Ready for what? Benny asked. Then the strange man in the kitchen leaned forward enough past the wall for Stacey to see his face. He looked a lot like Benny, only much thinner.

Hello, said the stranger. You must be Stacey,” he smiled.

Stacey looked to Benny.

This is my brother, he said by way of introduction. Jim. Jimbicle in full.

Again, Stacey made a face. This one was more of an are you fucking kidding me? look.

She shook her head. We have a client coming soon! She glanced at her Apple watch. Wallace will be here in exactly two minutes. And you know he’s never late. She looked around. The place was a mess.

Why are your socks in a pile? she asked incredulously. And that? she pointed. What the fuck is that?

It’s old toothpaste tubes, his brother replied matter-of-factly. Stacey didn’t have time for answers. Instead, she pushed through her disgust and scooped as much as she could from the floor, piling it into the boot closet and closing the door against the mess.

That’s when she realized Benny was still in his pajama bottoms. At least he got the shirt and tie right, Stacey thought. She pointed to his legs. Finish getting dressed.

Benny stood where he was, eyes slightly vacant.

NOW? Stacey shouted loud enough to cause Benny’s brother to clatter his mug down. He stood and walked over to Benny, took his arm, and led him into the bedroom.

The knock at the door told Stacey their client had arrived. She took a deep breath and opened the door. Wallace looked nice for a change. He wasn’t in gym shorts this time. Instead, he wore a thick barn jacket with huge black buttons and what appeared to be a new pair of dark wash jeans.

Stacey opened the door wider and invited him inside.

My assistant will join us shortly, she said. Somehow, she’d managed to adopt a semi-professional tone, knowing Benny was in his bedroom changing into pants with his brother’s help.

Stacey dug into her canvas knapsack and pulled out five votive candles with matching glass holders and a pack of matches. She’d always preferred the sulphuric smell of a freshly lit match over the click of a butane torch.

As Wallace took his seat in the big leather chair, Stacey lowered the blinds against the morning sunshine and hastily lit each candle, placing them strategically around the apartment for ambiance.

Had she known the chaos and confusion this would cause with Benny, she wouldn’t have bothered.

She sat down across from Wally and thanked him for coming. We’re getting deep into your coaching sessions now, she said. Wallace nodded.

Is any of what we’ve done so far resonating with you? she asked.

Wallace considered the question. His brows knitted together briefly. He pursed and then unpursed his lips.

Not really, he finally said.

Stacey nodded and clapped her hands together as if she knew what his answer would be and was ready for the challenge.

I think you’re about to have a huge breakthrough, she announced. What if I told you that your spirit animal came to me in a dream last night? she asked.

Okay. I guess. But why wouldn’t my own spirit animal come to me in my drea…”

Stacey abruptly cut him off.

But he didn’t, he came to me in my dreams, OKAY? Her voice got a little more shrill than she’d anticipated.

The important thing isn’t who your spirit animal decided to visit. What’s important is the message.

Wallace waited.

Just then, Benny and his brother emerged from the bedroom. Stacey groaned inwardly. Benny had, in fact, changed his pants. But now his dress shirt and tie were gone, and in their place was his pajama top.

Jim gave her a helpless shrug as Benny took his spot on the couch.

Wallace offered a curious stare but didn’t mention the pajama top. Listen, Stacey said, again a little too loudly. All she wanted to do was divert Wallace’s attention, and it worked.

The spirit animal…

The bear? Wallace clarified.

Yes, the bear. He came to me in a dream last night in a way that gave me absolute clarity on your path forward. She tried to force a little brightness in her voice, a little hope.

Suddenly, only now just noticing the candles, Benny shouted WE’RE ON FIRE! WE’RE ON FIRE! WE’RE ON FIRE!

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Stacey jumped to her feet and began blowing out the candles, one by one. His brother tried to calm him down, telling him they were perfectly safe.

They’re just candles, he told Benny. But Benny wasn’t having it. Instead, he began to peel off his clothing, piece by piece, starting with his dress pants and underpants.

BENNY! Stacey shouted. PUT YOUR CLOTHES ON, WE’RE FINE!

Once the candles were out, Stacey raced to the blinds, opening them wide to allow as much sunlight in as possible.

At this point, Benny had his shirt off and was completely naked, running around the room looking for something.

Wallace was already pulling his barn jacket back on. His hands were on the doorknob before Stacey noticed he was leaving. Wait! she shouted. Don’t leave! It’s just the power of the spirit bear, she improvised. It’s too much for some people to handle!

She side-eyed Benny like a Corgi who's just been asked to go for a walk.

Let’s not count this as a session, okay? Wallace asked as he fled the scene.

Stacey let him go, defeated. She collapsed in the chair, averting her eyes from naked Benny. Help. Him. Get. Dressed. Stacey said through gritted teeth. She banged her small but tight fist into the cushioned armrest.

FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKK, she screamed. Reluctant tears spilled onto her cheeks and across her lips. The taste of salt in her mouth made her even angrier.

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? She screamed at Jim. Jim, who had pushed Benny into his bedroom and closed the door, now stood in front of her.

Benny is sick, he said.

What do you mean, sick?

It’s dementia. I don’t know what type or what stage. Our father had it. It’s dementia.

Like Alzheimer’s? Stacey replied.

Jim shrugged. Who knows. It’s dementia, though. He’s got all the signs. Probably middle to late stage at this point.

Stacey took in the information, unsure what to feel or what to do. She knew she couldn’t work with Benny if he were demented. He’d never be the secretary he’d wanted to be, that was for sure.

She looked out the window, but Wallace was long gone. He’d quickly disappeared in the busy city street. Stacey wondered if he’d come back. She worried he might ask for his money back. She didn’t have it to give.

I’ve got to get outta here, Stacey said. She felt light-headed and a little nauseated. This was a lot to take in. She pulled her jacket on and zipped it up to her chin.

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Are you sure it’s dementia? She asked.

Jim nodded.

Stacey walked the five blocks back home in a daze. A lot of thoughts filled her head. Could she go back to work at the hospital? Unlikely. What would happen to Benny, and why did she care?

Once home, she immediately filled her tub with hot, sudsy water and peeled off her clothes. Her skin was pink from the cold. She settled into the tub, steam filling the room.

It was only after her mind and body had finally relaxed that she came up with a solution.

Stay tuned for Chapter 15! And thanks for reading. :)

But it was kind of clever, she had to admit. I could have come up with those morals and manners lessons myself, though, Stacey mused aloud as she checked her email for any more e-transfers from Wallace.

She yawned, tired from all the tossing and turning she’d done in the night. Benny was having misgivings about this whole life coaching thing. Mostly because she was a sham. Or was she? She spent her waking hours convincing herself that she wasn’t.

I’m just having imposter syndrome, she told herself. There’s no credential for life coaching. I couldn’t go to university and come out with a master’s in life coaching, she reasoned.

But she knew what Benny would say to all that. He’d probably have a more nuanced approach to life coaching, leaning heavily on the skills he already had, not on fantasy skills created by a woman who just wanted the money.

That realization made her stop and think. Why AM I doing this? she thought. In the excitement of getting a first client, she’d forgotten how they’d come to this life decision.

This is Benny’s fault! she thought to herself. Benny got on the dark web because he’s a moron who’d rather be a secretary than a doctor. After all that schooling! And the debt! And the years he had to study!

Stacey shook her head, disgusted with Benny. She closed her laptop and made a coffee. Chiaro - double espresso. No milk. No sugar. She sat at the kitchen table and made room for her coffee, pushing aside the stack of Berenstain Bears books Benny had shoved into her arms before she’d left his place the night before.

The Berenstain Bears Go to School

Stacey moved that book to the NO pile. There was nothing in this book that she could turn into a life lesson for a grown man.

The Berenstain Bears and the Messy Room

No to this book. She put it in the pile.

The Berenstain Bears Trouble with Money

Stacey paused on this one and considered the options. Money problems? Clearly, the man didn’t have money problems if he was willing to fork out twenty thousand dollars for spirit guide therapy.

She slid the book into the MAYBE pile in the center of the kitchen table.

The Berenstain Bears and Too Much Pressure

This might be good, Stacey thought, and moved it into the YES pile. There wasn’t a person on earth who didn’t experience pressures of some kind. She could weave this into Wallace’s “bear spirit” sessions.

The Berenstain Bears and the Trouble with Friends

Yup, definitely this one, Stacey said aloud. The invisible bear spirit could come up with all kinds of coaching around conflict, forgiveness, and boundaries.

The Berenstain Bears and the Blame Game

And this one too, Stacey thought. And then Stacey was hit with a great idea. What if I can convince Wallace to buy sessions for his employees?

Stacey would talk to Benny about it, even though she knew he wouldn’t like the idea. But they were in BUSINESS, and BUSINESS people had to market themselves.

She thought about the possibilities as she sipped her coffee. If should could convince Wallace that the “spirit bear” sees a future where his employees need more help than he does and, in turn, could be trained into liking him more, she could make a fortune.

And she could start paying Benny. He’d also have more secretarial work to do, which, clearly, he craved. Stacey rolled her eyes and laughed at the same time.

Three hours later

HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND? Benny shouted. Stacey narrowed her eyes, calculating a response that would convince him.

We could go to jail for something like this, Benny continued. His hand trembled as he lifted his cup of coffee to his mouth.

Is that your remote control? Stacey asked just as the remote control bumped Benny’s nose. He put his cup down and gave her a blank stare.

Stacey reached down and plucked it from his coffee. Are you alright? She asked. Why is your remote control in your coffee?

That’s a SPOON, Benny shouted. He seemed to have one tone on this day. Loud. Stacey shook her head. It’s not a spoon. She wiped the wet remote control on the hem of her shirt and placed it on the coffee table.

You should see a doctor, Stacey suggested. My grandfather had dementia. He always did shit like this.

Benny thought the idea was absurd. I’ve been worried lately, he said defensively. People do strange things when they’re under stress.

Stacey’s eyebrows arched high into her forehead. Yeah, not THIS weird.

Well, it’s certainly NOT dementia!

Dear readers: It’s dementia.

Stacey wasn’t in the mood to argue about her “secretary’s” health condition. Instead, she rinsed out his coffee mug, refilled it, and returned it to the coffee table.

Listen, this is my business, and I need more than one client! Nobody else has responded to the ads. It’s not like we’ll have a gun to Wallace’s head or anything. He can decide what he wants to do and where he wants to spend his money.

Benny remained silent, his gaze fixated on something just outside the living room window. Stacey waved her hand in front of his face. HELLO? Is anybody home?

But Benny didn’t snap out of his reverie the way Stacey expected he would. She shook his shoulder lightly. Finally, he turned his head to her, but he seemed out of focus, as if he were staring through her, not at her.

Okay, we’ve been through a lot. YOU’VE been through a lot, she said. But you’re working for ME now, remember? There’s nothing to worry about anymore. Whatever happens is on my shoulders.

It was only after Benny stood that Stacey realized he’d been losing weight. His pants, once crisply starched, ironed, and perfectly fitting, now hung loosely around his waist. Sharp salt-and-pepper whiskers covered his chin. She wasn’t used to seeing him this way, and it struck a nerve.

Are you getting sick? She asked. The flu’s going around.

Up until this moment, Stacey had regarded Benny as someone with “status”. Like it or not, she realized it had been his strength of character that allowed her the space to indulge her own dreams. To her, he’d been like a dumb wall that she could continuously rally her self-absorbed thoughts against.

Something was wrong with him, that was for sure. Stacey wasn’t concerned about the diagnosis. It was the weakening of his veneer that scared the shit out of her.

Why don’t you go back to bed and get some sleep, Stacey suggested nervously. He nodded and slipped his black patent shoes from his feet, exposing an inch of skin around his ankle.

Gross, Stacey thought. This man in front of her reminded her of her grandfather and how weak he’d gotten before dying of lung cancer. Stacey was repulsed and afraid.

I’ll talk to you later, she said as she slipped out the door. At this point, she knew she was in too deep. If she came clean and told Wallace that his “coaching” was coming from Berenstain books, he’d probably sue her. She couldn’t even give him his money back. What she’d received so far had paid off a little credit card debt. The rest went to Benny as his first payment.

I’m not doing anything illegal, Stacey thought. The man is getting what he signed up for. He paid twenty grand for spirit animal coaching, and that’s exactly what he’s getting.

All of this, of course, was true, but Stacey couldn’t brush off the feeling that somehow, at the end of the day, she was fucked.

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Here, Benny said, holding a blanket aloft. Stretch out on the couch.

Stacey lifted her legs and swung them out, positioning herself into a semi-prone position while Benny released the soft blue cotton blanket.

It briefly occurred to Stacey that she was quickly becoming too comfortable in Benny’s company, but she brushed the thought aside. There was twenty grand at stake. If they could pull this off, they could do anything.

She looked over at Benny, who had gathered all the Berenstain Books he could find within his apartment. He held one on his lap, ready to read it to Stacey as if she were a child reluctant to sleep.

Did you know that the twenty grand we get from this client will pay my rent for almost a year?

Benny smiled and nodded. He didn’t have the heart to tell her how much income he’d lost when he gave up his medical license.

He began to read. Stacey took notes.

So the kids break a lamp, blame it on a bird, but later confess to what they did? She asked.

That’s it exactly, Benny said.

Okay, Stacey said. She tapped her pen against her front teeth. So we tell Wallace that the bear spirit guide wants him to be honest about something?

Without missing a beat, Benny said, Or we tell Wallace that the bear spirit guide is calling on him to release pent-up guilt. That this is his opportunity to unburden his soul with truth.

Stacey swung her legs back to the floor and sat up. What truth? She asked.

Benny shrugged. Wallace is the client. It’s up to him to figure that out. We’re just providing the guidance.

