Surgery Wishes Quotes

She wished she had cancer instead. She'd trade Alzheimer's for cancer in a heartbeat. She felt ashamed for wishing this, and it was certainly a pointless bargaining, but she permitted herself the fantasy anyway. With cancer, she'd have something to fight. There was surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy. There was the chance that she could win. Her family and the community at Harvard would rally behind her battle and consider it noble. And even if it defeated her in the end, she'd be able to look them knowingly in the eye and say good-bye before she left.

The night before brain surgery, I thought about death. I searched out my larger values, and I asked myself, if I was going to die, did I want to do it fighting and clawing or in peaceful surrender? What sort of character did I hope to show? Was I content with myself and what I had done with my life so far? I decided that I was essentially a good person, although I could have been better--but at the same time I understood that the cancer didn't care. I asked myself what I believed. I had never prayed a lot. I hoped hard, I wished hard, but I didn't pray. I had developed a certain distrust of organized religion growing up, but I felt I had the capacity to be a spiritual person, and to hold some fervent beliefs. Quite simply, I believed I had a responsibility to be a good person, and that meant fair, honest, hardworking, and honorable. If I did that, if I was good to my family, true to my friends, if I gave back to my community or to some cause, if I wasn't a liar, a cheat, or a thief, then I believed that should be enough. At the end of the day, if there was indeed some Body or presence standing there to judge me, I hoped I would be judged on whether I had lived a true life, not on whether I believed in a certain book, or whether I'd been baptized. If there was indeed a God at the end of my days, I hoped he didn't say, 'But you were never a Christian, so you're going the other way from heaven.' If so, I was going to reply, 'You know what? You're right. Fine.' I believed, too, in the doctors and the medicine and the surgeries--I believed in that. I believed in them. A person like Dr. Einhorn [his oncologist], that's someone to believe in, I thought, a person with the mind to develop an experimental treatment 20 years ago that now could save my life. I believed in the hard currency of his intelligence and his research. Beyond that, I had no idea where to draw the line between spiritual belief and science. But I knew this much: I believed in belief, for its own shining sake. To believe in the face of utter hopelessness, every article of evidence to the contrary, to ignore apparent catastrophe--what other choice was there? We do it every day, I realized. We are so much stronger than we imagine, and belief is one of the most valiant and long-lived human characteristics. To believe, when all along we humans know that nothing can cure the briefness of this life, that there is no remedy for our basic mortality, that is a form of bravery. To continue believing in yourself, believing in the doctors, believing in the treatment, believing in whatever I chose to believe in, that was the most important thing, I decided. It had to be. Without belief, we would be left with nothing but an overwhelming doom, every single day. And it will beat you. I didn't fully see, until the cancer, how we fight every day against the creeping negatives of the world, how we struggle daily against the slow lapping of cynicism. Dispiritedness and disappointment, these were the real perils of life, not some sudden illness or cataclysmic millennium doomsday. I knew now why people fear cancer: because it is a slow and inevitable death, it is the very definition of cynicism and loss of spirit. So, I believed.

Do you think we’ll ever go back to the way it was?” I ask Finn. He glances at me. “I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “When I used to talk to patients before surgery, they always asked if they’d be able to do everything they used to do before the operation. I mean, technically, the answer should be yes. But there’s always a scar. Even if it’s not right across your belly, it’s in your head somewhere—the brand-new knowledge that you weren’t invincible. I think that changes you for the long haul.

During those times, they'd stand there watching me watching them. I'd pray, please. Put a pillow to my face. Clench a hand around my throat. Stab me. Shoot me. Put me out of everyone's misery. Why did you give birth to such a loser? Why didn't you admit I was hopeless and fat and stop trying to make me fit in? This world wasn't meant for me. I was born too soon or too late. Too defective. I wish I could tell my parents, "If you want to help me, help me die." I wonder, Are they required to fill out a 24-hour suicide watch form? Is the Defect at home? Check. Is It alive? Check. Why did they bother with the constructive surgery on my throat anyway? Waste of money. They threw away or hid from me everything with sharp edges or breakables. Picture frames. Pottery. Did they think they could suicide-proof this place? I want to tell them, "Chip, Kim, there is no way to suicide-proof a person

