#Canadian Clinical Trail Assignment Help

[rprogrammingassignmenthelp-blog]

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[strengthrequireskindness]

Aaaaa I wanna write a Batfam fanfic but my brain is fried

So I'm gonna post a Drabble here and see the response it gets

@this-canadian-girl and @desolationofzara this one's for you! Thanks for your help!

---

Najida sighed. Like every day before, her mother's eyes were unfocused, staring off into space. Sliding onto the bed, she leaned forward, waving a hand in front of her face. Nothing.

She didn't know why she kept hoping for a miracle. She should know by now that Gotham didn't deal in miracles. All it gave was hurt.

The doctors at Leslie Thompkins' clinic had been very clear when they said Tien Tran would never regain her memory, or even her ability to walk. The injuries to her head and spine were too severe. The once-proud Arkham guard, on a fast track to promotion, now couldn't even remember that she had a daughter. All Najida was to her was a stranger who, for some reason, was assigned to look after her.

Sure, it hurt a lot. So did knowing that she had to take care of her mother instead of getting the education she so desperately wanted. Her father had helped at first, taking a high-risk job at a new biomedical company. Apparently, high-risk involved finding your father's body in a pool of blood and a nightmare creature standing over it....

She shook her head, adjusting her hijab so it wouldn't fall in her face. There wasn't time to reminisce now. She was running late already.

Shoving the disused wheelchair in front of the door to the side, (it had broken a year ago, and they couldn't afford to replace it) she rushed out the door, snagging her heavy bag as she did so.

A blast of cold air hit her in the face as she jogged down the steps of their crappy apartment. December weather wasn't always snowy in Gotham, but it was never not freezing.

She picked up the pace a little, her borderline-threadbare jacket doing no part of its intended job.

---

Living in the Narrows sucked. The library was tiny, crime was rampant, and they had the good fortune of being smack-dab next to Arkham Asylum. But hey, Najida thought sarcastically. At least we have a coffee shop!

Personally, she hated coffee. It tasted awful no matter what you put into it. And the manager was a jerk. If so much wasn't at stake, she would definitely have quit a long time ago. But she needed the money. If she didn't have money, she and her mother would be out on the street in December weather, with nowhere else to go.

Crime wasn't an option, either. Even if she wanted to (which she didn't), she was the kid of an Arkham guard. Any gang worth their salt would kill her on the spot.

So she grit her teeth and headed in, preparing for yet another dull day as a barista at the Bat-Bean.

---

It had been a slow day. Most baristas didn't want to work on such a cold day, and the manager was off yelling at another poor employee, leaving Najida to man the counter. Even when she took a break at lunchtime and after to pray and eat, there were still no people coming in. Just a few more minutes, she told herself. Then your shift's over, and you'll be home free.

There weren't many customers, most people electing to do their Christmas shopping instead. As a Muslim, Najida was happy not to have that problem. Too much stress if you asked her.

She was surprised when the bell on the door jangled, heralding the arrival of the first and also the last customers she'd had all day. Even before the door opened, she could hear them bickering.

"Grayson, this is stupid."

"What's stupid about getting Timbo his much-needed coffee?"

"You didn't have to take me along."

Even from her position at the counter, Najida could hear the disdain in the kid's voice. Perhaps this day would actually turn out to be interesting. If nothing else, she might get to see a tantrum.

They moved up to the counter, and she was able to get a glimpse of them for the first time.

The kid was short, about ten if she had to guess. His features were Middle Eastern, but the country of origin she had no clue about. Contrary to what most people thought, the Middle East was actually a pretty big place. The glare in his eyes promised murder, though. It reminded her a little of the homicidal kids in a horror movie she shouldn't have watched when she was little.

The other customer seemed to be in his twenties. His build was sleek and muscular, without an inch of fat on him. This was a guy who definitely worked out. Black hair and blue eyes completed the look, making him seem weirdly similar to the kid next to him. Maybe they were related?

She cleared her throat, and both heads whipped around to look at her, eyes lingering on her for a bit longer than she was comfortable with.

Najida was used to stares. As a part-Pakistani, part-Syrian, and part-Vietnamese kid of immigrants, she definitely stood out. And that was even before you factored the hijab into the equation. That didn't mean she had to like the attention, though.

"Um, hi. As interesting as your argument is, do you want to order?"

The smaller customer made a noise of annoyance. "This isn't your concern, bar wench."

