The proposed changes allow insurers to waive popular provisions of the ACA — including “essential health benefits” such as prescription drugs and hospitalization — while also allowing insurance companies to charge sick Americans more for coverage.
House Republicans, however, exempted members of Congress and their staff from being impacted by those changes, Vox reported Tuesday.
your circumcision done by a doctor in a safe american hospital when you were an infant is literally not comparable to FGM performed on a 12 year old while she is awake and told she needs to do this or a man will never want to take care of her. shut the FUCK up
Part of my hospital chaplaincy duties is to write a reflection
on how it’s going. Identities may be altered for privacy. All the writings are here.
The nurse told me that the patient, Willard, had taken a bite out of another nurse. He had swung at one of the doctors and thrown urine at a surgeon. Willard had multiple organ failure and he couldn’t walk; he kept demanding to go home. “Get me a wheelchair, I’ll flop in and ride over you people.” The staff kept trying to get him to stay, to get treated, despite his violent non-compliance: because nurses and doctors have the guts to look past that stuff.
They called for a chaplain to ask about Willard’s family members, to see if anyone could pick him up when he was discharged.
I was the lucky chaplain who took the order.
When I walked in, I immediately noticed the patient had a tattoo of a heart on his hand, near the inner-fold of his thumb, with a swastika in the middle of the heart. The cognitive dissonance was startling. Not “I love mom” or his wife’s name, I thought, with a bit of snark. But hate in your heart. Very subtle.
“He’s one of those, you know, angry old fogeys,” the nurse had whispered right before I walked in. The nurse was a Middle Eastern man, about my age, and I couldn’t imagine the awful things he had to go through with this patient the last few days.
My eyes locked on the swastika first. The symbol held a terrible place in my memory: when I was a kid, someone had spraypainted a red swastika next to the front door of my dad’s business. Though my dad had tried to paint over it, I could still see it on hot summer days, a scar on the wall and a scar in my head, a mad throbbing declaration of all the world’s ugliness dripping in crimson. I still dream about it sometimes, and in the dream I’ll peer down at my wrists, which are engraved with the same red marks down to the veins.
The patient, Willard, saw me and said, “Thank God, a chaplain, finally someone who can hear me.”
But I don’t want to hear you, I thought.And a sick part of me also thought, You deserve this. I hope you never leave. Then you can’t hurt anyone out there.
He said, “Look, I see your face, I’m not trying to hurt anybody. You get it? I just want to go home. Fetch me a f__ing wheelchair, would you?.”
Willard got louder. He clenched his fists and waved them around. It was rather sad to see someone so animated and aggressive while pinned down to a bed, like the blanket had eaten his lower half and he was trying to crawl out. “Come on, I told you people that I wouldn’t hurt nobody. I got a dozen things wrong with me, I’m not a danger to you, I want to go home and to die in peace. You hear me? I’m ready to go home and die.”
He went on like this for over a minute. That’s a long time to stand there and let someone monologue with escalating hysteria. He dropped more f-bombs and jabbed a finger at me and tried to point at the whole hospital. His voice got so loud that I was worried about the patients nearby, and that maybe the nurse would call security, or that Willard himself would keel over. At several points it looked like he wanted to hop out of the bed and punch my ankles.
The strange swastika-heart tattoo flashed before me like a flag on fire.
I had half a mind to leave. I didn’t have to stay. I didn’t want to stay. I kept looking at that swastika. I kept thinking he deserved to be here, to be sick and sorry and helpless.
When Willard stopped talking for a moment, I said the only thing I could think of.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Willard. It sounds like you have a lot going on and it’s been really hard for you.”
He said, “Yes, yes it’s been hard. I swear, I’m not a bad person.” And he burst into tears.
Just like that, his face flipped from anger to grief, and his entire body melted into the bed. Just a broken down old man, crying.
Then he motioned so I could hold his hand. He needed me to hold that hand.
For a second, I stood there, confused and bewildered and infuriated. This is not okay, I thought. You’re everything I hate about the world. Why would you think this is okay?