To finally surrender ourselves to healing, we have to have three spaces opened up within us - and all at the same time: our opinionated head, our closed-down heart, and our defensive and defended body. That is the summary work of spirituality - and it is indeed work. Yes, it is also the work of “a Power greater than ourselves,” and it will lead to a great luminosity and depth of seeing. That is why true faith is one of the most holistic and free actions a human can perform. It leads to such broad and deep perception that most traditions would just call it “light.” Remember, Jesus said that we also are the light of the world (Matthew 5:14), as well as saying it about himself (John 8:12). Strange that we see light in him but do not imitate him in seeing the same light in ourselves. Such luminous seeing is quite the opposite of the closed-minded, dead-hearted, body-denying thing that much religion has been allowed to become. As you surely have heard before, “Religion is lived by people who are afraid of hell. Spirituality is lived by people who have been through hell and come out enlightened.” The innocuous mental belief systems of much religion are probably the major cause of atheism in the world today, because people see that religion has not generally created people who are that different, more caring, or less prejudiced than other people. In fact, they are often worse because they think they have God on their small side. I wish I did not have to say this, but religion either produces the very best people or the very worst. Jesus makes this point in many settings and stories. Mere mental belief systems split people apart, whereas actual faith puts all our parts (body, heart, and head) on notice and on call. Honestly, it takes major surgery and much of one’s life to get head, heart, and body to put down their defenses, their false programs for happiness, and their many forms of resistance to what is right in front of them. This is the meat and muscle of the whole conversion process.

If someone says, "You can make it!" down a vertical mountain when you don't ski very well, think about it before launching. This can be a turning point in your life. It sure was in mine when I slammed into the mountain. I wish I'd said, "F'getabout it, sucka," and gone to the Kiddie Corral. Would have saved a lot of pain and surgery. Think about this. What are you really up for? Is the thrill worth the cost?

In 2004, the French parliament decided to cover reconstruction under the national health service for women who experience pain related to their cutting; it has since expanded to cover women wishing to improve their physical appearance or sexual sensation. That the surgery is free is important.

3.  Once people are asked to donate, the social pressure is so great that they get bullied into giving, even though they wish they’d never been asked in the first place. Mullaney knew that number 3 was important to Smile Train’s success. That’s why their millions of mailings included a photograph of a disfigured child in need of cleft surgery. While no fund-raiser in his right mind would ever publicly admit to manipulating donors with social pressure, everyone knew how strong this incentive was. But what if, Mullaney thought, instead of downplaying the pressure, Smile Train were to highlight it? That is, what if Smile Train offered potential donors a way to alleviate the social pressure and give money at the same time? That’s how a strategy known as “once-and-done” was born. Here’s what Smile Train would tell potential donors: Make one gift now and we’ll never ask for another donation again.

All my cats are toms. I’m telling you, ladies, it’s a plan I wish we could implement on the other half of our own species. You just take’em to the vet for that one simple little surgery and all their grand ideas go away. You wind up with big lovable couch potatoes who purr just because you walk in the room.

An older boy pointed. “Look,” he told his friend. “It’s Violet Beauregarde!” That was the bratty girl in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory who turned blue and ballooned into a huge ball. I was puffy because they’d pumped me up with steroids to get me ready for surgery. I ran to Mom, who was sitting on the edge. I stuffed my face in her breasts. “What is it, Bee?” “They called me it,” I squeaked. “It?” Mom’s eyes were across from mine. “Violet Beauregarde,” I managed to say, then burst into fresh tears. The mean boys huddled nearby, looking over, hoping my mom wouldn’t rat them out to their moms. Mom called to them, “That’s really original, I wish I’d thought of that.” I can pinpoint that as the single happiest moment of my life, because I realized then that Mom would always have my back. It made me feel giant. I raced back down the concrete ramp, faster than I ever had before, so fast I should have fallen, but I didn’t fall, because Mom was in the world.

When he stepped back, I cradled the cups so my moobs spilled into them, and said, “I don’t even need the implants.” “For the zillionth time,” Lydia said, “they’re not ‘implants.’ We’re not performing surgery here, though if you use that word one more time, I might be tempted to get out an X-acto knife and make your wish come true.” I clasped the bra closer to my chest.

