Hello, World!
Here are the instructions to this month’s Absolute Write Blog Chain!

In the spirit of NaNoWriMo, write a mock review of a writing project that you have done or would like to do. Make sure to either give a brief, one-sentence description of what the project is or work it into the review somehow. You can review anything (poetry, prose, collected blog posts) and in any way you like (funny, serious, Dadaist).

And here are the participating blogs:

Participants and posts:
orion_mk3: (link to post)
Ralph Pines – (link to post)
bmadsen – (link to post)
dolores haze – (link to post)
SRHowen – (link to post)
Angyl78 – (link to post)
writingismypassion – (link to post)
meowzbark – (link to post)
pyrosama – (link to post)
randi.lee – (link to post)

wonderactivist – (link to post)

Here’s the post:

Chad Sorrens is a young and talented soldier facing his biggest challenge yet: to survive Project Archangel. In B.M.’s first novel, Project Archangel, the protagonist faces a series of challenges outlined by an underground terrorist war in Russia. Written at the age of 15, this novel has predictable twists and turns, but does have a gem somewhere beneath the troupes.

Within the gunfights, cliché love scenes and crummy dialogue we are forced to endure if we want to finish the novel, there is a harsh criticism towards war and the psychological turmoil soldiers endure. Sorrens, in the end of Project Archangel, regrets every second he spend holding a machine gun in the middle of the Russian Winter. Not because of himself, but because of the changed lives around him.

Overall Project Archangel, at 120 thousand words, is an ambitious creation by a young writer with much to learn. If the book is left to mature (and the writer) for a couple of years, it just might turn into a decent novel comparable with Ludlum, Forsyth and the earlier Clancy.

The review is of my very first book.


Ghosts, halloween, and all the rest.

Here’s a little writing exercise because I got bumped in my blog chain.

It’s just to get warmed up as my blog has been a bit slow.

I called her up. I knew I was about to do something completely wrong. She didn’t answer, just as expected, so it was my turn to act. I got into the car, drove over to her house and knocked–hypocritically–on the door. I knew it was open; it creaked as my knuckles banged on it.

Dark. And still, I could see the upturned chairs, the thin layer of dust kicking up as I walked inside, the roaches scuttling for safety, though they knew me, and moths wandering aimlessly, looking for a flame to follow.
I walked up the stairs. Creak, creak, a loud creak.

It was hot. It was not supposed to be hot. My body started oozing thick drops of salty, clean liquid. It wasn’t the heat. I was just scared s***tless. I could just see it, feel it and hear it: my hands running up and down her body, occasionally they flinching because she’s feels cold, my lips kissing her, her eyes locked upon me, gazing deep into my heart and she stands almost motionless, just a leaf floating in the water. And I’m the tide.

I opened the door and there she was. The cracks on the roof let the moonlight seep in, dropping onto her light rain, highlighting her big eyes and narrow chin, her thin–almost too long–of a nose and her piercing black, shoe-shine hair. She said nothing.

I stood there for a moment but I knew there was no reaction, she ran away from it, as always. From the start, she wanted to run away. I saw her face: was she scared? I couldn’t tell. Sometimes, in fear, there was pleasure.

I got undressed. I inched my way to the bed and sneaked under the blankets. I kissed her feet, looking gray and pale under the light, then I ran my hands up her long legs–husks of an elephant they were, just imposing–and up to her breasts. I stopped.

Her nipples had turned gray and dry. The veins were bluish. A fly landed on her eye, not a flinch.

Decay had seeped in.

It was time to find another one.

All it took was seven.

This is the September Blog Chain:The topic is Seven!


orion_mk3 – (link to this month’s post)
Ralph Pines – (link to this month’s post)
bmadsen – (link to this month’s post)
writingismypassion – (link to this month’s post)
areteus – (link to this month’s post)
randi.lee – (link to this month’s post)
BBBurke – (link to this month’s post)
BigWords – (link to this month’s post)
pyrosama – (link to this month’s post)
SuzanneSeese – (link to this month’s post)
AFord – (link to this month’s post)


All it took was seven.

I leaned back, away from the monitor just for a second, and exhaled; being stuck in a small cubicle and breathing recycled air was not my thing. I’d rather be observing surgeries, fixing a rogue brain-pressure monitor or even cleaning the hoses of a blood irrigation system. But it wouldn’t happen today. A slight rumble on the corner of the cubicle then echoed through the walls and climbed up to the ceiling—the seven-fifteen bus to downtown.

