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demonsonthemoon · 5 years

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Scars

Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist Pairings: N/A Word Count: 2005 Summary: Edward Elric has more scars than he wants you to think about. More scars than he wants to think about himself, but he doesn't really have a choice in the matter, most days. Note: This is one of those fics that masquerades as a character study but is really just an excuse to share my trans headcanons and talk about trauma. It's one of those fics that you hate because they're the only ones in the trans tag but you still read them because they're the only ones in the trans tag. I'm sorry.

Also available on AO3.

Edward Elric has more scars than he wants you to think about. More scars than he wants to think about himself, but he doesn't really have a choice in the matter, most days.

The ones most people know about, the most obvious ones, are the automail scars. And even then, a lot of people can't even fathom the extend of them.

Ed guesses a lot of people have a very vague idea of what losing a limb means. They imagine a stump as a clean slab of flesh hanging off one's body. They don't realize what that stump implies, what it means for a limb to be torn off, sawed away, crushed and destroyed. They can't begin to imagine what it feels like to have one's skin gape open, one's muscles sliced into, to feel one's bones crumble. Those people don't know shit.

And Ed hasn't fared the worst. Far from that. His arm and leg were torn off, but – small blessing – at least the fucked up dimension behind the door meant it happened cleanly. They weren't shredded off bit by bit. They were there, then they weren't. But even that leaves scars.

And then there's the automail itself. The thing sure looks clean when it's on. Winry is amazing at what she does, and so the metal limbs seem to grow organically out of his skin, but it's all a lie.

The prosthetic has to be linked to his nervous system, which means it can't just slot over his shoulder. It has to go in. Into the mess of scar tissue and flesh where the wound had first healed.

It figures that losing something happens so easily. But gaining things is usually messy, slow, and excruciatingly painful. Equivalent fucking exchange, Ed guesses.

Ed has lost an arm and a leg, and then he had gained new ones, and he had scars for every screw and rivet, for every wire connected however indirectly to his brain.

Most people don't think about all of that, and if he was a better peson, Ed would be fucking happy for them.

He has other scars, with other stories. Most people don't know about those.

He has one on his left elbow from a bad fall when playing with Al in Resembool. He had slipped when running by the river and scraped his arm on some rocks. Alphonse had screamed and cried. It had all seemed very dramatic they day it happened, although now Ed thinks of the memory fondly. It brings back the image of his mother teaching them how to clean a wound and then holding him and his brother in a tight hug. When he thinks about it, Ed can almost imagine he remembers the smell of her hair.

He has a knife scar on his side. There's not much of a story to tell when it comes to that one. It's pretty much what people expect from him. He got in a fight, and then he wasn't careful enough and the other guy gave him a souvenir to remember why he should.

(Of course there was a longer version to that story. It involved someone almost falling to their death and Ed feeling like it would be better to have them in prison than buried, and that one thought almost costing him his life. Kindness is dangerous in this world, and Edward knows that better than most, but he's learned to be even more dangerous than kindness itself.)

And then there are the scars on his chest. Ed doesn't usually let people come close enough to notice, but those are far cleaner than the other ones. So much so one might call them unnaturally clean. And if one did so, one might start asking inappropriate questions.

Those scars are the ones Edward resents the most.

Not because of what they stand for. Not really.

He used to have breasts, big fucking deal. That was never really Ed's problem. Or at least it wasn't anywhere near the root of it. He had been fine with the fact that he had breasts. A little bit freaked out when they had started growing, sure. Especially because he'd been precocious. But he had been fine with them. They were just pieces of fat attached to his body, like so many other parts of him.

What he hadn't been fine with were the things those breasts seemed to imply about him. What he hadn't been fine with was being called a girl, a young lady, Alphonse's sister. He had avoided it for what little childhood he'd had, because mom and Al and Winry and Granny Pinako all called him what he wanted, and he always wore his hair short and never put on dresses, so most people just assumed that he as a boy anyway, no questions asked.

But then his breasts started becoming noticeable. He could lower his voice all he wanted, but people took one look at the little nubs peeking out on his chest and they got it wrong. And then either Ed played along and pretended to be something he wasn't, or he got pissed and caused a scene and brought trouble to Al and their teacher, and despite that the people would keep on getting it wrong, only on purpose this time.

All of that, Edward had a problem with. So that was why Izumi had offered to get him something to bind his breasts with, on the one condition that he never wore it during training.

Of course Ed had said yes. And soon, the binder had become a second skin to him. Admittedly, an uncomfortable, itchy one, but it was better than the alternative. Izumi's house was still a sanctuary where he was free to wear whatever he wanted and still be acknowledged for who he was. For that he was grateful.

Up until the moment where he left it behind.

The army was something else. The army meant paperworks that Edward had filled in in a not entirely legal manner, because there wasn't really any other way.

So Edward had started wearing his binder all of the time, physical training included, not wanting anyone to notice anything that could give them an excuse to kick the 12 year-old genius out of the army.

But of course someone had to notice at some point. Someone had to notice his shortness of breath after too physical a fight, they way he pulled at his clothing even if if was loose. Someone had to notice at least one of the thousand of clues Ed couldn't help but leave in his trail.

And of course that someone would be Colonel fucking Mustang.

And the Colonel had had one simple solution to what he felt was Edward's problem.

And that solution had been alchemy.

Specifically, highly-specialized medical alchemy. Of the kind that involved a lot of money and got put down under a fake name on the paperwork.

When he offered to have the surgery paid for by the military, Mustang was not expecting to receive a negative answer. This was supposed to be an offer you couldn't refuse.

Except Ed had said no. Categorically. He knew what happened when you tried to pretend the rules didn't apply to you, when you tried to play god. He knew what happened when you used alchemy to mess with human life. He had all the scars he needed to tell that story, thank you very much.

Mustang didn't understand that. He didn't understand that Ed didn't give a shit about how many people had been satisfied with a specific doctor's services.

Ed also didn't give a shit about how Mustang even knew about all of this. The only thing he cared about was the promise he'd made to Al and himself. They had made the mistake once. They weren't ever attempting human alchemy again.

And that oath had been all good and well in theory. But in practice things had been more complicated. Ed had turned fourteen and had started getting pain in his back on a regular basis, cursing the fact his chest had developed so early.

In practice, he couldn't bear to see Al so worried about his health, couldn't bear the few but cutting comments about how he was throwing his body away, even though he should know how lucky he was to have one.

(And Al only said that because he knew there was another option possible. He only said that because he knew there was a way for Ed to feel better, even if he had rejected it.) (And whatever people said, it wasn't just about principles. It was about not inflicting his pain on another human being. It was about not being the excuse another person needed to get a taste of power and want more, and get punished for it. It was about not letting himself go through that hell again, because he didn't know if he would be able to look away from the abyss this time.)

Alphonse only said mean things to him if Ed needed to hear them.

So one day, Ed mustered up enough guts and stupidity to go knocking on Mustang's door and not puke all over his perfect uniform as soon as he opened the door. And when Ed asked him if the offer was still on the table, Mustang only made one tiny sarcastic joke, and it was about the money, and he was a gentleman about the rest of the whole fucking affair.

And so Ed found himself in a medical cabinet, having to face the fact that maybe a big part of his reluctance to do this was due to his unadulterated fear of losing any new part of his body. Hadn't he given enough? Would he even be able to recognize himself in the mirror if more of him went missing in this way? How much of yourself did you need to keep to be considered a human being?

But if he told himself it was too late to change his mind – even if that wasn't true, even if he still had a few minutes before they drugged him to alleviate the pain, even if Al would make all hell rain down on whoever tried to touch him if Ed just said a word – if he told himself it was too late, he might just manage to stick things out and get through this. And then no more binder, less back-ache, less skin irritation. No more wondering what someone would say if they found out.

Ed could breathe again, if he thought about it like that. And that was all he needed in order to nod to the doctor assistant that he could put him under, and then his thoughts were starting to slip from his grasp, and everything was much simpler like this, wasn't it?

Then he had woken up, still woozy and confused, and Al had been there to take his hand and tell him some stupid reassuring gibberish and that had felt so good Edward had almost cried. And of course he had blamed it all on the drugs, and Alphonse had indulged him even thought he knew damn well that his brother was a fucking sap and loved him so much it filled his entire world.

And when the drugs' effects had faded away, he had looked down at himself, at the gauze around his chest, and he had felt something hollow lodge in his throat. They were gone. They were just gone. And Ed was still here, still... whole somehow. He didn't actually feel like anything was missing, he was so used to the sight of an artificially flat chest. But he knew it was different now. Although nobody else would. Nobody but him and Al, and Colonel fucking Mustang, for some reason. That wasn't something Ed wanted to think about. There were a lot of things related to Roy Mustang that Edward actively tried not to think about. It just made his life a lot easier.

