tried not to get in the way of the med droid as it delivered the child. They watched, some in horror, some in awe, as you gave birth. It was a perfectly healthy baby boy, who you could already tell looked a lot like his fathers.

You held the little babe on your chest and looked at the men surrounding you, most of which had tears in their eyes. “We did it,” you rasped out, your throat sore from screaming out in pain. “What are we going to name him?” Warthog asked. You looked down at your son, sleeping soundly on your chest. There was a little star shaped strawberry birthmark on his left cheek. “Nova,” you said.

“It’s perfect,” Wolffe agreed. He gently placed his hand on the baby’s head. “Our gift from the stars.”

[frangipanidownunder]

Objects in the Mirror: fic

This is for my anon who asked: ‘what happens when Scully sees Mulder kissing someone else during their “separation”. This is set pre-season 10.

Willowy. That’s the first word that pops into Scully’s head. The second thought is that at least the woman isn’t a brunette too. Type, much, Mulder? The third thought is that it’s none of her business what Mulder does these days. None. At all. Unless it’s a health issue, he’s an adult. He’s not her…The mental conversation doesn’t supply a word so her brain leaps to the fourth thought, which is how the fuck could he do that? She stops short of adding ‘to her’, so she pulls herself back to the third thought, repeating like a mantra as she strides out, eyes to the sidewalk, desperate to unsee what she saw.

But now there’s a burning itch in her gut, the kind that used to see her pumping more rounds out at the firing range or sending local law enforcement officers running for cover with her machine-gun observations of their sub-par work. Pity she can’t blow her anger/disappointment/betrayal/jealousy off like that anymore; she’s no longer FBI.

Pity she can’t blow off being Scully.

She takes her writhing anger/disappointment/betrayal/jealousy into the café over the road and orders a large latte and a white chocolate and raspberry muffin. She knows she’ll regret it almost immediately and spend a week denying herself any other treats but she needs the sugar hit. Mulder’s still talking to Willow-Blonde, so while Scully’s waiting, she teases ‘Louis’ the barista with a slow smile, holding the seam of her wallet against her cheek, hugging her waist with the other arm and slowly twisting her torso side to side so that her hair falls over her face, then swings back off it again.

It’s a pointless mating dance. It’s reactive. She’s aware of that, but tries not to fall further down the Mulder-profiling-her rabbit hole. The slow-combustion of what she recognises as a misguided sense of dispossession is still taking place in her veins. She hates herself for this weakness but here she is swaying for a bearded barista. Louis blinks her way, finishing the latte art on her order with a flourish. For him, this ritual is part of his training. Keep the customers happy. Especially the older, professional women. They’re the ones who’ll return to the same café time and again, spending their disposable income on cakes and romantic hopes. She’d fuck him though. He’s pretty enough. She wonders what the male equivalent of willowy is. And then tells her mind to shut the fuck up.

Outside, where people are actually living with purpose, instead of imagining petty sex-revenge scenarios, the street is busy. Through the thrum, she spots Mulder again. His outline, his figure, is imprinted indelibly in her mind’s eye. She believes she could find him anywhere, in a ballgame crowd, in the darkened corner of a jazz club behind drifting dry ice, through the misty rain at the end of the yard, arm raised against the twisted apple tree, raging at the brutal sky above him. There was a time when she so desperately wanted him to return home from her imposed exile that she saw him everywhere: in the parking lot, at the line in the bank, across the street pushing someone else’s baby in a stroller.

“Latte for Day-nah,” Louis sings, and as he hands over the cup his fingers brush hers. They’re thin, girlish, two knuckles decorated with calligraphy tattoos. She doesn’t hold his eye, just whips the coffee and cake bag from his hand and heads outside.

The woman has gone but Mulder’s still there, brown paper cup in hand, sunglasses (those ugly sports ones he got from eBay because they were called SpookMeister, what? they’re so me, Scully) across that familiar, broad nose, hair an inch past unkempt and stubble on his chin that hides that fat bottom lip just a little too much. She dips her face to her own cup and watches a moment longer before a car pulls up and he climbs in.

He calls her later. She doesn’t answer the first time, lets the cell buzz and slide over the table top while his name flashes at her. When she does pick up, she feigns breathlessness and gets the desired response.

“Did I catch you at a bad time, Scully?” There’s disappointment laced through his words.

“No, it’s fine. Just doing a workout.” She wheezes out a cough for extra measure.

“Keeping fit for all those kids, huh? You’re a good doctor, Scully. Always going above and beyond for that place. I hope they know how deep your affections lie. Is there some kind of Olympic Games for paediatricians? The Doctors Games?”

It’s hard not to bite back, but they’ve played this game for so long their dysfunction is beat-perfect. “Keeping fit for one’s own personal health and wellbeing is a key component in living a fulfilling life, Mulder.” If only she could convince herself as easily as the words flow.

There’s a shuffle, a few clicks and bumps. He’s changing channels. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve found a new therapist. One that seems to really get me, you know?”

His tone seems genuine and she softens. “That’s good, Mulder.” Despite their issues, she’s only ever wanted him to be well. “I do want to know these things. As your physician…”

“Not that I didn’t like the other one you recommended, but,” he takes in a sharp breath as if to punctuate his point, “we’d run our course.”

She sinks into the chair, letting her head flop back on the rest. One step forward, two steps back. “How often do you see him?”

“You’re letting your unconscious bias show, Scully. Her.”

The small word stings like a needle. She refrains from asking him if she has blonde hair and legs like a foal.

“Fortnightly. We’re still at the heady getting to know you stage.” There’s a small silence where she imagines he’s assessing if he’s done enough damage yet. “She’s young enough to understand Instagram but mature enough to get Prince.”

She laughs gently. The tension diffuses again and she feels a rush of emotion. She can’t help herself. He drags her down then lifts her up with a simple switch of tone. “I saw you today. In town.”

“I do go out in the wild without my Ghillie suit sometimes, Scully. Why didn’t you say hello? I don’t bite.”

Not literally, she thinks. Well, not for a long time. She crosses her legs at the unexpected surge of arousal but the image of him kissing another woman creeps behind her eyes again. “It felt…” If he were here with her, in the same room, he’d lean in to her, tilt his head, quirk his lips, draw the truth from her. But there’s a distance more than miles between them and she can’t say the words. “I was running late.”

“That’s unlike you, Dr Punctual. Is everything okay?”

The way he switches from teasing to caring leaves her off-balance. She waits for the world to right itself.

“Can you schedule me in for an appointment, Scully? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Not medical. Are you free on the weekend?”

Tightness in her chest makes her breathing hitch. She adjusts the phone in her grip, gives herself time to respond. She’s faced mutants and monsters, her own mortality and his death, the loss of her children. Surely, his confession shouldn’t be elevated to those ranks. Yet her hands tremble and nausea roils in her stomach. Her brain rocks. It’s stupid, dumb to feel like this. She left him. She turned her back one last time and got herself away before the darkness swallowed her whole. The guilt that followed stripped her bare like a never-ending winter but recently she’s begun to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin again.

“Sure. I’ll come over,” she asserts. That way she can simply leave again. Walk the same walk.

“No, let me take you to dinner,” he says, unexpectedly. “That Thai place you like.”

Her sigh is sharp enough to graze her throat. He can’t be that insensitive as to invite her to eat at the same place they celebrated getting the keys to the house or her news about the job at Our Lady of Sorrows.

“Or the Ethiopian restaurant. You loved their shiro wat.”

“We could order pizza and stay home.” Home. She says it without thinking.

He chuckled. “Like the old days?”

“Something like that,” she says, knowing it will be anything but.

In the end, they agreed on a lunch at the vegetarian café and she orders an omelette she knows she won’t eat. He tucks into his feta and pumpkin quiche with salad and tells her he’s trying to eat cleaner. She doesn’t ask what’s brought on the change.

“What was it you wanted to tell me, Mulder? If it’s just to prove you’re finally paying attention to your diet, you’ve demonstrated it adequately. I believe you.” Her fingers clasp around a napkin and she twists it to a sharp point.

His expression is the same one he used for the victims of the most bizarre kind of crimes. She feels panic welling in her throat and crushes the napkin into a tight ball.

“I wanted to tell you that I met someone. I figured I owed you an explanation. Not an explanation, I mean I haven’t done anything wrong…fuck, this is hard,” he rubs the back of his neck. “Jeez. I feel like a teenager. I…I just didn’t want you to find out from someone else.” He pauses and she nods her head at him, encouraging him to finish, not only because he’s clearly still got stuff to get off her chest, but also because she just wants it over. “Not that anyone else knows because I don’t have friends…so, anyway. I…” The noise he makes is a sad laugh. For her or for him? “That’s, that’s my news.”

His fingers have crept across the table and they’re drumming on the surface, disturbing the small jug containing packets of sugar so that it chinks in time with his beat. He adds a low “sorry.”

If she takes a deep breath, what signal will that send? If she speaks too quickly, would that show a callous disinterest? She tries to smile but her lips refuse to co-operate. She’s never been good at hiding negative emotions, despite her tendency to stoicism. “How did you meet her?”

“Online,” he says. “Where else does someone who spends days at a time in his den meet other humans?”

He’s blushing and it’s charming and she hates it. “Is it serious?” The words are dry on her tongue.

He looks away and she tries to interpret the clench of his jaw. A beat. It softens and his mouth changes from grimace to lop-sided grin. “What does it mean if she left a copy of Why Men Don’t Listen and Women Can’t Read Maps on the coffee table?”

“Well,” she starts, trying to hold his eye despite a rush of conflicting emotions churning through her. “I would jump in the car and take it back to her, but I’m not sure how to get to her place.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence, then his head tips back and he laughs. She sips her tea and enjoys the sound. It always pleases her so profoundly to make him laugh. Not many people could claim to draw out true joy from Fox Mulder.

When he’s collected himself, he rubs his chin. “She took me out last week for coffee, took me out to tell me it was over. At least she did that, I suppose. She…she told me I was too insular. Can you believe that, Scully?” He plays for light. “According to her expert opinion of my psyche, that, I might add, she gleaned from two coffee dates and a meal at some over-priced French place where a dessert the size of a pin cost $50, I was still stuck in the past. With you.” He lowers his eyes and she rolls her lips together to stop herself from adding ‘and your demons and truths’. His shoulders move as he chuckles. “She didn’t really leave me that book, Scully. She didn’t come to the house.”

She’s stupidly relieved to hear that.

“It seemed wrong, somehow,” he says. “And it got me thinking, after her Dear John speech, that maybe this is what we’re…I’m destined for. A kind of relationship limbo. Prevented from going forward because I’m still snagged on a Scully branch. Do you think she’s right? If you…if you met someone, Scully, do you think you could give your whole self to that person?” He blinks slowly. “Or will there always be a small part of you left here?” He pats his chest with the side of his fist.

Her own heart speeds up. She’s had a few dates, a few flings. She hadn’t told him because he wasn’t in the headspace to process her attempts at moving on. And she can see now they were just ‘attempts’. There was an emptiness to the experience. And there’s a grain of truth to his question. It’s exposed just how indelibly tied they are because of their past.

She doesn’t answer him and he plays with the lollo rosso on his plate. “I like the weight of you in here.” He looks down to his heart. “It keeps me balanced.” A waiter retrieves their plates and Mulder watches her for the entire time he’s cleaning the table.

Her chest constricts, burns with such intensity that she’s certain her face is aflame. His fingers meet hers, mid-table, and she lets him squeeze them, such tenderness, such affection, so far removed from the angry, impotent man she’d left.

“Have we fucked each other up entirely, Scully?”

“Is that how she put it, your mystery woman?”

He grins. “I told her I liked being fucked up. It’s the only life I’ve ever known. That’s when she threw in the towel.”

“I don’t blame her,” she says, rubbing his knuckles. “Imagine meeting Spooky Mulder all grown up. At least back in the day your paranoia was justified. Government conspiracies and all.”

“If Dr Dana Scully had met me now, she wouldn’t have lasted one date with Ole Spook, would she?”

She lowers her head as she giggles. “You showed me many things, Mulder. Opened my eyes to wonders and closed them to the black and white life I’d known. I’m a better person because of you. I wouldn’t change a day.”

“You told me that once before.”

“And I still mean it.”

Outside, the day is cooling, sun leaching away behind thickening cloud. They walk in amiable silence down the street. There’s a bookshop she loves and he nods as she lingers at the door. Inside, the comforting smell of words on pages wafts over her and she browses the dark-shadowed shelves.

Mulder emerges with an armful of books from Squatchin’ for Novices to Meals for One. She swallows at the sight of that one. She’s picked up a mystery thriller, and couple of romances that he side-eyes. She bats him over the arm with one. Then she spies the main prize. She picks out two copies. A his and her pair. The teller scans them through and she hands one to Mulder.

He’s still laughing as they walk to their cars. He puts the other books on the passenger seat of his car and clasps his copy of The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck to his chest.

“Shit is fucked,” she says, reading from the blurb.

“And we just have to live with it.” He drops a kiss on her head and smiles a full-wattage beam. “You’re still a good date, Scully.”

“You too,” she says. “And I’m glad you told me about…your…”

“Tiffany. That was her name.”

She can’t help the sharp burst of laughter that comes out. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That…was unexpected.”

He snugs a hand in his jeans pocket. “I know. It should have been a warning.”

“Well, unfortunate name aside, it’s good that you’re getting out there.”

“Out there. Where the truth is? I don’t think I’ll be doing it again in a hurry.”

She pulls a sympathetic face, reaches out to touch his arm. “I don’t want to be your snag, Mulder. I thought I was setting you free.”

“We’ll never be free of each other, Scully. And I don’t want to be free in that sense, not if it means never having days like this. I…miss you.” He bounces his toe off the ground and the lump in her throat wedges itself firm.

“I’d better be going,” she whispers. Turns to leave.

“Maybe we can make this a weekly thing,” he says after her. “Just two fuck-ups having lunch, you know?”

She stops, turns back around, smiling through her tears. “Maybe.” And she watches him in the rear-view mirror. Objects in the mirror may appear closer than they are, she thinks as she drives away, and sometimes, they actually are.

[woodrokiro]

Hollowed (fic) Part Three

Fandom: Bleach

Pairing: IchiRuki

Summary: They call her a miracle, but he looks at her as if she’s normal. It scares her. Fantasy/Futuristic/Zombie kinda?AU. Read Part One and Part Two.

As a kid, Ichigo imagined this place to be heaven on Earth. 

High up on the mountain, heavily secured by both stone walls and the near entirety of the militia, containing the smartest doctors and scientists dedicated to fighting the Hollowed--these are details that can allow more luxuries than one in the Valley could ever imagine.

He believed the walls to be just adorned in gold, gardens and fields bursting with fruits and vegetables to last years, doctors that can aid without having to wait until it’s officially deemed “safe” outside, and its people walking the grounds like they were on Cloud 9.

And… Yes, it’s incredible how privileged these people are to be living within such a structurally secured community. There are, indeed, ancient tapestries on the walls that must be hundreds of years old from the Old World at least, and he is disgusted with how plentiful the food is here compared to what is provided to the Valley.

