MUSHROOM MUG

     Last year, my dermatologist made the big mistake of telling me that there is only a 2% chance of my precancerous Actinic Keratosis, or AKs, actually turning cancerous, and that he could freeze off the ones on my head. He should have lied and told me they were all melanomas, and that if I went to the tanning salon again I would end up with a hole in my skull the size of a moon crater. I'm sure he regrets showing me just how quickly and easily the freezing works. It is the perfect remedy for someone like me who has always believed more in damage-control than in prevention when dealing with skin issues. Simply put, " If those AKs start a showin', get that liquid nitrogen a flowin'."

  While I was waiting for him in the exam room, I  stretched out on the motorized examination table in my underwear and made myself comfortable, pressing the buttons on the hand control until the table looked like a lounge chair at a pool. For a joke, I got my sun glasses out of my jacket and turned on the bright circular examination light that looked like the sun, then positioned myself on the table to look like I was suntanning just as my dermatologist came into the room.

     "Michael, this is better than a tanning booth," I said, looking up at him through the sunglasses without moving my arms or legs.
     "This light won't tan you but it can probably blind you if you look at it too long," he laughed.
      I sat up and took off my sunglasses. " You know me, I'll try to get a tan from any light bulb I can."
      " I should just put your name on this bottle," he said, holding up his trusty, little blue canister of liquid nitrogen and shifting his focus to the top of my head. "Let's see the damage you keep on insisting to do to yourself." At 6' 4", Michael could have looked down at the top of my head even if I was standing.
     "Before we start the cancer hunt, could you take a look at this redness in between my eyebrows and over here," I looked up and asked, pointing to the edges of both my nostrils and around my beard. 
    He put down the canister and sat on his stool so we could be eye-to-eye while he examined me.
    As he assessed my face, I couldn't help assessing his. Besides being taller than me, he is also younger than me. There had been a time when I was younger than all the doctors I went to, but the scales started tipping around ten years ago, until I now I find myself being older than most of them. Michael's baby face makes it especially hard to figure out just how much younger than me he actually is. There's no denying the fact that, whatever his age, he protects his skin better than I do. I'd rather this be the case than having a dermatologist who didn't have healthier skin than me. It would be like going to a Speech Therapist who stutters worse than I do.

    A dermatologist is a walking advertisement for himself, a book that always gets judged by it's cover. Most other kinds of doctors don't get judged by their appearance as severely. Dermatologists are the only doctors who aren't allowed to have a suntan. It's certainly frowned upon, and could cost them a few potential patients. People want their dermatologists to have good skin, and are generally put-off by ones who don't. And as Botox treatments become more and more the norm, patients will expect their dermatologists to be wrinkle-free. Soon, aging dermatologists aren't going to be allowed to wrinkle even if they want to.
     Exactly how direct is the correlation between how much dermatologists are able to take care of their own skin and how much they will be able to help yours? To be fair, shouldn't we make the same correlation about other kinds of doctors, and demand to see their body parts? And maybe MRIs of their brain and organs too? Would it make a difference if you knew your cardiologist has a faulty heart, or your psychiatrist had a traumatic brain injury, or if your proctologist has an abnormally shaped asshole? Usually, we only learn these kind of things after they die, or, after we sleep with them. 
     Michael held my jaw and tilted my head side-to-side and up and down, then brushed my eyebrow hairs forward with his thumbs and parted the short hairs of my beard with his index fingers.
   "You've got three conditions going on, but none of them look too bad. The flakiness is a little bit of psoriasis and the redness under it is probably a combination of seborrheic dermatitis and tinea faciei, which is just a fancy word for fungus," he explained as he went to the sink and washed his hands.

   " I have fungus on my face?"
   " It's just like athlete's foot."
   " Then why isn't it called athlete's face? And isn't 'psoriasis' dandruff?"
    " Basically."
    " How do I have dandruff it I don't have hair? Isn't not having dandruff one of the benefits of being bald?"
     " It's pretty common in the eyebrows if the skin is dry."
     "  I see. God makes me  bald but still insists on me having dandruff. That's really fair," I smirked. "So, I 've got dandruff AND fungi on my face. Is there anything else? Are mushrooms going to grow out of my nostrils, or any other crops? "

This skin condition, known as Fungus Face,
has been in my family for centuries. It can be
traced back to my ancestor Romeo Glassman,
depicted here by the 16th century
Italian artist Giuseppe Arcimboldo. 
This same artist's series of yeast-inspired
portraits of baked goods growing out of
vaginas were not as well-received.

       He laughed and told me not to worry about it.  "I'll write a script for 2 ointments, and for a shampoo that you rub into your eyebrows and around the red areas at your beard. It should be gone in two or three weeks. Let's give the rest of you a look-over." He picked up the nitrogen canister and adjusted the angle of the examination light over me, then rolled over the huge magnifying glass attached to a metal pole with a wide wheeled base that I've nicknamed 'Cyclops'.
    The examination always begins at the top of my head. I call this 'the bald man's bull's eye'. It seems to be a landing pad for cancer. As a matter of fact, being bald increases the risk of skin cancer almost as much as smoking an entire pack of cigarettes every day increases the risk of lung cancer (bald smokers are really screwed.) 
   Michael moves his finger in slow motion to make sure he doesn't miss any small mark or bump. He only found one AK to zap with the nitrogen, which impressed both of us. After he went over the tops of my shoulders, I laid down on the table so he could have a complete frontal view of my entire body. This includes Michael lowering my underwear, which, though done only for a few seconds without any sexual overtones or even undertones from him, is usually my  favorite part of the cancer hunt. If I'm not naked at some point during a visit to a doctor, I feel I've not gotten my money's worth. But after finding out my face was filled with dandruff and fungus, I wasn't feeling particularly attractive. All I could think about was getting that face shampoo as quickly as possible.
   When I flipped over for Michael to get a back view, within a few seconds I felt his finger going back and forth over two small areas in the middle of my back.
    " AKs?" I  asked with my head to the side, still laying on my stomach. 
   "No, not these," he said with some concern in his voice. " Stay right there. I just want to take a scraping of them." He put down the liquid nitrogen canister and got an instrument that looked like a thin box cutter which he used to take a sample of each.
  " What are they?" 
  " Well, they could be nothing or they could be melanoma."
   "Isn't there anything in between?" I asked, only half jokingly.
    " Let's see what comes back from the biopsies, and then we'll know. Let's not worry too much right now," he said as he sealed the samples in two small vials  and then continued the cancer hunt until my whole body was checked. 
    As I was getting dressed I asked Michael how much of a factor does hereditary play.
   "It definitely is a strong factor. But it's not the only one. Suntanning plays a much greater roll. Like I said before, this is one of the only cancers that you can easily prevent."
   " I know, I know," I said.
   "I'll get the biopsies back in around a week. At least stay out of a tanning both until then."
    " It's only once a month in the winter, don't worry."
    We gave each other a friendly hug, and I waved goodbye as he left the room.
     I wasn't worried for one reason. I was banking on the fact that my mother Priscilla is almost 72 years old and still regularly tans with baby oil, and has not gotten skin cancer yet. And there's no way in the world I'm getting melanoma before she gets it. It has to be genetically,and cosmically,  impossible. 
    Michael called me a few days ago to give me the results. He started off by telling me the cells looked strange.
    " Strange in a good way?" I asked optimistically.
    " I guess so," he chuckled. " Both biopsies came back negative."
    