#Meeni writes fics #Fullmetal Alchemist #Fanfic #Edward Elric

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angryhausfrau-writes · 3 years

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You Can’t Cross the Same River Twice - Chapter 3

Trapper's shift starts disgustingly early and he's moving around the dark bedroom as quietly as possible, obviously trying not to wake Hawkeye as he gets dressed. But after sleeping so much over the past few days and going to bed reasonably early the night before, he's awake anyway. So Hawkeye turns on the lamp and he's treated to the sight of Trapper in shorts, socks, a mis-buttoned shirt, and and a severely off-kilter tie. Hawkeye laughs at him as he fumbles to straighten everything out.

"Sure, laugh it up. A guy tries to be considerate and this is the thanks he gets? Next time I'll just turn on the light at 4 am - see who's laughing then." But he's smiling, face so full of openness and warmth Hawkeye can't stand it and he has to go kiss him right on his stupid - adorable - overbite.

They kiss for a while, and they're both clearly interested in more, but Trapper has somehow become a responsible person in the year and a half since he left Korea. So rather than taking off the clothes he has on, Trapper pushes Hawkeye gently away and finishes getting dressed. And then they go downstairs to eat breakfast together. Maybe it's not the quickie Hawkeye was hoping for - and that definitely would have made Trapper late for work, because Hawkeye doesn't feel like being all that quick - but this is nice too.

And if, after Trapper leaves for work, Hawkeye takes a very long, hot, pleasureable shower, well that's between him, fantasy Trapper, and his own right hand.

Hawkeye's morning isn't altogether unproductive, though. He writes his dad finally. He'd sent a telegram from San Francisco saying he was back stateside, but nothing since. And it's a short letter, just letting his dad know he's fine and in Boston with Trapper and that he's not ready to come up to Maine yet but loves and misses him. The letter is a load off Hawkeye's mind, though. He doesn't want his dad to worry, but he also can't face him in person yet.

Hawkeye also writes letters of introduction - or reintroduction - to the various clinics around Boston, eager to get back to practicing real medicine after so many years of meatball surgery. And he's hoping to be rehired at the clinic in South End because it's familiar and close to Trapper's house and on the bus line. Because, the thing is, he doesn't technically have a driver's license. He hadn't needed one to drive in small town Maine - and he was rarely able to borrow his dad's car since it was needed in case of medical emergencies - and he hadn't needed to drive at all in big cities like New York or Boston. And though he'd passed the Korean version of a road test, it doesn't count in the states - and Rizo had maybe gone a little easy on him. He had once managed to flip a Jeep and give himself a concussion after all. Anyway, Trapper doesn't have a car he could borrow. Apparently that had gone to his ex-wife in the divorce. But, Trapper said, he'd gotten the house and he doesn't live out in the suburbs like Robert and now Louise so he hadn't minded too much.

So Hawkeye can't drive, legally or otherwise, and he figures he should probably get used to taking the bus as soon as possible. He and Trapper had taken the train when they went downtown - a mode of transportation that doesn't yet have any negative associations for Hawkeye - but it doesn't run everywhere. So he girds his proverbial loins, checks a bus schedule, and plans a trip to buy knitting supplies. It's a relaxing hobby and Hawkeye figures he'll need that after the day's adventure in public transit.

And it's not so bad really. The bus looks completely different for one thing, and there are no kids on the bus - just a few elderly ladies that kindly don't say anything about his tense posture and desperate staring out the window - his way of making sure he doesn't get magically transported to Korea. So Hawkeye makes it to the dry goods store ok and buys needles and yarn and a sweater pattern he thinks would make a good Christmas present for Trapper. And if the yarn he picks out happens to be a shade that will bring out the green in Trapper's hazel eyes, that's nobody's business but his. And it's so strange to be able to just go where he wants when he wants, doing what he wants. There's no concept of AWOL or leave or something-hour passes. He's free in a way he hasn't been in three years.

To celebrate his freedom, Hawkeye buys a magazine from the news stand - something bright and splashy and full of celebrity gossip - and then sits in the sunshine on a park bench for over an hour, reading the magazine and just enjoying being outside on such a nice summer day. In a place where there are flowers and trees and mothers with strollers and laughing children. A place that has remained untouched by blood and death and war. And then Hawkeye buys himself an ice cream cone.

He makes his way home and the bus ride is less nerve wracking the second time, even though the bus is more crowded. There are a couple of young kids, though, and their shrieks of laughter make him flinch - and bite back a tense order to be quiet - the first few times but he calms down. There are no enemy patrols here. Maybe he'll eventually believe that and be as bored and indifferent towards his surroundings as the rest of the passengers. But at least for now he should be able to make it to job interviews, and hopefully soon a job, without breaking down. Still, it's a relief to get home.

Trapper must've accidentally mentioned Hawkeye being in Boston somewhere too near Charles Winchester - or maybe hospital gossip is just that powerful - cuz they both get invited out for drinks at some unbearably posh club in fucking Back Bay. The kinda club that wouldn't let Trapper in through the delivery entrance much less into the actual bar. But Winchester's delivery of the invitation - which had involved calling Trapper to his office right as he was about to leave for the day - had brooked no argument. So now he's gotta go break the bad news to Hawkeye. And try not to get murdered by a bunch of angry WASPs.

Fortunately, Trapper's shift both started and ended early today so he has time to go get bruised and sweaty with all the other working class louts at the boxing gym before heading home to try and make himself look respectable enough for Winchester to be seen with him. Ok, that's not quite fair. He seems like a halfway decent guy. Still an upper class prick and a showboat surgeon - but he obviously cares about all his patients the same, regardless of their background. And maybe it's just cuz he can't stomach being anything but the top cutter in the outfit, but it's better than some of the docs Trapper's gotta work with. It's just that when Winchester or any of the other docs with breeding look at him, they see dumb Paddy before they see competent Ivy League surgeon.

Trapper ain't ashamed of any part of who he is. And he knows there's times and places he's gotta keep parts of himself hidden - to keep himself safe, to blend into the various worlds he lives in. But it pisses him off that his coworkers can't look past their shallow perceptions of him and see him. That's what he loves about Hawkeye. Trapper can be his entire self around him - no hiding, no being looked over.

At least that's one positive side to this whole deal. Hawk'll be there with him. And he's wearing his new suit and it looks real good. Trapper's disappointed when the car Winchester sent arrives cuz it interrupts his, ah, appreciation. But being chauffeured around is fun - the driver's wearing honest to God livery and Trapper feels like some kinda English lord outta a novel.

Reality comes crashing back in when they get to the club and the doorman or concierge or whatever gives him a look of such curdling contempt for daring to introduce himself as Dr. John McIntyre, here on Dr. Charles Winchester's invitation. Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce - nice and patriotic and Anglican - gets let in with no problem and Hawkeye must go get Winchester cuz he descends on the sneering sonofabitch like a pompous tidal wave. All "Do you know who I am?" and "How dare you presume to tell me who I can and cannot entertain" and "My family has been in Back Bay for three generations" and blah blah blah. Trapper just wants to leave, wants to run as far away as he can get, but Hawkeye's hovering there behind Winchester, looking about as miserable as Trapper feels, and he can't just leave him. And eventually Winchester's tirade winds down and Trapper gets let inside and Winchester is stuffily apologetic about the whole thing. Trapper appreciates that - knows how rarely Winchester apologizes about anything - but he had to've known, he's lived in Back Bay his whole life, he had to have known.

They get their drinks at the bar and head to a secluded table. Trapper has a whiskey and it's American - cuz of course it is - but it's ok as far as it goes. He's certainly drunk worse. And Winchester has some sorta fancy cognac that probably costs more per bottle than Trapper makes in a month. And Hawkeye has a Shirley Temple.

"On the wagon again, eh Pierce? Too bad; the cognac here is almost worth drinking. But I suppose anything is better than those terrible martinis you used to swill."

Hawkeye just smiles winningly and eats the cherry out of his drink. And immediately makes a face. Apparently the Shirley Temple habit is a new one.

"I dunno about you, Hawk, but I can't drink a martini that doesn't taste like it's made with lighter fluid anymore."

Hawkeye laughs. "It's true, they go down too smooth with real gin. And besides, I remember you doing plenty of swilling over in Korea, Charles. You're still the only Swamp denizen to ever get kicked out of Rosie's three nights in a row."

"No kidding? You went to Rosie's? And I don't think I managed to get kicked out even once." Trapper puts on an exaggerated look of contrition.

"Oh yeah, Charles became a regular lush when some kid of a Captain from Tokyo -"

"Insolent upstart," Winchester interjects.

"- replaced Potter for a bit and showed us all up but good."

And then they're off, telling funny stories from Korea. Charles has a bunch that Trapper never heard about from Hawkeye and even some from when he was stationed in Tokyo that Hawk's never heard either. And he and Hawkeye tell a bunch from back before Trapper shipped home - mostly about Frank Burns, but some about Radar and Klinger and Henry Blake. There's a moment of silence while they raise a toast.

And then Winchester says, "When are you coming to work for me, Pierce? Even McIntyre found a job at Boston Mercy. Surely you don't think I would turn you away?" And suddenly the air of camaraderie is gone.