From his bear spirit guide, Stacey said, grinning. You’re pretty good at this!

Again, Benny shrugged.

People willing to pay twenty grand for spirit guide coaching already know what they want to say. They just need an excuse to say it.

Stacey, relieved to have a plan but still uneasy about the method of deception, stood up. I have to go. I’m exhausted. She slipped her feet into her burgundy Blundstones and zipped her jacket.

You can sleep on the couch, Benny offered. It’s late.

Stacey shook her head. No, she said. But call the client in the morning and ask him to meet us here.

Benny’s eyes grew wide. Here? he asked.

Yes, here. Why not here?

Benny’s eyes drifted to his stapler collection along the wall.

Jesus, Stacey groaned. He’s not going to steal your staplers.

The next day, 3 p.m.

Benny and Stacey sat together on the couch waiting for the doorbell to ring. Stacey had spent practically the whole night coming up with their first life coaching lesson. She took directly from the book “The Berenstain Bears and the Golden Rule”.

Do To Others What You What Have Them Do To You

Wallace arrived in white shorty-shorts, a light-blue golf shirt, and a tennis racket. His hair was greased with his own sweat, and Stacey, who wasn’t exactly a poker face, made a face.

Thankfully, Wallace didn’t notice. Instead, he pushed his way inside, his eyes roaming the walls, finally settling on Benny, who sat nervously on his couch.

Weird office, Wallace said.

Have a seat! said Stacey. She pointed to the new chair they had bought for clients, a wing-backed, black leather chair with a deep quilted pattern that would have been better suited for a Knights of Columbus hall.

For most, the chair would have been too big. But for Wallace, it was the perfect fit.

I want to jump right in, Stacey started. First, let me introduce you to my assistant, Benny.

The two men shook hands.

Executive Assistant, Benny corrected.

Yes, Stacey said, stifling the biggest eye-roll of her life. He’s here to take notes, she explained to Wallace. Wallace nodded.

So, I’ve been spending my time summoning the wisdom of the bear since our last visit, and the messages I’m getting from him point to problems you might be having with treating people fairly.

Wallace sat perfectly still, his face expressionless. Stacey and Wallace held their collective breaths. Was he buying it so far? They wondered.

Then Wallace nodded vigorously.

The bear knows his stuff, he said.

Would you like to share your thoughts on things you think you might do better in that regard? Stacey hated the word “regard”, but here she was.

Wallace contemplated the question. He lowered his head into his palms, allowing enough time for Stacey and Benny to exchange a look. Stacey motioned for Benny to start writing something down.

Suddenly, Wallace snapped his head upright. I do my best to motivate my team at work, he said. I force them to pose for Thursday afternoon “selfies”. If they don’t greet me with a robust GOOD MORNING every day, I give them a stern look. It’s all in good fun, of course. I also like to challenge them by giving them near-impossible tasks. I think it’s good to challenge their minds, see what they can come up with their feet to the fire.

At this point, Stacey was starting to wonder if she had charged enough. Okay, Stacey said carefully. If you could summon your bear spirit guide, what do you think he’d say about all that?

Again, Wallace considered the question. Isn’t this what I’m paying you for? He asked.

Yes! Stacey replied. Of course it is. But the bear needs to know your thoughts in order to be of service.

Okay, Wallace replied. Well, he might want to know why I send emails to my staff at 11 pm at night.

Okay, Stacey replied. Do you remember why you signed up for this service in the first place? She asked.

Yeah, because I get the feeling people don’t like me at work and I don’t understand it.

Stacey nodded her head, as if the reason why his employees didn’t like him was such a big surprise.

So where IS this bear anyway? Wallace asked.

He’s a spirit. You can’t see spirits.

Well, shouldn’t I feel something? I don’t have goosebumps or anything.

The bear spirit speaks through me, Stacey improvised.

Wallace leaned forward, forearms on his quadriceps. For twenty thousand dollars I should get goosebumps.

SHIT, Stacey thought to herself. One minute she thought he was buying the BS, and the next she figured he was onto the scam.

The bear calls it “The Golden Rule”, so maybe you need something gold to attract the spirit to you. That way, when you’re at work, you’ll be reminded to think about treating others the same way you would want to be treated.

Wallace shook his head. I AM treating my employees the way I’d want to be treated. I’m a GREAT boss! They pretend to like me, but I know they don’t.

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Well, Stacey replied. Does anyone REALLY like their boss? She caught side-eye from Benny.

Wallace nodded. I suppose, but that’s what I’m here for. I need a spirit guide to counsel me.

Stacey realized this would go on forever unless she changed course. Suddenly, she jumped to her feet, prompting Benny to do the same. He looked at her quizzically.

The BEAR HAS SPOKEN, she cried. And he wants to share the GOLDEN LOCKET with you. To Benny’s surprise, Stacey began rummaging through his things. She walked to the stapler wall, scanning for something gold.

This! She cried, her hand grasping the handle of a gold-plated 1937 Swingline stapler.

NO! Benny shouted. He lunged for the stapler, but Stacey quickly pressed it into Wallace’s hands.

Wallace looked down. It’s a stapler.

Not just any stapler, Stacey replied. It’s the Golden Rule Stapler for Men Who Hold Power in Management Positions.

I was expecting something else, Wallace said.

Stacey shook her head. This IS the perfect talisman for you. It’s no coincidence that we’re having our first session here, in this apartment. The Bear knew. He knew the golden stapler would be here. That, she said, is perfect. You can keep it on your desk without anyone asking questions. Imagine if you had a giant goblet on your desk! she laughed.

Wallace didn’t laugh, but he did acknowledge that a golden stapler talisman would fit into the office aesthetic without drawing unwanted questions.

But Benny wasn’t having it. He reached over and tried to take the stapler from Wallace. This is not a spirit bear! It’s my stapler!

Annoyed, Stacey pinched Benny’s arm skin and threw him a look. Get a hold of yourself! she said firmly. Spirit bear is GENEROUS.

Benny shook his head. No No No No No.

Stacey leaned over and hissed into his ear. Is this stapler worth twenty grand to you?

Benny stuffed his hands into his pockets and lowered his head to hide his trembling lips. They’re MY staplers, he thought to himself.

I think this will help! Wallace said, cradling the stapler in his palms like a newborn about to be baptized. If it does, you’ll have full payment for these sessions by next week!

Benny and Stacey exchanged a glance, then scheduled Wallace for his next session.

What are we doing? Benny complained after Wallace had driven away. This isn’t right. He wanted his stapler back. He also had a nagging feeling that what they were doing was mildly illegal.

We’re helping people! Stacey said. Don’t you want to be a part of that?

I WAS part of that, he replied. I was a physician.

But you were miserable! Stacey reminded him. You wanted something different.

Benny couldn’t argue, but this wasn’t the kind of DIFFERENT he had in mind.

I’m going home, Stacey said. We’ll talk tomorrow.

Stacey was already outside and halfway down the street when Benny ripped his front door open and shouted into the wind: And he DID STEAL A STAPLER!

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A bear? He asked, shaking his head from side to side in quick, short jabs. I’m afraid you’re out of your depth. This is nonsensical! How would I even go about doing such a thing?”

He reached for this antique stapler, the expensive one, carefully stroking the handle. It was the equivalent of a fidget toy or a stress ball for him, and he did the same thing every time he needed stress relief. First, he checked inside to make sure there were no staples. There never were. Then he closed the head and ran his left thumb over the crimping area, back and forth, enjoying the sensations.

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As promised, he was working from home and could easily access all the things that brought him a modicum of comfort. He’d splurged and bought a MacBook, understanding full well there was no money to cover office expenses.

So far, his only job had been taking phone calls. He thought it peculiar that people spoke sincerely and seriously about needing things like “spirit guide” coaching, yet screamed in anger when they found out the cost.

I’ll do whatever it takes to realign with my spirit guides, one potential client had said. Anything!

Benny, always a little embarrassed to tell people the cost of these services, tried to soften the blow. Well now, he’d say. I’d be happy to take your deposit for the sessions today. The rest will be due before your last session.

Great! The potential client had said.

Benny cleared his throat before saying, “Now the price is a little steep, but as you just said, it’s worth anything. Did I get that right?

The potential client was suddenly hesitant. How pricey?

Benny paused before saying, 'You’ll pay the $ 5,000 deposit today and the remaining $15 before your last session.

Silence. Then, fifteen dollars?

Fifteen thousand, Benny said with an apologetic inflection in his tone.

There’s really no need to list the creative expletives shouted into Benny’s ear. He’d heard them all. His heart sank every time, and he wished he could convince Stacey to lower her prices to something more reasonable.

We’re never going to make a cent unless we get a client. You must lower your price before that will ever happen, I’m afraid, he’d warned.

And then they got a client willing to pay $20,000.

Benny had been just as excited as Stacey, albeit for different reasons. Now he could officially call himself a bookkeeper and a secretary. He created a file folder for the new client and opened a full pack of sticky notes to use. It gave him great satisfaction to see those stickers prominently displayed around his computer screen, each with a useful note to remind him of things that needed doing.

CALL CLIENT & ASK IF HE’S SERIOUS ABOUT PAYING 20 GRAND FOR QUESTIONABLE SERVICE.

SEND COACHING FEEDBACK FORMS

PUT ALL-BRAN ON THE GROCERY LIST

CREATE COACHING TEMPLATES FOR STACEY

Benny kept his eye on the last one, wondering to himself how he could create spirit guide templates when he didn’t know what it even meant.

Suddenly, he met her gaze and straightened his back. I’m your secretary, not a bear spirit or bear guide. You’re the coach. You do the coaching.”

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To his surprise, Stacey suddenly looked more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her. A tiny vein between her neck and collarbone twitched. Her face flushed. She did five random jumping jacks.

I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT MEANS EITHER, she screamed.

Why did you put it on the service list if you don’t know what it means?

Because I didn’t think anybody in their right mind would pay that much money for a spirit guide coach!

Should I take it off the list? Benny asked.

No. I don’t know. Maybe. It’s too late now! Okay, take it off the list. But we still have to come through for this guy.

Stacey plunked down on Benny’s couch while Benny twirled his newly purchased office chair around and around, his socked feet hoisted slightly off the floor.

Stop doing that! she shouted. We have to think.

So they thought. They thought threw lunch. The thought threw dinner. They thought their way through 10 pm.

Do I get overtime for this? Benny asked. He was kidding, but it irked Stacey.

She gave him a look.

Suddenly, as if stung by a wasp, Benny jumped to his feet. Stacey watched him scurry into the bathroom, where he rummaged through a basket of books and magazines beside the toilet.

Here it is, she heard him mutter.

He walked out of the bathroom smiling and holding a book high over his head.

What’s that? Stacey asked.

The Berenstain Bears! Benny laughed. Stacey was confused. Who the hell were the Berenstain Bears?

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Benny plopped the worn children’s book in Stacey’s lap. She picked it up and flipped through the yellowed pages. It smelled of must and, oddly, lavender. She looked up at Benny and shrugged.

I don’t get it, she said.

We can use these books as the backdrop to your bear spirit guide coaching client!

Stacey still wasn’t clueing in. Benny sat next to her on the couch and explained the entire series of books to her.

The Berenstain Bears books were designed to teach morals and practical life lessons to children. Haven’t you heard of them? he asked.

Stacey shook her weary head.

These are your bear spirit guides! Benny laughed, pleased with himself. He thumped his pointer finger on the hard book cover.

I’m still not getting it, Stacey said.

This is just one book, Benny explained. There are hundreds of books like this. Look, this one is about not eating too much junk food. I’ve got others too. There’s one about manners, and another about starting school…

Benny could tell by the look on Stacey’s face that she still wasn’t comprehending what he was trying to say. He grabbed her shoulders and promptly dropped his hands.

I’m sorry, he said. But this is how we can pull off a bear spirit guide for your client. We use the ideas, he said. We can shape each one into a message of sorts. I know this is a grown man who likely already went to school. He’s probably learned his manners from his parents and so forth. But what if we use these ideas and reshape them for adults?

Stacey thought about it.

You mean use these ideas to create spirit guide “lessons” that come from bears?

Benny nodded, Yes! Something like that. I don’t have to be the bear. THESE are your bears. They have all the answers. Just reword them and feed them to the client in adult terms.

Now Stacey was getting it.

So we just reformat these ideas into meaningful lessons for Wallace? What if he recognizes the lessons from these books?

Benny laughed out loud.

Nobody dumb enough to pay twenty thousand dollars for spirit guide coaching was read to as a child, he said.

Stacey laughed. Then Benny joined in. Together, they laughed until it hurt, both understanding the deviance of what they were about to do, but neither willing to turn back the hands of time.

They were in it now, and they were in deep.

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Life not taking you where you hoped? Need a new vision for the future? I’m here to help. No, I don’t drink enough water, and yes, sometimes I forget to brush my teeth, but you want to know something? I can help redirect and shift your life in new directions.

I specialize in the following:

• Life Optimization

• Positivity Therapy for the Clinically Depressed

• Confidence Coach - From Pathetic Pathology to Over-reaching Confidence

• Clicks, Likes, and Comments Coaching

• Fake IT till you MAKE IT Coach

• Soul Organization

• Talk Therapy (You Talk; I’ll Listen)

• I can be your Spirit Guide

• I can talk to dead pets (except guppies)

Or sign up for my exclusive FILL-IN-THE-BLANK Life Coaching Package, where you tell me what you need and I help you achieve it.

Awaiting Your Call Because I’m Practically Psychic.
Stacey’s Life Coaching LTD

Her first client was a man named Wallace Grindley. He was loud and arrogant and walked across the floor of the mall with the confidence of a hunter swooping for his prey.

