Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world. Lyrics tend to describe my life. Pro-choice. Radfem. Pro-LBGTQ+ rights. Pro-vaccines. Incoming first year medical student. I do believe gender and biological sex are two different things. Also, I love me some puppies and I'm basically a wine mom but without the kids
When my cousin Olivia was three, she started preschool and became best friends with a boy named Abraham. Most people called him Abe, even then, because Abraham is a mouthful for a three year old and, to most people, it’s the logical nickname.
Not, however, according to Olivia, who decided to nickname him Ham.
No one’s really sure whether she wasn’t totally listening when he was introduced and only caught the last part of his name, or if she decided Abe was too boring a nickname, or maybe she was just hungry, but the nickname has stuck for the last twenty years. Of course, Olivia was and still is the only person to use it.
When they were seven or eight, he decided to get back at her by calling her Olive. That nickname stuck, too, and they’ve been Olive and Ham since. But only to each other. They get highly offended if anyone else calls them that.
Last night was their seventh anniversary, and Abe proposed to Olivia, and she said yes. And how did she announce it on Facebook, you may ask?
People used to tell me “If you like ham so much, why don’t you just marry it?” So I am.
You sound like you’ve never had the scent of cigarette smoke ingrained in your clothes to the point where people in middle school thought you smoked at eleven because your parents couldn’t be bothered to go outside. You sound like you’ve never had your mother flick cigarette ashes out of the car window and have them fly into your face. You sound like you’ve never been kept up at night by the sound of your dad hacking up a lung because he has to get up for his midnight smoke. You sound like you’ve never had to run into a convenience store to get your mother cigarettes as soon as you turned eighteen and cringed at touching the box because you know they’re not only killers but government sanctioned killers because they can not only tax the shit out of them but ensure people buy more at the cost of young lungs and a once beautiful home now plagued with the smell of smoke and ash. You sound like you’ve never had a great grandmother who stopped smoking 30 years before her death who still got lung cancer and subsequently died. You sound like a Fucking ignoramus. Smoking isn’t Fucking cool, it isn’t fun to glorify, it’s disgusting and makes not only you but your children smell bad. Makes not only you but your children cough, get cancer, get sick.
You sound like a Fucking moron. Smoking isn’t cool. Grow the Fuck up.
No, you grow the fuck up. There’s mountains of constant judgment when it comes to smoking. How about you leave people alone and let them do what they want with their bodies.
There is a REASON. It’s not just their bodies they’re fucking. It’s never just their bodies with something fucking airborne. Especially when you have CHILDREN AND PETS.
My grandfather smoked in his house decades ago. We moved in. We started working on it. After just one day of having the AC off so it could be worked on, I could no longer stay in the house because the smell was coming out of the walls <I>so strongly</I> and triggering my asthma to the point where I couldn’t breathe. My grandfather is dead and his smoking still managed to effect me that negativity. It is not just their body.
My aunt took up smoking in secret as a coping method for her depression. My cousin found out and she was so scared for her mom’s health that she hid the cigarettes. But when my aunt noticed they were missing, do you think she had a calm conversation about the whole thing with my cousin? Nope. She stormed into her room in such a rage, my cousin was too scared to even argue. She just gave the cigarettes back and prayed for her mom to leave the room. There was no explanation for why she took up smoking, for why she was trying to hide it, no reassurance for her worried daughter, not even a question as to why my cousin took them… there was just addiction-fueled anger. Directed at a child who had no control over her environment.
And then there’s my own mother, who has never taken up smoking, but who grew up with two chain-smoking parents. My mom who has permanent lung and throat damage from a lifetime of breathing in smoke that she didn’t ask for. My mom who now takes daily medication so her throat doesn’t ache.
But, tell me again how smoking only affects your body?
I grew up breathing not only my step-dad’s cigarette smoke, but all his friends as they’d frequently hang out in the living room together creating a cloud of smoke that permeated the whole house.
I got asthma at 10.
I found a growth in my left lung at 30.
I now have 1 lung. 1 lung and I’m still asthmatic.
Fuck people who smoke around children.
If you can’t agree with this, then fucking unfollow the shit out of me. Too many people in my family have died. My grandfather lost his wife to Lung Cancer. He still smokes though. And my dad who stopped cold turkey when my oldest brother was born and went through hell to make sure his first kid wouldn’t have to also. But did it help? No. Because his mom didn’t care that she had a newborn inhaling her goddamned secondhand smoke. Don’t you dare say it only affects the smoker. Don’t you dare.
