#medical schools should just accept everyone and let them fail out like nature intended

[peaceblank]

I’m so sick and tired of studying for the MCAT and I still have 5 weeks left.

[cudan2]

Starbucks and Skin Grafts

Spring Break Shadowing Part 2

Carlisle Cullen x Reader

Word Count: 2,206

Summary: You’re starting your second day of shadowing with Dr. Cullen and get to learn more about him.

A/N: I underestimated the amount of research I’d have to do for this series woops. I’m pre-dent and not pre-med, so if anyone here is actually a doctor or a med student or even knows more about medicine than I do, feel free to tell me what details I should change! (I really did try my best though, but it’s turning out to be more Grey’s Anatomy-esque) 

Anyways, this is #4 on my headcanon list. 

Masterlist

XXX

When the train stops at the 168th Street Station, you make your first task of the day to find Doctor Cullen. The campus is growing to be familiar territory, but it’s still massive and you find yourself getting lost on the main surgical floor despite already getting directions from a receptionist. Your frustration begin growing as you turn another corner and realize you’re still as lost as before.

“Just the person I’ve been looking for!” a familiar voice calls out. You turn to look over your shoulder and find the doctor you’d spent the last fifteen minutes searching for. He’s wearing a white coat and lacking the scrub cap from the previous day. So he’s blonde, you notice, not a single strand out of place. You take several steps towards him to meet him halfway.

“Good morning, Doctor Cullen. I’m sorry for not meeting with you earlier. It might have been a little difficult to track you down,” you give a sheepish smile.

“Don’t worry, it can certainly take weeks to learn how to navigate this hospital. I’ve just finished doing my morning rounds, so there is about twenty minutes before I meet for a pre-op. Why don’t we grab some coffee and get to know each other a bit more?” Before you can even give an answer, your stomach growls loudly and you mentally berate yourself for not eating anything beforehand. “Perhaps a little less coffee and some more food would be beneficial for you instead,” Doctor Cullen chuckles.

By the time you reach the Starbucks on the first floor of the hospital, you’ve learned the basics about him and vice versa. He’s a plastic surgeon, this was his first year as an attending, he moved here about five months ago, actually started working here four months ago, and attended University of Washington in Seattle for both his undergrad and medical school.

Meanwhile, you currently attend school away from home at New York University, you’re in your third year of college, majoring in biology, minoring in psychology, and on track to graduate a semester early.

“Hey, Doc! The usual as always?” you hear as you make it to the front of the Starbucks line with Doctor Cullen.

“Good morning, Emily. Yes, the usual as always.”

“Sounds good! Will that be all?” Both the barista and the doctor look towards at you.

You splutter out your intended order and lean towards Doctor Cullen as Emily is writing your name on a cup. “You really don’t have to pay for the food and stuff. I mean, I brought cash so–”

“Think of it as compensation. I can’t imagine how many people actually enjoy being up this early in the morning, especially seeing how this is your spring break. Besides, I think you’ll find you need the energy to keep up with me today. I must warn you though, it won’t all lap appys and fun like with Doctor Stone.”  

“I like a good challenge,” you smirk at him. He gazes back at you with a twinkle in his eyes and a soft smile and you can’t help the fact that your heart starts beating just a little faster.  

Another barista call your names out and you’re suddenly reminded that this is the real world.

“Thanks for the breakfast,” you quickly say, breaking eye contact and grabbing the orders from the counter. Stop thinking about how pretty his eyes are, you tell yourself, even if they do look like pure amber. Doctor Cullen follows suite and goes to grab his grande-sized cup.

“Careful, wouldn’t want to burn the surgeon hands,” you notice the amount steam coming out of the lid and hand him a sleeve for the cup. When he accepts the sleeve from your outstretched arm, you see a peculiar expression on his face and hear a soft chuckle from him before he thanks you. It’s almost as though he knew something you didn’t.

The two of you walk back to his office so he can grab his notes on the patient. On the way there, he tells you more about his daily life as a plastic surgeon as you eat. He’s done so many different procedures that you can barely keep track of the list. There’s a lot less liposuctions and facelifts – those were for the cosmetic surgeons – and more reconstructions and repairs in his line of work.    

“The patient you’re about to meet was in a car accident two years ago,” Doctor Cullen explains. “He received extensive burns to the face and neck, all of which have scarred over now. Our goal is to reduce the scarring and give him back some mobility.”

Before you can ask any questions, Doctor Cullen is already knocking on the patient’s door and entering. The door opens to reveal the patient sitting up in bed along and a woman standing beside him. The other two doctors in the room wore ceil blue scrubs – residents, you note, following Doctor Cullen into the room.  

“There’s the man of the hour!” The woman exclaims.

“Mom!” The patient lets out an exasperated groan.

“What? As if you aren’t excited to see the handsome doctor either, Tyler!” You try your best not to laugh but can see the two residents smother their own smiles behind fake coughs. Doctor Cullen is the one to accept the indirect compliment and bids both the patient and his mother a hello.

“Tyler, I have a student shadowing me for the week, if you wouldn’t mind another pair of eyes in the room?”

“Yeah, I don’t mind. I’ve definitely experienced a whole lot worse,” Tyler responds.

“Perfect. Doctor Wang, would you present the case?”

One of the residents looks up from her charts and begins reciting the details as if it were second nature. “Tyler Sardella, age 24, scheduled for scar revision.”

“And what procedures will we be performing today?”

“We’ll be planting an autograft and doing a Z-plasty to minimize the appearance of scarring. Skin grafting will help give a bigger range of motion in the neck, accelerate the healing process, and prevent any future scarring.” Her words exude confidence and you hope to sound like that one day. Skin graft and Z-plasty... you’re not entirely familiar with the terms but store them in the back of your head. After all, you’re here to learn.

