Clinic Opening Quotes

The spell. Victor said you had to want me... to care about me... for it to work." When he didn't say anything, I tried to grip his shirt, but my fingers were too weak. "Did you? Did you want me?" His words came out thickly. "Yes, Roza. I did want you. I still do. I wish... we could be together." "Then why did you lie to me?" We reached the clinic, and he managed to open the door while still holding me. As soon as he stepped inside, he began yelling for help. "Why did you lie?" I murmured again. Still holding me in his arms, he looked down at me. I could hear voices and footsteps getting closer. "Because we can't be together." "Because of the age thing, right?" I asked. "Because you're my mentor?" His fingertip gently wiped away a tear that had escaped down my cheek. "That's part of it," he said. "But also... well, you and I will both be Lissa's gaurdians someday. I need to protect her at all cost. If a pack of Strogoi come, I need to throw my body between them and her." I know that. Of course that's what you have to do." The black sparkles were dancing in front of my eyes again. I was fading out. "No. If I let myself love you, I won't throw myself in front of her. I'll throw myself in front of you.

I've been clinically diagnosed with sociopathy,' I said. 'Do you know what that means?' 'It means you're a freak,' he said. 'It means that you're about as important to me as a cardboard box,' I said. 'You're just a thing - a piece of garbage that no one's thrown away yet. Is that what you want me to say?' 'Shut up,' said Rob. He was still acting tough, but I could see his bluster was starting to fail. He didn't know what to say. 'The thing about boxes,' I said, 'is that you can open them up. Even though they're completely boring on the outside, there might be something interesting inside. So while you're saying all of these stupid, boring things I'm imagining what it would be like to cut you open and see what you've got in there.

Rank asked why the artist so often avoids clinical neurosis when he is so much a candidate for it because of his vivid imagination, his openness to the finest and broadest aspects of experience, his isolation from the cultural world-view that satisfies everyone else. The answer is that he takes in the world, but instead of being oppressed by it he reworks it in his own personality and recreates it in the work of art. The neurotic is precisely the one who cannot create—the “artiste-manque,” as Rank so aptly called him. We might say that both the artist and the neurotic bite off more than they can chew, but the artist spews it back out again and chews it over in an objectified way, as an ex­ternal, active, work project. The neurotic can’t marshal this creative response embodied in a specific work, and so he chokes on his in­troversions. The artist has similar large-scale introversions, but he uses them as material.

You should be a therapist, Mike. Open your own clinic. Call it ‘Don’t Be a Dumb Fuck Treatment Center.

Perhaps you can help me locate some of my own blind spots.” This is another one of those phrases that have taken up lodging in my mind and that I often make use of in my clinical work.)

What are you saying?” “I want to try.” He wanted clarification on that. “You want to try what?” There it was, that deep flush. “You know.” Yes, he knew, but he wasn’t going to let her off the hook so easily. She was going to be his. For a brief time, she would belong to him and he would have everything he wanted, and he wanted her to start talking dirty. Yes. He wanted to teach her, to train her to accept pleasure so she would expect it. “No, I don’t know. You’ll have to be plain.” Avery blushed a little. “I want to be intimate with you.” So sweet. So polite. So not happening. “That sounds like you want me to get into my pajamas and exchange secrets with you. I’m not your girlfriend, Avery. Tell me what you want. That’s lesson number one. Communication and honesty are the keys to the relationship I want. I need to hear you say plainly what you want.” She hesitated, but only for a moment. He wasn’t surprised. Deep in her heart, she was a brave girl. She’d faced so much and still was open with her heart. Damn, but he didn’t understand that. “I would like for us to sleep together.” “I’m not very sleepy.” He wasn’t going to let her get away with anything. She groaned a little in obvious frustration. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.” “Yes. I do. So say what you want.” “I want to have sex.” “So clinical. I’ll have to think about that.” “I want to make love.” “Sweet, but not what I’m looking for.” Her face crinkled into the cutest pout. “Damn it, Lee. I want to fuck.” Just like that he was primed and ready. She’d said fuck with such a sweet little heat, her eyebrows forming a V over her face as though the entire incident had offended her polite sensibilities. She would learn there wasn’t room for politeness between them. He growled just a little. “I want to fuck, too, baby. I want to fuck all night long.

This was something new. Or something old. I didn’t think of what it might be until after I had let Aubrey go back to the clinic to bed down next to her child. Bankole had given him something to help him sleep. He did the same for her, so I won’t be able to ask her anything more until she wakes up later this morning. I couldn’t help wondering, though, whether these people, with their crosses, had some connection with my current least favorite presidential candidate, Texas Senator Andrew Steele Jarret. It sounds like the sort of thing his people might do—a revival of something nasty out of the past. Did the Ku Klux Klan wear crosses—as well as burn them? The Nazis wore the swastika, which is a kind of cross, but I don’t think they wore it on their chests. There were crosses all over the place during the Inquisition and before that, during the Crusades. So now we have another group that uses crosses and slaughters people. Jarret’s people could be behind it. Jarret insists on being a throwback to some earlier, “simpler” time. Now does not suit him. Religious tolerance does not suit him. The current state of the country does not suit him. He wants to take us all back to some magical time when everyone believed in the same God, worshipped him in the same way, and understood that their safety in the universe depended on completing the same religious rituals and stomping anyone who was different. There was never such a time in this country. But these days when more than half the people in the country can’t read at all, history is just one more vast unknown to them. Jarret supporters have been known, now and then, to form mobs and burn people at the stake for being witches. Witches! In 2032! A witch, in their view, tends to be a Moslem, a Jew, a Hindu, a Buddhist, or, in some parts of the country, a Mormon, a Jehovah’s Witness, or even a Catholic. A witch may also be an atheist, a “cultist,” or a well-to-do eccentric. Well-to-do eccentrics often have no protectors or much that’s worth stealing. And “cultist” is a great catchall term for anyone who fits into no other large category, and yet doesn’t quite match Jarret’s version of Christianity. Jarret’s people have been known to beat or drive out Unitarians, for goodness’ sake. Jarret condemns the burnings, but does so in such mild language that his people are free to hear what they want to hear. As for the beatings, the tarring and feathering, and the destruction of “heathen houses of devil-worship,” he has a simple answer: “Join us! Our doors are open to every nationality, every race! Leave your sinful past behind, and become one of us. Help us to make America great again.

Sanger opened the first clinic in the United States that offered contraceptives. Ten days later, she was arrested.

The life an infertile person seeks comes to her not by accident and not by fate but by hard-fought choices. How to put together the portfolio of photographs. How to answer at the home study. What clinic or doctor or procedure. Donor egg or donor sperm or donor embryo. Open or closed adoption. What country, what boxes to check or uncheck. What questions to ask, and ask again. When to start and when to stop. What to say when her child says, Tell me my story.

When he wrote back, he pretended to be his old self, he lied his way into sanity. For fear of his psychiatrist who was also their censor, they could never be sensual, or even emotional. His was considered a modern, enlightened prison, despite its Victorian chill. He had been diagnosed, with clinical precision, as morbidly oversexed, and in need of help as well as correction. He was not to be stimulated. Some letters—both his and hers—were confiscated for some timid expression of affection. So they wrote about literature, and used characters as codes. All those books, those happy or tragic couples they had never met to discuss! Tristan and Isolde the Duke Orsino and Olivia (and Malvolio too), Troilus and Criseyde, Once, in despair, he referred to Prometheus, chained to a rock, his liver devoured daily by a vulture. Sometimes she was patient Griselde. Mention of “a quiet corner in a library” was a code for sexual ecstasy. They charted the daily round too, in boring, loving detail. He described the prison routine in every aspect, but he never told her of its stupidity. That was plain enough. He never told her that he feared he might go under. That too was clear. She never wrote that she loved him, though she would have if she thought it would get through. But he knew it. She told him she had cut herself off from her family. She would never speak to her parents, brother or sister again. He followed closely all her steps along the way toward her nurse’s qualification. When she wrote, “I went to the library today to get the anatomy book I told you about. I found a quiet corner and pretended to read,” he knew she was feeding on the same memories that consumed him “They sat down, looked at each other, smiled and looked away. Robbie and Cecilia had been making love for years—by post. In their coded exchanges they had drawn close, but how artificial that closeness seemed now as they embarked on their small talk, their helpless catechism of polite query and response. As the distance opened up between them, they understood how far they had run ahead of themselves in their letters. This moment had been imagined and desired for too long, and could not measure up. He had been out of the world, and lacked the confidence to step back and reach for the larger thought. I love you, and you saved my life. He asked about her lodgings. She told him. “And do you get along all right with your landlady?” He could think of nothing better, and feared the silence that might come down, and the awkwardness that would be a prelude to her telling him that it had been nice to meet up again. Now she must be getting back to work. Everything they had, rested on a few minutes in a library years ago. Was it too frail? She could easily slip back into being a kind of sister. Was she disappointed? He had lost weight. He had shrunk in every sense. Prison made him despise himself, while she looked as adorable as he remembered her, especially in a nurse’s uniform. But she was miserably nervous too, incapable of stepping around the inanities. Instead, she was trying to be lighthearted about her landlady’s temper. After a few more such exchanges, she really was looking at the little watch that hung above her left breast, and telling him that her lunch break would soon be over.