My mom never really beat me growing up but the one time she found her cigarettes in the trashcan she beat my ass with a wooden spoon. I still have that spoon, and it still has a split in it from that day. I didn’t even do it. I keep tobacco far away from my home and the people I love because like all addictions it changes you, and I’ve been through too much disappointment from loved ones to risk it
My mother, uncle and aunt all have lung issues. My other uncle has since passed away from lung and liver issues.
My mom smoked through her pregnancy with me. I have chronic bronchitis and had to work on improving my lung capacity.
She smoked a pack of cigarettes a day when I was a kid, and my dad smokes cigars on occasion. I kept throwing out my mom’s cigarettes, and she kept getting angrier and angrier.
Finally one day she asks what I want for my birthday. I was maybe six or seven and I told her, “for you to stop smoking and be alive to see me graduate university”.
She handed me her pack then and there and watched me throw it off the balcony. She quit cold turkey after that.
But even now, I’m thirty and she apologizes every winter, because my lungs are so bad that if I get so much as a sniffle I’ll be barking up blood within a few weeks if I’m not careful.
Tobacco has its own culture and health benefits that are exactly like weed, the only difference is that because we’re all POS American types, we don’t care to get into it.
It turns out you can be perfectly healthy, outlive most of your enemies, and even outperform others in whatever you fucking want even while you smoke avidly.
Also, it turns out that spending ten bucks on cigarettes, mixed with free water from literally anywhere, can both technically feed you for several days and can keep you from going broke when you still have to work and not look like a fucking wreck.
Did you have any idea it has mental health benefits? It totally does! Pretty vital ones, actually!
I think that’s a pretty good go at wasting my time and yours, H A V E T H E F U N
I smoke cigars, on occasion. You wanna talk snob, see if your pissant Marlboro Lights match up to Fuente’s finest.
But I don’t kid myself and believe that it’s somehow good for me, and I certainly don’t subject my cigar smoke on to other people.
And the data is in. Cigarettes, cigars, cheroots — they’re all awful for you. They cause cancers, rot gums and teeth, damage lungs, and create property damage by smoke.
Argue opinions all you like, but facts are facts, fam.
My parents have smoked for over 40 years and the doctors say their lungs are in very good shape and i have been around somker for 32 years and the only time i have trouble with my lungs is when i have bronchitis or pneumonia
I’m posting this here because I don’t really have anywhere else to post it. And I’m ultimately debating if I want to start using this again more and go more of a medblr route with it now that I’m going to medical school. But I digress.
I’m going to medical school 9 hours from my hometown. I’m going somewhere I have no family or friends. My nearest family is at least 3 hours away, and even then, we’re not super close. I’m going to be living in a major metropolitan area when I’m from a town with about 26,000 people.
Part of me is terrified. But part of me is ecstatic. I’ve never been so far from home. I went to school two hours from home and was home all the time. Now - I’ll be home twice in the upcoming year. This has to be the biggest thing I’ve ever done - leaving home, everything I’ve ever known, and moving 9 hours away for school. I’ll be living on my own in an apartment, paying my own bills and buying my own groceries.
I’m excited but I’m terrified. I always wanted to get out of my hometown - it’s suffocating. For those who want to do things like medical school or other graduate/professional degrees, it’s stifling. There’s not many avenues around here to get you there. And it struck me the other night talking with my cousin when she said that she thinks I’m right where I’m meant to be in this point in time and I’m on the path I’m meant to be on. I’ve worked so hard to get here, and part of me feels like it’s a miracle I made it to medical school and part feels like thank god the work paid off.
I don’t know, it’s going to be a crazy journey. I’ve got 25 days until I leave my house, and it’s just insane.
I follow our INR patients on coumadin on a weekly to monthly basis. There was one patient, Randy, who was never quite compliant, but was always cheerful and friendly.
Randy liked his drinks, and would joke when his INR was too high or too low that it “must be the whiskey”. Randy was on warfarin because of a heart valve replacement about 10 years ago. In the beginning, I always chastised him - nicely - to not drink and to do better to have his INR taken when I told him to take it. But overall, he was not a difficult patient and I always looked forward to getting to talk with him.
On one of our monthly calls, he had a congested cough, and I heard his wife gasp in the background. He was saying, “No, no, don’t tell them.” and his wife took over.
“Randy is coughing up blood off and on for weeks now! And he won’t tell the doctor because he doesn’t want to have to take time off work.”
Rightfully concerned, we made an appointment to see him in the office that week. The doctor ordered an urgent CT scan, only to have it denied by Randy’s insurance.
Really?! You’re going to deny a CT scan of a man with a mechanical heart valve who’s coughing up blood? Insurance drives me mad.