But there’s… Something heavy in the air here.

The constant fog of the mountain has clearly taken its toll on the castle, as he notices mildew and mold in quite a few corners of stone. It’s crumbling, some trees outside bend to the ground as if too tired to pick themselves up, and it’s so fucking cold like good God, this is the place everyone says will be humanity’s saving grace?

And it’s not just the place itself: everyone walks with order, with a restrained purpose that never deviates within the day. There wasn’t much joy back where he was from either… But Jesus. He smiled at the maid that showed them their rooms the first night and she nearly bolted out of the room. There is a dark look in everyone’s eye, a near-obsessive work ethic as if they’re terrified  that today someone will call them lazy and have them kicked back down the mountain. 

Of course, the level of comfort at which you sit in your job depends on your station. 

 The caste system here nearly dictates that the militia is king, the scientists are nobles, and the “service” (cooks, farmers, housekeepers) are the bugs beneath everyone’s feet.

And Yamamoto is God. 

Blame it on him being from a normal (albeit, more dangerous) village, but he hates this hierarchy bullshit. 

---

“The more I see of this place, the less I like,” he tells his group their first night with crossed arms. “What, just because they have more access to weapons and protection they’re better than us? What makes that old guy in charge? Why did that Hinamori chick just near run out of the room? And what was the deal with that...” he motions wildly with his hands, trying to express… He doesn’t know. “You know. The girl in the really fancy dress, what’s her deal?!”

He sees Karin rolling her eyes, and Uryu sighs. “Kurosaki, we don’t have a choice. Obviously we’re allowed here on some favor from your father, but these aren’t people we want to rock the boat with. It’s a thin line between being a reluctantly welcomed guest and a happily thrown out one.”

“While it’s clear that Ichi-nii is having issues expressing himself here, I agree with my brother,” Karin cuts in. “On the other side of that coin: why did they allow us in? There have been people with more vying for a position here for years. Protection like this is worth all the gold and silver and food in the world. What was with our dad’s sword that made it so easy? Something’s fishy here, and I don’t like it.”

“Maybe Lord Yamamoto remembers your father as a friend, Ichigo? Or he just suddenly realized that there were some jobs open? There were these extra rooms already here, after all…” Inoue’s voice is hopeful, and Yuzu next to her nods enthusiastically in agreement. 

But Karin won’t budge. “Nah, these guys are military, the same ones that were supposed to protect us all these years and failed so miserably they escaped up here. There’s no way there are noble intentions here.”

“The point is, we can’t be too careful here… Or at least reckless.” Uryu shoots a pointed look at him, and Ichigo has a not-so-rare urge to throw him out the window. “We have to lay low for a bit and keep our guard up. Kurosaki, it’s clear Yamamoto’s got some sort of an interest in you. He arranged some meetings with you in the coming days, yes?”

Ichigo shifts. “Well, yeah, but that could be just because he’s setting up a position for me--”

“All the rest of us are to report in the common hall for our positions tomorrow. You’re the only one actually meeting with him.” Uryu raises an eyebrow. “See what kind of information he gives you. Take note on what he needs from you. But remember: you have to follow his rules on his time. That’s the only way we’re going to know a little better on how this place works.”

The group sits in silent contemplation until Yuzu sniffles. “And then what?” Her voice is shaky, and her watery eyes break Ichigo’s heart. “After we figure out the system… Then where do we go? What do we do?”

Ichigo is about to say something falsely cheerful to comfort his sister before Chad in his corner clears his throat. 

“We survive,” he finally says, and that has to be good enough for all of them.

---

And three days in, Ichigo still has no clue what Yamamoto’s got in store for him.

Although the messages he has received each morning since their arrival says that he’ll be meeting with the old man, he finds out it’s more like he’s meeting with generals and captains who represent Yamamoto, or something.

Powerful people are fucking weird.

In any case, he’s certainly not been twiddling his thumbs. A General Ukitake gave him a tour of the grounds, focusing more on the military section--and Ichigo guesses Yamamoto wanted to see if he was true to his word on using a sword, because then he was forced to spar with a few of the soldiers.

Mostly easy fights, if you ask him--although one bald guy and an angry redhead kind of gave him a rough time--but Ichigo just barely avoided a battle with a Captain Kenpachi, who grinned maniacally and demanded a battle “as soon as the old geezer puts you back here.”.

(Ichigo’s pretty sure at this point he’s going to be put in a military position, and it fits. But he would really really like to not be in that captain’s squad.)

There’s been a couple of actual meetings with the old man, but nothing of substance: each lasts an uncomfortably long ten minutes, with Yamamoto staring at him for long periods of time before peppering in casual questions about his village, his group, and his father.

It’s bizarre, but Ichigo decides to follow Uryu’s advice for once and go along with the whole thing. He bristles at Yamamoto’s question concerning his mother… But otherwise, he answers them as honestly as he can. 

He’s not given the worst job, he supposes. 

Actually, nearly none of them are. Uryu--while resenting the military system as much as he did--snagged a spot at the wall with his bow, and he mentioned they might give him a position within science, what with his family’s medical background. Chad scored a position in weaponry, and while he doesn’t have any previous experience (that Ichigo knows of), Ichigo’s confident he’ll do great. 

The girls are in the service, and Ichigo feels… Conflicted about that. 

He gets the icky feeling that it’s weirdly sexist (even though Yuzu really is talented in the kitchen… BUT HER GENDER HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IT), and can’t help but feel it as demeaning to his sisters and friend. The service is treated bottom rung here, after all, and if someone even remotely tries to mess with one of them…

Not to mention Karin is absolutely miserable. 

But he knows she grits her teeth, does her job alongside Yuzu and Inoue and everyone else for the sake of being remotely safe for once in their goddamned lives. If she can suck it up, so can he.

The longer Yamamoto has him wait for his job, the more nervous it makes him. That’s all. 

---

On the fourth morning after the others have headed to work, he receives a message to go directly to Yamamoto’s quarters. 

He’s escorted by a few soldiers--which is weird, considering the ease of which he’s been going place to place the last few days--and the old man is sitting patiently at his desk, hands clasped together. 

It’s like he’s going to get punished.

And he has no idea what Yamamoto has on him (probably something his old man did, screwing him over even after probable-death, the fucker), but Ichigo prays to whatever god might still be out there and care about humanity that the world can do whatever it wants to him, just leave his friends and sisters be--

“I’ve assigned a guard job for you, Ichigo Kurosaki.”

He stares blankly at the old man. 

“That’s… It? After all this time?”

Yamamoto smiles in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes, well, we do apologize for the delay. There were some… Precautions that we had to take before getting you to this position. We wanted to make sure you were a right fit.”

“Oh… Okay. So am I at the gate with Uryu, or--”

“No, no. None of that.” A gnarled hand waves the thought away. “This is a private guard position. Very important. Tell me, do you remember seeing our Lady Rukia the day you arrived?”

Ichigo tries to think of the female faces he caught in the crowd, and then remembers the woman in the ornate garb. “The one dressed in all the… Dressed really nicely?”

“Yes, that very one. She is dressed to reflect how precious she is to us. We call her our ‘Prized One.’ Tell me, have you ever played chess? You might call her the queen of our board.”

“... I’m not sure I follow--”

“You don’t need to.” The response is sharp, so swift that Ichigo almost startles. Yamamoto glares hard behind his hands at him, before suddenly relaxing. “Just know that your job is to guard her. You will be going with her where she goes, watching the entrance to her rooms. We have enemies that would very much like to take her, and that… Would be devastating to our cause.”

Ichigo’s having a hard time biting his tongue on all the questions bubbling up. What the fuck is up with this girl? 

Instead, he asks: “So, in terms of guarding her at night… I suppose what I’m trying to say here is, will I be her only guard? I hate to tell you I can’t be awake twenty four hours, sir.”

The old man chuckles dryly. “Of course not, my boy. Nothing of that sort is expected. We have a rotating staff at night while she sleeps; but you will be her primary guardian. In return, your group will be made of good use here.”

Ah. There it is. 

“So you’re blackmailing me, eh? I knew it was only too convenient that you took on my friends and sisters so easily.”

“Not at all. They have all been mastering their duties beautifully. This is just… Insurance, you might say. If you do your job, they will keep theirs. You would be wise to take it; others have not had such an offer.”

“So why me? What’s so important about this job, and why does it have to be me that does it?”

“You’ll learn, as I’m sure your friends have told you, that it’s better not to question this institution. Just trust that this is a job I consider you capable of, and leave the decision making to us. Now,” Yamamoto slides a sheet of paper from the corner of his desk to himself and begins to write on it. “Go to the Northwest Hall, fourth floor. If you get lost, there will be service persons that can lead you the right direction. They’ve been made aware of your new position.”

The old man doesn’t even acknowledge Ichigo’s leaving as he writes further.

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 47

Okay, we made it through the first six hours of the food festival, now for Sophia’s shift on the ground. I’ll be honest, when I started writing this chapter, all the characters just ganged up on me and decided to do whatever they wanted...

Needless to say, the results are interesting.  From what I can tell, no one is plotting nefariously in the background this time.

This chapter is dedicated to @parisconstantine, as always, for being an amazing beta and putting up with my shenanigans.  Also, @charlylimph-blog for Charly Harper, along with Coffee Williams, who was mentioned in the previous chapter.

Deep breaths, I reminded myself as I got ready to go back on shift for the festival.  This time, I would be in the crowd instead of holed up in my office, safe from the crush of humanity. GK will be there, I repeated for what had to be the hundredth time. So will Conor and Maverick.  It’s safe. Nothing’s happened yet, and it stands to reason that nothing will. I had been repeating the words in my mind like a prayer for the last hour, refusing to bow out of my responsibilities as a Councillor.  I could do this – I had to be able to do this.

Finally, I cracked a little. “Good Evening, Miys,” I asked the air hesitantly.  I was trying to be more polite and treat them the way I would treat another human. Results had varied. “Do I need to go to a medbay to get a mild sedative for anxiety, or am I allowed to get it from my console?”

“Good evening, Wisdom,” the reply hummed quietly. “Since it is a standard prescription in your medical file, you can request a half dose every four hours, or the full dose will otherwise be added to your meals. Since you are attending a public eating event, it is noted that you should take the half dose before the event and the other half after if needed.  Kim was notified to advise you when she arrived.  She also has moderate override authority should she judge that you need additional medication after the event, so long as Antoine Costa approves it himself.”

I felt both relieved and stung at the same time, like a too-old bandage being ripped off.  Conflicting feelings aside, I didn’t hesitate to request the medication from my console along with a glass of water to wash it down. “Miys, can you please notify Grandma Kim that I already took the half dose with you as witness? I don’t want her to think I’m trying to get out of my medications.” I was pretty bad about doing that as it was, so the odds of her believing me that I actually requested the dose were pretty slim.

“Yes, Wisdom.  I have notified her.”

“Thank you, Miys.”

“It is our… pleasure?”

“Pleasure means you gained enjoyment satisfaction from performing a task, rather than simply performing it out of obligation.”

“Then yes, it is our pleasure.”

I settled down on my couch as I waited for the rest of my ‘team’ to arrive.  I waited for Mac to bounce into my lap like he always did, but he was nowhere to be found. Probably begging food at the festival, the pig, I chuckled.  If he gained much more weight, I’d have to send out a ship-wide announcement that he was on a strict diet and not to feed him no matter how cute he was.  That, or send Mac to the quarters of whoever kept feeding him cheese and let them deal with the biological warfare that resulted.

“Maybe I can send the entire ship a video of Mac being treated, again, for obstructed bowel,” I mused at the thin air just as the door to my quarters chimed.  As expected, my two guard-shadows flanked a deceptively-normal looking older woman, the tableau completed by the enormous German Shepherd giving me a doggy grin at her feet.

With a look of pure mischief in his eyes, Maverick opened his mouth to say something.  Grandma Kim, however, beat him to the punch. “Two sides of beef in shining armor, delivered as promised,” she quipped without batting an eyelash.

The astonishment on the men’s faces snapped the last bit of tension in me and I started howling with laughter. Lyric was quick to support me as I went to my knees, unable to breathe from shrieking in amusement.  Unperturbed, GK left her two victims at the door and just stepped around me to get herself some tea.  “Are you released to drink coffee, love?” she called over her shoulder as though I wasn’t gasping and dripping tears on her dog.

I managed to give a thumbs-down and shake my head, hoping she could see.  Slowly, I got my breathing under control and wobble to my feet, face hurting from smiling so hard. “God, I needed that,” I chuckled, wiping the last tears from my cheeks. Glancing at the door, I noticed Conor and Maverick were still standing there, thunderous scowls in the place of their usual grins.  “Oh, come on, you goobers.  Stop being such sourpusses and get in here.”

Conor relented first, groaning and dropping his head back as he stomped into my quarters like a toddler.  Maverick finally shook his head at the other man’s theatrics and padded in, allowing the door to slide shut behind him.  He spoke first. “I thought you were supposed to be released to drink coffee today?”

“I technically am.” Looking down, I twisted my fingers and focused on my feet.  “But I’m nervous about all the people, and I couldn’t calm myself down for the past hour, so I took half a dose of my sedative a few minutes ago.  I don’t want the caffeine to get me keyed up and jittery again.”

I felt Grandma Kim pat me on the arm. “Well then,” she said softly before putting a warm mug in my hand. “Ginger lemon tea, it is.”  I took the mug and sipped it, grateful to have something to do with my hands as I walked over to where Conor had already slung himself across my couch.

As soon as I was close enough, he hooked an arm around my waist and tugged me next to him.  Without thinking, I snuggled into his side so he would stroke my hair. “Sophie, everything on Beta shift was smooth as glass.  I’ll be with you, this eejit will be there,” he gestured floridly at Maverick, who had just sprawled on the other side of me. “Xiomara will be on the ground, so will these two fine ladies.” He pointed at Grandma Kim and Lyric for emphasis.  The effect was somewhat undone by the fact that Lyric had chose that moment to lick a certain portion of her anatomy.  Rolling his eyes but not missing a beat, Conor continued. “None of us will let you get hurt, swear.”

“You aren’t the only one who’s nervous, Sophie,” Maverick added, reaching over to tap my chin. “We’re scared something is going to happen to you, that’s why we wanted to be there.  Yeah, we know logically that GK and Lyric are perfectly capable of keeping you safe.  But emotionally? We need to see it for ourselves.”  He paused to shoot a glare over my shoulder. “Shut up. She needs to hear this more than you need your dumb pride, Conor.” After another moment of silence, Maverick looked back to me. “Look.  We both already did our shifts. We could stay behind if we wanted, no foul. If we did, though, we’d worry to death about you until we barged down there, forced our way through the crowd, and probably scared the life out of you by abducting you to make sure you were okay.  May as well just be there from the outset and save ourselves from pissing you off.”

A glance back at Conor showed him biting his lip in embarrassment, a dead giveaway that Maverick was right.  I managed – barely – not to snort at the picture Maverick painted, only saved by how touched I was by their concern.  Squeezing both their knees, I smiled.  “Glad to know I’m not the only nervous wreck.”