The videoconference continued slowly; the instructor spoke in an electronic voice, occasionally the lag caused bleeps and shrieks, piercing my eardrums and, worst of all, I had already gone through this material once, perhaps twice, or even three times. I was only there to keep an eye on the new guy—he likes to challenge everybody and thinks he’s always right—, whilst I did so, I refreshed my memory on some topics. But time was slow.

Oh! How I wished to be in an O.R.!

Another rumble, this time just a bit louder, came in from a corner, which one? I couldn’t tell, probably the far left. And again the rumble rippled through the office’s old walls and into the metal ceiling, only to fade into a low murmur. I looked at my watch: the seven-thirty leaving downtown. Miraculously it was on time. The high-pitched roar of its diesel engine reached my ears and didn’t leave for too long. Then, the once muted robotic voice returned. Great.

The instructor spoke calmly, stressfully calm, and, soothing it could have been for some—I could see my coworker slowly shut his eyes, then jolt back to life—but for me it was pure anxiety. I looked at the watch and the dial refused to please me. It was still seven forty-five.

“Hey, hey, the instructor is wrong!” in an almost childish gesture, my coworker raised his right hand and tapped the table, “it’s forty seconds for the leak test, not a minute.”

“What?” I murmured stupidly and quickly regained my line of thought. As an unforeseen event, I managed to snap out of my surgical daydreams and piece together everything he had told me (Just how I remember? I don’t know). I exhaled disappointedly—perhaps the feeling was too evident—then looked at the video. “No, it’s forty seconds, because he is going through the vibration test not the leakage.”

“Oh,” he muttered and I could see it in his hesitation, in his eyes opening wide—looking for something, anything—and wishing he could prove me wrong. I loved being proved wrong if there is valid theory behind. He found nothing. “Ok.”

I looked at the watch again—I guess you can call it mental masturbation—and exhaled, this time in relief. It was eight forty-two. My, how time flies when it wants to! But where was that spark? I wanted to jump into action, to DO something. Anything!

Another rumble: this time coming from both corners, and I frowned (probably, I didn’t have a mirror): that was odd. I paused for a second. Then he looked up at me, I looked at him and we didn’t speak. The rumble again trickled its way through the columns. But it didn’t fade away. As if we were looking at it, it inched its way down the opposite columns and into the ground. The instant the invisible vibrations touched floor, it jolted us to the right.

“Why don’t we…?” I said as I got up. “Let’s just leave.”

We opened the door but the rumble didn’t let us leave. A book tumbled to the ground, the windows wrestled to stay intact, moaning in pain. A low murmur turned into a heavy twisted growl and the earth shifted to the left, challenging us to stay up, and then abruptly shifted to the right. By this time both he and I were out, someone was crying, and it wasn’t over. Again the earth moved, this time bobbing massively up and down and the traffic stopped, busses jammed their doors shut to prevent passengers from fleeing into the streets and cars honked confusedly, wishing the jam would free up so they could escape, but no one could leave this. We were all stuck in the same moment, the same fear, the same confusion, and hopefully the same outcome.

Another jolt, this time followed by a set of tiny vibrations, sent us quickly to the right then slowly, ever so gently, to the left. Then we paused. Someone sobbed. Another one gasped. It was over.

No it was not. The earth moved again and I thought to myself: “damn you, idiot.” And I saw the Geriatric Hospital and how it swung slowly, ever so peacefully, all seven stories, knowing that inside, the cracks of the concrete, the twisting of the metal, the crashing of the windows were accompanied by confused and withered screams.

And then the rumble vanished, heading back the center of the earth, and left behind a sob, a gasp, a tear and nothing else. I immediately turned on the radio:

Ladies and Gentleman, we have just received the incoming report from the International Seismological Institute and the magnitude of the earthquake that has just hit Costa Rica is 7.2 in the Richter scale. The phone lines are down and traffic is paralyzed in several parts of the capital. We will continue to post information.


            And so, seven is all I needed to realize that asking for excitement might be the wrong thing. Seven is all I needed to realize that we are puny and useless against nature. Seven is all I needed to know that we are alive.

Here’s a video of a bus station during the quake.

NOTE: on September 5th, 2012, a 7.2 earthquake hit Costa Rica, killing only one person (for the moment). Many experts believe the country’s seismic code along with a protective layer of rock at 8 km underneath the surface saved us from certain death. In the recent earthquakes of this magnitude, the following have been the results:

–       Pakistan: 7.6 on the Richter scale: 86 000 deaths.