I pictured two of me, one turning about face and never looking back and absolutely unable to endorse what this guy stood for, and the other me stepping forward in an ostensible betrayal of my deepest values, of my father, of that little child who had to ask why someone would paint such a dirty symbol of hatred over us. I remembered going with my dad to buy new paint, his face set and smiling and determined to be better than this, to make it in a harsh, lonely country that never fully welcomed him, but that he welcomed anyway, because he dared to believe in bigger dreams than the ones that had been painted for him. And I wondered if we were ever going to make it like this, that if we walked away from each other that we would ever heal, and if maybe the very same hands that could carve such scars could also build a life through those wounds, too.
Dad, you showed me something better. You dreamed bigger. You built the dream in me.
So I stepped forward anyway.
I held that man’s hand. I held his swastika, that ugly little tattoo with the heart tattooed around it.
Willard sobbed, loudly. I asked if he believed in prayer, and he did. I prayed. When I finished, I tried to pull my hand back, but he wasn’t having it. The nurse walked in, a little alarmed, giving me that look: This guy is a real human being who cries, huh?
The nurse prepared a syringe and gave Willard a few shots. My hand was nearly crushed. Willard kept sobbing; I must’ve held his hand for fifteen minutes while he wept and wept. I was silent. No words would work here. And at some point, our hands together, I didn’t want to leave anymore. This all made sense somehow, some kind of crazy giddy exuberant kind of sense, like God or the universe or fate had aligned and unlocked and we were exactly as we were meant to be. I still wasn’t entirely comfortable, and I wasn’t okay with all this man represented: but I pictured a river breaking through, breaking up our old walls and taking down the guard-posts and making the roads new. I wish I could fully describe the lightness in my being right then, a kind of diffused outwardness from my elbow to my fingertips, like my arm was stretching with a pulse. We were painting something different, maybe for our first time. I didn’t think this made me the “bigger person,” because I had every instinct to leave, and there were plenty of times I had failed at this before. I only knew that I had to choose against myself, and choices like this matter, maybe more than the ones we want right now.
When we parted, Willard looked up at me with eyes brimming red.
He didn’t say anything. He only nodded. And inexplicably, we both laughed, just once. I don’t know why we laughed, but it was good.
Later, I told my fellow chaplain, “I have to tell you the craziest story.”
And my friend, at the end, laughed at the obvious symbolism.
“I guess you were the heart around that guy’s swastika.”
I could only nod. I was my father, painting over old scars.
I recently gave a TEDx Talk on the stigma and misconceptions attached to the American insane asylum. I conclude by asking the listener to change their viewpoint - or if they cannot manage that, to at least acknowledge the history and preserve the buildings. Please check it out & share with your followers to get the word out!
“It’s an extraordinary thing. You know that? You throw me in the madhouse, you strip away everything I have, everything I know, you treat me like a rabid dog, like a madwoman. And you know what happens? I’m blessed with the gift of total clarity. I am more sane now as a madwoman than I ever was as the head of Briarcliff.”
Warning: heart break, cussing, and my weird writing.
A/N: I don’t really watch Evan Peters interviews and such , so I’m sorry if this isn’t the way he’ll act. ——––——–—–—–—– Flashback Calm down Y/N. You’ll be okay. You are gonna live your dream! He’ll be happy. You’ll come back. At least you’re at home and no-
I snapped out of thought when Evan tapped my shoulder.
“Are you okay babe?” Evan said to me
I looked at him and gave a light smile.
“Of course I am!” I said
“You looked scared.” He said with a frown, “Are you sure?”
“A little bit. I’m just have to tell you something.” I said putting my head down.
He grabbed my hands, “You can tell me anything and you know that.”
“Okay…” I took a deep breath, “I got the job I wanted.”
I looked up to see him smiling.
“That’s great ne-” I cut Evan off.
“It’s in England.” I said looking down.
He tried to speak words, but nothing came out.
“I’m sorry Evan…” I said on the verge of tears.
“Hey…” he said quietly, “Don’t cry. We’ll see each other soon. I can visit.” He said lifting my face up with a finger. He kissed me lightly.
“It’ll be alright…”
END OF THE FUCKING FLASHBACK BITCHES
“It’ll be alright” was the only thing floating through my mind.
“Liar…” I said as I looked at the photo.
It was him and his co-worker, Emma, kissing.
“THAT FUCKING LIAR!” I screamed as I flung a paint brush across the room.
How could he. How could he do that to me. I thought he was the one! The one who wouldn’t hurt me.
I grabbed a canvas out of a box and painted my heart out.