Najida made a similar noise of annoyance. This kid was definitely a brat. "Excuse me?"

"Damian!" The other customer sharply whacked him on the back of the head before turning to her. "I am so sorry. I swear, we raised him better than this."

"It's fine. I've heard worse."

"If you're sure." He grinned a little. "What's with the name?"

"The Bat-Bean? Oh, that's a stupid thing my manager came up with. Something about thanking Batman for what he's done. Now, I get that, but jeez, at least be creative about it!"

A small chuckle came out of his mouth. "Fair point. I'd like two Bat-Brews, please."

"All right then. I'll be just a minute."

---

The customer-Grayson, she guessed-was happy to get his drinks. "Tim's gonna love this. Thanks again..." He trailed off. "Sorry, I never got your name."

Damian snorted, but whether it was out of frustration or humor, she couldn't tell. "Her tag says Najida."

"Thank you, Damian. Najida, then. Pretty name. Arabic?"

"Yeah. Not many people know that. What's yours?"

"Richard. But people call me Dick."

Now it was Najida's turn to chuckle. "And you let them?"

As Dick sputtered, a grin like the edge of a knife cut across Damian's face. "Apparently, you're not as idiotic as you seem."

That was it. She was done with this smug little brat. "I swear, you have a gift for subtly insulting people. Now, I'm running on three hours of sleep and pure sarcasm, so either you shut up and be polite or I dump hot coffee down the back of your shirt."

"You wouldn't." Okay, he definitely looked more murdery now. Dick looked nervous, like he'd seen this sort of thing happen before and wasn't keen on how it ended. But Najida couldn't back down.

"Don't tempt me."

Dick squeezed the kid's shoulder. "Seriously, behave. That was uncalled for."

Wonder of wonders, Damian finally was quiet, but his eyes were still glaring daggers at Najida as Dick hustled him out the door.

----

It was still as cold as it had been earlier when Najida got off of her shift. Unsurprisingly, her coat was still as ineffective as it had been that morning. But now it was darker, which was bad. The dark was when the shadier side of Gotham came out to play. She had to get home quick.

Najida was four blocks away from her house when she heard it. Footsteps, loud and ominous. More than one set too. And to top it all off, they were coming from right behind her.

Her heart sped up, frantically beating in her chest like a bird against the bars of a cage. This was not good. This was very bad. A tidal wave of panic swept through her as the footsteps got closer and closer. She tugged her jacket close to her, as if it might provide some sort of protection.

It could be nothing, but she wasn't taking that chance. She sped up a little, clenching her hands into fists. She needed to get away. Just a few more blocks, and then she could lock the door and she'd be safe.

Just as she was ready to scream from the tension, it happened. Something cold, hard, and shaped like a circle pressed hard into the back of her head.

"Don't move." The voice was colder than the metal, if that was even possible. "Walk straight into the alley or I'll blow your brains out."

Trembling, Najida obeyed. It sounded childish and stupid even to her own ears, but she didn't want to die. Hell, she didn't even want to be shot. It sounded painful and scary and generally like something she wanted to avoid.

It was hesitant and small, but she finally managed to find her voice. "What do you want?"

The man lowered his gun, the pressure on her head from the weapon thankfully easing as he did so. "Turn around so I can see you."

That was definitely not a tone she liked. Not only was it threatening, it was also creepy. Reluctantly, she turned to face her attacker.

He was big and brawny, with day-old stubble, greasy hair, and a whole lot of tattoos. Bloodshot eyes looked her up and down like she was his latest catch.

Okay, bad train of thought.

Glancing at the entrance, she saw that it was blocked by several other thugs, all either muscular or with weapons. Plus, the gun their leader had was still pointed at her. So escape wasn't an option. Great. If escape wasn't possible, she really had only three other options. Give up, stall for time, or fight. Strangely, she wasn't that fond of the first one.

"What do you want?"

The leader grinned, showing a mouth full of sharp yellow teeth. "This ain't personal, kid. It's just business. Some rich guy in a suit's paying a whole lot of money for me and my boys to kill you."

He might have said more, but Najida had stopped listening. These people had been paid to kill her. Why? And for what purpose?

With a concerted effort, she managed to focus on the man in front of her. He was still smiling, to her frustration. Either her distress gave him pleasure, or he was just an idiot.

Whatever. She'd ponder the scary piece of information he'd just given her later. If there was a later. Right now, she needed to try not to die.