Stacey watched and waved him over, recognizing him from his TikTok profile picture, because TikTok profile pictures were always so accurate.

He had signed up for the Spirit Guide package. Stacey had read somewhere that pricing services too low was a mistake in business. Believe in your abilities and charge accordingly.

So she charged $20,000 for six “comprehensive” sessions. It didn’t matter which session the person wanted. They were all priced the same.

Dr. Belliveau (now known as “Benny”) wasn’t so confident and suggested she start with a modest price point. At least give people the option of choosing cheaper packages, he’d insisted.

Her answer, of course, was no. We’ll get a certain clientele, she reasoned—people with money.

So now here she was, every worry in the world, winging it for all she had. She stood abruptly, clanging and scratching the thin metal chair across the tiled floor.

The hum of noise, mostly teenagers on lunch break, was deafening. She regretted choosing the food court to meet this man about spirit guides, but here she was.

Make the best of it, she thought.

Wallace extended his meaty hand. Stacey, he said. Nothing else. He was very sure of himself.

Stacey nodded and motioned for him to have a seat. He was way too enormous for the small chair. Their knees touched, but no matter how Stacey tried to fidget her way around them, she could not get away from his bulky kneecaps.

Don’t you have an office? He said loudly. Stacey tried to mentally stop the blush creeping up her face.

I like to meet my clients in public first, she said, and then immediately regretted it. He sees right through me, she thought. I’m a fraud.

Truth be told, she WAS a fraud, but she was in it now. He had paid her a hefty deposit, the remainder to be paid before the last session. Next time I’ll pick a quiet, fancy restaurant, she thought.

Wallace was staring at her, an unblinking, dead-behind-the-eyes look that made her squirm. She remembered the binder she had put together and pulled it out of her canvas bag.

I thought we’d go over the contract one more time before we get started, she explained. The contract was 15 pages long and consisted of words like THERETO, HEREWITH, and ASUNDER. All words she thought sounded legal.

Benny, her secretary, had dutifully typed it up, using high-grade steel staples to keep it together.

Wallace nodded as Stacey read through the main parts of the contract, which were mostly the parts where he agreed to “pay for services rendered,” whether he got anything out of it or not.

Perfect, she said, putting the now-sticky-from-something-on-the-table contract back into the binder. She sat back and clasped her hands, using her pointer fingers to form a steeple of sorts. It was supposed to be a power move, but she realized that if she relaxed her wrists by about 45 degrees, it would look like she was shooting him.

Tell me what you expect to get from these sessions, she started. You’ve signed up for the Spirit Guide coaching. So, what does that mean for you?

Ask the client what they want and then deliver. That’s all she had to do. She waited for his answer. Meanwhile, people from all walks of life were seemingly pulled into the food court from one end and deposited out the other.

Something’s missing from my life, Wallace started. Nobody likes me. People at work ignore me. And I’M the boss! They don’t even try to hide it. They tell me they’re going to do something and then walk away. Nothing I ask for ever gets done. I have to get middle management to do the work.

Stacey put her best “I’m very interested in what you have to say” look, and nodded.

That sounds pretty rough, she said. And how do you think a spirit guide fits into this picture?

Wallace pulled his knees apart, adopting a wide V-stance that, without the table, would have brought her attention to his crotch. Without their knees in constant contact, Stacey felt lighter, more confident.

Well, I can’t ask anyone at work for help. You can’t just ask people to respect you, he said. I’ve heard a lot about spirit guides and how they’re supposed to help you with anything you ask for.

Stacey nodded, still unsure of where this was going.

You’re ad said, “I Can Be Your Spirit Guide”, and that sounded reasonable. I want you to be MY spirit guide.”

Stacey frowned. It was unintentional, but he noticed. The idea behind these sessions is to teach you how to get in touch with your own spirit guides, she replied. Not to BE your spirit guide.

Wallace placed his hands flat on the table and pushed himself to a standing position. That’s not what the ad says.

Stacey wracked her brain, trying to remember the exact wording of the ad.

Yes! Okay! You’re right. I can be your spirit guide! she said before he walked away. She needed the money and would do practically anything to make sure everything went well.

Wallace relaxed and sat back down.

Perfect, he said. How does this work?

Stacey thought before opening her mouth. The ball was in her court now. She held the cards. Whatever she said next would set the foundation for the sessions.

You are an intelligent, fiercely independent man, she started. People don’t take you seriously, and they’re missing out on everything you have to offer.

Praise. Praise. Praise. Praise will get you anything you want.

That’s it exactly! he said, beaming.

Stacey nodded solemnly. She couldn’t believe the praise trick was working, but now she needed to seem intensely spiritual. She inhaled deeply, ignoring the smell of sour ketchup and questionable meat products from the next table. She tipped her head back and gazed at the ceiling.

Wallace did the same.

Your spirit animal isn’t me, she said woefully. What I’m sensing is bigger than me. Something more worthy of what you need.

His eyes grew wide. He nodded eagerly.

Thank fucking God, she thought, relieved. He’s buying it.

Your spirit animal is a bear, huge and fearless, capable of living a full life in the wild, away from the trappings of consumerism.

Stacey knew her words didn’t make any sense. It was the tone he was leaning on. Evangelical. Superior. Confident. Full of shit.

A bear! Wallace nodded as if he’d thought the same thing all along.

A bear, Stacey confirmed. A bear.

She fell silent, allowing the fullness of the moment to descend on her new (and first) client.

Great, Wallace said. How do I meet the bear? What happens now?

Stacey grinned. She knew exactly how to proceed. All she had to do was convince Benny to be the bear.

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I can’t just run away, Dr. Belliveau said. I’ll lose my license.

What difference does it make if you don’t want to be a doctor anymore anyhow? Stacey replied.

Here, Stacey motioned to the side of the street. I don’t have a driveway. Park here.

Dr. Belliveau did as he was told, showing off his remarkable parallel parking skills. Stacey was surprised but wasn’t interested in giving unsolicited praise for his driving acumen.

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Stacey unlocked her apartment and showed the doctor in. She watched his gaze fall over her mismatched furniture, thrifted artwork, and grungy aquarium. He went over and peered inside, giving his head a short nod as if he knew nothing could live in there.

Stacey shrugged off her fall jacket and placed it on the back of the wooden chair that guarded her small kitchen table. She felt awkward, the full realization of what was happening standing before her. Dr. Belliveau. This was all his fault.

Luckily, she had a plan, something she’d been crafting in her mind for a while. Until this moment, it felt more like a whimsical dream than something she could pull off in real time. But here they were. In a predicament. It was time.

Why don’t you sit down, Stacey told Dr. Belliveau. Again, he did as he was told.

My apartment isn’t much bigger than this, he said, nervously deciding which leg to cross over the other. Left over right? Right over left?

Don’t worry about it. You’ll be back at your apartment soon. I just needed a chance to talk this out.

The doctor looked her in the eye, brows furrowed. He sat perched on the couch, his coat still buttoned to his neck, in anticipation.

I’m starting a life coaching business, Stacey blurted. I’ll need a secretary. YOU could be my secretary.

The doctor shook his head, confused. What about my medical practice? He asked.

What about it? Stacey asked. You won’t need it.

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The doctor’s spine loosened and bent, allowing him to curl into the back of the couch cushion. His shoulders curved forward, and the tip of his chin touched the buttoned-up collar of his jacket.

I’ll make a good secretary, he said, practically whispering. When do I start? he asked.

Stacey felt the burn of anxiety in her chest. Shit. Shit. Shit, she thought. Maybe she hadn’t thought this through as clearly as she’d intended.

We’ll start here, Stacey ad-libbed. I’ll use my socials to advertise. You can work from your apartment. Clients can come here…or….or….even better….I can meet with them in public places. I’ll treat them to a coffee and snack at the mall food court. It’ll be part of the package.

Stacey filled the space between her and Dr. Belliveau with what would become her business plan. Every word spoken was like a tiny foot stamping down the doubt and fear that crept into her throat.

I can’t pay you yet, she said. You’ll have to trust me, right? We need clients before I can pay you. Maybe we could work out a deal where you get a percentage of what I earn from each client. Easier than an hourly rate sort of thing.

Dr. Belliveau nodded. The brewing excitement he felt hadn’t quite reached his face yet. Like Stacey, he had some misgivings. But he had money saved. He could live on his savings for at least a year. And he wouldn’t have to give up his medical license right away.

There was time. Maybe even enough time to make this work, he thought.

Okay, he said aloud, surprising himself.

Okay what? Stacey replied.

To be your secretary! he said. It would be so easy! He could already feel the load of responsibility he carried loosen from his shoulders. He thought of the last time he had to tell a patient they were terminal.

I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do, he’d said carefully. Your condition is advancing quickly. If I were you, I’d get my affairs in order.

The patient was in shock. She looked to her husband (whom Dr. Belliveau had asked to accompany her to the appointment) in disbelief.

I only came in for bursitis treatment, she’d said.

Dr. Belliveau nodded sadly. Yes, encephalitis. It’s bad, I’m afraid. Very bad. You could be in a coma by noon.

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Dr. Belliveau remembered the look on his patient’s face. She’d gone from disbelief to anger in less than ten seconds. He recalled with horror the look of anger on her husband’s face, and the fist he was sure would be destined for his nose.

Do you know what you’re talking about? The husband had roared, pounding his fist on the desk.

Dr. Belliveau recoiled at that point, quickly glancing down at the file on his desk.

Mrs. Jardine? he asked meekly. That’s when he knew he’d gotten it wrong. Bursitis flare-up, he read aloud from the file.

Nobody dies from bursitis, you fool, and I’m NOT Mrs. Jardine, she shouted hotly.

Tears that had gathered in her eyes plopped onto her cheeks. She brushed them away angrily and stood with her husband. Together, they looked down their beakish noses at the doctor.

You’ll be hearing from our lawyer! The man had shouted. The woman, clearly still shocked and appalled, trembled from her shoulders to her knees.

IDIOT! She’d shouted. Fucking moron.

He would never have to falsely give a wrong diagnosis to the wrong person ever again. He was free!

He looked at Stacey again, this time with hope and excitement.

When can we get started? he asked.

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Stay tuned for chapter 11, where it gets even weirder, and there will be more highly unlikely scenarios.

PS: I have early-onset dementia and thought it would be a fun idea to write this book as fast as I can, with little editing. Thank God for autocorrect because this book would probably be illegible. The disease is affecting my speech and language, so this is kind of therapeutic, I guess. Or is it therapeutic if autocorrect is helping? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Never mind.

Stacey saved the clip and forwarded it to HR lady #1, who then forwarded the clip to HR man #1 and HR lady #2.

She waited, reminding herself to take deep breaths or to remember to breathe at all. Finally, Hr lady #2 looked up from her phone. We can’t see him accessing the dark web. This doesn’t prove anything.

Stacey looked at her, noting the woman’s plunging neckline and hint of an old tattoo peaking out from her left breast. What the heck was it? It looked like the tip of a wing. Angel? Butterfly?

The woman tapped her pen on her mobile phone screen. All this tells us is that he works late, she said smugly. The other two nod in unison.

Keep watching, Stacey insisted. She’d watched the entire clip earlier, and while they were right about the video not showing him directly download and install a torrent file, it did show peculiar behavior. I mean, just watch. You’ll see this man clearly shouldn’t be seeing patients!

What do you mean by that? asked HR man #1.

Stacey sighed. Just watch it.

Again, all three heads went down, each person watching the clip in its entirety. Stacey watched their faces, looking for any signs of acknowledgement, validation that Stacey’s instincts were right.

Something was wrong with Dr. Belliveau.

She waited and watched eyebrows twitch, raise, and lower. HR lady #1 chewed on her lower lip. HR lady #2 cradled her head in her left hand, elbows on the table. HR man #1 set his phone down first.

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When the other two were finished watching, they did the same. Now they waited.

Well? Stacey asked. Isn’t this a bit unusual for a doctor?

Silence.

Can you explain to us what you see in this video clip? HR man #1 asked.

I see a crazy man still at work late at night who isn’t doing any work. He’s stalking around my office, rifling through papers, banging his fists on my keyboard, and, at one point, he’s talking to someone who isn’t there.

Stacey tried to keep her voice level. It was clear to her that they weren’t on her side.

Watch it again, she demanded. Look at him. He’s looking for something under my chair as if he’s going to find a You Get A Car sticker from Oprah Winfrey. He took a picture off the wall, took the whole thing apart, and looked under the canvas for something.

Did you hide something from him? HR lady #2 asked, her arms crisscrossed over her chest.

What would I hide from him? This is insane! Stacey cried. Why am I being fired when he is the one doing questionable things in my office late at night!

The threesome got quiet. Stacey noticed them side-eyeing each other. They pursed their lips, took sips of coffee, and smoothed their hair back.

Well? Stacey asked. Why am I being fired?

Because it’s your computer stuck in the dark web, said HR man#1. Your computer has compromised our entire health system. If it isn’t fixed soon, it won’t be long before hackers take us down.

HR lady #1 and HR lady #2 nodded.

I have no idea how to get into the dark web! There’s no evidence of me doing that.

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There’s no evidence of Dr. Belliveau doing that either, they countered.

Stacey shook her head in disbelief. She stood up. Thank you for your time she snarled.

You’ll get a small severance package along with….

Stacey didn’t care. If they were obligated to send her a severance package, they would have to do it whether she sat there and listened to the spiel or not.

Minutes later…

Stacey returned to the doctor’s office. She barged in, not caring if he was with a patient or not. She was pissed.

She stopped in her tracks. What are you doing? she asked.

He was dictating his notes.

You don’t have a secretary to transcribe that. You gonna do it yourself?

Mr. Belliveau’s mouth twitched. He dropped the recorder on his desk and cleared his throat. His office was a mess. There were half-opened boxes all over the floor, files spilling from all sides. She noticed he had lined up 6 new, pristine staples on the left side of his desk.

