----------=BigCloset Retro Classic!=----------
 

 

---

Image Credit: Gender Symbol.

---

Admin Note: Originally published on BigCloset TopShelf on Saturday, 12-29-2012 at 16:56:30 pm, this retro classic was pulled out of the closet, and re-presented for our newer readers. ~Sephrena
 
 
The Taylor Project
 
Prologue
 
“To err is human, to really screw things over requires a computer.”
- Anonymous
 
 
Medical errors are estimated to cause between 44,000 to 98,000 preventable deaths and 1,000,000 preventable injuries every year in the US. Medication errors are the most common kind of medical error. In 2000 the extra medical costs incurred by preventable drug related injuries exceeded $887 million. Those statistics are based on reported cases and likely many cases go unreported. Pharmacists have long been one of the safeguards against medication errors. They are expected to use their experience and knowledge of the patient to catch mistakes. However, in these days of rising medical costs many health plans are shifting to mail order pharmacies where a prescription is sent by a computer, filled by a computer and mailed by a computer.

= = =

The day weighed down on Robert Miller as he drove down his gravel drive past pine trees and empty fields. He had a late customer that had turned out to be a looker and not a buyer. That made him later than usual and hadn’t put a commission in his pocket. He spent the drive chatting up Julie. Their first date had gone well and he had the second lined up. They had a lot of chemistry going, but Julie was definitely looking for Mr. Right, not Mr. Right Now. He didn’t know if that was in the cards regardless of the chemistry.

Inside he found his mother on the couch in front of the TV. She stared at some televangelist with bad hair with her bible open in her hand. That happened more and more these days. She was the youngest of three sisters and since Aunt Elizabeth died last year the sole surviving sister. More and more his mother turned to the comfort of religion. He couldn’t blame her, but he hoped she wasn’t sending her life savings to those TV phonies. “Mother, I’m home. How did the boys do?”

She turned off the TV and launched into her usual report. Rick had football practice, stayed late and came home hungry. Scotty had come home and retreated to his room coming out only for dinner. She had a plate of leftovers for him in the fridge and there was a package on the table. He offered her a ride home and she turned him down insisting it wasn’t too far to walk. As he reheated his meatloaf he opened the package. Inside was a ninety-day prescription of Scotty’s new asthma medicine. He skimmed the directions and ignored three pages of fine print and legal blah blah blah. As he rose from eating he tossed them in the trashcan and the warnings of the intended use and side effects went unread.

He sought out Scotty and found his son in room on his computer playing that damn Sims game again. Allowing Scotty a computer in his room was a mistake in his opinion, but when the egg donor had given him one for Christmas last year there had been no way to take it away from him without being the bad guy. “Scotty, did you finish all your homework?”

Scotty glanced up from his game and responded absently. “Yeah Dad, all done.”

It grated that his son wouldn’t give him his full attention, but he’d learned the painful lesson of parenthood that you have to pick your battles. He’d picked some of the wrong battles with Scotty and it had cost him.

“Your new medicine arrived. Catch.” He tossed it an easy underhanded lob and watched as his son missed the catch - case in point of his choosing the wrong battle. Little league had turned out to be a huge failure. Scotty just wasn’t like Rick. Sure he was smaller than other boys his age, but that was just because he was younger. In football that would be a big deal, but baseball was more about practice and skill than raw muscle. For Rick throwing the ball around had been fun father son bonding time. Scotty had treated it like a chore. The more he’d pushed, the more stubborn Scotty got. Since he refused to acquire the skills he’d spent the time on the bench or in left field being miserable.

“One tablet, twice daily. Don’t forget.” Maybe this medicine would make a difference. Nothing else had really. He hated to see his son spending all his time indoors playing videogames, watching TB or reading. He was a young growing boy. The heat of a Texas summer had turned into a mild and comfortable autumn. Scotty should be outside playing.

Scott nodded. “Yes sir, I won’t forget. If this doesn’t work any better than the others, can we try allergy shots?”