 I guess that sometimes it pays off swimming deep in Priscilla's gene pool, especially on very sunny days.

   
   
 

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

Hey- I want to write a few words directly to everyone who has been reading my blog. This week marks my one year anniversary of writing it.  As of this moment, I have gotten 5,152 hits, which means either my best friend Scott has gone to this site 5,152 times, or there are actually people out there reading Stutterpuss. The tracking map shows readers in the U.S., Canada, England, Australia, and Russia, but I have no idea who anyone is. I realize this is part of the deal I agree to as a blogger, that I don't get to know who you are, so I will never ask. It's a wonderful mystery to me, one that is better left unsolved.  
  I can just imagine all the stutterers who searched for the word 'stutter' and ended up at this blog. If you're one of them, I'm sure this has been more than you ever bargained for, but I hope the blogs have kept you entertained and interested enough to keep on reading. Same goes for everyone who doesn't stutter. Same goes for everyone who is gay and everyone who isn't, and for everyone who is Jewish and everyone who isn't, and for everyone who is dealing with aging and for everyone who isn't(yet), and for everyone who is not a Republican and for no one who is one, and for everyone who is a parent and for everyone who doesn't have children, and for everyone with the same one partner for years and for everyone with a growing list of ex's ( 6 and counting..), and for everyone with divorced parents and for everyone with parents still married(unbelievable), and for everyone who thinks their mother is crazy and for everyone who is crazy for thinking their mother is crazier than mine, and for everyone else who is reading...
   I'm dedicated to writing this blog and keeping within the time frame I have committed myself to. I take the two week deadline as  seriously as someone would who is going to be to be fired for not having it done on time. I promise to keep writing, and I hope you'll keep reading. I'm at the point of enjoying it so much that I think I would keep on writing even if no one else was reading it.( I'd rather not test this theory).  


                                                       Truly,
                                                       Gary Glassman
                                                       aka Stutterpuss    


    My very first blog at the end of January last year was about my visit to the dermatologist, so it is only appropriate that I begin year # 2 with another visit to see him...
                                                  

THAT DRAG QUEEN HAPPENS TO BE MY MOTHER!

     I know, I know. Every young gay son starts out thinking his mother is the most attractive and the smartest out of all the mothers in the neighborhood until he realizes she's not.  In my case, it was clear early on that my mother, Priscilla, was no Madame Curie. She wasn't good at helping me with book reports and math made her cry. But it was also clear to me that my mother was definitely more attractive than all the other mothers, even the ones with smaller noses. I knew this was true because of all the attention she got, especially from men, whenever she entered a room. 

 OK, everyone calm down. The leopard was placed on The Endangered Species List in 1972 and this photo, of my mother wearing one of her coats from my father's second-   hand fur store, was taken in the early 60's. After she realized wearing it would be illegal, she did what any law-abiding citizen would do - -she had a big chair and a footstool  in our livingroom  reupholstered  with it.   I must admit she does look fabulous .              .

    Throughout my childhood I was always aware that mailmen, maintenance men, cab drivers, bus drivers, doctors, pharmacists, butchers, tailors, and male teachers stared at her a little longer than they looked at the other mothers. When I began junior high, I started to hear comments about how sexy she was from boys around the neighborhood and in school. There wasn't a term back then for what she was, which was actually an earlier version of the present-day MILF. I was strangely proud of this, and enjoyed the extra attention it brought me as her son. Classmates would ask me if she walked around our house naked, and some even offered me money to consider taking pictures of her in the shower.
    After my parents divorced and my brother Mitchell, my sister Missy, and I had all moved out of the house, my mother had actually became a MILF for a few of Mitchell's old high school friends. They would ring her doorbell late at night and leave with Pop-Tarts in the morning. This coincided with the period that my mother also became a MITS, which stands for Mother with Increased Tit  Size.

    She made a special trip into the city to show me her new boobs, and though it was almost 30 years ago, I unfortunately remember it clearly. If I close my eyes I can still see her boobs floating in front of me. They looked like two short bald men banging their heads together.

    My first boyfriend, Scott, remembers my mother's boobs too. He was introduced to them at the same time he was first introduced to her. She came through the front door and immediately lifted her blouse in front of us. Her old bra was having just as hard a time containing the bigger boobs as my mother was having trying to contain her excitement.

      " Aren't they great?" she asked Scott, who was staring wide-eyed at the two boobs like a deer in headlights. Poor Scott nodded, not knowing what else to do. He didn't want to seem rude by looking away so he kept looking at them.

   " Ma, pull your shirt down!" I cringed, holding my hands up to block my view.

   "Oh Gary, don't be embarrassed. I'm very proud of them," she said, pointing her boobs at me.

   " I haven't even introduced you to Scott yet and you're already acting this way! This is exactly why I haven't let you meet him."

   "Hello Scott, I'm Gary's mother Priscilla and these are my new tits, and we're all very happy to meet you,"  she turned back to Scott and said before lowering her blouse to hug him. " You should tell my son he ought to be more appreciative of how hard I try to look good for him. He hasn't even noticed what else is different, " she said, turning back to me.
    I looked at her confused, not knowing what she was talking about. Then I saw it. 
     " Oh my God!" I gasped with my hands up to my mouth in shock." Your nose!"  I'd been so distracted by her boob-job that I didn't notice she had a nose-job too.