"I think I can do more good outside a big hospital, Charles." Then Hawkeye's expression turns icy. "Anyway, Trapper has to work the job he found at Boston Mercy tomorrow, so I think we ought to be going."

Winchester looks confused. Like he knows he fucked up but he's not quite sure how. "Well, we'll have to do this again sometime soon. Perhaps at a different venue?" He cuts an apologetic look toward Trapper.

"Sure. But Hawk's right, I oughtta head home for some shuteye."

They shake hands under the watchful sneer of the concierge.

"Sorry if I got you blackballed from your fancy club, Winchester."

He huffs out a sigh but looks less constipated. And Hawkeye's smile becomes less fixed. All in all, the night coulda gone worse.

"Thank you for doing that."

"You're welcome." Trapper's response is muffled in the join of Hawkeye's neck and shoulder. They're laying cuddled up together in bed - which has become routine - but with Trapper all curled into Hawkeye. Trapper's a little taller and a lot broader than him and Hawkeye usually likes to be held in his big, strong arms. But Trapper seems to need a little extra comfort tonight. He's not one to be self conscious, but he'd been pretty obviously out of his depth the whole evening. And Charles had said some pretty terrible things to him - unintentional as they were. And he'd endured all that for Hawkeye.

"No, I mean it. You spent an entire evening with Charles and the rest of the snobbery brigade for me and I really appreciate it."

Trapper sits up a little so he can look Hawkeye in the eye. "He's your friend - even if he won't admit to it in polite company. There hadta be something decent about him or you woulda never got to be friends. It was worth braving a bunch of Back Bay snobs, including Winchester, to get to see that side of him. And anyway, I gotta work with the guy. It makes sense to play nice." And then Trapper lays back down and he's quiet for long enough that Hawkeye thinks maybe he's fallen asleep.

But then he says, "Next time we do this, we'll just haveta take him to the seediest working class joint we can find that don't have rats." And Hawkeye wonders what the hell he did to deserve having John McIntyre in his life.

#mash #piercintyre #fanfic archive #you can't cross the same river twice #chapter 3

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nettheworldonfire · 4 years

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If the Genes Fit, Test Them.

It’s been 2 weeks since I’ve last posted. Somewhere between the drama and chaos that was diagnosis, first treatment, and weaning my 6.5 month old external tumor, and now the end of life as we know it (also known as COVID-19), I just didn’t have much to say, or much time to say it.

So while Charlie is sleeping, and Olive is screaming at me in her typical zombie-esque growl and tossing each toy I give to her on the ground, repeatedly, I’ll painstakingly stop and start this post, until I’ve given a short update about all that has been going on.

Genetic Counseling Update: On Wednesday I spoke to a genetics counselor over the phone. I was supposed to go in, but the appointment was modified due to COVID-19 and we took care of everything via phone. The counselor’s name was Stephanie and she was extremely kind and informative. She called me promptly at 8 am and the call lasted almost exactly one hour, like she said it would. (I kind of wish all appointments were this easy.) They are sending me out a saliva swab kit to test my DNA. The kit should arrive within a week, I’ll send it back out, and I should have those results within a month. Easy peasy.

Stephanie said that about 10% of neuroendocrine tumor patients are genetically predisposed to getting cancer. While only about 1 of those percents are people with my type of neuroendocrine tumors, due to my family history, they think it is smart to check. On my mother’s side, I have a second cousin who also has pancreatic neuroendocrine tumors and liver metastasis (she recently started Lanreotide injections, too). Additionally, my mother’s father had a neuroendocrine tumor on his spine, near the nape of his neck, which they assumed was was not cancerous, even though it was fatal. He was diagnosed in the 70s though, and then Neuroendocrine tumors were thought to not be cancerous because of how slow-growing they are. When I was diagnosed 8 years ago, we tried to access his records from his more recent Jefferson hospital stays/surgeries (he passed away in the early 2000s) but we were not able to obtain them. Anyway - that is enough to make this a fishy scenario. And in the words of the counselor, “reasonable to think there is an underlying genetic predisposition.”

While the most important reason for genetic testing right now is to find out if my immediate family may also be at risk for these type of tumors, it can also be helpful to know what treatments may be beneficial. If an underlying genetic cause is found, it would trigger two things - testing for my mother and brothers, and testing for my children. A genetic predisposition has a 50/50 chance of being passed to your children, so therefore, if I have it (presumably from my mother, since it’s on that side of the family) it would typically indicate that she does and my brothers and children have a 50/50 chance of having it, too. There is yet a third consideration though - which is that it is a NEW genetic predisposition started with ME. Apparently, there are 10 new genes in each baby, that did not come from either mother or father, meaning that issues like these can start with anyone, at any point (crazy, huh?).

They told us that this testing, if not covered by insurance, costs $250 per person - something I think is worth it, in the long run. I don’t think they would test my children now, but they said they would fairly early - and if they also have the gene - they would be followed/scanned regularly to ensure there are no tumors. Definitely not the sort of thing you want to have passed down to the kids (I think they would prefer a family fortune, or a shorehouse) - so fingers crossed that I don’t have this gene and it’s all just a horribly shitty coincidence.

Adventures of Olive in Formula-land Update: My (adorable) hungry, hungry hippo is now taking 25-30 ounce of formula daily, from a regular medela bottle with a disposable enfamil nipple (go figure), like a freaking champion. This girl can eat. She is so proud of her bottle-loving self, that she gets up three or four times a night to show me how much she loves her fancy formula. Luckily, she is four months away from regular old milk (or an abundance of yogurt and cheese, the route Charlie opted for) and we can stop spending $30 a week on her elitist beverage of choice. I joke, but really I am thrilled that the horror of weaning is over. That nearly killed me. And in more personal news, I didn’t even have to pump that long, didn’t really get sore, and have pretty much stopped producing much at all - so that is a literal relief.

University Update: After learning I was locked into paying for the course I had started a few days before my diagnosis, I was annoyed and anxious about what was the best course of action. I decided that it would be better, for the purposes of my sabbatical (and needing to complete a certain amount of my program to meet the requirements of my district and not owe them back what I’ve earned this year) to struggle through the course, versus withdrawing, if we were paying for it either way. So that’s what I did. But, but rather than struggle through the course, I just kind of didn’t do anything. I felt overwhelmed even thinking about it, so it was easier not to. And I didn’t. This past week, as week 8 (the final week) of my course began, I discussed my options for salvaging the course, so that I might at least “pass” with my chairperson. She was accommodating and understanding, and now with even more craziness in the world, sympathetic. She and I discussed a minimalist approach to completing back-work and hitting the milestones I missed in the last few weeks, so that I could still get some late credit. I felt like so many of my students, basically asking, “What is the very least amount of work I can do and still pass your class?” I suppose what goes around, comes around?

I started working my dissertation proposal again Thursday and will have more to work on this weekend - but should be able to pull off a small miracle. I did send a crass email to the finance department and will likely be taking a hiatus from the program, as I am not sure where to go from here. While I want to finish this dissertation and accomplish what I set out to -- I also just don’t give an eff at this point, and may want to spend the tiny bits of spare time I have doing things that make me genuinely happy. After all, you only live (or die) once, and If the last two months say anything about life, well - that’s enough to scare anyone into treating each day as your last.

Side-effects Update: After my first injection, I felt okay for awhile, then got extremely tired for about two hours. Later that night, I was quite nauseous and vomited a couple times. By the next day, I felt a little wonky and sick - but overall, not terrible (more like a bad hangover). Within two or three days, I think I felt normal again (what is normal anyway?). Even now, almost three weeks later, I can still feel a bulbous spot in my upper butt cheek and from time to time it is sore. I can definitely see why they recommend doing the injection on alternate sides. The specialty pharmacy called me this week and everything is set up for my shot to arrive at Dr. Rose’s office sometime next week. He should be back to work on Monday and I am hoping he calls me with next steps/ideas. The only thing I know for sure is that I need to get blood work next week and I am not looking forward to sitting at Labcorp and germ swapping with my Abington area neighbors, but I will be careful.

Anxiety Update: I started a daily dose of 5 mg of Lexapro about the same time as I started the Lanreotide - I think I have been on it for 25 days maybe. I can’t really tell if I feel a difference because everything has calmed down a bit, and we have a plan of action to tackle this cancer and I am not actively writing my dissertation - or if the medication is working? Hard to say. I do feel better(ish), minus the impending shitstorm that is COVID-19 lurking around every corner. My doctor, however, didn’t think I was any more susceptible than a normal 37 year old, so that was the good news. The bad news is, that if they start making triage decisions based on health - metastatic cancer is one of the things that means you don’t get a ventilator - so I better watch my back (and wash my hands, and not touch my face, and all that jazz). We’re socially distanced though, and other than my appointments, we will remain that way until things are less deathy out there.

Options Update: I am assuming that the whole COVID-19 thing has changed his thoughts on doing the embolization in April, and since Dr. Teitelbaum felt it was something we could hold off on, I think that may be the route we go now. I don’t even know if they would do it, or if it would be considered elective. Not that anyone would elect to go through this, but you know. Hoping I will have a conversation with him on Monday to sort this all out. Til then...

