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.Ā Most people called him Abe, even then, because Abraham is a mouthful for a three year old and, to most people, itās the logical nickname.
Not, however, according to Olivia, who decided to nickname him Ham.
No oneās really sure whether she wasnāt 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.Ā 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.Ā That nickname stuck, too, and theyāve been Olive and Ham since.Ā But only to each other.Ā 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.Ā And how did she announce it on Facebook, you may ask?
People used to tell me āIf you like ham so much, why donāt you just marry it?āĀ So I am.
You sound like youāve 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 couldnāt be bothered to go outside. You sound like youāve never had your mother flick cigarette ashes out of the car window and have them fly into your face. You sound like youāve 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 youāve 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 theyāre 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 youāve 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 isnāt Fucking cool, it isnāt fun to glorify, itās 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 isnāt cool. Grow the Fuck up.
No, you grow the fuck up. Thereās 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. Itās not just their bodies theyāre fucking. Itās 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 couldnāt 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 momās 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 themā¦ there was just addiction-fueled anger. Directed at a child who had no control over her environment.
And then thereās 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 didnāt ask for. My mom who now takes daily medication so her throat doesnāt ache.
But, tell me again how smoking only affects your body?
I grew up breathing not only my step-dadās cigarette smoke, but all his friends as theyād 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 Iām still asthmatic.
Fuck people who smoke around children.
If you canāt 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 wouldnāt have to also. But did it help? No. Because his mom didnāt care that she had a newborn inhaling her goddamned secondhand smoke. Donāt you dare say it only affects the smoker. Donāt 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 didnāt even do it. I keep tobacco far away from my home and the people I love because like all addictions it changes you, and Iāve 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 momās 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, āfor you to stop smoking and be alive to see me graduate universityā.
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, Iām thirty and she apologizes every winter, because my lungs are so bad that if I get so much as a sniffle Iāll be barking up blood within a few weeks if Iām not careful.
Tobacco has its own culture and health benefits that are exactly like weed, the only difference is that because weāre all POS American types, we donāt 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 thatās 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 Fuenteās finest.
But I donāt kid myself and believe that itās somehow good for me, and I certainly donāt subject my cigar smoke on to other people.
And the data is in. Cigarettes, cigars, cheroots ā theyāre 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
Iām posting this here because I donāt really have anywhere else to post it. And Iām ultimately debating if I want to start using this again more and go more of a medblr route with it now that Iām going to medical school. But I digress.
Iām going to medical school 9 hours from my hometown. Iām going somewhere I have no family or friends. My nearest family is at least 3 hours away, and even then, weāre not super close. Iām going to be living in a major metropolitan area when Iām from a town with about 26,000 people.
Part of me is terrified. But part of me is ecstatic. Iāve never been so far from home. I went to school two hours from home and was home all the time. Now - Iāll be home twice in the upcoming year. This has to be the biggest thing Iāve ever done - leaving home, everything Iāve ever known, and moving 9 hours away for school. Iāll be living on my own in an apartment, paying my own bills and buying my own groceries.
Iām excited but Iām terrified. I always wanted to get out of my hometown - itās suffocating. For those who want to do things like medical school or other graduate/professional degrees, itās stifling. Thereās 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 Iām right where Iām meant to be in this point in time and Iām on the path Iām meant to be on. Iāve worked so hard to get here, and part of me feels like itās a miracle I made it to medical school and part feels like thank god the work paid off.
I donāt know, itās going to be a crazy journey. Iāve got 25 days until I leave my house, and itās 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.Ā
Randy liked his drinks, and would joke when his INR was too high or too low that itĀ āmust be the whiskeyā. 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,Ā āNo, no, donāt tell them.ā and his wife took over.Ā
āRandy is coughing up blood off and on for weeks now! And he wonāt tell the doctor because he doesnāt want to have to take time off work.āĀ
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 Randyās insurance.Ā
Really?!Ā Youāre going to deny a CT scan of a man with a mechanical heart valve whoās coughing up blood? Insurance drives me mad.Ā
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 hadnāt 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.Ā
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 thenā¦at 3pm that day, I went to check his chart again, and received the notification -Ā āYou are entering the chart of a deceased patient. Would you like to proceed?ā. I instantly clickedĀ ānoā - I must have clicked the wrong Randy!
Typing in the info again, I again got the warning, and my heart sank.Ā
Randyās pressure had been climbing, and despite repeated administrations of IV beta blockers, they couldnāt get his pressure down. He gasped, screamed, and began to code. The team knew heād 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 thatās part of why it took me months to write this. At every turn, if something had gone better, heād likely still be alive.Ā
If heād told us sooner.Ā
If his insurance hadnāt denied and fought us for the CT.Ā
If our CT availability hadnāt put him off two more days.