       "That's my other surprise," she said, stepping back from Scott to give me a better view of her smaller nose. " It took me 40 years but I finally did it. I think he did a great job. Didn't he, Pooh?" 
     I was absolutely stunned. Because of her, I grew up thinking that big noses were beautiful and having one made me more special. I had always respected how she never cared what some people said about the size of hers, and how she used it to her advantage. 
    "Ma, your nose was such a part of you. You made it work for you all these years. This is the one thing I never thought you would do, " I said with great disappointment.
   " You don't understand certain things, Gary. You don't know what it feels like getting older. it gets harder to look as good. I needed a little help now, that's all this is."
  " You know what you've done, Ma? You've betrayed all people with big noses. Especially Barbra."
   "If I had her money, I wouldn't care how big my nose was either. Barbra Streisand doesn't need to find a man to help her.  I have to. And speaking of that, you can blame your father for this." She turned back to Scott and continued." I'm sure you've met Bernie already. Gary likes to introduce him as his favorite parent now. He doesn't remember what a terrible father and husband he was in the past. Bernie is the one who always said my tits were too small and my nose was too big. Like he's one to talk with a penis like his. It's funny how someone can be such a big prick and have such a small one," she smirked.
    My mother always did her best to degrade my father in front of anyone, even someone she was meeting for the first time. Nothing was ever too personal for her to say, especially if it made my father look bad. I grew up hearing how small my father's penis was, and so did the rest of the kids in the neighborhood. She would drive around Great Neck in our Cadillac yelling out the window, "Bernie Glassman has a small prick!" while Mitchell, Missy and I sat in the backseat. It felt like we were in one of those cars that drive from block to block on Election Day blaring a candidate's name over and over. Sometimes she would even yell it from the passenger window while my father was driving. All he could do was smile and wave out his window like he was the candidate.
    "Now Scott knows how small Dad's penis is and how big your breasts are. Is there anything else you would like him to know before you leave? " I crossed my arms and asked her.
    "Yes, one more thing," my mother said, turning back to Scott. "Bernie's mother Sally has cobwebs in her cunt."  With that said, she told Scott how nice it was to meet and gave him a kiss good-bye.

                                                 *
     By now, my mother's new boobs would be considered old new boobs. But because she had them lifted again, they can technically be considered new new boobs.  No one knows exactly what other plastic surgery she has had done, nor how much money she has spent on it. Her hair weaves alone must cost more than what my father paid her in alimony for the past 25 years.

PRISCILLA WITH HER
 OLD NEW BOOBS.

PRISCILLA AT 71 YEARS OLD 
WITH HER NEW NEW BOOBS

     Priscilla has a unique power to stay remarkably the same. She has managed decade after decade to remain strangely unchanged, both emotionally and physically. Women her age keep growing old around her, which she doesn't particularly feel the necessity to do. She is as original and as creative and as crazy as ever. Hopefully, I've inherited more of her bone structure than her insanity. 

AT 73. GO PRIS!

INVASION OF THE BLUETHERS

    

       It used to be understood that anybody walking alone down the street having a conversation with themselves was crazy. That was before Bluetooth complicated the matter. Now when I see someone alone talking and gesturing to themselves, I have to ask myself are they crazy, or just teleconferencing.  Bluetooth users, or 'Bluethers', are triggering my internal radar that lets me know a crazy person is near. I haven't learned to differentiate between the two yet. The last two people I've seen having fits of stomping and yelling at the empty sidewalk in front of them ended up being Bluethers. A Bluether in a bad mood can be scarier than any crazy person. 

     The only way to know for sure if someone is in fact a Bluether, and not a random crazy person talking to themselves, is to look for a Bluetooth headset. It's usually looped over the ear on the right, but if the Bluether is left-handed, it will be in that ear instead. The headsets are being designed smaller and smaller every year making them harder for me to spot. It's almost impossible to see when someones hairstyle is covering their ears. Occasionally, I've had to get dangerously close just for a glance.

     When I look with odd curiosity and confusion at the Bluethers, are they looking back and pitying me for still being shackled with my cellphone to my ear? I have to admit they do look like the superior being, with two hands free instead of only one hand like me. I'm basically an amputee when I'm holding up my phone. I only have one free hand to unload my shopping cart, carry groceries, do  banking, fold laundry, slide money into automatic fare-collectors on Muni, cook dinner, and clean the dishes. Being in the health care field, I also have to admit that a headset makes more sense ergonomically, and it probably won't give me brain cancer as fast as my cellphone is reportedly doing. 

     Seeing people around me enjoying this new freedom of hands-free phone calls is still a bit disconcerting. It's like seeing someone ride a bicycle without holding the handlebars. It's just going to take a little more time until the Bluethers become less unnerving and more immediately recognizable. They are going to become such an ordinary sight that no one talking to themselves will look crazy anymore, not even crazy people. Crazy people will just have to find other ways of looking crazy. Or they could wear a Bluetooth headset too, and look like they're talking to someone else even when they're not. Bluetooth has the unique ability to make sane people look crazy and crazy people look sane. 

   There's no denying that this technology is on its way to becoming the standard way we will all communicate. Eventually everyone who has a cell phone, including me, will be a Bluether. Streets will be filled with people talking to the air in front of them, and we'll all look normal. Bluetooth devices will become so commonplace that holding up a phone to your ear will be as laughable as rotary phones attached to the wall.

    For now, I'm sticking with my cellphone.The tipping point hasn't happened yet. I'll know when it's time, just like I knew when it was time to get a cellphone. That was after bad-mouthing cellphones of course, which I usually do to something before I totally embrace it. 

   A few days ago, I was given a sign from God that He agrees I should wait.

   I was walking home behind Safeway on the side street where homeless men and women line-up a few times a week to cash in bottles and cans at San Francisco Community Recyclers. On the sidewalk right next to me was a stylish guy probably only in his late twenties dressed in a business suit, with great shoulder-length hair half-covering a very small Bluetooth headset he was talking into. I was holding my cellphone up to my ear and having a conversation too. One of the women with an unlit bent cigarette dangling from her gray lower lip stepped out of line and positioned herself on the sidewalk right in between us. As we approached her, she made eye contact with me first, but I quickly pointed to my phone at my ear, letting her clearly see I was busy talking. She immediately turned her attention to the other guy and interrupted him to ask for a light and money.

     "Why are you bothering me? Can't you see I'm on the phone!" the guy barked at her.

     " No I can't. Where is it? Up your ass, asshole!" she yelled back at him. 

  I smirked to myself and walked away pressing the cellphone affectionately against my ear.

TEATH & CRUMPETS

    Two blogs ago I dragged  you on  a journey up my colon from which I trust you all returned unharmed. I must again ask you to join me in a visit to another one of my body cavities. This time it's only my mouth. Specifically, there's a few things about my teeth and gums I would like to discuss.  It's certainly not as offensive as discussing my colonoscopy. (The irony of this is that my mouth and the words which come out of it have been much more offensive to people than anything that has come out of my ass). 