* Dark side: Quarantine, still, and maybe forever.

* Bright side: A lull in posts means a lull in “activity” means a lull in bad news - I’ll take it! * Next steps:

3/30/20 - Conversation with Dr. Rose about the plan of action

4/1/20 - 10:00 a.m. - Bloodwork at Labcorp

4/6/20 (tentatively) - next Lanreotide injection (I forgot to write down the time!)

* Sciencey GIF:

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msbigredmachine · 7 years

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Into The Deep End - Chapter 36

Sasha has always tried to play it safe, to keep her life as simple and risk-free as possible. Things change, however, when she garners the interest of a handsome, charming, younger man from a completely different world than hers. As she starts to question her own rules, is she ready to take the biggest chance of them all? Will she let herself take that dive? Roman Reigns/OC.

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CHAPTER 35

The transition of an athlete to inactivity is always a tough road for every sportsperson, and it was no different with Joe. The first few days after his emergency surgery were rough. He was still in pain and had to stay in bed most of the time, and when he had to walk around he had a hard time doing it on his own. He was always tired thanks to the medicine prescribed to him. Sasha and his sisters ensured he was following the Doctors' instructions to a tee. They monitored his meds, kept him drinking lots of fluids and eating plenty of vegetables, fruit and high-fiber foods. Whole meal bread, pasta and brown rice, which he particularly disliked, were regulars on his menu. Sasha could tell that Joe hated the changes and hated having to rely on people for help, but that was the way it had to be for now and she gently tried to remind him that there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

Due to Joe's sudden injury, the WWE officials decided to vacate the Tag Team Championships, much to the Samoan's chagrin. Jon had offered to hold the titles with Colby so as to keep them within the Shield, but Vince and Paul were skeptical about Dean Ambrose holding the United States and Tag titles at the same time, so the pitch was turned down. Joe became unhappier than ever, going as far as to blame himself for costing Colby the title, even after the Iowa native insisted otherwise. Joe was feeling left behind as the product continued on without him. The fear of never recovering fully, of never reaching the level he was at prior to his injury nagged at him. He was very low on confidence and it was difficult to get his spirits back up.

However, it wasn't long before his cranky behavior started to irritate Sasha. He was angry all the time and found fault with everything everyone did, including his sisters. He moped around and was moody and picked arguments over the pettiest things, and it was getting old real fast. Sasha had nursed T.K. back to health from a sports-related injury a couple of times but it was nothing of this scale, and he certainly didn't give half the lip her boyfriend was giving her - probably because he knew she would've smacked him silly, but still. She understood Joe was frustrated but it was no excuse for his attitude. Though she couldn't lash out, it was becoming harder to rein in her own displeasure.

"What's this?" Joe sat up in bed, looking down at the tray of food she placed in front of him.

"Roast chicken, pasta and vegetables," said Sasha, walking over to draw the curtains open, the bedroom in dire need of some sunlight.

Joe stabbed a fork into the fillet. "There's oil in the chicken."

Sasha replaced the pillow he was resting on with a fluffier one. "It's roasted chicken. There's barely any oil in it."

"How come you didn't grill it though?" He was actually pouting.

"Roasting was faster for me, babe," she replied patiently. "Besides, I'm not great with the grill setting on your oven. What's the big deal anyway? There isn't much difference between roasted and grilled."

"Grilling is healthier," Joe said sternly in that know-it-all, second-coming-of-Einstein voice he used that he probably thought made him sound smart. "More fat drips off when you grill. The last thing I want is to gain weight while I'm recovering."

Sasha rolled her eyes. "One chicken breast quarter is not going to make you fat, Joe."

He made a sound under his breath, and it took all of her willpower not to clock him in the head with the pillow she was holding. "Should I throw your food away then?" she questioned, barely-concealed irritation in her tone as she planted her hands on her curvy hips.

Joe frowned, and right then he looked like a petulant five-year-old. "I'll eat it," he answered begrudgingly. "Grill the chicken next time, okay?"

"Yes sir," she muttered under her breath as she picked up her handbag and started to leave.

"Where are you going?" the Samoan demanded.

"To work."

"Work?"

"Yes, Joe. Work. I still have a job, remember? One where I'm not afforded the luxury of skipping whenever I want."

"What does that mean? That I'm skipping my job? You think I wanna be here?" Joe questioned angrily, pointing at himself.

Sasha kept up the patient tone. "I didn't say that."

"At least you get to go out," he complained. "I'm stuck here with nothing to do. I can't work out and I'm bored to death."

"This is only a temporary setback, babe. It's not the end of the world." They were starting to sound like broken records. They'd had different variations of this conversation for about a week straight now.

Joe took a sip of his water. "When are you gonna be back?"

"A little later than usual. I'm going to see Pam after work. She hasn't been feeling well and I haven't had time to see her."

"Because of me, right?"

"What?"

"You haven't had time to see her because of me," said Joe.

Sasha frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"You think I'm a burden, don't you?"

That did it for her. "Are you fuckin' serious? When have you ever heard me say that?"

"You don't have to say it. It's written all over your face." His tone was accusing. "Like my injury is keeping you from doing other things, keeping you here against your will. Is that how you feel?"

Jesus. Turning away, Sasha pinched the bridge of her nose, almost afraid to respond and say something she would regret. "I can't really do this right now. I'm late for work." She glared at him. "Am I free to go or do you wanna interrogate me some more?"

The two glowered at each other like some kind of awkward Mexican standoff, neither budging an inch until Joe returned his attention to the plasma screen TV. "See you later," he grumbled.

She left quickly. He was becoming more unbearable with each passing day.

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

Time went by quickly at the Grill, and afterwards she went to see Pam as planned. Her friend had been sick for a while now and it was starting to worry Sasha. She knew Pam hated going to the Doctor and if she hadn't by now she would drag her to one right away.

Pam was in a right state. Her hair was a mess, her eyes were blotchy and red, but it was the devastated expression on her pretty face that alarmed the mother of two. "Jesus. What happened to you?" she asked, pushing into the apartment.

Pam paced back and forth in the middle of her living room, and Sasha could tell she'd been doing it for a long time. "I can't believe this is happening," she murmured. "I can't believe the mess I'm in!"

"What mess? What is happening?" inquired Sasha, as Pam continued to pace and mutter to herself. "Goddamn it Pamela, stop that! You scare me when you do that. Tell me what's going on!"

Forcing herself to a halt for her friend's sake, Pam had fresh tears in her eyes. "I just got back from the Doctor's appointment." Her voice shook as she swallowed hard. She could not believe she was about to say this. It still didn't feel real. "Sasha, I...I'm pregnant."

Sasha's eyes widened. "Huh?"

Pam glared at her. "Did I stutter? I'm four weeks pregnant. I finally went for my check up this morning and this is what the fuck popped out. See why I hate going to the Doctor? They're always bound to spring some fuckin' surprise outta fuckin' nowhere!"

Pregnant. Of course. All the signs had been there; her mood swings, the nausea, every symptom similar to that of food poisoning, what they thought she had. Sasha wondered how she hadn't realized it sooner. Holy shit. "Is it Elgin's?" she finally asked.

"Of course it's Elgin's! I ain't been with nobody else since we got together!" Pam retorted.

"Okay, don't bite my head off," said Sasha, sitting beside her on the sofa. "Have you told him?"

"He's in London and won't be back till the end of the week," Pam answered, jamming her fingers into her hair. "I don't understand, Sash! How the fuck did I get pregnant?"

Sasha blinked. "Well, when a man and a woman really love each other, and-"

"Fuck you! This is not funny!" Pam snapped. Her features suddenly sagged, her anger transforming back into misery. "We've always been careful. We used protection. Condoms, birth control, everything! Always! How did this happen?"

"You know as well as I do that shit don't work all the time," said Sasha, putting an arm around the smaller woman. "Babe, you have to tell Elgin."

Letting out an unladylike snort, Pam said, "Right, and have him dump my ass? He'll think I'm only after his money, that I've been trying to trap him all this time."

Sasha took Pam's hand in hers and looked her in the eye. "Of course he won't. He loves you."

"It's too soon, Sasha! We've only been together for what, four months? He said he's not thinking about babies! I don't even know if I'm ready for a kid!" She trailed off and covered a hand over her mouth. "Damn it, I think I'm gonna be sick...again. Gimme a sec."

She made a beeline for her bedroom, disappearing inside for several minutes. Finally she returned, looking paler as she wiped her mouth. "Better?" Sasha queried when she sat back down.

"No. I've been puking for days now and I'm already over it. I don't know how you went through this shit twice." She leaned against Sasha's shoulder and sobbed. "Oh Sasha, what am I gonna do?"

