It Happens to the Best of Us?

Skipping ahead to Saturday, about 3 days after we arrived. We headed to the coast to catch a ride to the island, Koh Samed. We got dropped off at a resort on the sand surrounded by turquoise water and jungle greenery. When we got there it was boiling hot, and the rooms weren't ready yet.

We killed the next hour by playing pool under the shade of a straw canopy and ordering cool fruity drinks. I couldn't take it anymore. I already had my bathing suit under my dress, so I threw it off and ran towards the ocean. The water was pretty warm too, but it still felt good. I may have been imagining it, but it felt . . . saltier. My skin stung a little when I got out.

Then we took our bags to our rooms and headed to the pool. Someone was renting mopeds out right by the resort, so we each picked one for 300 Baht ($9)for 24 hours. I picked a red and black one.

We'd visited this same island last year, and it was my favorite part of the trip. I loved exploring the island and all the different beaches, resorts, and jungle areas on the moped. I wondered how well I'd remember to ride, but I took off just fine.

We stopped to eat lunch at a restaurant on the beach. The huge exotic trees decorated with bright Chinese laterns reminded me of the teacups ride at Disneyland. A ton of seafood, as usual, so delicious.

Then we took off to explore the island. Most of the boys went on ahead, but they'd stop and wait every so often. I didn't care how fast I was going because Kop and Rose were behind me. I wanted to take my time and enjoy the scenery. But we kept passing a lot of the beaches, and I wondered what the plan was.

Gop was in front, though and I figured he knew what he was doing. Because it was just narrow dirt roads littered with sharp rocks, you had to be careful. Cracks made by the rain posed the worst prolems; except, of course, the off-road taxis that took up the entire road and flew around corners at scary speeds.

I got to the top of another steep dirt hill. But this time, I found myself automatically in a rain crack. I tried to turn out of it, I was going pretty slow . . . but I felt myself falling. I don't remember if I screamed before or after I hit the ground. I just remember screaming as loud as I could so someone would know I fell. I knew I wasn't going to be ok.

The bike fell on me as I slid over jagged rocks downhill. My foot was the first thing I saw. The top of my right foot had been split open. It's an eerie feeling looking at your own flesh and muscle. I could see down to the bone. I glanced at the rest of my body to find that the whole right side had been shredded, especially my right forearm. I prayed that God would take care of me. I was in His hands now. We found out later one of the brakes didn't work.

I thought about what a small island it was. We'd probably have to go back to the beach, take a boat back to the main land and find a hospital. I didn't know how it was going to work out. Could I last that long?

I heard Kop and Rose ride up asking if I was ok. I tried to sit myself up so they wouln't freak ot too much, but I couldn't. They saw the minor cuts first. "you're ok" they said. I shook my head and pointed to my foot.

Gop had reached us by this time. "Oh my God, Oh my God, we have to get her to a hospital," he said. He picked me up and carried me out of the road.They poured a water bottle over my gash to wash off the dirt that covered my whole body. The blood washed down over my rainbow sandals, turning the leather red. That's when I started passing out. I knew I was in shock. I knew I should be feeling more than I was. I knew that it would hurt more later.

But for the time being, I was feeling warm all over. Their voices started fading out like someone was putting a blanket over my ears, or like I was hearing them from under water. I didn't want to open my eyes anyway. I didn't want to see it. But Josh kept saying "keep her awake!" I didn't want to be awake.

They shook me gently. "Serena! Stay awake." "No!" I snapped. I just wanted them to let me fade out, it would be easier that way. It was a pretty deserted road, but by then a passerby had stopped and they had carried me to the front seat. I remember thinking "this guy probably doesn't want a bunch of blood in his car."

But as soon as they set me down a taxi pulled up. "Ok, I'm sorry we're going to have to move you again," Gop said. I groaned as he handed me to Kop and Rose who were sitting on the benches in the bed of the off-road taxi. Kop held my legs and Rose held my head and arms.

I tried to support myself as much as I could, because when they tried to keep me upright over the bumps and jolts they'd inadvertantly grab my cuts. It was a struggle to stay on their laps. Rose, a typical Asian woman, weighs about 100 lbs. Every time we flew over a rock or bump and slammed back down I felt like I was crushing her.I kept saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I was probably bleeding on them.

Every time I'd cringe or moan they say "We're almost there . . ." But we weren't. They actually had no idea where we were going. Thank God there was a clinic on the island for accidents just like that. We finally pulled into a gated courtyard that looked like a cross between a junkyard and an apartment complex.