Doctor Cullen gives a nod of approval to Doctor Wang and turns back to Tyler. “Tyler, do you have any last-minute questions before we send you to the OR?”

“Nope! I’m so ready to turn my head 180 degrees again.”

“Sounds good, I’ll see you soon then.”

You give a quick nod to Tyler and his mother as both Doctor Cullen and you take your leave. The two residents reconvene with their attending several minutes later and exchange words before they both head off to prepare for the surgery.

You stand around awkwardly for a moment as Doctor Cullen looks over the charts. He suddenly calls your name out, eyes still scanning over his notes.

Your response is to stand up just slightly straighter as you say, “Yes?”

“What procedures will we be performing on Tyler?”

Well shit, you certainly weren’t expecting him to ask you that.

“Um, you’re planting a skin graft, an autograft to be more specific, and then doing a Z-plasty.” You’re unsure and your voice shows it. Of course you could regurgitate words, but it’s hard to explain any further when you didn’t know the meanings to those words.

Doctor Cullen looks up from his charts with that twinkle in his eyes again and a smirk playing on his lips. “Correct!” he exclaims and laughs when he sees the petrified expression you’re wearing from being caught off guard. “Y/N, I did warn you it wasn’t going to be easy. However, I may have failed to mention it was going to be me making your experience here more difficult.”

“Why though?”

“What can I say? I like to keep my students on their toes. It keeps things interesting.”

You huffed and followed him to the OR. Challenge accepted.

Scrubbed – check, PPE – check, scrub cap – well, that was for Doctor Cullen, but check. He’s still scrubbing when you hear him.

“Are you sure you want to be in there? It’s going to take approximately three hours.”

“You told me that,” you remind him. “And I told you that I like a challenge.”

“Alright, but please let me know if you feel any fatigue. I can ask one of the nurses to bring in a chair or you can step out for some air–”

“I will be fine,” you insist. “I sit all day in class, standing for three hours will be a good change of pace.” The concern etched into his face is almost endearing, but really, you’re going to be fine.

Everything and everyone is prepped and ready to go by the time you two enter the OR. You make sure to stand in an area that gives you a perfect view of the surgery but would not get in the way of anyone else. Doctor Cullen has his loupes on and you start feeling the high that comes with observing any sort of surgical procedure. It’s not every day that a mere undergrad like you can witness this kind of stuff.

Two hours later, you are still engrossed in the surgery. There’s 80s music playing in the background at the request of the two residents from earlier, who are now chatting away. About fifteen minutes in, Doctor Cullen had properly introduced you to his residents, Lily Wang and Jaime Montes.

Doctor Stone was great and all, but there is something about the blonde doctor that really makes him stand out as a surgeon to you. He’s able to cut and suture whilst explaining the entire procedure to you. He makes all of this seem so... effortless. Although Lily and Jaime are working as much as Doctor Cullen, it’s clear who the leader in the room is.

“You said you went to University of Washington for your undergrad and med school. What made you decide to work here instead of staying in Seattle?” you ask Doctor Cullen suddenly. The conversations around you die down. It seems you aren’t the only one curious about the surgeon.

“I suppose it felt like the right decision at the time.” He glances hesitantly at you from the head of the table before looking back to his work. You can tell there’s more to the story. “I previously worked in a hospital in a small town called Forks.”

“Forks? As in the thing you eat with?” Jaime asks and everyone around you laughs.

“Yes, Forks. It had less than 4,000 inhabitants, so you can imagine the lack of cases like these. The other residents would have gone crazy. It was peaceful for some time but I was ready to move on. It’s a silly notion now that I say it out loud, but I wanted to make an impact on the people I treated.”

“You weren’t making a difference in Forks,” you say. It isn’t a question, but a statement.

“Exactly. One of my deciding factors in working for Columbia was its resources and size. Here, I could save more people to the best of my ability with the most advance resources available.”

Once the surgery reaches its conclusion, you go scrub out with Doctor Cullen as everyone else stays to finish up. You unceremoniously flop onto the bench outside the OR, propriety be damned. Your feet are sore and you wish you could be wearing scrubs and sneakers instead of business-casual clothing.

A water bottle enters your peripheral and you look up to the person handing it to you. Doctor Cullen’s scrub cap is gone once again and his blonde hair is slightly astray.

“Thanks,” is all you can say as you grab the bottle and take a nice, long drink from it. “Nice hair by the way.” Doctor Cullen has the audacity to look down rather bashfully and runs a hand through his hair. Great, now he looks even more attractive.

“You survived,” he says.    

“I did.”

“I’m impressed.”

You let out a snort.

“You’re impressed? You, Lily, and Jaime were the ones doing everything. I literally stood there for three and a half hours! I should be the one that’s impressed.”

“You showed resilience. I have a feeling most students your age would have given in for a chair at least.”

“Yeah, I did tell you I like a challenge,” you point out, even if you did feel like never standing again.

“You also asked very good questions, Y/N. Don’t sell yourself short. You have a lot of potential in this field whether you think it or not. Now go get some lunch, you deserve a break.” He sticks out a hand and you grab it to get up. Damn, his hands are cold. “I have some paperwork to file, so I’ll catch up with you later.”

“I’ll see you then,” you say and begin walking in the direction of the cafeteria.

“Y/N!” you hear him halfway down the hallway and turn to look over your shoulder. “How are we treating the donor site wound?”

You decide to keep walking.