He sighed. Scotty always wanted the short cut. He wanted life to be like videogames, fast and easy. If his son got off his fat ass and exercised more he would build up his lungs. “Scotty, allergy shots means shooting your body up with the same stuff that makes you sick in the first place. You don’t develop a healthy body by putting junk in it. Your doctor also said you might outgrow your allergies.” All of which he’d said before. He could tell by Scott’s look that he wasn’t listening. Hit him where it matters. “It’s a long slow process and will require me or your grandmother to take you in for shots every week. Let’s give this new medicine a chance. Let’s see how it goes. If it doesn’t improve then next time we go to the doctor, maybe.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Scotty, don’t use that word with me.”

“Yes sir, anything else?” Although his words were polite his tone was snarky.

Robert studied his son. How had they gotten so at odds with each other? They’d been close once. “What do you want for Christmas?” It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet, but time to start asking.

“I want the new Sims expansion and a cellphone.”

“I don’t know about a cellphone. They’re very expensive and a recurring expense.” By focusing on the cellphone had he conceded the Sims expansion already? Although if he didn’t get the Sims expansion, Egg Donor would. Scotty already had the game. It wasn’t like an expansion would make it worse.

“Rick has a cellphone.” Scotty’s voice sounded close to a whine.

“Rick has to stay after school for football practice and he has his own car. He’s out with his friends on the weekend. Rick needs a cellphone so I can reach him.” Rick had earned his privileges. Not to mention that his younger son was accident prone. He’d already broken that expensive DS thing he’d gotten last Christmas.

“Cathy has a cellphone.”

At least Cathy was one bright spot. Little Scotty had a girlfriend. He’d been worried that his son might be gay. “That’s between Cathy and her mother. I’ll think about it. Goodnight Scotty.” He thought about the cellphone as he headed back to his bedroom. Maybe he could get a family plan and another cellphone wouldn’t be too much. Hmm, or maybe he could persuade Egg Donor to buy Scotty one.
 
 
Chapter 1
 
Tuesday, Jan 1st — Happy New Year
 
Looking back it has been more than a year since I’ve written anything in my journal. I just kinda stopped bothering. It didn’t feel like I had anything to write about. Today I do. It’s New Years Day. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. Dad asked me what my resolutions are for the year. I know what he wants me to say, work out, get in shape, blah, blah, blah. I’m not Rick, who isn’t just a chip off the old block, he’s the whole damn brick. I gave Dad the old ‘I dunno’ but it got me thinking about what I want to change and I realized something — I don’t like my life. I’m so dreading go back to school. When I try to think about what to change the answer is almost everything.

I don’t know when it happened. I used to like myself. I used to like my life. I liked school and my family. Dad was cool and so was my older brother. It wasn’t Mom leaving us. I wasn’t even in kindergarten yet. I barely remember her being around and I have lots of good memories of Dad and Rick and me. Somewhere somewhen everything just got sucky. I don’t think it was one thing. It’s like that story about boiling a frog. If you put a frog in hot water it will hop out. If you put it in cold water and gradually increase the temperature it will die before hopping out. I guess that means I’m smarter than a frog because I figured out the water is too hot. I want to get out now before I boil.

School is just something to be endured. I’ve read most of my textbooks already and the teachers are boring. With a few exceptions they make everything duller than it already has to be. Most of them don’t like me either. They act like I’m one of the dumb kids when I get it. Then they fill up their tests with these trick questions designed to confuse. If we were just graded on homework, I’d be a straight A student. Add the tests and I mostly get a B or squeak out a low A, except for science. I’m a major science nerd and I usually ace science.

It’s not really the teachers repeating themselves or the subjects. It’s my classmates. They’re the worst part of it. I’ve never been beaten up. Between having Rick the Brick as a brother and Lloyd for a friend no one wants to take it that far. It is just that every day it’s like I’m a soldier trapped in hostile territory just trying to make it home. I have to be always on alert and have my defenses up. I try to keep my head down not provoke the animals, but it doesn’t take much to set them off. Even on good days I get teased, pushed, taunted and on and on.