"Now, the suit said we had to kill you. But he also said we had to make it look messy. So this next bit's gonna be both business and pleasure for me." Tossing his gun to one of his cronies, the man in front of Najida moved forward, arms out and hands reaching for her.

This was only getting scarier by the second. She knew what was going to happen next if she didn't do something. She knew she had to fight back. But she also knew that she stood no chance against him with nothing but her tiny fists.

Okay, so she had the basic outline of a plan. Time to do what she did best and improvise.

The wooden plank was heavy in her hands as she picked it up, holding it out in front of her like a shield. Silently, she thanked whatever person threw out their empty fruit crate.

She knew she'd read something in the Quran about not harming people, and this was pretty much the exact opposite of that. But she was being marked for death by a shadowy biotechnology company. Maybe that could be an exception to the rule?

Ah, hell. He'd probably understand.

As the man lunged for her, she yelled a war cry, swinging the board with all the strength she had. It smashed over his head with a sharp crack, and he let out a howl of pain. He wobbled, swaying on his feet as the pieces of the board fell to the ground.

One minute went by, then two. At the three-minute mark, she cursed as the man struggled to a standing position, blood streaming from the top of his head and pure hate in his eyes.

Great. All she'd done was throw away her only advantage and make things worse. Still, it was better than having done nothing.

"You're dead, you bitch!" he spat. Najida's mouth went dry as she spotted a glint of silver in his hand. Of course he'd have another weapon. It looked like a knife, and a sharp one too. Or was it the gun he'd threatened her with? She didn't know. Panic tended to do things to one's memory and vision. Whatever it was he had, that man was going to kill her.

She turned her head to the sky, closing her eyes. "Yaa Allaha, yaghfir li wahramani wadaeuni tasil 'iilaa rafiq ealaa."

Oh Allah, forgive me and have mercy on me and let me reach the Companion on high.

Just as the man's hand grabbed her arm, wrenching it painfully and forcing her back into the brick, she heard it. Or rather, them.

Four soft thuds. That was all the warning she got that her world was about to change forever. Even from her uncomfortable position against the wall, she'd have a hard time not seeing the people who were dropping from the roof up above.

The first person to land was garbed in black and blue, an unmistakable chevron design across his chest and a black domino mask obscuring his identity. Two metal sticks hung in a distinctive X across his back. Nightwing.

The second person to land had a dark brown jacket, a gray uniform with a red bat insignia on the chest, and a red metal hood covering his entire head. He held two guns in his hands, the weapons trained squarely on the thugs. The Red Hood.

The third person to land didn't technically land at all. Wearing a black and red uniform, he had the same domino mask as the first person, but he also had red bladed wings stretching out from his back. He twirled a bo staff with the ease of an expert, clearly excited to fight. Red Robin.

The fourth person to land was smaller than the rest. He had a yellow and black hooded cape, green domino mask and gloves, a red tunic, gray pants, and a golden R on the right side of his chest. Two-Batarangs, she thought they were called-were in his hands, tensed and ready to let fly. Robin.

Najida's eyes widened. This just got even more serious.

(To be continued! Part 2 will be up soon!)

[questioningsjwbullshit-blog]

"Sex Change" Surgery: What Bruce Jenner, Diane Sawyer, and You Should Know by Walt Heyer

Note:  I didn’t write this - I’m just sharing the article

http://www.thepublicdiscourse.com/2015/04/14905/

April 27th, 2015

The dark and troubling history of the contemporary transgender movement, with its enthusiastic approval of gender-reassignment surgery, has left a trail of misery in its wake.

Bruce Jenner and Diane Sawyer could benefit from a history lesson. I know, because I suffered through “sex change” surgery and lived as a woman for eight years. The surgery fixed nothing—it only masked and exacerbated deeper psychological problems.

The beginnings of the transgender movement have gotten lost today in the push for transgender rights, acceptance, and tolerance. If more people were aware of the dark and troubled history of sex-reassignment surgery, perhaps we wouldn’t be so quick to push people toward it.

The setting for the first transgender surgeries (mostly male-to-female) was in university-based clinics, starting in the 1950s and progressing through the 1960s and the 1970s. When the researchers tallied the results and found no objective proof that it was successful—and, in fact, evidence that it was harmful—the universities stopped offering sex-reassignment surgery.

Since then, private surgeons have stepped in to take their place. Without any scrutiny or accountability for their results, their practices have grown, leaving shame, regret, and suicide in their wake.