From the moment they're recruited to the time they're 'rescued' and deported, trafficked women are terrorized. Every single day they face a world stacked heavily against them. Their only friends are the dedicated women and men who form the thin front line against trafficking--an often thankless job. Those working for nongovernmental aid agencies and organizations are the real heroes in this bleak morass. Still, their work is merely a Band-Aid solution. In the vast majority of cases, NGO workers report that their funding is ad hoc and wholly inadequate to meet even basic needs. If we truly want a fair shot at saving these women, we need to open not only our minds but also our wallets. We need to focus on programs that care compassionately for the victims and we need to implement them immediately, worldwide. The most urgent priorities are safe shelters and clinics equipped and staffed to offer medical and psychological treatment. We need to understand that most of these women have been psychologically and physically ripped apart. And we need to be prepared for the fac thtat most have been infected with various sexually transmitted diseases.

Gating activity outside of the normal bell-shaped curve for the population of the United States is, generally, considered to be pathological. The more widely open gating channels are, the more likely someone is to be defined as clinically abnormal and to be labeled, one way or another, as having “stimulus filtering difficulties” or “gating deficits.

He needed to get Mollie out from under that woman’s roof as soon as possible. The most desirable option being moving her into the clinic as his wife. But she deserved a proper courtship, not some rushed affair that would lend itself to whispers behind closed doors. Of course, if he were openly courting her, the hours they spent together in the clinic or on house calls could raise eyebrows as well. Jacob smacked the trunk of one of the young pines that stood outside his clinic with enough force to shake needles loose. Shoot, maybe he should just abduct her and elope. A smile finally curved his lips as he imagined Mollie’s response to that idea. She’d probably dose his coffee with castor oil for a week if he suggested such a thing.

You are real," she said to herself. "Aye." His voice was deep and resonant, a caress in her ears. But then it cracked, as if he were in pain. "And you are with young." "I am." He closed his eyes again, but now it was as if he'd been struck by a body blow. "I saw you." "When?" "At the clinic. Nights and nights ago. I thought they had beaten you." "The Brotherhood? Why ever - " "Because of me." His eyes opened, and there was such anguish in them, she wanted to comfort him in some way. "I would never have chosen for you to be in this position. You are not of the war, and my lieutenant should never, ever have brought you into it." His voice grew deeper and deeper. "You are an innocent. Even I, who have no honor, recognized that instantly." If he had no honor, why had he disarmed himself just now, she thought. "Are you mated?" he said roughly. "No." Abruptly, his upper lip peeled back from tremendous fangs. "If you were raped - " "No. No, no - I chose this for myself. For the male." Her hand went to her abdomen. "I wanted a young. My needing came, and all I could think of was how much I wanted to be a mahmen to something that was mine." Those narrowed eyes closed again, and he brought up a callused hand to his face. Hiding his irregular mouth, he said, "I wish that I..." "What?" "...I were worthy to have given you what you desired." Layla again felt an unholy need to reach out and touch him, to ease him in some way. His reaction was so raw and honest, and his suffering seemed rather like her own whenever she thought of him.

Outside, the sunlight had turned pale lemon, but the studio remained cool. The white walls and white-tiled splashback behind the sink were made more clinical by the metal tables which looked as if they’d originally been intended for use in an operating theatre. Even though they were laid out with brushes and paints rather than forceps and retractors, the effect was equally daunting; both sets of tools could open you up in strange and unexpected ways.

A book is open in front of me and this is what it has to say about the symptoms of morphine withdrawal: '... morbid anxiety, a nervous depressed condition, irritability, weakening of the memory, occasional hallucinations and a mild impairment of consciousness ...' I have not experienced any hallucinations, but I can only say that the rest of this description is dull, pedestrian and totally inadequate. 'Depressed condition' indeed! Having suffered from this appalling malady, I hereby enjoin all doctors to be more compassionate toward their patients. What overtakes the addict deprived of morphine for a mere hour or two is not a 'depressed condition': it is slow death. Air is insubstantial, gulping it down is useless ... there is not a cell in one's body that does not crave ... but crave what? This is something which defies analysis and explanation. In short, the individual ceases to exist: he is eliminated. The body which moves, agonises and suffers is a corpse. It wants nothing, can think of nothing but morphine. To die of thirst is a heavenly, blissful death compared with the craving for morphine. The feeling must be something like that of a man buried alive, clawing at the skin on his chest in the effort to catch the last tiny bubbles of air in his coffin, or of a heretic at the stake, groaning and writhing as the first tongues of flame lick at his feet. Death. A dry, slow death. That is what lurks behind that clinical, academic phrase 'a depressed condition'.

For Obama, drones not only opened the door to withdrawing troops from Afghanistan and Iraq; they were a way to avoid getting drawn into future entanglements, military or diplomatic, which would sap the nation and distract from his domestic agenda. “It allows you to be disengaged,” Nasr said. “We don’t need to be in Iraq, we don’t need to invest in the Arab Spring. We don’t need to worry about any of this; all we need to do is to kill the terrorists. It’s a different philosophy of foreign policy. It’s surgical, it’s clinical, it’s clean.” “Basically,” Nasr said, “he’s the drone president.

Screams died in them and floated belly up, like dead fish. Cowering on the floor, rocking between dread and disbelief, they realized that the man being beaten was Velutha. Where had he come from? What had he done? Why had the policemen brought him here? They heard the thud of wood on flesh. Boot on bone. On teeth. The muffled grunt when a stomach is kicked in The muted crunch of skull on cement. The gurgle of blood on a man's breath when his lung is torn by the jagged end of a broken rib. Blue-lipped and dinner-plate-eyed, they watched, mesmerized by something that they sensed but didn't understand: the absence of caprice in what the policemen did. The abyss where anger should have been. The sober, steady brutality, the economy of it all. They were opening a bottle. Or shutting a tap. Cracking an egg to make an omelette. The twins were too young to know that these were only history’s henchmen. Sent to square the books and collect the dues from those who broke its laws. Impelled by feelings that were primal yet paradoxically wholly impersonal. Feelings of contempt born of inchoate, unacknowledged fear — civilization’s fear of nature, men’s fear of women, power’s fear of powerlessness. Man’s subliminal urge to destroy what he could neither subdue nor deify. Men’s Needs. What Esthappen and Rahel witnessed that morning, though they didn’t know it then, was a clinical demonstration in controlled conditions (this was not war after all, or genocide) of human nature’s pursuit of ascendancy. Structure. Order Complete monopoly. It was human history, masquerading as God’s Purpose, revealing herself to an under-age audience. There was nothing accidental about what happened that morning. Nothing incidental. It was no stray mugging or personal settling of scores. This was an era imprinting itself on those who lived in it. History in live performance.

Though diagnosis is unquestionably critical in treatment considerations for many severe conditions with a biological substrate (for example, schizophrenia, bipolar disorders, major affective disorders, temporal lobe epilepsy, drug toxicity, organic or brain disease from toxins, degenerative causes, or infectious agents), diagnosis is often counterproductive in the everyday psychotherapy of less severely impaired patients. Why? For one thing, psychotherapy consists of a gradual unfolding process wherein the therapist attempts to know the patient as fully as possible. A diagnosis limits vision; it diminishes ability to relate to the other as a person. Once we make a diagnosis, we tend to selectively inattend to aspects of the patient that do not fit into that particular diagnosis, and correspondingly overattend to subtle features that appear to confirm an initial diagnosis. What’s more, a diagnosis may act as a self-fulfilling prophecy. Relating to a patient as a “borderline” or a “hysteric” may serve to stimulate and perpetuate those very traits. Indeed, there is a long history of iatrogenic influence on the shape of clinical entities, including the current controversy about multiple-personality disorder and repressed memories of sexual abuse. And keep in mind, too, the low reliability of the DSM personality disorder category (the very patients often engaging in longer-term psychotherapy).

Every conurb, my guide answered, has a chemical toilet where the city’s unwanted human waste disintegrates quietly, but not quite invisibly. It motivates the downstrata: “Work, spend, work,” say slums like Huamdonggil, “or you, too, will end your life here.” Moreover, entrepreneurs take advantage of the legal vaccuum to erect ghoulish pleasurezones for upstrata bored with more respectable quarters. Huamdonggil can thus pay its way in taxes and bribes. MediCorp opens a weekly clinic for dying untermensch to xchange any healthy body parts they may have for a sac of euthanaze. OrganiCorp has a lucrative contract with the city to send in a daily platoon of immune-genomed fabricants, similar to disastermen, to mop up the dead before the flies hatch.

I listened impatiently to the wisdom of the O'Neills for about twenty minutes until I could take no more (by this time Steve and Susan had me thumbing through the paperback). I slid the book across the desk at them and said, 'This is so much shit.' That was a mistake because the word 'shit' on the lips of a pastor deeply offended their moral sensibilities. Such was the state of things among us. They took grave exception to the word SHIT, while I was expected to remain noddingly neutral toward their adultery. WELL, SHIT, I thought. Without apologizing, I tried to convince them I was merely 'upset' by the prospects of their separation. Gradually, I achieved the clinical tone that they so admired in the O'Neills and evidently expected in their country parson.

The History of Social Anxiety The fact that some people are shyer than others has been observed since ancient times. However, the medical community didn’t become interested in this condition until the 1970s, when Philip Zimbardo founded the Stanford Shyness Clinic. At the time, many professionals believed that shyness was a natural state that children eventually outgrew. Zimbardo showed that shyness actually is a widespread psychological problem that has deep and lasting effects on those who suffer from it. This new awareness led to a great deal of research into the causes and treatment of social anxiety. Today, the condition is in the spotlight. Ads in magazines and commercials on television tell about social anxiety and advertise medications to treat it. People are becoming more open about discussing when they feel anxious and feel less ashamed about asking for help. The time has never been better for you to try to overcome your social anxiety.