Between the medication and the knowledge that my shadows were just as worried as I was, I managed to make it all the way to the area of the festival before I balked again. I silently thanked the medication I had chosen to take, knowing that I would be much worse off without it. Deep breaths. “Okay, crowd or no crowd, there is food in there, and I’m going to have some,” I said aloud, mainly to myself.

Just then, my data band chirped with a familiar voice. “Delta Shift, please report when you are online.”

“Sophia Reid, Resource Observation, online and en route to relieve Eino Wiitala and Evania Josue.” I managed to sound calm.

“Grandma Kim and Lyric, Crowd Control, online.” She quirked an eyebrow and smirked at me.

“Maverick Okima, Support Personnel, online and en route to relieve Eino Wiitala and Evania Josue.”

“Conor MacMaoilir, Support Personnel, online and en route to relieve Eino Wiitala and Evania Josue.”

“Wait, what the hell?” I gaped. “I thought GK was my support?”

She shook her head with a chuckle.  “Misters Okima and MacMaoilir convinced me to let them register as your support, so that they could keep a better watch on you. I’ll still be close by, as we have the same route, but this frees me up to act as crowd control if you are safe and there is an issue that needs to be addressed nearby.”

I whirled around to face the two men behind me. “And what exactly do you plan to do if I’m attacked?” I asked scathingly.

Unimpressed, Conor pointed at Maverick first. “Pick you up and take you to a safe location.” He reoriented his finger to himself. “Restrain the attacker until Xio’s people arrive.  You tend to overlook the fact that I’m one of the bigger feckers on this boat, and as much as I don’t like to, I can beat the breaks of a body if I need to.” With a pointed look that he clearly picked up from my sister, he dared me to argue.

“Whatever,” I grumbled, refusing to admit defeat. Instead, I squared my shoulders, chin up, and turned toward the festival.  “Okay, food. Let’s find Eino and Evan and get this show on the road.”

We managed to find the pair without incident, although Grandma Kim had to wrangle Conor away from a few vendors and remind him that we need to relieve Gamma Shift first.  Finally, we were ready for handoff, and both shifts held our collective breaths.

True to her nature, Xiomara had already spent Gamma Shift as Crowd Control Command, but was handing off to Simon as Resource Command for Delta.  When I had questioned her about working two sessions back to back, she had simply waggled her eyebrows at me. No rest for the wicked, Sophia, she had laughed. She wasn’t laughing quite so much now.

“Xiomara Kalloe, Crowd Control for Delta Shift, online.  Also, as Crowd Control Command for Gamma Shift, reporting for handoff to Resource Command. Simon, confirm handoff?”

“Simon Rodriguez, Delta Shift Resource Command, confirming handoff.”

Xiomara shook her head with a scowl before turning a bright smile towards me. “I don’t think I’ll ever get use to him being back on the Council.  How are you?” Briefly, she held and squeezed my shoulders – her version of an arms-reach hug.

“I’m okay,” I exhaled. “Still not sure I’m ready to be around so many people, but if I can’t be safe with so much security around, when can I be?”

“Truth,” she nodded before turning to my ersatz guards. “Conor, Maverick.  Good to see you two.  I know Sophia is here in an official capacity, but please make sure she has some fun.  Stuff her full of food, take her to the pub, whole shebang.”

“You’ve got it, Commander,” Maverick saluted crisply. Some habits died hard, and he refused to stop treating Xio as his commanding officer.  She took it with as much grace as she could muster, which wasn’t much. She’d stopped scolding him, though, so that was something.

The next several hours after that were a whirlwind of flavors and smells, briefly punctuated by stops in the various quiet rooms. Conor and Maverick took turns dragging me to the different vendors they had discovered on their previous shifts.  Some of the foods offered could only be described as artistry: an amuse-bouche that still managed to capture the flavor of an entire bowl of ramen, meat with actual marbling, bubbles of soup that exploded in your mouth. Several times, they had to haul me away from badgering the vendors for their secrets.

My data band showed we were just over halfway through our shift as the men dragged me into one of the Green quiet rooms.  “You don’t understand how hard it is to get properly marbled prosciutto from the consoles!” I argued for the fifth time as they gently shoved me onto a beanbag.

“Probably not, but I understand that you need some water,” Conor insisted.  “We’re glad you’re having fun, believe me, but Tyche gave us strict instructions not to let you get overwhelmed.  And before you say you aren’t, your hands are shaking and you started swaying a bit back there.”

“Fine,” I sulked, gracious as a toddler.  “You’re all conspiring, I just know it.”

“Yep,” Maverick agreed cheerfully. “We’re conspiring to make you take care of yourself.” With that, he dropped a bottle of water in my lap.  “Drink, please.  At least half.”

Grumbling, I opened the bottle and took a swig. “Big talk coming from the guy who requires a prescription to eat.”

“Sophie,” Conor scolded. “That’s low, and you know it.”

My immediate shame showed how right he was. “I’m sorry, Maverick. That wasn’t fair.”

“No, it wasn’t,” my target confirmed. “But, you and Antoine did that to make sure I took care of myself.  Now, Conor and I are doing the same.  Just the fact that you’re being such a brat shows that you need a break.”

I gaped for a second before snapping my mouth shut.  Maverick had a point – he usually did, much to my frequent consternation.  When he started spending more time around, a bit of digging in his file showed that he shared the same Clarity I possessed, but it was by and far his strongest trait.  Where Conor was too kind to call me on my bullshit, Maverick had no such compunctions. That, combined with a startling lack of self-preservation, was largely the reason Tyche and I had swept him up in our family.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Maverick started humming as he looked around the room.  Suddenly, he whirled around with one finger jutting out in weaponized precision. “Conor. You designed this room, didn’t you?”

With narrowed eyes, the other man answered slowly. “Yeaahhh, I helped… why?”

Maverick reached out to flick a vine of what looked like green bubbles. “String of pearls. My aunt grew these.  They’re difficult to get this big.”

“They’re succulents, yeah,” Conor started warming to the topic. “They didn’t take well to hydroponics, and the aeroponics were incredibly finicky.  We had to design a completely new setup for them.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” I turned my head, wide eyed.  “You just showed up with them.”

He blushed slightly. “There wasn’t any point in figuring out how to grow them if no one would see them,” he admitted. “But they’re poisonous to cats, so I couldn’t put any in your quarters or Tyche’s.”

“Oh. I think I would kill them, anyway,” I admitted. “I’ve never been good with succulents.”

“That, too,” he winked at me.

After a few more minutes of idle conversation, we braved the crushing throng of humanity in the corridor again. We had barely made it twenty feet before Conor tugged on my hand and steered Maverick by the shoulder to a stall.  I assumed it was to try another tidbit of the wares the festival was centered around, but to my surprise, he walked up to a tall black gentleman in a pink, short sleeved shirt. Just before we reached them, he called out cheerfully. “Coffee!  Is that Charly with you?”

The man – who had to be Coffee Williams – turned around with a broad smile, as did the petite brunette next to him. “Conor! Good to see you, man,” he chuckled, clapping a hand to Conor’s shoulder. He glanced at me and Maverick. “Miss Sophia, it is delightful to finally meet you.  And you must be Maverick Okima.”  He gently squeezed my hand in both of his larger ones before giving Maverick a firm handshake.  He gently – almost reverently – brought the young woman with him to stand in front of him. She glanced down nervously and started rubbing her hands on her skirt.  “Sophia, Maverick, this is Charly Harper.”

She shot a look up at me and glanced at the shortest of the three men present. “It’s nice to meet you,” she nodded before turning, the delicate smile brightening her face again. “Hi, Conor.  I’m glad we ran into you.”  When she tipped her head back to see Conor’s face, and I caught a glimpse of something brown circling her throat.

“Oh! Is that a new collar?” Conor asked with genuine enthusiasm as he crouched to get a better look.  She obligingly kept her head tipped slightly back so he could see better before standing back up again. “That’s beautiful!  Well done.”  The second part of that seemed directed at Coffee, and I puzzled at that before suddenly something clicked in my head.

Oh. “May I see?” I asked politely. She glanced up at her companion before giving me a nod and tipping her head for me.  To err on the side of good manners, I made a point not to touch the collar.  “Oh, wow… that’s really lovely.”  I wasn’t exaggerating.  It looked softer than butter, in a warm brown leather with an intricate pattern worked into it.  It was clearly made by hand.

“I’m sorry, what – “

“We’ll explain later,” I cut off Maverick as gently as possible. “I promise.  But I assure you, it’s very pretty.” The last was directed at Charly and Coffee.  The latter nodded his thanks, although I wasn’t sure if it was for complimenting the collar or for keeping their business private.

Charly suddenly bounced a bit.  “Oh! You three should try this stall! It’s chocolate, all kinds.  Milk, dark, plain, fancy, you name it! They swear they have chocolate for every taste on the ship.”

Conor and Maverick groaned in unison before shaking their heads at Coffee.  Charly looked confused before I shot her a shark-like grin.  “I love trying new flavors.  Challenge Accepted!”

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[spoonie-swiftie]

Having a really hard time lately, I’m so stressed and dealing with so much health stuff and I have almost no money because SSI is a joke and I can’t work because I’m too sick. I cleaned my room for almost 5 hours yesterday and today I’m stuck in bed. I really try not to compare myself to others, comparison is the thief of joy and all, but it’s so hard to see people who I love who are “popular” and have been chosen for secret sessions or loft ‘89 or rep room be the only ones who ever get a chance to interact with @taylorswift.

I feel like such a bitch and like such a whiner and like I don’t deserve anything because I technically have I technically have a follow but I’ve never once been noticed on anything. And I’ve technically met Taylor 10 years ago for actually less than 30 seconds but I wasn’t even able to explain to her how much her music has done for me and I’m in a point of my life where I’ve been full blown disables for 9 years and she has truly helped me through my worst times, and times I’ve never wanted to give up and throw in the towel more.

She’s gotten me through countless hospital stays and procedures and surgeries and trauma and night of pain or nausea filled insomnia.She’s gotten me through watching my hopes and dreams dissolve into thin air and being too sick and depressed to come up with new dreams.

She’s helped me stay (stay stay 😋) on this earth when I was being gaslit and going from dr to dr being told everything from “you’re doing this to yourself” (yeah cause that’s totally how genetics diseases work), to “you’re too complex of a case, I can’t take you”, so I had to drive to drs actually truly say that “you can’t be in that much pain, you’re exaggerating” and “your ____ joint can’t be dislocating or subluxating (a partial dislocation) in your sleep or walking around, it’s just not possible, see?”-proceeds to actually try to pull my hips out of the sockets.

She’s gotten me through moving from Illinois to Nashville TN because I know if I was to stay then I would most likely have died.

She’s gotten me through eating disorder and self harm treatment recovery and has kept me alive for years by always having something fun and exciting to look forward to and want to stay on the earth to see/hear it.

I’ve been trying so hard and working my ass off for 13 years to be able to tell her how grateful I am for her and it just hurts and sucks that even though I’ve done the same things that SS/M&G people have done but because I’m invisible nobody notices or cares that I exist so of course neither does Taylor. I know the chances of her saying my name excitedly and giving me a huge hug like I’ve seen so many times from my friends or getting a reply, reblog, or even just a like so I can see she read it are slim to none at this point cause I’m just an invisible nobody that very few people know or care about (especially the most popular ones) so it’s not like I ever get the help (totally not their fault that I’m so forgettable, ugly, and invisible! I love most of them!!!)I just wish things were different. And I’m tired of the universe shitting on my head constantly and not having enough reach or enough friends with reach to help me through this hard time since I’m really hurting for money and when it rains it pours... if anyone is even reading this, thank you, and please consider reblogging. I can’t be the only one feeling this way and as much as I H A T E asking for help, I have no choice in this matter anymore. Shit has hit the fan in my house and I need help. I know we’re all going through shit right now but I don’t know who else to ask. I need to get a gofundme started ASAP. Like I said, As much as I hate hate hate asking for help, especially monetary help, I have to do something. One of the issues is I can’t write well at all so I don’t know what to say to attract people to donate. So for now all I have are my Venmo, cash app, and PayPal that I can link. But here’s just a snippet of what we’re going through and why I’m asking for money. We just found out that our water heater is not only broken and needs to be completely replaced but the whole closet it’s in is full of mold (which is NOT GOOD for someone on oxygen with an immunocompromised body and lots of medical equipment attached to me 24/7) on the walls the floor everything is going to need to get torn out and replaced and I have no idea what it’s doing health wise to me when demo starts since I share a wall with it. My family can barely afford this EVER let alone this time of year. On top of that I think my “service dog in training” Flynn has an eye infection so I’m gonna have to take him to the vet which I can’t afford AND my car needs an oil change and I don’t have the money for that either and I still need to find a trainer for Flynn so we can start the process of becoming a team where I can reply on him. On tops of all that, I still need money for gas to go to the doctor all the time, medication co pays, over the counter meds, pedialyte for when I’m running feeds, dog food and training treats, and stuff to distract me from the massive amounts of pain which used to be semi useful like watercolor or planning but since I can’t even sit at my desk anymore it mostly consists of choosing between Netflix, Hulu (free), amazon prime and now Disney+. Flynn is officially over a year old and I’ve never taken him to a trainer because I haven’t gotten the money to do so. I’m so overwhelmed and broke and I’m terrified to even apply for rover or something like that to make some extra money because if social security finds out I could lose everything (which is only less than $200 a month that I’m supposed to survive off of. I’m really sorry for this long post about me whining about being invisible and Taylor never noticing and now asking for money. Y’all are gonna hate me. I know you all have so much going on and if you can’t help it’s okay I’ll figure something out. And if I end up on an anonymous hate account, I truly don’t care anymore, I just needed to get this out there and figured I’d owe it to Yall to at least let you swiftie fam know what’s going on ♥️

If you read all that, you’re the real mvp and thank you.

Love love love,

Mandie

[unified-multiversal-theory]

by Lauren Rowello

A methylprednisolone medrol pack is just a flimsy foil case of 21 little, sour, white pills. If someone would have asked me a few weeks ago which prescription would be the key factor to beating pneumonia, I wouldn’t have pointed to that dinky pack of steroids. The loud roar of my nebulizer with its heavy, stable base, sterile tubes, and burdensome mask seemed more official. The indestructible metal canisters of my brand new inhalers looked more impressive.

I felt sick on March 10, a Tuesday. It wasn’t the kind of sick that anyone takes seriously. It was a shruggable dry cough in late winter. Yes, there were some articles floating around about some distant virus, but it was on the West Coast. It was overseas.

By Wednesday, I was pretty sure I had a fever, and my coughs became more painful, noisy and dramatic as the day continued. I lost my sense of taste almost completely and was short of breath. My spouse ran out and got the only flu medicine still available at our local CVS where no thermometers remained on the shelves. While I rested at home, I navigated emails and decisions about canceling meetings, classes and other plans.

By Thursday, I couldn’t take more than a shallow breath and I was spitting up globs of mucus into washcloths multiple times per hour. By Friday morning, it was challenging to eat without becoming fatigued ― without losing too much air to manage chewing. I finally queued up in a three-hour virtual waiting room to speak with a doctor via a telemedicine app. She diagnosed me with viral bronchitis in less than five minutes. I was quickly prescribed multiple medications to combat my worsening respiratory symptoms with instructions to check back if I did not improve.