After two weeks of appeals and peer-to-peer calls, the insurance finally let us move forward, and he got his CT. I came in the next morning to a flurry of messages in my EMR - radiology apparently hadn’t been able to get ahold of the physician, but there was a problem with the valve and the troubling signs of the beginning of an aortic dissection. The back up doctor called the patient at 5am and urged him and his wife into the ER.
I checked the chart and saw, thankfully, Randy had followed advice and gone to the ED. Reading through the ED notes, it looked like there were no beds available in the hospital, so he was being held in the ED to await workup with the heart team. I felt anxious and checked his chart every couple hours for updates, along with our physician who called the ED docs for report a couple times that day. We both lamented that it was terrible he had to sit in the ED because of a lack of ICU beds - he should be in surgery already! My doc decided to ask them to transfer to another hospital, but got roadblocked at every turn.
And then…at 3pm that day, I went to check his chart again, and received the notification - “You are entering the chart of a deceased patient. Would you like to proceed?”. I instantly clicked “no” - I must have clicked the wrong Randy!
Typing in the info again, I again got the warning, and my heart sank.
Randy’s pressure had been climbing, and despite repeated administrations of IV beta blockers, they couldn’t get his pressure down. He gasped, screamed, and began to code. The team knew he’d fully dissected. In less than two minutes, he went from v. fib to asystole, and in less than 15 minutes, they called time of death.
I was mad for days. I still am mad, and that’s part of why it took me months to write this. At every turn, if something had gone better, he’d likely still be alive.
If he’d told us sooner.
If his insurance hadn’t denied and fought us for the CT.
If our CT availability hadn’t put him off two more days.
If the physician could’ve been reached immediately.
If the hospital would’ve had available beds.
If they would’ve transferred him to a hospital that had availability.
If. If. If.
So many of the ifs caused by a broken healthcare system in which people you’ve never met determine whether you can have the tests ordered by the physician who has known you for 15 years and went through years upon years of schooling. A system in which state hospitals are overrun with people who cannot afford primary care, often blocking access to people who need it most.
A system in which sees dollar signs in open heart surgery instead of a life to save.
Alone in a foreign country, I had to plan my escape on my own.
I was 6 years old when my two older sisters went to Palestine to “visit family.” At least that’s what my mom told me.
I was born in Chicago, like my sisters, but our parents are Palestinian, born in Jerusalem. I was four-months-old when our father died — he worked at a gas station and was shot during a robbery. After that, the four of us moved into the basement apartment of my mom’s mother’s house, where my sisters and I shared a room.
I worshipped my oldest sister growing up. She was rebellious and loved pop music and makeup, which my grandmother and mother couldn’t stand. We were raised Muslim, and while my mom didn’t make us wear hijabs — headscarves — to school, we did when we went to mosque on the high holidays. Every other day, we wore long-sleeve shirts and pants or knee-length skirts.
I don’t have too many memories of my sisters, but I do remember how much my oldest sister loved Usher. She was 13 and she’d sing along to his music on the radio in our room. She bought a poster of him, shirtless, and pinned it to the wall next to our bed.
He didn’t last long. My grandmother saw the poster one day and ripped it off the wall. She was screaming at my sister, and my sister yelled right back — she was feisty! But it didn’t matter; Usher was gone. And a year later, so were my sisters.
My mom said they were “going on a trip” to Palestine, but even as a 6-year-old, I’d heard rumors about a diary entry. Something about my sister kissing a boy behind a tree, or writing that she wanted to. I remember large suitcases and both of my sisters weeping as we said goodbye. I cried too, but I was more mad at them for leaving me. Who would I listen to the radio with late at night?
Still, I assumed they were coming back. So when my mother told me that they wanted to stay in Palestine, I got really upset. I missed them so much.
The only time I got to see my friends was at school.
In 8th grade, our class took a field trip to tour the high school. No one wore uniforms, like we did in middle school! I could even wear my skinny jeans there. Yep, as strict as my mom was, she did buy me skinny jeans that were super popular then. I remember being in the store and pointing them out and being stunned when she nodded yes, then paid for three pairs at the register. They were the only things I owned that made me feel like a normal kid.
But right before middle school graduation, I came home from school one afternoon to find my mother and grandmother rummaging through my closet.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
My mother was holding a garbage bag and my grandmother had scissors. They were cutting my skinny jeans into pieces and throwing them away.
I was so confused — she’d bought them for me! When I asked my mom why, she said, “They’re inappropriate and revealing. You’re too old to dress like this now!”
I was furious. All I had left were one pair of baggy jeans, which I hated. For the first time in middle school, I was relieved to have a uniform.