    Please don't think now that I'm 50 these blogs are turning into a medical journal to chronicle my various doctors appointments. It's just coincidence that my dentist appointment was a week after my colonoscopy. I had no idea that as the hygienist was cleaning my teeth a blog would start uncontrollably forming in my head. That's how it seems to happen with me, when suddenly something becomes blog-worthy.
     My dentist's office is in the 450 Sutter Building. If an earthquake knocks it down, half the dentists in San Francisco will be knocked down with it. It would deliver a fatal blow to oral care in the city, leaving us with even less dentists than there are in England. I sat with my legs elevated and my head tilted back in the high-tech automated examination chair that looked like it was designed by NASA. I imagined the earthquake flinging me and the chair out of the big tinted window, and a parachute built into the chair opens to glide me safely down from the 21st floor as all the other patients in cheaper chairs from different offices zoom passed me and crash onto the sidewalk below.
      Everything in Dr. C's office is custom-built and state-of-the-art. The sleek, long-armed  X-ray machine instantaneously develops the images of my teeth onto a flat-screen attached to the wall, and I am given a power-point presentation of my decay. The expensive machine emits much lower doses of radiation than the big old clunky ones, but all the female employees of child-bearing age still run out of the room before the X-rays are taken. Even with the leadspread always covering me, the amount of radiation from all the dental X-rays I've been exposed to in my lifetime must by now equal the amount released by one of the reactors at the Fukushima Nuclear Power Plant after the tsunami. Luckily my sperm is just for show anyway, so I nonchalantly sit back as the machine zaps me.
     The office has been renovated twice since I started coming here when I first moved to San Francisco 17 years ago. I met Dr. C. on the beach as he was jogging in a Speedo, which is the way all his patients wished they met him. I was even more under-dressed for our introduction, only wearing my headphones. We started talking and I found out he was a dentist and he found out  I needed a dentist, which for both of us immediately cancelled out ever having sex with each other.
    He is Greek and so good-looking that I'm sure at one point he had to decide whether to be a dentist or a movie star. His eyes are the blue that you wish the water in The Bay would be, and his hair is the blackest thing on a sunny beach. And no matter how long you went to him as your dentist your smile would never be as beautiful as his. Some beautiful smiles are merely white blinds that hide what's going on inside, but his smile glows from a genuine warmth and generous spirit. He could be much more intimidating to people if he chose to be, but instead he's made himself as welcoming as possible. After our conversation ended and he jogged away that day on the beach, I watched as he stopped to speak to someone he knew every 50 feet. Each person got the same big hug from him no matter what they looked like. An old man in a thong and a pale obese man in a sarong got the same amount of attention that he had given to a tanned body builder. I remember being impressed by it back then, and I'm still amazed at how effortlessly he can speak to all different kinds of people and make each one feel special. He treats his patients more like guests and his workplace more like home. Understanding this about Dr. C. helps to explain why his is the only dental office in the whole building that serves biscuits, baklava, cookies, and crumpets along with fruit juices,coffee, and tea in the waiting area. Everything else about his office is about the betterment of your teeth except for this last minute sabotaging right before you are seen, which I always fall victim to. 

     Every time I get my teeth cleaned by a different hygienist, I have to sit through her shock when she rolls back my lips and sees my receding gum line. Emily, who I was seeing for the first time, is too young to have any of the teeth problems she sees in patients my age.   " Wow Mr. Glassman. Has anyone spoken with you about your gums? Are they very sensitive?" she asked me with great concern.

    " Physically or emotionally? " I ask back " They're only sensitive when people gasp at them."

      " I didn't mean they're all bad. It's only in some spots," she quickly added, trying to lessen the blow.
     " Don't worry," I've been getting that reaction for years," I smiled up at her.
     " Has anyone ever spoken to you about dental floss?"
      " Is it something new on the market?"
      She looked at me in disbelief for a moment then smiled when she realized I was joking. Poor  Emily. She was new and so enthusiastic. As she gave her flossing speech, I could see her belief in the power of it, and she wanted me to believe in it too. But she had no idea how many hygienists before her had tried for decades to get me to floss. It's like hearing about safe sex. I've already heard all there is to know about floss and condoms, and I've obviously made my decision not to listen. No amount of educating me seems to make a difference. I am thoroughly education-proof on these two subjects. There are the condom wearers and the non-wearers, and there are the flossers and the non-flossers.This is not to say that condoms and floss are that much alike. One could save your life and the other can only save a tooth or two. The one thing they do have in common is their unimportance in my life. To be honest, I can explain why I don't use condoms much more easily than why I don't bother to floss. For some inextricable reason I've not been able to find the two extra minutes a day it would take for the past 30 years.
    To make Emily happy I promised I would try harder. Proud of herself, she moved on to scraping the tartar from what she described as deep pockets, which always makes me think of pants. Along with the tartar she scraped out a remnant of food, which I insisted was baklava. After all the scraping and polishing was finished, Emily went out of the room and  Dr. C came in. He always looks just as good covered up in a shirt and tie as he did in a Speedo.
      I sprang up from the examination chair with my spit bib still on." Hi Honey. Great to see you, " I said as we hugged each other. " Don't be mad at me but I think I frightened Emily with my gums."
   " I wouldn't be surprised if she quits after seeing them, Gary."
   " I'm beginning to question if I even need gums. Look at this gorgeous smile still, " I said pointing with both hands at my mouth as I flashed him a big one." That's without ever flossing."
   " I will never understand why some of my patients refuse to floss."
  " I am not refusing, I'm forgetting." I corrected him.
  " It's the biggest mystery to me how that happens."
  " Well it's the biggest mystery to me why you serve baked goods in a dentist office."
   " Leave my baked goods alone. That's how my mother raised me. When people come over, you give them food."
   " I can't leave them alone. That's the problem. Emily pulled out a chunk of baklava between my teeth. I was going to make her keep it so I could show you."
   He rolled his eyes but couldn't help laughing. " Come on, let's see what's going on in your mouth," he said, motioning for me to sit in the exam chair again.
    He looked at the X-rays then did a few tests in my mouth with a sharp stainless steel pic. Even though I love to see him, having him examine my teeth is when I always get the bad news. It is usually a bad sign when he spends more time on one tooth than on the others, and when he asks for more X-rays it is even a worse sign. And when he says he has to show the X-ray to the periodontist, I know I'm really screwed. Even with the $2000 my dental plan gives me every 12 months, I still usually wind up owing money by the end of the year.
    By some stroke of luck, 10 months have passed already and I only spent $500 so far. I never had so much left so far into the year. I was waiting for him to ask Emily for more X-rays on something but he said that my teeth look fine. 
   " That means I've got $1500 of insurance still left," I  raised my head and excitedly said.
    " That's a good amount for an emergency if one happens in the next 2 months.  You never know, Gary."
    " Screw the emergency! I'm going on a shopping spree!" I swung my legs off the elevated chair and sat facing him. "What can I get for $1500? Tell me, tell me," I said giddily as I quickly tapped my feet and clapped my hands.
     We decided the best idea was to spend it on a new bonding procedure that fills in any gaps where the gum line is too low.  I had until December 31st to spend it, and I was determined to use every dollar I had coming to me. " Try to get it as close to the fifteen hundred as possible. If  it goes over a little I'll take care of it. Just don't let  it go under." The secretary calculated how many appointments I would need and then scheduled them. I usually only take the 8:00 AM ones because of my work schedule but I had to take whatever times were available to squeeze in the number we needed before the end of the year.
    The secretary called out to me just as I was leaving the table with the baked goods and heading for the door. " Gary, we forgot! When do you want your next cleaning appointment!"
    I turned around to face her with a huge slice of baklava in one hand and some crumpets in the other and two almond biscottis in my chest pocket of my scrub top. I looked down at all the sweets I was carrying and then back at her. " Probably in five minutes!"
    

