The Hayden Diary: Chasing The Prom From A Hospital Bed: Stranger Than Fiction--It's Non-Fiction

By Jayme Louis Severance

Senior year of high school is often a transformational turning point between adolescence and young adulthood. In an unfortunate turn of events, hapless high honors senior Jayme Severance finds an alternate way to spend the last year of high school: waking up from a coma at a rehab center after a near-fatal motor vehicle accident.

Closing his eyes in 2006 and opening them again in 2007, Jayme must come to terms with traumatic changes to a body that isn't his own. Torn from his family and friends, Jayme is forced to find community with strange hospital staff and stranger bedfellows.

But when he realizes he had a girlfriend before the crash, he steps up all efforts to recover enough to attend prom with his significant other by his side before the academic calendar ends—a mere five months away.

Conflict: it's what makes a good fiction book. But The Hayden Diary is stranger than fiction—it's non-fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9780578289335

Book preview

BK90077115.jpg

Stranger Than Fiction—It’s Non-Fiction

Contents

Author’s note:

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

The Hayden Diary Part II

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

The Hayden Diary Part III

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

The Hayden Diary Part IV

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

The Hayden Diary Part V

One

Two

Three

Four

Bonus features:

Jayme’s Brag Book:

Devious messages:

The Poem:

Roxy’s other poem:

The Discharge Summaries:

Physical Therapy Discharge Summary for Jayme Severance:

Discharge Summary – Speech Language Pathology

CROTCHED MOUNTAIN THERAPEUTIC RECREATION DISCHARGE SUMMARY

The Admissions Letter:

Damien’s e-mails:

Nicholas’s e-mails:

The prom entry:

About the author:

Glossary:

EndNotes

Everybody has rights...

The Hayden Diary is © copyright 2008 Jayme Louis Severance

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For permissions, feedback, and general responses to this work, please contact [e-mail].

ISBN 978-0-578-28933-5

Cover art by BookBaby

Book formatting by BookBaby

Distributed by BookBaby

Edited by Jayme Louis Severance

Photographs by, or given to, Jayme Louis Severance

The views and opinions expressed in this book belong solely to its author and do not constitute medical advice. Consult your physician or another healthcare professional before making changes to your care.

Some names in this publication are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The information in this book was correct to the best of the author’s knowledge at the time it was written. The author does not assume any liability for loss or damage caused by errors or omissions.

The following was inspired by true events from the author’s perspective. Special attention was paid to maintaining an accurate portrayal thereof.

Author’s note:

This is the tale of the experience of five days over five months in the life of Jayme Louis Severance while residing in the Crotched Mountain Rehabilitation Center as an inpatient.

What’s important to keep in mind is that I started this book at 17 and finished it at 18. I edited it, sure, but I also chose to keep many of the thoughts I had from that time to retain authenticity. I wanted to capture how someone that young might actually think, not how someone older thinks how they might think.

That said, there are also grammatical and typographical errors in this piece. I actively chose not to correct them to demonstrate the disinhibition onset by my injury. The fact I would allow my book to be published as anything less than perfect is a testament to that. The personal, interpersonal, and professional implications of this decision are enormous. It’s an untested and avant-guarde way to authentically tell a story. Even so, disinhibition is a big problem, which is a theme in this book.

It’s important to put this in context: I started writing this book about seven months after I woke up from a coma. So, if you notice a difference between the first part of this book and its subsequent parts getting better and better in terms of writing—that’s why. You are literally seeing my cognition improve in real-time as you progress through the five parts that comprise this memoir. You’re also seeing the impact education had on my brain because I wrote the bulk of this while I was retaking the senior year I missed due to the accident.

Terms that are underlined can be defined in the back of this book in the glossary unless the context suggests underlined text.

This book is laden with profanity. Expect it.

Any text that is italicized is usually used to display direct thought or daydream sequences. This is in addition to contextual usage.

Most clients on Lower Hayden were in a wheelchair, so when I say someone got wheeled in, I mean that someone was steering their wheelchair for them.

The names of clients have been changed to ensure their safety and privacy.

The exact time specified in the opening of the prologue and the first chapter of each part are realistic estimates. They’re not the exact time the events occurred.

Dedicated to the event which motivated me to get well at an exponential rate:

the prom of 2007 for Manchester Central High School.