If the physician couldāve been reached immediately.Ā
If the hospital wouldāve had available beds.
If they wouldāve transferred him to a hospital that had availability.
If. If. If.Ā
So many of the ifs caused by a broken healthcare system in which people youāve 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.Ā
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 āvisit family.ā At least thatās 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 ā 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 momās motherās 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 couldnāt stand. We were raised Muslim, and while my mom didnāt make us wear hijabs ā headscarves ā 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 donāt have too many memories of my sisters, but I do remember how much my oldest sister loved Usher. She was 13 and sheād 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 didnāt 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 ā she was feisty! But it didnāt matter; Usher was gone. And a year later, so were my sisters.
My mom said they were āgoing on a tripā to Palestine, but even as a 6-year-old, Iād 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.
āWhat are you doing?ā 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 ā sheād bought them for me! When I asked my mom why, she said, āTheyāre inappropriate and revealing. Youāre too old to dress like this now!ā
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 sheād done it, sheād say, āNot yet.ā In July, she said, āIām signing you up for an all girlsā school.ā 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 didnāt 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 ā 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-dadās gas station. Anything to get out of the house. I even asked my step-dad if I could get a workersā permit, which you can get at 15 in Chicago, and he said, āSure!ā 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, Iād switch the screen to a video game. She had no idea. Earlier that year, when I told friends why I wasnāt in school, more than one told me, āThatās illegal!ā I kind of knew I had the legal right to be in school, but wasnāt sure who to tell. My parents didnāt care ā itās 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, āWant to go to Chipotle this Friday?ā my heart skipped a beat.
I was super excited and typed back, āSure.ā
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. Sheās 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 didnāt even know where I was. He was like, āNo worries!ā
It was the most fun Iād had in over a year. At the end of our date, I told him that Iād 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, āIs Yasmine home?ā
I froze.
My mother started screaming, āWho are you and why are you at this house?ā
He said, āIām Yasmineās boyfriend.ā
I could see him standing in front of my mom, her back to me, and was trying to wave to him, like, āGo away! This is a terrible idea!ā
She threatened to call the police, slammed the door, and then screamed at me: āGo to your room. Youāre grounded!ā
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, āPack your bags. Weāre going to Palestine to visit your sisters.ā
Iād only been there once when I was 10; I donāt even remember seeing my sisters then ā 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 ā 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 Iād be back soon.
My mom said weād be gone for a month, but I didnāt 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 wasnāt even excited to see my sisters. I couldnāt believe that theyād 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, āYouāre such an idiot! With a white guy? Really?ā
They thought that if heād been Muslim, I wouldnāt have gotten into so much trouble. I wasnāt 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 āa problem.ā I didnāt 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, āIām 15. I just finished 8th grade.ā
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 ā usually sheās part of that decision ā they pass word along to other families that theyāre 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, āWho?ā
They said, āDonāt worry about it. Just have fun.ā
The doorbell rang and in walked a guy with his parents. Iām 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, āHe has a job and a house.ā Thatās all it took.
I was furious. By then, I realized that theyād 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 couldnāt trust my sisters ā anytime I complained to them, theyād just say, āItās not so bad! Youāll learn to love him!ā
He and I met two more times that week and each time, I hoped heād 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, āWhat are they doing?ā
My oldest sister said, āTheyāre reading the passage.ā
I shouted, āNo!ā 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. āHow could you do this to me? I am your daughter!ā I shouted. Tears were streaming down my face. I could see my mom was upset, too ā 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. āDonāt disrespect your mother!ā she said, before turning to my mother and saying, āSee? She needs this. How else will she learn to be respectful?ā
Thatās when I learned that my grandmother had set the whole thing up. Sheād met this manās 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 didnāt 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, āIāll find a way to leave.ā She replied, āEither you marry him or someone way older who wonāt be as nice.ā
My sisters said the same. āYouāre lucky.ā 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. āI was kicking and screaming the whole way,ā she told me. āBut I learned to love him. You will too.ā
I donāt remember the ceremony ā everything is such a blur ā but I do remember pulling away when he tried to kiss my cheek and my mother hissing, āKiss his cheek!ā 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, āText us afterwards!ā
I hated them.
The first night was awful. The only thing Iām 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, heād be gone by 9am. Iād get up, have breakfast and go to his momās 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, āThatās illegal!ā
Once again, I knew that, but I didnāt 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, āYou need to call the embassy!ā 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, āIām a U.S. citizen. My parents brought me here against my will to marry a man. I want to go home.ā
After a moment of silence, he said, āWow, this is a first. Hold for a moment.ā He connected me to a man named Mohammed, who asked me for my parentsā names and address in the states.