  

  

   

AN ENDING WITH A TWIST

     Every year I receive automatically-generated birthday cards from my dentist's office, from my gym, from my All-State insurance representative,  from my tanning salon offering me one free tan each September, from The Sunglasses Hut offering me a 20% discount,  and from the hospital where I work offering me one free meal in the cafeteria. Because it was my 50th birthday,  I also automatically got  the lovely gift of a colonoscopy from my Health Insurance Plan. It was the most expensive birthday gift I ever received. It touched my heart, and it touched my colon even deeper.

     You have to be crazy to think I wouldn't blog about my first colonoscopy. It's the perfect topic for me not to keep private. I knew I had to write it when the Receptionist at the Registration Counter of The Gastro -Intestinal Surgical Department thought I said  " I'm Gary Assman, here for my colonoscopy. "

     " Assman, Assman.... ," she repeated as she looked through the list of patients on her clipboard. " I don't see Assman here," she said, still searching the list.

     "Glassman ," I laughed. " For Dr. Hobbs."   

       Embarrassed, she apologized and quickly found my name as I continued to laugh about it.

     I was with my ex-boyfriend, Alex, who was going to drive me back to his place once I was finished. He was standing beside me rolling his eyes at the joy the receptionist's mistake was bringing  me. " She saying 'Assman'  just made the whole colonoscopy worth it for you. You just love these ass jokes. I'm sure you're going to make the operating room a real chuckle-fest, Gary."

   "  That's Mr. Assman to you,  my good man." I raised my eyebrows and looked down my nose at him with exaggerated formality.  

    " Oh really? Does Mr. Assman want to take the bus home?' Alex smirked." Mr. Assman better get his Assman over to that nurse who's waiting for you, "  he pointed, giving me a good luck peck on my lips.  

   "Thanks again for taking care of me today, " I said to him in the one moment of seriousness I allowed myself.

    The nurse gave me the same type of gown that I hand to patients at my hospital. Designed to open in the back, it had to have been originally conceived by a proctologist or someone else very interested in asses. It was perfect for the morning's events. I was more than happy to play the patient and be pampered for a change, even if it was for such an unpleasant reason.

    Soon after, I was wheeled into an elevator up to the Surgery Floor.  I held my head up for a better view as my gurney rolled through one set of double-doors and then another, then right into the operating room. Waiting for me was a troupe of strangers dressed in surgical gowns and caps.  I can't remember how many or even who some of  them were. They had introduced themselves, but I lost count at six.  

.    " Is the hospital selling tickets to this?" I joked.

     " If you're at all uncomfortable with us observing, we can leave. It's always the patient's choice. We'll tell Dr. Hobbs as soon as he arrives, " one of the interns immediately offered.

     " Oh no not at all, " I assured the intern. " The more the merrier. Believe me, I have absolutely no modesty or shame. And anyway, I'm in the business too. I do inpatient P.T. and my intern just finished a few weeks ago, so I totally understand and don't mind. I would be an asshole if I didn't let you see my asshole." Everyone laughed, which helped lighten the mood." You really don't have to worry about me getting embarrassed," I reassured them. I imagined how awkward the whole experience would be for someone more shy  than I, especially when one of the nurses gave her lecture on the importance of farting.

       " Don't hold back, " she warned me. " Whenever you feel the urge, let it out. We have to pump air inside you to open things up, and the only way to get it back out is by you releasing it the good 'ol natural way. The last thing you want is a lot of  air trapped up there. The more gas you pass during the procedure means the less cramping you'll have after. I highly recommend that you try your best."

   " This is the first time in my life I'm being ordered to fart," I laughed out loud.

   At that moment, my doctor came through the double-doors. " Why is there always laughs coming from the O.R. when it's a colonoscopy? Nobody laughs like this when I'm doing a liver biopsy, " he smiled and said his good mornings to everyone.

    " Doctor Hobbs, I  just want to tell you that I've been ordered to fart as much as I can," I warned him.

    " Did they tell you that? They're all malicious liars," he said with a straight face as the rest of them laughed. He then sat down on his stool and rolled over to the gurney right next to my ass and told me to turn on my side as the anesthesia drip was started." O.K. let's begin," Dr. Hobbs said. 

    That was the last thing I remember. The next sound I heard was Alex's voice in the Recovery Room. I was still groggy and totally confused. I wasn't supposed to fall asleep, I was just supposed to be loopy and awake. Alex stood beside me as I clumsily got dressed. Before we left the office the Receptionist handed me a copy of my colonoscopy results. My stomach was starting to cramp so I didn't stop to read right then, but I looked at it as we walked to Alex's car. 

    The results said very plainly that I had a 'tortuous colon'. I stopped on the sidewalk and made Alex read it.

     " How is my colon tortured? I only thought my childhood was tortured," I asked Alex as he read it to himself.

      He handed it back to me, took out his iPhone and quickly pulled up his dictionary app. "Look," he passed me the phone, " your colon isn't tortured,  It's a completely different word. See, there's no second 'R'. It means 'having excessive twists, bends, or turns'."