She moved, opening to him, her thighs widening, the cool air of the room rushing through the slit in her pantalettes. Her cheeks burned and she moved her hands to block his view. He was watching them, and he made a low sound of approval. "That's where my hands would be as well. Can you feel why? Can you feel the heat? The temptation?" Her eyes were closed now. She couldn't look at him. But she nodded. "Of course you can... I can almost feel it myself." The words were hypnotic, all temptation, soft and lyric and wonderful. "And tell me, my little anatomist, have you explored that particular location, before?" Her cheeks burned. "Don't start lying now, Pippa. We've come so far." "Yes." "Yes, what?" "Yes, I've explored it before." The confession was barely sound, but he heard it. When he groaned, she opened her eyes to find him pressed back against the desk once more. "Did I say the wrong thing?" He shook his head, his hand rising to his mouth once more, stroking across firm lips. "Only in that you made me burn with jealousy." Her brows furrowed. "Of whom?" "Of you, lovely." His grey gaze flickered to the place she hid from him. "Of your perfect hands. Tell me what you found." She couldn't. While she might know the clinical words for all the things she had touched and discovered, she could not speak them to him. She shook her head. "I cannot." "Did you find pleasure?" She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together. "Did you?" he whispered, the sound loud as a gunshot in this dark, wicked room. She shook her head. Once, so small it was barely a movement. He exhaled, the sound long and lush in the room, as though he'd been holding his breath... and he moved. "What a tragedy." Her eyes snapped open at the sound of him- of trouser against carpet as he crawled toward her, eyes narrow and filled with wicked, wonderful promise. He was coming for her. Predator stalking prey. And she could not wait to be caught.

I found that those of my friends who were admirers of Marx, Freud, and Adler, were impressed by a number of points common to these theories, and especially by their apparent explanatory power. These theories appeared to be able to explain practically everything that happened within the fields to which they referred. The study of any of them seemed to have the effect of an intellectual conversion or revelation, opening your eyes to a new truth hidden from those not yet initiated. Once your eyes were thus opened you saw confirming instances everywhere: the world was full of verifications of the theory. Whatever happened always confirmed it. Thus its truth appeared manifest; and unbelievers were clearly people who did not want to see the manifest truth; who refused to see it, either because it was against their class interest, or because of their repressions which were still 'un-analysed' and crying aloud for treatment. The most characteristic element in this situation seemed to me the incessant stream of confirmations, of observations which 'verified' the theories in question; and this point was constantly emphasized by their adherents. A Marxist could not open a newspaper without finding on every page confirming evidence for his interpretation of history; not only in the news, but also in its presentation--which revealed the class bias of the paper--and especially of course in what the paper did not say. The Freudian analysts emphasized that their theories were constantly verified by their 'clinical observations'. As for Adler, I was much impressed by a personal experience. Once, in 1919, I reported to him a case which to me did not seem particularly Adlerian, but which he found no difficulty in analysing in terms of his theory of inferiority feelings, although he had not even seen the child. Slightly shocked, I asked him how he could be so sure. 'Because of my thousandfold experience,' he replied; whereupon I could not help saying: 'And with this new case, I suppose, your experience has become thousand-and-one-fold.

Just as versions of the hereafter are endlessly diverse, the multifaceted experience of dying differs for each person as well, despite its biological component. Each death is unique. Overall children die differently from adults, animals from humans, the long-ill from the accident victim. In the same way, afterlife experiences are highly divergent, shaped by an individual’s beliefs, culture, and personal wants. The more we know about those differences, the more we discover new directions and broaden possibilities. My goal is for you to become an independent thinker when it comes to the dead and the sphere they inhabit, basing your conclusions on your own intuitions and experiences while keeping them open to evaluation and change. Therefore, much of what is contained in these pages is hard at work challenging beliefs that impede independent awareness. This book is meant not only to stimulate your critical thinking but also to expand the range of questions you ask about the nature of the afterlife and, hence, of reality itself. Additional motives are at work here too. In chapter 12, you will learn that independent thinkers have more encounters with the deceased than others have. A third motive comes from my own work as a medium and from studies of positive and not-so-positive near-death experiences. Both show that if a person dies, clinically or permanently, with a fistful of unexamined, dogmatic assumptions, it can cause an array of complications in the immediate afterlife, whereas just a jot of open-mindedness leads to experiences that are full, deep, and transcendent.

These senators and representatives call themselves “leaders.” One of the primary principles of leadership is that a leader never asks or orders any follower to do what he or she would not do themselves. Such action requires the demonstration of the acknowledged traits of a leader among which are integrity, honesty, and courage, both physical and moral courage. They don’t have those traits nor are they willing to do what they ask and order. Just this proves we elect people who shouldn’t be leading the nation. When the great calamity and pain comes, it will have been earned and deserved. The piper always has to be paid at the end of the party. The party is about over. The bill is not far from coming due. Everybody always wants the guilty identified. The culprits are we the people, primarily the baby boom generation, which allowed their vote to be bought with entitlements at the expense of their children, who are now stuck with the national debt bill that grows by the second and cannot be paid off. These follow-on citizens—I call them the screwed generation—are doomed to lifelong grief and crushing debt unless they take the only other course available to them, which is to repudiate that debt by simply printing up $20 trillion, calling in all federal bills, bonds, and notes for payoff, and then changing from the green dollar to say a red dollar, making the exchange rate 100 or 1000 green dollars for 1 red dollar or even more to get to zero debt. Certainly this will create a great international crisis. But that crisis is coming anyhow. In fact it is here already. The U.S. has no choice but to eventually default on that debt. This at least will be a controlled default rather than an uncontrolled collapse. At present it is out of control. Congress hasn’t come up with a budget in 3 years. That’s because there is no way at this point to create a viable budget that will balance and not just be a written document verifying that we cannot legitimately pay our bills and that we are on an ever-descending course into greater and greater debt. A true, honest budget would but verify that we are a bankrupt nation. We are repeating history, the history we failed to learn from. The history of Rome. Our TV and video games are the equivalent distractions of the Coliseums and circus of Rome. Our printing and borrowing of money to cover our deficit spending is the same as the mixing and devaluation of the gold Roman sisteri with copper. Our dysfunctional and ineffectual Congress is as was the Roman Senate. Our Presidential executive orders the same as the dictatorial edicts of Caesar. Our open borders and multi-millions of illegal alien non-citizens the same as the influx of the Germanic and Gallic tribes. It is as if we were intentionally following the course written in The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. The military actions, now 11 years in length, of Iraq and Afghanistan are repeats of the Vietnam fiasco and the RussianAfghan incursion. Our creep toward socialism is no different and will bring the same implosion as socialism did in the U.S.S.R. One should recognize that the repeated application of failed solutions to the same problem is one of the clinical definitions of insanity. * * * I am old, ill, physically used up now. I can’t have much time left in this life. I accept that. All born eventually die and with the life I’ve lived, I probably should have been dead decades ago. Fate has allowed me to screw the world out of a lot of years. I do have one regret: the future holds great challenge. I would like to see that challenge met and overcome and this nation restored to what our founding fathers envisioned. I’d like to be a part of that. Yeah. “I’d like to do it again.” THE END PHOTOS Daniel Hill 1954 – 15

What did you hope to get out of killing Win’s doctor?” “Enjoyment.” “No doubt you would have. Win didn’t seem to be enjoying it, however.” “Why is Harrow here?” Kev asked fiercely. “I can answer that one,” Leo said, leaning a shoulder against the wall with casual ease. “Harrow wants to become better acquainted with the Hathaways. Because he and my sister are … close.” Kev abruptly felt a sickening weight in his stomach, as if he’d swallowed a handful of river stones. “What do you mean?” he asked, even though he knew. No man could be exposed to Win and not fall in love with her. “Harrow is a widower,” Leo said. “A decent enough fellow. More attached to his clinic and patients than anything else. But he’s a sophisticated man, widely traveled, and wealthy as the devil. And he’s a collector of beautiful objects. A connoisseur of fine things.” Neither of the other men missed the implication. Win would indeed be an exquisite addition to a collection of fine things. It was difficult to ask the next question, but Kev forced himself to. “Does Win care for him?” “I don’t believe Win knows how much of what she feels for him is gratitude, and how much is true affection.” Leo gave Kev a pointed glance. “And there are still a few unresolved questions she has to answer for herself.” “I’ll talk to her.” “I wouldn’t, if I were you. Not until she cools a bit. She’s rather incensed with you.” “Why?” Kev asked, wondering if she had confided to her brother about the events of the previous night. “Why?” Leo’s mouth twisted. “There’s such a dazzling array of choices, I find myself in a quandary about which one to start with. Putting the subject of this morning aside, what about the fact that you never wrote to her?” “I did,” Kev said indignantly. “One letter,” Leo allowed. “The farm report. She showed it to me, actually. How could one forget the soaring prose you wrote about fertilizing the field near the east gate? I’ll tell you, the part about sheep dung nearly brought a tear to my eye, it was so sentimental and—” “What did she expect me to write about?” Kev demanded. “Don’t bother to explain, my lord,” Cam interceded as Leo opened his mouth. “It’s not the way of the Rom to put our private thoughts on paper.