To the right was what looked like a little office. There were signs in elementary English instructing us to remove our shoes. Kop slipped his off as he carried me like a baby into the room. I looked around, thank God- it looked clean. The man at the front desk stood up and motioned us into a side room with a hospital bed.

He put my foot on somethin that looked like a Bar-B-Q grate. He washed my wounds with water, which felt good. Then he told me he was going to inject the anisthetic. I was scared, because I heard that hurts the most. He held up a long, thin needle. I asked how far it would go in.

Rose translated and they both looked down at me. "He says you don't need to know," she said. Dear Lord, not what I wanted to hear. Oh well, can't change things now. I turned my head so I couldn't see and bit my finger. I must have still been in shock because I was completely calm. I didn't even cry the whole time. The doctor kept telling (Rose to tell) me it was ok to scream.

I'll never forget that: "Scream! It's ok to scream, just scream!" they said as the needle went deep into my open wound about four times. I didn't. What's the point? It wouldn't make it feel better.

That's when Kop walked out. He couldn't watch anymore. He later told me how deep the needle went in, and when he injected it- blood squirted out everywhere. Then the skinny doctor touched my ankle. "Pain?" he asked. Damn it. "Yes," I said. He had to inject me twice more.

Then he roughly stitched me up. The thread felt really thick. The boys had arrived by then. They asked if they could watch. I told them they better take pictures becuse I better at least get a good story out of this. They said they felt wrong taking pictures. "Do it!" I said, "I want you to!"

But then the doctor pointed to my shredded right arm, and Rose said "he thinks you might need stitches there too." That was my breaking point. I was trying to be brave but I didn't think I'd have to do it twice. But Josh shook his head "I don't think you need them there."

I don't even know how that'd be possible. My arm was shredded. Can you stitch broken skin? But he examined it and said it wasn't necessary. Thank God. He finished bandaging me up. When I looked close enough to a mummy they carried me out to the office to get medicine and pay the bill.

That's when the shock wore off. I was sitting at the desk chair, and it happened again. Like a wave washingover me I got extremely hot and everything seemed fuzzy. I felt like I was floating and I didn't know how to steady myself. Every thing they were saying felt like distant dream. I put my head down on the desk and grabbed onto the bottom of the chair. "I'm going to pass out," I whispered.

They got me some water and I sat for a minute. Everything gradually came back into focus. Then Josh carried me out to the waiting taxi. When we got to the resort and Gop carried me to the room, the staff greeted us with the most wide-eyed, open-mouthed looks of horor I've ever seen outside a movie.

The guy who rented the bikes looked mortified. Maybe he knew the brake didn't work. But who knew if that was even the problem. It was just a complete accident. When we got to the air conditioned room they laid me on the clean, white bed.

Rose kicked the boys out and got a wet wash cloth. She gently wiped me down and helped me change into pajamas. I still felt filthy.

Welcome Home

This condo wasn't as nice as last year's, but still great. A huge living space and dining room ensures we won't kill each other. There's two couches and two rooms with queen sized beds, and two bathrooms. We agreed to a rotation of who sleeps where. I definitely didn't want any special treatment because I was the only girl. We're all paying the same amount anyway. Turns out the couches are more comfortable anyway ( : You'd be just as well off sleeping on the table if you're in the bed that night. So hard.

There's a small hallway that leads into the kitchen with a room not much bigger than a closet off to the right. Kop said it's the maid's room. Dang, I'd panic if I had to stay in that. Claustrophobia for sure. We just ended up keeping our empty bags in there.

As soon as we got home, we unpacked a bit and then sat at the table for "power hour." The driver had greeted us with two cases of Singha, Thailand's official beer. The rules are simple: you take a shot of beer every minute for an hour. Honestly, you get more full than anything. I've played once before, and made it to 36.


I have no intention of ever getting to the point of puking straight foam, which is a rumored consequence. The boys had a layover in Japan (mine was in Taiwan) and had bought painted shot glasses. However, they were huge. About a shot and a half.

We were snacking on things we'd picked up from 7-11 on our way to the condo, mostly weird flavored chips. Shrimp/seaweed anyone? I was so full by 40 minutes, I threw in the towel and just hung out.

We were meeting the owner of the condo (Kop and Gop's friend) for breakfast at 7, before he had to be at work. So we just stayed up. Since we didn't even get to the condo til 3, we started getting ready soon after power hour. It is amazing how gross I get traveling. A shower never felt so good.