[stardustpubs]

From Neverland

     What does it mean to love someone? Do you have to sacrifice everything for the sake of their happiness? Will it come naturally over time? Are there things you have to change about yourself? How does it last forever? May be these are all the wrong questions to ask. May be it's the wrong perception of love. People often stereotypes love; but in actuality; love is diverse, a different case for everyone. Written in these pages is the final journal entry of a man who struggled to keep his love going, but instead, witnessed the death of his high school sweetheart from  a deadly disease that had torn apart many. Being in love with someone for years until you are forced to move on whether you like it or not is no easy task. I guess forever is not enough to measure how one can love. A lifetime? May be. Probably. We might never know. These things should just be left aside as a superficial distant future. For all we know, love is boundless.

A dashing first attempt of a bittersweet love story that is relatable in some way or another.

A/N: Picture does not belong to me and if the original artist is identified, please credit and cite accordingly. Thank you. Source: Pinterest

November 21, 2017

Huxley Lofts Apartments, Room 208

478 Railroad Street, Groton, NY

      A month has passed since tragedy struck this apartment. It's been an entire month of wistfulness and wander. The incident almost seems like a dream by now, slowly sinking to memory, scar emerging. But echoes and memoirs of my past deeds, whether in bliss or in woe, still haunts me to my very being.

    Me. Her. Us. And everything in between.

    It all begs me to remember when I try my best to forget. But maybe I don't need to forget. May be what I need is to learn from it. Sounds cliché doesn't it? That's because it is. And it's pitiful enough for me to advise myself some sappy life lesson that I'm sure will not even pursue. Sigh.

    'If only I'd ran faster.'

    'If only I had kept my mouth shut.'  

    'May be only then, I wouldn't feel so empty right now.'

    'And broken.'

    'And alone.'

    'And lost.'

    These were the thoughts I had on that cold winter night. I still do feel the same, yes, only lighter. The wound is still there but not as deep anymore because I do not intend to be held back by these thoughts forever. Regretting the things I failed to do or what I could have done will not and will never change what had already happened. I have to keep moving forward. I need to let her be the doves and sing among the stars in Neverland. At least, that is what she want me to do and I have to keep my word close to my heart at all times.

    What a horrible way to start an entry, I know. I was never really good a writing introductions. Let's just hope I can write the ending better. Anyway, like I said before, I need to keep moving forward, and I'll start by narrating the events that took the life of one (MY) Wendy 'Darling'.

    Welp, here goes nothing.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    It was hours afterwards when I found myself weaving hastily through the crowded streets of the city: through the loud chatters of passersby, the constant ringing of phones, and the bickering of cards and buses; an irritating cacophony of the city's night life. I mean, it's the same for the day, but still, irritating. Not to mention the invasive contact of skin and the quick warm breath of the people made it difficult to breathe. Or was it just me? I'm not so sure anymore. What's worse though is that it was so freaking cold. I had nothing but a jacket, a plain shirt, a pair of sweat pants, and sandals on in the middle of November. It was such an embarrassment to be seen in such thin clothing.

    To be honest, I just sort of ran out the door and didn't bother to put on anything else since getting the medicine for Wendy was my top priority at that moment. Besides, it doesn't really matter now, does it? It was always my fault anyway. I got carried away by the heat of the moment and overreacted. We had another argument, well, the same argument actually. It's all she has been saying about over these past few months.

    "Arthur, I don't want to take my medications anymore," she said in a weak frail voice.

    I stood by the bedside table measuring her prescriptions with mouth agape but not entirely. Shell shocked, sure, but seemingly - ok, may be it was obvious- annoyed by the consistency of her pleas.

    "Yet you never do," I replied.

    "I'm sure of it this time," she responded with great confidence.

    "Sigh. Why even what that, Sunshine? If that happens, I'll be lonely for the rest of my days."

    I flashed her a soft wavering smile before she mumbled, "But you don't have to be," her eyes wet with tears. At that moment, I dove in to the edge of the bed and caressed her cheeks as I attempt to stop her from crying.

    With my heart rumbling, my stomach churning, and my smile faltering, I asked, "What's wrong, Darling?"

    "I am! I've caused you nothing but trouble this past year. I'm a burden to you, Arthur. I always have been."

    "What are you saying? No you're not. Never have I thought of you like that," I argued in return.

    "Just look at you. You work 4 hours a days at 3 part-time jobs each and for what? 3 bottles of 'booze' a month that doesn't even seem to work while you struggle to pay the rent. No sleep, no eat, all work; you're basically as dead as me."

    "So, what are you implying?"

    "Forget about me. Think about yourself for once."

    'But we decided this would only be temporary until we can afford for your surgery."

    "Yeah, well, I'm deciding something else now."

    "And I decided we will never speak of this again!" I said with a raised voice.

    Silence enveloped the room. Not one of us dared to utter a word for the moment. But the presence of it was foreboding, and so I spoke, "It's time for your medicine". I grabbed the tray littered with bottle sand cups from the table and placed it between ourselves like a boundary before guiding one of the cups towards her mouth.

    "I don't want to," she pouted.

    Irritated, I said, "Enough is enough, honey. Drink the medicine."

    "No."

    "Drink-"

    "I said no!"

    "Just drink the god-medicine, Wendy," I exclaimed as I shoved her the medicine.

    "NO!"

    Next thing I knew, there was a slap at my wrist and a thump in my lap alongside the clattering of plastic and shattering of glass. It took me a second staring at the pool of chemical splattered on the floor before I processed what had just happened: She shattered her one chance of survival I so desperately worked hard to give her. And then, I broke down into fits...

    "LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH I SPENT ON THAT? FOR YOU AND FOR THAT CAD SHIT?"

    "Arthur, I'm-" she stammered.