As soon as I graduated 8th grade, I started pestering my mom about enrolling me in high school. Every time I asked if she’d done it, she’d say, “Not yet.” In July, she said, “I’m signing you up for an all girls’ school.” But there was a wait list, so then it was going to be online school. I even did my own research and had pamphlets sent to the house, but nothing happened.
By September, all of my friends had started school but me. I woke up every day at 10am and watched TV, cleaned the house, and helped make dinner. I was beyond bored. Meanwhile my mom loved having me around. She didn’t work, and always said that it was important for me to learn how to be a good housewife. I cringed every time she said that — that was the last thing I wanted to be.
In fact, I really wanted a job, even if it was just working at my step-dad’s gas station. Anything to get out of the house. I even asked my step-dad if I could get a workers’ permit, which you can get at 15 in Chicago, and he said, “Sure!” But just like with high school, nothing ever happened. It was another empty promise.
My laptop was my refuge.
Facebook was the only way for me to stay in touch with my friends. I made up a random name that my parents could never guess and chatted with friends throughout the day. If my mom walked into the room, I’d switch the screen to a video game. She had no idea. Earlier that year, when I told friends why I wasn’t in school, more than one told me, “That’s illegal!” I kind of knew I had the legal right to be in school, but wasn’t sure who to tell. My parents didn’t care — it’s what they wanted!
A year passed, and the following summer, I was chatting on Facebook with a guy I knew from middle school.
When he wrote, “Want to go to Chipotle this Friday?” my heart skipped a beat.
I was super excited and typed back, “Sure.”
I told my parents that I was going to see my 24-year-old cousin. She was the only person I was ever allowed to visit. She’s also incredibly cool and promised to cover for me. I met her at her house, and then she dropped me off at the mall and told me to have a great time.
I did! He was cute, and super nice. I told him that my parents were strict and didn’t even know where I was. He was like, “No worries!”
It was the most fun I’d had in over a year. At the end of our date, I told him that I’d be in touch over Facebook, and floated home.
The next night, I was in the living room watching TV when the doorbell rang. My mom answered, and I heard his voice ask, “Is Yasmine home?”
I froze.
My mother started screaming, “Who are you and why are you at this house?”
He said, “I’m Yasmine’s boyfriend.”
I could see him standing in front of my mom, her back to me, and was trying to wave to him, like, “Go away! This is a terrible idea!”
She threatened to call the police, slammed the door, and then screamed at me: “Go to your room. You’re grounded!”
The next day, my mom went grocery shopping without me and locked the glass storm door from the outside, which meant I was trapped. For the next two weeks, I was literally kept under lock and key when she left.
And then one day, my mother said, “Pack your bags. We’re going to Palestine to visit your sisters.”
I’d only been there once when I was 10; I don’t even remember seeing my sisters then — all I remember is that it was dusty and dry. No green at all. I hated it. Plus, I speak only very basic Arabic, which is what they speak there.
I was dreading the trip. Saying goodbye to my little sister was painful — she was 8 by then. She was the only other person who knew, besides my cousin, about my date. I fought back tears and promised I’d be back soon.
My mom said we’d be gone for a month, but I didn’t trust her. On the way to the airport, I asked to see my return ticket. I wanted proof that it existed. She was indignant as she showed me the ticket, but it made me feel better.
My mother and grandmother and I landed in Tel Aviv, which was as hot and dusty as I remembered. I felt claustrophobic in the cab, which we took to Ramallah, the Palestinian capital. My grandmother has a house there, and both of my sisters lived nearby.
I was so angry about being there that I wasn’t even excited to see my sisters. I couldn’t believe that they’d left me all those years before. Now, they were both married with kids. But by the end of that first evening, I relaxed with them. I even told them what happened with my Chipotle date, and they started teasing me, like, “You’re such an idiot! With a white guy? Really?”
They thought that if he’d been Muslim, I wouldn’t have gotten into so much trouble. I wasn’t so sure, but it still felt good to laugh with them about it.
About two weeks into our stay, my sisters sat me down and started doing my hair and makeup. I was never allowed to wear makeup at home, so I thought it was cool. When I asked why, they said they wanted me to meet a friend of theirs.
Their friend was in his twenties but still lived with his mom, which my sister called “a problem.” I didn’t understand what she meant by that.
He arrived with his mom and uncle and started speaking to me in Arabic. I barely understood anything except for his asking me how old I was.
I said, “I’m 15. I just finished 8th grade.”
He looked perplexed. So was I.
After he left, I asked my sisters what the meeting was about. They explained that the way to meet suitors is through families. When a family thinks a girl is ready to be married — usually she’s part of that decision — they pass word along to other families that they’re looking for a husband. The couple then meets through the parents, and if it is a good match, an arrangement is made.
