I remember the first time I saw the gates of the Missionaries of Charity home for the destitute and dying, on the outskirts of my hometown, Pune, in western India.
I must have been nine or ten. To my annoyance, my parents had woken me early that Sunday morning to go with them to visit the home and bring donations of clothes and other necessities.
“How much longer, Papa?” I kept asking as we drove.
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Stephanie passed away this morning.
In an email from her husband, Frank, I learned that I’d lost my dear friend of two decades.
Stephanie was only forty-two. An administrator at a local bank, she was also a devoted wife and the loving mother of three daughters.
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The uneasiness of heading into the weekend without my medications lurks over me as I drift into the second hour of waiting on the online pharmacy phone queue. What was 3:30 pm. . . 4 pm … 4:30 on a Friday is approaching 5 pm.
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An Air Force veteran develops bad neck pain and calls his doctor. His wife recounts what happens next. (Story: 1:57; Q&A: 14:15)
In early morning appointments,
the doctor’s coat reeks of cigarettes
as he moves closer,
says “Scoot down,”
inserts the probe.
They want me to want my eggs
in case the treatment takes them—
to hold fast to the dream of a child
with my dimples and dark eyes.
I should have said no years ago when the person at the register kindly asked, “Would you like to sign up for auto-refill?” Smiling, I replied, “Sure!” and volunteered my information to be uploaded into their computer.
Back then, this seemed revolutionary. No more remembering to call every month before I was out of pills, no searching my medicine cabinet for the most recent prescription bottle to get the seven-digit number I needed to punch into the phone for a refill. Now I’d never run out of medication!
Medication Automation Read More »
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
The words cut through my mind and hit me in the gut. My fragile fifteen-year-old ego splintered like a glass cup slipping through fingers onto hardwood.
Tears welled up, and my lips pursed, ready to respond. But I couldn’t find the words—for in that moment, I truly knew that I was broken, I was ugly, I was wrong. And even my mother knew it.
What’s Wrong With You? Read More »
1. Reread the stern words, hammered into a sterile printout. The scope results: a scythe. Images of an alien inhabiting his inner world.
2. Notice the footprints on our living-room floor. Briefly consider cleaning.
3. Three breaths later. Hug him. Hug the kids. Hug myself. Hug the dogs. Tilt my head when he says that he doesn’t want to hug right now.
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Loud music interrupts a family in mourning and sparks a racially charged confrontation. (Story at 1:32; Q&A at 8:15)
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