    "NO, YOU'RE NOT! ALL THIS TIME, YOU'VE ONLY BEEN THINKING ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT! WHAT ABOUT WHAT I WANT? ALL I WANTED WAS TO SEE YOU GET BETTER. I WANTED YOU TO LIVE. BUT MOST IMPORTANTLY, I WANTED TO KEEP LOVING YOU!"

    "WE'RE NOT LIVING IN A FAIRY TALE, ARTHUR. WE'RE NOT IN NEVERLAND LIKE WE ALWAYS BELIEVED. THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS HAPPILY EVER AND THERE WILL NEVER WILL BE. THERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT ARE JUST MEANT TO BE BROKEN. AND I'M ONE OF THEM. IF YOU TRULY LOVE ME, THEN LET ME GO. WE'RE BOTH SUFFERING IF WE CONTINUE TO LIVE LIKE THIS."

    The thought of such deed struck a chord in my heart which left me speechless once again. But knowing myself, I refuse to accept such fate, and I decided to make sure of it.

    "Stay here. I'll be back in a few minutes," I ordered in the most calming voice I could muster at that time.

    "Where do you plan on going?"

    "The pharmacy."

    "In the middle of the night? That's 4 blocks away! You can't be serious!"

    I ignored her nevertheless as I reached for my jacket in the closet, but she held onto my arm before I could do so and pleaded, "Please, Arthur, just stop it already. It's not worth it. It’ll be too late. Please!” However, I just shook her off and went anyway and said, "For you, anything is worth it," because apparently, apathetic is what I am.

    The mere lights of each lamppost illuminated a small portion of the darkened setting against the bright fluorescent lights; guiding me and leading me home. A sudden burst of rain made everything dreamy and hazy. While others went to seek refuge, I dashed across the crosswalk with a bag of necessities, passing door after door. I was completely soaked, but I couldn't care less. I was desperate to return to the apartment. And when I did, she was right. It was too late...I was too late. "Wendy, I'm back," I called out. What I expected to be the woman of my dreams to welcome me home, instead, I found a pale figure drowned in blankets sleeping soundly in our bed, a single piece of paper rested over her hand:

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    And that was the end of it, the end of our supposed to be never-ending story. When the paramedics came, they informed me that she died shortly after I left her from a heart attack due to high blood pressure. It was my fault. Everything was fault. I was the one who ruined everything. But that's beside the point. What matters right now is how I shall move on from such a tragedy.

    Do I call myself a widower now? We haven't actually gotten engaged or anything, I guess not. Would I even learn to love again? It depends on how I see it now. If I would have guess, I once believed wholeheartedly on the concept of forever, yet, I never really understood any of it. But I think I do now; it's a lie. Forever is a beautiful you wished to believe with someone and cherished it together against all odds.

    You know what, may be Wendy and I aren't meant to be forever. May be it was only meant for a lifetime, at least, Wendy's. I still have all the time in world that I can spend loving her. May be I won't end it just yet - or maybe I won't. We'll never know. But when I do, I'm going to tell her all about it in another life.

Signing off,

James Arthur Celestine, Her Peter Pan.

PS. What do you know, I did write a better ending!

[ryqoshay]

How to Handle a Nico: Homecoming

Primary Pairing: NicoMaki Words: ~3k Rating: T+ for some suggestive situations Time Frame: Maki is in med school. Nico is working as an idol producer. They are living together as a couple, but not married yet. Story Arc: "Home" Homesick Homecoming

List of all HtHaN scenes

Author’s Note: A direct followup to Homesick.

Maki was excited. For the first time this week, she was truly looking forward to something. Even though she would be well over an hour early, she fidgeted anxiously on the train and practically ran home from the station.

NishikinoMaki: I’m home

NishikinoMaki: I’m going to quick make some food, but I’ll be ready soon

NishikinoMaki: If you’re ready, we can start early

No1Idol: I just got off the train

No1Idol: I’m still walking to the hotel

No1Idol: I’ll be back in my room in like fifteen minutes or so

No1Idol: But I haven’t changed or removed my makeup or anything

No1Idol: I don’t want to sit for hours like this

No1Idol: I want to be comfortable and relax

NishikinoMaki: That’s fine

NishikinoMaki: You can do that while we talk

NishikinoMaki: I want to see you

No1Idol: Perv

NishikinoMaki: You know what I meant

No1Idol: Yeah I know

No1Idol: Alright, my impatient princess, we can start early

NishikinoMaki: Thank you

No1Idol: I’ll message you as soon as I get to my room

NishikinoMaki: Alright

Maki yanked open the freezer door, grabbed two bento boxes and moved them to the fridge. There she, grabbed a thawed meal which she tossed in the microwave. Just like last night. And the night before. And the… no, wait, she had gone over to Nozomi and Eli’s place last night. Last night had been special as it had broken her humdrum routine.

But tonight was even more special. Tonight, she would get to video chat with Nico. Tonight, she would be able to hear Nico’s voice live, not a just studio recording. Tonight, she would be able to see Nico live, not just a prerecorded video of her on stage or one of her several PVs. It wasn’t the same as seeing her in person, but the wonders of technology made it better than any generation had it before her.

As soon as the microwave dinged, she grabbed her food and a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge. She then speedwalked to her office where she hastily opened her laptop and maximized the Skype pane. After what seemed like an eternity, though likely only a few minutes, Nico finally sent a message.

No1Idol: I just walked in the door.

Maki hit the Call button. Pick up. Pick up, Nico-chan!

Suddenly, the call was accepted and the screen changed to display…

Nico-chan!