My blending strategy just isn’t working. Part of it is that I have both asthma and allergies. I’m doing better on my new medicine, but it still doesn’t take much to set me off. Thanks to my brother Rick the whole school calls me Snotty, even my friends. (OK, not Cathy) That means all I have do is blow my nose, which I have to do a lot, and suddenly I pop up on bully radar as an easy target. The past month or so has been a lot worse. They (particular Kevin Grutz) have gotten to me. I’ve turned into a crybaby. I’m not sure why. It’s like the tears are always there and it doesn’t take much to get them going. Crying in junior high is the same thing as blood in the water for sharks. They smell it miles away and they pounce on you and rip you to shreds.

Honestly, I don’t think it is the allergies or the tears that is the root cause. Those are just triggers. They see weakness and their claws come out. Bullies are predators and I’m a herbivore. That’s the root of it. I’m different. I don’t fit in. I’m not like athletic like Rick. I don’t do well at sports. I don’t like them. I do play video games, but I don’t like the fast paced shooter games. I like games like the Sims and Civilization. Worse, I’m not into girls yet. It’s not that I hate girls. Cathy is my best friend, but I don’t want to do the kissing thing yet let alone sex. I don’t think I’m gay. I like girls better than boys mostly. I’m just not interested yet. All of which boils down that I don’t fit. I’m a square peg and they keep pounding and pounding me trying to make me fit into a round hole and it hurts. I’m tired of it hurting.

That’s what came to me earlier today. I didn’t have a good idea of what to change or how, but that’s my resolution. I don’t want to be the square peg any longer. I want to get out of the bucket of hot water before I boil. I don’t want to be Snotty anymore. That’s easy to say, but hard to do. How do I just stop being Snotty? What makes me the square peg and how do I fix it? I also don’t want to try to be someone I’m not. I don’t want to be like Dad or Rick. I just want to be a better me.

Somewhere in there I got the idea of using my middle name. Taylor doesn’t have a mocking rhyme like Scotty/Snotty. It’s a lame idea in a way. I can’t just change my name and shed all the bad stuff associated with Snotty, but the idea wouldn’t go away. I started thinking about what kind of person Taylor might be, the kind of person I want to be and I made some progress. I don’t really see Taylor being that different, just a little more confident and not as much as a loser. So how do I get there?

It’s not going to happen overnight. It’s going to be more of a project. At first I called the Me Project, that’s a play on the Glee Project. Reminder to future self reading this, Cathy got me hooked on Glee and the Glee Project and I’m a major Gleek. Anyway, it didn’t quite click, because I don’t like me. Then I thought of calling it the Taylor Project — clickety click click. That’s my New Year’s resolution. I’m starting on a project to improve myself, the Taylor Project. I’ve even got a plan

Taylor Project Step One — keep up this journal. I started the journal just to get an achievement for boy scouts and I didn’t keep it up. Most of my old entries are lame, like what I had for dinner. This time is different. This journal is how I’ll hold myself to the Taylor Project. I don’t know that I’ll write every day, but won’t let it go for months again. New Year’s Resolution number one — I will write at least once a week and I’ll write important stuff: my goals, the progress I’ve made and the setbacks.

Taylor Project Step Two — asthma and allergies. For me they’re two parts of the same thing. Allergies pull the trigger and asthma is the bullet. I’m allergic to pollen (grasses and weeds), dust, mold, eggs, mosquitoes and bees. I’ve already had bronchitis once this school year, I carry an inhaler and take medicine and I’m still stopped up most of the time. I used to do nebulizer treatments, but my new medicine seems to be working. At least I’m not having many asthma attacks and reaching for my inhaler. I still snuffle my way through most days of school. Every time I blow my nose, everyone in class makes faces, points, and calls me Snotty. I’ve got to do something about it. My doctor suggested desensitization therapy — allergy shots. Dad’s insurance wouldn’t pay for it. So somehow I’ve got to get Dad to change his mind. I don’t have a handle on that yet, but I read up on allergies. There are some things that I should be doing that I’m not. I should have a clean environment at home. If I stop the allergens at home, less dust, then I should be better. So New Year’s Resolution number two — keep my room and the living room dust free.