     It turns out that a 'tortuous colon' is simply one that is longer than normal with at least one or two extra twists.

   

My dear friend Graham explained it in even more simple terms by comparing my colon to the scariest ride at WaterWorld called 'THE TORNADO '

   When your colon has these extra twists and turns, expelling all the pumped-in air from a colonoscopy is much more difficult and causes extreme cramping. Because I was knocked out and didn't fart enough like the nurse told me to during the colonoscopy, almost all the air was still inside me after it was done. I ended up having terrible cramps for 5 hours, until I was able to start farting. I never thought I would welcome farts so wholeheartedly, and consider each one a kind friend.

"Mommy, Mommy! Timmy is lost inside!"

    If something has to be misshapen about me, at least it's on the inside. The good news is that a tortuous colon is not an indicator or symptom of any serious health concern. I'm happy to report that Dr. Hobbs said I have nothing to worry about. There was no sign of polyps, cancer, or Timmy.

 

REDHEAD ROULETTE

    
       By the time I had written Part 3 of  'KICK, KICK......" my intern had actually finished her rotation with me and had officially graduated. It turned out to be an amazing experience for both us, and finally made me realize all the worrying I have done over my stuttering has been a colossal waste of energy. It's time for me to finally put that worry to rest, but not before one more story. This is the story that takes me back to the beginning.  How my career all began and what I went through on the most nerve-racking day of my life--going on my first job interview as a new graduate at 30 years old.
      It was not only my first job interview in the field of Physical Therapy, it was my first real job interview anywhere. I had worked in my family's second-hand fur store since I was ten years old, and the job interview my grandmother Sally gave me was handing me a list of groceries that I had to bring back from the deli on the corner so she could make tuna fish sandwiches in the back office of the fur store. Luckily, I got the job even though I forgot to bring back the big pickle she asked for. The truth was I  was too scared that I would stutter when I asked the man behind the counter to get one out of the big jar.
      When our fur store went out of business 18 years later, I knew I would be faced with having to find a new career and then having to be hired  by a stranger who would give me a harder interview than Grandma Sally.  I couldn't imagine that anyone who wasn't family would actually hire me with my stutter. That's why I chose Physical Therapy in the first place. I thought it wouldn't involve having to do as much talking as say, a trial lawyer, or, a telemarketer, or even worse, a ventriloquist or worse than that, an air traffic controller.
     From the first day I started college, I was already dreading all the job interviews I would have to go on after the three years it was going to take to finish. As graduation got closer, my dread grew. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone, including my boyfriend at the time, Pepe, or even Scott--my first ex and best friend who I told everything to--how overwhelmed I felt about even the thought of job-hunting. It made Graduation Day one of the proudest and one of the scariest days of my life.
    The school was in Miami, and both Pepe and I had had enough of the vapid beach scene and wanted to move back to New York. That meant I couldn't start job hunting until we were back up North, which I was secretly thrilled about. By the time we found a sublet in Chelsea that allowed our two boxers, Bronski and Mack, three months had passed. I still had a little money left from the fur store days but it was quickly running out. Pepe had left his job as an architect at I.M.Pei when we moved down to Florida, but could only find freelance work when we got back. Within another two months, my money was all gone and he was supporting both of us. It was starting to get obvious to him, along with my family and our friends, that I wasn't trying to find a job as enthusiastically as everyone assumed I would be. I started looking in the 'want ads' section of several newspapers and found plenty of jobs for Physical Therapists but only one for what I was, a Physical Therapist Assistant.
                                                 WANTED       
                                    PTA  WITH GOOD HANDS               
                         CAROL GREENBERG PHYSICAL THERAPY
                                      24 EAST 86 TH STREET
                                                885-6638
   It was in the paper for two weeks which meant no one had been hired yet. I was relieved, even though I waited for the third week it was in the paper to call. Well, actually I called and hung up. It was a start. I had to hear what kind of voice would answer. Her name was Robin, and I figured she had to be Carol Greenberg's secretary. She didn't sound rushed or impatient. A good sign.
   I knew I had to call soon, before someone else was hired. Without telling Pepe, on the Friday of the third week I went to a phone booth right near a construction site on 10th Avenue where the sound of bulldozers and jackhammers would help drown out my stuttering and force the conversation to be brief. I took a deep breath, put a quarter in the phone and dialed the number that I had already memorized. The background noise worked perfectly. Robin quickly checked Carol Greenberg's calendar and loudly asked if I cold come in that afternoon. I panicked and said loudly back that I couldn't, and asked if there was a time on Monday. We arranged the interview for Monday morning and I thanked her loudly, and apologized for the noise again before we hung up.
    I was thrilled that I got through the first phone hurdle, and was very proud of myself even though I cheated a little. The interview, being after the weekend, gave me time to practice exactly what I was going to say. Unfortunately, it also gave me two days to totally stress out. I hardly slept on Sunday night, and was up at 5 A.M. ironing dressy pants and a shirt that I had to borrow from Pepe. I never wore ties, so he had to tie it for me before I left.
     Carol Greenberg's office was right around the corner from The Metropolitan Museum in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the whole city.  As I approached the door, a UPS delivery man was leaving the office at the same time and held it open for me, giving me no time to wish myself luck before I stepped inside.   
    Ironically, the one thing I can't remember is what the interview was actually like. At least half of it is a blur. Looking back, I don't know which I did more of, stuttering or sweating. I do remember how my hands were sweating so much when Carol had me massage and stretch her neck that I didn't even need any massage cream. I felt a droplet of sweat slide off my forehead and watched in horror as it splashed onto her pile of flaming red hair, which luckily, she didn't feel. I kept wiping the sweat from my face,  praying she wouldn't open her eyes as she laid face up on a treatment table in one of the four small rooms she had for patients to be treated privately in.  She didn't say anything but was sighing pleasurably when I rotated her head and stretched her trapezius in my palms.
     "Madeline's on the phone. She says it's important," Robin knocked on the door.
  Carol's eyes popped open and she sprang off the table. " Don't let her hang up!" Carol yelled to Robin  as she grabbed her earrings and white lab coat.  She moved with great comic craziness that made me smile as she struggled to get an earring on with one arm in the coat and the other sleeve still hanging.  "You're hired. You better do the same thing  to my patients that you just did to me," she warned me with a very serious face as she stuck the other arm in her coat and pointed at the table and then at me. "Except for all the schwitzing. The patients I get around here don't like to be dripped on. If ties make you sweat that much, don't wear one. A lab coat or jacket like mine is fine. OK?"
      I nodded, too shocked to speak.
      "Carol, Madeline says she's hanging up!" Robin called out from the front desk.
      "I'm coming, I'm coming!"  Carol yelled back, moving as fast and frantic as Bozo The Clown running from a room on fire.
        I soon learned that the Madeline was no other than Madeline Kahn, Carol's best friend. That's how funny and crazy and cool Carol is. She is  Jewish, of course, and divorced, of course, and was able to start her own private practice, buy her expensive office space, and support her son from childhood without any financial help from her ex-husband back in the early 70's. This was a time when none of the women she knew had her courage or self-reliance. The mortgage was huge and her office maintenance charges were high so she worked as hard as a yak plowing a potato field. Her entire livelihood depended on her P.T. business, which was also the only source of income she had to take care of her son. By hiring me as her only assistant and her only other employee, besides Robin, she was essentially gambling her entire economic future. My stuttering could have very likely made  patients uncomfortable enough to stop coming, and turned her business into a morgue. Carol was putting everything on the Roulette Wheel and letting me spin it for her. 