All I could do was paint. All I could think of was the hurt and pain running through me.
I was crying as I painted. All the colors I used expressed my emotions. Each brush stroke expressed my pain. How they were shades of blue and maroon with rough and jagged strokes. (A/N: I think that expresses sadness and anger.)
In the end it was an abstract painting of a girl on her knees crying, ripping her chest open to reveal her broken heart. Her head was tilted back and her long hair was so jagged, but it flowed down.
I smiled weakly as I signed my name. I felt a bit better, but a hole was still in my chest. I felt nothing there. Where is used to feel a pulse. Now I feel nothing there. It hurt.
I checked the time. 3:00 am. (A/N: I don’t know how to convert it.)
I just took off my clothes and slept. I was drained emotionally and physically.
-Le Next Day-
I woke up with a knock on my apartment, or flat is what they say here, door.
I got up an-
“I’m leaving today!” I said
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!!
I ran to a suitcase and grabbed a shirt and sweats. I got in the restroom and did stuff.
Someone was knocking.
“THE DOOR!” I yelled with my toothbrush in my mouth. I ran to it and opened it.
“Ms. Y/L/N your ride is ready to leave.” The man said in a very thick British accent, that sounded a bit like Matthew Lewis.
“I will be down in three minutes.” I said trying to smile with a toothbrush in my mouth.
“Will you need help?” The man said.
“Yes please, but not my green bag.” I said calmly.
“Yes ma'am.” He said with a smile.
I went back to the restroom and rinsed my mouth. I packed up my toiletries, and started to think.
Where am I going to stay? I’m not going back home. I need a plan.
Maybe Y/F/N will be able to let me stay at their place.
Or you can confront him!
No little voice. I will not confront that asshole.
Fine! Suit yourself.
I’m going crazy aren’t I?
Yes. You are talking to yourself.
Maybe that little voice is right. Maybe I should talk to him. Maybe it wasn’t what I thought of. Also that I need to get checked for any mental disorders.
“Ma'am. The car is ready and so are your luggage.” The man said.
I snapped my head to him.
“Thank you.” I smiled at him politely, “I will be out.”
He nodded and left.
Time to stop thinking and relax for an hours now.
-Time Skip brought by Jimmy Dean-
So that was a lie about not thinking. I thought a lot.
About life decisions and a lot about Evan.
Was he worth my tears?
I shook the thought of my head.
Who’s picking me up?
I got my carry on from the over head compartment, and exited the plane wearily. I went to baggage claim and got my bags. The others are going to be shipped to my house. Well our house.
I sighed I turned my phone on. Should of down that earlier. Whelp!
It took a couple minutes for it to turn on, but soon all the notifications came in.
One from MySpace.
19 missed phone calls and 20 messages from him.
I texted F/N to pick me up. Even if Evan came I won’t go with that asshat.
She said she’ll be there in 46 minutes because she lived close by and no traffic.
I went to sit and relaxed.
I went to my texts and said, “We are over. Don’t look for me. Don’t speak to me. We are over.”
My fingers hovered over the send button. I breathed in and hit send. It’s over. Time down the drain. (A/N: Even my heart is hurting writing this.)
I stare at my phone noticing all these notifications. Mostly Twitter, so my curious mind decided to check.
So many people were bashing Evans and Emma. Whelp. Serves them right.
Some people say I deserved it and they saw it coming. Those soggy ass waffles.
I decided to respond.
“If I couldn’t see it coming then… How would you?” I tweeted. (A/N: Cringe)
I turned off all notifications except my essentials. Messaging and phone calls. I just muted Evan. Simple.
Break down again! It’s healthy.
Not this again.
You made me up. This is you. I’m telling you what you tell your friends. You even say it’s good advice, so why not take it.
Because I don’t want to cry anymore!
I said to the little voice with an annoyed expression.
I got my earbuds out and decided to try and relax.
I put my Spotify songs on shuffle and let relaxation take over me.
I got troubled thoughts And the self-esteem to match
“Great.” I mumbled to myself taking a deep breath.