I had to become a patient. And I had to make up my mind quickly before the unthinkable happened. So I went under the knife. And I surrendered, knowing surgery can fail, no matter how hard we wish it to succeed. If surgery could end well - without risk - then it wouldn't be surgery as we know it. Without chance, luck, fate, it can't be surgery. They're all vital ingredients of the recipe.

Sometimes I go into the hospital and have to do surgery just as the sleeping pills begin to kick in. I spend the rest of the night pinching myself and throwing cold water on my face. At night I tell myself it’s not worth it. I tell myself I hate the Army and wish I’d never joined. I curse the war on both sides, American and Iraqi. I wish everyone would just...die...so that I could go home.

always be. The new normal. “Do you think we’ll ever go back to the way it was?” I ask Finn. He glances at me. “I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “When I used to talk to patients before surgery, they always asked if they’d be able to do everything they used to do before the operation. I mean, technically, the answer should be yes. But there’s always a scar. Even if it’s not right across your belly, it’s in your head somewhere—the brand-new knowledge that you weren’t invincible. I think that changes you for the long haul.

For more than twenty years I have offered a very simple yet powerful ritual to people before their radiation, chemotherapy, or surgery. I suggest they meet together with some of their closest friends and family the day before their procedure. Before this meeting, I suggest they find an ordinary stone, a piece of the earth, big enough to fit in the palm of their hand, and bring it to the meeting with them. The ritual begins by having everyone sit in a circle. In any order they wish to speak, each person tells the story of a time when they too faced a crisis. People may talk about the death of important persons, the loss of jobs or of relationships, or even about their own illnesses. The person who is speaking holds the stone the patient has brought. When they finish telling their story of survival, they take a moment to reflect on the personal quality that they feel helped them come through that difficult time. People will say things such as, 'What brought me through was determination,' 'What brought me through was faith,' 'What brought me through was humor.' When they have named the quality of their strength, they speak directly to the person preparing for surgery or treatment, saying, 'I put determination into this stone for you,' or, 'I put faith into this stone for you.' After everyone has spoken the stone is given back to the patient, who takes it with them to the hospital, to keep nearby and hold in their hand when things get hard. In an environment which is highly technical and sterile, it connects them to the earth and to each other.

Necessities 1 A map of the world. Not the one in the atlas, but the one in our heads, the one we keep coloring in. With the blue thread of the river by which we grew up. The green smear of the woods we first made love in. The yellow city we thought was our future. The red highways not traveled, the green ones with their missed exits, the black side roads which took us where we had not meant to go. The high peaks, recorded by relatives, though we prefer certain unmarked elevations, the private alps no one knows we have climbed. The careful boundaries we draw and erase. And always, around the edges, the opaque wash of blue, concealing the drop-off they have stepped into before us, singly, mapless, not looking back. 2 The illusion of progress. Imagine our lives without it: tape measures rolled back, yardsticks chopped off. Wheels turning but going nowhere. Paintings flat, with no vanishing point. The plots of all novels circular; page numbers reversing themselves past the middle. The mountaintop no longer a goal, merely the point between ascent and descent. All streets looping back on themselves; life as a beckoning road an absurd idea. Our children refusing to grow out of their childhoods; the years refusing to drag themselves toward the new century. And hope, the puppy that bounds ahead, no longer a household animal. 3 Answers to questions, an endless supply. New ones that startle, old ones that reassure us. All of them wrong perhaps, but for the moment solutions, like kisses or surgery. Rising inflections countered by level voices, words beginning with w hushed by declarative sentences. The small, bold sphere of the period chasing after the hook, the doubter that walks on water and treads air and refuses to go away. 4 Evidence that we matter. The crash of the plane which, at the last moment, we did not take. The involuntary turn of the head, which caused the bullet to miss us. The obscene caller who wakes us at midnight to the smell of gas. The moon's full blessing when we fell in love, its black mood when it was all over. Confirm us, we say to the world, with your weather, your gifts, your warnings, your ringing telephones, your long, bleak silences. 5 Even now, the old things first things, which taught us language. Things of day and of night. Irrational lightning, fickle clouds, the incorruptible moon. Fire as revolution, grass as the heir to all revolutions. Snow as the alphabet of the dead, subtle, undeciphered. The river as what we wish it to be. Trees in their humanness, animals in their otherness. Summits. Chasms. Clearings. And stars, which gave us the word distance, so we could name our deepest sadness.