This book is also dedicated to my date to the prom of 2007 for MCHS.

You made the experience that much more special. Thank you, Roxy.

A special thanks to the (now former) CMRC intern, Aubrey,

whose kind words gave me the drive to do something wonderful.

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."

-Chinese Proverb

Prologue

October 29, 2006

Sunday

11:37 AM

Can we just get this show on the road!? I’m so fucking bored…

The sky looked ominous as we—friends and strangers alike—walked into the woods to play a game. The name of the game was paintball and I intended to win or at least go out with one hell of a bang.

I was silent, my protective mask shielding my face from any expression. The playing field was vast, with several places to hide if you wanted to shoot someone with a flying paint projectile. As I traversed the playing field, I thought to myself, man, I love this game.

Eventually, all players reached the starting point and joined together to form a cluster, myself included.

I began to get deep into thought while everybody huddled in a circle.

What are you thinking about? said my wiry brother, Peter, who just happened to be a paintball player himself and was going to participate in this game.

I paraphrased a line from a movie we had watched together a few years ago: I think it doesn’t matter what I think. ¹

Peter chuckled.

"Don’t tell me you just referenced a line from Black Hawk Down," Damien said. He then boldly moved up to Peter’s left. I nodded in acknowledgment in Damien’s direction. Damien was one of my best friends who came with Peter and me when I said that I was going paintballing at the end of the month.

Ughhh, Damien shook his head, disgusted at my taste in movies. ²

Damien was a little shorter than me. I was six-foot-tall so Damien had to have been at least 511. Damien eyed my paint grenade and spoke, You’re going in with a paint grenade?"

I said nothing as Damien told me I was crazy.

I only beamed in response.

What can I say?

A nearby referee came up to the cluster formed by the adjacent paintball participants and divided it by half. The teams were identified as enemies via armbands that the referees distributed.

My team got plastic armbands. I tapped the nearby referee’s shoulder with my hand. The referee whirled around and looked at me in response.

Do you think it’s possible if I can get both arms taped? I asked.

Taping was the act of a referee tying a plastic armband around your arm. Taping’s purpose was to tell each team who was hostile and who was friendly. Sure, I don’t see why not, said the referee, as he taped my arms.

The referee then turned to Peter, double taping his arms at Peter’s request, as well as Damien’s.

He then moved to face the entire group to speak. If this is your first time, let me go over the rules. If you’re hit, you’re out. If you’re hit in the head, it sucks but, you’re still out. If splatter sprays on you or you manage to get caught up in an area that is slick with fresh paint and it rubs off on you, you’re still in…

Will this guy hurry the hell up? We only hear the rules at the start of every game. I rolled my eyes.

The referee then looked at me directly. If you happen to get shot by one of your teammates, you’re gone. And if you’re shot, don’t just go running off of the field—raise your hand high up over your head and call out, ‘I’m hit,’ or ‘I’m out!’ A nearby referee will announce, ‘Dead player walking out!’ Then, these qualified sporting professionals can escort you off of the field if you get lost.

"If you think you are hit, but you’re not sure if the paintball hit you because you can’t see it—quickly call a referee to get it checked out. This is what’s known as a paint check. Just make sure to scream out, ‘PAINT CHECK!’ or ‘I need a paint check!’ We are always nearby when you need us."

"The last and most important part is that you keep your mask on at all times! If we catch you taking it off, or trying to take it off, we will warn you once before we sit you out for a couple of games. If taking your mask off should become a problem, we can and will escort you out of the paintball park. Do I make myself clear? Does everyone understand?" The referee waited for a group consensus before continuing on forward.

He’s still talking!?

He then pointed to all four referees in the order that he said them in, himself included. There’s him, he pointed to a stocky man that came up behind the group. Her, a young woman then raised her hand to be identified as a referee.

And… where the hell is Terri? As soon as the referee that was talking was finished, a bulky young man whom I assumed to be Terri, popped out from seemingly, nowhere.

What? Terri questioned.

And this is Terri, the referee said and pointed to him.

The referee paused as if he had forgotten something. Oh yeah, and there’s me. The referee then raised his hand and let it lower. He spoke once more, All right, non-bands, stay where you are. Bands, come with me.

People without bands stayed put and those with them followed the referee.