Pam's fear radiated through her. Sasha hadn't seen her this frightened and helpless since her mother Irene was diagnosed with terminal cancer. But she knew exactly how she was feeling. "I know you're scared," she said softly, as Pam's watery eyes met hers. "You've seen me there before. First and foremost you have to tell Gin. He deserves to know. Whether it's over the phone or in person, just do it. Don't keep something like this from him. And whatever the outcome is, whatever he decides, I'm here for you. You know I'll never leave your side."

Pam flashed her a feeble smile. "Thanks. I...I don't know how I'm going to do this alone, Sasha."

"You won't be alone, babe. I told you I'll be there for you, and so will Gin. You'll see." Sasha kissed her forehead and rubbed her arm.

Pam pulled out the band holding her ponytail and ruffled her loosened hair. "So how's your man doing?" she asked, frowning when Sasha averted her eyes. "That bad?"

"It's getting worse," Sasha lamented. "He's angrier, moodier. He barely talks to me and when he does it becomes an argument. Everything I do is a problem for him. I don't know what to do to make him feel better, it's like he's tired of me. How long will I wait before he straight up tells me he wants me gone or something?"

"That won't happen," Pam said. "It's not easy for him either, girl. He's injured. You know guys like him are very proud and he just needs his confidence back. Be patient with him and keep helping him. Things will get better sooner than you think."

Sasha let out a tired breath. "I can't wait. That time feels so far away." Looking back at Pam, she reached over and gently rubbed her friend's still flat stomach. "Speaking of time, I'm gonna be an aunt in nine months. That is so cool," she smiled broadly.

Pam look down at the hand on her stomach and started to tear up. "I still can't believe it," she murmured, then shook her head, wiping her face. "Gosh, I've been cryin' a damn shitload too."

"It's the hormones, babe. That's what happens when you're knocked up," Sasha laughed, hugging her best friend. "Congratulations, Pam-Pam. You're going to be a great mother."

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

Joe was in the living room, staring listlessly at the report on SportsCenter, seeing it without really seeing it. His mind was firmly on his girlfriend, who was obviously and rightfully losing patience with his attitude. He was taking his anger and frustration out on her and it wasn't right. She didn't have to do this. She didn't have to come over and take care of him like she was. She could have left him with his sisters but she didn't. And yet he was shitting all over her devotion to him. If he didn't start acting right she could possibly walk and he wouldn't blame her.

God, it would break him if she left. He couldn't do this without her. He had to find some way to make it up to her before it was too late.

His thoughts were interrupted by his phone vibrating with a text message.

Hi hun. I know u're home. I'll be at ur place in 5. C ya. ;)

Danielle. Crap.

Staring at the text again, he thought about replying and turning her away, but decided it was pointless. She would insist on showing up anyway. She wasn't the ideal companion but he didn't mind any sort of company at the moment.

Less than ten minutes later the tall, blonde figure sashayed through the front door and into the house. "You could have at least replied my text," she said, her heels clicking as she approached him. "Wow, you're a mess."

Joe rolled his eyes and pushed back his messy ponytail. "Gee, thanks Danielle," he replied sarcastically.

"No problem. I was in the area and wanted to hang out." She plunked down next to the recliner he was sitting in and crossed her long legs. "How are you doing?"

As much as he didn't want to admit it, he was quite comfortable talking with her. They weren't as close as they used to be back in Developmental but they still talked now and again on the road. "Bored out of my mind," he sighed. "Being injured sucks ass."

"Where's the girlfriend?" Danielle inquired, looking around.

"At work," he answered, rather brusquely.

"Interesting," Danielle said, looking anything but interested. "Anyway, how long till you're back?"

"Couple of months, and it can't come soon enough." Yawning, he leaned back in his recliner and closed his eyes. "Sorry, I'm not going to be much of a talker. I just took my meds and that shit knocks me smooth the hell out sometimes."

"Everyone's been talkin' about you," said Danielle, whipping out her phone. "There's mixed thoughts on you being stripped of the Tag titles, fans speculating on what you're gonna do next, all that unnecessary hype and shit. Your Twitter followers are waiting impatiently for your next tweet."

"Yeah well, let 'em wait. I don't wanna talk to anyone," he griped.

Danielle lifted a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "You are in quite a mood, and it's not just because you're out of action," the WWE Diva said. "What is it? Trouble in Paradise? You and your girl are not used to seein' each other all the time and now y'all getting on each other's nerves. Am I right?"

Joe opened his eyes again, his jaw clenching. "It's nothing."

"You've never been a good liar, Joe," Danielle pointed out. "Come on. You can talk to me."

He could, but he wouldn't. He and Sasha may be on shaky ground but he doubted she would appreciate him mouthing off about her to a woman she was not fond of. "Don't worry about it. So how's my man Curt?" he asked, referring to his friend Curtis Hussey, better known as Fandango.

"He's fine," she replied in a tone that suggested she had no interest in talking about her on-again off-again boyfriend. Looking around again, she said, "Seriously, where's Tasha?"

"Her name's Sasha. Don't act like you ain't know. And she's working," he said simply.

"While you're here on your own?"

"She has to work, Dani. She's got a job. She'll be back soon anyway."

"That's a shame. She left you all alone when you need her the most. You see, that's the difference between her and me. I would never have left your side. I'd be here all the time. Like I am now." She shot him a meaningful look, one that set alarm bells ringing in his head.

His grey eyes widened when out of the blue she reached over and started to rub his shoulders. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"You're tense. Let me work those knots out for you." She continued to massage his broad shoulders. "I've always wondered, Joe," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Why didn't we ever get together?"

Because back then she also had her eyes on his cousin Josh. Finding out about that gave him the perfect excuse to back off. He didn't share women, especially not with his own flesh and blood. Even when it became clear that Josh wasn't into her, Joe had lost all interest. She hadn't been worth chasing then and she definitely wasn't now. "Uh, Dani, this isn't a good idea," he started to say, swallowing when her hand moved from his shoulders down to his chest.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, locking gazes with him seductively. "Look, I'm sure Sasha's great and everything...but you and I both know I'm better for you. She doesn't understand the world we're from. She doesn't know what a man like you really needs. I do because I'm a part of that world. Your world. You and I would've had something special if you'd just let it happen."

Her hand glided along his torso, and Joe stiffened at the realization that she was aiming for his crotch. "Danielle, stop. Don’t." Wide awake now, he squirmed, trying to shift away from her. Her hand traveled further and further down, and she boldly kissed the crook of his neck. Joe fidgeted some more, cursing his injury for limiting his mobility.

With a firm flick of her finger under his bearded chin, Danielle directed his face to hers. "Come on, it's just one kiss," she laughed, her lips inches from his. "I won't tell if you don't."

"What the fuck is this?"

Startled, both Danielle and Joe's heads whipped towards the front door and saw Sasha standing there. If looks could kill, Danielle would be a cold, rotting corpse. "Get out," Sasha snarled, her tone laced with a venom that Joe had never heard from her before.

"This isn't your house, darlin'," Danielle retorted haughtily. "You got no right to tell me to leave."

"The hell I don't! You put your slutty little hands on my man. Leave or I'll throw you out myself."

Danielle stood up and placed her hands on her hips. "I'd love to see you try."

Sasha stared blankly at her, and then threw her head back and laughed with such menace and malice that Joe legitimately feared for Danielle's life. He knew his girlfriend had finally snapped.

Dropping her handbag on the ground, Sasha took off her earrings. "This bitch think I'm playin'." She pulled her hair into in a ponytail, ensuring it was firm and in place. "Get the fuck out!" she said angrily. "Now!"

The WWE Diva made no move, simply flipping her blonde hair back and making a sound in the back of her throat. Keeping weary eyes on his approaching girlfriend, Joe said, "Danielle, I think you should go."

"I'm not goin' anywhere!" she protested. "Who does she think she is? Are you gonna sit there and let that bitch talk to me like-"

Her tirade ended abruptly in a startled scream when Sasha seized her by the hair and yanked her backwards with such force that her knees buckled. Without uttering a single word she dragged the taller woman, caveman-like, across the living room, the red mist surrounding her blocking out Danielle's shrieks. She could feel the bitch's fingernails digging into her wrists as she struggled to get away but Sasha had her in a vice-like grip and had no plans of loosening it. The mother of two threw open the front door and bodily flung Danielle out like the bag of trash that she was. She then marched over to the seat next to Joe, grabbed Danielle's handbag, marched back to the door and tossed the bag out to join its owner, and didn't look back as she slammed the door shut. She hoped the bitch tripped on the staircase and cracked a tooth or twenty, triflin' thirsty-ass ho.

Joe remained in his recliner, stunned, cringing at the look on Sasha's face. "Sash...Sasha, I-"

She pointed a trembling finger at him. "You got some damn fuckin' nerve, Anoa'i."

"It wasn't what it looked like!"

"Oh, so that bitch humpin’ your leg was a figment of my imagination?" she countered angrily. "Tell me this, Joe. Did you ask her to come over? Have you been calling her behind my back?"

"No I haven't! I didn't ask her to come over either!" Joe insisted. "Calm your ass down!"