The Founding Fathers of the Transgender Movement

The transgender movement began as the brainchild of three men who shared a common bond: all three were pedophilia activists.

The story starts with the infamous Dr. Alfred Kinsey, a biologist and sexologist whose legacy endures today. Kinsey believed that all sex acts were legitimate—including pedophilia, bestiality, sadomasochism, incest, adultery, prostitution, and group sex. He authorized despicable experiments on infants and toddlers to gather information to justify his view that children of any age enjoyed having sex. Kinsey advocated the normalization of pedophilia and lobbied against laws that would protect innocent children and punish sexual predators.

Transsexualism was added to Kinsey’s repertoire when he was presented with the case of an effeminate boy who wanted to become a girl. Kinsey consulted an acquaintance of his, an endocrinologist by the name of Dr. Harry Benjamin. Transvestites, men who dressed as women, were well-known. Kinsey and Benjamin saw this as an opportunity to change a transvestite physically, way beyond dress and make-up. Kinsey and Benjamin became professional collaborators in the first case of what Benjamin would later call “transsexualism.”

Benjamin asked several psychiatric doctors to evaluate the boy for possible surgical procedures to feminize his appearance. They couldn’t come to a consensus on the appropriateness of feminizing surgery. That didn’t stop Benjamin. On his own, he began offering female hormone therapy to the boy. The boy went to Germany for partial surgery, and Benjamin lost all contact with him, making any long-term follow-up impossible.

The Tragic Story of the Reimer Twins

The third co-founder of today’s transgender movement was psychologist Dr. John Money, a dedicated disciple of Kinsey and a member of a transsexual research team headed by Benjamin.

Money’s first transgender case came in 1967 when he was asked by a Canadian couple, the Reimers, to repair a botched circumcision on their two-year-old son, David. Without any medical justification, Money launched into an experiment to make a name for himself and advance his theories about gender, no matter what the consequences to the child. Money told the distraught parents that the best way to assure David’s happiness was to surgically change his genitalia from male to female and raise him as a girl. As many parents do, the Reimers followed their doctor’s orders, and David was replaced with Brenda. Money assured the parents that Brenda would adapt to being a girl and that she would never know the difference. He told them that they should keep it a secret, so they did—at least for a while.

Activist doctors like Dr. Money always look brilliant at first, especially if they control the information that the media report. Money played a skilled game of “catch me if you can,” reporting the success of the boy’s gender change to the medical and scientific community and building his reputation as a leading expert in the emerging field of gender change. It would be decades before the truth was revealed. In reality, David Reimer’s “adaptation” to being a girl was completely different from the glowing reports concocted by Money for journal articles. By age twelve, David was severely depressed and refused to return to see Money. In desperation, his parents broke their secrecy, and told him the truth of the gender reassignment. At age fourteen, David chose to undo the gender change and live as a boy.

In 2000, at the age of thirty-five, David and his twin brother finally exposed the sexual abuse Dr. Money had inflicted on them in the privacy of his office. The boys told how Dr. Money took naked photos of them when they were just seven years old. But pictures were not enough for Money. The pedophilic doctor also forced the boys to engage in incestuous sexual activities with each other.

The consequences of Money’s abuse were tragic for both boys. In 2003, only three years after going public about their tortured past, David’s twin brother, Brian, died from a self-inflicted overdose. A short while later, David also committed suicide. Money had finally been exposed as a fraud, but that didn’t help the grieving parents whose twin boys were now dead.

The exposure of Money’s fraudulent research results and tendencies came too late for people suffering from gender issues, too. Using surgery had become well-established by then, and no one cared that one of its founders was discredited.

Results from Johns Hopkins: Surgery Gives No Relief

Dr. Money became the co-founder of one of the first university-based gender clinics in the United States at Johns Hopkins University, where gender reassignment surgery was performed. After the clinic had been in operation for several years, Dr. Paul McHugh, the director of psychiatry and behavioral science at Hopkins, wanted more than Money’s assurances of success immediately following surgery. McHugh wanted more evidence. Long-term, were patients any better off after surgery?

McHugh assigned the task of evaluating outcomes to Dr. Jon Meyer, the chairman of the Hopkins gender clinic. Meyer selected fifty subjects from those treated at the Hopkins clinic, both those who had undergone gender reassignment surgery and those who had not had surgery. The results of this study completely refuted Money’s claims about the positive outcomes of sex-change surgery. The objective report showed no medical necessity for surgery.