        Luckily for both of us, her gamble paid off. The society matrons and other wealthy Upper East-Siders, who Carol treated, loved being gently manhandled by me, and I was constantly studying and developing treatment protocols for each patient's injury. Carol loved that I was taking care of the tedious specifics, which she herself couldn't be bothered with as she went from patient to patient hugging and kissing and taking them into the private treatment rooms where they told her things that they usually only told to their shrinks. We were the perfect team, and we laughed everyday for three years.    
      

                                       One of our favorite patients, Mrs. B. She was so proud of her hamstring stretch that she insisted we take a picture. I think she used it for her Christmas Card photo that year
                                           



      Then one day I had to tell Carol I was moving to California. Pepe had broken my heart and I had to leave. Scott was waiting for me and Bronski and Mack in San Fransisco, where he and his boyfriend, Jason, were going to give me and the dogs a place to live until I found another job. Carol and I hugged each other and cried.
      "What am I going to do without you, my darling? Who's going to make me laugh?" she sobbed.
      "You'll never know how much you've given me. I would never have the confidence to make this move if it wasn't for you.  You showed me how good I was. You believed in me from the start."
       "I remember the first day you came in for your interview," she shook her head in disbelief and dried her eyes. "It seems so long ago."
       I dried my eyes and took hold of her hands. "I've been wanting to ask you something all this time. Why did you ever chance hiring me with my stutter?"
       She took a deep breath and  looked me straight in the eyes. "Darling, when you walked in here and started with the stuttering, I was sitting there thinking to myself  'You gotta' be kidding. Not in a million years',  but then you smiled that smile of yours and made me laugh about who knows what, and suddenly the stutter didn't matter to me. I don't know how you did. You cast a spell on me" she grinned, putting her hand on my cheek. "And when you rolled up your sleeves to give me that neck massage and I saw those big hairy forearms and felt your strong hands, I knew my patients would love you too."
     "You gambled on me, Carol. And I'll never forget it. Thank you from the bottom of my heart," I said as I started to cry again.
      "All anyone ever has to do is look beyond your stutter and it's no gamble at all," she cupped my hands in her hands and raised them to her lips for one last kiss. 

Carol and I on the day before I left for San Francisco , May 1995

                           

KICK, KICK, STOMP, STOMP, ONE and TWO and CHA CHA CHA part 3

    As my intern and I shook hands for the first time, I wondered how soon she would realize I had a speech problem. I certainly didn't want to start off with a major stutter that would take a stomp, kick, or a thigh punch to get the word out. I made a promise to myself not to do any self-flagellation that would shock her too much.
    Even though I knew how absurd being so nervous was, I couldn't help feeling like I was showing up for a job interview that was going to be two months long. I tried to remind myself that I was the one in-charge and what she thought of me didn't even matter, but as soon as we met I was doing my best to entertain and impress her. 
   Her name, which I can't say, does not start with an m,p,l,d,b,t,f, or any other of the letters I have most trouble saying, so I said it with ease when we met. Let's just call her Val. From the personal information facts sheet she had mailed me, I envisioned Val as a tom-boy blond in gym shorts and cleats ready to throw a ball at me. Luckily I was wrong, which I usually am when imagining a situation that hasn't taken place yet. Val hid her jock tendencies well, and at first glance you would think she would be the one who couldn't catch a ball, not me.   
   Her first morning was spent filling out paperwork for the P. T. Department. Then, after lunch she was scheduled to just follow and observe me as I treated my four afternoon patients. Essentially, this meant she was going to be my portable audience, watching every movement I make and listening to every word I say in front of patients and in between treatments. It was my own reality show that I didn't want to be on. I love attention, but only if I'm in control of when it starts and when it stops. Being observed is the worst form of attention. It usually happens to you from behind and you can't tell what the observer is thinking, like being watched from a 2-way mirror. Having an intern is like being watched through a 2-way mirror, only the mirror is gone and you knows she's there. It just adds to my performance anxiety, which as a stutterer has always been at such a high level that only stutterers are able to manage it without exploding.
     I was ready for the worst, but treatment after treatment went flawlessly. Val watched as I sat on a rolling stool inside the parallel bars helping a patient walk 10 feet after she hadn't taken a step in over two months, as other therapists cheered and the patient's sister cried with joy. Then Val watched as I transferred a quadriplegic patient, who's neck was hurting and still in a hard collar, using a squat-pivot technique safely and painlessly from her power wheelchair onto a therapy mat. I made it look as smooth and effortless as Michelle Kwan doing a Triple Axel. The patient and her husband were thrilled that I did it without causing her any neck pain and wanted it videoed for everyone to see. I could see the awe in Val's eyes. My speech was almost flawless too. I had worked with both patients before so I didn't have to deal with introducing myself, and saying Val's name seemed to be easy enough for me. I did have a few small stutters during the treatments but I was pretty sure I was able to hide them in the movements I made to help the patients. The third patient was an eighty-year old man with a broken leg who I had been working with also. I helped him get up and down a flight of stairs for the first time using both hands on one rail and only bearing weight on his good leg. Miracle after miracle was happening. I felt like Jesus on one of His better days. 
     The last patient was one I didn't know yet but I was so pumped with confidence that I didn't even care. We reviewed the chart, and went over the patient's history, the diagnosis, and the precautions. The patient had Parkinson's Disease, had a urinary tract infection which was causing altered mental status, was hard of hearing and blind in one eye, and had gotten a bed sore at home from not moving in bed enough so he was on a special inflatable air mattress to prevent any further skin breakdown. 
     " This is a good example of a basic treatment. Nothing fancy like the last three. We'll just help him learn how to roll and come up and down on the edge of the bed," I explained, avoiding the words 'move' and  'sit' which are guaranteed  stutters for me.     
       I knocked on the patient's door and walked right in. " Hi, I'm Gary from P.T. and this is Val my student," I said quickly without giving myself a moment to pause and possibly stutter.
      " What? " the patient said, squinting at me. 
      "Gary from P.T.," I said with a louder voice.
      "What's P.T.? "
      " Fffffff." My throat closed on the 'ph' of physical and I couldn't get any sound out. I tried to start over three times but the only thing coming out sounded like a tire that was leaking. It was such a long stutter that I actually felt like I has having an out of body experience as I floated above watching myself struggling to get the word out.
      " I can't hear you!" the patient complained. " Speak up!"
      "Ffffff.." I got so desperate with my speech that I gave a stomp and a kick, and my foot accidentally hit the CPR EMERGENCY RELEASE button sticking out from the bed frame. With a loud, quick puff the big air mattress instantaneously deflated and the patient sunk down into the folds. I quickly hit the RE-SET button and the mattress re-inflated almost as quickly as it deflated. 
     "What just happened?" the patient asked, very confused. 
     " I fixed your bed. It was broken, " I said, not knowing what else to say.
     " Oh, well that's a good thing then. Glad you did. But you still didn't tell me who you are."
     " We're from Physical Therapy and we're here to help you," Val stepped forward.
     " Oh good. I like you people," the patient smiled and clapped his hands.
     Val turned to me and gave me a quick wink and smiled. " This is going to be the best six weeks."
     Usually I don't like to be rescued from a stutter, but I allowed Val to throw me a life-preserver this one time and one time only. I smiled back at her, more appreciative than embarrassed. I agreed with her that the next six weeks was going to be a great experience for both of us.