What to Make a Game About? Your dog, your cat, your child, your boyfriend, your girlfriend, your mother, your father, your grandmother, your friends, your imaginary friends, your summer vacation, your winter in the mountains, your childhood home, your current home, your future home, your first job, your worst job, the job you wish you had. Your first date, your first kiss, your first fuck, your first true love, your second true love, your relationship, your kinks, your deepest secrets, your fantasies, your guilty pleasures, your guiltless pleasures, your break-up, your make-up, your undying love, your dying love. Your hopes, your dreams, your fears, your secrets, the dream you had last night, the thing you were afraid of when you were little, the thing you’re afraid of now, the secret you think will come back and bite you, the secret you were planning to take to your grave, your hope for a better world, your hope for a better you, your hope for a better day. The passage of time, the passage of memory, the experience of forgetting, the experience of remembering, the experience of meeting a close friend from long ago on the street and not recognizing her face, the experience of meeting a close friend from long ago and not being recognized, the experience of aging, the experience of becoming more dependent on the people who love you, the experience of becoming less dependent on the people you hate. The experience of opening a business, the experience of opening the garage, the experience of opening your heart, the experience of opening someone else’s heart via risky surgery, the experience of opening the window, the experience of opening for a famous band at a concert when nobody in the audience knows who you are, the experience of opening your mind, the experience of taking drugs, the experience of your worst trip, the experience of meditation, the experience of learning a language, the experience of writing a book. A silent moment at a pond, a noisy moment in the heart of a city, a moment that caught you unprepared, a moment you spent a long time preparing for, a moment of revelation, a moment of realization, a moment when you realized the universe was not out to get you, a moment when you realized the universe was out to get you, a moment when you were totally unaware of what was going on, a moment of action, a moment of inaction, a moment of regret, a moment of victory, a slow moment, a long moment, a moment you spent in the branches of a tree. The cruelty of children, the brashness of youth, the wisdom of age, the stupidity of age, a fairy tale you heard as a child, a fairy tale you heard as an adult, the lifestyle of an imaginary creature, the lifestyle of yourself, the subtle ways in which we admit authority into our lives, the subtle ways in which we overcome authority, the subtle ways in which we become a little stronger or a little weaker each day. A trip on a boat, a trip on a plane, a trip down a vanishing path through a forest, waking up in a darkened room, waking up in a friend’s room and not knowing how you got there, waking up in a friend’s bed and not knowing how you got there, waking up after twenty years of sleep, a sunset, a sunrise, a lingering smile, a heartfelt greeting, a bittersweet goodbye. Your past lives, your future lives, lies that you’ve told, lies you plan to tell, lies, truths, grim visions, prophecy, wishes, wants, loves, hates, premonitions, warnings, fables, adages, myths, legends, stories, diary entries. Jumping over a pit, jumping into a pool, jumping into the sky and never coming down. Anything. Everything.

So,” John said, “I’ll meet you at your place at eight, and we can walk over together?” “What? For what?” “The vigil.” “I’m not going to that.” I tried to ignore his surprise, his dogged faith. “Of course you are.” “I don’t know this person.” John continued to stand there, arms hanging down. The knife skidded so much I lost my grip and had to pick it up again. “It could’ve been you,” he said finally. “No,” I said, chopping bluntly, breaking more than slicing the lettuce, “it couldn’t. I’ve worked my whole life so that it couldn’t be me.” White flash of a face. Where did they go, those boys, after they left us behind? “Last night,” John began. He paused, still looking wounded. “You were so happy.” I gathered the lettuce into a bin and held it against my stomach like a barrier. “If it had been me, it would’ve been your fault.” John reeled as though I’d struck him. “You’re a coward,” he said. “You’ve worked your whole life because you’re a coward.” “What do you know? What do you know about anything?” His family moved for him. The hormones. The surgery he was allowed to accept or reject. I waved my arm around the kitchen, at the stunned cooks watching us. “Nobody has to know about you! You can blend in whenever you want!” “You honestly believe that? You think my life’s been easy?” “Yes, I think it’s been fucking easy!” I screamed. “They don’t know! I didn’t know! I wish I still didn’t know!” I tried to shove past him. He touched my back. I remembered Humphrey Bogart’s hand, I remembered dancing, I remembered the gown twirling, I remembered the boy who complimented my ass, I remembered being told I was beautiful. I remembered the woman staring back at me in the Métro windows, her wink. I tried to pull away. John embraced me with my arms pinned to my sides, the lettuce bin between us, its raw, wet smell pushed toward our faces. In full view of the entire kitchen, he kissed me. A kiss that made me think of the woefully few people I had kissed in my life. A kiss that reminded me I had never been loved. A kiss that said I could not be John unless I risked being Dana.   My

