Introduction

     I was born third of three children in a nuclear family comprising parents of Pennsylvania German Mennonite history - "Pennsylvania Dutch." I grew up between Lancaster County and Philadelphia, and once had an Amish friend named Linda. Yup, Linda.  Not Rebecca, not Sarah, not Rachel, but Linda.  I have often wondered if she was the only Amish Linda in the world.  I have a garrulous, extroverted, artsy fartsy sister who lives in haughty New England. My introverted, dry, analytical, anxious brother lives in the Deep South. His two children are amazingly perfect despite the chaos of their household. I would say I am a blend of my two siblings. I am analytical, enjoy people, but prize my alone-time. My humor is left of center, to the delight of some, the perplexity of others. “Refreshing” my mother calls it.  I am refreshing.
     I conduct research at an academic medical center in North Carolina. I work for two incredible women who doctor sick children, some of them terminally sick; a job that makes me cry at home at night sometimes, at my desk, or even in meetings where highly trained medical personnel speak a little too frankly for my sensitive ears. Crying in meetings under fluorescent lighting – and getting caught doing so – is not my idea of a good day at the office. I realized quickly that children die every day.  Not something that crosses the minds of average people.  On the other hand, sometimes I get to meet adults who survived cancer when they were small.  Surviving cancer is one thing, but surviving the treatment is another. These adults are often physically damaged goods, with large, eternal patches of hair loss, stunted growth, prosthetics, orthopedic hardware, chronic pain and God knows what else.  Despite this, they charm me with their cheerful tones, and thank me for taking their blood and shoving them through an MRI machine for the sake of research that might help another living soul. I’m not sure I could be that gracious. When healthy people complain to me about their lives, that their cars keep breaking down or their jobs are low-paying, I want to grab them by the ears and shout to their faces, “Be glad you don’t have a 4 year with brain cancer, douchebag!”
     To keep myself reminded of life’s ridiculousness at work, I drink my hot steaming coffee from a mug displaying the Bristol Stool Chart. I sent my friend a Bristol Stool Chart t-shirt to wear on the Boston subway, but apparently she does not delight in pooh. She does not think I am "refreshing."