I’m newly 29 without any high-risk diagnoses, but even with a pharmacy at my bedside, pneumonia developed in less than two days. With scarves wrapped around my face, I ventured out for an X-ray of my crackling chest and additional testing that was uploaded to the remote doctor. She decided I should be monitored more regularly while self-isolating and continued my treatment as a presumed positive for COVID-19, the disease caused by the coronavirus.

By the last day of my steroids, improvements were obvious, but the progress would be short-lived. My steroid pack finished its course on the morning of the 18th, and within 24 hours, I began to regress. The mucus in my chest grew darker and thicker again, and inflammation made me gag and choke as I tried to expel it. My chest rumbled on every exhale, and breaths became almost as shallow as they were before I sought treatment.

Because it wasn’t time for my scheduled check-in with the same doctor, I had to wait in another virtual line to speak with whoever became available if I wanted to avoid the emergency room.

After a few hours, I was finally connected to a provider who checked in with me about my medical history. She told me that she’d reviewed the notes and watched the recordings from my previous visits, then asked about my vitals ― which can be monitored through the app ― before getting to my reason for the visit. I explained between achy pauses that I was going backward ― and quickly ― but she shooed away my complaints.

I was more direct. “Can you extend my steroid prescription for another week? I think that was key to helping push through this.” She immediately shook her head and interjected:

“I don’t recommend that. That medication could lead to weight gain.”

I asked again. She declined, shifting the conversation toward the steps I could take to limit the spread: hand-washing rituals, daily disinfecting routines, social distancing.  

When the session ended, I felt abandoned, furious and confused. While my mom and spouse networked so that I could find a new provider, I started researching the intersections of viral pneumonia, steroids and weight. I couldn’t even find concerns about weight gain for short-term users ― but I wouldn’t have cared if I did. I knew this drug was treating the inflammation associated with my most severe respiratory symptoms and shifting my immune response, that this steroid was helping some patients with COVID-19-induced pneumonia recover more quickly. I posted to Facebook about my frustration.

Comments were mostly supportive ― with face-palming gifs, shocked and angry emojis, words of solidarity. One mentioned malpractice; a few noted that they now opt out of weigh-ins for check-ups; some people told their own stories of medical and mental health providers bringing up weight when it was irrelevant and inappropriate. Another shared their fear that heavier people might not receive access to ventilators during shortages because they’d be misperceived as having poorer prognoses.

A few more friends chimed in to play devil’s advocate ― trusting that there must be a reason for the doctor’s comment. A relative explained that although it may have been poor bedside manner, the doctor could be worried about weight gain leading to future health issues, such as Type 2 Diabetes. A nurse mentioned that people with a body mass index (BMI) over 25 have worse outcomes and higher mortality rates ― but a recent study asserts that those categorized as “overweight” (with a BMI of 27) are at the lowest risk for all-cause mortality. Additionally, obese patients have better outcomes when being treated for a variety of ailments ― including significantly lower mortality rates when treated for pneumonia ― the illness this doctor should have been focused on. People with higher weights receive a lower quality of care from their providers ― including delays in access to treatments ― due to cognitive bias. This could be the cause of those worse outcomes and comorbidities my friends are worried about. During this pandemic, when health care providers are deciding whose symptoms are most urgent and severe, lack of access and decreased quality of care will cost lives.The comments in the doctor’s defense point to the internalized belief that being fat is bad, that being fat leads to other bad things. They point to subconscious patterns of thinking that guide flawed decisions, such as placing too much concern on some future weight rather than recovering from a tangible virus. We must stop justifying the health care industry’s obsession with weight ― and that starts with combating our own tendencies toward the same beliefs.I didn’t include my weight in the vitals connected to the app, so this doctor didn’t actually know that number or my BMI. She could only see my face on the screen. I suppose it’s possible that she made an inference about my weight based on a bad camera angle ― but her statement was more like a reflex, absent of considerations about my own body or experience. Since she couldn’t actually size me up with her eyes or a number, she made the assumption that any gained pounds wouldn’t be OK for anyone ― no matter their shape or weight. In that moment, she projected a cultural ideal onto my treatment ― encouraging the belief that it would be better to maintain my size than conquer life-threatening pneumonia.If you are a patient whose treatment is being stifled by a biased provider, you should seek care elsewhere ― but that’s easier said than done. My call wasted $50, and a second opinion would cost another ― or a much more expensive trip to the ER. What will happen to those who don’t have that kind of cash? Or time?Fatphobia will continue to negatively impact the quality of care all people receive if providers are distracted by weight standards or cultural ideals. During a global pandemic when actual or virtual lines for health care consume hours and providers are even more overworked than we’re used to, we cannot delay treatment due to cognitive bias.This doctor did not allow me to advocate for my needs, even though I was an informed patient. Her unwillingness to extend the use of a crucial medication during a pandemic demonstrates just how pervasive our cultural obsession with thinness has become. It took a few more hours for me to find a new provider, who proved glad I reached out and helped me find the right dosing to extend the steroids a few more days. My most severe symptoms have dissipated, and I know that I’ll be OK in time. I trust that these providers will help me make decisions about my health based on preserving my life rather than my waistline. But this experience serves as a reminder that if we hope to survive this pandemic, we must become fierce advocates who hold the health care industry to our own standards, unafraid to challenge the status quo.

[whitecoatdiaries]

The Notebook

We’re seeing a patient on endocrine consults who can’t regulate his sodium following brain surgery. I’m taking care of adults this month but he’s only 20 and his Mom does most of the talking in the room. The first day I meet them we’re only a few minutes into our conversation when she pulls out a worn spiral-bound notebook that I can see from across the room is full of pages and pages of cramped, furiously-scribbled notations. I’m surprised by how viscerally I react. 

I know this notebook well. Last month I spent 6 straight weeks in the PICU. I conclude at the end of the month that there’s no place in the hospital as full of suffering as the pediatric intensive care unit. The parents are devastated: they shriek and panic and fall apart in front of me. I become adept at placing one comforting hand on a shoulder and using the other to grab the nearest chair, gently guiding the parent to seated (syncope is a common and generally avoidable occurrence here). One morning we round for hours with the steady wailing of a brand-new mother in the background. She delivered without ever attending a prenatal appointment. I find that parents’ grief is almost always flavored with anger, or guilt, or some confusing, human combination of the two.  

The parents’ suffering is unmistakable. They do not ‘give up’ on their children-- they cannot. For 6 weeks I watch the vigil one Mom keeps over her 5-year-old. Her respiratory failure is so severe that even the ventilator can’t keep up. In some cases, we offer ECMO, which uses two surgically-placed catheters to drain the blood from the body, oxygenate it using a machine, and then return it to circulation, effectively bypassing the lungs. The decision to offer ECMO is a complicated one. It is an incredibly money- and resource-intensive intervention with significant morbidity, and most critically ill patients will die on it. The prevailing logic is that it should only be offered when we anticipate patients have a ‘reversible’ injury that they will recover from in a relatively short period of time (the longer a patient remains on ECMO the more likely they are to have a stroke, or other kinds of organ failure). We don’t know the cause of this 5yo’s respiratory failure so the argument is made that it could be reversible and that ECMO should be offered. It is, and she’s on it for 6 weeks. The team is divided. She shows no signs of getting better. We order medicines and infusions that cost thousands and tens-of-thousands of dollars apiece. Statistically, no one think she will survive this. We bicker over her lab values, her treatments, her oxygen and CRRT goals. The phrase “arranging the desk chairs on the Titanic” etches itself into my skull those 6 weeks. But her mother can’t give up. She won’t. The dynamic between the family and the team becomes vaguely adversarial at times. We often feel like we are being forced to torture a child that we know is almost certainly going to die. But children are difficulty to prognosticate about, and every so often they make miraculous recoveries, and so the parents hold out hope. And we consider that there is some sliver of a chance that she recovers. And so we do as we are told. One late night on my way to the cafeteria I see the child’s mother hunched in the hallway, bolting down a hot-dog just outside the doors to our PICU (food isn’t allowed inside, and there are no bathrooms for family inside the badge-swipe-gated doors either). She looks exhausted and famished and oddly guilty when our eyes meet, mid-bite. My heart breaks. The mother suffers. The child suffers. We press on, presenting our numbers and vent settings and rattling off the mile-long list of medicines she’s on every morning, resenting the Unit and the Family but probably mostly just resenting God and this God-forsaken place. 

The parents suffer. The child suffers, in spite of but often because of us. With adults there is sometimes a moment of relief when we switch from aggressive interventions to comfort-focused care. After years of hospitalizations and side-effect-laden medicines and painful procedures, the patient rests. I get to see the family exhale. The patient opens their eyes, in a moment of lucidity, and says, softy “no more.” We listen. We are liberated from our treatment goals. 

This moment rarely comes for children. There is no exhale. There is only a white-knuckled do-everything that seems to last until the very end. 

And so I meet The Notebook. It usually sits on the bedside table, within easy reach of the parents. When we mention new medicines, changed doses, or trending lab values, the notebook comes out. My words get transcribed word-for-word often, and if there’s time I pause, spelling things and repeating phrases. Most families with chronically sick kids are well-accustomed to the frantic pace at which we conduct rounds and so their scribbles are hazy, misspelled, phonetic interpretations of the bizarre medical language we speak and only sometimes translate. 

They flip back nervously, looking for evidence that their child has been on this medicine before. They know the patience of the medical team wears thin and so the page-turning becomes frantic. Somewhere in their notebook they are sure they have an answer to whatever today’s issue is: uncontrolled secretions, vomiting with the tube feeds, flushing skin after an antibiotic. It’s hard to watch.

The parents of chronically-ill children are often the most complete medical records we have. They know this and so police our treatments carefully, quick to interject if their child has had a problem with our proposed treatments. As the medical team, we feel complicated: we rely on these parents and their exhaustive lists. They coordinate the 15 specialists, fill the meds, know how their child best tolerates their feeds, know which meds best control secretions. But like all people, they are prone to all kinds of bias. My criteria for an ‘allergic reaction’ is strictly defined by a histamine-mediated response causing a certain set of symptoms. My patients’ parents criteria often feels like anything that correlates to a bad day, a weird look on their face, or an unexplained episodes of vomiting. They collect all of the information meticulously, scribbling in their notebooks, but it’s not always clear which information is important. 

On bad, cynical days, I often think that we create monsters in the parents of chronically-ill children. They have learned that making demands, throwing tantrums, and raising their voice tends to bludgeon the team into doing what they what: prescribing antibiotics we feel are unnecessarily, keeping patients in the hospital who are ready for discharge, avoiding treatments that could be beneficial. If a patient’s safety is truly being compromised usually someone puts their foot down, but we make compromises all the time that feel ridiculous. At one rapid response, we can’t get a 7-yo neurologically devastated child’s oxygen saturation up out of the mid-80s. The primary and intensivist team quickly runs through the utility of different interventions in a medically urgent scenario-- if her oxygen saturation continues to fall, she could die in minutes. Upset that she’s not being listened to, the Mom piercingly dog-whistles at us to give us a piece of information that is irrelevant and unhelpful. We listen, calmly, placate her, and continue on with our discussion. 

Afterwards, on returning to the PICU, I get angry. I do not intend to be whistled at like a dog in my adult life: not by men, not by strangers, not by my patients. 6 weeks of being treated poorly by parents starts to wear you thin. Their frustration and poor behavior is explainable, and each time I reach inside my reservoir of patience (filled on the occasional day off and unfortunately hoarded for my patients at the expense of those I love) and smile calmly, waiting for the tirade to end, but it gets old. 

So when my patient’s mother pulls out the notebook, I both flinch and tear up. I can read her anxiety from across the door. I know intimately this impulse to record as an attempt to exercise control over the situation, control which I know will not be afforded to her this hospital stay. Her child’s short-term memory has not been the same since the surgery and he looks at her, worried, when we ask him basic questions. She rushes to answer them, trying to soothe him, promising over and over that it’s just temporary, that he’s still recovering. I don’t know that it is. I don’t know that he will. I know that there will be many, many questions that come from this notebook that we will patiently answer, and that our answers won’t change a thing. 

[a-dose-of-reality]

I am so irritated by genderists right now, like you must be too. what is it with them and putting everyone into boxes? like, gender is a social construct made of harmful stereotypes that pretty much NO ONE ASKED FOR. so like, there is no such thing as being 'cis' or playing up to your assigned gender. transgender is different from being transsexual. one is a mental disorder and should be treated as such. let's stop making more gender boxes? lol? like, 'demi girl' and 'flux gender' wtf is this?? let's just get rid of the stereotypes, let people wear and act how they want and learn that it's your personality, not your gender? people? omg.  

Person: some people feel they belong in another body though. gender feels different for everyone. 

Me: sounds like you're describing transexuals rather than transgender people. so now i ask you this:

how does one feel a gender? and if everyone feels them differently, how do they know its a gender and not just their personality?

gender seems to be an aesthetic. like, people like aesthetics, the mood that comes with them. like space aesthetic would make you feel a certain way, probably calm and thoughtful. maybe people are thinking of genders as aesthetics?

i literally think people think gender is their personality. because think about it, most of the people who mess about with gender are young people who are just turning into adults. they're confused, they've never had a personality before, because before they were just kids. ignoring the fact that gender is literally stereotypes; they probably read about people online that say 'yeah, there's a name for people like you that prefer to wear comfy clothes and use this type of shampoo: a man! congratulations! you're trans!' and the poor kid is like 'personality? what's that? my personality is a man.' 

and as for transexual issues:

i personally think that a woman is a person with a woman's body and a man is a person with a man's body. i do not think we can change this because its simple biology (also, why change it? they are names for people with cirtain body parts.) and that's okay. its fact, it doesn't need to be a social issue, and making it such has had and is having negative impacts on people medically. the fact that surgery and hormone blockers are so easily available freaks me out, to be honest. they are such dangerous procedures and the people who are usually involved in them are young people who are literally just experiencing growing up. we all get insecure about our bodies and most women think 'ugh, this oppression shit really sucks. I wish I was a man, they have a such a great time'. and when a kid goes to a psychologist and says 'i hate my body i wish I was the opposite sex', instead of the doctor saying 'its the patriarchy that's creating your dysphoria, lets help you feel better about your body', they usually actually say the opposite and be like 'you can mutilate yourself via expensive and life-threatening procedures!'. which benefits no one and actually fuels the child's self-hatred. 

this also bothers me because the world was just starting to pay attention to women. now its back to men again! we were all like 'women deserve respect, we want equal pay and no more rape!' and then a bunch of dudes who like to wear dresses were like 'what about us? we are women too! we're oppressed!' even though they never were because they're men. 

we're fighting for the same feminist shit we fought so hard for in the 1940s. 

i also don't like the idea of men being able to enter women-only spaces just because they say they are a woman too. we get raped and beaten. we deserve a safe place. we earned this safe place. men own everything, all we have is a female only bathroom. bathrooms are not even about gender. they're about body. 

and the fact that a man thinks he can call himself a woman and suddenly be one is quite frankly, insulting. like, do men know what we've been through throughout history? what people have done to us? he thinks he can come in and be all like 'yeah, I'm a woman, I've been so oppressed' even though for most of his life he had a dick and therefore all the luxuries that come with it? like, dude, being a woman isn't an emotion. no one feels like a woman. what makes us women is our bodies and what we've been through. if you think you have the wrong genitals and that bothers you for some reason, seek psychological help. don't change the definition of 'women'. don't take our struggles away from us. 

i think that rather than focusing on what body a person has, we should just all be equal. I think saying 'yeah, I'm a (man or woman)' should have the same effect as someone saying 'im left-handed'. their body works differently. so what? it shouldn't be the focus of our lives.

person: i just always felt i am supposed to be a man. i have an ideal body image in my head.

me: lol literally EVERYONE has that. 

in my head, my whole life, I've wanted to be thinner with pitch black bob cut hair, large blue eyes etc. because I've been socialized to think thin and boyish is attractive. all the ads aimed at women feature women that look more like men because they're thin. it's the patriarchy. I also wanted to look like a thin girl with cute hair because I find thin girls with cute hair attractive and I want to be attractive. 

no one wants to look how they were made to look. we wish we had the power to change ourselves. 

everyone. 

that's what growing up is! you are not feeling this alone! we all feel that way. you will probably grow out of it a bit as you grow up because hating your appearance is on the Teenage Experience box. you're literally just growing up. you're not alone. maybe if kids spent more time talking to other kids instead of being on the internet they would realize other people feel that way to and there's nothing 'wrong' or 'special' about them. they'd probably feel so much more accepted.

so basically: 

my opinion on gender: let's get rid of those harmful stereotypes, please! No more stereotypes? Oops, genders no longer exist. What a shame. *sarcasm*

my opinion on transexual issues: sex is biological. No one really likes the way they look. However, really hating your body to the point of wanting to hurt yourself isn't natural. seek help if you hate your own body. Let's build people's love for their body rather than offer to mutilate themselves. 