“Nico Nico Ni~!” Nico performed her catchphrase and signature gesture. “This is everyone’s favorite idol, Nico-ni, coming to you live for this super special, interactive, private session! Broadcasting straight to your heart, Maki-chan!”

As Nico pointed toward her laptop’s camera for emphasis, Maki couldn’t deny that her heartrate did increase for a moment. “Idiot…” the redhead said, shaking her head and smiling. She also couldn’t help laughing a little.

The twintailed girl grinned. “You love it.”

“Maybe…” Maki allowed herself a moment to drink in the view her screen was providing. “Is that what you wore to your interview?” She asked after a moment.

“Yup! Like it?”

“Very much.” Maki confirmed. “Is it new?”

“Kotori made it for me as a thank you for all the business I’ve been sending her way since I started Egao.”

“That was nice of her.”

“I know, right?”

“Did they take pictures at the interview?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be sure to pick up the magazine when it gets published.”

“Oh, you don’t have to wait that long, Maki-chan!” That said, Nico reached forward to adjust the angle of the camera before standing. “How’s this?” She asked, striking a pose.

“Cute.” Maki admitted honestly.

Nico continued to make poses for a good ten minutes, thrilled that her girlfriend was appreciating the show. For as much as she loved the lights, the cheers, the crowd and the cameras, there was one audience she preferred; an audience of one whose approval meant more to her than anything.

“That was fun.” Nico said, finally sitting down, grinning from ear to ear. “But, as much as I love this dress, I need to get into something more comfortable.”

“That’s fine.” Maki nodded. “Are the fans still loving the costume Kotori made for your latest single?”

“Of course!” Nico declared proudly as she reached for her makeup remover. “That girl has impeccable fashion sense, and the outfit highlights all of Nico’s natural adorableness.” She set her mirror beside her laptop and began her nightly process.

Maki smiled as she let her girlfriend have that one. “I’ll keep an eye out for it when I watch the broadcast later.”

“Oh, that reminds me. I have to email you the special access code so you can watch it earlier than everyone else.”

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

The two continued talking, with Nico excitedly going on and on about the tour and Maki venting about the hardships of medical school. Maki practically forgot about her dinner as she was quite content in watching her girlfriend dab away her makeup, remove her jewelry and undo her twintails.

“One sec…” Nico suddenly said, glancing around. “Where did I put…” She disappeared off camera.

“Nico-chan?”

“Ah, here it is.” The idol’s voice came from somewhere else in the room. A moment later, she returned with the item she had sought and held it up for her girlfriend to see. “My favorite.” She declared.

The garment in question was Maki’s first training shirt from their early days in µ’s. Nico had found it one time while staying the night in Maki’s college dorm room and had worn it every time she stayed after. Eventually, Maki let Nico keep it, as the older girl was wearing it more than she was anyway. Now, several years later, the shirt was significantly faded, was separating along some of the seams and had patches that were thread bare. But Nico didn’t care and would likely wear it until it literally fell apart.

“You want to watch me change?” Nico cooed as she danced the shirt in front of the camera.

Maki swallowed. “Yes…” she croaked, not realizing how dry her throat had suddenly become.

Nico laughed. “Jeez, Maki-chan, I was only ki…” She noticed her girlfriend’s expression. “Well if that’s what my audience wants…” her voice practically dripped with smugness.

Maki’s heart thumped against her chest as she watched Nico do exactly as she said. Through a display far more tantalizing than she had expected from a simple Skype session, she found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the screen. There was no music, no dance moves, no poses; just Nico changing out of an adorable dress into her favorite sleep shirt. Slowly. All while staring charmingly into the camera.

Maki felt something turn inside her and she desperately wanted to reach through the screen and touch her girlfriend; kiss her, feel her warmth, and…

“Ah… much better.” Nico flipped her hair out of the shirt’s collar. She shook her head and shifted her shoulders, a movement that caused the stretched collar to slip off one of her shoulders.

Maki’s breath hitched.

“Ah, but that’s probably not the best angle, is it?” Nico grinned mischievously before reaching forward to move her laptop’s screen.

Maki took a long, slow breath as her view was shifted down to reveal what a shirt of normal length failed to cover when used as a sleep shirt. Granted, this had become one of Maki’s favorite reasons for letting Nico keep the garment, but now, when separated by several hundred kilometers, it was a strange source of agony instead.

“And that concludes the super special Nico-ni ‘behind the scenes’ access show.” Nico sang, returning the camera to its proper angle. “Where were we? Ah yes, so Hanayo said…”

Maki nodded dumbly as her girlfriend continued to explain something that had happened back at her company while she was away on tour. It was several minutes before the redhead could form multisyllabic responses and even then, something continued to gnaw at the edges of her consciousness.

When the Skype session finally ended, Maki moved slowly to her bedroom. Somewhere in her mind, she had expected to feel different after the call, but all she felt was an ever increasing yearning. She stared at her empty bed for a while before suddenly turning and practically running back to her office. However, instead of opening Skype again, she opened a web browser and began searching.

Nico slipped the hotel robe around her shoulders, smiling to herself as she remembered Tsubasa insisting that they go all out in their accommodations because it was their first tour off hiatus. Nico had originally protested the expense, but when Maki agreed with no hesitation in taking Tsubasa’s side, she eventually relented. Now, having stayed for over a week in some of the more luxurious places she had previously only dared to dream about, she was happy she had given in. They had been right, after all the hard work they put into Egao so far, they deserved this treat.

Her smile turned to a small grimace, however, as she noticed the time. She hadn’t intended to stay up so late, but Hanayo had sent her an email while she had been busy with her Skype session with Maki. The email had contained information about a prospective client so Nico looked her up on YouTube. Almost two hours later, she had reluctantly returned to reality and realized she should take a bath and get ready for bed.