Suddenly, Stacey felt very tired. She shoved a stack of books off a chair and plunked herself down.

Why are you staying on this job if you hate it so much? she asked. He dodged the answer.

My brother thinks I should get a nicer apartment. Something bigger. Maybe even buy a house.

What are you talking about? Stacey asked.

I’ve got 16 patients coming in today.

Stacey looked around the office, taking in the mess, the piles of pens and pencils stacked like firewood on various surfaces of the office.

Tell me the truth, Stacey said. What were you looking for in my office? And how did you get onto the dark web?

The doctor flushed.

I…I…I d-d-d-d-don’t recall, he answered.

I’m losing my job because of something you did! You'd better start remembering right now!

Stacey watched the doctor’s face subtly change. His skin appeared to shrink against his cheekbones. His shoulders slumped forward, and his bushy eyebrows sank lower, towards his nose. She watched the hair on the top of his head sway back and forth, slowly at first and then with more force.

Dr. Belliveau shook his head roughly from side to side. Stacey wondered if he was sweating because she couldn’t imagine the wetness on his cheeks might be tears.

Suddenly, he snapped his head up and looked her in the eye.

Shit, Stacey thought. They are tears.

I don’t remember. I don’t remember. I don’t remember.

Stacey was quiet. She waited for him to continue.

I can’t remember anything these days. I wanted your password to get into your computer so I could get access to the patient files.

Stacey was perplexed. I know, she said. You told me that, and I already told YOU that YOU have access to YOUR patient files!

BING BONG BING BONG

Someone was out in the waiting area. The doctor looked panic. He jumped from his desk and then went to his knees, searching for something in a box of files on the floor.

I can’t do this, he said. I don’t know who my next patient is. I can’t find today’s list of patients, and I can’t remember my password to get into the patient files.

Instinctively, Stacey got down on her knees with him, helping him rifle through papers and files without really understanding what they were looking for.

Why didn’t you just click on “forgot password”, she asked.

I forgot, he said.

You forgot that you can change your password?

I forget a lot of things. Even if they’re right in front of me. It’s not as if I forget so much as I don’t know what to do next. The doctor stopped rifling and pushed his body up against the wall where he could rest his back and stretch out his legs.

Stacey still didn’t understand what he was saying. She figured he was readying himself for a murderous rage or, at the very least, a spectacular and public breakdown.

BING BONG BING BONG

More patients were streaming in. It was clear to Stacey that the doctor wasn’t up to the job.

Why do you want to be a secretary? she asked him.

I believe the preferred term is Administrative Assistant, he replied.

Stacey sighed. Okay, why do you want to be an Administrative Assistant? You took an oath to do no harm or whatever, didn’t you? Aren’t you tied to being a doctor for life at this point?

It’s too much, the doctor said.

What’s too much? Your student loans?

The doctor rolled his head left and right.

The stress. I can’t remember much anymore. I keep repeating the same questions to my patients. They’re on to me. They know something isn’t right. That’s harming them, I believe. I believe that’s harming them.

The doctor’s voice grew soft. He looked like a completely different man. A tired man. A man who didn’t appear to have the energy to get up off the floor.

Come on, Stacey said. She jumped up and offered her hand.

Again…no paywall. I promise.

I can’t, I can’t see those patients today. Can you cancel them for me? Rebook them for another time,” he pleaded.

Stacey withdrew her hand, the pity for him quickly diminishing.

I’m not your secretary anymore, remember? You got me fired.

When he didn’t answer, she held out her hand again. Get up. We’re getting out of here.

This time, Stacey had a plan that would solve all of their problems.

I don’t want to be here when the patients come around, said Dr. Belliveau, his anxiety at an all-time high.

Stacey grabbed his coat from the coat rack and handed it to him. She put on her plaid jacket and buttoned it to the top.

Let’s go, she said, even though she had no idea where they were going. All she wanted to do was bolt. Dr. Belliveau reluctantly followed, worried about his patients.

They’re going to be really upset to find the office closed! he mused.

You’re being reported. Pissing off a few patients is the least of your worries.

Suddenly, Dr. Belliveau stopped and leaned against the brick of the hospital’s exterior. He hunched over, head in palms. What am I going to doooooo.

Stacey roughly grabbed his arm and tugged. Just walk! she ordered. Where’s your car? He pointed. She led him in that direction. Get your keys out, she ordered.

He rummaged around his coat pocket and pulled out a set of keys. Here’s my car, he said, pressing the fob to unlock the doors.

Okay, go home. Just go home and don’t answer your phone.

The doctor climbed in, slid the window down, and looked up at her. Why? he asked.

I don’t know! she said, suddenly feeling a rush of adrenaline in her body. They could both be in big trouble. Or not. She wasn’t sure.

A gust of wind rushed through the parked cars, hitting Stacey’s legs and face. She braced and stuffed her bare hands into her pockets. Where will you go? Dr. Belliveau asked.

I’m going home! she said and turned away. She just wanted to get out of the parking lot, suddenly feeling as if some big explosion were about to happen, and it was life or death if she made it out alive.

She just had to think. She hurried past all the billboards beckoning her to renew the mortgage she didn’t have, past the Missing Cat pictures stapled to streetlight poles, and around the unhoused asking for a handout.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and she pulled it out. It was the doctor.

Goddamnit, she thought, unsure whether to answer or ignore. But she knew the doctor wouldn’t give up until he got through.

Yeah? she answered.

I’m back at the office, he said.

What? Why?

I have to see my patients. I can’t stand the thought of them just sitting there.

They wouldn’t be just sitting there! Stacey replied. Would you just sit there next to a sign that said Closed? she asked.

Some of them are here. They need me, he said.

You’re probably going to get fired or arrested on the spot, Stacey replied. In front of your patients! she added.

Stacey continued to walk, her hand cold in the northern wind. She just wanted to stuff her hand back in her pocket and leave town. Go somewhere tropical for a month and live on coconuts, and get a pet monkey.

Of course, she didn’t have enough money to buy new mittens, let alone travel.

Are you still there? I have to go, Stacey said. She heard some commotion in the background. Voices. Movement.

What’s happening? she asked. When he didn’t answer, she dropped the call.

3 HOURS LATER

Stacey was home drinking cold mushroom tea when her phone rang again. This time it was the hospital, and they had a lot of questions for her.

A lot.

Much to her surprise, they put all the blame on her. They wanted to see her in the HR office ASAP, but before they let her go, they spent a great deal of time using words like REPRIMANDED and CRIMINAL OFFENCE and FIRED.

I’m fired? She asked. Her throat swelled with emotion. But I didn’t do it! I can prove it! It’s all on camera!

There were at least three people on the call. Stacey would tell by the different voices, all chiming in at the same time. CAMERA? someone shouted.

I have a Blink doggy cam in my office so that I can see what Dr. Belliveau does in my office after I go home.

SILENCE. And then…

You spy on Dr. Belliveau?

Well no, not exactly! Stacey tried to explain. It’s just that my desk is always a mess when I come to work in the morning and I wanted to see what he was doing.

Did you think of just ASKING him?

Stacey swallowed, then burped. The earthy taste of mushrooms filled her mouth.

It’s just…he doesn’t…I can’t…

We need to see you in our office right now! They demanded.

Stacey agreed and hung up. Momentarily defeated, it didn’t occur to her that since she was already fired, there was no point in showing up to their office for more berating.

She DID, however, think of it after climbing back into her jacket and opening the door to the ever-increasing cold wind. She closed the door and stepped back inside.

The minute she closed her door, her phone rang again. It was the doctor.

I got fired! She shouted into the phone before he had a chance to say hello.

Yes, yes I heard.

YOU HEARD?

The doctor sputtered, trying to say something that she couldn’t quite understand. He was apologizing, she realized. His tongue stuttered over the words.

I’m s-s-s-s-sorry. They didn’t question. They didn’t ask me anything. They assured me you’d be fired and so I let them, but I don’t want to be a doctor and they thought I was in shock or something so they gave me a sedative but it’s not working and I think I’m going to…

SILENCE

He’d fainted.

Stacey cursed and threw the door open again. Looks like she was going back to the office after all.

IDIOT! She cried into the wind. FUCKING IDIOT.

She walked even faster this time, not eager to get there per se, but anxious to do some ass-kicking. Her mind raced, wondering why the hospital hadn’t admitted this man, who was clearly crazy. Had he said OUT LOUD that he wanted to be the administrative assistant and NOT the doctor.

She shook her head. I don’t get it, she said aloud.

She had a few minutes to rehearse what she’d say when she got there. Her hand clasped the phone in her pocket. The first thing she’d do was show everyone the video clip of Dr. Belliveau in her office the night he found his way onto the dark web.

She felt somewhat vindicated, sure they’d give her her job back immediately and fire the doctor instead.

I don’t even want the fucking job, she thought to herself. But she’d be damned if she’d be blamed for something she didn’t do. She looked up. The hospital came into view, and she found her way through the entrance, past that asshole Richard in accounting, and straight to the office where she found Dr. Belliveau sitting at his desk getting his vitals checked.

Susan! the doctor said, his voice tired and weak.

Stacey turned around to make sure nobody was behind her. Who the hell is Susan?

Dr. Belliveau was staring at her intently, his mind trying to find her name. Sally? he asked. His pulse quickened, and his anxiety rose. He thought he recognized the face, but couldn’t find the right name.

He looked at the nurse taking his blood pressure and told him It’s not dementia. People forget names sometimes. It happens. IT HAPPENS. I’m 62 years old. People forget names.

The nurse just nodded, said 175/100, and left the room.

Dear Readers: It’s a sign of dementia.

So now you’re pretending not to know me? Stacey shouted. This is rich. Absolutely fucking rich. She clenched her fists in frustration.

2 MINUTES LATER

Stacey stood in front of HR with her phone in hand and three people huddled around to watch the clip of Dr. Belliveau rifling through her desk.

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Stay tuned for Chapter 9!

We had to see! They chimed, eager to see the forbidden.

It’s not that exciting, Stacey said, shrugging.

Are you kidding? One of the tech support gang exclaimed. You can get into a lot of trouble on the dark web. You can get any drugs you want!”

The guy next time nodded enthusiastically. Yup, he confirmed. You can hire hitmen and everything!”

Stacey narrowed her eyes. Looking for a hitman? she asked.

No, I’m just saying….

The lead tech guy moved away from the computer and looked at Stacey. Why are you on the dark web? You can get fired for that. I’m going to have to write it up.

Stacey cocked her head and frowned. I didn’t get on the dark web. Dr. Belliveau did. He’s on my computer all the time. She pointed to the Blink dog camera she’d perched on the top of her file cabinet. I can prove it, she said.

She opened the app on her phone and brought up the clip of Dr. Belliveau hunched over the keyboard. The clock behind him showed the time. 10:30 pm.

What’s he doing on your computer late at night?

Stacey shrugged and admitted she didn’t know and didn’t care. All she needed was to access her files, even though she’d already come up with a plan to start her own life coaching business. Until that happened, she still had to pay her bills.

Well then, we have to report HIM, the lead tech guy said smugly.

Stacey gave it some thought. If they reported Dr. Belliveau, he’d probably get fired. At least then she’d have a decent chance of working for someone who wasn’t bat-shit crazy.

The tech support guy was already writing something on the back of his hand.

Wait! Stacey stopped him.

Tech guy looked up.

There was a long pause while Stacey wondered if she was the kind of person to throw her boss under the proverbial bus.

Will I have to testify or something? She asked.

He’ll probably just get fired on the spot, the tech guy said.

Okay, Stacey said. Apparently, she WAS the kind of person to throw her boss under the bus.

BING BONG BING BONG

Dr. Belliveau walked through the door, the smile peeling from his face the moment he saw the tech guys.

Oh hey, good morning! he said. What’s going on?

Stacey rolled her eyes and glared at him. He cleared his throat and asked for coffee. Stacey pointed to the coffee maker. She was in no mood for this, and he knew it.

As Dr. Belliveau rifled through the different Nespresso pods, Stacey locked eyes with the head techie. She arched her eyebrows. He arched his. It was a pact, and they both knew it.

Let’s do this, she thought. As if reading her thoughts, the lead tech guy nodded once.

C’mon guys, he said. Let’s get going.

Wait! Stacey called after them. What about my computer? I can’t work until it’s fixed.

The lead guy ushered his crew ahead of him, the door BING BONGING every time one of them stepped under the sensor. He looked back and shrugged. I’ll be back with a new computer, but I’ll have to set up a whole new login for you.

How long is that gonna take?

Techie shrugged. Might take a week unless I can find a rebuilt model somewhere in the building.

A week? Stacey said. How am I supposed to do my work in the meantime?

She hadn’t noticed Dr. Belliveau behind her holding a hot cup of coffee in his hand. Why don’t you use my computer for now? he asked.

Tech guy stepped forward and said, Doesn’t work like that. Someone installed a Tor download and accessed the dark web. Her login credentials, and probaby yours, are considered compromised. We have to reimage the machine, audit her access logs, reset her credentials and run a full check for HIPAA exposure. Neither one of you can use your computers for a while.

DEAR READER: Please take a second to share my work. I have early-onset Alzheimer’s, and I’m busting my chops to get this book done. Creativity is freedom for me. It’s allowing me to practice my language skills while I still can.

I’m not telling you this to guilt you into subscribing (but, is it working? just kidding). I’m telling you this because I’m working hard to make sure this book makes sense. Even a little bit of sense. Shit. Now I’m losing my train of thought.

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The doctor visibly paled. Without being asked, the techie concluded by saying, 'Basically, patient data might be compromised, and if that happens...' He trailed off while making a slicing motion with the edge of his hand across his neck.