A week passed, and once again my sisters sat me down and started putting makeup on me. They said that another guy was coming to meet me. When I asked, “Who?”
They said, “Don’t worry about it. Just have fun.”
The doorbell rang and in walked a guy with his parents. I’m 5'8" and he was 5'4", nine years older, and missing half of his front left tooth. Everyone seemed very eager. I was repulsed.
I sat stone-faced the entire time they were there. As soon as he and his family left, my mom and grandmother said that they thought I should marry him. They said, “He has a job and a house.” That’s all it took.
I was furious. By then, I realized that they’d brought me to Palestine to get married and planned to leave me there. Instead of berating them, I immediately started thinking of ways to return home on my own. I had watched SVU. I knew this was totally illegal. I just needed to figure out a way to reach a detective in Illinois who could help me escape.
I also knew then that I couldn’t trust my sisters — anytime I complained to them, they’d just say, “It’s not so bad! You’ll learn to love him!”
He and I met two more times that week and each time, I hoped he’d figure out that I was being coerced. But then, during that third visit, all the men went into one room while the women stayed in another.
My sister, mother, and grandmother were chatting with his mother and sisters when I heard the men read the engagement passage from the Koran, which announces a marriage.
Startled, I said to my sisters, “What are they doing?”
My oldest sister said, “They’re reading the passage.”
I shouted, “No!” and fought back tears.
My worst nightmare was becoming a terrifying reality. I ran into the bathroom, curled into a ball, and dissolved into tears. How could my family do this to me? I thought about running away, but how? My mother had my passport. I had no money. I was stuck. I started thinking about different ways to die. Anything was better than this.
After his family left, I could no longer contain my rage at my mother. “How could you do this to me? I am your daughter!” I shouted. Tears were streaming down my face. I could see my mom was upset, too — she was crying, shaking her head. I think she felt bad about it, but she also felt like it was the best option. I felt so betrayed.
And just then, my grandmother marched into the room and slapped me. “Don’t disrespect your mother!” she said, before turning to my mother and saying, “See? She needs this. How else will she learn to be respectful?’
That’s when I learned that my grandmother had set the whole thing up. She’d met this man’s family at a mall the same week I met him! His parents owned a restaurant and spotted us shopping. They approached her to see if I was an eligible bride for their son. She told them yes, but that I had to be married before she flew back to the States. He had no other prospects, so they were excited I was one.
I never liked my grandmother, but I didn’t hate her until that moment.
The wedding was planned for September 30th, a week and a half away. I was still desperately trying to figure a way out of it. I told my mom, “I’ll find a way to leave.” She replied, “Either you marry him or someone way older who won’t be as nice.”
My sisters said the same. “You’re lucky.” As much as I dreaded what was happening, they made the alternative sound even worse.
A few days before the wedding, my oldest sister finally revealed that she was also married against her will. “I was kicking and screaming the whole way,” she told me. “But I learned to love him. You will too.”
I don’t remember the ceremony — everything is such a blur — but I do remember pulling away when he tried to kiss my cheek and my mother hissing, “Kiss his cheek!” I refused.
At the end of the wedding party, both of my sisters were so excited about my first night with him. They even said, “Text us afterwards!”
I hated them.
The first night was awful. The only thing I’m thankful for is that my husband was not a violent or aggressive man. It could have been so much worse. I get terrible migraine headaches brought on by stress, and I used them to my advantage in the weeks that followed.
He took that first week off of work and we spent most of it with his family. I did the best I could to tolerate being around him and his family while I tried to figure a way out of this mess. To do that, I needed to get on the internet.
When he went back to his job as a mechanic, he’d be gone by 9am. I’d get up, have breakfast and go to his mom’s house to help her clean and make dinner. She had a computer, so one day, I asked if I could use it to talk to my mother and she agreed. Instead, I logged onto Facebook and messaged a friend from 3rd grade and told her where I was and what had happened.
She wrote back immediately, “That’s illegal!”
Once again, I knew that, but I didn’t know what to do.
I had another friend I met through Facebook who lived in Texas. He was Muslim. I told him what happened, and he wrote, ‘You need to call the embassy!’ He even sent the number.
My heart was pounding as I wrote it in a piece of paper and shoved it into my pocket.
On October 14th, I was in our apartment in the afternoon when I finally worked up the nerve to call. I used the Nokia flip phone my husband gave me to talk to him and my sisters.
An American-sounding man answered the phone and I blurted, “I’m a U.S. citizen. My parents brought me here against my will to marry a man. I want to go home.”
After a moment of silence, he said, “Wow, this is a first. Hold for a moment.” He connected me to a man named Mohammed, who asked me for my parents’ names and address in the states.