       

 
 

KICK, KICK, STOMP, STOMP, ONE and TWO and CHA CHA CHA - PART 2

   I didn't know if I should e-mail my intern before she arrived to warn her about my stutter. At least to explain about any kicking, stomping, or thigh punching that may occur. What if she was warned already? Maybe the woman in-charge of my hospital's intern program phoned the school to prepare them for the surprise. Imagine if my intern isn't even the one first assigned to me.What if none of the other Physical Therapy Assistant interns wanted a stuttering Clinical Instructor, and the intern I'm getting is being forced to come after drawing the shortest straw? Or maybe she's volunteering to be with me for extra credit, like I'm some kind of special project.
   The only things I know about this intern are what's on the personal facts sheet she filled out about herself-- how she spends time outside of school, her involvement in extra curricular activities, how she sees herself as a student, and what area of P.T. is of particular interest to her. For starters, she's 20 and I'll be 50 in 3 days. That means she could be my daughter, but only if I had waited until I reached 30. If I fathered her when I was 20 , she would be 30 now. That's how much older I am. She might even know a grandfather my age. The facts sheet also says she loves sports, nature, and family, which happens to be the three things in this world I like least. One of the more personal things she admits to is that she can't help being a perfectionist. I'm going to have to admit to her I can't help not being one.  And, as far as her particular interest goes, she wants to treat young amputee soldiers from the Middle East wars. I'm personally not a fan of soldiers, nor am I as skilled at treating amputations as I am with strokes, and the closest I've come to helping a Middle East casualty was once treating an Iraqi cab driver who lost 2 toes trying to stomp out fireworks on his front porch somewhere in South San Francisco where he lived. As far as I can tell, my intern and I have absolutely nothing in common. We definitely wouldn't be a match on E-Harmony.
   I decided it was a good idea to send the e-mail just to break the ice before she arrived, and joke about my stutter a little and how she and I are complete opposites. My co-worker and dear friend, Ali, was totally against the idea and was determined to stop me.
  "  It's just going to be something simple and funny. I know what I'm doing, don't worry," I assured her.
  " You saying don't worry always makes me worry, Gary. You forget that what's 'simple and funny' to you is usually shocking to other people, especially to a 20 year-old girl who doesn't even know you. I've had students before, you haven't. I've never contacted any of them in advance. You can't be like you are with me, or like you are with the women here. You'll write something that this girl will take the wrong way and tomorrow you'll be getting a phone call from her Supervising Professor, and the whole thing is going to blow up in your face. I'm telling you, Gary. Please listen to me. Do not email this girl. Trust me, I'm right about this."  
   " What makes you so right about this?"'
   She sighed and looked at me like it was the most obvious answer in the world. " Because I am always right, and you are always wrong."
     I paused and thought about it. " Hmm, good point," I agreed, having to admit that Ali does happen to be right quite a bit of the time. Her husband can attest to this.
    " Don't worry so much, Gary. She'll love you after she meets you, like everybody in this whole hospital does. You're going to be a great Instructor. You love being the center of attention anyway, even with your stutter. This is your big chance."
    A few of the other women I work with came into the back office after eating lunch and got in on the conversation to tell me how ridiculous I was being for worrying about my speech.    

"Your speech will putter, not a sound you will mutter, for a week you will stutter"

   " Oh really? Try stuttering for a week and get back to me. Then we'll see how you feel," I told them. If only I was Endora from Bewitched I would have swung my arms up and turned them into stutterers just so they could experience what I've had to go through.
    " All of you think it's easy because I make it look so easy. But believe me, it's not. I've been stuttering since I was six, so that's 44 years worth of stuttering. I must have stuttered on at least a million words. And I still have 20-30 years of stuttering left. That could be another million stutters!" I calculated, even shocking myself with the amount. "Just imagine how many patients I've had to stutter in front of. Thousands!"
  "But they all love you too, just like we do," Ali reassured me. Each of the other women named a different room of a patient who loved working with me.  
   "I know, I know. Of course the patients love me. If I wasn't as lovable, everyone would see how much more annoying my stutter would be. That's the bottom line," I explained. " I have to make everybody I speak to love me, which is almost more exhausting to do than stuttering." I happened to stutter especially long on the m of 'make' and 'more' which helped to drive home my point " You see how much worse my speech is getting by the minute? I can't say  'm's' now! Thank God my intern isn't named Maureen MacMannis from Marymount College." Everyone laughed as we left the office, which made stuttering on the added m's worth it. In the elevator up to see all our patients, Ali looked me in the eye. " No sending that e-mail, right?' she asked just to make sure.
   " Yes, I promise I will wait until I stutter in her face in person."
                                         
                                        *
                                               Part 3 on the way