Content: medical

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Two generations of McGovern women have fallen for the wrong men...and found themselves pregnant and abandoned. Dedicated college student Lizzie McGovern has survived foster care, achieved academic success and is determined to defy her family's heritage of poverty and broken dreams. During a summer abroad in Paris after her junior year, Lizzie falls for Theo Andreas, a young Greek lawyer working abroad in France. Will Lizzie fare better in love than her mother and grandmother?

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This is a story I wrote some time ago (mid-to-late '70s). After I wrote it I attempted to get it published, received rejections each time I submitted it, then shelved it. After joining this site recently, I decided to post it here to see if it has any merit, which I believe, or none, which the editors who rejected it seem to believe. Note: On attempting to insert the story text, I was informed it was "Over Limit" so it will be published in two parts.

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A post-apocolyptic tribe of women survives through neuron regeneration implants and assisted reproductive techniques. Men? Neither needed nor wanted, except for one thing. *** I wrote this story purely on a lark, to escape "Client Relations," I suppose. I grew up loving Heinlein, Bradbury, Ellison, Asimov, Herbert... so I had a fun time with it. It's been submitted to 2 or 3 publications. I'm posting it here: (i) to needle the most sexist men on this site (wait - who?); (ii) to see if anyone thinks it's as fun to read as it was for me to write; (iii) for suggestions on what publications might like it; and (iv) for feedback and comments, of course!! But it's item (i) - oh yeah, I'm talking to YOU! - that inspired me to post it, right here, right now. : )

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Modobenny has been twisting my arm. She has finally convinced me to begin the process of coalescing these stories into a novel format. Some of the chapters are simply cut and paste from the Short Story postings. Others are new. As always, have at it with suggestions. Lord knows, I wouldn't let any of you off the hook. Thanks again, to all who have helped me get even this far. I couldn't have done it without you. Scott

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This story took place two years ago. I still can't talk about it without choking up. Read, offer points and suggestions. My intent is to show what some of these calls do to emergency workers.

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When working in San Francisco you have to ask, “Is pot still illegal?� Young Jason has taken his first hit of marijuana. It's not sitting well with him. Jason also has a date. I sort through the medical issues while tempering the affections of the two lovebirds. In San Francisco, normal is a little different. Before the story, I've included a "Snippet", a totally unrelated flash. I've got these lying around and wanted to get some thoughts on them as well.

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A woman has died and telling the family is my job. While I don't relish the duty, it must be done with a careful choice of words and compassion. Of course, there are other ways to do it, too.

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Let’s just say an abscess doesn’t happen overnight. When Danielle and I get called at three in the morning, the patience line is a little thin. The ambulance is locked inside a parking lot and I must play twenty questions to find the key to the gate. It’s now four in the morning and I blow my top. These are the calls that eat paramedics alive over the years.

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The cops have found a lady in the communal shower of a hotel. She’s not talking and there is some blood on the floor. Sleep deprived and grumpy, an engine crew, James, and I tromp up the stairs to find out what emergency woke us all up.

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Betty Kay (or is it Kay Betty?) has a nosebleed. She won’t give a straight answer and I am losing my mind just trying to get her name. In the end, I am exhausted after verbally jousting with a difficult patient and even more shocked to find out why her nose started bleeding in the first place.

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It’s time to deliver the baby. Dad’s having a hard time sitting still, Mom is Deaf, and we’re all stuffed inside a ten-foot by four-foot ambulance.

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Balancing the needs of my patients sometimes leaves an emotional mark that must be faced... after the work is done.

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Damn, this guy’s got…one, two, three… My fingers follow the progression of bullet holes I have found…four, five,…six,…seven holes in him. Who’d he piss off? Daryl Robert Preston has been shot – seven times. It’s EMS at its fastest. The patient is talking when the fire crew, my partner, and I get to him. Problems keep popping up. A helpful firefighter and I have to solve them all at the same time while rocketing to the hospital. Can the patient be saved? He's got eight minutes.

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