Breakfast was downstairs in the main building, mostly American food with a little dim sum thrown in. Then we took off to explore Bangkok. We walked to the BTS (above-ground metro) and paid 20 baht (about 75 cents) to get dropped of at a central mall. We had completely forgotten how early it was- it wasn't open yet.


We went to Starbucks to wait. From previous experience I do NOT recommend getting coffee there in Thailand. Pretty much tasted like warm goat's milk. On our way back to the mall we noticed Thailand's usual street-dwellers: the homeless and dogs. THe homeless here are different though. They are actually incapable of working in some way, either crippled, blind or old. In sharp contrast to the fat, well-clothed homeless you find at freeway offramps in America, these beggars are actually starving, dirty, and shoeless with sorry excuses for clothes.

MBK (the mall) was so busy, with people, products, and smells. It's overwhelming. Every few feet there's a different, often contrasting, smell. It almost makes me dizzy. Ryan got a pair of the infamous knock-off jeans, then we headed to a restaurant.

It had a boiling pot of water in the middle of the table and we ordered all sorts of meat and vegetables to cook in it ourselves. The close proximity to a boiling metal pot made me laugh; if this were in America, there'd be a lawsuit a day. I was too tired to be hungry though, I hadn't slept at all on the plane.

As soon as we got back to the condo I crashed. I don't know how, but the boys headed straight for the gym. They woke me up to get ready and P'Rose came over to take us to dinner. (P' is a respectful prefix of someone's name if they're older than you). We took a taxi to a restaurant on the Mekhong river.

One of the best parts about eating in Thailand is the "family style" serving. We order at least a dish per person and all share.

Expect the Unexpected

Day 1

Despite having only three days to prepare, an insufficient bank balance, and initially unconvinced parents, I left for Thailand on June 16. I bought the ticket the day before, then finally allowed myself to believe it was real enough to actually start packing that night. Packing for 3 weeks is no small feat and I reluctantly pulled an all-nighter.

The next day I was off to my "Happiest Place on Earth." I had visited last summer with some of my best friends, and I literally had the best time in my life. The people are friendly, funny, and hospitable; the food is spicy and delicious; and the sights are incomparable: from islands that are as close to paradise as you can get, to ornate golden temples and palaces, to exotic jungles and elephant rides.

Although I had to catch a different flight than my friends (with no complaints as it was $400 cheaper) I met some interesting people along the way. I even happened upon someone from Redlands with whom I had mutual friends! Ludacris.

However, you get what you pay for. The seats felt as if they were leaning you forward and there were no TV's, which is very unusual for an international airline. It ceratainly wasn't a deal-breaker though as I always come prepared with an excessive supply of books.

When I arrived at immigration I realized I hadn't been given an arrival slip (stating your reason for visiting, where you'll be staying, Passport number,etc)on the plane. Of course I waited 20 minutes in line before I was informed I'd have to fill it out. Being such a short form I expected her to hand me one. To my dismay she just looked past me and said "Next!"

I asked her where to get one, and she waved me off with a dismissive hand and said "somewhere over there," motioning broadly to where I'd just come from: a large room and hall. As soon as I turned to look where she was pointing, hoping to see some sort of sign, she screamed "You CAN'T stand here!!!!" so loud it made me jump. I felt my face getting hot, and I flushed with anger. Quite possibly the least helpful person I've ever met.

I wandered around looking for papers laying about and thankfully found them quickly. I got back into a longer line and tried to look like I knew what I was doing. Hopefully I filled out the right form. A larger Irish couple in front of me glanced back. I knew they saw what happened and were just glad it wasn't them. A group of Thai men behind me clapped at a mosquito that was heading my way. I nodded and smiled.

I like how everyone nods at each other here, or puts their hands in a praying position in front of their face as a sign of respect or a greeting. Respect is such lost art in America. I'm pretty sure if I nodded as much there as I do here, people would just be slightly afraid of me, or think I have a tick.

I looked for the upstairs restaurant we'd eaten at last time that was to be our meeting point. But after I stepped off the elevator I wasn't met with the smiling faces of my friends, but construction and a roped off door with a sign reading "Sorry, Restaurant Closed."