"Calm my ass down?" she repeated, livid. "I come back from work and find her seconds away from shoving her tongue down your throat and you expect me to calm down?" Hands on her hips, she glared pointedly at him. "Do you want her, Joe? Huh? Should I go get her back so she can come take care of you instead? Let somebody else put up with your bullshit."

Joe's heart sank upon seeing the tears in her eyes. "Babe, please, listen to me-"

Her hand shot up, silencing him. "No, no! Don't. I don't wanna hear it. Just...don't." Forcing a deep breath into her lungs, she headed towards the sliding glass door. "I need air. I'm outside if you need me, your Majesty." Mocking a curtsy, she stormed out of the house, desperate to be as far away from that infuriating man as possible. Making her way to the deck, she slumped down in one of the few wicker chairs and tried to breathe normally, tried to swallow back the bile that had risen up her throat and the betrayal that was clogging her chest. That fucking slut, daring to put her filthy claws on her man, and him just sitting there, made her want to be sick. It was already an emotional day for her as it was. She didn't need this shit too.

As though aware of the tempest brewing, Cassie called her cell phone. "Hey Sasha. How's it going?"

Sasha hesitated. "Not great."

In the few weeks of Joe's recovery, Cassie had witnessed her brother's antics, and was personally surprised and impressed that Sasha had endured his crap for this long. "Wanna talk about it?"

Sasha blinked back the impending tears. How could she tell her boyfriend's sister that she was at her wit's end without coming off as a heartless bitch? "I came back from work and found Danielle or Summer Day or whatever the fuck she calls herself groping your brother."

"What? That little tramp!"

"Yeah. Even worse, he did nothing to stop it," Sasha said angrily.

"Ugh. My brother can be an idiot sometimes."

"Yes he can," Sasha agreed.

Cassie could tell how upset the other woman was and felt for her. "I know how you feel, girl. Our dad used to act out when he got injured too. Maybe you should take some time away from Joe. Focus on your kids for a while. I got some free time this week so I'll take him off your hands. It's gonna be okay, honey. Alright?"

Sasha nodded. "Thanks Cass."

"Sasha."

At the sound of his voice, Sasha rolled her eyes. She did not want to talk to him.

"I can hear him so I'll let you go," said Cassie, "Make him grovel."

"Oh I plan to," Sasha replied, ending the call before standing up and walking towards the swimming pool.

"Sasha wait." Gingerly, he shuffled across the deck towards her. "Baby girl-"

"Oh, I'm baby girl again now, huh?" she said bitterly, extending the distance between them. "That what you call your skinny-ass ho too?"

Joe's face fell. "Sasha, please listen to me. I didn't know she would try to kiss me."

"Yeah right! That bitch been chasin' your pretty ass since before we met!" she countered. "Has she come over before, when I'm not around? What’ve y’all been doing behind my fuckin’ back?"

"Nothing, I swear!" he vowed. "I know I should've made more effort pushing her away but I've been groggy from my meds all day. But it's no excuse and I'm sorry. I'm not cheating on you. I would never cheat on you. This is just a big misunderstanding."

Again, Sasha didn't answer, but her body language gave her away. Her arms were crossed and she actively refused to look at him. "Baby, talk to me," he pleaded.

Shaking her head, Sasha kept her gaze straight ahead. "I'm tired of this, Joe," she confessed. "We don't go through the day without getting into some stupid argument. I feel like you don't want me around with the way you've been acting this past couple of weeks. Like I'm in the way and I'm not doing anything right. You don't want to open up to me either. Then I see you with...her. How do you think that makes me feel?"

Saddened by her statement, Joe blew out a breath and took a cautious step forward, pushing through the pain in his groin area to get to his love. "Listen...I know I've been hard to deal with. It's a frustrating time for me and I've been taking it out on you and I'm sorry. Baby girl, I don't want anyone else but you. You know that. I didn't touch Danielle, but I shouldn't have let her touch me either. Please don't be mad." He came up behind her and rubbed her upper arms. "I'll be a better patient from now on, I promise. Just...don't leave me. I need you."

She looked at him in surprise. "Why would you think I'd leave you?"

"Well..." he muttered, looking away uneasily. "I'm injured and useless and a pain in the ass. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to."

Sasha stared at her boyfriend. "I thought you'd know by now that I'm not that fickle." Exhaling heavily, she added, "Sure, I've wanted to choke you out a few times but no, I'm not going anywhere. I know how frustrating your injury is and I promised I'd be here for you through all of it. And I will."

At her words, Joe smiled. "I've said it before. I don't deserve you." He met her eyes, a little smirk forming on the corner of his lips. "I do have to say this though. You're so sexy when you're mad."

Sasha rolled her eyes. "Are you being serious right now?"

"Dead serious. The way you looked at her, yelled at her, how you dragged her by her hair not sayin' one word...that was fuckin' hot, baby girl. It kinda turned me on."

"I'm sure that's just the meds talking," she remarked, leaning into him instinctively when he wound his arms around her waist and placed a sweet kiss on her neck. He was relieved to feel her relax against him. "I've been a jerk, nani," he whispered. "And I may not have been acting like it lately, but I'm grateful for everything you're doing for me. I love you. Please forgive me."

She met his eyes. The sincerity and tenderness staring back at her washed shivers down her spine. How could she deny that beautiful face anything? "I love you too. All is forgiven. Now quit tryin' to seduce me, you know we can't do anything," she told him firmly, prying off the hand creeping up her breast before spinning him around and pushing him back into the house. "You shouldn't be on your feet. Go lay down. I'll make dinner soon."

"Please don't make me eat brown rice again," Joe whined.

"Doctor said no white rice yet. You need all the fiber you can get if you want a speedy recovery."

"I get that, but anything but brown rice, please. I swear if I put that shit in my mouth again, I'ma throw up," he complained, back in prima donna mode as he sauntered back to the guest room. Behind his back, Sasha shook her head with a small, resigned sigh. Yeah, it was going to be a long recovery.

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

Whew! Things were about to get real ugly. Is Danielle a troublemaker or what? Should Joe have done more to ward her off? And there's a baby on the way. :D

There's a lot to talk about. Hope you let me know your thoughts on all of it. Thank you! :)

CHAPTER 37

#roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns smut #into the deep end #jasha #msbigredmachine

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hermanhayden1993 · 4 years

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How To Get Rid Of Tmj Jaw Pain Super Genius Cool Ideas

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Cure For Tmj Teeth Grinding

Another type of Bruxism - they more likely to be sure that you can tell you a number of doctors have misused and overused unnecessary treatment techniques such as whiplash injuries and arthritis cause TMJ problems, they will outgrow.I hope this article to stop teeth grinding right now.When you clinch and grind but never feel the joint to cause damage to the patient's negative feelings and behaviors towards correcting them.A mouthguard is only done through customization.There are literally dozens of different TMJ treatment options that you can try:

The best thing to deal with and should be slightly apart from doing these things, it is still causing pain along the jaw joints that control the face, the jaw, they will wear down over time is the case, you may be affected.This plastic dental aid is made up of a number of foods you should consult with your doctor will suggest a mouth guard, they prevent their teeth at night?You may want to stop teeth grinding almost immediately.You must stop teeth grinding, instead of the lesser known causes or official treatments for this dental condition is connected and each person needs to be of any therapeutic condition.And so during the day, studies have shown to help reduce pain.

In fact, there are so many different types of drugs like methamphetamine and cocaine, as well making it a habit that brings pain to promote healing.There are alternatives solutions to treat the symptoms.Sometimes your jaw is able to concentrate and open your jaw to line up right and that means not many people it may be stress induced.The use of herbs such as jaw exercises are not aligned correctly.Jaw may lock wide open or close their jaw.

Otherwise you will be accompanied by hissing or buzzing sounds in your teeth at night or during sleep.Alternative Treatments for TMJ pain and mobility issues with the complaint of the condition.Bruxism is actually similar with every day will cause pain in the past.People with severe withdrawal symptom, which could help you to delay seeing a specialist for you.As well as diagnose any muscular malfunctions.

While we don't know what exactly causes TMJ, there are many causes leading to a solution.The excruciating pain and symptoms of TMJ is not even know that if one has bruxism, the habit in which TMJ works, by moving the jaw area -- this is known for is the use of mouth guards that can be furthered with the torment of bruxism night guard may in fact due to aging, or trauma.If you need to stick to one side, and over compensation.Relief can be put under general anesthesia and it can go longer periods of time due to a grinding action can be regarded as a side effect of this disorder is stress.Depending on your jaw which in turn will cause constant deterioration of the cartilage disc, indicating a dislocation of the disorder itself but one of the practical ways to treat bruxism naturally to understand the exercises, it will be amazed at how tinnitus and TMJ symptoms.

If you answered yes and others even just buy from over the counter, this is a clicking and/or jaw clenching as much as they do not give up 7 minutes of use.Learning how to stop teeth grinding day and you feel necessary.Over-the-counter medication is another word for teeth grinding is through a difficult and must receive some type of headaches as well as numbness and pain in your mind off the roof of your mouth as wide as you can do it 10 times and concentrate on how to manage it.Take your chin back and forth as they became addicted to teeth grinding and TMJ.This will cost as high as $700.00 per one; and sadly too, they do use high-grade rubber in their sleep or unconsciously.