I gave him all the proof I could think of that I was a US citizen. I didnāt know my social security number and didnāt 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 husbandās last name, and I realized, I had no idea what that was either.
Mohammed told me heād 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 husbandās 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 ā including the traditional wedding gold my husbandās family gave me ā into my suitcase and called the number. Thatās when I realized that I didnāt 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 couldnāt 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.
āAre you with the US embassy?ā 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, āDo whatever you need to do!ā I didnāt care ā 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 wasnāt hard ā 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 friendās bachelor party who asked me how old I was.
I said, ā15.ā
He said, āYouāre too young to be on a plane by yourself!ā
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, sheād say two instead of three. I was devastated.
Then I read a group chat between my two sisters, my mom, and my momās sister.
It started, āYasmine ran away.ā āWhat? Where?ā And then someone wrote, āSheās ruining our reputation!ā 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, āShe could have gotten kidnapped or robbed!ā
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 Illinoisā 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 wasnāt ideal ā 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 Iād 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 arenāt 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 didnāt make eye contact; it was as if I didnāt 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, āYou look happy! And your mom said that you wanted to be married.ā
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 didnāt want to marry that man. On the stand, I said, āMy mom is lying.ā That was so painful to have to say ā I wept in front of everyone. All the feelings Iād kept inside just poured out.
After that hearing, I officially became a ward of the state of Illinois.
By then, Iād already started ninth grade. I didnāt like my foster mom much. I stopped going to church on the weekends, but she wouldnāt 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 didnāt think I was in immediate danger, so I stayed put. Teens are hard to place.
By January 2014, at 16-years-old, Iād 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 didnāt 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 Iād leave at 18 and just be on my own ā 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 ā to be wanted, by an actual family. I said yes.
No more waking up at 6am to someone saying, āPack your bags ā youāre out!ā 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 didnāt have to do that.
Now Carrie has them around the house. It makes me feel like Iām really part of her family, like Iām her kid.
I finally reconnected on Facebook with my sister a few months ago, the one whoād said she hated me. She admitted that she wished sheād had the nerve to do what I had done. Now I understand why she was so upset: I got away. She didnāt.
I just graduated from high school ā the first in my biological family to do so! In September, Iām 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 ā 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, sheād been abused and would cower and pee at almost everything, and had been mistreated when sheād 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 sheās gotta be excited or she just stares at me like āSorry, the bork system needs chargingā) and sheāll do it happily when sheās 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.
Iā¦ 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 sheās a Very Good Dog. :D
Sheās 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 (theyāre usually a lot more high energy and excitable - sheās super laid back and chill). Sheās a bit less fluffy than breed-standard too, mostly because sheās 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:
Ezriās best friend is Murder Cat, who is a gentle friend to humans and Ezri, but does things to mice that would make Hannibal Lecter goĀ āIsnāt that a bit much?ā
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 favouriteĀ 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:Ā
She goes everywhere with me in my bakfietsĀ (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 didnāt 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 writersĀ do take the breast thing too far, this comparison doesnāt even make sense. Men donāt obsess about their genitals the way women obsess about their breasts because theyāre not in your face all the time (in the case of large boobs). Breasts are just more visible (closer to eye level).
Newsflash! Women donāt obsess about our breasts.Ā
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 weāre 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 theyāre painful, such as when lactatingĀ or wearing an ill-fitting bra, and neither situation is at all sexy.
Men obsessĀ over womenās breasts. Women donāt.Ā
And before anyone says anything about women who are into women: breasts can be attractive, but theyāre still mundane and we are perfectly able to not ogle or feel abashed when in the presence of bare-breasted people.
Iām 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 thatās 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. Itās 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 arenāt hexagons though? Theyāre 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? Theyāre not hexagonal? Like I donāt 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. Itās already hard enough taking care of someone who cannot take care of themselves but NOW we donāt have the materials needed to administer care. This pisses me off š
Heās telling the truth, I currently work at a hospital and there is a nationwide shortage of IV fluid bags. So bad that theyāre 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.Ā Since PR doesnāt 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 childrenās hospital i was rotating at we werenāt 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 itās not just the IV bags, but the fluids as well that are in short supply. Thereās 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 ā it has 673 beds, is a major teaching hospital, and is by far the superior hospital in the entire region. If they canāt get this med, it canāt 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 didnāt 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 āquit worrying about itā because the sugar was down to 140 and the anion gap was closed on the last CMP.
Uh, no. You canāt 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 āI think they will be just fine.ā
Guess whoās back with a sugar or 800?
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