On August 10, 1979, Dr. Meyer announced his results: “To say this type of surgery cures psychiatric disturbance is incorrect. We now have objective evidence that there is no real difference in the transsexual’s adjustments to life in terms of job, educational attainment, marital adjustment and social stability.”  He later told The New York Times: “My personal feeling is that the surgery is not a proper treatment for a psychiatric disorder, and it’s clear to me these patients have severe psychological problems that don’t go away following surgery.”

Less than six months later, the Johns Hopkins gender clinic closed. Other university-affiliated gender clinics across the country followed suit, completely ceasing to perform gender reassignment surgery. No success was reported anywhere.

Results from Benjamin’s Colleague: Too Many Suicides

It was not just the Hopkins clinic reporting lack of outcomes from surgery. Around the same time, serious questions about the effectiveness of gender change came from Dr. Harry Benjamin’s partner, endocrinologist Charles Ihlenfeld.

Ihlenfeld worked with Benjamin for six years and administered sex hormones to 500 transsexuals. Ihlenfeld shocked Benjamin by publicly announcing that 80 percent of the people who want to change their gender shouldn’t do it. Ihlenfeld said: “There is too much unhappiness among people who have had the surgery…Too many end in suicide.” Ihlenfeld stopped administering hormones to patients experiencing gender dysphoria and switched specialties from endocrinology to psychiatry so he could offer such patients the kind of help he thought they really needed.

In the wake of the Hopkins study, the closure of the flagship Hopkins clinic, and the warning sounded by Ihlenfeld, advocates of sex change surgery needed a new strategy. Benjamin and Money looked to their friend, Paul Walker, PhD, a homosexual and transgender activist they knew shared their passion to provide hormones and surgery. A committee was formed to draft standards of care for transgenders that furthered their agenda, with Paul Walker at the helm. The committee included a psychiatrist, a pedophilia activist, two plastic surgeons, and a urologist, all of whom would financially benefit from keeping gender reassignment surgery available for anyone who wanted it. The “Harry Benjamin International Standards of Care” were published in 1979 and gave fresh life to gender surgery.

My Experience with Dr. Walker

I myself suffered greatly to come to terms with my gender. In 1981, I sought out Dr. Walker to ask him, the man who wrote the standards of care, for help. Walker said I was suffering from gender dysphoria. A mere two years after both the Hopkins study and the public statements of Ihlenfeld drew attention to the increased suicide risk associated with gender change, Walker, even though he was completely aware of both reports, signed my approval letter for hormones and surgery.

Under his guidance, I underwent gender reassignment surgery and lived for eight years as Laura Jensen, female. Eventually, I gathered the courage to admit that the surgery had fixed nothing—it only masked and exacerbated deeper psychological problems.The deception and lack of transparency I experienced in the 1980s still surround gender change surgery today. For the sake of others who struggle with gender dysphoria, I cannot remain silent.

It is intellectually dishonest to ignore the facts that surgery never has been a medically necessary procedure for treating gender dysphoria and that taking cross-gender hormones can be harmful.  Modern transgender activists, the descendants of Kinsey, Benjamin, and John Money, keep alive the practice of medically unnecessary gender-change surgery by controlling the flow of published information and by squelching research and personal stories that tell of the regret, unhappiness, and suicide experienced by those who undergo such surgery. Negative outcomes are only acknowledged as a way to blame society for its transphobia.

Transgender clients who regret having taken this path are often full of shame and remorse. Those who regret their decision have few places to turn in a world of pro-transgender activism. For me, it took years to muster the courage to stand up and speak out about the regret.

I only wish Dr. Paul Walker had been required to tell me about both reports when I consulted him: the Hopkins study showing surgery did not alleviate severe psychological problems, and Ihlenfeld’s observation of the continuing transgender unhappiness and high incidence of suicide after hormones and surgery. This information might not have stopped me from making that disastrous decision—but at least I would have known the dangers and pain that lay ahead.

Walt Heyer is an author and public speaker with a passion to help others who regret gender change. Through his website, SexChangeRegret.com, and his blog, WaltHeyer.com, Heyer raises public awareness about the incidence of regret and the tragic consequences suffered as a result. Heyer’s story can be read in novel form in Kid Dakota and The Secret at Grandma’s House and in his autobiography, A Transgender’s Faith. Heyer’s other books include Paper Genders and Gender, Lies and Suicide.