I gave him all the proof I could think of that I was a US citizen. I didn’t know my social security number and didn’t have my passport. He said that was okay, but he needed proof that I was actually married. He asked for the marriage certificate. I had no idea where it was. Then he asked me for my husband’s last name, and I realized, I had no idea what that was either.
Mohammed told me he’d be in touch once he verified all my information. He called me several times over the next two months. During that time, I learned my husband’s last name, which was legally mine as well.
As I waited for news, I got lots of migraines.
On December 3rd, Mohammed called with the number for a taxi service and the address of a hotel. He told me to be there the next morning at 11am.
The next morning, I waited for my husband to leave and shoved all of my belongings — including the traditional wedding gold my husband’s family gave me — into my suitcase and called the number. That’s when I realized that I didn’t even know my address. I told the driver the name of the closest big store and then stayed on the phone with him, telling him when to turn right or left. He still couldn’t find me, so I ran down to the main street to flag him down praying no one would see me.
I held my breath for the entire 30-minute ride to the hotel. There, in the parking lot, I spotted a blond woman sitting with a guy in a black van.
“Are you with the US embassy?” I asked.
They said yes, and then she patted me down, explaining it was for security purposes, to make sure I was not strapped with any bombs.
I said, “Do whatever you need to do!” I didn’t care — I was so close to freedom.
When they put me in the back seat, I pulled off my headscarf and fought back happy tears: There, with these two strangers, I felt safe for the first time in forever.
We went to the US Embassy in Jerusalem where I spent the day filling out paperwork in order to enter into the foster care system back in the States. I had no idea what that meant other than from this one cartoon show called Foster Home for Imaginary Friends, but agreeing to enter foster care wasn’t hard — at least it was a new start.
That night, a diplomat accompanied me to the airport with two bodyguards, and I was placed on a plane to Philadelphia.
On my next flight, I flew from Philadelphia to Chicago O'Hare and sat next to a 20-something guy on his way to his friend’s bachelor party who asked me how old I was.
I said, “15.”
He said, “You’re too young to be on a plane by yourself!”
If he only knew.
At O'Hare, I had twenty minutes to kill before I was supposed to meet two state officials in the food court, so I went to a computer terminal and logged onto Facebook. I had two accounts at the time: one for friends and one for family. I wanted to see what my family was saying.
A three-page letter from my second oldest sister was the first thing I read. She said she never wanted to see me again, that she hated me, and that if anyone asked her how many sisters she had, she’d say two instead of three. I was devastated.
Then I read a group chat between my two sisters, my mom, and my mom’s sister.
It started, “Yasmine ran away.” “What? Where?” And then someone wrote, “She’s ruining our reputation!” Not one of them wondered if I was okay.
My aunt asked if I had taken my gold. When my sister said yes, my aunt replied, “She could have gotten kidnapped or robbed!”
That was the only mention of concern for my wellbeing.
As painful as it was to read those words, it made me realize that I had made the right choice.
The people I then met in the airport food court introduced me to a woman from Illinois’ Child Protective Services, who took me under her wing. It was 11am, 24 hours after I ran for my life into the streets of Ramallah to escape my forced marriage.
I first moved in with a woman who fostered several kids, and stayed there for six months. It wasn’t ideal — she was very religious and made us go to her Baptist church with her on Saturday and Sunday. But it was still better than what I’d left. This was confirmed when I had to face my mother in court to establish that I should remain a ward of the state, which is what they call kids whose parents aren’t fit to take care of them.
The first court date was two weeks after I arrived. When I saw my mom, I froze. She was sitting in the waiting room and refused to acknowledge me. She didn’t make eye contact; it was as if I didn’t exist. I felt an awful mix of hurt and rage.
A few months later, I had to testify in a courtroom. My mom was there with her lawyer. He showed photos from my wedding and said, “You look happy! And your mom said that you wanted to be married.”
I had to explain to a room full of strangers that I was faking that smile to survive and that my mom knew the entire time that I didn’t want to marry that man. On the stand, I said, “My mom is lying.” That was so painful to have to say — I wept in front of everyone. All the feelings I’d kept inside just poured out.
After that hearing, I officially became a ward of the state of Illinois.
By then, I’d already started ninth grade. I didn’t like my foster mom much. I stopped going to church on the weekends, but she wouldn’t let me or my foster brother stay in the house alone so we were locked out until she got home every weekend and weekdays too. It was hard in the Chicago winter, but the agency didn’t think I was in immediate danger, so I stayed put. Teens are hard to place.