P.S: have you noticed how people seem to think they are supposed to be attracted to their body? And if they are not attracted to themselves they assume they need surgery. I had a friend who thought she was supposed to be a man because she didn't like the look of her body. Turns out she was just straight/ wasn't attracted to women so naturally she wasn't attracted to herself. You don't need to be attracted to yourself.

[deliciousanarchist]

Don't talk foody to me!

About diet talk and body positivity

This text started as an attempt to write about why I don’t like people commenting on (my) food when eating in public. While writing I realised I had to share more of my personal life and where I’m coming from, so it is more understandable why I’m having such a hard time with diet talk. In the end, this became a blog about diets, intuitive eating, self-care, and about respecting our own bodies and the bodies of others.

Society is pretty hung up on perfect bodies and, thus, food – those two seem to hang closely together. “We are what we eat”, right? Sounds legit. Or does it rather cut something very complex down to a simplifying and, well, blatantly incorrect sentence?

First of all, what we eat depends on so many things – like on the place we grow up, in what country we are born, and in what social part or class of society we were raised in. Also, when we look closely, stuff like what gender we are assigned with could be seen to make us choose different food. A lot of people believe that a “real man” needs to eat meat, or that women should generally eat less than men do. So “you are what you eat” strongly ignores social inequalities and, even worse, it judges you on things you did not decide by yourself.

It also sounds like a religion or a fatal cult. By this logic we are the sum of the food we eat. If we do “good” we get rewarded, if we do “bad” we will be punished. And if we get sick and some doctor tracks that back to our lifestyle (like to what we eat), then we supposedly brought it all on ourselves because we should have known better. We knew the rules of “health”, right? So if we have a heart attack, it’s because we ate too much fatty food. If we get diabetes, we ate too much sugar or simple carbohydrates. If we get an auto-immune disease, we exposed ourselves to too much to the “wrong” food like gluten, milk, or red meat. In all cases we definitely omitted to exercise enough, too, I’m sure.

And in the final consequence, if we brought our ‘unhealthy’ bodies on ourselves, then why should anyone, doctor or health insurance, help us and treat our disease? We made our bed, now we must lie in it, right?

A new diet theory every year

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that our food and lifestyle does not have any impact on the condition of our bodies, but I’m sure that we get the cause wrong most of the time. The human body is so complex. Who are we do think that we figured it all out? Watching some new food being demonized every other year should have proven this to us by now, shouldn’t it?

We are exposed to so much information about diets and nutrition in the course of our lives: Don’t eat wheat. Oh wait, but you can eat older wheat like dinkle. Drinking milk will kill you. But milk is so healthy, because calcium, you should drink milk every day. Butter is better than margarine. No, margarine is better. Or are both equally bad for you but for different reasons? Fat is bad for you no matter what. No wait, some fats are actually good and we need them for our body to process other food groups. Vegetables are always good for you. Unless it’s corn. And watch out for canned foods because of all the salt and sugar in it, but frozen vegetables are fresh and untreated. Fruits are healthy. In general we should eat vegetables and fruits 5 times a day. Oh no wait, fruit has sugar in it, so it’s not good after all. But oh, vitamins. That’s a twist, I guess. Red meat is bad, white meat is good. Or is meat always bad and should we replace it with fish? Let’s all go vegan to save the planet! (At this point I’m not going into the debate on if we Middle/Northern Europeans should or shouldn’t eat stuff like avocados or quinoa, and how fish is tricky anyway because of overfishing. Food production in capitalism in general, oh my.)

If you speak/read German, I highly recommend the book “Fa(t)shionista” by Magda Albrecht from 2018. She shares a lot of personal stories about the relationship to her body but also scientific info like the history of BMI or where the diseases (and “diseases”) of modern society more likely come from. Did you know that the BMI was never meant for categorizing individuals? And that in 1997 the WHO just set a new BMI for ‘obesety’ which made millions of people become overweight overnight? Also Magda writes: “[A]uch bei Bluthochdruck, Blutzucker oder dem Cholesterinspiegel [hat] die Lobbyarbeit der Pharmaindustrie dafür gesorgt [...], dass Grenzwerte so lange gesenkt wurden, bis die Mehrzahl der Bevölkerung in mindestens eine der zahlreichen Risikofaktoren fielen: Alles für die Gesundheit, natürlich! Oder vielleicht auch nur für die Geldbeutel großer Unternehmen?” (p. 157 // in english: “It’s the same with blood pressure, blood sugar or cholesterol. The drug industry kept declining the setpoint values for those too, so now most of our society suffers from at least one of those risk factors. All for the sake of health, of course! Or is it for the sake of the wallets of large companies?”)

Life is all about diversity

When I was 17 I stopped eating meat, and I was  immediately told from a lot of different people whose opinions I never asked for that becoming a vegetarian is really unhealthy. (Of course now, in 2019, that viewpoint has shifted from vegetarians to vegans, so…)

Whenever my iron was low my doctors told me it was probably from being a vegetarian. Or from having my period. Or if they had been honest with me and themselves – they had no idea. Sometimes blood levels change, and who is to say that everybody has the same range of components in their blood? For example, my leukocytes are so low all the time that I would constantly be sick from colds and other infections. Surprisingly, I hardly ever have those. I do have other issues though. We’re all different, and our bodies react differently to medications, food, and different lifestyles. It’s a little like hormones. If you use hormone levels to prove that there are only two genders you won’t get very far. Like using blood components to divide people into healthy and unhealthy. Let’s give biology some credit and see how diverse we are on so many levels, shall we?

All my life I have been interested in food theories and diets. At some point in my life I even wanted to become a nutritionist, but then got scared of chemistry and all the science behind it. But I also had a dark interest in diets, too. Being a teenager I had a phase of body hate that resulted in an eating disorder that resulted in drastically cutting down my food until I lost more and more weight. I soon looked very thin and according to a lot of people in my life, “really great”. The doctors who had suggested I “lose a few pounds” were happy too. Myself? I felt like crap. And even after all that weight loss, I didn’t even see my body as thin, so disconnected was I to body image and the reality of it. Looking back on those pictures today, I feel fear – I can’t even recognise myself in them, I look so gaunt.

Good bye, diet mentality

However, I learned something from that experience: Being thin doesn’t automatically make me happy. And realizing that back then I felt betrayed by science. It should have worked, right? Lose weight, feel great!? I guess not.

I wish I could say that this made me come to peace with my body for good, but it didn’t. Later in life I still tried to change my body and/or weight by regulating my diet and using sports, very often against the will of my body. Yet I was never one of the people who did an official diet, I never used concepts like the “Ornish Diet”, “The Grapefruit Diet” or the new “Brigittte Diät”. But at some point in life I realized I became an “unconscious dieter”. This is a term I found a few years ago in a book called “Intuitive Eating” (Tribole/Resch 1995/2012: 9) and resonated. For example, at times I felt like I should cut back on chocolate or processed food only because I felt like I should strive for a more healthy lifestyle and a healthier body (whatever that’s supposed to be). I never would have called this “being on a diet”, but in fact I was: I acted on internalised food rules, was not listening to my body, and was very judgemental about my eating behaviour (in the privacy of my thoughts) while dividing food into good and bad.

Every time I changed the food on my table I got disappointed again to find that my body did not react the way I expected it to. For weeks I rationalised my chocolate consumption, but it only lead to me being unsatisfied because I wanted more chocolate or I wanted it at a time I wouldn’t allow myself. Sometimes I did not want it at all when scheduled but ate it anyway because I felt like I should not let the opportunity for chocolate pass me by.

Giving your body what it doesn’t want and withholding your body from what it needs can’t ever be healthy. In other words, quoting Tribole/Resch: “A dieting body is a starving body” (Tribole/Resch 1995/2012: 59).

Listen to your heart... or your body in general

Later in life I stopped consuming cow’s milk and everything that is made from it on the advice of various therapies. It’s common if you have an immune-disease like I have, to look for clues in your diet, too. Meanwhile I started avoiding eggs and coconut milk, because they didn’t leave me feeling well. But, occasionally, I get the feeling I want to eat them and, when I listen to my body, that impulse is right and I don’t feel sick afterwards. Body intuition for the win.

Realising that I actually have a good sense of what food is good for me and what isn’t, the whole diet problem began to make more sense. I was trying to press my food schedule into the desires or the nutrition that other people came up with. This would never have worked. Actually, I think we all have that sense of what is good for us, but it’s covered with all the public opinions on diets and the “perfect” body.

When I really allow myself to listen to my body, most of the time I can feel what it needs and what it doesn’t. Nothing is off limits.

If only it was that easy. Because by listening to my body, I have to ward of constant urges society has given me to divide my food into “good food” and “bad food”. I have to push aside the illusion that a thin body would make me happy. I have to push aside all the body shaming I have internalised. The thought that our body is something to be hated or be feared and that it has to be punished if we are too weak to stay on our fancy paleo or whatever diet.

In the end, it’s all about self-respect, body-positivity, and about acknowledging that our body is not a machine. Our body is a complex system and no one else but us can say what it needs.

You eat tomatoes, I want potatoes

Listening to my body is getting me different results every day. Some essential things stay kind of the same though. Like, my body has almost zero problems with carbohydrates, and I love eating potatoes in any form imaginable. Gluten and yeast are fine with me, bread making an appearance in my meals every day.  Occasionally I like things made of soy/tofu, but they’re not my go to protein. I love legumes and vegetables of all kinds, but I only like to eat (raw) fruits on rare occasions. Green salad and raw food in general is tricky, and mostly repulsive. Yet from time to time I crave a green salad with a simple vinegar-honey dressing. Especially in public spaces, vegan food works best for me because then I can be sure there is no meat and no cow milk in there. Also I just love vegan food.

But that’s just how my body works right now. I believe for everybody there’s different food that works best. Let’s not act like there is one diet that works on all of us. Also our body and the food we need changes over time. And I guess in theory we all know that, but our routines are still hard to change.

The other day I read a tagline online saying, “Being obsessed with health doesn’t make you healthy. It only makes you obsessed”. And had to take a minute at the truth behind it. Especially as we can’t say what makes us healthy anyway. But we can say if something makes us feel good or not. Eating according to my intuition is the thing that has made most sense to me up to now, compared to all other diets and nutrition theories. Being happy while eating and the simple feeling that my body is having a good time is more important than eating what society thinks is right.

My struggle with intuition

I have to admit there is still one thing I have not figured out yet, and it’s something that’s overshadowed by my eating disorder from my teenage years that sometimes catches up with me: How many meals a day work best with me? So far I think it’s not three big meals, but more meals of different sizes. And eating at what time of the day works best for me? I try to listen to my body and eat when it feels right. Whereas, I can get a good feeling what I want to eat, I’m not that good in knowing when to eat. And having experienced an eating disorder, I know I can very well suppress the feeling of hunger, sometimes unconsciously. I have a lot of awful strategies to trick my body. There is a part of me that likes to punish my body by keeping it from eating. So this is really tricky and I’m still working on it.

And of course there is a major problem for all of us: our other-directed daily routines. Eating intuitively would work way better if only we could decide what and when to eat everyday. But with having to work to make money to pay for rent and – oh right, food (ha) and everything else, a lot of my meals are not all decided by myself. I can’t arrive to work at any given time, so I often have breakfast earlier than I’d like to. Then my day is filled with projects and meetings and private dates, so I have to plan my meals around them.

Not only that, too much stress makes it hard for me to hear what my body needs. I love chocolate (in case I haven’t mentioned this before ;)), but when I am too stressed out by work I eat chocolate for stress release. This is not bad in general. But after a while of this happening again and again I don’t even enjoy eating the chocolate. So next time I want to eat chocolate, instead I try questioning that decision and try to listen to my body: Is this really what would make me feel good now? And sometimes it is and I eat chocolate. Sometimes it’s not, and then I try to figure out what I want instead and what would really make me feel better. I do like things such as sugar, beer, and even smoking a cigarette from time to time. But I do not like it when I stop enjoying these things and only use them because I am stressed or sad or angry. Sure, I sometimes have a beer after a shitty day and that’s okay, but I would hate to make a habit out of that. Both the shitty days and the beers.

So I guess my theories don’t always work perfectly yet. It’s a work in progress.

Relearning the rules

In the last couple of years I had to relearn a lot of opinions and reflexes I was taught about eating when being young. And I’m still (un)learning, like: There is no good food/bad food. I don’t have to finish my plate if I am not hungry anymore. It’s okay to eat something else instead too. I don’t have to eat lots of fruits and vegetables every day if the thought of eating it makes me sick. I don’t have to stick to a fix count of meals a day. I don’t have to eat the same amount of food every day. And so on.

One more thing I try to learn is not to explain why I eat or won’t eat something right now. I used to say stuff like “I’m not hungry”, “I already ate so much today” or “Nothing for me, I had a late breakfast” or “It’s too late in the evening for me to be eating now” or thinking “I already had fries for lunch, I can’t have fries for dinner again”. Nope. No explanations, no regrets, no diet talk, no body shaming anymore. Three carbs-only-meals in a row because it feels right? I’ll do it. Eating dinner at 11pm because my body longs for food right now? Sure. If I’m not ravenous, but still feel my body would love something to eat? I’m having it.