Nico jumped at the sound of a knock at the door. Who the heck was here this late? It was a bit late for room service and she hadn’t ordered anything anyway. It could be Tsubasa, but she most likely would have called before coming over this late. Maybe a drunkard who had the wrong room?

Cautiously, Nico approached the door and peered through the peephole…

Maki-chan?!

Nico stumbled back in surprise. What the hell was Maki doing here?! How? Why?

She shook her head to get back her senses before unlatching the door.

“Maki-chan wha…” She was cut off as redheaded blur barreled into her.

Nico responded instantly as lips crashed into hers, reaching up and threading her fingers into her girlfriend’s hair. She barely registered being pushed against the wall of the entryway and had no idea if the door had closed behind Maki. But she didn’t care. She hadn't realized how much she had apparently missed kissing Maki and she would be damned if she wasn’t going soak up every ounce of affection that was being offered.

After a few minutes, Nico pulled away. Gods, she loved that expression, when Maki stared at her like a predator eyeing its prey. Nico met the gaze and matched its fervor before grabbing Maki’s hand and pulling her towards the bedroom.

Maki sighed happily as she rolled over onto her back. “I should have come here last week.”

“Mmm…” Was all Nico was able to get out, having not quite caught her breath yet.

“I missed you, Nico-chan.” Maki admitted. I missed you so much. She added silently.

Nico couldn’t help smirking. “Was my little Maki-chan lonely?”

The redhead’s cheeks flushed. “… A bit…”

“Just a bit?”

“Maybe a lot…”

The raven-haired girl smiled, having received the answer she wanted. “I missed you too, Maki-chan.” Rolling onto her side, she snuggled in close to her girlfriend. “But you really caught me off guard, I didn’t expect you to come all the way out here.”

“It was only a few hours.” Maki said. “I had to pack quickly and run to the station, but I was able to make the last train.”

“You really wanted to see me that badly, huh?”

“Yeah…”

Nico felt a wave of warmth spread through her body at the thought of her girlfriend’s desire to see her. By the gods, she loved this girl. Still… “You could have called, though. What if I had been sleeping?”

“I… I didn’t think about that…” Maki admitted. “Sorry…”

“It’s alright, just surprised me a little.” Nico tilted her head up so she could place a kiss on Maki’s cheek. “But a good surprise.” A really, really good surprise. A thought occurred to her. “But you know, Maki-chan, you’re going to have to get used to being on your own eventually.”

“Why?” The redhead blinked.

“Because this is just a short tour. Tsubasa and I have been on hiatus so long and we didn’t want to overdo things.” The raven-haired girl explained. “There will be longer ones. Like, not just a few weeks, maybe a few months.”

“So?”

“So I’ll be gone for that long…?”

“Anywhere with a stadium worth your performance can be reached in less than six hours by train.”

“That’s if I stay in Japan.” Nico pointed out, though she couldn’t help a small smile at Maki’s offhand compliment. “Tsubasa and I have already talked about heading to the mainland for a series of shows.”

“So less than six hours by plane instead of train.” Maki shrugged.

“And what if I go to the States? Maybe have a set of shows in New York or L.A.?”

“I used to join my parents on business trips to both of those cities; Chicago as well. And we have vacation homes in Hawaii and the Bahamas.

“What about Spain or Italy?”

“I’d fly West instead of East. The flights really aren’t that bad.”

“Well, yeah, if you fly first class.”

“When you’re a big enough celebrity to do tours overseas, you’ll be flying first class as well.”

Nico found she couldn’t immediately counter that point. Maybe if she thought about it more, but… wait, why was she disputing it in the first place? Maki obviously had the means, and if she really was willing to put up with the hassle of travel, then why not let her? It’s not like Nico didn’t want to see her as well.

“You’d really fly across the Pacific just to spend a night with me?” Nico finally asked after a moment.

“Maybe a couple of nights.” Maki admitted. “I would want to make sure my time with you was at least equal to, though preferably more than, my travel time, to make it worth it.”

A swell of pride filled Nico’s chest. “I guess I’ll have to start preparing VIP passes, then.”

“Huh?”

“Because if you’re around when I have a show, you’re going to want to be there, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Maki reached up to twirl a strand of hair around her finger “I thought that much was obvious.”

“I just have one condition.”

Maki raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t let it affect your studies.”

Maki furrowed her brow. Nico, of all people, was lecturing her on studying?

“I’m serious, Maki-chan. Your father would put my head on a pike if he knew you were chasing me around the world while letting your grades slip.”

“I don’t think he would be that bad…”

“Well he certainly wouldn’t be happy.” Nico scrunched her nose. “With either of us.”

“I suppose…”

“So if you promise me that, you can visit me whenever you want.”

“I brought my books.”

Nico blinked. “You brought them here tonight?”

Maki nodded.

“How long were you planning on staying?”

“Through the weekend?” Maki’s expression turned apologetically hopeful. “Maybe?”

“I’ll be pretty busy both Friday and Saturday, with rehearsals and concerts both days.” Nico explained. “We don’t have rehearsal Sunday, but we do have another concert that night.”

“I know,” Maki nodded again, “I have your itinerary. I figured I could study while you were rehearsing and then maybe go to the shows in the evenings. If I head back at a decent time Sunday, I can still make it to class on Monday.”

“What about your classes tomorrow… or today, I guess?” Nico asked, realizing it was well past midnight. “And Friday, for that matter?”