Coming to a stop, the referee faced our group and shouted, Are you ready?…3, 2, 1, GO, GO, GO!

Finally! Queue metal playlist No. 5—it’s go time, fuckers!

Immediately, both teams unleashed a barrage of paintball fire. I saw paintballs streaming in the air from every direction. I charged straight into the great unknown, despite the chaos, paint grenade in hand. As soon as I saw an opposing player, I hurled my paint grenade with all my strength. The grenade sailed in the air, got caught on a tree branch, and exploded on a referee who just had to be standing there.

I turned in his direction and grimaced. "Oh shit!"

It did not seem to bother the referee at all, who just continued as if nothing had happened. Shots whizzed in the air by my head. I looked to my side just in time to see Peter get lit up. He was shot twice in the left leg, once in the right leg, twice in the chest, twice in his protective mask, and once dangerously close to the area of the groin.

As I was watching my brother getting lit up, I felt an impact on my chest, like someone had punched me³. At that moment, I knew I had been hit by a paintball. A nearby referee called me out and the game was over for me.

Directly ahead, Damien was duking it out with another player, exchanging bursts of paintball fire. The firefight came to a halt after a few exchanges occurred. Damien stayed low to the ground and began to crawl tor his opponent’s flank. This player must have known Damien was approaching him from the side because he ran straight at Damien.

Damien, his mobility reduced, could do little to stop the oncoming player from bunkering him. Damien cringed and called himself out. He then walked towards the field exit wiping off the fresh paint the player coated him with. I, too, exited the playing area, reached our paintball gear, and started to pack up.

My brother tapped me on the shoulder, Did you get anyone?

I missed and hit a referee, I said, embarrassed.

Peter just laughed at me, as I mocked laughed and asked Damien for the time.

Damien looked at his watch. He said, 1400 hours.

I knew I’d get some sort of smart-assed answer. Damien always favored anything military.

Annoyed, I played along, In civilian time, Damien.

Damien grinned.

Someday I’ll figure out military time, but not today.

Civilian time? It is 2:00.

Alright, let’s go Peter said.

He walked to our car and drove the white Toyota Tercel hatchback up close to where Damien and I were standing with the paintball gear we packed. Damien, with some help from me, loaded up everything into the vehicle.

Damien and I hopped in.

Shortly after, Peter began to drive, beginning to wind through the twisty and twiny roads that led away from the paintball field. About twenty minutes into the trip home, I briefly made fun of Peter, calling him quibs because he would tremble scared under fire.

He told me to shut up and that I’m not supposed to get the referees, which I blamed on my bad aim and horrendous hand-eye coordination.

Almost in Hooksett, I made fun of Peter again as I stole a glance from the rearview mirror, seeing Damien smile in response. Suddenly overcome with hunger pains, I told Peter when we got near Blockbuster, I wanted to go to Wendy’s—my treat.

Wendy’s and Blockbuster were on the very same road as our home was, which was basically on Hooksett road. He said it was okay if we made a stop there.

Good because I’m talking about some serious BACON-DOUBLE CHEESEBURGER DELICIOUSNESS! As I saw the fast-food haven approach, my stomach growled in anticipation.

Peter drove the car so that we were perpendicular to the restaurant’s entrance on the left, and started to pull into Wendy’s when I spotted something racing toward us out of my peripheral vision….

Welcome to Crotched Mountain.

January 23, 2007

6:02 AM

Tuesday

One

All was quiet in a destination of the world called Crotched Mountain Rehabilitation Center. It was destined to be silent—it was 6:00 in the morning.

I sat in my wheelchair, patiently awaiting the arrival of Crotched Mountain’s first shift. All I had to do was wait by the schedule board for one hour after the first shift came in to be allowed out of bed this early in the morning.

I heard the elevator sound and I was excited. The first shift had arrived! The entire crew of first shift poured out of the elevator and made their ways to the conference room directly ahead of me.

I saw Lisa X. and I felt relieved. It’s going to be a good day today. It was always a good day when Lisa showed up for work. She tiredly rubbed her eyes and brushed right past me.

Not everybody can be a morning person, I guess.

The earliest wake-up time allowed at Crotched Mountain was 6:00 AM. I didn’t have a watch, but I’d say it was around 6:05.