Sharing’s not always caring

Something I don’t enjoy a lot for many different reasons is eating in public. I’m easily stressed by social situations in general but especially when it comes to sharing a meal, so I don’t often eat together with other people.

The other reason for that is that I hate it when people comment on my food. Or the food of others. Or their own food. And I don’t mean comments like “Wow, that looks so good!” or “I think I will order that myself”, I would love those comments. No, the comments I hear and hate a lot are comments that appear harmless, but really mess with my head. Like when I order and the person next to me says “Wow that’s quite a big portion!” or “Oooh, that looks like pure sugar” or “That would be impossible for me to eat.”

It’s tricky even if people make that comments about their own food. When someone eats half of the food on their plate and then says, “This was so much, now I’m going to be full for the rest of the day.” How will that make the person feel that sits next to them that ate all the food on the plate and is still hungry? Especially when that person commenting is thinner than the other one? 

Sorry, but in a world that condemns sugar (or even all carbs) and divides good and bad food and wants us to eat less food in general, those comments can’t ever be neutral observations or harmless notes.

Keeping your diet talk to yourself

“I get through the day easily without eating much at all.” “Eating a lot of fast food makes me feel toxic.” “Gluten is pure poison for my body.” “Since I’m doing [insert new diet] I feel like a human again.” “I can’t eat anything right now, I had a generous lunch.” “I could never function when eating toast with Nutella for breakfast.” “I’ll burn off the calories in the gym later.” “Alright, today is my ‘cheat day’.”

All of these comments are steeped in society's expectations.

I totally get that these are things people say about themselves in that moment, and if I’d only see them as self-revelation it guess it would be fine in a way. But that’s not how communication works, especially not with topics that are so morally pre-shaped like diets, food, and bodies. On good days, I can brush these words off, but on bad days I fall into despair: Why don’t I want to eat salad more? Why do I have to like chocolate so much? Maybe gluten is poison for me too, but I just don’t know it yet? My lunch was also generous, but I’m hungry again. What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t I get through today without much food? (This is an especially hard sentence for me as it cuts right into my eating disorder whispering that I could too, and all I have to do is… yeah, let’s not go there.)

Sometimes I wish I could just share meals without anyone making comments on the food beyond if they like it or not – their eating habits, and their or my body, all disguised as small talk. I think we should all be more careful how we talk about food because it’s a minefield full of stereotypes, preoccupations, shame, and it mostly comes with our personal past full of hurtful experiences with diet talk. So let’s think about how what we say can make other people feel like, and maybe let’s remember that most of us carry trauma from the topics of diet and food in one or another way.

~Sam Chills, 2019

[top40gordy]

Twitt https://twitter.com/share?text=Everything%20You%20Know%20About%20Obesity%20Is%20Wrong&url=https://highline.huffingtonpost.com/articles/en/everything-you-know-about-obesity-is-wrong/&via=HiSEPTEMBER 19, 2018

For decades, the medical community has ignored mountains of evidence to wage a cruel and futile war on fat people, poisoning public perception and ruining millions of lives.

It’s time for a new paradigm.

STORY BY Michael Hobbes

IMAGES BY Finlay MacKay

From the 16th century to the 19th, scurvy killed around 2 million sailors, more than warfare, shipwrecks and syphilis combined. It was an ugly, smelly death, too, beginning with rattling teeth and ending with a body so rotted out from the inside that its victims could literally be startled to death by a loud noise. Just as horrifying as the disease itself, though, is that for most of those 300 years, medical experts knew how to prevent it and simply failed to.

 In the 1600s, some sea captains distributed lemons, limes and oranges to sailors, driven by the belief that a daily dose of citrus fruit would stave off scurvy’s progress. The British Navy, wary of the cost of expanding the treatment, turned to malt wort, a mashed and cooked byproduct of barley which had the advantage of being cheaper but the disadvantage of doing nothing whatsoever to cure scurvy. In 1747, a British doctor named James Lind conducted an experiment where he gave one group of sailors citrus slices and the others vinegar or seawater or cider. The results couldn’t have been clearer. The crewmen who ate fruit improved so quickly that they were able to help care for the others as they languished. Lind published his findings, but died before anyone got around to implementing them nearly 50 years later.

 This kind of myopia repeats throughout history. Seat belts were invented long before the automobile but weren’t mandatory in cars until the 1960s. The first confirmed death from asbestos exposure was recorded in 1906, but the U.S. didn’t start banning the chemical until 1973. Every discovery in public health, no matter how significant, must compete with the traditions, assumptions and financial incentives of the society implementing it.

 Which brings us to one of the largest gaps between science and practice in our own time. Years from now, we will look back in horror at the counterproductive ways we addressed the obesity epidemic and the barbaric ways we treated fat people—long after we knew there was a better path.

 I have never written a story where so many of my sources cried during interviews, where they shook with anger describing their interactions with doctors and strangers and their own families.

 About 40 years ago, Americans started getting much larger. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, nearly 80 percent of adults and about one-third of children now meet the clinical definition of overweight or obese. More Americans live with “extreme obesity“ than with breast cancer, Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s and HIV put together.

 And the medical community’s primary response to this shift has been to blame fat people for being fat. Obesity, we are told, is a personal failing that strains our health care system, shrinks our GDP and saps our military strength. It is also an excuse to bully fat people in one sentence and then inform them in the next that you are doing it for their own good. That’s why the fear of becoming fat, or staying that way, drives Americans to spend more on dieting every year than we spend on video games or movies. Forty-five percent of adults say they’re preoccupied with their weight some or all of the time—an 11-point rise since 1990. Nearly half of 3- to 6- year old girls say they worry about being fat.

 The emotional costs are incalculable. I have never written a story where so many of my sources cried during interviews, where they double- and triple-checked that I would not reveal their names, where they shook with anger describing their interactions with doctors and strangers and their own families. One remembered kids singing “Baby Beluga” as she boarded the school bus, another said she has tried diets so extreme she has passed out and yet another described the elaborate measures he takes to keep his spouse from seeing him naked in the light. A medical technician I’ll call Sam (he asked me to change his name so his wife wouldn’t find out he spoke to me) said that one glimpse of himself in a mirror can destroy his mood for days. “I have this sense I’m fat and I shouldn’t be,” he says. “It feels like the worst kind of weakness.”

 My interest in this issue is slightly more than journalistic. Growing up, my mother’s weight was the uncredited co-star of every family drama, the obvious, unspoken reason why she never got out of the car when she picked me up from school, why she disappeared from the family photo album for years at a time, why she spent hours making meatloaf then sat beside us eating a bowl of carrots.

Last year, for the first time, we talked about her weight in detail. When I asked if she was ever bullied, she recalled some guy calling her a “fat slob” as she biked past him years ago. “But that was rare,” she says. “The bigger way my weight affected my life was that I waited to do things because I thought fat people couldn’t do them.” She got her master’s degree at 38, her Ph.D. at 55. “I avoided so many activities where I thought my weight would discredit me.”

 Chances of a woman classified as obese achieving a “normal” weight:.008%Source: American Journal of Public Health, 2015

 But my mother’s story, like Sam’s, like everyone’s, didn’t have to turn out like this. For 60 years, doctors and researchers have known two things that could have improved, or even saved, millions of lives. The first is that diets do not work. Not just paleo or Atkins or Weight Watchers or Goop, but all diets. Since 1959, research has shown that 95 to 98 percent of attempts to lose weight fail and that two-thirds of dieters gain back more than they lost. The reasons are biological and irreversible.

 As early as 1969, research showed that losing just 3 percent of your body weight resulted in a 17 percent slowdown in your metabolism—a body-wide starvation response that blasts you with hunger hormones and drops your internal temperature until you rise back to your highest weight. Keeping weight off means fighting your body’s energy-regulation system and battling hunger all day, every day, for the rest of your life.

 The second big lesson the medical establishment has learned and rejected over and over again is that weight and health are not perfect synonyms. Yes, nearly every population-level study finds that fat people have worse cardiovascular health than thin people. But individuals are not averages: Studies have found that anywhere from one-third to three-quarters of people classified as obese are metabolically healthy. They show no signs of elevated blood pressure, insulin resistance or high cholesterol. Meanwhile, about a quarter of non-overweight people are what epidemiologists call “the lean unhealthy.” A 2016 study that followed participants for an average of 19 years found that unfit skinny people were twice as likely to get diabetes as fit fat people. Habits, no matter your size, are what really matter. Dozens of indicators, from vegetable consumption to regular exercise to grip strength, provide a better snapshot of someone’s health than looking at her from across a room.

The terrible irony is that for 60 years, we’ve approached the obesity epidemic like a fad dieter: If we just try the exact same thing one more time, we'll get a different result. And so it’s time for a paradigm shift. We’re not going to become a skinnier country. But we still have a chance to become a healthier one.

 A NOTE ABOUT OUR PHOTOGRAPHS So many images you see in articles about obesity strip fat people of their strength and personality. According to a recent study, only 11 percent of large people depicted in news reports were wearing professional clothing. Nearly 60 percent were headless torsos. So, we asked our interview subjects to take full creative control of the photos in this piece. This is how they want to present themselves to the world.

 “As a kid, I thought that fat people were just lonely and sad—almost like these pathetic lost causes. So I want to show that we get to experience love, too. I’m not some 'fat friend' or some dude's chubby chasing dream. I'm genuinely happy. I just wish I'd known how possible that was when I was a kiddo.”— CORISSA ENNEKING

 This is Corissa Enneking at her lightest: She wakes up, showers and smokes a cigarette to keep her appetite down. She drives to her job at a furniture store, she stands in four-inch heels all day, she eats a cup of yogurt alone in her car on her lunch break. After work, lightheaded, her feet throbbing, she counts out three Ritz crackers, eats them at her kitchen counter and writes down the calories in her food journal.

 Or not. Some days she comes home and goes straight to bed, exhausted and dizzy from hunger, shivering in the Kansas heat. She rouses herself around dinnertime and drinks some orange juice or eats half a granola bar. Occasionally she’ll just sleep through the night, waking up the next day to start all over again.

 The last time she lived like this, a few years ago, her mother marched her to the hospital. “My daughter is sick,” she told the doctor. “She's not eating.” He looked Enneking up and down. Despite six months of starvation, she was still wearing plus sizes, still couldn’t shop at J. Crew, still got unsolicited diet advice from colleagues and customers.

 Enneking told the doctor that she used to be larger, that she’d lost some weight the same way she had lost it three or four times before—seeing how far she could get through the day without eating, trading solids for liquids, food for sleep. She was hungry all the time, but she was learning to like it. When she did eat, she got panic attacks. Her boss was starting to notice her erratic behavior.

 “Well, whatever you're doing now,” the doctor said, “it's working.” He urged her to keep it up and assured her that once she got small enough, her body would start to process food differently. She could add a few hundred calories to her diet. Her period would come back. She would stay small, but without as much effort.

 “If you looked at anything other than my weight,” Enneking says now, “I had an eating disorder. And my doctor was congratulating me.”

 Ask almost any fat person about her interactions with the health care system and you will hear a story, sometimes three, the same as Enneking’s: rolled eyes, skeptical questions, treatments denied or delayed or revoked. Doctors are supposed to be trusted authorities, a patient’s primary gateway to healing. But for fat people, they are a source of unique and persistent trauma. No matter what you go in for or how much you’re hurting, the first thing you will be told is that it would all get better if you could just put down the Cheetos.

 Emily went to a gynecological surgeon to have an ovarian cyst removed. The physician pointed out her body fat on the MRI, then said, “Look at that skinny woman in there trying to get out.”

 This phenomenon is not merely anecdotal. Doctors have shorter appointments with fat patients and show less emotional rapport in the minutes they do have. Negative words—“noncompliant, “overindulgent,” “weak willed”—pop up in their medical histories with higher frequency. In one study, researchers presented doctors with case histories of patients suffering from migraines. With everything else being equal, the doctors reported that the patients who were also classified as fat had a worse attitude and were less likely to follow their advice. And that’s when they see fat patients at all: In 2011, the Sun-Sentinel polled OB-GYNs in South Florida and discovered that 14 percent had barred all new patients weighing more than 200 pounds.

 Some of these doctors are simply applying the same presumptions as the society around them. An anesthesiologist on the West Coast tells me that as soon as a larger patient goes under, the surgeons start trading “high school insults” about her body over the operating table. Janice O’Keefe, a former nurse in Boston, tells me a doctor once looked at her, paused, then asked, “How could you do this to yourself?” Emily, a counselor in Eastern Washington, went to a gynecological surgeon to have an ovarian cyst removed. The physician pointed out her body fat on the MRI, then said, “Look at that skinny woman in there trying to get out.”

 “I was worried I had cancer,” Emily says, “and she was turning it into a teachable moment about my weight.”

 Other physicians sincerely believe that shaming fat people is the best way to motivate them to lose weight. “It’s the last area of medicine where we prescribe tough love,” says Mayo Clinic researcher Sean Phelan.

 In a 2013 journal article, bioethicist Daniel Callahan argued for more stigma against fat people. “People don’t realize that they are obese or if they do realize it, it’s not enough to stir them to do anything about it,” he tells me. Shame helped him kick his cigarette habit, he argues, so it should work for obesity too.

 This belief is cartoonishly out of step with a generation of research into obesity and human behavior. As one of the (many) stigma researchers who responded to Callahan’s article pointed out, shaming smokers and drug users with D.A.R.E.-style “just say no” messages may have actually increased substance abuse by making addicts less likely to bring up their habit with their doctors and family members.

 Plus, rather obviously, smoking is a behavior; being fat is not. Jody Dushay, an endocrinologist and obesity specialist at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston, says most of her patients have tried dozens of diets and have lost and regained hundreds of pounds before they come to her.

Telling them to try again, but in harsher terms, only sets them up to fail and then blame themselves.

 89%of obese adults have been bullied by their romantic partners Source: University of Connecticut, 2017

 Not all physicians set out to denigrate their fat patients, of course; some of them do damage because of subtler, more unconscious biases. Most doctors, for example, are fit—“If you go to an obesity conference, good luck trying to get a treadmill at 5 a.m.,” Dushay says—and have spent more than a decade of their lives in the high-stakes, high-stress bubble of medical schools.

 According to several studies, thin doctors are more confident in their recommendations, expect their patients to lose more weight and are more likely to think dieting is easy. Sarah (not her real name), a tech CEO in New England, once told her doctor that she was having trouble eating less throughout the day. “Look at me,” her doctor said. “I had one egg for breakfast and I feel fine.”

Then there are the glaring cultural differences. Kenneth Resnicow, a consultant who trains physicians to build rapport with their patients, says white, wealthy, skinny doctors will often try to bond with their low-income patients by telling them, “I know what it’s like not to have time to cook.” Their patients, who might be single mothers with three kids and two jobs, immediately think “No, you don’t,” and the relationship is irretrievably soured.

 When Joy Cox, an academic in New Jersey, was 16, she went to the hospital with stomach pains. The doctor didn’t diagnose her dangerously inflamed bile duct, but he did, out of nowhere, suggest that she’d get better if she stopped eating so much fried chicken. “He managed to denigrate my fatness and my blackness in the same sentence,” she says.