Dr. Belliveau walked over to the waiting area, grabbed the back of one of the chairs, dragged it over to Stacey’s desk, and sat down. Stacey noticed his hand trembling as he sipped his coffee.

Briefly, she felt sorry for him.

I’m sorry, he said. She looked at his face and realized he was being sincere. The sparkle in his eye that accompanied his bellowing tone was gone. He seemed smaller, hunched, and sad.

He reached out to touch her hand, but she recoiled instinctively. Then it was her turn to say, Sorry.

What do we do? he asked. We’ve got patients this morning and all afternoon.

You’ve got your handwritten appointments for the day, right? she asked.

He shook his head. Defeated. No, I use your computer to pencil in my appointments for the next day. This happened on Friday, and I couldn’t get in your computer to get the appointments.

Stacey fixed her stare on him. He was lying about something, but she didn’t know what.

Why were you messing with the computer in the first place? What were you looking for, and how did you end up on the dark web?

I just needed to get to your files! he reasoned.

Stacey narrowed her gaze. I saw what you wrote. You said you want to be a secretary, and you mentioned something about chloroform. Are you trying to have me killed? Or just fired? Or both?

The doctor lowered his eyes and stared straight into his coffee cup. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

WHICH IS IT? Stacey shouted. The doctor jumped and spilled his coffee on his lap. He stood up and then sat back down again. For one horrible second, Stacey thought he might cry.

Look, just tell me what you were doing, okay?

The doctor gulped his now cold coffee, aspirating some of it. Through a coughing fit, fit to his mouth, he said, I (cough cough) can’t do my (cough cough cough) job anymore.

Why not? Stacey asked. This time it was she who held her breath.

Because I want to be a secretary,” he practically whispered.

Like the book so far?

Sure, it’s weird. But I’ll bet you haven’t read anything like it. As you can probably see, there isn’t much editing going on here. Hey, I’m not bragging. I’m just saying I don’t have much time to edit.

I really do have early-onset dementia, and I’m in the early stages of the disease. I want to write more and stress less. What’s wrong with that? I’ve given myself permission to just sit down and let the book flow. I’ve edited a few things here and there, but for the most part, this is just a free-flowing creative piece.

Please support me with a follow and a free subscription. I’m not going to spring you with a SURPRISE PAYWALL. It’s free. Just free.

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She hated her basement apartment and would happily take a different job, a higher-paying job, if she could. For now, she was stuck with the damp basement smell and the slightly peeling yellow paint.

On this morning, like every other, she turned the faucet on and let it run until the first gush of rust washed away. She washed her face, pulled her long blonde hair up into a messy bun, made her coffee, and sank into the worn dip of the couch.

Although the ritual was the same as every other morning, something felt “off”. Stacey hadn’t slept much the night before, her thoughts returning to the dark screen that still flashed red and orange in the darkness of her office.

What would she do? A part of her wanted to keep it just to see what kind of information she could find. She was curious, of course, but she also needed her computer back so that she could do her job.

Abruptly, Stacey stopped scrolling through TikTok and put her phone down. She was irritated now. She’d actually have to think of a solution to the problem.

She sipped her coffee and looked around the apartment, her eyes settling on the small aquarium she’d bought to try to spruce up the place. The old guy at the yard sale had carefully explained everything to her.

This is a good deal, he’d said. She’d got a glass tank, filter works just fine, you’ll need to buy a test kit and a thermometer to make sure the water temperature stays stable. What kind of fish you gonna put in her?

Stacey shrugged. She didn’t know much about fish. All she wanted was something to cheer up her dreary apartment.

When she first laid eyes on the aquarium, all she could imagine was the fun stuff she’d fill it with, not the fish themselves. Fake, colorful coral reefs, multi-colored rocks, floating plants, and mood lighting were what she had in mind.

She hadn’t even considered putting fish in it. The old man waited patiently while she asked ChatGPT which fish would be easiest to care for in a freshwater aquarium.

Guppies! she said, turning her phone towards the man. See? They’re very adaptable.

So that’s what she did. She bought the aquarium, filled it with fun things from Dollarama, and bought guppies.

Now, six months later, she wished she’d bought a lava lamp instead. Sadly, it turned out that guppies were only adaptable to a point. And then they died.

Stacey’s coffee was getting cold, and she still hadn’t come up with a solution to her dark web dilemma.

Time to get dressed, she thought. It was early fall, and the air was crisp in the mornings now. She pulled a pair of thick black tights over her legs, slipped into a mini-skirt (red-white-and-green plaid), and wriggled into a cream-colored, short-sleeved, turtle neck.

She’d have to switch to boots once winter came, but for now, she continued wearing her white sneakers. The walk to work picked up just enough moisture on the soles to make them extra squelchy. The noise aggravated Richard from accounting. It probably irked anyone who could hear her walking the hallway.

Stacey didn’t care. She hated the hospital she worked in, her boss, and pretty much everyone from accounting (but especially Richard for no particular reason).

The street was quiet at this hour in the morning, but the signs on every flat surface shouted with aggressively poor grammar and sadly optimistic tones.

YARD SALE THIS SATERDAY. CASH ONLY.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS CAT? WHAT ABOUT THIS ONE?

LOOKING FOR HOUSEKLEEPER? NICE GIRLS AVAILABLE. PRETTY GUD WORK.

BECOME A LIFE COACH AND CHANGE SOMEONE’S LIFE. SIX-WEEK EMAIL COURSE FOR $2000 AVAILABLE IN INSTALLMENTS. INVEST IN YOURSELF.

Stacey rolled her eyes and chuckled to herself. She pulled the collar of her jacket a little closer to her neck to block the cool breeze. What does a life coach even do? She wondered.

She was about 15 squelchy steps down the hallway when the idea came to her. She could become a LIFE COACH! Not for $2000, though. Fuck it, she thought. ChatGPT will tell me how to become a life coach for free.

BING BONG BING BONG

She entered the office, sat down at her desk, and stared into the void that was the dark web. Ideas brewed in her mind. She looked up at the Blink camera, but never bothered checking the footage. She knew damned well it was Dr. Belliveau who’d messed with her computer.

At this point, it didn’t matter which computer she tried to log in to. Everything, including patient files, was likely corrupted and stolen by now. She had to report it.

Tech support. The guy answered on the first ring.

Can someone fix my computer? It’s stuck in the dark web.

Have you tried turning it on and off? The disinterested tech specialist asked.

I unplugged it and put the computer in the garbage can. Does that help?

I’ll be right there.

Like my hastily written book so far?

I’m writing this book off the top of my head. No editing (as you can probably tell). You get what you get, although I think it’s a decent book.

But I digress…

If you’re enjoying the book, why not subscribe for free? I’m not going to slam a paywall in your face or anything. Like, I won’t get to a pivotal part of the book and say WHOA, looks like you’re going to have to cough up some hard-earned cash for the rest.

Also, please share!

I always forget to ask people to share. Maybe because I’m facing a diagnosis of early-onset dementia and I tend to forget a lot of things. Interestingly, I can write fiction pretty easily but I can’t remember where I put my keys.

Maybe my fiction is really bad, and I’ve deluded myself. Oh well. Please share.

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His favorite stapler was believed to have belonged to King Louis XV.

It was handcrafted and engraved with an insignia that was hard to make out. Unfortunately, the person who had brought it to the pawn shop had let their child put a Pokémon sticker on the damned thing.

Even though the doctor had suspected the pawn shop owner was fudging the truth, he bought it anyway. He spent so much on it that he kept the price tag tied to it, always ensuring it was facing outward.

Some might think $4000 was a lot to pay for a rare stapler with questionable origins. But not Dr. Belliveau. He knew it was something special, even with the sticky remnants of a Pikachu Holographic Sticker.

What he didn’t know was that if he hadn’t thrown out his entire pack of original, base set Pokémon cards that were in mint condition, he’d have enough money to take a tropical vacation, or go back to school to learn how to become a professional Administrative Assistant.

Sometimes, the things we don’t know are for the best. And that was the case for Dr. Belliveau.

Dr. Belliveau kicked off his shoes and walked to the kitchen. He didn’t have a Keurig or Nespresso for his coffee. Instead, he did it the “old-fashioned” way from a jar of instant coffee.

Bloop. Bloop. He said aloud as each teaspoon of sugar hit the hot surface of the coffee. Stir stir stir, he said, sweeping his spoon around the cup. Then he stopped and looked at the fridge. What am I forgetting? Oh! The whitener. Must have the whitener.

He crouched down to the bottom cupboards and pulled out a family-size container of vanilla-peach flavored coffee whitener.

There, he said, just a sprinkle.

The next thing he did, as part of his after-work routine, was to turn on the television set. His apartment was so small that he could watch it from where he sat at his kitchen table. He thought of his younger brother every time he turned on the television from his kitchen table.

You’re a doctor! He’d exclaimed. I’m pretty sure you could afford more than THIS? Dr. Belliveau had laughed at the look of disdain on his brother’s face.

I can now, the doctor has explained, but I won’t be able to afford more than this on a secretary’s salary!

His brother had sighed with regret and disbelief.

You know this is insane, right? You won grants, scholarships, and went to the best university. Remember your university graduation book? Someone wrote, “Most Likely The Best Doctor to Tell Someone They’re Dying”. That’s saying SOMETHING!

The doctor chuckled at the thought. You’ll see brother. Just wait and see. He WOULD become the administrative assistant that nobody wanted him to be. Plus, he had a strong commitment to collecting staplers and other assorted office supplies. THAT means something.

Thinking about his brother gave him an idea. Maybe he’d call his brother. He hadn’t spoken to him in ages, and now was a good time to ask him what the “dark web” was.

Where’s my phone? He asked his cat. His cat gave him the same side-eye that he got from Stacey. He looked around, retracing his steps until he found himself on his knees next to the cupboard where his coffee whitener was.

He opened the cupboard door. Still no cell phone. He pulled the whitener from the shelf and unscrewed the wide lid. There it was.

This happens. Nothing wrong with me, the doctor muttered to himself. He looked at his cat. It’s not a sign of dementia.

Dear readers: It’s a sign of dementia.

The doctor blew the coffee whitener off the screen, tiny white particles sticking to the patch of sweat just under his nose.

Benny? His brother answered. It irked the doctor that he didn’t use his full name, Bennicillin.

Jim, hi, it’s me. Listen, I gotta a question for ya.

Jim sighed, irked that his brother didn’t use his full name, Jimbicile.

This isn’t a good time, Benny

No, wait. Won’t take more than a minute. What’s the dark web all about?

It’s a place where unethical doctors go to order anatomically correct dolls.

Jimbicile was sharp-witted, a quick thinker, always eager to poke his brother’s ego.

No, Jim, listen, I was trying to find my secretary’s password to her computer and hit a bunch of keys. The next thing I know, there’s a crazy clown face that also looks like a skeleton flashing on the screen. It had red words coming out of its mouth that said ASK ME SOMETHING. So I did.

Nobody gets on the dark web by hitting a bunch of keys, Jim said.

Well, I did. I think it was the dark web. Maybe it was the crazy circus web, I don’t know. All I know is that my secretary can’t get it off her screen, and if she brings tech support in, she’s going to get blamed.

Benny held his breath, hoping his brother didn’t probe more into the truth of why he was messing with his secretary’s computer. He already knew the password; otherwise, he’d never be able to access her appointment calendar to pencil in his next day’s appointments.

He couldn’t articulate what he was looking for if he tried. He couldn’t handle his responsibilities as a physician anymore. It was just too much. He kept forgetting important details, making mistakes on his prescription pad, and confusing patients’ names.

His memory was terrible. He had to read every file of each patient before they entered his office. It was too much. He was putting his patients at risk. He just didn’t understand why. He assumed it was burnout. And, for that reason, he didn’t bother getting a medical opinion. ALL doctors were burned out in Canada.

He sighed. Now his secretary could get fired, or jailed! for what he’d done. The whole thing made him want to throw up.

Finally, after a long pause, Jim said he couldn’t help. I’m not sure what you want me to do! he said.

What if Stacey gets in trouble?

Then she’ll be fired. Or HR will ask you to fire her.

Benny paused, running the possibilities through his mind. If Stacey got fired, someone would have to fill in for her. And that person could be HIM. But that didn’t solve the problem of having the dark web on his screen. Of course, if she had been fired for being on the dark web in the first place, it wouldn’t be his problem.

You still there? Jim asked.

I’m here.

Look, the best thing to do is report the problem asap. Just tell them the truth; it was an accident.

Benny had already considered that option, but he didn’t think anyone would believe him. How do you accidentally download a Torrid file and let it take over your computer?

Nobody’s going to believe I’m that stupid, Benny argued.

You’d be surprised, said Jim. Anyway, I find it hard to believe that a hospital doesn’t have a restriction on downloads. They can block staff from downloading or accessing dangerous shit from the Internet. If anybody is going to get in trouble, it will be the hospital!

Benny gave it some thought. Now he felt worse. One stupid mistake could take down the whole hospital with him and Stacey along with it.

I have to go, Jim said. The only thing you can do is report it. We’ll deal with whatever comes next. Okay? Jim’s tone had softened.

Benny ended the call and peeled his work socks off. He tossed them into the fridge, dumped the rest of his coffee down the kitchen sink, and put his slippers on.

It’s NOT dementia, he told his cat. You know I always wear my socks two days in a row, and that I like them cold. Nothing like a cold pair of socks on your feet to wake you up in the morning.

Once again, dear readers: It’s a sign of dementia

Benny settled in his favorite chair and thought about the implications ahead of him. This could be my chance to take over the office! He thought. Let someone else handle the patients. But, of course, he knew it wouldn’t happen that way.

