Feature Stories
A phone call came in from Rick’s wife—she wanted to say goodnight. “My beautiful wife,” he said when he hung up, smiling. He had a job in astronomy, yes, but he’d sacrificed the goodnight kiss.
OUR INDEPENDENT PROVIDER ASSOCIATION (IPA) MEETING THURSDAY NIGHT ADDRESSED NEARLY EVERY NIGHTMARISH ASPECT OF PRACTICING MEDICINE IN THE 1990S. MEETINGS SUCH AS THIS ARE RUINING MY HEALTH. Three months ago, our IPA announced it had …
When he won, Gagliardi gave his trucking business to his brother — “Hell, who wants to drive a truck when you don’t have to?”—and he left his motorcycle business to his ex-wife after the divorce.
Tijuana: Valentine’s Day, 1938. In the most notorious crime in the young city’s history, an all-night search by relatives, friends, and authorities ends at dawn with the discovery of eight-year-old Olga Comacho’s butchered body, half …
I hate walking along the street and seeing cars filled with families driving to grandmother’s house. I hate for the neighbors to see me and to imagine their thinking, “I wonder if she has any place to go.”
Let's start off on a nice bleak note. The standard line these days is that one out of every two marriages ends in divorce. Given those odds and the trauma of pulling the threads of …
The stretch of the Boulevard people call “the Village” runs from Spring Street up past Fourth. The Village hasn’t changed much since my boyhood, when I could overlook it from my bedroom window.
Sheri’s brows were knitted, her lips tight. Like a scowling infant, unhappy thoughts appeared to flit over her face. The eyelids fluttered, and then her eyes opened; they were beautiful—large, a brown color flecked with gold.
The next week, I met Mrs. Ferguson, aged 82, during Mike’s regular Thursday visit to Sun City Gardens, a triangle of blue-carpeted buildings by the freeway that overlooks, on three sides, the hot suburban desert.
Four months. Four months since I left the Kaiser Permanente Medical Center, a little surprised that they were letting me just leave with this newborn, half expecting some sort of institutional monitor to be sent …
If you are a woman therapist in your late 40s, about 5'7" (“but not too tall”), blond of hair, conservative in dress, self-assured, nurturing, non-flamboyant with a pleasant voice, I want to meet you. Not …
I did what I would have advised anyone to do. I said to my face in the bathroom mirror, a pale face made paler by the bathroom’s subaqueous light, “You’ve got to quit living on peanut butter.”
He read for an hour. Then stopped. Still, he’d never looked up. People rose to their feet. Clapped. Clapped louder. All at once Schuyler looked up from the table into the faces that fell down before him.
“If you have an office building, 1 story, 30 stories, or 80 stories, the owner wants to look forward to a profit. One way, if the economy is good in that market area — you can raise the rents.”
Underneath my name on the shingle that hangs outside of my office's front door are the words "Berkeley International Health." Until we sold our practice nine months ago. That was what my partner and I …
I’m white. I admit that because it’s not something white people have had to think about. (Okay, it’s a stereotype, but one I can get away with, being white.) We haven’t had to think about …