By January 2014, at 16-years-old, I’d been in and out of three foster homes. My strategy was just to survive foster care until I was 18, when I would finally be on my own. So when a couple called Carrie and Marvin came to meet me one weekend, I didn’t hold out any hope.
Carrie and Marvin had two biological teenagers, both with developmental delays. They understood kids and were super warm, but it still took me a while to open up. I really wanted to make it to 18 living with them, but I never dreamed what actually happened next.
When I hit my one-year anniversary with them, they asked me if I wanted to be adopted. I was shocked! I figured I’d leave at 18 and just be on my own — I never thought there was an alternative. But they told me that they wanted me around forever. I cannot tell you how good that felt — to be wanted, by an actual family. I said yes.
No more waking up at 6am to someone saying, “Pack your bags — you’re out!” For the first time in my life, I could put things up in my room and it was okay. It was the first time since being in that van with the people from the embassy that I felt safe.
I saw my mother one last time in court, at the final termination of parental rights. Carrie had asked her for childhood photos of me, and amazingly, my mom handed them to me there.
It was a cold exchange. She was expressionless. At first, I was insulted. It all seemed so easy, her giving me up. But it was really nice to get the photos. She didn’t have to do that.
Now Carrie has them around the house. It makes me feel like I’m really part of her family, like I’m her kid.
I finally reconnected on Facebook with my sister a few months ago, the one who’d said she hated me. She admitted that she wished she’d had the nerve to do what I had done. Now I understand why she was so upset: I got away. She didn’t.
I just graduated from high school — the first in my biological family to do so! In September, I’m going to Illinois State University and just learned that I won a full scholarship, which means my tuition will be waived for the next five years. I plan to study mass communications, and may want to do something with computers, considering they are literally what saved me.
Regardless of what I end up doing for a living, the thing that makes me the most excited is that I get to choose — what I want to wear, who I want to date, or even marry, and ultimately, who I want to be.
My doggo, Ezri, who rarely barks and mostly borks.
When I got her, she’d been abused and would cower and pee at almost everything, and had been mistreated when she’d barked, so she never would. One day months after I had her she got excited on a walk and borked at a bird, and then immediately cower-peed. I had to re-teach her to bark by gathering her whole human pack and having everyone bark and howl and feed her treats and pet her till she got excited enough to join in, and then got more treats. Took a while but I was able to teach her to bork on command (and she’s gotta be excited or she just stares at me like “Sorry, the bork system needs charging”) and she’ll do it happily when she’s excited to go for a walk or upon seeing a friend, and at birds. I love her croaky borking, especially when she started off terrified of making a joyful noise.
I… did not expect this post to blow up this much but I am delighted at all the tags and replies and Ezri has been told the internet thinks she’s a Very Good Dog. :D
She’s a German spitz - in the same family as keeshonds and pomeranians. She might be crossed with something else as her freckled coat, non-pointy nose, and personality are not standard for her breed (they’re usually a lot more high energy and excitable - she’s super laid back and chill). She’s a bit less fluffy than breed-standard too, mostly because she’s grown out from her spring/summer trim (not usually necessary/good for her type of coat but she gets terribly itchy otherwise). It also makes her look like a puppy of a large breed:
Ezri’s best friend is Murder Cat, who is a gentle friend to humans and Ezri, but does things to mice that would make Hannibal Lecter go “Isn’t that a bit much?”
I got Murder Cat as a kitten, and she used to try to nurse on everything when she was small. Eventually, she settled on her favourite thing to nurse on, Ezri, who has never had puppies and a little confused at first but eventually went with it. She grew out of it, but they have stayed snuggly buddies ever since.
New Years here is full of fireworks outside and Ezri gets Vry Scared. I usually set her up somewhere with a snuggly spot right by me, and Murder Cat comes and does this all night:
She goes everywhere with me in my bakfiets (cargo bike) and lets me warm my hands in her fur on cold days.
And her ears disappear if I say her name to get her attention.
ok so great thanks for coming to my TED talk about my dog, good night, drive safe
when my cat got deadly sick she refused to eat a single thing and it had been days but when i started crying she ate just a little bit, and upon seeing how happy it made me, kept doing it whenever she could.
now whenever im sad or crying she finds wherever i am with a mouthful of food and eats the pieces one by one, every time looking up at me making sure i was watching her eat it all because she knew it made me happy. and it DOES make me happy
He stopped in front of the mirror and sighed. His penis was just a little too large to be fashionable, and his balls were just a little lopsided. Most days it didn’t bother him, but today he pushed at his genitals, trying to make them look more normal, like the men in magazines. It was hopeless. He dropped his junk in resigned frustration. There were worse things than having too large of a penis, he thought.