S.P. is a 68-year-old retired painter who is experiencing right leg calf pain. The pain began approximately 2 years ago but has become significantly worse in the past 4 months. The pain is precipitated by exercise and is relieved with rest. Two years ago, S.P. could walk two city blocks before having to stop because of leg pain. Today, he can barely walk across the yard. S.P. has smoked two to three packs of cigarettes per day (PPD) for the past 45 years. He has a history of coronary artery disease (CAD), hypertension (HTN), peripheral vascular disease (PVD), and osteoarthritis. Surgical history includes quadruple coronary artery bypass graft (CABG × 4) 3 years ago. He has had no further symptoms of cardiopulmonary disease since that time, even though he has not been compliant with the exercise regimen his cardiologist prescribed, he continues to eat anything he wants, and continues to smoke two to three PPD. Other surgical history includes open reduction internal fixation of the right femoral fracture 20 years ago. S.P. is in the clinic today for a routine semiannual follow-up appointment with his primary care provider. As you take his vital signs, he tells you that, besides the calf pain, he is experiencing right hip pain that gets worse with exercise, the pain doesn't go away promptly with rest, some days are worse than others, and his condition is not affected by a resting position. � Chart View General Assessment Weight 261 lb Height 5 ft, 10 in. Blood pressure 163/91 mm Hg Pulse 82 beats/min Respiratory rate 16 breaths/min Temperature 98.4° F (36.9° C) Laboratory Testing (Fasting) Cholesterol 239 mg/dL Triglycerides 150 mg/dL HDL 28 mg/dL LDL 181 mg/dL Current Medications Lisinopril (Zestril) 20 mg/day Metoprolol (Lopressor) 25 mg twice a day Aspirin 325 mg/day Simvastatin (Zocor) 20 mg/day Case Study 4 Name Class/Group Date ____________________ Group Members INSTRUCTIONS All questions apply to this case study. Your responses should be brief and to the point. When asked to provide several

Ella has a problem we were hoping you could help with,” Haven said from the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. Jack stared at me steadily, while one corner of his mouth curled upward. “What’s your problem, Ella?” “You want a beer, Jack?” came Hardy’s voice. “Yeah,” Jack replied. “Lime wedge if you got it.” “I’m trying to get a meeting with Mark Gottler,” I told Jack. “To talk with him about my sister.” His expression softened. “Is she okay?” “Yes, I think so. But I don’t think she’s doing anything to secure her own interests, or Luke’s. I need to meet with Gottler and pin him down on a few things. He’s not going to pay Tara’s clinic bill and dust his hands and think he’s through with the whole thing. He’s going to have to do right by Tara and Luke.” Settling Luke back onto the blanket, Jack picked up a little stuffed bunny and dangled it over him, causing Luke to kick his legs in enjoyment. “So you want me to get you in there,” he said. “Yes. I need to see Gottler privately.” “I can arrange a meeting, but the only way you’ll get in there is by going embedded.” I gave him an outraged glance, incredulous that he would have propositioned me within earshot of his sister. “If you think I’m going to sleep with you just so I can see Gottler—” “I said embedded, Ella. Not ‘in bed.’” “Oh,” I said, chastened. “You meant like a computer virus?” Jack nodded, looking sardonic. “I’ll come up with some reason to meet with him and take you along. No sex required. Although if you’re feeling grateful . . .” “I’m not that grateful.” But I couldn’t help smiling, because I had never met a man who could have exuded such barely leashed sexiness while holding a stuffed bunny.

Love Potion by Rebecca Brink of Serenity Thai Bodywork I make a Love Potion roll-on with 10 drops of Lavender 8 drops of Frankincense 4 drops of Vetiver 2-3 drops of Jasmine 24 drops of almond oil This blend is soothing and penetrates the deepest layers of the soul and love drive. It will entice and help put you and your partner in the right mood for a deep and soulful connection. Lavender is an oil that brings balance to the body and stimulates the skin. Frankincense helps to focus your energy so you are open for connection. Vetiver adds that earthy carnal base note and eases the days stress away. Jasmine is sensual and gives us a sense of hope, happiness and warmth.

The small clinic Ida had opened after her father’s death had grown into a 544-bed hospital staffed by 108 nurses and 174 nursing students. Two hundred doctors had graduated from the medical college, and two hundred seventy-five nurses from the nurses’ training school. Now they were spread all over India and beyond. Ida thought of the times she had wanted to give up, but the recollection of those three dead women and their babies had spurred her on. Yes, God is good, Ida thought. He has done more than I could ever have hoped or dreamed.

For a minute there, I thought we really had us a problem.” Her hands went to her hips. “And you think we don’t?” “No ma’am, not the kind you’re imagining.” She opened her mouth and, with his gentlest touch, he closed it for her. Then drew his hand away before he lost it. “Like I said, I appreciate your candor, and I can see how you came to your conclusion. I don’t blame you for it either,” he added, seeing her brow rise. He pointed to her cider. “You going to drink that?” She shook her head. He picked up the mug and downed the contents, wishing it were something a little stronger. He’d sensed she wanted to talk about something, but they’d gotten derailed, as they often did. If this woman wanted to talk, he’d stay up the rest of the night to oblige her, despite being dog-tired. She didn’t let her walls down often, and he wanted to be there when she did. “You remember Slater, the man you sewed up at the doc’s clinic?” She slowly nodded, her skepticism obvious. “Men like him don’t hang around mercantiles or dry goods stores. You find men like him in saloons and gaming halls. So for the most part, that’s where I spend my time these days. And yes, there are women there. But . . .” He wanted so badly to touch her face, but the way she’d jumped when he’d taken hold of her hand told him he needed to move slowly with her. More slowly than he wanted to. “I have never . . . never been with a woman in one of those places.” McKenna looked at him, really looked at him, and he didn’t flinch. He hoped she would stare, study, search, do whatever she needed to do, for as long as she needed to do it—until she recognized the honesty in him.

Explaining a professor's emphasis on teaching over research: "She traded clinical questions with determinable answers for perennial questions with inexhaustible answers.

Week 8 Your baby’s fingers and toes begin to form this week, although they’re still webbed. His or her tiny arms and legs are growing longer and more defined. Paddle-shaped foot and hand areas are evident. Wrists, elbows and ankles are clearly visible. Your baby may even be able to flex at the elbows and wrists. The eyelids also are forming. Until they’re done growing, your baby’s eyes will appear open. This is also the week your baby’s ears, upper lip and tip of the nose begin taking on recognizable form. Your baby’s digestive tract is continuing to grow, especially the intestines. Heart function and circulation are now more fully developed. Your baby’s heart is pumping at about 150 beats a minute, about twice the adult rate. At the eighth week of your pregnancy, your baby is just over ½ of an inch long.

His words came out thickly. “Yes, Roza. I did want you. I still do. I wish . . . we could be together.” “Then why did you lie to me?” We reached the clinic, and he managed to open the door while still holding me. As soon as he stepped inside, he began yelling for help. “Why did you lie?” I murmured again. Still holding me in his arms, he looked down at me. I could hear voices and footsteps getting closer. “Because we can’t be together.” “Because of the age thing, right?” I asked. “Because you’re my mentor?” His fingertip gently wiped away a tear that had escaped down my cheek. “That’s part of it,” he said. “But also . . . well, you and I will both be Lissa’s guardians someday. I need to protect her at all costs. If a pack of Strigoi come, I need to throw my body between them and her.” “I know that. Of course that’s what you have to do.” The black sparkles were dancing in front of my eyes again. I was fading out. “No. If I let myself love you, I won’t throw myself in front of her. I’ll throw myself in front of you.” The

FLATOW: So you would - how would you treat a patient like Sybil if she showed up in your office BRAND: Well, first I would start with a very thorough assessment, using the current standardized measures that we have available to us that assess for the range of dissociative disorders but the whole range of other psychological disorders, too. I would need to know what I'm working with, and I'd be very careful and make my decisions slowly, based on data about what she has. And furthermore, with therapists who are well-trained in dissociative disorders, we do keep an eye open for suggestibility. But that research, too, is not anywhere near as strong as what the other two people in the interview are suggesting.It shows - for example, there's eight studies that have a total of 11 samples. In the three clinical samples that have looked at the correlation between dissociation and suggestibility, all three clinical samples found non-significant correlations. So it's just not as strong as what people think. That's a myth that's not backed up by science." Exploring Multiple Personalities In 'Sybil Exposed' October 21, 2011 by Ira Flatow

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President Lyndon Johnson's Economic Opportunity Act, which established the Office of Economic Opportunity (OEO) and launched the “War on Poverty.” In the Pacific Northwest, OEO community development grants helped establish a host of organizations to address employment, health, housing, education and various legal needs. Beginning in 1965, the Yakima Valley Council for Community Action YVCCA opened centers to meet the farmworkers' health and social service needs. A year later they expanded to educational and legal services, offering adult basic education, English as a second language, high school equivalency programs, vocational training, health clinics, and day care. Volunteer attorneys helped workers address conflicts with immigration authorities and social service agencies.

After a long multi-decade fight with the city, the 200 households of Charrúa were in 1991 granted something that would offer them the most important foundation for development they could get: certificates of property ownership. The Charrúa families didn’t earn higher incomes than those in other parts of the neighborhood, and they weren’t more educated or better connected. The difference was that they had the capacity to prove home ownership with the indisputable seal of a government. And that status opened the door to a whole host of other benefits. As taxpaying property owners, they now had standing in the community, which meant they could lobby the government for services. That led to the school and the clinic. And they could use the deeds as collateral to borrow money to invest in businesses, which is why Charrúa became a commercial center, lined with stores and small restaurants. A visitor from the tony neighborhoods of the city’s northern corridor would still see a stark lack of amenities, but to the Bolivian locals, this two-block strip is proof that at least some of their kind have made it. What does this have to do with the blockchain? Well, to answer that, let’s not focus on the comparatively lucky 200 households of Charrúa but on the hundreds of thousands of Bolivians and other slum-dwellers of Buenos Aires and shantytowns all around the developing world who don’t have a title to their home. Their communities will acknowledge them as the owners but there’s nothing official saying so, nothing that’s accepted by the government or a bank, that is. Public registry systems in low-income countries are prone to corruption and incompetence—so a poor resident of a slum in a village in Uttar Pradesh or Manila might try to get a loan with their home as collateral, but no bank would accept it.