–       India: 7.6 on the Richter scale: 20 000 deaths.

–       Iran: 6.6 on the Richter scale: 31 000 deaths.

The Future of Health Care in the United States.

All Images belong to their respective owners.


This should be posted in every doctor’s office.

As the days leading up to 2013 begin to fade in quantity and the changes this new year will bring become more and more evident, many citizens may wonder where is Health Care going in the U.S. and the answer might be simpler than many imagine. It’s all matter of downsizing the population and looking elsewhere.

Because the PPACA is approved by a superior Court of Law and grants Obama and the Congress as correct in the decisions they implanted in 2010, this means that every citizen in the U.S. has to either have insurance or pay a tax (this very same tax will not be called a penalty, or fine, as some people dwelling about in the internet have chosen to refer to it), depending on their income. This tax, which comes from all citizens that generate an income within the country, goes to a big, massive, system which hands out medical care to everybody at an equal, constant and carefully organized rate.

The theory behind this is quite simple: if I make a lot of money, then the government takes more out of me than someone who doesn’t make a lot of money. But that someone, just as me, has the right to be healthy, he or she has the right to get into a hospital and receive medical treatment. If he or she falls ill, there is a chance the government will use my money to heal him or her. It sounds fair, doesn’t it? It is. It’s a socialist approach to a capitalist problem, it’s the best solution anyone could have come up with and it won’t work.

I’d like to tell you a little story: I was flying back from training in Texas. The flight had me take a connection in Houston and then fly home, landing about nine o’clock at night. As I waited, sitting just yards from the counter, I heard my name being called out: I was being upgraded to first class. This all fell as great news, more legroom, less time waiting in line, all the works, and one of the most interesting conversations I ever had.

A burly fellow, probably forty, forty-five years old, sat in seat 1B, just next to me and greeted me with a potent southern accent. He tilted his head and nodded just once; I replied and we got to talking, primarily because he didn’t shut up and I don’t either.

“So, where you flying today?” he said, fixed himself, and turned to me.

I flashed my ticket quickly and showed him my final destination. His eyes opened wide in surprise, as if he was being pranked, in a good way, and he smiled.

“I’m going there too!” He said and smacked his leg, “My God! What a coincidence!”

“It sure is,” I told him, “do you live there?”

“I do, actually,” he replied proudly, “just some miles from the airport.” It’s important to highlight that the airport in my country is located in a very warm, sunny area just about twenty miles from the capital. Right now, this place is brimming with financial activity: a new hospital was built, several Tax-Free zones have been created to promote business and residential housing is constructed in little havens with pools and open green spaces.

“Are you married to a Tica?” He nodded with satisfaction and showed me her picture. She was o.k.

“So you’ve got Social Security?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied with a devious smile. There was satisfaction in it, in that grinning gesture of success, “I take advantage of it.”

“And what do you think of the ObamaCare?” Instantly he hummed, pursed his lips in a disappointed fashion, as if I had insulted him and he was too polite to answer back, and did not respond.

“I ain’t paying them a bit out of my money,” he said. And that’s when I got to think about this plan.

In order for Health-care to work Obama Style, the President and following leaders have to change the mentality of a nation that is not willing to share. One of the primal evidences suggesting this is the controversy behind such a plan; it’s as though people don’t see that eventually, because private and uninsured health services end up imploding and creating immeasurable expenses, the citizens of the U.S. have to get used to and accept the socialist approaches Barack Obama has taken.

And they will. It will take time, but it will happen.

And, for fifty or so years, the Socialist based Obama Health Care system will work perfectly—after the rough adjustment process that is—because people realize that getting a “free” medical service is actually working for them and not against them. Since the monthly quote is smoothly retracted and not abruptly taken away, the process feels as though money is being put somewhere for them; and it is! Social Security services will grow, little by little, and develop itself into a behemoth of bureaucratic procedures. This is where everything goes wrong.

The thing is, some people go to the doctor constantly and rarely get any healthier. These people exist now, they will exist when Health Care turns socialist. These are patients labeled as “frequent fliers”. Then there are the patients who don’t like waiting, otherwise known as “impatients” (creative, I know); this is on the patient side. On the health-care professional side come those who understand that the process is, under the common conception, free, therefore people won’t leave—they can’t afford going to a private MD so they must wait—hence professionals become patient, they become used to this. After all, it doesn’t affect them. Then numbers come into play: a system that fills the medical needs for tens of millions of people will have its flaws. These represent themselves in the form of missing files, unassigned appointments which are actually assigned, system clashes between identical patients and so on. It may seem trivial to mention flaws within the system as a major cause for malfunctioning but it’s justified: these happen from the start.