No one likes when the fat girl talks about how miserable she is or how upset it makes her to be made fun of.  How much she wishes she was thin.  Because deep down…the attractive, slim people are judging you for putting yourself in the position you’re in.  Their mind is firing off thoughts like, ‘If she’s so unhappy, she should do something about it.’ Or— ‘If she would stop being lazy and work out and eat right, she’d lose the weight.’ And my new favorite, ‘She should try the new keto diet or get that lap band surgery.’  Maybe fat people don’t want to go on a new fad diet or have surgery.  Maybe going to the gym gives fat people an anxiety attack and causes them to give up before they even start…because half the people there are looking at us like we’re a fish out of water. While the other half are wondering how long we’ll last before we give up and head for the nearest McDonald’s.  Maybe fat people just want to be accepted…flaws and all.  Just like the rest of society. And maybe, just maybe—people should stop judging us.  Because every fat person will tell you…no one judges us harder than we judge ourselves.  We know exactly what that mirror is reflecting.  Every extra pound we shouldn’t have.  Every tear we’ve secretly shed in frustration and sadness.  Every diet we’ve tried, but ultimately failed at.  Every fear and insecurity plaguing us.  Every expectation we’ll never measure up to.  And it sucks.

Rennie looked again and his hand attached itself to his arm, which was part of him. He wasn’t very far away. She fell in love with him because he was the first thing she saw after her life had been saved. This was the only explanation she could think of. She wished, later, when she was no longer feeling dizzy but was sitting up, trying to ignore the little sucking tubes that were coming out of her and the constant ache, that it had been a potted begonia or a stuffed rabbit, some safe bedside object. Jake sent her roses but by then it was too late. I imprinted on him, she thought; like a duckling, like a baby chick. She knew about imprinting; once, when she was hard up for cash, she’d done a profile for Owl Magazine of a man who believed geese should be used as safe and loyal substitute for watchdogs. It was best to be there yourself when the goslings came out of the eggs, he said. Then they’d follow you to the ends of the earth. Rennie had smirked because that man seemed to think that being followed to the ends of the earth by a flock of adoring geese was both desirable and romantic, but she’d written it all down in his own words. Now she was behaving like a goose, and the whole thing put her on foul temper. It was inappropriate to have fallen in love with Daniel, who had no distinguishing features that Rennie could see. She hardly even knew what he looked like, since, during the examinations before the operation, she hadn’t bothered to look at him. One did not look at doctors; they were functionaries, they were what your mother one hoped you would marry, they were fifties, they were passe. It wasn’t only inappropriate, it was ridiculous. It was expected. Falling in love with your doctor was something middle-aged married women did, women in soaps, women in nurse novels and sex-and-scalpel epics with titles like Surgery and nurse with big tits and doctors who looked like Dr. Kildare on the covers. It was the sort of thing Toronto Life did stories about, soft-core gossip masquerading as hard-nosed research expose. Rennie could not stand being guilty of such a banality.