With a break in the mother-child bond among siblings, each child might express his or her disconnection with the mother differently. One child might become a people pleaser, fearing that if he’s not good, or he makes waves, he’ll lose connection with people. Another child, believing that connection is never hers to have in the first place, might become argumentative and create conflict to push away the people close to her. Another child might isolate and have little contact with people at all. I’ve noticed that if several siblings have breaks in the mother-child bond, they’ll often express anger or jealousy, or feel disconnected from one another. For example, an older child might resent the child born later, perceiving that the younger child received the love that he or she did not get. Because the hippocampus—that part of the brain involved in creating memories—isn’t fully operational until after the age of two, the older child may not consciously remember being held, fed, or cuddled by the mother, but remembers the younger child receiving their mother’s love. In response, the older child, feeling slighted, can unconsciously blame the younger child for getting what he or she did not. And then, of course, there are some children who don’t seem to carry any family trauma at all. For these children, it’s quite possible that a successful bond was established with the mother and/or father, and this connection helped to immunize the child from carrying entanglements from the past. Perhaps a window of time opened in which the mother was able to give more to one particular child and not the others. Perhaps the parents’ relationship improved. Perhaps the mother experienced a special connection with one child, but couldn’t connect deeply with the others. Younger children often, though not always, seem to do a bit better than first children, or only children, who seem to carry a bigger portion of unfinished business from the family history. When it comes to siblings and inherited family trauma, there are no hard and fast rules governing how each child is affected. Many variables, in addition to birth order and gender, can influence the choices siblings make and the lives they lead. Even though it may appear from the outside that one sibling is unscathed by trauma, while another is encumbered, my clinical experience gives me a different perspective: Most of us carry at least some residue from our family history. However, many intangibles also enter into the equation and can influence how deeply entrenched family traumas remain. These intangibles include self-awareness, the ability to self-soothe, and having a powerful internal healing experience.

flickered through, and now they were in a clinical box of a room, long and lined with tables on either side. On top of the tables were cages, each one with a dragon egg in it. Luna hissed in a breath. There were so many — twenty at least, with ten more cages containing broken eggshells where those dragonets must have hatched. The door at the far end was flung open suddenly, and Cottonmouth stormed in with a man behind him carrying another egg box. “In here,” Cottonmouth said, throwing open one of the cages. “I don’t believe there was only one egg in that nest. That dragon was enormous.” “Biggest I’ve ever seen,” the man said anxiously, unpacking the stuffing around the egg. “How could a dragon that size have only one egg?” Cottonmouth demanded. “And why would it hide it so carefully? Are you lying to me? Did my stupid brother decide to leave the rest behind?” “I’m not lying!” the man cried. He stopped short of touching the egg

But say you get lucky and find a licensed clinical psychologist with an open slot.

I went to my father and said, “Isn’t this why we are here?” “So that you can open an English clinic and correct people’s spelling mistakes?

While it can potentially be found in any tissue or on virtually any cells lining an open space, cavity or hollow organ, the most clinically significant sites of CPC are largely limited to periodontal tissue, the mucosal surfaces of the sinuses and oral cavity, and even the epithelial cells lining the airways in the lungs. The presence of these slow-growing sites of pathogens allows them and their toxins to be released and swallowed into the gastrointestinal tract “24/7.

Hypnosis has been around a long time. It’s a phenomenon that has been used as a form of therapy. The term hypnosis was coined by a man named Dr. James Braid back in the nineteenth century. The field of clinical hypnotherapy has been developing ever since. In the late 1950s, the American Medical Association approved hypnosis instruction for inclusion in medical schools. And hypnosis is considered by clinicians to be a serious topic in the healing arts.

One of the greatest powers in the human world is the power of suggestion, including counter-suggestion. If you put people in a clinical, scientific environment, this acts as a massive counter-suggestion and prevents psychic phenomena from manifesting. You need to recreate the kinds of environments where paranormal events typically occur in order to provide the power of suggestion that will allow the mind to access, channel and manifest such phenomena. You cannot allow materialists and skeptics anywhere near paranormal research since they will generate an enormous field of counter-suggestion that will disrupt, sabotage and thwart the desired phenomena. If you tell people it can’t be done, it won’t be. If you tell people they can achieve the impossible, they will.

In 2017, two former Planned Parenthood employees appeared in a Live Action video, revealing that the organziation imposes abortion quotas on its clinics and incentivizes workers to convince women to choose abortion.70 Sue Thayer, former manager of the Planned Parenthood clinic in Storm Lake, Iowa, told Live Action that executives would reward clinics with pizza parties or extra paid time off if they met their abortion targets. Clinics that didn’t offer abortions were given quotas for abortion referrals made to other Planned Parenthood facilities. “I trained my staff the way that I was trained, which was to really encourage women to choose abortion and to have it at Planned Parenthood because it counts towards our goal,” Thayer said.71 Former Planned Parenthood nurse Marianne Anderson told Live Action, “I felt like I was more of a salesman sometimes, to sell abortions. We were constantly told we have quotas to meet to stay open.”72

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to live until she was big enough to undergo extensive open-heart surgery. She had been followed since birth in our Pediatric Cardiology Clinic at the New York Hospital, and many of the pediatricians knew her and her family. Despite her physical difficulties she took full possession of all the hearts around her, including mine. When the time for her surgery finally came, her parents were deeply anxious. These were early days for many cardiac surgery techniques, and the risks were considerable, but without surgery, she would not survive childhood. As the senior pediatric resident, I met with Immy’s parents before the surgery to do an intake interview and summarize Immy’s long story. They were committed and ready and very pale. As we spoke, they sat close together holding hands. Afterward I took them

It is in dealing with death that one is most forcibly made aware of how we yielded, hands down, to the forgetting of Being. One of the few occasions on which at last modern man might be able to grasp the enormity of existence is in the contemplation of death. Yet this is just what we ignore. It is a commonplace that while the Victorians did not talk about sex, they were open about death; we do not talk about death, but are clinically explicit about sex. Unfortunately for us, being open about something robs it of its power, while hiding increases it.

In a 1969 essay, the philosopher Jean Améry, a veteran of the Belgian anti-fascist resistance and a Holocaust survivor, wrote that Fanon described a world that he knew very well from his time in Auschwitz. What Fanon understood, Améry argued, was that the violence of the oppressed is “an affirmation of dignity,” opening onto a “historical and human future.

felt as if I was on autopilot, as Raff guided me into the lift without allowing anyone to interact with me. Once in the elevator, I read the no cell phone sign and quickly turned mine off. As the lift doors opened the smell of the disinfectant and that distinctly clinical scent registered a sense of fear within me

comprehensible. At times the crime is so atrocious and inhuman that there is no way to analyze the conduct of the perpetrator and thereby get relief. In spite of everything, even in those cases, forgiveness is necessary, because the pain that the guilty party has created doesn’t deserve to find a permanent home in your mind. That wound, that poison, that resentment—each could turn you into an embittered person, if you’re not capable of letting it go. Forgiving relieves the pain caused, dodges resentment, and therefore opens the way to the future up to the victim, a way which, without forgiveness, would remain permanently closed. The capacity to forgive belongs solely to the victim, and doesn’t depend on the repentance of whoever caused the offense. Forgiving is a way of shedding burdens, which helps us to move forward even if the damage done is terrible and the person who caused it doesn’t repent. In my clinical experience, it’s always worth it. Forgiving is traveling to the past and returning safe and sound.

Do you remember Tom Swift's friend Bud Barclay?" I nodded. "He was killed on a sortie just over a year ago." "I'm sorry." "Bud's death really got to me. I left as soon as I could. Moved out here. Opened this free clinic. We offer basic medical treatment for the kids in the area.

Instead of drilling a hole in the skull or strapping a device onto the body, Synchron uses the “stentrode”—a device that looks like a small tube of wire mesh, and remarkably can be implanted via a catheter, much like the stents that physicians use to treat heart patients. The stentrode is fed into the jugular vein in the neck and threaded through a blood vessel that enters the brain. The device is tuned to detect the electrical signals that travel from the brain to give instructions to the limbs and fingers to move. Those signals, relayed through Bluetooth to a device outside the body, are translated by algorithms into computer commands. CEO Thomas Oxley describes it as “bringing electronics into the brain without the need for open-brain surgery.” Four Australian patients with neurodegenerative disorders have been implanted with the stentrode and are able to email, text, and even shop for groceries using only their minds.34 Synchron has also started clinical trials in the United States. Once widescale safety and efficacy have been established, it’s not hard to imagine that even a healthy individual might want a stentrode to more seamlessly interface with technology or reach just a little closer to digital immortality.

For example, if I were to propose a clinical trial involving children and entice participation by giving out ice cream to those willing to participate, any Institutional Human Subject’s Safety Board (IRB) in the United States would reject that protocol. If I were to propose a clinical research protocol wherein the population of a geographic region would lose personal liberties unless 70% of the population participated in my study, once again, that protocol would be rejected by any US IRB based on coercion of subject participation. No coercion to participate in the study is allowed. In the case of human subject clinical research, in most countries of the world this is considered a bright line that cannot be crossed. So, now we are told to waive that requirement without even so much as open public discussion being allowed?