Dark-haired Pam usually showed up for work five minutes after first shift did—she was an older woman—I’d say she was around somewhere in between 35 – 40 years of age. She was the secretary of Lower Hayden.

She got everything settled and asked me if I would like to help her set up the schedule board for today.

I was bored like nobody else’s business so I nodded my head.

Pam smiled, Great! I’ll get the schedule sheet and the magnets.

Many clients of Crotched Mountain Rehabilitation Center were not able to remember their particular schedule for their therapies, I was no exception. I have what’s known as a Traumatic Brain Injury, but I’m going to make it easy on you by letting you know the acronym for Traumatic Brain Injury—TBI.

I wasn’t sure about these other people around my age that were also here—much less, why they were here. At the time, I didn’t even know what this place was or what it was for.

Typically, clients could not remember which therapy was at which time because it changed daily. The schedule of the day’s therapy for a client was symbolized by magnets. Yellow magnets represented Occupational Therapy (OT), green magnets stood in for Physical Therapy (PT), and blue magnets meant Speech Therapy (ST, SLT, SLP).

I had a case of short-term memory loss. I couldn’t grasp the times of any therapies that were scheduled for me so the board kept me on track. My favorite therapy was OT. Occupational therapy had three different therapists that worked in our unit. Their names were Joan, Lauren, and Meredith.

You could always tell when you had a different therapist for OT. For example, Joan was usually scheduled at 8:30 AM for Mondays, Tuesdays, And Fridays. Lauren was scheduled at 8:30 AM on Wednesdays. Unlike Joan, Lauren saw me for therapy whenever she could fit me into her schedule, which was usually in the morning sometime.

Meredith however, was a different story altogether. I usually saw Meredith almost exclusively at 1:00 PM. I liked Meredith because her name was pretty, as was Joan’s. I didn’t know what to make of Lauren’s name.

Lauren is too common a name... at least, in these parts.

OT was consistent, and I admired that consistency.

Pam came back with some magnets and toward the schedule board directly behind me, mounted on the wall. She spoke, Would you mind moving a little bit?

I complied and moved myself. I propelled my wheelchair with my feet (not my hands), which was odd. The only thing that prevented me from walking was that the muscles in my legs were too weak to sustain standing upright.

I was told that, eventually, a wheelchair would not even be necessary, but it was a solution for now because I couldn’t walk without assistance.

You want to put this PT magnet in the 2:30 slot in the row, AH? Pam asked.

Again, I nodded my head.

I took the PT magnet from her hand and tried to put it on the schedule board, but it seemed that the magnet didn’t want to stick.

Why is it so hard!? Is this board rigged with some kind of anti-stick technology that I must have missed while I was in a coma?⁴

Pam helped me put it on the board. There it was:

AH-PT-4:30

This activity didn’t seem fun, but I was having a blast (I do not know why). Because I was usually out of bed at this time frequently, I thought it’d be great if I assisted Pam every day. She put up the remaining magnets with a little help here and there from me.

Yay! We’re finished! Pam then took the box of remaining magnets and put them in a cupboard for tomorrow and continued the duties required of her by her job after that.

Left alone to wait in a state of forbearance for the LNAs to walk the floor after the Nurse’s Report, the following are my exact thoughts at their designated times:

6:10 AM – This isn’t that hard.

6:14 AM – I’m bored. When is breakfast?

6:18 AM – This is getting old real quick.

6:25 AM – Why won’t report just end already?

6:33 AM – If there is a god, he/she doesn’t exist.

6:38 AM – When… will… it… END!?

6:38 AM, 13 seconds-COME ON!

6:48 AM – FUUCCCKKKK!

6:56 AM – Good, it’s over... FINALLY!

Two

One could always tell when the Nurse’s Report was done; LNAs would pour out from the conference room around 7:00 AM, or perhaps a little earlier, provided they haul ass. Lisa came out, saw me waiting, and said we should get breakfast.

I was so intent on waiting for the Nurse’s Report to be finished that I had forgotten all about breakfast. I wheeled myself to the dining room with Lisa close behind me. The dining room was spacious; there were many places to sit this early in the morning. I was greeted by the kitchen aide, Mary Lou.