They had given me the number of the driver in case I couldn't find them, because they hadn't bought an international phone/card yet. So I looked for an exchange booth, changed $5, and headed for a pay phone. One tiny problem. I forgot the driver doesn't speak English. I just kept repeating my friends names "Kop" "Gop" "lost" and "airport." I glanced helplessly at a young guy lounging in a chair next to the phone, obviously on break from the exchange booth.

"Do you speak English?" I asked, hoping he could translate my simple message. I was sure they'd landed already and had been in contact with the driver. He just smiled and shook his head. Hmmmmm. In times of need the "land of smiles" is more frustrating than endearing.

I walked to and fro covering as much space as possible. I tried all three levels and scanned other restaurants. I whispered a prayer for help finding them, I did not want my first hour in Thailand to be dominated by stress and fear. No thanks.

After about 30-40 minutes I saw a sign for a designated "meeting point" and decided to give it a try. I saw them immediately. Gop and Josh had split up looking for me, and came back shortly. They'd all been waiting at the restaurant (turns out I went to the wrong one) and had eaten dinner. Sweaty, tired, and starving, I had to make an effort not to resent them just a little.

But their excitment was contagious as soon as we got into the van. For three of them (Ryan, Josh, and Jason) it was their first time. Their reactions to everything were a sort of deja vu: The neon green and pink taxis, the palpable humidity, the beautifully-framed pictures of the King everywhere.


We arrived at the condo, and it was just like I remembered. Not that it was that long ago. Two men dressed in Marine-officer-looking attire with whistles waved us into the driveway and saluted us. The Bandara condos consist of two bright orange and white buildings, which oddly enough, fits in with Thailand's theme of shocking colors.

We were in the second building this time. After we checked in by showing our passports, we headed through the lobby of our building to the elevator. The lobby was actually an elegant-looking wine bar. Framed by ceiling to floor windows, and decorated in an edgy, minimalist style of black and white, it looked like a cross between a lounge and a spa. There was fountain and pond with lily pads under the stairs, but if you stayed too long there was a risk of mosquito bites.

Be Still

For as long as I could remember ‘til about five years ago I envied the girl who could juggle her blessedly hectic lifestyle of school, work, friends, family and play like she had been born with magical powers. All I wanted was to be able to successfully maintain just two of those.

Although now I might look like I have it “together” sometimes, most of the times it’s only by accident. It might be because I’m no longer forced to shop at a second-hand store. But I swear it’s just cause I was born looking like a preppy spoiled little blonde, when in fact I feel like my soul and intellect resembles a more frazzled, sleepy, neglected-looking nerd.

Most of the time growing up, I had more free time then I knew what to do with. Of course there were always sleepovers at friend’s houses, video games, hide-and-seek with my hoards of cousins, tea parties, and riding bikes or having water-balloon wars with my brothers.

But I wanted so badly to be super-involved with EVERYTHING, however my reality constantly reminded me that we couldn’t afford for me to participate in sports, field trips took money, hobbies took money, and our regular moves disconnected me from holding on to a great group of friends for too long.

Instead, when I was young, I would read until I got in trouble, seriously. My mom would come in to turn off my light at midnight and find me still reading. She would be so exasperated, because she knew she’d be dragging me out of bed in the morning. So she’d turn off my light, and close the door. I’d wait five minutes . . . and turn it back on to continue for a few more hours.

As desperately as I wanted a routine, a busy schedule that would keep me occupied all day, and friends that I could count on having for longer than a year, I realize that the time I spent alone and frustrated gave me so much more than I could’ve realized.

I spent gloriously irresponsible amounts of time reading, writing, and reflecting on everything under the sun. I established myself. I was such a better person then.

Maybe that’s why people keep so busy. They realize that if they slowed down they’d have to reckon with who they’ve become, and where they’re going. If I remember correctly, the little demon in C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape Letters didn’t even have to TRY and thwart the silly humans, as long as the humans were keeping shamefully busy- they did his job for him.

Or I’m sure there are those who’ve NEVER lacked a demanding schedule, and once they finally stop, they realize that they never had any goals to begin with- for the ideal person they want to become or what they want to accomplish and how (beyond getting through the day).

Just going with the flow can be a terrifyingly soul-stunting choice (or lack thereof). It’s easy for people to tell you who THEY want you to be. Who your parents, your friends, your teacher, your lover wants you to be. It’s scary when you have to determine who YOU want you to be.