While, granted, some writers do take the breast thing too far, this comparison doesn’t even make sense. Men don’t obsess about their genitals the way women obsess about their breasts because they’re not in your face all the time (in the case of large boobs). Breasts are just more visible (closer to eye level).
No really, we live with them 24/7, we can see friends, and relatives breasts pretty much on demand, hell, we just have to go to get changed at the gym to be inundated with boobs. They are really boring to us (ad while we’re on it, nowhere near as sensitive as so many men seem to think!).
The only time a woman might obsess about her breasts is when they’re painful, such as when lactating or wearing an ill-fitting bra, and neither situation is at all sexy.
And before anyone says anything about women who are into women: breasts can be attractive, but they’re still mundane and we are perfectly able to not ogle or feel abashed when in the presence of bare-breasted people.
I’m pretty sure that the reason the ice fractured into six slices is the same reason snowflakes are often six sided and it has to do with the shape of a molecule of water and I just think that’s so freaking cool.
!!!!! it IS actually because of the structure of water molecules! Water molecules are fuckin weird, as are lots of other liquid substance molecules, because theyre shaped like fuckin HEXAGONS! hexagons are those weird, six-sided shapes that re very sturdy, but they dont tend to sit very well when stacked together. thats why, when you fill up a glass of water to its full capacity, it can go OVER the brim a little and not spill over. It’s also why water beads.
anyway, so since water is essentially made up of a gazillion little hexagons, it tends to gather into larger hexagons as it shapes together. this is not visible unless the water is in a solid form, aka ice. when the water is split, it tends to crack around the established hexagons. that bottle rocket exploded in the PERFECT place to show this phenomenon and its geeking me out.
ALSO! the bottle rocket stays lit because the fuse was definitely waterproof and made with magnesium and an oxidizer of some sort. this means that they will burn underwater because they dont need the oxygen from the air to stay lit. thats so fucking weird isnt it. im tipsy and its the 4th of july. sorry for the science haha
...water molecules aren’t hexagons though? They’re in a bent molecular orientation due to the H-O-H makeup of the molecule with 2 lone pairs of electrons on the oxygen atom? They’re not hexagonal? Like I don’t have a Ph.D in chemistry or anything but I took gen chem and got a decent enough grade to know my molecular orientations
As a nursing major this hurts me. It’s already hard enough taking care of someone who cannot take care of themselves but NOW we don’t have the materials needed to administer care. This pisses me off 😒
He’s telling the truth, I currently work at a hospital and there is a nationwide shortage of IV fluid bags. So bad that they’re referring to alternative methods like medications that can be administered orally or like the post above. Smh
Some 40% of drugs and supplies used in the US were manufactured in PR. Drug shortages were predicted after the hurricane and now they are starting to happen. Since PR doesn’t seem to be considered to be part of the US by this administration, help to fix it has been short and late in coming, which means that drug shortages will only get worse.
in the children’s hospital i was rotating at we weren’t changing central line tubing (lines that go.. directly to your heart, as in, not something you want infected) for six days instead of 3 due to shortages
More than half of my clients have had to have their entire medication regimens reworked. Medication regimens that they had been stable and supported on for months or years. Medication regimens that had helped them steadily improve and progress in their lives had to be thrown out the window and completely started over by trial and error again because their medications are no longer available.
People are dying in Puerto Rico and people are going to die on the continental US as well.
The FDA actually put out a press release on this today. Apparently it’s not just the IV bags, but the fluids as well that are in short supply. There’s a (worryingly long) list of drugs and related paraphenelia experiencing shortages [here].
My wife has been in the hospital for over two months for various reasons, one of which is pain from the approximately fifteen spinal fractures she has sustained over the last few months (long story). Currently the entire hospital is out of IV Dilaudid, which is one of the few IV pain meds she can safely tolerate that will handle breakthrough pain. The ENTIRE HOSPITAL. Not the ER, not her particular unit, the ENTIRE. HOSPITAL. This is not a small facility, either – it has 673 beds, is a major teaching hospital, and is by far the superior hospital in the entire region. If they can’t get this med, it can’t be gotten.
I shadowed a doctor over my winter break and even the hospital in my slightly small town is running out of supplies. Nurses have to administer shit as IV that they didn’t have to before because of the shortage.
Came in to find my DKA patient left AMA last night after 3 hours of admission.
Was told I should “quit worrying about it” because the sugar was down to 140 and the anion gap was closed on the last CMP.
Uh, no. You can’t just fix your ketosis with 1 L of fluid and 3 hours on an insulin drip. I said that I guaranteed the patient would be back sometime today and the CCU nurse literally scoffed at me and said “I think they will be just fine.”
Guess who’s back with a sugar or 800?
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