To my understanding, she washed the dishes, did all of the client’s laundry, and served all of the clients their meals in Hayden. Hayden was a unit of Crotched Mountain, consisting of two floors: Upper Hayden and Lower Hayden. There was a unit for the older clientèle of Crotched Mountain called BIU, or the Brain Injury Unit.

I resided in Lower Hayden because of my age—17.

All of the clients on Hayden were sleeping, save for one: Ralph. Though he was in a wheelhair himself, Ralph’s reason for being at Crotched Mountain was unclear to me. I didn’t know a thing about the guy.

I was at a table, waiting on Lisa, when he started speaking to himself, Tammy was sick last week, he paused, I do not know why.

Lisa walked over to me with a bowl. Okay, looks like today we’ll be having hot cereal.

Sweet!

I haven’t eaten anything in so long, I’d eat anything!

Mary Lou portioned out the cereal and served out a bowl, breaking out into song after serving me. That was the thing with her—Oftentimes, you could catch Mary Lou singing when she worked.

I had to be spoon-fed—this is because my left hand was unable to use a dining utensil due to a near-fatal MVA at the end of October of 2006—that was my reason for being here at Crotched Mountain.

Besides, my left hand was flexed. My right hand—my good (and dominant) one⁵—was too weak to manipulate a spoon at this point from being in the coma that followed in the accident’s aftermath. Given these extenuating circumstances, I had to be spoon-fed all of my meals.

Other objects of adversity that I was aware of include:

Problems with my voice that I would come to know as Vocal Fold Paresis. Vocal Fold Paresis kind of makes you sound like you’re in a perpetual state of losing your voice.

A medical device called a trach. It was this... thing (which I learned later to be a flexible tube)... in my throat. I did not know why it was there, it just was... THERE... when I awoke from the coma. When I had it removed, it left a scar and a depression of where it once was in my throat after removal.

Another medical device (which was also a tube) in my abdomen right above the belly button—it was better known as a G-tube. I did not know why it was there. Lisa had called it a second belly button at one point. I thanked all goodness that the removal of the G-tube was painless because the trach’s removal wasn’t.

I was in a wheelchair, I wasn’t sure for how long.

My sleeping patterns have changed.

I was not able to chew or swallow as well as I did before. To compensate for this weakness, I had an all-puree diet. LNAs would stick my food in a food processor and set it to puree. Once pureed, I could actually eat the food. To put a puree diet into the appropriate context, my food could be eaten with a spoon or a straw.

I’m more impulsive than I everf was. This is called disinhibition, or lack of social restraint.

A slew of other problems. Let me tell you—when you wake up from a coma with all of these problems, all of a sudden, it is what I’d like to call a rude awakening.

I was completely oblivious to Lisa, who gripped a spoonful of hot cereal. Here I come, okay?

Her hand was steady as she guided the spoon in my mouth. I was so hungry, I bit the spoon as well and refused to let it go.

You got to help me out bud—let go of the spoon, she said. I did what she told me to do and let go of the spoon.

She fed me several more spoonfuls and, before long, the bowl was empty. I scowled and wanted more, signaling to Lisa that I was still hungry, as she got Mary Lou to grab another bowl for me.

As I was eating, I thought, Consume, fill, replenish...

Wow, you must really like this stuff, eh?

I managed to reply, "...goo...good...sh...s...shi.. shhhii...shit." My voice was barely a whisper. Lisa hesitated as if to figure out what it was that I said. Shortly after, Lisa laughed and fed me another spoonful of hot cereal, and after awhile, I had finished that bowl of hot cereal and wanted more.

I think you’ve had enough dear, Lisa said.

I couldn’t argue, my voice was impaired.

You’re going to have to wait for lunch.

I motioned to indicate that I wanted to know what time it was by tapping the top of my wrist. Lisa understood and got the time for me.

It’s 7:30... you have OT in one hour, TR at 9:30, PT at 2:00, and Speech at 3, Lisa stated. So only...

I counted the curled fingers of my flexed left hand, 8:30... 9:30 ...10:30 ...11:30 ... 12! Only 4 ½ hours until lunch!

It was this kind of thinking that gave me a reason to get up in the morning at first.

I have been away from food for too long! ⁶

Occupational therapy was my favorite therapy out of the four therapies I reported to. I think my favoritism was because of the OT I saw the most—Joan. She was pretty cool in my book.