Finally, and unfortunately, a socialist system bases itself on trust, something not many countries have. It’s a system in which trust is needed because doctors, with the power to assign appointments, secretaries with the power to change schedules, directives with the power to shift talent from side to side, have contacts on the other end: close friends or relatives become patients, patients need an appointment and they need it fast, friends or relatives become suppliers, suppliers need their product sold and fast—the competition’s better but this one is cheaper—while the rest can wait.
All these symptoms ironically create costs within the system; the system turns inefficient and the costs to maintain these “mandatory” symptoms (they are, pretty much unavoidable) make socialist-based Health-Care one of the most expensive in the long run. Since costs cannot be shift upwards drastically, the amount of money coming in at first will suffice, within years, when the expenses amount to and equal the income of social security, measures will be taken (too late because the expenses accumulate historically) and, eventually, the system will be forced to privatize itself in order to stay afloat. It is a vicious cycle which can be seen in various countries adapting the socialist health-care system, take a look at Russia, Sweden, Finland and such.

But, yet again, our lives work in cycles and this is just another one.

This is a light, summarized opinion about Health–Care. Heck, it’s only a rant at midnight. But it’s a rant from a biomedical engineer hailing from the country in which the U.S. is basing its social security system.


Dr. Flirtatious

A cardiac by-pass, a mitral valve replacement or a ring replacement within the ventricles; they all have three things in common.

1) They all are heart-related,

2) They need the doctor’s utmost attention.

3) You need something to momentarily replace the heart you are fixing.

This “backup” heart is quite complicated to operate.

So, as they cut patient 02115798 open and started with the procedure, I feel nerves grown inside me. It isn’t the first open-heart surgery, in fact, I believe it’s my third or fourth, but I get jittery and jumpy when the blood starts being drained out of the body and into a beeping, careless, cold metal contraption. And I know my co-worker is nervous as well, as her foot taps like a jackhammer, just more graceful. But we shouldn’t be nervous. It’s a typical surgery within the complicated, plus, the doctor next to me has done 1500 of these and not one death on his list.

Pretty good if you ask me.

But the other guy (there’s always another guy) gets me nervous. And gets her on her nerves as well. And it has nothing to do with medicine.

This other guy is the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery and a complete player. There’s no female that can reject him–whether they want to or not–to a point in which his wife (who used to work in the same hospital), asked for a transfer because she was fed up of such flirting (and other “issues”). The moment he laid eyes on my co-worker, who we’ll call Michelle, he knew he had another challenge, especially given the ring on her finger. Keep in mind that, like a super Hollywood action star, he always comes in late (because his job asks him to; there’s no need for him when the patient is sawed open and stuff) and says hi with a stupid grin on his face and a loud, confident voice so everybody knows he’s here.

We’re halfway into the surgery and the doctor starts his imposing walk towards the patient. If only patient 02115798 would know what was going on, she’d wake up in no-time. Halfway between the washing room and the patient, he spots Michelle, she straightens her stance and turns to me: don’t be so evident in your discomfort, I think to myself, because if this guy gets angry with a scalpel, patient 02115798 is done.

Time flies by. We’re about an hour into the surgery.

But then I grow uncomfortable. After opening the third ventricle, he turns to be sure Michelle is following up on his fantastic moves. And he looks ridiculous twisting his head almost 180 degrees to look for her. But she’s not there, because Michelle left to the bathroom for a moment and he doesn’t know this: he grows nervous since his prey is gone, it has disappeared and the possibility of banging her in the back of the dressing room has just diminished to zero; he sure wanted to get sex tonight. I think her resistance is as enticing as the ring on her finger. Where has his bounty gone?

“Doctor, doctor!” his assistant calls up, “watch that vein!”

He turns to the patient. The machine starts beeping. Everybody grows tense. There’s quiet and awkwardness as he returns to the real world.

Michelle’s steady walk echoes in the silence. I feel bad about predicting (sort of) the incident and I wonder: what the hell is Dr. Flirtatious thinking right now?