 “There is so much agency taken from marginalized groups to mute their voices and mask their existence. Being depicted as a female CEO—one who is also black and fat—means so much to me. It is a representation of the reclamation of power in the boardroom, classroom and living room of my body. I own all of this.”— JOY COX

 Many of the financial and administrative structures doctors work within help reinforce this bad behavior. The problem starts in medical school, where, according to a 2015 survey, students receive an average of just 19 hours of nutrition education over four years of instruction—five hours fewer than they got in 2006. Then the trouble compounds once doctors get into daily practice. Primary care physicians only get 15 minutes for each appointment, barely enough time to ask patients what they ate today, much less during all the years leading up to it. And a more empathic approach to treatment simply doesn’t pay: While procedures like blood tests and CT scans command reimbursement rates from hundreds to thousands of dollars, doctors receive as little as $24 to provide a session of diet and nutrition counseling.

 Lesley Williams, a family medicine doctor in Phoenix, tells me she gets an alert from her electronic health records software every time she’s about to see a patient who is above the “overweight” threshold. The reason for this is that physicians are often required, in writing, to prove to hospital administrators and insurance providers that they have brought up their patient’s weight and formulated a plan to bring it down—regardless of whether that patient came in with arthritis or a broken arm or a bad sunburn. Failing to do that could result in poor performance reviews, low ratings from insurance companies or being denied reimbursement if they refer patients to specialized care.

 Another issue, says Kimberly Gudzune, an obesity specialist at Johns Hopkins, is that many doctors, no matter their specialty, think weight falls under their authority. Gudzune often spends months working with patients to set realistic goals—playing with their grandkids longer, going off a cholesterol medication—only to have other doctors threaten it all. One of her patients was making significant progress until she went to a cardiologist who told her to lose 100 pounds. “All of a sudden she goes back to feeling like a failure and we have to start over,” Gudzune says. “Or maybe she just never comes back at all.”

 60%of the calories Americans consume come from “ultra-processed foods” Source: British Medical Journal, 2016

 And so, working within a system that neither trains nor encourages them to meaningfully engage with their higher-weight patients, doctors fall back on recommending fad diets and delivering bland motivational platitudes. Ron Kirk, an electrician in Boston, says that for years, his doctor's first resort was to put him on some diet he couldn't maintain for more than a few weeks. “They told me lettuce was a ‘free’ food,” he says—and he’d find himself carving up a head of romaine for dinner.

 In a study that recorded 461 interactions with doctors, only 13 percent of patients got any specific plan for diet or exercise and only 5 percent got help arranging a follow-up visit. “It can be stressful when [patients] start asking a lot of specific questions” about diet and weight loss, one doctor told researchers in 2012. “I don’t feel like I have the time to sit there and give them private counseling on basics. I say, ‘Here’s some websites, look at this.’” A 2016 survey found that nearly twice as many higher-weight Americans have tried meal-replacement diets—the kind most likely to fail—than have ever received counseling from a dietician.

 “It borders on medical malpractice,” says Andrew (not his real name), a consultant and musician who has been large his whole life. A few years ago, on a routine visit, Andrew’s doctor weighed him, announced that he was “dangerously overweight” and told him to diet and exercise, offering no further specifics. Should he go on a low-fat diet? Low-carb? Become a vegetarian? Should he do CrossFit? Yoga? Should he buy a fucking ThighMaster?

 “She didn't even ask me what I was already doing for exercise,” he says. “At the time, I was training for serious winter mountaineering trips, hiking every weekend and going to the gym four times a week. Instead of a conversation, I got a sound bite. It felt like shaming me was the entire purpose.”

 All of this makes higher-weight patients more likely to avoid doctors. Three separate studies have found that fat women are more likely to die from breast and cervical cancers than non-fat women, a result partially attributed to their reluctance to see doctors and get screenings. Erin Harrop, a researcher at the University of Washington, studies higher-weight women with anorexia, who, contrary to the size-zero stereotype of most media depictions, are twice as likely to report vomiting, using laxatives and abusing diet pills. Thin women, Harrop discovered, take around three years to get into treatment, while her participants spent an average of 13 and a half years waiting for their disorders to be addressed.

 “A lot of my job is helping people heal from the trauma of interacting with the medical system,” says Ginette Lenham, a counselor who specializes in obesity. The rest of it, she says, is helping them heal from the trauma of interacting with everyone else.

 “My weight makes me anxious. I'm constantly sucking my stomach in when I stand, and if I'm sitting, I always grab a pillow or couch cushion to hold in front of it. I'm most comfortable in my bathrobe, alone. At the same time, my brain starves for attention. I want to be onstage. I want to be the one holding a microphone. So, I decided to split the difference with this photograph: to perform and to obscure. The worst part is that intellectually I know that I have worth beyond pounds and waist inches and stereotypes. But I still feel like I have to hide.”— SAM (NOT HIS REAL NAME)

 If Sonya ever forgets that she is fat, the world will remind her. She has stopped taking the bus, she tells me, because she can sense the aggravation of the passengers squeezing past her. Sarah, the tech CEO, tenses up when anyone brings bagels to a work meeting. If she reaches for one, are her employees thinking, “There goes the fat boss”? If she doesn’t, are they silently congratulating her for showing some restraint?

 Emily says it’s the do-gooders who get to her, the women who stop her on the street and tell her how brave she is for wearing a sleeveless dress on a 95-degree day. Sam, the medical technician, avoids the subject of weight altogether. “Men aren’t supposed to think about this stuff—and I think about it constantly,” he admits. “So I never let myself talk about it. Which is weird because it’s the most visible thing about me.”

 Again and again, I hear stories of how the pressure to be a “good fatty” in public builds up and explodes. Jessica has four kids. Every week is a birthday party or family reunion or swimming pool social, another opportunity to stand around platters of spare ribs and dinner rolls with her fellow moms.

 “Your conscious mind is busy the whole day with how many calories is in everything, what you can eat and who’s watching,” she says. After a few intrusive comments over the years—should you be eating that?—she has learned to be careful, to perform the role of the impeccable fat person. She nibbles on cherry tomatoes, drinks tap water, stays on her feet, ignores the dessert end of the buffet.

 Then, as the gathering winds down, Jessica and the other parents divvy up the leftovers. She wraps up burgers or pasta salad or birthday cake, drives her children home and waits for the moment when they are finally in bed. Then, when she’s alone, she eats all the leftovers by herself, in the dark.

 “It’s always hidden,” she says. “I buy a package of ice cream, then eat it all. Then I have to go to the store to buy it again. For a week my family thinks there’s a thing of ice cream in the fridge—but it’s actually five different ones.”

 Ratio of soda and candy ads seen by black children compared to white children:2:1Source: UConn Rudd Center for Food Policy and Obesity, 2015

 This is how fat-shaming works: It is visible and invisible, public and private, hidden and everywhere at the same time. Research consistently finds that larger Americans (especially larger women) earn lower salaries and are less likely to be hired and promoted. In a 2017 survey, 500 hiring managers were given a photo of an overweight female applicant. Twenty-one percent of them described her as unprofessional despite having no other information about her. What’s worse, only a few cities and one state (nice work, Michigan) officially prohibit workplace discrimination on the basis of weight.

 Paradoxically, as the number of larger Americans has risen, the biases against them have become more severe. More than 40 percent of Americans classified as obese now say they experience stigma on a daily basis, a rate far higher than any other minority group. And this does terrible things to their bodies. According to a 2015 study, fat people who feel discriminated against have shorter life expectancies than fat people who don't. “These findings suggest the possibility that the stigma associated with being overweight,” the study concluded, “is more harmful than actually being overweight.”

 And, in a cruel twist, one effect of weight bias is that it actually makes you eat more. The stress hormone cortisol—the one evolution designed to kick in when you’re being chased by a tiger or, it turns out, rejected for your looks—increases appetite, reduces the will to exercise and even improves the taste of food. Sam, echoing so many of the other people I spoke with, says that he drove straight to Jack in the Box last year after someone yelled, “Eat less!” at him across a parking lot.

 “I don’t want to be portrayed; this is not about me. It’s about that guy you always see on the far treadmill at the gym. Or the lady who brings the most beautiful salads to work every day for lunch. It’s about the little girl who got bullied because of her size and the little boy who was told he wasn’t man enough. It’s not about me but had it been about me when I was that chubby little girl, maybe I wouldn’t be standing here, head against the door, wondering if I’m enough.”— ERIKA

 There’s a grim caveman logic to our nastiness toward fat people. “We’re attuned to bodies that look different,” says Janet Tomiyama, a stigma researcher at UCLA. “In our evolutionary past, that might have meant disease risk and been seen as a threat to your tribe.” These biological breadcrumbs help explain why stigma begins so early. Kids as young as 3 describe their larger classmates with words like “mean,” “stupid” and “lazy.”

 And yet, despite weight being the number one reason children are bullied at school, America’s institutions of public health continue to pursue policies perfectly designed to inflame the cruelty. TV and billboard campaigns still use slogans like “Too much screen time, too much kid” and “Being fat takes the fun out of being a kid.” Cat Pausé, a researcher at Massey University in New Zealand, spent months looking for a single public health campaign, worldwide, that attempted to reduce stigma against fat people and came up empty. In an incendiary case of good intentions gone bad, about a dozen states now send children home with “BMI report cards,” an intervention unlikely to have any effect on their weight but almost certain to increase bullying from the people closest to them.

 This is not an abstract concern: Surveys of higher-weight adults find that their worst experiences of discrimination come from their own families. Erika, a health educator in Washington, can still recite the word her father used to describe her: “husky.” Her grandfather preferred “stocky.” Her mother never said anything about Erika’s body, but she didn't have to. She obsessed over her own, calling herself “enormous” despite being two sizes smaller than her daughter. By the time Erika was 11, she was sneaking into the woods behind her house and vomiting into the creek whenever social occasions made starving herself impossible.

 And the abuse from loved ones continues well into adulthood. A 2017 survey found that 89 percent of obese adults had been bullied by their romantic partners. Emily, the counselor, says she spent her teens and 20s “sleeping with guys I wasn’t interested in because they wanted to sleep with me.” In her head, a guy being into her was a rare and depletable resource she couldn’t afford to waste: “I was desperate for men to give me attention. Sex was a good way to do that.”

 Eventually, she ended up with someone abusive. He told her during sex that her body was beautiful and then, in the daylight, that it was revolting. “Whenever I tried to leave him, he would say, ‘Where are you gonna find someone who will put up with your disgusting body?’” she remembers.

 Emily finally managed to get away from him, but she is aware that her love life will always be fraught. The guy she’s dating now is thin—“think Tony Hawk,” she says—and she notices the looks they get when they hold hands in public. “That never used to happen when I dated fat dudes,” she says. “Thin men are not allowed to be attracted to fat women.”

 The effects of weight bias get worse when they’re layered on top of other types of discrimination. A 2012 study found that African-American women are more likely to become depressed after internalizing weight stigma than white women. Hispanic and black teenagers also have significantly higher rates of bulimia. And, in a remarkable finding, rich people of color have higher rates of cardiovascular disease than poor people of color—the opposite of what happens with white people. One explanation is that navigating increasingly white spaces, and increasingly higher stakes, exerts stress on racial minorities that, over time, makes them more susceptible to heart problems.

 But perhaps the most unique aspect of weight stigma is how it isolates its victims from one another. For most minority groups, discrimination contributes to a sense of belongingness, a community in opposition to a majority. Gay people like other gay people; Mormons root for other Mormons. Surveys of higher-weight people, however, reveal that they hold many of the same biases as the people discriminating against them. In a 2005 study, the words obese participants used to classify other obese people included gluttonous, unclean and sluggish.

 Andrea, a retired nurse in Boston, has been on commercial diets since she was 10 years old. She knows how hard it is to slim down, knows what women larger than her are going through, but she still struggles not to pass judgment when she sees them in public. “I think, ‘How did they let it happen?’” she says. “It’s more like fear. Because if I let myself go, I’ll be that big too.”

 Her position is all-too understandable. As young as 9 or 10, I knew that coming out of the closet is what gay people do, even if it took me another decade to actually do it. Fat people, though, never get a moment of declaring their identity, of marking themselves as part of a distinct group. They still live in a society that believes weight is temporary, that losing it is urgent and achievable, that being comfortable in their bodies is merely “glorifying obesity.” This limbo, this lie, is why it’s so hard for fat people to discover one another or even themselves. “No one believes our It Gets Better story,” says Tigress Osborn, the director of community outreach for the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance. “You can’t claim an identity if everyone around you is saying it doesn’t or shouldn’t exist.”

 Harrop, the eating disorders researcher, realized several years ago that her university had clubs for trans students, immigrant students, Republican students, but none for fat students. So she started one—and it has been a resounding, unmitigated failure. Only a handful of fat people have ever shown up; most of the time, thin folks sit around brainstorming about how to be better allies.

I ask Harrop why she thinks the group has been such a bust. It’s simple, she says: “Fat people grow up in the same fat-hating culture that non-fat people do.”

 “I think some folks are genuinely surprised that a man who looks like him is with a woman like me. As a fat person, I'm very aware of when I'm being stared at—and I have never been looked at this much before. So I thought that taking the photo in public would be a good idea. It feels subversive to show my fat body doing regular stuff the world believes I don't or can't do.”— EMILY

Since 1980, the obesity rate has doubled in 73 countries and increased in 113 others. And in all that time, no nation has reduced its obesity rate. Not one.

 The problem is that in America, like everywhere else, our institutions of public health have become so obsessed with body weight that they have overlooked what is really killing us: our food supply. Diet is the leading cause of death in the United States, responsible for more than five times the fatalities of gun violence and car accidents combined. But it’s not how much we’re eating—Americans actually consume fewer calories now than we did in 2003. It’s what we’re eating.

 For more than a decade now, researchers have found that the quality of our food affects disease risk independently of its effect on weight. Fructose, for example, appears to damage insulin sensitivity and liver function more than other sweeteners with the same number of calories. People who eat nuts four times a week have 12 percent lower diabetes incidence and a 13 percent lower mortality rate regardless of their weight. All of our biological systems for regulating energy, hunger and satiety get thrown off by eating foods that are high in sugar, low in fiber and injected with additives. And which now, shockingly, make up 60 percent of the calories we eat.

 Draining this poison from our trillion-dollar food system is not going to happen quickly or easily. Every link in the chain, from factory farms to school lunches, is dominated by a Mars or a Monsanto or a McDonald’s, each working tirelessly to lower its costs and raise its profits. But that’s still no reason to despair. There’s a lot we can do right now to improve fat people’s lives—to shift our focus for the first time from weight to health and from shame to support.  

The place to start is at the doctor’s office. The central failure of the medical system when it comes to obesity is that it treats every patient exactly the same: If you’re fat, lose some weight. If you’re skinny, keep up the good work. Stephanie Sogg, a psychologist at the Mass General Weight Center, tells me she has clients who start eating compulsively after a sexual assault, others who starve themselves all day before bingeing on the commute home and others who eat 1,000 calories a day, work out five times a week and still insist that they’re fat because they “have no willpower.”