I wheeled myself out of the dining room and one of the nurses approached me when I was in the hallway. I knew her as Ruth. She told me to follow her behind the nurse’s station.

Ruth was one of the most benevolent nurses I’d ever met, and I knew she was older, but I could not determine her age. I followed Ruth to the nurse’s station, and I can’t really remember why she needed me, but I’ll never forget what transpired the following few moments to come: she asked me if I knew what her name was.

Of course, I know what your name is! That’s easy!

I surprised even myself when I heard the clarity of my voice at the time, RUTH!

Ruth said in reply, My name is actually Tammy.

Woah, dude.

At that moment, I felt incredibly stupid.

I was ashamed of myself, I’m usually good with names.

That’s Ruth. Tammy pointed to an older woman at the nurse’s station desk giving Ralph his meds. Ruth was a friendly nurse, but other than that, I didn’t know much about her. Ruth noticed that she was being observed and waved.

But it’s okay.

It is? "

Just call me ‘Tamalamadingdong’, everybody does anyway, Tammy paused, Go on, try to say it," Tammy said.

I attempted to say Tamalamadingdong, "TTTT.. alam... Tama... Ta... ma... lama."

Well, you’ll get it one day, Tammy said.

Three

Tammy showed me out of the nurse’s station. The main juncture of Lower Hayden was designed with a cross design in mind. At the east and west ends, were the living quarters of the men and women of Lower Hayden. The men were on the west wing of the cross and the women were on the east, I believe. I just went back and forth down the east and west wings until it was 8:30.

It’s not like there was a terrible amount of stuff to do at Crotched Mountain.

Someone tapped my shoulder whom I had positively identified as Joan. Joan was an older gal but did not look her age. She was thin with blond-esque hair and reminiscent of a taller version of a munchkin.

Are you ready for your torture session? she asked.

Joan was mocking me because I had once communicated to her that OT was torture.

No! I love OT! It’s just that the E-stim used in OT is torture.

E-stim is a device that uses electrodes to deliver a tolerable electric shock to the recipient to wake up unused muscles, electrical stimulation, as OTs say. They claimed it felt like pins and needles.

More like someone stabbing your arm with a sandpaper-coated knife and jiggling it. Pins and needles my ass!

I gave her a thumbs up.

Let us be off then, Joan suggested.

I followed Joan to the elevator and she pressed the call button for the second floor. The elevator whirred in response, and we were on our way to Upper Hayden.

When the elevator doors opened, we turned a corner and entered the therapy gym. I thought it was funny that it should be dubbed as a gym; where is the bench press? The treadmill? Where is all of the workout equipment?

Today we were to play a board game standing up.

Oh, goodie!!!

Joan said, I’ll even let you pick what game we’re going to play. Occupational Therapy just got more interesting.

Joan took out all of the games and I picked one out of the bunch:

Candyland.

The Gumdrop Mountains? Molasses swamp? I think I’ll pass.

Chutes and Ladders.

We’re not at a nursery, we’re at Crotched Mountain: where the fun never ends, or we’ll double your money back... GUARANTEED!

Monopoly.

Now we’re talking!

Monopoly was a nice... LONG... game.

I loved Monopoly and chose it as the game we would play standing up.

Joan looked at me with displeasure.

"Monopoly?"

I gave her a thumbs up.

I figured her heart was set on Candyland as we set up our game.

Next, I had to stand. It’s not like I couldn’t stand or anything, it was just that I didn’t want to. Standing hurts.

Joan unfastened my seatbelt and assisted in standing me up to play. She held me up, cocked her head to one side, looked at me, and asked, Who’s going first?

I pointed to myself.

I was thinking, Why should she go first? I’ve got a Monopoly reputation I got to protect. Joan is merely an obstacle standing in my way between impending, ultimate, and utter victory. I need to teach her a lesson... MONOPOLY-STYLE!

We picked tokens and Joan wanted to be the race car.

Oh, hell no! I’m always the race car. When I take all of your money in the game, that will be my Ferrari.

She had settled and picked the shoe.

That’s right!

Joan handed me the dice, which I had a hard time rolling, but I got it done. I got a seven and expected Joan to move my token for me, but she looked at me and said, Go on—move it. Remember now, this is occupational therapy: there are no free rides out.

I angrily moved my token to