He watched the television with no regard for what was on. His mind raced with potential solutions, and he ruminated all night over the implications.

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I have early-onset dementia, and I’m trying to write this book as fast as possible before I can’t write anymore.

Nah, it’s true. I wish it weren’t. If it weren’t for grammar correct (or whatever that thing is called - I’m already having trouble finding words) I’d never be able to do this. Well, maybe I would, but everything would be spelled wrong.

Oops forgot one more thing…

Have you considered just pressing the SHARE button? I mean, that would be awesome.

Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for Chapter 6, which will also be hastily written.

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Dr. Belliveau had a weird habit of staying late at night and sitting at her desk. She knew this because she installed her Blink pet monitor in the room to keep an eye on things. It felt like an “off” thing to do (probably even illegal), but there was something very strange about Dr. Belliveau and his obsession with her desk.

For the longest time, she thought his obsession was with her, but she quickly trashed that idea. If he were obsessed with her, wouldn’t he be sniffing her scarf that she hung on the coat rack in the winter? Wouldn’t he be leaving her gifts, asking her out, or at the very least sending pics of his stethoscope against his naked, hairless chest?

Nope. She determined rather quickly that it was something about the desk that turned his crank. He molested paper, especially when it came right out of the printer. He liked it hot.

He had her order stacks of hard-cover (MUST be hard-cover) medical books just so that he could crack their spines when they arrived. Every once in a while, she’d catch him sniffing the heavily glossed and lightly coated pages.

Once, after a few drinks with friends, Stacey confided that Dr. Belliveau took the love of that new book smell to a whole nubba lebel.

They had laughed at that Key and Peele reference. She laughed when she was out with friends. When she was in the office, she mostly just did her job while casting suspicious glances at the doctor, wondering where he’d had his fingers lately (on her desk, of course).

So, with a great deal of weariness, Stacey made her coffee and made one for the doctor. Not because she had to. She’d always just felt it was a courtesy, not like a 1960s subservient secretary or anything.

She took hers black. Double Chiaro Nespresso for her. For him, she made a watered-down version of the same and then filled it with coconut milk. He never knew what was in it. Never asked. He liked it and that was that.

Finally, she sat down at her desk and hit a key to bring the monitor to life.

Jesus H Christ! she said aloud, glancing at the seating area to make sure nobody had snuck in. What the f…

She snatched her fingers away from the keyboard as if she’d get instantly sucked into whatever version of hell was on her screen.

She didn’t recognize the browser OnyonSurf and certainly couldn’t understand the black screen and red and green font.

Dr. Belliveau? She shouted. Our system’s been hacked!

She knew he’d already arrived before her because she could see the slim line of office light that hit just below his closed door.

He stepped out looking disheveled and a little sheepish, as if he’d just slept under his desk with a bag of Cheetos and a Voodoo Doll of the medical director.

Stacey looked up, eyes wide. She pointed to the screen. Is your computer doing this?

Dr. Belliveau made a show of walking to Stacey’s desk and peering over her shoulder, a look of concern on his face.

I don’t know what happened here, he said.

I’ll get tech support over here, Stacey replied, but the doctor tapped the top of her hand and knocked the receiver back in place.

Nope. Nope nope. No need for that, Dr. Belliveau said. Just reboot the computer. It will go back to normal.

He was nervous. Stacey could tell by the way he rubbed the top of his hand back and forth across his lips. Stimming to relieve some anxiety. What she wanted to ask was What did you do to my computer? Instead, she told him she’d figure it out and handed him his first file of the day.

Jimmy Schleara. Prostate issues. Obese. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Fear of corduroy pants.

Dr. Belliveau sighed. I loved being the administrative assistant on Friday, he said. You should take more days off!

Stacey narrowed her eyes at him. You’re not the administrative assistant, though. You’re the doctor. Right? I offered to bring someone in for you if you’re implying….

NO no no no. Not a problem at all, Dr. Belliveau said. He rocked from foot to foot, his anxiety amped to 10 now. It’s just that, well, you know, I’ve always wanted to, you see, I’ve always wanted to be a secretary.

It wasn’t that confession that caused Stacey to momentarily stop breathing, it was the way he said secretary. Se-Crete-ary. Just gross and wrong. Besides, nobody said secretary anymore.

Were you working on my computer? She asked. She knew damned well he was.

Dr. Belliveau stood up straight and tugged at his tie. I was trying to find the password to open the appointment database, he said brusquely.

You already have the password, remember? We wrote it down and locked it in the office safe.

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The doctor looked from Stacey to the safe at the back of the room. It was a small safe, just big enough for a few important things like the doctor’s extra prescription pads, a bottle of valium for Stacey to be used as needed, a scribbler filled with important passwords, and a book of conversation starters for those days when everyone in their wing of the hospital was called to the social room to celebrate someone’s birthday or welcome a new hire.

YES! Dr. Belliveau cried, smacking his forehead for effect. And then, without another word, turned on his heels and headed back into his office.

Stacey sighed, ready to reboot the computer to try to get back to her regular browser.

What even is this? she wondered, reading the screen.

Huge pop-up ads with skulls, yellow exclamation marks, and threatening zig-zagged lightning bolts lit up the screen.

BUY UNTRACEABLE PARROTS NO QUESTIONS ASKED

50% OFF A LIST OF THE DEAD AND THE DERANGED - FULL AND COMPLETE IDENTITY THEFT

CALL JOHN. WE CAN FAKE ANY DEATH, ANYTIME.

Stacey considered getting tech support again, but the screen had a luring quality that seemed a hell of a lot more interesting than her database.

A button called TORENT jumped all around the screen, daring her to try to catch it, to try to click the button.

So she did.

WELCOME BACK TO THE DARK WEB, WHERE THINGS THAT SHOULDN’T BE POSSIBLE ARE POSSIBLE. IF YOU HAVE THE GUTS AND THE MONEY.

Stacey sighed. What could go wrong? she thought. It wasn’t as if she went looking for this garbage. It came to her via her incompetent and strange boss.

So she clicked another link. This one brought her to an entirely blacked-out page framed in blood red. The words were in bright yellow, making her squint as she read the text.

It appeared to be a search history of sorts.

She read the first one:

How do I crack my secretary’s computer password? Don’t want to hack it per se, but I’d like to be able to find her passwords.

Then she moved down to the next one:

My mother wanted me to be a doctor. Should I seek therapy for the fact that my parents wouldn’t keep the bar lower for me? What’s wrong with being a secretary? They’re considered very helpful.

Stacey sat back in her chair and took a sip of coffee. Her eyebrows seem to want to raise high into her forehead, so she let them. Her eyes followed next, slightly bulging from their sockets and then turning upwards until they stuck to the ceiling.

She swallowed the coffee in her mouth, a loud gulping sound. Now she HAD to read the rest.

BING BONG BING BONG

The first patient walked in and sat down. Stacey didn’t care. She lowered her eyes to the screen, squinted, and leaned in.

If I fire my secretary, could I take her job and then hire a doctor to replace me? Also, my last patient had a bottle of chloroform in her purse. Where did she get it?

WHAT THE HELLY HELL? Stacey said aloud, clearly alarmed. She didn’t care that, this time, someone WAS in the waiting area.

She pulled herself away from the computer monitor, as if being too close might suck her into the void.

She’d always known Dr. Belliveau loved hanging around her desk, always asking for paperclips (the coated kind, not the scratchy metal ones). She’d put up with, but never took part in, his bizarre joy in being the first to break the spine of a new book.

BUT THIS? He wanted her gone. He wanted HER job. God, you’re a fucking nutbag, she said aloud.

Clearly, he wanted her gone, a desire that may or may not include chloroform.

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Please consider a free subscription to get new chapters delivered to your inbox regularly. Look, I have early-onset alzheimer’s, so I’m trying to plow through this creative endeavor before the disease takes away my memory and language.

No joke.

Besides, what kind of a-hole would lie about something like this?

Also, you won’t find a paywall anywhere in the book. I PROMISE.

Hey, where are my manners? Thanks for reading!

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The doctor scribbled a few notes in June’s file. No diagnosis. Just a run-of-the-mill note so that an employer can cover their asses on allowing sick time.

He scanned through the form:

Age: unknown

Sex: female

Height: unknown

Weight: unknown

Presenting medical concerns: Approval for 3 weeks of sick time - doctor’s orders.

Describe in detail the manner of the illness: Idiopathic.

Idiopathic was a word that the doctor used a lot, especially when he wasn’t sure what the problem was. If the patient were bleeding out, he would send them to the emergency room. If the person had allergies, he’d prescribe medication. If the person had headaches, he’d give them a workup and likely order capsules for migraines.

But when he felt the patient in front of him didn’t have a serious illness, he just wrote idiopathic. Unknown. We don’t know, but I’m sure there’s something wrong if we look hard enough.

Dr. Belliveau waited until he heard the ding of the elevator, suggesting that June was on her way out.

He glanced around his office, mentally tallying the number of tissue boxes, pristine jars of cotton balls, throat swabs, and tongue depressors he had. An uncomfortable sadness pulled at his chest. He’d give anything to change his life.

He was weird, but not stupid. He knew people talked about him behind his back. He knew people thought he was a ridiculous fool for wanting to be a secretary. What people didn’t understand was that he wanted less responsibility.

He didn’t want to be responsible for people’s lives. He second-guessed every diagnosis, worried himself sick that the health authority would come after him for ordering too many CT scans.

Do you know how much it costs to run a CT scan? they’d asked him once.

He hadn’t. Even though the cost wasn’t transferred to the patients in Canada, he was quickly informed that there was, indeed, a cost that was absorbed by the Health Authority.

You can’t hand out CT Scans like they’re candy! they’d warned him.

Every CT Scan we do costs us $600 or more. They’re costly! We’ve got to pay for the medical supplies involved, the infrastructure, staff, and so on. Are you aware that people are waiting months to get a CT Scan? Every scan that isn’t warranted just means unnecessary wait times for people who need them.

The sound of Stacey’s phone ringing brought him back to the present. He could have answered the call from his office phone, but wasn’t sure how to transfer the call or what button to push. Instead, he got up and walked to Stacey’s desk.

He liked Stacey’s office much better. The walls had just been painted a soft cream color. He was certain that when the sun rose in the east every morning, you could squint your eyes and see shades of orange and pink in that paint.

Stacey, of course, suspected he had painted it himself without using a face respirator to filter out the toxic fumes.

Hello, Dr. Belliveau’s office! he bellowed.

He waited. Nodding as the person on the other end spoke to him. Uh-huh. Yes. I see. Okay. Yes.

The person on the other end wanted an appointment. Instinctively, the doctor turned towards the keyboard, but, of course, Stacey’s computer was locked and he didn’t know the password.

The patient continued talking on the other end while the doctor rifled around Stacey’s desk, looking for some clue as to her password. All he had was his handwritten notebook of upcoming appointments for the next day.

He had no idea what appointments were available beyond that timeframe.

Suddenly, the office door opened and chimed its insidious BING BONG BING BONG BING BONG.

He smiled and stood up, momentarily forgetting that he was on the phone with a patient.

Hello! How can I help you? He asked.

I have a 10 o’clock appointment. Brian Gerney.

Wonderful! Please have a seat.

As the patient headed to the waiting room, the doctor heard murmuring on the phone he held in his hand.

Hello? Are you still there? the person asked. Dr. Belliveau quickly raised the phone to his ear.

My apologies! he said. You want an appointment, yes? Okay, how about Monday morning? 9 a.m.?

The doctor could see from his appointment book that he had a full day booked on Monday, but felt more comfortable squeezing extra patients in on a known day, then making guesses about his day on Tuesday.

He got the patient’s name and pencilled it into his notebook next to the other person booked for the same time.

Then the phone rang again. And again. Before he knew it, an hour had passed, and he hadn’t seen to any of his patients yet. He looked over at the waiting patients flipping through magazines, wiggling their feet, legs crossed, some checking the time, others playing games on their phones.

I really need to log in to Stacey’s computer, he thought. Silently admitting defeat, he got up and ushered his first patient into his office.

After all the patients had been seen for the day, Dr. Belliveau leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his thick black hair. It was 7:00 p.m. Normally, he’d head home, but today he had to figure out how to get into Stacey’s computer.

She’ll be back on Monday, he thought. I could ask her for the password when she comes in. Of course, he knew she wouldn’t give it to him. He had tried once before, and she had given him the we’re-not-supposed-to-give-out-our-passwords spiel.

He considered his options. He could call tech support, but he doubted they’d hack into Stacey’s computer. He could unplug her computer and throw the whole thing in the garbage, but that wouldn’t solve the problem.

Wait a minute, he thought. CHATGPT can help!

He turned to his keyboard and typed:

Dearest Chat, I am in a predicament where I, a family physician, am trying to access medical records belonging to the Alakie Way Hospital. These are all patients of Dr. Belliveau. Please help me access the files.”

ChatGPT, being much smarter than Dr. Belliveau, offered this response:

⚠️ I'm sorry, but I can't help with bypassing passwords or accessing systems without authorization.

Dr. Belliveau sighed and tried again, with the same question. This time, ChatGPT came back with:

"Sorry, I can't help you access software without proper authorization. However, some password recovery tools exist online — be careful when downloading anything from unofficial sources, as they may be harmful or illegal. Always ensure you're using legitimate tools recommended by your organization’s IT department."

Dr. Belliveau stretched his fingers out and tried again. What’s an example of an unofficial tool?

ChatGPT:
"I’m afraid I can’t help with that. But keep in mind that searching terms like ‘cracked appointment software’ or ‘admin override tools’ may lead you to unverified or malicious websites. Proceed at your own risk."

Dr. Belliveau smiled and typed Cracked Appointment Software into his browser. What popped up on his screen was a busy website with thousands of ads everywhere. After chasing a few with his mouse to click the X, he finally found what he was looking for.

CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD

And, of course, Dr. Belliveau clicked the button. He watched as the computer downloaded the software, clicking INSTALL DOWNLOAD when prompted.

What happened next could have landed both he and his assistant in jail.

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I have early-onset dementia, and I am trying to write this book as quickly as possible, until my ability to use and understand words is gone. Hopefully, I have some time, but for now, this is a great exercise is just writing - no stress.

How do I do this? He wondered, rifling through papers and absently hitting keys on the keyboard as if the instructions would appear automatically. He sighed. Glanced at his watch. Two hours until his first appointment came.

This office smells weird, he thought. And then he remembered it usually smelled like freshly brewed coffee, the kind Stacey kept on her desk. She drank two black coffees in the morning and one at around 3 p.m.

Dr. Belliveau scratched and then smoothed his jet black eyebrows down. Anxiety stewed in his gut. How does she do it all? he wondered. Coffee, messages, passwords, filing, photocopying, and placing a person on hold while she took another call. Astounding, he murmured to himself.

Unable to figure out how to change the out-of-office phone message, Dr. Belliveau stood and went to the Nespresso machine. It had its own desk, a small elementary school desk made with particleboard and metal.

He rummaged through the assortment of pods, baffled by the colors, sizes, and names. Which one do I like? he wondered. Stacey knew. She always made him one, but he’d never asked which one it was. He didn’t realize there were so many options.

He held a teal blue pod in his left hand and a golden yellow pod in his right. Is it Melozio or Costa Rica? he wondered. After a few minutes of deliberation, he chose Costa Rica because he’d vacationed there once. He didn’t know what a Melozio was, but it sounded familiar and unpleasant.

Then he remembered….Melasma! A skin condition that causes brown patches on the face.

Definitely don’t want that! The doctor mused.

BING BONG BING BONG

The doctor whirled around, hot coffee in hand. Had two hours already passed? He wondered. He glanced at his watch and then looked up at the young woman at the counter.

May I help you? He asked, suddenly realizing he should be at his desk (STACEY’S DESK). He lunged for the office chair, pulled it out, and plunked himself down, smiling.

I have an appointment this morning, the young woman said.

Yes, yes, I see, Dr. Belliveau said, glancing down at last week’s appointment list.

Greta, correct?

It’s June, the young woman corrected him.

JUNE. June? Dr. Belliveau scanned the desk for Stacey’s calendar.

You have an appointment in June?

No, my NAME is June.

Uh huh, yes. Right right right. Yes! June! Dr. Belliveau exclaimed and made a show out of marking a huge checkmark next to Greta’s name.

Please have a seat and the doctor will be with you shortly.

Suddenly, the doctor was overcome with a feeling of dread. Deja vu. It was almost as if he’d heard that phrase before somewhere. “Take a seat please.”

Then he realized he was, in fact, the doctor she was expecting to see. The doctor’s anxiety peaked. His palms became damp with sweat. What to do. What to do.

Then he stood up abruptly, grabbed his coffee, and confidently walked around Stacey’s desk, past the patient named June, and went into his office. He closed the door behind himself, took a deep breath, and then opened the door again, peering out so that only his eyes and bushy black eyebrows showed.

Next! he shouted, startling June. She looked over at the set of eyebrows and eyes peering at her, bewildered. Me? she motioned with her thumb to her chest.

Yes yes, June isn’t it?

June nodded, still unsure of what was happening, and followed him into the office.

So what brings you here today? he asked.

June slid her purse from her shoulder to her lap and rifled through it, pushing aside two tampons, a NARS blusher, a pack of gum, her driver’s license, loose pre-sucked candies, a rag, plastic gloves, and a small bottle of chloroform.

This, she said, and unraveled a tightly balled piece of paper. It’s for work, she said. I need your signature for HR so that I can take sick leave.

The doctor was so overwhelmed with relief that he signed the paper without reading it or asking any questions about exactly why she needed the sick leave.

Fuck yeah, June mumbled under her breath, taking the signed paper from Dr. Belliveau’s outstretched hand. And why is he smiling like that? she wondered.

Is that everything? he asked.

Yuppers, June said, holding back a laugh. She couldn’t believe how easy that was. He hadn’t even asked why! Now she could fake an illness so that she could go on a three-week vacay with her new boyfriend. And with the three items her boyfriend had asked her to pick up (gloves, rag, and a bottle of chloroform), she left the office breathing a sigh of relief.

Stay tuned for Chapter 3 when Dr. Belliveau accidentally finds himself on the dark web, and not just the dark web, the DARKEST of the web.

Also, thanks for being here. Why not subscribe and get the next chapters of this book delivered to your inbox? No worries, I’m not going to SPRING A PAYWALL on you. The whole book is free for everyone.

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Stacey’s sneakers made a god-awful squelching sound as she walked from the elevator to the office. She hated the uncomfortable noise they made and was thinking of buying a new pair until she realized how much they irritated Richard in accounting.

Fuck Richard and his spreadsheets, she thought. What she really needed was a new job, but for now, being Dr. Belliveau’s administrative assistant paid the bills.

Something about the job irritated the hell out of her, but she couldn’t quite figure out what that something was. Dr. Belliveau was kind, if not a little weird. She could handle weird. Weird was kind of her thing, a family trait passed down among the many taxidermists, taxi drivers, tax collectors, and taxed-to-the-max puppeteers.

Damn it! she cursed under her breath as she rounded her desk. Dr. Belliveau had been sorting through her papers again. Every afternoon, before leaving work, Stacey made a point of stacking her files in order on her desk. The most important things were on top, and everything else fell subsequently down to the most mundane chores on the to-do list.

Today, as always, her pile had been dismantled and fanned across her desk. Sometimes the folders were organized by color when she arrived at work. Red folders in one pile. Yellow folders in another. Green folders stacked one on top of the other.

One time, she found her file folders adorned with an assortment of colored paper clips in no particular order.

Stacey remembered her sister’s advice. You should talk to him about this. Tell him not to touch your desk after you leave for the day. But what, Stacey argued, would she say? How do you start a conversation like that?

Hey Dr. Belliveau, you gotta problem with the way I organize my work? How about you stop molesting my file folders? I see you like color-blocking, how ‘bout I get you a box of big Legos?

Nah, Stacey thought. She could handle weird people, but not weird conversations.

GOOOOOOD MORNING! Dr. Belliveau bellowed. He did that every morning, even though it was just her and him and five empty chairs in the waiting room.

Under his eye, Stacey mumbled under her breath. She was pretty sure the doctor had never watched The Handmaid’s Tale.

“Who’s on our list this morning?” the doctor asked, arm outstretched for his appointment book. Even though all of his appointments were filed electronically, he insisted on penciling the name of each patient into a hard-covered, double-lined appointment book.

Always a pencil. Always after Stacey had left for the day.

Weirdass, Stacey thought as she handed over the appointment book. She looked away as he took the book and fanned the pages.

“Don’t you just love the smell of paper?” he asked, his chest lightly expanding as he sniffed the air.

Total cringe.

“Ah, Mrs. Eleanor,” the doctor remarked. In a world where mostly first names were used, Dr. Belliveau insisted on giving his patients a title. Mrs. Mr. Ms. Stacey had tried to explain the non-binary situation to him, but he’d just shrugged and said he didn’t know what title to give them.

Just call people by the name they want to be called, she’d tried. She didn’t have the energy to try again.

Instead of going to his office to prepare for Mrs. Eleanor’s visit, he stood next to Stacey’s desk, eyes pinned to the closed door, and waited.

So fucking awkward.

Stacey logged in to the computer and brought up her email. She pretended to read, unable to concentrate with Dr. Belliveau’s muffin top stuck to the side of her desk.

BING BONG

The door opened.

BING BONG BING BONG

Mrs. Eleanor had a habit of moving the door back and forth a few times before fully entering the office.

BING BONG BING BONG BING BONG BING BONG

Just shut the fucking door! Stacey thought.

“Mrs. Eleanor!” Dr. Belliveau bellowed. Why is he so goddamned loud? Stacey thought. The doctor went up to the patient, practically nose-to-nose. He was a loud talker AND a close talker.

“Please go down to my office and I will meet you there shortly,” he said. At this point, Stacey let out the breath she’d been holding and sat back in her seat, giving the doctor a BUT WHY? look.

“I just need to make a call,” he told Stacey, reaching for her phone. Even though he had a phone in his office, he always insisted on using hers.

“Okay, how do I get out?” he asked her, acting as if he’d never used an office phone before. Stacey had to tell him every day. “Press 9 and then the number you want to dial.”

She sighed.

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He punched the numbers, grinning with every press. Stacey could hear the phone ringing on the other end. She never knew exactly who he was calling because he did the same thing every day. He punched a number in, waited a few seconds, and then hung up before anyone could answer.

“Guess nobody’s home!” he declared.

He stood up, adjusted his tie, grabbed six blue pens from Stacey’s desk, and headed to his office, where Mrs. Eleanor was waiting.

“Oh, wait! Dr. Belliveau? Before I forget, I need to take Friday off as a vacation day.”

The doctor stopped in his tracks and spun around. “You DO?” he asked with way too much excitement in his voice than was necessary.

“Yes, if it’s okay,” Stacey said.

“YES, yes. I mean, yes, of course it’ okay,” he said.

“Do you want me to call in a casual for the day?”

“Oh no, not at all,” the doctor grinned. “No, I’ll handle it.” And then, after seeing Mrs. Eleanor, Dr. Belliveau fantasized about being his own Administrative Assistant for a day.

Stay tuned. In Chapter 2, Dr. Belliveau goes nuts with a stapler.

Thank you for being here! I write from lived experience to help others navigate life after 5. That’s right, 5 years old. Yes, it was supposed to say “50”, but 5 is funnier. I’m also in the process of getting diagnosed with early onset dementia, so there’s my excuse. Bite me.

Do you need a license or certification to become a life coach?

My very deep and lengthy research (two seconds on ChatGPT) reveals that “No mandatory license or government regulation is currently required in many countries (including the U.S., U.K., Canada, and Australia) to call yourself a ‘life coach.”

Here’s the thing

The coaching industry isn’t regulated by any government authority (like medicine or psychology), which means anyone can technically call themselves a coach without formal training or oversight.

If you want to be taken seriously, however, it’s best to have a credential. If you’re a registered nurse, physician, lawyer, or have proven education in any particular field, there’s a pretty good chance someone can trust you.

Or can they?

What if you were a really bad nurse or an unethical lawyer? How do we, the public, know the difference?

I guess what I’m trying to say is that just because you have earned a credential or a degree doesn’t necessarily mean you’re trustworthy. You know?

Be Careful Where You Spend Your Money

In most countries, “life coach” isn’t a protected title in the same way that “therapist,” “psychologist,” “MD,” or “social worker” are.

That means:

• You don’t need a license

• There’s no legal definition

• Anyone can call themselves a life coach, with or without training

A clever life coach who wants to be seen as an authority in any particular field could market themselves in ways that fly under the legal radar.

Below is a list of commonly used but deceptive or misleading terms that some life coaches use to sound more authoritative, qualified, or medically competent than they are.

Certified Life Coach

Sounds official, but without context, it’s often meaningless—many online “certifications” are unaccredited and can be completed in a few hours.

Board-Certified Coach

Only valid if granted by the Center for Credentialing & Education (CCE). Many use the phrase to sound medically or professionally licensed when they’re not.

Master Life Coach

An unregulated title that suggests advanced expertise but is usually self-assigned or issued by non-accredited programs.

Accredited Coach

Unless tied to a recognized body like the ICF, the word “accredited” is often used vaguely or falsely to create a sense of legitimacy.

Trauma-Informed Life Coach

This should only be used by someone with clinical trauma training. Without that, it falsely implies the coach can safely handle trauma-related issues.

Certified NLP Practitioner

NLP (Neuro-Linguistic Programming) isn’t scientifically validated and is often marketed as neuroscience or psychology when it’s not.

Anxiety Coach / Depression Coach

These terms sound like therapy. Using them without a mental health license is unethical and may be illegal in some jurisdictions.

Addiction Recovery Coach

Unless the coach has real training in addiction support or peer recovery, this title misleads clients into thinking they’re getting medically informed help.

Mental Wellness Expert

“Expert” is entirely subjective, and this phrase creates the impression of psychological or clinical expertise without any accountability.

I Help People 10x Their Life

Sounds great, but it’s vague and unverifiable. It promises transformation without defining what “10x” actually means.

High-Performance Coach

Unless backed by training in areas like sports psychology or executive development, this title is often used to imply elite-level expertise without basis.

Behavioral Specialist

Used without clinical training or a psychology background, this implies a therapeutic skill set that the coach may not possess.

Holistic Therapist

“Therapist” is a protected term in many places. Using it without a license can be illegal and can confuse clients about the coach’s scope of practice.

Clinical Coach

“Clinical” implies a medical or therapeutic background. Coaches using this term without healthcare credentials are misrepresenting their authority.

Licensed Spiritual Counselor

Unless there’s actual licensure from a governing body (rare), “licensed” is often completely made-up.

Functional Health Coach

Used to sound medical or evidence-based. Some coaches use this to give dietary or diagnostic advice, which can dangerously cross legal lines.

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What to do if you suspect someone is earning money based on false claims

If you suspect someone is making false claims to earn money, start by documenting their statements and verifying their credentials through official registries or licensing boards.

If you want to hire a life coach, start by checking with the International Coaching Federation to make sure that the business/person is on their list.

Report suspicious claims

Report any fraudulent claims to the relevant certification bodies, professional regulators, or consumer protection agencies.

Not every life coach is doing anything illegal!

