When I was in fifth grade my mother approached Miss Graham, the principle, and chided her over my bad spelling.
“Donna-Lane won’t need to spell. She’ll have a secretary,” Miss Graham said.
“And how will she know if the secretary is spelling correctly?” my mother countered.
Fast forward. I’m sixteen and working as a reporter on the same daily newspaper as my mother. Some of the reporters think my mother is writing my articles.
The editor, Fred Cole, who could be played by a grumpy Spencer Tracey, growled, “Donna-Lane writes her own stuff. Kid can’t spell. Mother can spell.”
There should be a shrine erected for the inventor of spell check.
Two words I always spell wrong are anethsiologist and ocnologist (anesthesiologist and oncologist thank you spell check). Both words have been far too frequent in my vocabulary.
Today I spent a couple of hours at the hospital meeting with those unspellable titles along with a Nurse C whose son has written his first novel. Almost each person I meet with draws my breast as they explain what they are about to do to me. I’m not sure if I’m in a hospital or an art school.
They are more concerned than I am about possible removal and/or scarring. I try and explain how they are knew for me and also I’m not looking for a new lover, so although I would like beautiful breasts, I’ve never had them. I can cope. I don’t want to hurt their feelings.
They also want me to take part in a study on how women deal with pain. I’ll be happy to do that. It makes this whole situation at least productive.
I don’t have a date yet, the only downside, but I am still so impressed with the system, the time they take, the questions they are willing to answer (they are almost disappointed if I don’t have more, but then I have my wonderful housemate who has been there, done that, and doesn’t wear the T-shirt)
The hospital is called HUG. Now any hospital with that name has to have a lot going for it.