Abuso Infantil: Un Paseo por la Memoria

  La mayoría me conoce por mi abordaje de asuntos sociales. Esto puede tomar un peaje. Mucking alrededor con qué está mal con el mundo puede ser horrible. Encontré cosas que no quiero saber. Sí, Ian Weinberg, no hay justicia. Tienes razón, pero eso no significa que me lleve ese hecho acostado. Voy a gritar y gritar... Continue Reading →

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Toes

Toes. Whoda thought? Toes can be dangerous. Toes have toenails, and mine are particularly and voraciously strong. As my hands have become more crippled with MS, I have, and will always, fight with my toes. Whodawhoda thought? My cousin pampered me with a visit to a nail salon which included toe care—a pedicure to be... Continue Reading →

Insanity?

I often feel like the harbinger of doom-and-gloom. There are so many issues that I see as important. Most of them result in death. Some have happy endings. Fiction has been a respite for me. I don’t indulge in it often. It feels like a desert after a burnt roast. It’s hard to immerse oneself... Continue Reading →

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There was an Old Woman Named Sarah

I remember Sarah. I find it hard to stay in the now with my writing. Now is weaving down the hall like a drunk—plunking away at the keyboard with two fingers. But I remember Sarah. She was my best friend’s mother. At 84, and living in assisted living, she was a bright spot in my... Continue Reading →

Killer Drugs (Drogas Asesinas)

  There are plenty of street drugs that can kill, but what about prescription meds? More and more drugs cause medical consequences endured by people who take them. More doctors are prescribing meds for off-label uses, resulting in complications not revealed to the patient. I give you my travels through the prescription drug realm. As... Continue Reading →

My Journey With Multiple Sclerosis

I woke up this morning, and my right hand was completely dead. I mean like this dead tumor hanging off the end of my arm. Like a skin tag. No feeling—no sensation—and my mind was screaming something about writing. How am I going to write?  The only way I could tell that I had my right hand is I... Continue Reading →

Beverly Hospital

Institutional Trauma: America's Holocaust   We’ll call our protagonist Rosa. But Rosa is not fictional—she is a real person. Rosa was resting in her home, watching television, and waiting for the opportunity to reach her doctor in order to obtain a referral to get a bed in a good hospital. She had a bed only if her doctor responded.... Continue Reading →

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Disability

  I’ve been disabled in one way or other all my life. For the decades my Multiple Sclerosis went undiagnosed, they said the periods of time my MS drove to my bed were disabling bouts of depression--that the progressive numbing of my body was nothing.  They were wrong. I was having bouts of MS.  They... Continue Reading →

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