 Acknowledging the infinite complexity of each person’s relationship to food, exercise and body image is at the center of her treatment, not a footnote to it. “Eighty percent of my patients cry in the first appointment,” Sogg says. “For something as emotional as weight, you have to listen for a long time before you give any advice. Telling someone, 'Lay off the cheeseburgers' is never going to work if you don't know what those cheeseburgers are doing for them.”  

4% of all agricultural subsidies go to fruits and vegetables Source: Environmental Working Group, 2014-16

 The medical benefits of this approach—being nicer to her patients than they are to themselves, is how Sogg describes it—are unimpeachable. In 2017, the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force, the expert panel that decides which treatments should be offered for free under Obamacare, found that the decisive factor in obesity care was not the diet patients went on, but how much attention and support they received while they were on it. Participants who got more than 12 sessions with a dietician saw significant reductions in their rates of prediabetes and cardiovascular risk. Those who got less personalized care showed almost no improvement at all.

 Still, despite the Task Force’s explicit recommendation of “intensive, multicomponent behavioral counseling” for higher-weight patients, the vast majority of insurance companies and state health care programs define this term to mean just a session or two—exactly the superficial approach that years of research says won’t work. “Health plans refuse to treat this as anything other than a personal problem,” says Chris Gallagher, a policy consultant at the Obesity Action Coalition.

 The same scurvy-ish negligence shows up at every level of government. From marketing rules to antitrust regulations to international trade agreements, U.S. policy has created a food system that excels at producing flour, sugar and oil but struggles to deliver nutrients at anywhere near the same scale. The United States spends $1.5 billion on nutrition research every year compared to around $60 billion on drug research. Just 4 percent of agricultural subsidies go to fruits and vegetables. No wonder that the healthiest foods can cost up to eight times more, calorie for calorie, than the unhealthiest—or that the gap gets wider every year.

 It’s the same with exercise. The cardiovascular risks of sedentary lifestyles, suburban sprawl and long commutes are well-documented. But rather than help mitigate these risks—and their disproportionate impact on the poor—our institutions have exacerbated them. Only 13 percent of American children walk or bike to school; once they arrive, less than a third of them will take part in a daily gym class. Among adults, the number of workers commuting more than 90 minutes each way grew by more than 15 percent from 2005 to 2016, a predictable outgrowth of America’s underinvestment in public transportation and over-investment in freeways, parking and strip malls. For 40 years, as politicians have told us to eat more vegetables and take the stairs instead of the elevator, they have presided over a country where daily exercise has become a luxury and eating well has become extortionate.

 “My son and I both like to play the hero. There wasn't necessarily any intentional symbolism in the costumes we chose, but I am definitely a member of the rebellion, and I see my role as an eating disorders researcher as trying to fight for justice and a better world. Also, I like that I'm sweaty, dirty and messy, not done up with makeup or with my hair down in this picture. I like that I'm not hiding my stomach, thighs or arms. Not because I'm comfortable being photographed like that, but because I want to be—and I want others to feel free to be like that, too.”— ERIN HARROP

 The good news is that the best ideas for reversing these trends have already been tested. Many “failed” obesity interventions are, in fact, successful eat-healthier-and-exercise-more interventions. A review of 44 international studies found that school-based activity programs didn’t affect kids’ weight, but improved their athletic ability, tripled the amount of time they spent exercising and reduced their daily TV consumption by up to an hour. Another survey showed that two years of getting kids to exercise and eat better didn’t noticeably affect their size but did improve their math scores—an effect that was greater for black kids than white kids.

 You see this in so much of the research: The most effective health interventions aren't actually health interventions—they are policies that ease the hardship of poverty and free up time for movement and play and parenting. Developing countries with higher wages for women have lower obesity rates, and lives are transformed when healthy food is made cheaper. A pilot program in Massachusetts that gave food stamp recipients an extra 30 cents for every $1 they spent on healthy food increased fruit and vegetable consumption by 26 percent. Policies like this are unlikely to affect our weight. They are almost certain, however, to significantly improve our health.

 Which brings us to the most hard-wired problem of all: Our shitty attitudes toward fat people. According to Patrick Corrigan, the editor of the journal Stigma and Health, even the most well-intentioned efforts to reduce stigma break down in the face of reality. In one study, researchers told 10- to 12-year-olds all the genetic and medical factors that contribute to obesity. Afterward, the kids could recite back the message they received—fat kids didn’t get that way by choice—but they still had the same negative attitudes about the bigger kids sitting next to them. A similar approach with fifth- and sixth-graders actually increased their intention of bullying their fat classmates. Celebrity representation, meanwhile, can result in what Corrigan calls the “Thurgood Marshall effect”: Instead of updating our stereotypes (maybe fat people aren’t so bad), we just see prominent minorities as isolated exceptions to them (well, he’s not like those other fat people).

 What does work, Corrigan says, is for fat people to make it clear to everyone they interact with that their size is nothing to apologize for. “When you pity someone, you think they’re less effective, less competent, more hurt,” he says. “You don’t see them as capable. The only way to get rid of stigma is from power.”

 This has always been the great hope of the fat-acceptance movement. (“We’re here, we’re spheres, get used to it” was one of the slogans in the 1990s.) But this radical message has long since been co-opted by clothing brands, diet companies, and soap corporations. Weight Watchers has rebranded as a “lifestyle program,” but still promises that its members can shrink their way to happiness. Mainstream apparel companies market themselves as “body positive” but refuse to make clothes that fit the plus-size models on their own billboards. Social media, too, has provided a platform for positive representations of fat people and formed communities that make it easier to find each other. But it has also contributed to an anodyne, narrow, Dr. Phil-approved form of progress that celebrates the female entrepreneur who sells “fatkinis” on Instagram while ignoring the woman who (true story) gets fired from her management position after reportedly gaining 100 pounds over three years.

 “Fat activism isn’t about making people feel better about themselves,” Pausé says. “It’s about not being denied your civil rights and not dying because a doctor misdiagnoses you.”

And so, in a world that refuses to change, it is still up to every fat person, alone, to decide how to endure. Emily, the counselor in Eastern Washington, says she made a choice about three years ago to assert herself. The first time she asked for a table instead of a booth at a restaurant, she says, she was sweating, flushed, her chest heaving. It felt like saying the words—“I can’t fit”—would dry up in her mouth as she said them.

 But now, she says, “It’s just something I do.” Last month, she was at a conference and asked one of the other participants if he would trade chairs because his didn’t have arms. Like most of these requests, it was no big deal. “A tall person wouldn’t feel weird asking that, so why should I?” she says. Her skinny friends have started to inquire about the seating at restaurants before Emily even gets the chance.

 Hearing about Emily’s progress reminds me of a conversation I had with Ginette Lenham, the diet counselor. Her patients, she says, often live in the past or the future with their weight. They tell her they are waiting until they are smaller to go back to school or apply for a new job. They beg her to return them to their high school or wedding or first triathlon weight, the one that will bring back their former life.

 And then Lenham must explain that these dreams are a trap. Because there is no magical cure. There is no time machine. There is only the revolutionary act of being fat and happy in a world that tells you that’s impossible.

 “We all have to do our best with the body that we have,” she says. “And leave everyone else’s alone.”

From <https://highline.huffingtonpost.com/articles/en/everything-you-know-about-obesity-is-wrong/>

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[your-dietician]

Things to know about your health as you turn 40

New Post has been published on https://tattlepress.com/health/things-to-know-about-your-health-as-you-turn-40/

Things to know about your health as you turn 40

Let’s begin with a head to toe examination.

DALLAS — It is time for your health check! 

And this week, we have a special series of health checks in honor of a big birthday our Sonia Azad has coming up: she’s turning 40 on Friday. As part of the lead up to the day, she will be asking medical experts their advice for what health details you need to focus, whether you’re staring down the big 4-0, just celebrated the milestone, or beyond. 

It’ll all culminate in a celebratory “Bar Crawl” – but healthy, of course!

So, what are those big health topics you need to keep top-of-mind? Let’s begin with a head to toe examination.

Prevention

Dr. James Pinckney II, M.D. from Diamond Physicians says while aging feels like it happens overnight, it’s actually a gradual process, and the things we do today will affect how we feel tomorrow. 

“Our metabolism slows down, we don’t produce as much of certain hormones, we don’t have the same energy levels,” he explained. 

He encouraged everyone facing 40 to know their numbers:

Blood pressure

Cholesterol

Baseline heart rate

His doctors even do a “neck to pelvis” scan that takes a look at  organs and assesses a patient’s future risk for heart disease by looking at the plaque in their arteries 

Pinckney said taking that deep dive now can prevent bigger problems later.

“Cardiovascular disease is the number one killer in this country and has been for the last 20 years, and it’s really something you have to focus on in your youth,” he explained.

Also important for prevention: eye and dental health.

As we get older, our vision changes and sometimes that can get in the way of day-to-day life, like driving at night, reading menus in dark restaurants – or simply checking your text messages.

“What happens is, the internal structure of the eye, which are really flexible all of our life, that structure loses its flexibility,” explained Dr. Anisah Shahizadeh with EyeQ Vision.

While Shahizadeh said there’s not much that can be done to prevent this natural process, heavy computer use is contributing to more vision problems for people, across the board. A yearly dilated eye exam with your eye doctor is key to detecting any issues early, so they can be treated.

Checking  for diabetes, high blood pressure, sleep apnea – all these things really do affect our visual health, as well. 

As for dental health, it might be something we usually neglect until there’s something wrong, like pain, cavities, or gum disease. In fact, half the population over age 30 experiences gum disease, and 95% of people end up with at least one cavity in their lifetime.

Dr. Michael Fooshee, DDS at Apex Dental Partners said as we age, “more and more people end up on medications, which leads to dry mouth. That actually leads to a lot of issues with cavities in patients.”

Consider fluoride. He said it decreases the risk of future cavities by 75%.

Correct your bite. Fooshee said consider braces or Invisalign if your teeth have shifted out of alignment. Moving teeth back into place actually reduces the risk of gum disease because when your teeth are in alignment, you can clean them better.

Be careful of crunching on ice or hard foods. That can cause fractures over time.

Avoid highly acidic foods. They can lead to increased risk of cavities.

Get regular check ups. They are critical, and should be done every six months.

Skin Health

Age may be just a number, but let’s be honest – part of feeling young is looking good. That includes your largest organ: your skin!

Three of the most common complaints from people over 40: Wrinkles, acne and thinning hair.

There’s no specific guidelines saying that when you turn 40, you need to get your skin checked. But Dr. Corinne Erickson, a board-certified dermatologist said this age is “really a great time when you’re 40 to say, ‘alright, looking ahead 10 years, what do I want my skin to look like? What do I want to feel like at 50?'”

Erickson, who just turned 40 last year, said it’s never too late to start taking care of your skin.

“Some damage has been done, but a lot of damage hasn’t been done, so you still have an opportunity to protect what you have right now,” she encouraged.

Some ways to do that? Start with sunscreen.

“Starting to wear sunscreen every day can make a big difference,” she explained. “The magical number is 30. So, you want an SPF of 30. But feel free to go higher.”

Erickson recommends zinc- and titanium-based sunscreens. She recommended looking at the labels and trying to stick to less than two ingredients.

Noticing differences in your skin tone – and texture? The good news: you’re not crazy.

Collagen break-down, over time, reduces elasticity, and we end up with wrinkles and fine lines. As for discoloration, those dark spots, freckles and redness appear for two reasons: genetics and photo-aging.

Photo-aging, Erickson said, are the changes that UV exposure induces on the skin. She said you can reverse some photo aging with either products or procedures – or a combination of the two. Anything that helps stimulate collagen or promotes more skin cell turnover.

That could include topical antioxidants like vitamin C, or even over-the-counter retinols, or retin-A. Erickson said it’s important to seek guidance from a dermatologist because those are not for everyone.

One more thing to talk about when it comes to skin: hormones.

If you’re wondering why you’re waking up with less hair on your head and more of it in undesired places, blame it on androgens, a group of hormones that become more apparent in your 40s. They’re the hormones responsible for female adult acne, and a lot of other fun stuff – for men and women.

“Androgen hormones can cause shrinking, decreased density of hair follicles on our scalp and promote hair growth in women where we prefer not to be growing hair,” Erickson explained.

When it comes to thinning hair, Erickson said PRP, or platelet rich plasma, injections can help, if you can afford it. But there are also oral medications, topical formulas targeting hormone-induced skin changes and other procedures. But again, whether you’re trying to grow hair – or get rid of it – the method is unique to you and requires a conversation with your dermatologist.

“There’s not a one-size-fits all solution for unwanted hair removal, especially because there are different types of unwanted hair, and it depends on the type of hair, the color of hair, texture of hair as well as the skin type.”

According to the American Academy of Dermatology, more than one million people are living with melanoma, and one person dies of the disease every hour.

So, something simple you can do today: make an appointment for a full body skin check.

Breast Cancer

One-in-eight women will get breast cancer in her lifetime. 

For “average risk” women, the recommendation is to start yearly mammograms at age 40. But for high-risk women, you may qualify for screening earlier than 40 if you have a family history (particularly a parent, sibling or child) of breast cancer or if you have a “known genetic mutation” for developing it. 

Why 40? Studies show one-sixth of all breast cancers in women happen younger than age 50. 

“You’re in the developmental stages of breast cancer below 40 or below 50, and you don’t even know it,” explained Dr. Sean Raj, the medical director of Baylor Scott and White’s High-risk Breast Program.  

That’s right – cancer is a slow process usually. 

“The reason we do screening mammography is to be able to find cancers when they’re smallest and most treatable,” he explained.

At Baylor, every woman who comes in for a screening mammogram gets a risk assessment – at no cost. 

I got a 3-D mammogram. It involved taking four pictures at different angles, with staff guiding me thru when to breathe, and when not to. 

You feel a little pressure, but the whole thing is over in minutes. Then, the results. Typically there’s a waiting period, but for the purposes of our story, Dr. Raj offered me immediate feedback: nothing concerning on the initial pictures. But, he pulled up my screening images from 2017 for comparison. Because of my family history, I decided then to start screening earlier than guidelines suggest. 

There was one area that Dr. Raj wanted to look at more carefully, so they took one more picture in order to look more closely at some subtle changes he noticed between 2017 and now. 

After examining the layers of dense breast tissue, he gave me the all-clear. 

“There you go. You got a clean bill of breast health. Congratulations,” he said. “That’s what we’re going for here.”

Along with stressing the importance of prevention, there are some myths about breast cancer that Dr. Raj busted” 

1. That it’s painful. He said pain is usually not associated with breast cancer. If you are feeling pain, that’s likely either hormonal, or the result of a poor fitting bra. 

2. That women with smaller breasts can’t get be diagnosed with breast cancer. That’s false. Breast cancer doesn’t discriminate. 

3. That men can’t get breast cancer. Also false! While men don’t need screening mammograms at 40, they can get breast cancer. So, for men and women, if you notice any changes – a lump, rash, discoloration, focal pain or bleeding – definitely talk to your doctor for further examination. 

RELATED: Take it from a survivor: Breast cancer is a ‘guy thing’ too

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[abgailgibbs]

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