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My book will be published on November 6, 2018 by She Writes Press.

I have changed the title over the course of writing the book so many times that I can’t give you a count.

The latest one, and I do hope the final one, is Stories from the Tenth-Floor Clinic: A Nurse Practitioner Remembers.

She Writes Press asked me to select three of what I felt to be the most powerful excerpts from my book (75-150 words each).

I thought I would share them with you:

When Margaret saw me, she ran to unlock the inner door before I got a chance to grab the key from my purse. Had she been waiting for me? My neck muscles tightened.

“Top of the morning to you,” Margaret sang out in her Irish brogue, exposing black, broken teeth, and a wooden expression in spite of her hearty words.

I looked for the ice pick Margaret reportedly always carried. She was empty-handed, and the pockets of her cardigan sweater weren’t bulging. Sometimes, it was said, she stashed the ice pick under Josie’s lap blanket.

*********************************************************************

“I’m going to do the dishes,” she said.

“No, you won’t. Ernie and I will do the dishes after our company leaves,” I repeated.

Annie wandered in and stopped by the stove, eyeing Mom and me with nervous concern. I wished she wasn’t present to witness our confrontation. But I was determined not to let Mom wash the dishes. The sound of water and the rattle of pans would be heard in the living room, not conducive to an after-dinner conversation with our guests. They might presume we wanted them to leave.

Mom stood facing me with one sleeve rolled up to her elbow. I held my stance.

From my peripheral vision, I watched Annie shudder, her feet rooted to the floor.

Then I peered into Mom’s angry eyes. Where did this rancor come from?

*********************************************************************

(After I told Grandma I was going to nursing school)

“Hey, whana you do? You cleana da bedpans? Huh?” She came close. Garlic breath warming my face as her waving hand grazed my ear. “Thata no gooda work. No gooda.” Her braided bun loosely fastened by hairpins wobbled as she shook her head.

Her feet, with stockings rolled down around her ankles, planted themselves firmly by my chair. The pizza she made just for me, her first granddaughter, lay warm and fragrant on the Blue Willow plate in her hand. She slid the plate in front of me.

Grandma knew as well as I that in the ’50s there were few job choices, much less careers for a woman. Those in her Italian neighborhood lived in multifamily clapboard houses. They cooked the meals, raised the children, and played a supporting role to their husbands.

Grandma expected me to get married after I graduated from high school and start making babies.

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