Can we go back to making out now?" He laughs, feeling better and lighter than he has in ages. "Fuck, yes." Alexander knows he's probably being overdramatic, but kissing Eden is the best damn thing in the world. It was never like this with him and Bea. Not even for a second. With Bea, it was clinical and formulaic and rigid. But with Eden, he's never been so gladly out of his element before. Everything about her excites him to no end. He feels like a teenager because it's only been two seconds into kissing her and he's rock hard again. Eden seems to know this, deliberately rotating her hips against him to send pleasure flooding through his body. He knows it's too soon to do anything with her. He really likes her, and he doesn't want to mess things up by moving too fast. But at the same time, Alexander desperately wants her out of her clothes, splayed out in front of him, ready for him to have like a starving man at an open buffet.

Believe it or not, the Eugenics Society still exists today. But since Hitler exposed them, they went underground, and they still operate strongly today! Margaret Sanger was a member of the Eugenics Society. She opened abortion clinics in ghetto cities to kill black babies and feeble-minded people. Many foundations that were members of the Eugenics Society, like the Rokafferal Foundation, Carnegie Institution, Ford Foundation, Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, and many others, still fund abortions, and many missionaries around the world "help" the poor! If you are poor, if you are in welfare collecting (SNAP and EBT), you are considered feeble-minded. Moran's and high-grade Moran are the people being used today by Democrats to vote for them. This is why, after 25 years of being registered Democrats, I stopped voting for Democrats! My question is: Do you still think Democrats & the rich care about the poor? youtube . com / watch?v=vmRb-0v5xfI&t=350s

For decades, doctors and nurses trained in Western medicine had been dismissive of whole categories of diagnoses that predominated among the Indigenous population. Villagers would often visit healers and shamans who treated ailments such as mal de ojo (evil eye), pérdida del alma (loss of the soul), and el susto (the fright). Some of these afflictions dated to pre-Columbian times and went by a range of different names. El susto, the anthropologist Linda Green wrote, was “understood by its victims to be the loss of the essential life force as a result of fright.” In more conventional terms, its symptoms included depression, lethargy, insomnia, nightmares, diarrhea, and vomiting. To anyone mindful of La Violencia of the war years, the connection to post-traumatic stress was unavoidable. These conditions were, as Green put it, “social memory embodied.” In the summer of 2016, the Health Ministry announced that it would open clinics and hire personnel to treat seven different types of “ancestral maladies” that were contributing to high mortality rates in the countryside. “Independently of whether you believe it or don’t believe in this, we have seen that it’s necessary to be vigilant,” Lucrecia told one newspaper.

But what was the end? Where did all this self-improvement lead? The answer was always back to more yoga. Never volunteer at a clinic or a food kitchen, never for a studio owner to open more classes to the poor or injured. Never to take our radiant yoga bodies and put them to use in the service for others.

I was lucky enough to find the work of Dr. Stuart Brown. Dr. Brown is a psychiatrist, clinical researcher, and founder of the National Institute for Play. He is also the author of a wonderful book titled Play: How It Shapes the Brain, Opens the Imagination, and Invigorates the Soul.

In January 2003, as Gates and Dr. Fauci opened dozens of clinical trials for experimental AIDS vaccines across Africa,

Senior Wal-Mart officials concentrated on setting goals, measuring progress, and maintaining communication lines with employees at the front lines and with official agencies when they could. In other words, to handle this complex situation, they did not issue instructions. Conditions were too unpredictable and constantly changing. They worked on making sure people talked. Wal-Mart’s emergency operations team even included a member of the Red Cross. (The federal government declined Wal-Mart’s invitation to participate.) The team also opened a twenty-four-hour call center for employees, which started with eight operators but rapidly expanded to eighty to cope with the load. Along the way, the team discovered that, given common goals to do what they could to help and to coordinate with one another, Wal-Mart’s employees were able to fashion some extraordinary solutions. They set up three temporary mobile pharmacies in the city and adopted a plan to provide medications for free at all of their stores for evacuees with emergency needs—even without a prescription. They set up free check cashing for payroll and other checks in disaster-area stores. They opened temporary clinics to provide emergency personnel with inoculations against flood-borne illnesses. And most prominently, within just two days of Katrina’s landfall, the company’s logistics teams managed to contrive ways to get tractor trailers with food, water, and emergency equipment past roadblocks and into the dying city. They were able to supply water and food to refugees and even to the National Guard a day before the government appeared on the scene. By the end Wal-Mart had sent in a total of 2,498 trailer loads of emergency supplies and donated $3.5 million in merchandise to area shelters and command centers. “If the American government had responded like Wal-Mart has responded, we wouldn’t be in this crisis,” Jefferson Parish’s top official, Aaron Broussard, said in a network television interview at the time.

So were you born and raised in Winnipeg, or Ontario?” Anders asked. “Cambridge, Ontario,” Valerie answered reluctantly, knowing what question would come next. It was Bricker who asked it. “Then how did you end up opening a clinic in Winnipeg?” Valerie considered how best to answer, but really there was only one answer. “A man.” Silence filled the SUV briefly and then Anders said, “You aren’t married.” It wasn’t really phrased as a question, more like a command, she thought, and wondered about that, but said, “No. I’ve never been married. But I started dating another student my first year at university. We dated all seven years of school, but he was from Winnipeg. He wanted to go back when we graduated and he asked me to go.” She shrugged. “I moved there with him and set up shop.” “But you didn’t marry?” Anders asked and she glanced over to see that his eyes were narrowed on the road. There was a tension about him she didn’t understand. “No.” She turned to stare out the window at the passing scenery and said, “We split up eventually, but by then the clinic was successful and I’d made friends there. I stayed.

A beaten-up old sedan was parked in the drive just a few feet from the door, and the screaming woman was leaning into the vehicle’s back seat through the open rear door. When she heard the dispensary door unlatch and open, she jerked her head toward me and cried, “My daughter has been shot in the head—please save her!” The woman stepped aside and I leaned into the back seat." (Page 255)

You could immediately see the difference between the street addicts stumbling into the clinic for help for the first time, and the patients who had been on legal prescriptions for a while. The street addicts would often stagger in with abscesses that looked like hard-boiled eggs rotting under their skin, and with open wounds on their hands and legs that looked, as Parry recalls, “like a pizza of infection. It’s mushy, and the cheese you get on it is pus. And it just gets bigger and bigger.” A combination of contaminated drugs and dirty needles had given a home to these infections in the addicts’ flesh and they “can go right through the bone and out the other side, so you’ve got a hole going right through you. You have that on both legs and your body’s not strong enough—it’ll cut right through. You had situations where people were walking and their legs snapped.” They often looked like survivors of a war, with amputated limbs and flesh that looked charred and scarred. The addicts on prescriptions, by contrast, looked like the nurses, or the receptionists, or John himself. You couldn’t tell them apart. Harry

The pilot put the helicopter in a sideways crab over the bow, enabling him to see the superstructure out his right side window and maintain the same relative position to the ship as he matched its forward speed. The crew in the helicopter cabin opened the big sliding door on the right, and I swung out in the horse collar. As I was lowered to the ship, I saw hundreds of passengers lining the rails and windows on all the forward decks with cameras and binoculars trained on me. This was probably the most exciting moment of the cruise for those folks!" (Page 273)

At 9:15 on Thursday morning, June 4, while Jordan Delreese was bludgeoning his two young children to death, I was sitting in Dr. Hamburger's consulting room at the Sunny Isles Geriatric Clinic with my father, who was just then at a loss for words.

If a direct hernia is obvious during an open operation, a simple Bassini repair in most children suffices.

Trained Obstetrician and Gynaecologist in Dubai Dr Elsa de Menezes Fernandes is a UK trained Obstetrician and Gynaecologist. She completed her basic training in Goa, India, graduating from Goa University in 1993. After Residency, she moved to the UK, where she worked as a Senior House Officer in London at the Homerton, Southend General, Royal London and St. Bartholomew’s Hospitals in Obstetrics and Gynaecology. She completed five years of Registrar and Senior Registrar training in Obstetrics and Gynaecology in London at The Whittington, University College, Hammersmith, Ealing and Lister Hospitals and Gynaecological Oncology at the Hammersmith and The Royal Marsden Hospitals. During her post-graduate training in London she completed Membership from the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists. In 2008 Dr Elsa moved to Dubai where she worked as a Consultant Obstetrician and Gynaecologist at Mediclinic City Hospital until establishing her own clinic in Dubai Healthcare City in March 2015. She has over 20 years specialist experience. Dr Elsa has focused her clinical work on maternal medicine and successfully achieved the RCOG Maternal Medicine Special Skills Module. She has acquired a vast amount of experience working with high risk obstetric patients and has worked jointly with other specialists to treat patients who have complex medical problems during pregnancy. During her training she gained experience in Gynaecological Oncology from her time working at St Bartholomew’s, Hammersmith and The Royal Marsden Hospitals in London. Dr Elsa is experienced in both open and laparoscopic surgery and has considerable clinical and operative experience in performing abdominal and vaginal hysterectomies and myomectomies. She is also proficient in the technique of hysteroscopy, both diagnostic and operative for resection of fibroids and the endometrium. The birth of your baby, whether it is your first or a happy addition to your family, is always a very personal experience and Dr Elsa has built a reputation on providing an experience that is positive and warmly remembered. She supports women’s choices surrounding birth and defines her role in the management of labour and delivery as the clinician who endeavours to achieve safe motherhood. She is a great supporter of vaginal delivery. Dr Elsa’s work has been published in medical journals and she is a member of the British Maternal and Fetal Medicine Society. She was awarded CCT (on the Specialist Register) in the UK. Dr Elsa strives to continue her professional development and has participated in a wide variety of courses in specialist areas, including renal diseases in pregnancy and medical complications in pregnancy.