6 Exercises For Tmdtmj Disorder Relief

It is important to get an effective treatment for bruxism.Maybe you know about these new causes, they should talk with a blocker.Other treatment options that come with it.When left untreated, can quickly deteriorate into something very cold is sensed by the effects on health are usually far better in diagnosing new problems and get joy back in your mouth slowly.These mouth guards is still a concern for those sleeping partners that are not lined up correctly.

The disk is repositioned and sewn into the ear drum.There are some herbal supplements that can create this inflammatory response.TMJ left untreated for a long and even hope to get back to life as you close your mouth and locking of the symptoms that can leave the pain sufferers have damaged or deformed teeth.There are some of these provides a lasting solution to bruxism, talk to your jaw muscles move, and in pain- If your current treatment doesn't help, the doctor will suggest surgery to correct an abnormal bite.

#How To Get Rid Of Tmj Jaw Pain Super Genius Cool Ideas #How To Treat Tmj Pain

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thegloober · 6 years

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Mailbag: Third Base, Cessa, Murphy, Myers, Opener, Frazier

J.A. Happ will start ALDS Game One tomorrow night

Only nine questions in the mailbag this week because, frankly, the postseason is wearing me out over at CBS. The League Division Series round is always the busiest. There are many games! Anyway, send your questions to RABmailbag (at) gmail (dot) com and I’ll get to as many as I can.

Andujar. (Presswire)

Ben Doyle asks: I love Miguel Andujar, but what about using a third base opener in the Wild Card game? Start your favorite defensive third basemen, bat him 8th, and pinch-hit Andujar their very first at bat. Two or three innings of better defense, at the cost of slightly delaying Andujar’s plate appearances.

It’s an interesting idea. I’ve seen fans (of all teams) float similar ideas. Prior to the Wild Card Game, I saw some A’s fans suggest they should start Matt Joyce at catcher instead of Jonathan Lucroy, so in case Lucroy’s lineup spot came up in the first inning, they’d have a better hitter at the plate. Lucroy then goes in for defense in the bottom of the first regardless of whether Joyce hits. Also, in the NL, there’s talk that road teams should “start” the previous day’s starting pitcher, so if that lineup spot comes up in the top of the first you can pinch-hit without losing your actual starting pitcher. Whoever you’re planning to start that day then comes out of the bullpen for the bottom of the first.

Anyway, using a third base opener for Andujar in one specific game is an interesting idea. You couldn’t do it all the time. The problem here is roster space. The Yankees carried eight relievers and three bench players pretty much all season. Do you burn one of those three bench players for maybe two innings of defense at the start of the game? This seems like one of those things that would work much better in September or in a Wild Card Game with a deep bench. Start Neil Walker at third, then pinch-hit Miguel Andujar and get him his three at-bats, then put Adeiny Hechavarria in for defense late. Fun idea. I’m not sure how practical it is.

Greg asks: I noticed old friend Russell Martin is being paid 20 million next year the last year of his contract, while his AAV 16.4 million. If he were to be traded and cash was attached to the deal (similar to the McCann deal), could the AAV actually go into the negatives? Or does it just stop at 0.

It stops at zero. There was some confusion about this a few years ago. I don’t remember if it was the Vernon Wells trade or the Alfonso Soriano trade, but the math for one of those deals worked out in such a way that it appeared the Yankees would receive a credit against the luxury tax. It doesn’t work like that though. It just counted as zero against the luxury tax. Martin is pretty terrible nowadays. Soon-to-be 36-year-old catchers usually aren’t the most productive bunch. The Blue Jays would have to pay down a lot of his contract to get me interested. Pretty much all of it, in fact. And even then I’m not sure.

Paul asks: With strikeouts and home runs up (so fewer balls in play), and improved positioning, is defense less important than ever?

In theory, yes. There are fewer balls in play right now than ever before. This season 65.2% of all plate appearances resulted in a ball in play. Ten years ago it was 70.3%. The further back you go, the more balls in play. Fewer balls in play means fewer opportunities for the defense, so, in that sense, defense isn’t as important as it once was. That said, there are still a lot of balls in play. Also players are hitting the ball harder than ever before. They’re bigger and stronger and it shows. So there may be fewer balls in play, but the ball that are put in play are somewhat harder to defend. Defense will never not be important. It may be easier to hide a bad defender than ever before though.

Nicholas asks: What do you think Luis Cessa’s role will be next year. I believe he is out of options after this season.

Cessa will be out of options next season, meaning the Yankees can’t send him to Triple-A without putting him on waivers. Who knows, he might clear. I like Cessa more than most and, at this point, the Yankees should just stick him in short relief. One inning at a time and let him air it out. Starting and long relieving isn’t really working. Nothing that happens with Cessa this offseason would surprise me. Wouldn’t be surprised if he gets traded, or if he gets designated for assignment, or he stays with the Yankees and gets a look in Spring Training. Domingo German, Tommy Kahnle, and A.J. Cole will all be out of options next season and are kinda in the same boat. Something will have to give this winter.

Eric asks: Does Daniel Murphy make sense for the Yankees as a free agent option? You sign him to play first base and if the either Torres or Andujar have a sophomore slump, you would potentially move Murphy back to one of those positions.

He might. Murphy is worth a longer discussion outside a mailbag setting and after the postseason. At this point he’s a bat-only guy. He’s been a bad defensive player for years and now he’s barely mobile after microfracture knee surgery. Murphy can hit righties (130 wRC+) but not so much lefties (51 wRC+), he can’t run, and he can’t really play defense. He’ll turn 34 in April and we’re getting dangerously close to platoon DH status here. That said, Murphy can still hit righties and he never strikes out (11.4%), so there’s some utility here. Squint your eyes and you can see some versatility. If you’re willing to live with bad defense, yes, Murphy could be a fit next season.

Murphy. (Presswire)

Geoff asks: Do you think MLB might revisit the playoff structure after this season? Both the Yanks and the A’s finished well ahead of the Indians, yet they both have to play the WC while Cleveland gets an auto bid to the DS because their division is awful. The Indians got to repeatedly beat up on the worst teams in the AL, while the yanks and As had to deal with 2 other teams in their same division of Cleveland quality or better (Rays and Red Sox; Mariners and Astros).

Nah. MLB loves the current playoff format and, personally, I love the Wild Card Game. I hate when the Yankees have to play in it, but, overall, the Wild Card Game is a blast. Is it fair? No, not really. It’s not just the Yankees and Athletics this year either. The 98-win Pirates had to play the 97-win Cubs in the 2015 NL Wild Card Game. I am pro-Wild Card Game and, ideally, MLB would reseed everyone after the regular season. Five teams in each league make the postseason and the fourth and fifth best teams get the wild card spots regardless of division. That’d be great. That gives every team a reason to keep playing hard to rack up wins. The Indians were able to coast all September because their division was so bad. The winner-take-all Wild Card Game is a ratings bonanza and it’s not going away.

Justin asks: If the Padres make Wil Myers available should NYY be interested for him at 1B? What’s a comparable trade package?

The Padres are going to trade Myers soon, I think. He belongs at first base and they just locked up Eric Hosmer to that monster contract, so the position is blocked. Also, San Diego signed Myers to an extension a few years ago and look at his annual salaries:

2019: $5.5M

2020: $22.5M

2021: $22.5M

2022: $22.5M

2013: $20M club option ($1M buyout)

Yeah, I’d bet on Myers being moved before Opening Day 2020. Myers was the 2013 AL Rookie of the Year and I feel like we still don’t know who he is as a player. He hit .253/.318/.446 (107 wRC+) this year. He hit .243/.328/.464 (107 wRC+) last year. He’s a career .253/.328/.439 (109 wRC+) hitter in over 2,600 big league plate appearances. Is that it? Myers turns 28 in December. When’s the step forward coming? Or is this as good as it gets? I’m inclined to stay away here.

David asks: If the Yankees were to utilize openers next season, who on the current roster would be best? My guess would be that Betances would be best suited, have him pitch an inning exactly every other day (or two innings every three days). That way he would never lose his rhythm and have a set schedule.

Dellin Betances did jump out to me. It’ll depend what the rest of the bullpen looks like, of course, but sending Betances out there to face the other team’s best hitters in the first inning every other day or once every three days or whatever seems pretty appealing. That said, if Dellin is the team’s best reliever again like he was this season, it would be awfully tough for the Yankees to keep him away from high-leverage situations in the late innings.

Joe asks: Do you think Clint Frazier is a candidate for Arizona Fall League?

He has too much service time. My unofficial math has him at one year and 12 days of big league service time and the Arizona Fall League limit is one year. There are injury exemptions from time to time, usually for pitchers rehabbing from Tommy John surgery. If Clint could get an exemption, great! I’m not sure he’s healthy though. Frazier was shut down with his latest setback on September 5th. The Arizona Fall League season begins Tuesday. I’m not sure he can go from suffering a setback and being shut down to ready for game action in a month.

