by Sonya Huber We have two broad categories to describe illness and pain: acute and chronic, which seem to mark opposite ends of a spectrum, an either-or, implying that what is chronic is not acute. The narrative of acute action grips us: the bite of the snake and the reeling backward in sudden agony, and a “riveting story of a quick injury seems to demand speedy redress.” 1   Branding a condition like loneliness as an “epidemic” is a desperate attempt to gain attention in ou

by Jacqueline Doyle In the dream, Mom and I are arguing about my aunt Maddy. Again. I’m tense, my chest tight. Which story has my mother just told? The one about Maddy pilfering change from her purse as a teenager? Or some expensive purchase Maddy made? “My little sister just never understood the value of a dollar.” I seem to have entered this scene in the middle and missed the beginning. The scene is familiar enough. We were always arguing about Maddy.  Mom and I sit at oppo

by Sandra Gail Lambert “ Real people who survived the unsurvivable ”  is how the podcast OutAlive describes itself. Just from the name, we know these people don ’ t die. But that doesn ’ t mean no one else did or that they emerged with all their limbs (parachute snags on a cliff), their mental abilities (brain-eating virus), or even their faces (bear attack) intact. The podcast doesn ’ t have new episodes anymore, but I listen to the old ones again and again.  Mostly, I liste

by Sumitra Singam The sac within my body will not expand to hold a baby. A child is born to a woman who cannot mother her, so I become her mother. She has eyes like a long curve of beach when they are closed. When they are open, they are the ocean itself. When I take my top off the first time with this man, I want to cross my arms. I say, “I feel vulnerable.”. He laughs and repeats the word “vulnerable,” twisting its syllables. I feel that twist like it is a pinch at my nippl