But later, standing in triage, surrounded by a pile of bloody rags that had been cut from the body of an eight-year-old boy who was now in surgery, having a gangrenous leg amputated, she felt the black heat rising inside her head again. It made her wish she’d gone with Cooper. What the hell is wrong with people that they’d do these things—to little kids? It

39 SYLVIA Victoria is dressed in a billowy flower-printed dress that I found in her closet. Something tight is out of the question because of her feeding tube and it would not have been flattering with the way she often slumps in the chair. I have a feeling the dress used to be more snug on her, but now it hangs loose on her bony frame. I also spent some time on her hair. I combed it out and put in the oil treatment again, and it looks lush and shiny. I thought about trying to tie it back, but I think it’s most flattering when it’s loose. Now I’m working on her makeup. I put a layer of pink lipstick on her crooked lips, and now I’m doing my best to cover the scar on her left cheek. I don’t think there’s anything I could do to conceal it entirely, but it looks a lot better than when I started. Victoria is allowing me to put on the makeup, but she looks utterly unenthusiastic. I can’t entirely blame her. As much as I chatter about how much fun this will be, I’m not looking forward to it either. Part of me wants to duck out and leave Victoria and Adam to have Thanksgiving alone as a married couple. But the more I read of her diary, I feel like that is not what Victoria wants. She doesn’t want to be alone with him. And I don’t want her to be alone with him either. “There.” I dab on the last of the concealer—I’ve used half the container and the scar is still very visible. “All done.” Victoria just stares at me. “You look beautiful.” I grab the mirror I found in the bathroom and hold it up to her face. “Take a look.” Victoria glances briefly at the mirror, then turns away. She never seems very happy when I show her a mirror. She either looks away or frowns at herself. Sometimes she touches the scar. I wish Adam had shelled out for her to get plastic surgery. I know he thinks she doesn’t notice, but he’s wrong. “I just…” I chew on my lip. “I want you to know that I’m not going to… I mean, Adam is your husband, not mine. I’m going to tell him tonight that I’m not going to…” For the first time since I came in here, Victoria’s eyes show a spark of interest. “It’s not right,” I say. “It was a mistake and I’m sorry. I’ll tell him tonight.” “Be…” She’s focusing so hard on what she wants to say that some drool comes out of the right side of her mouth, smearing her lipstick. “Be… care…” For once, I know exactly what she’s trying to say. Be careful. I leave Victoria to find some nail polish in the bathroom. That’s the last thing I need to complete her look for the evening. I want Victoria to look really beautiful tonight. Like her old self, as much as possible. It’s important to me. Maggie must have moved the nail polish when she was cleaning. I look in the usual place in the closet within the bathroom, but it’s not there anymore. I search through the other shelves, trying to find the bag of multicolor nail polish tubes. I find more makeup, but not polish. But one thing I do find surprises me. It’s a black bag of medications. I never was sure where Adam kept Victoria’s medications. He always just seems to have them ready to administer. I pick up a bottle from the black plastic bag and see the date of the most recent refill. It was less than a month ago.

And you get to hold people’s beating hearts in your hand like in Indiana Jones.’ ‘Sometimes, but it is frowned upon to do the chant during surgery.

My grandson, Rizq, is of age, which is celebrated in Muslim tradition by his circumcision. The day of his surgery I will be throwing him a Rite of Passage celebration party. I wish for you to provide him with some male sensual and sexual education. "Would you be willing to take on this task of being his mentors? I have asked Gaston and Jacques to educate him in heterosexual lovemaking." Andy looked at me for a response. I nodded so he replied, "We will assist this young man to the best of our ability. Thank you for trusting in us to take on this mentorship role. We are most grateful and honored." "Well, that is wonderful. I’d like Rizq to have a few sexual experiences before his circumcision, and then again after he has healed from his surgery. That way he will better understand the different sensations, before and after circumcision,” he replied.

Bad credit surgery loans are loan service that is basically meant to assist those borrowers who wish to go for a surgical procedure but they are not having ample amount of funds for financing their surgery. With the assistance of this loan service such borrowers can easily access the desired amount of funds along with the tag of their poor credit. The fund avail from this loan will also assist them to mend their awful credit status.