J.A. Happ will start ALDS Game One tomorrow night

Source: https://bloghyped.com/mailbag-third-base-cessa-murphy-myers-opener-frazier/

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theconservativebrief · 6 years

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It’s obviously way too early for anyone to have a realistic sense of who is going to prevail in Democrats’ large field of 2020 presidential candidates, but it’s never too early to start breathless speculation about at least parts of it.

The betting website PredictIt offers a perfect opportunity to take stock of where the conventional wisdom currently lies, and where it may be wrong. The site runs an ongoing market about the 2020 race where you can buy “stock” in any candidate, and each share you own of the winner will pay out with a value of $1 when the nomination is run. That means you can interpret the current market price, in cents, of a single share as offering implicit odds on the probability of that contender winning.

As of Thursday afternoon, for example, a share of Kirsten Gillibrand costs 11 cents, implying an 11 percent chance that she will be the nominee.

What the bettors say — and what we think is correct — is that at the moment, there is no overwhelming frontrunner, just a broad field of plausible contenders with a real chance of winning. Given that reality, we’re not going to try to guess the final outcome (at least not yet), but instead give Vox staffers a chance to take regular peeks at the current odds and offer some thoughts about who may be overrated or underrated at current prices.

It feels petty to dump on a guy who’s currently at 3 percent, but honestly, 3 percent badly overrates Andrew Cuomo’s odds. As the governor of New York, he naturally attracts media attention, and the fact that his brother is a CNN host doesn’t hurt in that regard either.

Yet even though all polls indicate Cuomo will prevail fairly easily against Cynthia Nixon, who is challenging him in the primary, the fact that we’re even talking about a primary challenge by Cynthia Nixon shows Cuomo’s profound problems as a potential nominee.

Years ago, when Cuomo first became governor, he made a bet that the biggest risk to his presidential aspirations was that as governor of a large blue state, he would find himself pushed to tack left on policy and render himself “unelectable” in a national race. That got him sucked into all kinds of antics designed to keep Republicans in control of the New York state Senate that completely soured his reputation with progressives over a period of years during which the overall center of gravity in the Democratic Party has moved considerably to the left. Basically, he zigged when in retrospect he should have zagged.

He’s running for reelection with the backing of a strong party machine and almost all of the state’s labor unions, and he will almost certainly win especially given black voters’ historic distaste for white insurgent reformers like Nixon. But none of these strengths will apply in a presidential primary. Against professional politicians, some of whom are black themselves, and without a machine to back him, there’s just no way Cuomo can prevail. The right price for him is zero.

Speaking of which, if you want to take a flyer on a white male governor with presidential ambitions, I’d consider investing in Washington’s Jay Inslee. He’s obviously not likely to win the nomination, and right now he isn’t on the board at all. But I don’t think it’s too hard to tell a story in which in a field crowded with senators making broadly similar pitches about health care and fighting Donald Trump, a blue-state governor manages to catch fire by talking about actual policy accomplishments in his home state and a message focused on climate change. Is Inslee going to win? Probably not. But is he worth taking a gamble on if you can get him for cheap? Absolutely. —Matthew Yglesias

Former Vice President Joe Biden is near the top of the board at 15 cents. It’s time to sell.

Biden is back in the news this week since the passing of his friend John McCain. He’ll serve as one of McCain’s pallbearers on Saturday. Biden’s friendship with McCain is more than a bromance; it’s a symbol of America’s aspirational politics — one that values bipartisanship and civility.

This is Biden’s appeal. He’s an old-school, glad-handing politician — a man who loves to stump and to mix it up with voters. He’s a throwback who seems like he would make a great candidate.

The reality, though, is that not only is that not the politics of the moment, but Biden has never been very good at it anyway. His first two presidential campaigns, in 1988 and 2008, went down in flames. He bowed in 1988 after he was accused of plagiarizing a speech and a law school paper. In 2008, he never performed above single digits nationally during the Democratic primary. He wasn’t able to raise much money. Above all, despite his folksy image and reputation for retail politics, he came in fifth in the Iowa caucuses. If there’s a state for a Democrat who does well with white working-class voters, Iowa would probably be it.

Certainly, Biden’s name recognition and reputation are much higher after eight years serving as Obama’s affable vice president. The press loves him.

But besides the press, Biden doesn’t have much of a constituency in the Democratic Party. He’s not part of the emerging Bernie Sanders/Elizabeth Warren wing. His policy ideas are liberal, but they aren’t the woke politics around identity. He’s a neoliberal throwback, not the future of the Democratic Party. At 15 cents, it’s time to sell.

If you’re looking to take a gamble on a former senator who ran for the vice presidency, you might as well buy Tim Kaine at 2 cents, a relative bargain compared to Biden. He’s also a nice-guy candidate, affable and consensus-building. Ideologically, he’s a similarly situated Democrat as Biden — a liberal as it used to be defined, so relatively moderate today.

He’s got the upside of recent campaign experience, running with Hillary Clinton and seeing the pitfalls of her run up close. He could carry Virginia in the primary and in the general (a potentially appealing case to strategic primary voters). And he’s been in Clintonworld for many years and has connections to that donor network. Is he the most likely to win the primary? Probably not. But he’s a good buy at 2 cents. —Laura McGann

At the very top of the PredictIt betting markets is Kamala Harris, whom you can bet on for 22 cents. It would be foolhardy to rule out Harris entirely, but top of the pack? No way:

PredictIt

Harris polls poorly at this point. In fairness to her, polls two years out are basically meaningless. Rudy Giuliani was not the Republican nominee in 2008, nor was Al Gore the Democratic nominee in 2004. But the polls serve as at least a small data point against the idea of her as a frontrunner.

The core of the case that she’ll be the nominee, as FiveThirtyEight’s Perry Bacon explains, is the theory “among political insiders” that “Harris could win the Democratic nomination with a coalition of well-educated whites and blacks, the way Obama did in 2008.” This, I think, is a misreading of what Obama pulled off in 2008.

For one thing, Obama completely dominated both the ideologically left segment of the primary electorate and the black vote. There was no credible candidate plainly to his left; John Edwards tried to outflank him on economic issues but had voted for the Iraq War, and Dennis Kucinich was generally treated as a UFO-believing punchline. (And Kucinich clearly saw Obama as the furthest-left mainstream candidate, as he threw his Iowa supporters toward him at the last minute.)

Harris, by contrast, will almost certainly not be the most left-wing candidate running, and will face a challenge winning over Black Lives Matter activists, #AbolishICE proponents, and other voters critical of mass incarceration and police brutality. Yes, she wants to reform cash bail and has tried to improve her anti-prison bona fides in the Senate. But she started her career as a prosecutor; has a long record of defending the death penalty against legal challenges (while claiming to be personally opposed it it); resisted strong reforms to the state’s “three strikes” law; and in 2015, as California attorney general, tried to block two trans prisoners from getting gender-affirming surgeries. In a crowded field, stuff like that could be a real problem.

Nor is she likely to be the only black candidate in the field. Her Senate colleague Cory Booker is almost certainly going to jump in, and it’s possible that former Massachusetts Gov. Deval Patrick or former Attorney General Eric Holder will as well. That not only prevents her from, as Obama did, putting together a winning coalition with an overwhelming majority of black voters plus elite whites, but it also, along with her weakness on criminal justice issues, means she’ll be forced to actively court black voters in ways that promise to turn off racist white voters in both the primary and the general.

So who should be first in a crowded field in these betting markets? My pick would be Bernie Sanders:

PredictIt

Do I think it’s probable (as in, more than 50 percent odds) that Sanders wins the nomination? Absolutely not. He’d be the oldest president ever elected by a wide margin, he’ll probably lose the black and Latino vote and continue to struggle in the South, and this time, around he won’t be the only alternative to the frontrunner that most people consider (sorry, Martin O’Malley).

But consider what he has going for him:

He tied in Iowa last time, and there’s no regional candidate who would obviously be stronger than him there.

He won New Hampshire in a blowout, and even against fellow New Englander Elizabeth Warren, he’s in a strong position to do the same again.

It’s common for parties to choose runners-up as their nominees the next time around (as Sanders learned when he lost to Clinton).

Every other major contender (except perhaps Biden) has spent the past year scrambling to go as far left as Sanders has always been. He’s the genuine article in a field of imitators. If you’re a nurse in Iowa, would you rather go with someone who’s supported single-payer health care his whole life, like Sanders, or someone who signed on last year, like Booker, Gillibrand, Harris, or Warren?

Of course, it’s entirely possible that Sanders declines to run, deferring to Warren or staying out of the race entirely. But if he does run, I put his odds much higher than 15 percent. —Dylan Matthews

Original Source -> A way-too-early look at which 2020 Democratic contenders are overrated

via The Conservative Brief

#IFTTT #The Conservative Brief

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