Sabina Spielrein arrived at the Burghölzli in August 1904. She was an eighteen-year-old Russian Jew (her grandfather was a rabbi) who wore pigtails and dressed like a child. Previous time in a private clinic proved unhelpful. She was highly sensitive, deeply emotional, intelligent, well-spoken, and suicidal. She cried, laughed or screamed uncontrollably, avoided eye contact and stuck her tongue out at anyone who touched her. Hysteria ran in her family, and Jung was surprised when Bleuler suggested he psychoanalyze her. Although Freud had introduced the idea almost a decade earlier, he hadn’t provided a manual, and Jung, in a sense, had to wing it. He met with Sabina for an hour or two every other day. Combining word association with the “talking cure,” he got her to tell her story. A beating by her father on her bare bottom when she was three aroused her (and seemed confirmation of Freud’s ideas about childhood sexuality, about which Jung maintained strong reservations), as did the sight of her father beating her older brother. Afterward she believed she had defecated on her father’s hand; this led to obsessive thoughts about excreta. When she reached her teens, Sabina couldn’t eat or see anyone else eating without thinking of feces, and the sight of her father’s hands excited her sexually. Anger at the sight of punishment turned into sexual fantasy, which gave way to open masturbation, depression, and rage.

it. “She’s got AIDS!” Mom’s mouth pops open and she flops back on the couch as if the air just got kicked out of her lungs. “AIDS?” she whispers. I nod my head and she gives me a sharp look. “How?” “From a local clinic in Africa. She fell sick on vacation.

The analyst’s specific discovery, beyond her or his initiation as patient and physician, is of a certain helplessness in the face of the unconscious. Only a period of helplessness at the hands of the unconscious can promote openness to the unconscious’s own solutions that is the analyst’s stock in trade. Such radical openness is never achieved through a graded series of gentle shocks. Rather, it is almost always the effect of at least one sudden, unexpected wounding, what James Hillman has called “betrayal.” And,

So what’s your deal? Do you have a husband, boyfriend or something else?” His question made her eyes fly open and she shot him a peeved stare, “Why should that concern you in the least?” “Well, I was just wondering if that was the reason you were rushing home at this hour.” “My goodness, are you always this upfront with people you’ve just met?” “Then tell me, did my comment touch a nerve? Did you have an unwanted…” “OMGee, are you serious? Do you think that I would ever share something that personal with you?” She bit the side of her bottom lip hoping to refrain from cussing at him. “If you fell pregnant then would you want to raise the kid knowing that the father is not your husband? Or better yet being forced into a marriage just because there’s a kid involved?” “Firstly Hunter, women these days don’t need husbands to have kids because there are clinics for those kind of things. And secondly, I would never want to marry someone after a one night stand! That would leave me being an outright imbecile!” Was she seriously having this conversation with a stranger? He remained silent but she noticed his jaw twitch. Samara wondered what the reason was behind his odd questions about unwanted pregnancies. Did this happen to him or a loved one?

2012 My Response to Andy   Dearest Andy,               It would be splendid to revisit the canal city and reminisce of our time at the Falcon’s Den – especially that fateful evening when I ended up at Dr. Fahrib’s private hospital. I have no idea why I blacked out. I recalled the vivid dream I experienced while comatose. You and Zac were in such a panic, worried if I’d ever wake. LOL!               The final thing I remember in ARGOS before I collapsed was the unpleasant smell within the ‘bathroom’. Quick-witted Zac ushered me to the open courtyard for air. We weren’t quick enough; I fainted just as we reached the doorway. I was out like a light. I remember you guys trying to revive me. I didn’t come around. You carried me back to the Falcon’s Den hurriedly. Thank Allah, the good doctor was home. He was already asleep, but you woke him for help. I faintly recall inhaling some kind of smelling salt. It didn’t help. Fahrib had to rush me to his private clinic for urgent care. I remained unconscious until the first ray of light the following day. When I finally came around, I was hooked to an IV. The doctor couldn’t diagnose the problem until he took a sample of my urine and discovered LSD in my system. The ARGOS pineapple juice had tasted strange. I suspect the barman had added several drops of the hallucinogenic drug to my drink. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did this to his customers randomly. But why didn’t the rest of our group fall ill? Have you any idea…?

simultaneously we need to get continual feedback about how our clinical evaluation and interventions are going and be open to letting go of considered specifics, of moving back from the peaks of activation and plateaus of probability into the plane of possibility. Such feedback is a key element of effective psychotherapy of all sorts (see

We had been in the air almost two hours when we got a visual on the ship. It was churning along, on a northerly course, at a good clip in heavy swells. One of the helicopter’s crewmen opened the sliding door on the right side so we could all get a good view of the vessel. We circled it three times, hoping to be able to pick a safe spot to lower me onto. Cables, booms, masts, stacks, and cranes were everywhere—from stem to stern. We cruised along at an altitude of 100 feet...." (Page 266)

A new clinic was opening every three days, on average,

During his senior cross-country season, Joash broke every course record except one. In his senior year, at the Nike National race in Portland, Oregon, Joash came in third against 199 of the fastest runners in the country. This boy, who once struggled at home and school, received a five-year full-ride running scholarship and was awarded Academic All American during his freshman year of college. Joash eventually hopes to become an U.S. citizen and work in the medical field. Calvin graduated from University of Mary in respiratory therapy and will graduate from medical school. His goal is to one day open a clinic in Kenya. These two brothers from Kenya brought much unexpected joy and adventure into our lives. They became our sons; they became brothers to our other children. Most of all, they expanded our hearts.

Others argue that an increasingly demanding society is exposing previously subclinical ADHD symptoms. As performance standards are ratcheted up and external stimulation becomes nonstop and blaring, previously well-adapted individuals with mild ADHD may now be reaching a clinically significant level of impairment that qualifies as a mental disorder and requires treatment. My point back is that the difficulties people have in meeting society's expectations should not all be labeled as mental disorders. [...] If we, as a society, choose to help people enhance their performance to meet (perhaps excessive) demands, this should be an open policy decision - not one cloaked under medical auspices, done by medical prescription, and enhanced by drug company marketing.

Physiology at MIT recognized that the richness and detail of the collected data opened the feasibility of creating a new generation of monitoring systems to track the physiologic state of the patient, employing the power of modern signal processing, pattern recognition, computational modeling, and knowledge-based clinical reasoning. In the long term, we hoped to design monitoring systems that not only synthesized and reported all relevant measurements to clinicians, but also formed pathophysiologic hypotheses that best explained the observed data. Such systems would permit early detection of complex problems, provide useful guidance on therapeutic interventions, and ultimately lead to improved patient outcomes.

In the two hundred years since the first use of clinical trials, medicine has progressed from the ideas of Galen to the wonders of gene therapy. Medicine has a long way to go, and suffers from many defects, as we shall see, but a willingness to test ideas and to learn from mistakes has transformed its performance. The irony is that while medicine has evolved rapidly, via an “open loop,” health care (i.e., the institutional question of how treatments are delivered by real people working in complex systems) has not. (The terms “closed loop” and “open loop” have particular meanings in engineering and formal systems theory, which are different from the way in which they are used in this book. So, just to reemphasize, for our purposes a closed loop is where failure doesn’t lead to progress because information on errors and weaknesses is misinterpreted or ignored; an open loop does lead to progress because the feedback is rationally acted upon.)

By April 23, 2014, thirty-four cases and six deaths from Ebola in Liberia were recorded. By mid-June, 16 more people died. At the time it was thought to be malaria but when seven more people died the following month tests showed that was the Ebola virus. The primary reason for the spreading of the Ebola virus was the direct contact from one person to the next and the ingesting of bush meat. Soon doctors and nurses also became infected. On July 2, 2014, the head surgeon of Redemption Hospital was treated at the JFK Medical Center in Monrovia, where he died from the disease. His death was followed by four nurses at Phebe Hospital in Bong County. At about the same time two U.S. health care workers, Dr. Kent Brantly and a nurse were also infected with the disease. However, they were medically evacuated from Liberia to the United States for treatment where they made a full recovery. Another doctor from Uganda was not so lucky and died from the disease. Arik Air suspended all flights between Nigeria and Liberia and checkpoints were set up at all the ports and border crossings. In August of 2014, the impoverished slum area of West Point was cordoned off. Riots ensued as protesters turned violent. The looting of a clinic of its supplies, including blood-stained bed sheets and mattresses caused the military to shoot into the crowds. Still more patients became infected, causing a shortage of staff and logistics. By September there had been a total of 3,458 cases of which there were 1,830 deaths according to the World Health Organization. Hospitals and clinics could no longer handle this crisis and patients who were treated outside died before they could get help. There were cases where the bodies were just dumped into the Mesurado River. The Ivory Coast out of compassion, opened carefully restricted humanitarian routes and resumed the previously suspended flights to Liberia. Ellen Johnson Sirleaf the president of Libera sent a letter to President Barack Obama concerning the outbreak of Ebola that was on the verge of overrunning her country. The message was desperate, “I am being honest with you when I say that at this rate, we will never break the transmission chain and the virus will overwhelm us.” Having been a former finance minister and World Bank official, Johnson Sirleaf was not one for histrionics however she recognized the pandemic as extremely dangerous. The United States responded to her request and American troops came in and opened a new 60-bed clinic in the Sierra Leone town of Kenema, but by then the outbreak was described as being out of control. Still not understanding the dangerous contagious aspects of this epidemic at least eight Liberian soldiers died after contracting the disease from a single female camp follower. In spite of being a relatively poor country, Cuba is one of the most committed in deploying doctors to crisis zones. It sent more than 460 Cuban doctors and nurses to West Africa. In October Germany sent medical supplies and later that month a hundred additional U.S. troops arrived in Liberia, bringing the total to 565 to assist in the fight against the deadly disease. To understand the severity of the disease, a supply order was placed on October 15th for a 6 month supply of 80,000 body bags and 1 million protective suits. At that time it was reported that 223 health care workers had been infected with Ebola, and 103 of them had died in Liberia. Fear of the disease also slowed down the functioning of the Liberian government. President Sirleaf, had in an emergency announcement informed absent government ministers and civil service leaders to return to their duties. She fired 10 government officials, including deputy ministers in the central government who failed to return to work.