The psychiatrist R. D. Laing, at one of the first conferences on Buddhism and psychotherapy that I attended, declared that we are all afraid of three things: other people, our own minds, and death. His statement was all the more powerful because it came shortly before his own death. If bare attention is to be of any real use, it must be applied in exactly these spheres. Physical illness usually provides us with such an opportunity. When my father-in-law, an observant Jew with little overt interest in Eastern philosophy, was facing radical surgery not so long ago, he sought my counsel because he knew of some work I was engaged in about stress reduction. He wanted to know how he could manage his thoughts while going into the surgery, and what he could do while lying awake at night? I taught him bare attention to a simple Jewish prayer; he was gradually able to expand the mental state that developed around the prayer to encompass his thoughts, anxieties, and fears. Even in the intensive care unit after surgery, when he could not tell day from night, move, swallow, or talk, he was able to use bare attention to rest in the moment, dissolving his fears in the meditative space of his own mind. Several years later, after attending Yom Kippur services, he showed me a particular passage in the prayer book that reminded him of what he had learned through his ordeal. A more Buddhist verse he could not have uncovered: A man’s origin is from dust and his destiny is back to dust, at risk of his life he earns his bread; he is likened to a broken shard, withering grass, a fading flower, a passing shade, a dissipating cloud, a blowing wind, flying dust, and a fleeting dream. The fearlessness of bare attention is necessary in the psychological venue as well, where the practice of psychotherapy has revealed just how ingenious and intransigent the ego’s defenses can be. Even when they are in therapy, people are afraid of discovering things about themselves that they do not wish to know.

See, that’s the problem.” Liesl sounds irritated. “You wish, you wish. Either just accept that you are the way you are and learn to love it. Or else, try to change. I mean, if it’s that big a deal to you, then join a gym and go on a crazy diet and sign up for plastic surgery. Which you know is freakin’ unnecessary. Or else, figure out that you’re good the way you are and find a guy who appreciates that.” “Well,

I cannot accept his death. It will never heal. Because it was an incomplete, an aborted, an unfulfillable relationship. One can accept death when it comes as a culmination, a natural death. But something here, this failure, was like an artificial surgery. Amputation, not natural death. What I cannot bear is that to survive the destructiveness of others, we rebel, strike out, harm them, turn away. I wish I had been a saint.

Long story short: The next three and a half years were a blur of treatment and recovery, with occasional flashes of hope illuminating dark tunnels of anxiety. She had surgery to remove her infected lymph nodes and the metastases in her liver and stomach. The surgery was followed by radiation, which was excruciating, turning her skin black in places and leaving behind nasty scars to go with the ones she’d collected in the operating room. She also learned there were different kinds of melanoma, even for those with stage IV, which led to different treatment options. In her case, that meant immunotherapy, which seemed to work for a couple of years, until it finally didn’t.

I Origins is the good sci fi movie but it says exactly very well about how researchers are treated in society because they touch research with ethics, and so, their way of approach towards life is diffracted by the society and their relationships go into karmic hole, whatever they get in their life will never reach their goals, that is why science needs traditionality, I am not saying only for this movie, I have seen this type bad karmic people even in My UG life when I was doing Mus Musculus Gene cochlia gene cloning project, believe my words or not your wish, but complete modernity in science will leave to no where but karmic hole, whether is India or USA, I never support plastic surgery and cosmetic things and all, I never use cosmetic products myself only very few such as shops, shampoos and finally perfume that is all, I never encourage cosmetic products whether it is Indian or Foreign

The insane and comprehensible postmodern insistence that all gender differences are socially constructed, for example, becomes all too understandable when its moral imperative is grasped - when its justification for force is once and for all understood: society must be altered, or bias eliminated, until all outcomes are equitable. But the bedrock of the social constructionist position is the wish for the latter, not belief in the justice of the former. Since all outcome inequalities must be eliminated (inequality being the heart of all evil), then all gender differences must be regarded as socially constructed. Otherwise, the drive for equality would be too radical, and the doctrine too blatantly propagandistic. Thus, the order of logic is reversed, so that the ideology can be camouflaged. The fact that such statements lead immediately to internal inconsistencies within the ideology is never addressed. Gender is constructed, but an individual who desires gender re-assignment surgery is to be unarguably considered a man trapped in a woman's body (or vice versa). The fact that both of these cannot logically be true, simultaneously, is just ignored (or rationalized away with another appalling post-modern claim: that logic itself - along with the techniques of science- is merely part of the oppressive patriarchal system).