I’m not going to take responsibility for the rest of the house. Grandma keeps the kitchen clean, but Dad always tells us that she’s not our maid service. We’re all supposed to do our own laundry and clean up our rooms. I do and Dad does, but Rick’s room is a pig sty and I don’t know when the last time was he did laundry. I don’t go in his room, so it can just stay a mess. Maybe I’ll do the hallway and bathroom, too. That sucks, because I don’t want to be the family maid any more than Grandma does.

Hmm, maybe I can use it to wrangle some extra allowance out of Dad. Or even better if I let him know about this resolution and why I’m doing it, maybe I can guilt him into the allergy shots. He’s always saying I should do more about my allergies. I know he means exercise. That brings me to step three.

Taylor Project Step Three — exercise. I hate this one. I hate the very idea of it. I’m not Dad. I’m not Rick and I don’t want to be like them. Dad used to try to force me into sports. He’d drag me and Rick outside to throw a football around or baseball. I think last summer when he forced me to play baseball finally got it through to him that I’m never going to be Rick-repeated. He coached and even he ended up putting me in left field when I wasn’t on the bench. He’s been better since then, but he still pushes working out. According to the gospel of sports if I just worked out, I’d be more popular, my allergies would magically go away and my life would be perfect. I’d rather eat dirt. The more Dad push, push, pushes, the more I dig in my heels. Still, from what I’ve read he is at least partly right about the allergies. Working out will help some. It isn’t the magic bullet that Dad seems to think it is, but it is something in my power to do.

I want to be clear. I’m doing it for me. Not for him and not to become him. Dad would like to get me to lifting weights. His snide comments about my fat ass don’t help. I’m not fat. Certainly not fat like my friend Dave. OK, I am a little pear-shaped. That’s my body shape. Mostly I’m just not buff like Dad or Rick and I don’t want to be. I don’t want to play football. I don’t want to try out for any sports. I just want to breathe better. So I’m going to focus on aerobics cardiovascular stuff. Although I don’t know how I’m going to manage without him finding out. I could do simple exercises in my room (sit-ups, push-ups and stuff) without him seeing, but that’s not aerobic. I can’t use the treadmill or stationary bike in our workout room without him and Rick knowing. I don’t want Dad to find out. He’ll want to coach me and he’ll push, push, push like he always does. When it gets warmer I can ride my bike outside, but that doesn’t help me in January. Trying to exercise outside in cold weather when I’m already stopped up will only make me sick. So New Year’s Resolution number three — I’ll do simple exercises every morning and night in my room until it gets warm enough to go outside.

Taylor Project Step Four — stop being picked on. This is the heart of it and I don’t know how much I can change this. I’m not a born salesman like Dad or a popular jock like Rick. I know what Dad would say — stand up to the bullies. As if. Despite the pushing, shoving and teasing I’ve never been beat up. I think the fact that my brother is Rick and Lloyd is my friend has a lot to do with that. However, that wouldn’t save me if I ‘stood up’ and tried to fight. I’d get creamed. It’s not cowardice. It’s reality.

I did think of one thing that I can do that would help. I have to stop crying at least where other people can see me. I know it is a red flag for the bull-ies, but I’ve lost all control lately. Sometimes it is my allergies. When they’re bad and my nose is already stopped it doesn’t take much to push me over the edge. I might be holding back the tears, but I start snuffling. Then it is obvious that I’m crying and the hyenas pounce on me like a wounded antelope. However, I don’t have that excuse lately. My new medicine is working, but I’ve been losing it a lot lately. Maybe it’s puberty. Sometimes I’m all angry and sometimes I’m sad and don’t know why. It’s like everything is raw inside me, like pieces of cut glass and they hurt. Of course, sometimes I do know why. It’s because they’re taunting me. It’s always there, but it’s been worse and I’m having trouble keeping it inside. It just takes a little tears and they pounce. They really are hyenas. They prey on the weak. They cackle and laugh while cutting me to pieces calling me sissy and crybaby. The teachers will stop it if they see it, but even they look at me with disgust.

I think this one I actually have to take Dad’s advice at least part of it. I have to man up, suck it in and not let them see. It doesn’t matter what’s going on inside I have to shut it down. If I can’t, then I need to get out there. I can hide in the bathroom if I must. So New Year’s Resolution number four - never let them see me cry.
 

---

 
To Be Continued...