Fire and Ice

First of all, here are the links to the great blogs participating in this month’s Blog Chain:

orion_mk3 – (link to this month’s post)
Ralph Pines – (link to this month’s post)
areteus – (link to this month’s post)
Catherine Hall – (link to this month’s post)
bmadsen – (link to this month’s post)
pyrosama – (link to this month’s post)
magicmint – (link to this month’s post)
meowzbark – (link to this month’s post)
tomspy77 – (link to this month’s post)
BBBurke – (link to this month’s post)
writingismypassion – (link to this month’s post)
Proach – (link to this month’s post)
randi.lee – (link to this month’s post)
BigWords - (link to this month’s post)

The topic is simple, yet complicated: Fire and Ice.

I wanted to write about a fire in one of the country’s biggest hospitals. One of the survivors was a 19-year-old technician who had been interned due to a dry-ice burn. He also got burned due to the fire. Ain’t life a bitch? He works as a fireman now.

Then I realized I didn’t want to seem so tragic. After all, tragedy is pretty much what I see everyday and I get sick of it on occasion.

I want to try something different: I want to talk about the physical impossibility of feeling fire and ice at the same time. It was half past two o’clock in the afternoon; we all sat in a crowded auditorium waiting for the head of neurosurgery to begin his presentation on the vast improvements my country has seen in the field of hydrocephalus in infants.

I sat between the prettiest nurse I had ever seen and the director of Medical Equipment in the hospital. Both are equally important in completely different planes.

There was a murmur; from the faint voices I could hear someone complaining of the lack of air conditioning while others spoke last night’s soccer game. Some even indulged in politics and corruption. I eavesdropped them all. It made for some good entertainment while I waited.

Then they all hushed. The doctor entered. We all rose quickly; I felt it. There was a dramatic silence, an aura of respect loomed over him and excitement buzzed around me; I was probably surrounded by many medical students looking up to him. And he went up the stairs, one step at the time, a relaxed breath between steps, and I felt it again. And he turned to us and he smiled.
We all smiled back. He sat down. There was quiet.

And then I felt fire. My insides burned, the temperature rose to immeasurable levels and there was acid boiling inside me. I clenched my fists and closed my eyes. Did the nurse notice? Did the director notice? Did anyone? No, I don’t think so. I closed my eyes again. Slowly the heat began to creep up to walls of my stomach, burning every inch of my gastrointestinal duct with a fizzing effect, as if frying fish. I felt weak.

Then it happened.

Everything turned to cold. Little lumps of freezing embarrassment covered my skin and caused my hairs to rise upwards. The drops of sweat in my forehead froze with the impossible surge of cold wind seeping into the auditorium. I was nervous; I rubbed my arms but stopped halfway. I knew it would not be tragic, it was a normal reaction, but it’d be loud.

And then, it gargled, like sticking a hand through a tuba, it gargled. It murmured, almost laughing at me, and my entrails rumbled like thunder. Fortunately it stopped there. My stomach succeeded in breaking the silence.

She smiled. Someone else smiled. They all heard.

And I had to invent a new Biomed’s rule:

Don’t try the new Indian place at the corner when you have meetings.

Do something! But don’t smoke…

And the flick of the switch would determine months of hard labor. The first-ever artificial Heart Machine to be completely independent in Costa Rica was to be put through its paces—giving the doctors the chance of working on a completely blood-free heart—and we were nervous because of three things:

–       The patient depends solely on the machine and nothing else. If the machine fails, doctors can pump manually but still need the machine to know whether they are pumping right or wrong.

–       The machine is brand new. Brand new things can either work or not, there’s something called Murphy’s Law.

–       The hefty price tag (three hundred and twenty thousand dollars).

Well, make that four: we were the techs in charge of acting in case anything went wrong.

“Start the pump,” the doctor said with a focused voice and his assistant turned flicked the switch. A comforting beep followed and my partner and I sighed quietly, “start the cardioplegia auxiliary pump,” another comforting beep followed, “start the artificial lung (How does that song go? Too much oxygen will get you high, not enough and you’re going to die? That’s what this does.)”

Silence. My heart stopped.

I looked at the patient and then remembered the file—I took the liberty of reading it even if doctors didn’t let me—specifically the age: fifty-four years old. And there he was with his eyes closed, his mouth ajar and a plastic tube shoved down his throat, his ribs were completely open and his heart was, at that precise moment, still. It was paralyzed.

I also remembered how the doctor had reacted when he opened the patient up. It’s not comforting when you see a doctor go: “wow”, even if it’s mute and unimpressed. He looked up at me, for just a second, and flicked his head, inviting me.