“I don’t have any labs either day and no assignments due. And I… uhm…” Maki started fidgeting with her hair again. “I already emailed my professors and told them I would not be in class because… something… came up…”

Nico sighed. “Alright, but don’t make a habit of skipping class.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Yeah, I know.” Nico winced. “But I’m not the one aiming to be a doctor. And I don’t want you falling behind on that because of me.”

“I won’t.” the med student assured. “You’re free tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, that’s why tonight was Skype night.” The idol confirmed. “So I could sleep in if we ended up talking too late.” She smirked. “Of if you showed up unexpectedly at my door…”

“I told you, I wanted to see you.”

“I know. I missed you too. So, I’m assuming you want to go on a date tomorrow?”

“I looked up some good places while on the train.”

“Then I’ll let you lead the way, my dear.” Nico smiled. “You know, I’m glad you came.”

“I like it here.”

“I know, right? Hanayo booked us awesome rooms.”

“No, I mean I like it here.” Maki emphasized her words by pulling Nico closer.

“Oh… Yeah…” Nico nuzzled into her girlfriend. “It is nice.”

“Nozomi was right…” the redhead murmured.

“Hmm?”

“Nozomi said I was homesick earlier.”

Nico thought for a moment. “Because home is where the heart is?”

“Yeah…”

“She said that to me when you and I moved in together.”

“Why?”

“Because I was worried about whether or not I would be able to adjust to such a big house; that it would feel cavernous and empty.”

A look of concern crossed Maki’s face.

“I grew up in a tiny three-bedroom apartment filled with five people.” Nico continued. “Then I moved into a small two-bedroom apartment with Nozomi. And now I’m in a giant four-bedroom house with you.”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, I love it.” Nico assured. “That’s what I’m trying to say. I adjusted quicker than I thought because Nozomi was right; home is where the heart is. I love living in our house because you’re there with me, so it’s home to me.”

Maki craned her neck over but was unable to capture Nico’s lips, so she twisted onto her side to get a better angle. Nico read her intentions and pulled her girlfriend in once she was in position.

After a few moments, Nico finally pulled away with a lopsided grin. “So would it be cheesy of me to say a belated ‘Welcome home’ to you?”

“A bit.” Maki replied but returned the smile. “But it’s fine.” She pecked a quick kiss. “I’m home.”

Author’s Note Continued: I personally maintain the definition of “home” as being “where the heart is.” I may not have moved as many times as families in the military, but I’ve still lived in several places that felt like little more than storage places for my stuff. I slept in these places merely because my bed was being protected by their roofs and walls, but they did not feel like “home.”

On the other side of the spectrum, I can say I have several “homes.” My mom’s house feels like home, even when I sleep on a hide-a-bed. I have a friend in Seattle whose house is welcoming and feels like home to me. And there are many others, because “home” is not a geographic location to me and has nothing to do with bricks or mortar or wooden beams.

Home is a state of mind. Home is where the heart is.

[mcgrannkileigh1996]

How Long Does Reiki Take To Work Fascinating Cool Tips

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[rolandfontana]

Keeping the Wrong Secrets: The ‘Cone of Silence’ Around Exonerations

In Illinois, Cook County and the village of Park Forest recently settled a wrongful conviction case for $14 million.

Christopher Abernathy spent 29 years in prison for the rape and murder of a 15-year-old girl. Abernathy, who suffered from learning disabilities, alleged that detectives pressured him into confessing during a 36 hour-interrogation. Eventually, DNA recovered at the scene implicated two unknown males and exonerated Abernathy. The Cook County State’s Attorney agreed that he should be released.

Abernathy was sexually assaulted and infected with HIV while in prison.

A fascinating aspect of the case is that although the government defendants settled, they insisted that the settlement contain no admission of wrongdoing, and that the facts of the wrongful conviction and prosecution would be concealed behind a confidentiality agreement.

This isn’t uncommon.  In fact, it is normal.

In every criminal justice bureaucracy there are layers of mid-level people who have been taught that their role is to help their department (or office, or agency, or court) keep its head down.  The rote demands for confidentiality orders and the refusal to admit wrongdoing in the Abernathy case were predictable, reflexive, part of a routine.

But why?

If the information quarantine is designed to protect an image of infallible cops, prosecutors, defenders, and courts, then the effort is futile. That picture no longer exists, even on TV.

The DNA results in Abernathy’s case—and a steady flow of other cases that are shared in the media—have already let the public in on the secret (if it was ever a secret) that people in criminal justice make mistakes. By 2016, the rate of exonerations had already doubled over the previous five years to an average three a week, according to figures compiled by the National Registry of Exonerations.

The aura of perfection is gone, and it isn’t coming back.

Trying to preserve this illusion can cripple our efforts to repair the damage we’ve done.

Paying the Debt, Telling the Story

When we talk about “accountability” in criminal justice we are really talking about two distinct ideas.

An “account” is something to be settled: a debt to be paid.

But an “account” is also a story to be told: a narrative that could bear witness to the suffering of the victims, explain what happened, accept responsibility, and fuel the learning that prevents recurrence.

We need to address both senses of the word “account.” But when we try to answer “calls to account” without keeping their distinctiveness in mind, the odds are that we will fail to answer either requirement successfully.

In medicine there are people like patient safety pioneer Dr. Lucien Leape who remind “circle-the-wagons” administrators that the mission of a hospital is not to avoid lawsuits; it is to care for patients.

The mission of a criminal justice system is not to avoid lawsuits either; it is to do—and, just as importantly, to be seen to do—justice.

Arguments about accountability usually focus on account-as-debt. There are two kinds of debt at issue: the personal debt of the cop who extorted the false confession or the defender who didn’t investigate, but also the system debt owed for the awful consequence that the justice system as a whole produced without intending to, or even realizing what it was doing.