I could refer you to a colleague who specialises in such things – or, as it happens, a clinic has just opened in Holloway to advise on birth control and dispense devices. You might find that more anonymous. Have you heard of Marie Stopes?’ ‘Didn’t she write a book? I seem to remember something – didn’t she say that women and men should be equal in marriage? It sounded rather sensible to me.’ ‘She believes that a woman cannot be free unless she has control over her own body, which must include contraception. No-one would publish the book before the war, but since it came out – what is it? Two years ago – there has been no action against her or the publisher, so I think we can take it that she has opened this clinic with some confidence.

Clinically, I have observed that all of us have some conflict with our parents and therefore some ambivalence toward authority. The differences are in degree and not in kind. Remember that Freud said of the child’s attitude toward his father: “It fears him no less than it longs for him and admires him.” Freud may be correct that these early feelings toward parental authority influence one’s concept of and attitude toward God. They may determine as adults whether we remain open to or defiant and closed to even the possibility of an Ultimate Authority.

South Africa, the embodiment of symphonia, the sounding of all the voices together. A living, breathing entity. Returning from a visit to a medical clinic in the township of her name, Alexandra said: “What’s so amazing is that nobody is hiding anything. All the problems of society hit you in the face. You can see the terrible conditions of the squatter camps, and the total disparity among people’s lives. It’s all in the open. And it is tolerable,” she said, “because you see that it’s not how people want it to be. It seems as though everyone knows that everybody is trying to change it. They don’t identify a particular group as being a problem. It’s the whole society that has the problem, like a broken bone. I wonder how much of this has to do with the work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

Maybe Sloan would agree to a deal. I’d talk to someone about some of my issues if she would agree to go to grief counseling. It wasn’t me giving in to Josh like she wanted, but Sloan knew how much I hated therapists, and she’d always wanted me to see someone. I was debating how to pitch this to her when I glanced into the living room and saw it—a single purple carnation on my coffee table. I looked around the kitchen like I might suddenly find someone in my house. But Stuntman was calm, plopped under my chair. I went in to investigate and saw that the flower sat on top of a binder with the words “just say okay” written on the outside in Josh’s writing. He’d been here? My heart began to pound. I looked again around the living room like I might see him, but it was just the binder. I sat on the sofa, my hands on my knees, staring at the binder for what felt like ages before I drew the courage to pull the book into my lap. I tucked my hair behind my ear and licked my lips, took a breath, and opened it up. The front page read “SoCal Fertility Specialists.” My breath stilled in my lungs. What? He’d had a consultation with Dr. Mason Montgomery from SoCal Fertility. A certified subspecialist in reproductive endocrinology and infertility with the American Board of Obstetrics and Gynecology. He’d talked to them about in vitro and surrogacy, and he’d had fertility testing done. I put a shaky hand to my mouth, and tears began to blur my eyes. I pored over his test results. Josh was a breeding machine. Strong swimmers and an impressive sperm count. He’d circled this and put a winking smiley face next to it and I snorted. He’d outlined the clinic’s high success rates—higher than the national average—and he had gotten signed personal testimonials from previous patients, women like me who used a surrogate. Letter after letter of encouragement, addressed to me. The next page was a complete breakdown on the cost of in vitro and information on Josh’s health insurance and what it covered. His insurance was good. It covered the first round of IVF at 100 percent. He even had a small business plan. He proposed selling doghouses that he would build. The extra income would raise enough money for the second round of in vitro in about three months. The next section was filled with printouts from the Department of International Adoptions. Notes scrawled in Josh’s handwriting said Brazil just opened up. He broke down the process, timeline, and costs right down to travel expenses and court fees. I flipped past a sleeve full of brochures to a page on getting licensed for foster care. He’d already gone through the background check, and he enclosed a form for me, along with a series of available dates for foster care orientation classes and in-home inspections. Was this what he’d been doing? This must have taken him weeks. My chin quivered. Somehow, seeing it all down on paper, knowing we’d be in it together, it didn’t feel so hopeless. It felt like something that we could do. Something that might actually work. Something possible. The last page had an envelope taped to it. I pried it open with trembling hands, my throat getting tight. I know what the journey will look like, Kristen. I’m ready to take this on. I love you and I can’t wait to tell you the best part…Just say okay. I dropped the letter and put my face into my hands and sobbed like I’d never sobbed in my life. He’d done all this for me. Josh looked infertility dead in the eye, and his choice was still me. He never gave up. All this time, no matter how hard I rejected him or how difficult I made it, he never walked away from me. He just changed strategies. And I knew if this one didn’t work he’d try another. And another. And another. He’d never stop trying until I gave in. And Sloan—she knew. She knew this was here, waiting for me. That’s why she’d made me leave. They’d conspired to do this.

After the Accident Before we run out of pages, I want to tell you a little of what happened to my family after the accident. My mother moved to a small house in Western Shore. Her first concern was finding a way to support herself and Ricky. Being an ex-dancer, motorcycle rider, and treasure-hunter was not likely to open any doors, so she decided to go back to school. She enrolled in a business course in Bridgewater and began her first studies since she was 12 years old. Soon she earned a diploma in typing, shorthand, and accounting, and was hired to work in a medical clinic. Ricky had been on the island from age nine to 14, mostly in the company of adults--family members and visiting tourists--but hardly ever with anyone his own age. Life on the mainland, with the give and take and bumps and bruises of high-school life was a challenge. But he survived. In time he became a carpenter, and is alive and well and living in Ottawa. My mother made a new life for herself. She remained fiercely independent, but between a job she loved and her neighbors, she formed friendships that were deep and lasting. Of course, she missed Dad and Bobby terribly. My mother and dad had been a perfect match, and my mother and brother had always shared a special bond. Bobby’s death was especially hard on her. My mother felt responsible. One day, before the accident, Bobby had taken all he could of Oak Island. After a heated argument with Dad, Bobby packed up and left. My mother had gone after him and convinced him to return--his dad needed him. She rarely spoke of it, but that weighed heavily on her for the rest of her years. My mother never left the east coast. She was 90 years old when she died. For the last 38 years of her life, she lived in a small house on a hill, in the community of Western Shore, where, from her living room window, she could look out and see Oak Island.

In the 1970s, attitudes slowly began changing. In England, Cicely Saunders, a nurse and researcher, opened a hospice that treated terminal cancer patients with opiates. Under Saunders, St. Christopher’s Hospice in London was the world’s first to combine care for the dying with research and clinical trials.

Shea took another deep breath and looked around, determined to find what was making her so uneasy. A man lounged lazily in the shade of a tree. He was tall, dark, and motionless, like a hunter. She felt the impact of his eyes as his gaze casually found her. Her heart jumped. Who was he? Had Wallace found her so soon? Shea turned away. First, before anything, she had to complete her business. She dragged out her laptop computer and typed in the commands to access the clinic’s blood bank. If she had to move Jacques, they would need supplies desperately. In another moment, Shea felt silly. The door to the small general store across the street swung open. The short, stooped owner emerged, apron tied around his ample middle, a broom in his hand. He waved openly at the motionless figure beneath the tree. “Byron. Good morning to you. Bit early, isn’t it?” She recognized the local dialect. The tall, dark-haired man replied in the same language, but his voice was low, a beautiful tone. He stepped out of the shadows, young, good-looking. He flashed a quick, friendly smile at the grocer approaching him. Clearly they knew one another, were friendly. The dark-haired man was obviously no stranger to the area. Neither exhibited the least interest in Shea. She watched as Byron bent his head solicitously down to the older man, listening intently, his arm circling the shopkeeper’s shoulders. Shea breathed a soft sigh of relief. The feeling of being stalked was gone, and she couldn’t be certain if it had been real or imagined.

Amma, Make me an instrument of your fire. Make me the breath in the lungs that scream for justice. Make me the tears on a mother’s face holding the body of her child scorched by war. Make me a stone thrown at a tank. Make me the key to open cell doors. Make me the darkness to hide those fleeing across a desert. Make me the ocean that guides a refugee’s boat. Make me the scarf covering the face of Antifa. Make me a vaccination in a free clinic. Make me farmland never touched by chemicals. Make me a guitar played by a prisoner’s hands. Make me a song of joy on a child’s lips in Syria. Make me, make me, just keep making me, God, until there is nothing left to transform, and then let me dissolve into you.

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Good writing is the combination of a cold clinical eye and an open heart.

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Jane had accepted his referral and called the special clinic, which, astoundingly, had no openings for many weeks.