Now that I have become this professional juggler of activities and relationships (whether I perform well at it or not) I’ve come to understand- the joke’s on me. I have turned into a clown that is juggling so many things I don’t know what’s what and who’s who. These once-coveted fillers of time have effectively robbed me of my identity, or at least my time to attempt to discover it.

You might think of Thoreau’s infamous escape from civilization as a mental instability or a social experiment. I think it’s heroic. After a clear view of both sides of the fence, I still find myself riding it. Despite my ever-increasing desire to regress back into that little introspective bookworm I started as, I am still drawn to interaction. It’s almost addicting- busyness.

Even if I try to turn off my phone and schedule a day off for myself, commanding myself in my FIRMEST of (mental) tones to read and journal- I don’t. I end up simply doing errands that I’d been neglecting. Frustrated with my seeming lack of control in my own life, I think “I just need to do it, I’ll get a campsite at the beach for a week without telling anybody, and just BE.”

Since the cool kids in the psychology department let Briggs-Meyers tell them who they are, I gave it a shot. I was 50 percent introvert, 50 percent extrovert . . . who DOES that? No wonder I’m so torn.

It might be unrealistic of me to expect that I could keep the identity I had come to know so well, without accounting for the future variable of constant interactions thrown in. Is it naïve to think that I could remain unwavering regardless of new experiences and relationships? Only a fool thinks they aren’t changed by the company they keep. If Gandhi ever chilled with Hitler, I guarantee he’d end up a hater.

But don’t they say that Character is what you do when no one is watching? Then why isn’t it that Identity is who you are when no one is around? I guess we never allow ourselves a chance to figure it out, to prove ourselves. Perhaps it's true that the real " duty is ... to achieve authenticity for oneself" (SARTRE).

There is something so inspiring about one’s solitude in nature that is completely irreplaceable. The fulfillment cannot be gotten from a completed To Do List, an attended party, or even a satisfied familial obligation. In this sense I envy a completely different group, what they’ve done and their ability to remove themselves from busyness, obligation, shallow ambition, and human interactions only to BE. Like Ansel Adams, John Krakauer, Thoreau, and the list goes on.

The journey through the desolate dessert of sin was a necessary evil for many. To simplify, to identify, to prioritize.

I assert that our unadulterated identity and peace comes from honest, intentional pursuit of active and committed thought and prayer in solitude. But more importantly we need to learn to BE . . . . still.

Excerpt

I walked into the room and everyone looked up. I smirked as I realized literally half the girls were wearing different variations of pink. I wonder if they’d planned it. Of course there was a small faction of “scene-sters.” But who are they kidding. With their incongruous style they sometimes seem even more desperate for attention than the preps, the only difference is they’re quieter.

I took my seat in the middle of the classroom. I know they’d expect someone like me to sit in the back, but a girl’s got to get the grade. There’s an undeniable bias teachers have against people who sit in the back. As long as they can see you’re paying attention or, in my case, making intermittent eye-contact, you’re ensured a better grade.

I threw my bag on the floor. It was a rough, black book bag I used as a laptop bag. Pretty manly, but it had been free. I slumped into my chair and took out my folder. I’d have to look especially interested today to make up for my arrival.

It’s not that I came in late. I just came in later. The professor had gotten so used to the ruling coterie’s habit of arriving ridiculously early, that he’d taken to starting class ten minutes in advance. Ugh, just like them- inveterate suck ups. I suppose I’d become notorious for my (apparently mortifying) practice of arriving on time.

I zoned out as some 19 year old boy spouted erroneous theologies he’d no doubt been hand fed by his parents or youth group. I’m sure he’d never questioned them. I almost felt bad for him as I pictured his certain disillusionment when he finally realizes the world isn’t rainbows and candy canes. I suppose we were all like that at one point. Some of us just pop the bubble sooner than others . . . or someone pops it for us.

Ahead of the Curve- Teaching Yourself to Surf

If Blue Crush is your all-time favorite movie, Kelly Slater is your all-time favorite crush, you don’t mind severely chapped lips, and you consider yourself adventurous then it may be time to try your skills at surfing. But let’s face it girls, times are tight, and the probability of some talented surfer offering up his expertise cost-free is slim. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Step 1: SLEEP TIGHT Getting a good night’s sleep will do wonders for your energy and determination the next day- don’t underestimate it. Eat a light, but filling breakfast, like a bowl of oatmeal or some eggs and whole wheat toast. Don’t forget to grab some bottled water for hydration.