Prosecution, discipline, or discharge are the currencies for settling the individual wrongdoer’s account.

No system can tolerate conscious rule-breakers or reckless loose cannons, and public trust in the law depends to a significant degree on punishment of insider offenders.

But by its nature any punitive path requires elaborate due-process protections for the individual, and seems to dictate a tight focus on that one individual’s actions.

We can’t live without that tool and we shouldn’t hesitate to use it. But an assessment of a rule-breaker’s personal debt—whether we decide to exonerate him or to hang him—is a bad place to stop.

The system-as-system has made an effort to meet its obligations to Christopher Abernathy personally. Thirty-four states now have statutes allowing for payment to exonerated prisoners. One way or another, the payments come from public funds.

Research conducted by Prof. Joanna Schwartz of the UCLA School of Law makes clear that in the related area of police misconduct 99.98 percent of payments, settlements and verdicts come from public funds too. There is plenty of evidence that the broad, tax-paying public approves of compensation to individuals for harm done in its name.

The public wants to pay.

Telling the Story: Accountable for Healing

But to write the check, and then to stonewall the story of how and why the tragedy happened—and, therefore, whether it can happen again—is wrong-headed.  The settlement looks more like hush money than contrition.

Building a cone of silence around the event makes it seem that justice system leaders are telling the public “Nothing to see here, move along.” They are paying off one individual, but only because they have too.

They don’t much care if the same thing happens again to someone else.

(Jim Dwyer’s recent reporting in the New York Times on the alienation caused by the absence of a clear accounting for the Eric Garner police chokehold death presents a good example of where this leads.)

Medicine’s experience with “disclosure and apology” after medical error taught us that when someone is harmed, “We’re sorry this happened to you” is not as good as “We’re sorry we did this to you.”

The expression of sympathy has to include an acceptance of responsibility. Where medicine has taken this road, both the number of lawsuits and the amount of the total paid out has gone down.

In criminal justice the “we” in the disclosure statement has to include  everyone involved. Wrongful convictions are system errors. Yes, the cops got the wrong guy to confess, but someone trained the cops and set their resources; the prosecutors failed to screen the case; the defense didn’t intercept the mistake, the courts waved it along.

At some distance away, someone equipped these players, set their incentives, and limited their options. Even when there are culpable actors there is a range of others who also contributed: who zigged when they should have zagged, for reasons that made sense to them at the time and are revealed as dangerous only by hindsight.

What conditions motivated them? Do those conditions still exist? They are part of the story we have to learn.

The “you” addressed in the apology has to include not only the wrongfully convicted, but those affected by the radiating circles of harm caused by the error: the original crime victims or their survivors, the further victims that the real killer may have found later, and even the professional participants who were traumatized by learning of their roles in an outcome they never intended.

Keeping the Wrong Secrets From Ourselves

Anxiety about disclosure—the sense that it can only hurt—haunts even stakeholders who strongly believe that it is crucial to learn from slips and errors.

But this calculation ignores an up-side to transparency. For example, treating the Abernathy exoneration as if it were a pile of dangerous secrets obscures the fact that the prosecutors’ Conviction Integrity Unit played an important role in a “good catch.”

Why isn’t that prosecutorial acceptance of fallibility and commitment to accuracy a source of pride? True, the “good catch” happened 30 years too late, but even that fact has a positive element. It shows that the system’s leaders believe that no mistake is so ancient that it can be swept under the rug: that while perfect accuracy hasn’t been realized in practice, seeking it is still seen as a moral imperative.

Besides, ultimately the best way to avoid payouts is to avoid doing the harms in the first place. Making a fetish of secrecy in order to avoid tactical disadvantages in civil litigation effectively augments a situation in which we have a justice system that—like NASA on the eve of the fateful Challenger space shuttle launch—is keeping secrets from itself.

As Prof. Schwartz has shown, additional litigation can actually drive learning if we listen to the process: it asks questions that wouldn’t be asked; uncovers causal influences that we didn’t recognize.

And outside the litigation context the launching of the complementary “all-stakeholders, non-blaming, forward-looking” approach supported by the Bureau of Justice Assistance “Sentinel Events Demonstration Project” can mobilize persons harmed in the collaborative work of preventing repeated tragedies. Medicine’s experience shows that injured patients and survivor families welcome the sense that their suffering will help forestall calamity falling on someone else.

The Legacy of Secrecy

So if secrecy actually promotes public distrust and obscures necessary system repairs, why do we pursue it?

Simple inertia plays a part; so does fear.

The situation we find ourselves in didn’t arrive yesterday, and won’t end tomorrow.

Among their other legacies, decades of determined hide-the-ball have convinced the media that the discovery of any contributing factor or fumbling worker in the background of an event presents a delectable opportunity for “blaming and shaming.” That journalistic reflex, in turn, nourishes the arguments for secrecy, and a cycle sets in.

But determined leadership can change this.

The simple, explicit announcement that after every adverse event our department (or agency, or court) will do everything it can—with everyone who can help—to learn what went wrong, and tell the story will constitute a giant leap in the right direction.

James Doyle

The work of taking responsibility for learning how things go wrong in our justice system, after tragedies like wrongful convictions and unnecessary police shootings, is an indispensable element of healing and restoration.

But before that work will happen, the leaders of our justice system have to make it part of the job. They should pledge that we will hold ourselves “accountable for learning.”

James M. Doyle is a Boston defense lawyer and author, and a frequent contributor to The Crime Report. He welcomes readers’ comments.

Keeping the Wrong Secrets: The ‘Cone of Silence’ Around Exonerations syndicated from https://immigrationattorneyto.wordpress.com/