What a catch, what a catch Whoa You’ll never catch us So just let me be Said I’ll be fine ‘Till the hospital or American Embassy Miss Flack said I still want you back Yeah, Miss Flack said I still want you back I got troubled thoughts And the self-esteem to match What a catch, what a catch And all I can think of Is the way I’m the one Who charmed the one Who gave up on you Who gave up on you They say the captain Goes down with the ship So, when the world ends Will God go down with it? Miss Flack said I still want you back Yeah, Miss Flack said I still want you back I got troubled thoughts And the self-esteem to match What a catch, what a catch And all I can think of Is the way I’m the one Who charmed the one Who gave up on you Who gave up on you What a catch What a catch What a catch What a catch I will never end up like him Behind my back, I already am Keep a calendar This way you will always know I got troubled thoughts And the self-esteem to match What a catch, what a catch And all I can think of Is the way I’m the one Who charmed the one Who gave up on you Who gave up on you Where is your boy tonight? I hope he is a gentleman Maybe he won’t find out what I know You were the last good thing We’re going down, down in an earlier round And sugar, we’re goin’ down swinging Dance, dance, we’re falling apart to halftime Dance, dance, and these are the lives you’d love to lead Dance, this is the way they’d love If they knew how misery loved me This ain’t a scene, it’s a goddamn arms race This ain’t a scene, it’s a goddamn arms race One night and one more time Thanks for the memories Even though they weren’t so great He tastes like you, only sweeter Growing up, growing up I got troubled thoughts And the self-esteem to match What a catch, what a catch
I remained at the airport till my friend picked me up. I trusted them with my life, and sometimes I shouldn’t.
They took me in and they gave me everything I needed. They were great, but what lingered on my mind was.
-Time Skip: A week-
I opened the door and saw him. Why is he here!? I was about to close it, but he put his foot in the way.
“Y/N. Hear me out.” I heard her voice say softly.
I nodded slowly unsure of what to say because if I did this would be a shit show.
“The article isn’t true.” He said to me, “We were going out to lunch together after a shoot with the cast. I was whispering something in her ear because I didn’t want others to hear, of course. They photoshopped to make us look like we were kissing. I swear. I would never hurt you. You make me so happy! You make me the happiest man!” He used small hand gestures. I looked in her eyes to see if he was lying, but he wasn’t, “I love everything about you. From how your hair smells to how sweet you are! I would never ever hurt you like this. I promised you.” He said with his voice cracking in the end.
“You really didn’t do any of it?” I said quietly.
He lightly grabbed my face.
I hesitated, but I grabbed one of his hands lightly.
“I would never lie to you for something this huge. Without you I don’t feel whole. I don’t feel me without knowing I can’t protect you. It hurts knowing I hurt you. It even hurts going home because I know you aren’t there.” He said looking me in the eye.
He really wasn’t lying.
You miss him. Go to him.
At this moment I didn’t hate this voice. It was right.
“I love you.” I said hugging him.
He hugged back almost instantly.
I pulled back and dragged him into the house.
Then I started thinking as I locked the door.
I turned back to him.
“What did you say to her?” I said to him.
Now it was his turn. He hesitated.
“I told her that I-I wa-wanted to m-marry you.” He said very nervously.
My eyes widened, but I smiled.
“You want to marry me?” I said sheepishly with a blush evident on my face.
“I still do.” He said confidently.
“Is that offer still up?” I said rubbing my arm.
I just got him back and I’m asking him to basically marry me.
He smiled widely and got down on one knee.
“Will you Y/N Y/L/N become my partner-in-crime for life, even in the afterlife?” He said pulling a a black box out with a beautiful ring inside. (A/N: Imagine the ring because I don’t know your style at all.)
“Yes!” I said jumping on him.
I smashed my lips on him and he smiled into it. This kiss was a kiss that made up all the lost time.
He was my world. He made me so happy. His personality made me smile, and his looks made me smirk.
He was mine and I love him. ———- A/N: The next part will involve some naughty things.
May 18, 1917 - First American Troops Arrive in Britain
Pictured - The Yankees are Coming!
The first 243 American soldiers in Europe arrived on British soil on May 18, 1917. The first sight of American arms might have seemed a little underwhelming to Britons eager to have the world’s mighty industrial behemoth on their side. The new arrivals were merely the staff of a medical hospital. American Expeditionary Force John Pershing boarded a boat for Britain on the 28th. These first troops, in any case, were only the beginning of American manpower - but America had only begun recruiting and training an army back home. American combat troops would get to France in 1917, but American forces would not be in combat in any strength untilmid-late 1918.