Step 2: GEAR UP Find appropriate gear. Along the coast, there’s bound to be a handful of rental stores you can choose from. You need a wet suit, rash guard, and a surfboard with a leash. A foamy long board is the equivalent of training wheels, and will give you the best chance to catch a wave.

Step 3: WARM UP If you are alone, make sure your gear is stashed in a safe place so you can go for a short 10 minute run. Afterwards it’s time to get down and dirty in the sand for a good stretching session. Cramping up when you finally get past the break is kryptonite.

Step 4: DRY RUN Lay your board in soft sand so as not to tweak the fins. Then position yourself on your board slightly edged towards the front. Practice some paddling strokes by digging out the sand directly to your side, keep fingers closed together with an open palm to create a sort of cup. Getting out there when the waves are fighting you is often the hardest part.

Step 5: POP UP Brace yourself by grabbing the rails (sides) of the board just behind your shoulders. After you’ve found your balance, do a quick push-up into standing position with one foot in front. Don’t worry about which foot should be your lead, whichever is most natural for you is the way to go. It must be a quick motion, otherwise you’ll lose energy quicker and just end up on your knees.
Step 6: FINAL WORDS When you feel comfortable popping up, it’s time to go for the real thing. Don your wetsuit, attach your leash, and head out. The only difference between practice and the real thing is, well … the water! But remember: it’s a crazy variable that must be respected.

QUICK TIPS:
• Always know your water before you surf. Go in for a swim first and familiarize yourself with the depth and any rocks or coral that could be dangerous.
• Don’t turn your back to a wave unless you’ve committed to catching it. Otherwise you’re in for nice tumble.
• Use your common sense when it comes to getting past the break. If a wave is already starting to curl, use a “turtle roll” and flip onto your back holding your surfboard tightly to your body. Essentially diving under the wave. If you can make it, paddle as quickly as you can to get over the wave.
• If you have difficulty popping up, try arching your back first with your hands gripping the rails, chest off the board-which gets you halfway there and helps to center your balance.

Media: The Two-Headed Monster

Between YouTube, reality shows and the paparazzi, it seems that anyone can become an overnight celebrity. With global media “shrinking” the size of the world and opening more doors than once thought possible, is privacy a thing of the past?

While some willingly offer themselves up as a sacrifice to the reality TV gods (also known as producers), some are inadvertently thrust into the limelight due to public curiosity. It’s actually unnerving to think that because of some odd thing may have occurred in your life, complete strangers feel as if they have the RIGHT to know what’s going on.

However, the line is becoming increasingly blurred between innocent victim of media infringement and profiteer. Although it has only been 17 years since the premiere of the first reality TV show, MTV’s The Real World, people have gotten wise to the lucrative act of exposing the most intimate moments of life to the entire world (www.reality-tv-online.com). Some stop at nothing to get their 15 minutes, and accordingly, a large paycheck.

Along with every other topic that we, as the public, feel is necessary to cast judgment, we are also charged with determine the individuals’ intent. Was this just a scheme to sell the pictures at outrageous cost to the local rag? Was this a coincidence that this happened within a week of their new business opening? I suppose the general public has elected itself judge and jury in these matters.

Whatever the speculations, the investigative media serves a dual role. Initially the individual is exposed for whatever golden ticket they might possess; then the media proceeds to scavenge for any information that would insight the public’s adoration or hatred.

Of course the most recent example of this frenzy would be the woman dubbed “Octo-Mom.” It was amazing to me how quickly the public opinion shifted from amazement to outrage. When the first details were released about the rare birth of octuplets, there was a minimal amount of hype involved. After all, there are plenty of reality shows that covered this particular curiosity.

Attitudes certainly changed when further inspection of the mother’s situation uncovered some disturbing details. Attempting this kind of multiple birth is a difficult undertaking for any couple, let alone a single mother. When her lack of income and reliance on government assistance was revealed, it was opposed with the sort of passion that only those in extreme financial crisis could emit. Why should someone so blatantly irresponsible and so obviously taking advantage of the system be supported?

For me, the final nail in the coffin of Octo-Mom’s credibility was the attack by her own mother. Already overwhelmed with the burdens her daughter was laying on her shoulders, Angela Suleman related that she’d “never understand” her daughter’s decision in the matter ( www.news.aol.com). This may have been discounted as a bitter mother- daughter relationship, but when Nadya’s father asserted that his daughter is “absolutely irresponsible” and questioned her mental health, the cat was out of the bag (www.news.aol.com).