“Check this out,” he passed his blade over the main artery connecting to his heart. The artery did not get cut. He passed it again: nothing. He turned to his assistant and asked for a tougher blade (usually less precise), “this is what happens when you smoke for thirty years. His veins are so calcified the blade won’t go through; we’re going to have to replace them all. This has just become a sextuple by-pass.”

I’m an engineer. I’m not a doctor. And still, the adrenaline rushing through my body at that precise moment sent shivers up and down my body. Or was it the cold air? It didn’t matter. I was in front of scientific greatness.

I remembered when he said: “It’s time to turn on the machine,” and I felt back to reality. How many seconds had I been out of reality? I turned to the doctor and his eyes—the only visible emotion , the rest hidden behind a mask, hair-cap and anti-glare eyeglasses—were honestly scared.

“Do something!” he screamed. We both turned to the machine and I scanned the screen, cursing at myself silently. If it had been more than two minutes, then the patient was as good as dead. Then I saw it, I saw the reason why the artificial lung hadn’t started, but did it matter at the moment? Absolutely not.

I flicked the switch from auto to manual, something the doctor should have done first, before even connecting the patient. The beeps continued, the hoses filled with blood, oxygen was sent where oxygen was needed, temperature was sent where temperature was needed and life was injected where life was needed.

Everything went back to normal. The patient survived and is now recovering from a sextuple by-pass. He is considering quitting smoking. And he doesn’t remember anything, only feeling cold for a moment. And the doctor never saw his mistake. Perhaps he was too scared, or he did noticed and didn’t say a word.

The Dark Night Rises

And so, as the clock struck midnight, the bullets flew from side to side, bangs deafened the screaming and gunshots muzzled the feared, silencing it for eternity. Twelve people died and fifty-eight are now in hospitals. I can picture myself there, in the emergency room, probably just doing inventory, then the doors blast open and in comes a gurney with a twelve year old boy–two shots to the chest, one to the knee–and the darkest of prognosis.

What happened? I can see myself confused, just rushing to the corner and stepping away from the chaos. I have nothing to do. I want nothing to do with this. It’s obvious, no one has to tell me, I just leave the emergency room and wait for the chaos to subside, which won’t happen tonight, or tomorrow. It will take a couple of months, three perhaps. Then most of society, except for a handful of saddened relatives, will forget until it happens again. And it will.

It will happen because we are too violent and we are happy with it. A crowd cheers an athlete that hits another one, a crowd cheers when a superhero smacks the shit out of the villain—probably a black or Asian enemy—and a crowd cheers when a country wins a war. We are too competitive and we justify success directly with it: we celebrate when our nearest competitor declares bankruptcy since it means more money for us. We are too selfish and we are happy with it. And we are all guilty.

But, strangely, that’s not what worries me. With the amount of people in this world, it was bound to happen. What worries me is this: if we were to tell someone, anyone, within say, a mall, that in the parking lot there are thousands of rounds and rifles, ready to be used at the flick of an “insanity” switch, people would flee, the building would probably be evacuated and abandoned within seconds.

Then why didn’t it happen?

Stricter security measures? Not useful. Social places are ideal for relaxation and tougher active-security measures would render us tenser and, hence, more violent. The idea that suppressing the likelihood of another attack is a thing of the past. Corrective actions shouldn’t happen, especially in this age of technical advances and “the peak of society as we know it”. Maybe passive-security measures will work.

Tougher gun control? Probably will work, though I know many friends with rifles and guns that won’t go on a killing spree. Again, I know many I wouldn’t trust a gun with.

Lesser violence? Surely. After all, humans are formed in their houses.

More education? Definitely.


The Challenge: Part Two

So, the challenge was placed in front of me. It was pretty simple, I have to admit, but still it hit me as hard as an bull’s kick. I established a friendship with a female doctor I met in the National Rehabilitation Center after the accident; I can safely say we have the trust to be open about fears and concerns.


One day, she and I spoke of my frustrations: I can’t lift heavy objects any more. The accident rendered my back weak and unresponsive to massive efforts (and I’m 26 years old). She responded with a very interesting question:


Bernard, say you knew that within one year, you will go through the exact same accident, but this time, the consequences would be nefarious. Your condition (hyper lordosis), would snap your spine in two, and you would end in a wheel chair. You will be unable to go to the bathroom, have intercourse and move about independently. 


If you knew that in one year this would happen, what would you do in this year?


I hesitated, I didn’t have the answer.


Whatever it is, just do it. You never know what’s going to happen.


Welcome to the challenge.