Overall, I was happy with how I looked, but as a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, I did wish for an extra cup size or two without having to resort to plastic surgery.

as a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, I did wish for an extra cup size or two without having to resort to plastic surgery.

A man strolled up to their table, dressed in the garb of a waiter. His blond hair was long and shiny, showing that he obviously took great care of it, probably more so than a man had any right to care for their hair. Light blue eyes were hidden beneath several strands of shimmering gold, and his pearly white teeth gleamed as he smiled. Kevin nearly groaned. Great. This was just what they needed. A bishie. “Good evening ma’am, madam… sir.” For reasons beyond Kevin, he felt like this man only added him at the last second as an afterthought. “Would either of you care for a refill?” he asked the two ladies at the table, though his eyes focused on Lilian. Kevin felt his blood boil. “No thanks. I’m good here.” Lilian dismissed the man without even looking at him. Vindication rushed through his veins when Kevin saw the pretty boy’s right eye twitch. He apparently wasn’t used to women ignoring him. “I see.” Kevin had to give the man credit. He kept his annoyance in check well. “And what about you, madam?” he addressed Kotohime. “Is the wine to your satisfaction?” He gave her his best smile. “It’s all right, I suppose.” Kotohime took a sip of the wine that he spoke of, managing to hide her grimace. “Though I do wish that you were in possession of some sake instead.” Another twitch. “I apologize that we could not accommodate you.” He bowed. “I have, of course, already suggested that we begin working towards importing sake, however, these things do take time. It will probably be at least a year before we see anything done.” “A shame,” Kotohime said, “I know that Kiara was most looking forward to trying some.” At the mention of Kiara, the man gripped the water pitcher in his hand hard enough that Kevin thought the handle would shatter. Did this man have a grudge against Kiara? He didn’t think so, but then, who could say for sure. For all Kevin knew, this man could have asked Kiara out on a date, thinking his bishounen good looks would make her swoon over him—and had then been disappointed when she told him that wimpy maggots who sparkled didn’t do it for her. Kevin could totally see that happening. “Yes, well, I am terribly sorry to disappoint a woman of her… esteemed position, but I am not in charge of imports, I’m afraid. I merely wait tables.” “Indeed.” “If you’ll excuse me.” “Hold it.” The man turned around. Kevin almost smiled when the man aimed an evil glare at him. He raised his glass. “I’d like a refill of water, please.” A twitch. “Of course, sir.” The man refilled his glass. Kevin leaned in. “If I ever see you stripping my girlfriend with your eyes again, I will rip your arms off and shove them so far up your ass that you’ll need to have surgery done if you ever want to use the restroom again,” he said, his tone and manner nonchalant. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the man said, his smile fixed. “I am merely doing my job as your host.” “Yes.” Kevin snorted. “I’m sure you are.

The Baby Hospital forces you to ask the big question. It forces you to ask about Death and heaven and God. “Truly I say to you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did it for Me” (Matthew 25:40).147 Some of the children at the Baby Hospital certainly qualify as the “least of these.” “Let’s not get tired of doing what is good” (Galatians 6:9).148 It’s a privilege to care for children. It’s a privilege to be called during the worst time in a family’s life. It’s a privilege to be entrusted with the life of a baby. It’s a privilege to be expected to study, to overcome the bureaucracy of medicine, and to feel capable of commanding an OR. It’s a privilege to operate on the central nervous system. I can see Death. And I can see Heaven. I wish I could understand the tapestry of the universe, of existence, of nature. But I can’t. But I can see some things. I can see that there is a Song of Creation. I can even hear it. I can hear it in a child’s laugh, my favorite sound. It’s beautiful. Yes. It’s worth it. Because of this:

modern practice that has become politically and socially recognized and accepted is transgenderism, something even the ancient pagans understood was not possible. This is much more than a person wishing to be a crossdresser or transvestite. These people physically alter their bodies via surgery and hormone treatment in their attempts to change their gender, though the word “alter” better describes their efforts than “change.

In spite of every precaution to preserve my privacy, some details of my surgery did leak out in the press...it was an extremely personal and intimate procedure in my medical history, I had no wish to share its details with the rest of the world, any more than a complete hysterectomy would be advertised by another woman.