MSI Press Blog

  Excerpt from  A Movie Lover's Search for Romance  - HENRY, OR PATHETIC CRUSH #2 Just as my crush on Adrien Brody began to wane, I began crushing on Henry. Henry, as in Henry Cooper, direct descendent of James Fennimore Cooper, who wrote the well-known classic, The Last of the Mohicans. Henry Cooper, of the Coopers of Cooperstown. Until I met Henry, I’d never actually heard anyone who sounded like George Plimpton. I thought that high, guttural, WASP accent was an anachronism, like hula-hoops and the Ed Sullivan Show. If Henry was not the highest of high WASP, he would be a parody of rich Americans. But Henry is the real deal. He has piles of the Social Register stacked casually around his living room, along with old copies of The New Yorker , for which he once wrote. Henry is my father’s friend. They went to Andover together in the late ’40s and early ’50s. My father is not high WASP. Dad is the product of four Eastern European Jewish grandparents, each of whom traveled to the U

Excerpt from  100 Tips and Tools for Managing Chronic Illness  (Charnas) -- Tip #2 (Oh, Say) Every Wednesday I flex my work schedule and arrive at 8:00 a.m. at the Naval Hospital where I’m employed. I should be sitting at my desk by eight o’clock, but more often than not, I’m running a few minutes late, scurrying across the large medical complex toward my office. Each morning the national anthem plays over the loudspeaker at oh-eight hundred. Protocol requires all people outdoors to cease what they’re doing and face the flag. Some of us stand at attention. Others salute. I like to place my hand over my heart. There are always two thoughts running through my mind at this time: “Darn, I’m going to be late again” and “This is so lovely, I should make an effort to do it every morning.” Standing at attention for the few minutes required to listen to the “Star Spangled Banner” serves as a reflective moment. It forces me to be still, pay attention, and remember the purpose of my day.   I’

  A HERO'S SUICIDE   b y Joanna J. Charnas   This following essay was written in 2017 but has not been previously published.   Earlier this week I learned that one of my former patients killed himself. I’m devastated and can’t stop thinking about him. His name was Ryan Larkin.   Ryan was a Navy SEAL. He completed four tours of duty, two in Iraq and two in Afghanistan as a corpsman. Ryan arrived at the inpatient psychiatry ward of the hospital that employs me four weeks prior to discharging from the Navy, and he remained with us for a month.   While he was in our care, I became concerned about Ryan’s treatment. His attending psychiatrist was a skilled and caring provider, but the other players in the larger mental health system seemed mostly fearful of Ryan. Fear is not an optimal state in which to deliver care. My colleagues repeatedly expressed concern about his opioid use and labeled him “drug seeking.” In 2016 the country had a new awareness of the burgeoning opioid abuse epidem

    Excerpt from  A Movie Lover's Search for Romance  - ADRIEN: LOSING MY MIND Early this spring my friend Candace called to tell me she had recorded the previous night’s episode of Saturday Night Live for me. She explained that the object of my “crush” and winner of this year’s Academy Award for Best Actor, Adrien Brody, had hosted the show. Not wanting to be unkind, I thanked her for the thoughtfulness but felt compelled to correct her. “I think we need to call this by its proper name: my pathetic, middle-aged, divorcée’s crush.” Candace, knowing the truth when she heard it, didn’t argue the point. How did I, at the age of forty-three, find myself with a serious crush on this particular young actor? I ask myself this often. I’ve been in love with movies for thirty years. I easily passed for eighteen by the time I started high school, and I could gain entry into any film I wanted to see without an adult escort. During my adolescence, I planned all my free time around movies. I saw