I want to make it clear that not every life coach is doing anything illegal. They could be considered unethical, in some cases, but I suspect it’s more of a “buyer beware” situation.

Here are some questions to ask before spending your hard-earned cash:

• What certifications or training do you have?

• Are you licensed to provide any therapeutic or mental health services?

• How many hours of coaching experience do you have?

• How do you measure progress or success in coaching?

• Are you insured or bonded?
  (While not always required, it shows professionalism.)

• Do you work with clients who have mental health concerns, or do you refer them elsewhere?
  (Coaching should not replace therapy if mental health is involved.)

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This is going to hurt your brain, but…

If the life coaching industry is unregulated, then what authority does an organization like the ICF (International Coaching Federation) have?

The International Coaching Federation (ICF) is a private, nonprofit organization.

They are not a government regulator. They are the most recognized professional body in coaching worldwide. However, they don’t have the legal authority to license or enforce laws.

Okay, but what gives the ICF any authority in the matter?

The ICF sets widely respected ethical guidelines and competency standards that many coaches voluntarily follow.

Its rigorous certification programs require extensive training, coaching experience, mentorship, and ongoing education, establishing a high-quality benchmark.

Coaches who hold ICF credentials commit to a strict Code of Ethics, with possible sanctions or credential revocation for violations.

Because of this, ICF certification is recognized by clients, companies, and coaching schools as a trusted mark of professionalism and serves as a de facto industry standard.

But ICF Can’t:

• Legally stop untrained or uncertified people from calling themselves life coaches.

• Enforce laws or impose fines like a government body.

• Police the entire coaching industry worldwide.

The ICF’s authority is voluntary and reputational rather than legal. It helps raise coaching quality and protect clients through standards and ethics, but it doesn’t replace formal regulation.

Be careful out there!

Not everyone is a scammer, but it’s important to understand what you’re getting into before you shell out your hard-earned cash.

If you’re facing mental health challenges, please seek help from a licensed psychologist or mental health professional.

Talking to your doctor can also guide you to the right care. Life coaches aren’t trained to treat mental health issues, so professional support is essential for safe and effective help.

Thank you for reading! Have you sought help from a life coach, and was it worth the money?

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But there it was, a quick thought of him that sailed through my mind just as quickly as everything else. It snuggled itself between the “what-am-I-going-to-wear-today thoughts and the “should-I-take-something-out-of-the-freezer-for supper considerations.

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Dr. Wayne Edwards. I made a “that was weird” face as I towelled off. I slipped into my clothes, jeans first, a slick of deodorant under my arms, and then pulled a sweater over my head.

I was his administrative assistant back in the day. He was kind, thoughtful, and I could make him double-over in a huge belly laugh.

One particularly stressful day in the office, Dr. Edwards strode purposefully into the *secretarial pool. And I was busy. Like, stressed-to-the-max busy. I could see him walking towards me from my peripheral vision, and before he reached my desk, I thrust my hand out as if to push him away. NO, I said. And kept working.

He could have filed a complaint against me. He could have reprimanded me for being insubordinate. Instead? He held onto another secretary’s desk and doubled-over in laughter.

I’ll Never Forget That

I did end up doing whatever small task he wanted at the time. Who knows what it was. It was a long time ago. But that laugh, the glimmer in his eyes, the joy he expressed, was something I kept with me after all these years.

The truth is I never thought much about him as the years rolled by

You know what they say, life goes on. Dr. Edwards eventually moved his family west to Alberta, Canada. I eventually found another job and moved on. I got married. Divorced. Married again, and had a child. And then got a divorce again.

A lot has happened between that day of laughter in the outpatient mental clinic between me and Dr. Edwards.

So what made me think of him that day?

Why, I wondered, on this random day, did Dr. Wayne Edwards pop into my mind? I was just getting out of the shower, minding my own business, thinking of the drudgery that fills a day.

We were also in the middle of a Covid lockdown. It was the early days of the pandemic when a vaccine (any vaccine) wasn’t available yet. So, in addition to thinking of the things I wanted to do, I also had Covid on my mind.

That’s why I walked into the living room next and turned on the television.

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News anchor: “Sadly, Dr. Wayne Edwards has lost his life due to complications of Covid.”

I was floored. I couldn’t believe it. Was that why he had popped into my head so randomly, without any context to back up the remembrance of him?

It was sad and shocking. I felt (and feel) for the family and friends he left behind. But I still do not understand why the information came to me. Why me? Why did Dr. Wayne Edwards pop into my head just before I found out he had passed?

What’s the point of psychic abilities if they don’t help anyone?

This is what I don’t understand. Things like the Dr. Edwards memory flash and then discovering he had passed are nothing new to me. But it is baffling.

One night I woke up from a bad dream. It was about someone screaming at another. Clothes were being ripped from a closet. It was a heated exchange that involved my niece. I won’t say her name here for the sake of her privacy.

I could see her in my dream. I could hear the chaos. I even heard a few words that later would turn out to be the exact words she shouted at her ex-boyfriend after she found out he had been cheating on her.

It’s not a coincidence, but what’s the point?

My niece called me the next morning to tell me how awful her evening had been. She described some of the things I had seen in my dream. She told me some of the things she said to him, and all were word for word from my dream.

Buy why? Having this knowledge doesn’t help anyone.

I suspect my spirit guides don’t trust me

I suppose having serious premonitions would put too much stress on me. Clearly, the spirit guides know I’m not up to the job. Maybe this is some kind of “training” that I’ll be able to work more fully in my next life.

Here are a few other useless premonitions I’ve had:

Yesterday, I was listening to music while cleaning up the kitchen, and I suddenly thought that my doctor would call.

Less than a minute later, my doctor called.

Another time (again in the shower), I suddenly thought of Michael’s craft store. I was washing up as you do in the shower, when that thought popped in my mind. A few minutes later, I received a text from a friend who was coming up for a visit to shop at Michael’s.

Weird right?

Maybe I’m not as special as I think I am!

Do you have useless premonitions or abilities that you just can’t figure out? I’m eager to hear what you have to say!

Let me know what you think!

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*Definition for the young: A secretarial pool was one large open office area where desks lined each wall. We had switchboards on our desks and electronic typewriters. You know, old-timey stuff.

If it helps cure cancer, I’m all in.

If my remains can help doctors train better, then sure!

If it means stuffing my remains in a cage and leaving it in the wild for scavengers to pick at, I’m game!

Wait…what??

If you decide to donate your body to The Body Ranch, that could be exactly where you end up.

Um, is this some kind of a threat?

No! Of course not. What’s the matter with you? I’m talking about The Body Farm, a research facility in Texas where donated human bodies decompose in cages, burial sites, and open air.

It could be your final resting place if you choose to donate! Imagine your bones scattered across a 26-acre outdoor lab!

If you’re one of the chosen few, you might even get your dead carcass stuffed into a cage so the researchers can observe how insects interact with your decomposing body.

They call it FARF, but I would call it The Big Dirtnap

God, I hate acronyms. This one stands for the Forensic Anthropology Research Facility. They could have been more clever with the acronym, if you ask me.

I’d call it something like DIRTNAP, which would stand for the Department of Interesting, Rotting, Terrifying, Nonsensical Air Putrefication.

FARF is probably easier.

But I digress…

According to the website, “The Forensic Anthropology Research Facility (FARF) serves as a resource for forensic anthropology students, researchers, as well as state and national law enforcement agencies.

Makes sense, I guess.

What surprises me the most is that it isn’t the only body farm in the United States. There are seven of them in total. I’m not sure whether business is booming for them all, but FARF has had a total of roughly 1000 “donations” since it officially opened in 2008.

That equates to about 59 bodies per year on average.

Would you donate your body to The Body Ranch?

I considered donating my body to science once. But my metaphoric train was off its tracks at the time. Then I recovered and came to my senses.

Look, I don’t want to deter you! The work the researchers do helps them solve crimes (so that if your cousin Bertha dies under mysterious circumstances, they can trace it back to you, but you’ll be dead on the farm anyway, so it won’t matter).

I mean, it’s kind of cool. Teams of researchers comb the area every day looking for your bones. I imagine it to be like the most passive, lazy way to play hide-and-seek where you’re always the hider.

There’s a good chance they won’t even find you intact. That puts a whole new spin on the game! Imagine investigators, law enforcement, and students combing the land while feral hogs make off with your limbs.

Top Reasons To Donate Your Body to The Body Farm

There are all kinds of great reasons to donate your body to science. For example:

You were always “outdoorsy” anyway!

Are you the asshole who spends a lot of money on tenting equipment? Do you relish the idea of sleeping in nothing but a sleeping bag under the stars? Did you know that the unhoused HAVE to sleep that way, but you could be home in a comfortable bed?

Rant over.

All I’m saying is you might want to do something useful and allow science to research what happens to you when the bears find your snacks in the pants you were wearing when you were last seen.

You have “fear of abandonment issues.”

Someone will always be looking for you (or whatever parts of you they can find) at the body ranch. No more worrying about being abandoned.

They say it’s better for the environment

I mean, I suppose. According to ChatGPT (I didn’t dig into this any further than that, so sue me), the environmental impact of one traditional funeral looks something like this:

• ~3 gallons of embalming fluid (contains formaldehyde, a carcinogen)

• ~150 lbs of steel (used in casket construction)

• ~2,500 lbs of concrete (used in burial vaults)

• Hardwood casket materials (contributes to deforestation)

• Permanent land use (40–100 sq. ft. per grave)

• ~250–300 kg of CO₂ emissions (from materials, transport, and manufacturing)

• Disruption of soil/water systems (due to vaults and non-biodegradable materials)

• Energy and resource-intensive production (caskets, vaults, headstones)

In contrast, there’s very little environmental impact of donating your body to “the ranch”. It looks something like this:

• Your body gets hoisted into the back of a pickup truck

• The teenager driving the truck might throw a tarp over you

• Truck pulls up to the ranch

• Your body gets randomly dumped.

Bonus Freebies Please!

Okay, okay, I’m sure it’s more dignified than that!

The researchers at the facility work hard to make the world a safer place. Their findings can help solve crimes (moidah mysteries!), plus The Body Farm gives anthropologists something to do.

Click this link to read more about the Forensic Anthropology Research Facility (FARF).

I still think DIRTNAP is a better alternative.

So would you do it or not?

Personally, I think you get the better end of the deal on this one.

You're just dead, waiting around for your skin to be tugged and pulled by coyotes like an old-timey taffy pull. The researchers and students, however, have to comb through the brush looking for signs that you once had limbs and organs.

Is that an eyeball hanging from that bird’s nest, or is it Mardi Gras?

It’s free - but donations are valued!

I don’t know. I mean, why not? The thought of being buried in a casket that costs as much as a trip to Turks and Caicos seems ridiculous to me.

Cremation seems like a cheaper option, but then your family has to decide what to do with your ashes. Geez, thanks, mom. Now I’ve gotta carry your dirt everywhere.

What do you think? Yay or nay to the “clothing optional” body farm?

I’m dying to know what you think! (see what I did there?). Leave me a comment and we’ll get this conversation going.

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Thanks for reading!

I’d love for you to join my diverse, intelligent, and thoughtful subscribers! I have Early Onset Alzheimer’s if that helps with pity points. It doesn’t? Oh. Okay.

FINE I'll SUBSCRIBE!

My short-term memory is impaired, and I frequently struggle to recall the right words to complete a sentence.

However, at least for now, I have enough cognitive ability to prepare the things my family will need to access when I can’t speak or think for myself.

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9 Vital Things You Should Do While You Still Can!

I’ve decided to go a little old-school with this by organizing everything into a binder.

That way, my friends and family will be able to access important passwords, usernames, information on how to make a life insurance claim through my former employer, and so on.

Your binder may not look like mine, but here are some ideas to help you get started.

1. Complete Advance Directives

This includes a living will that should describe the type of treatment you want (or don’t want).

It should also include a Power of Attorney for Health Care. This should be someone you completely trust to make medical decisions for you.

You’ll need to sign the forms in front of a notary or witnesses, depending on your state’s rules.

Once signed, give copies to the person you named, your doctor, and keep one in a safe place (like a home binder). If your situation is more complex, talk to an elder law attorney for extra guidance.

3. Create or Update a Will (and Consider a Trust)

A will can help you clarify your assets and belongings. This way, you won’t leave your family and friends wondering what to do with your stuff.

Collect Important Forms & Documentation

Key information that I’m including in my binder consists of the following:

• List of commonly used apps, especially banking apps

• Emails, phone numbers, and passwords needed to access these apps.

• A plastic sleeve for my will and another one for my living will.

• A signed power of Attorney form

• Medical Info & Diagnoses

• Legal Documents

• Financial Accounts

• Insurance & Pension Info

• Contacts List

• Daily Preferences & Routines

• End-of-Life Wishes

• Personal Messages

Create a “Life Binder” with an Index

Having a constructive, informative, and organized banner will go a long way in limiting the amount of stress your family, friends, or caregivers will experience.

When collecting the information mentioned above, make sure to include an index and number your pages for easy access.

• Use a 3-ring binder or digital folder (or both)

• Include a printed index at the front, something like:

4. Add a “Key Contacts” Page in Your Binder

Include names, phone numbers, emails, and what they help with.

Key Contacts Example

• Jane Smith (Elder Law Attorney)
  📞 (555) 123-4567 | ✉️ jane@lawfirm.com
  Helps with will, trust, and power of attorney documents

• Mike Johnson (HR & Pension Administrator at XYZ Co.)
  📞 (555) 555-2345 | ✉️ mike.j@xyzcompany.com
  Handles pension transfer and survivor benefits

• Sarah Lee (Insurance Representative, ABC Life)
  📞 (800) 333-9876 | ✉️ sarah@abclife.com
  Point of contact for life insurance claim and payout

• Dr. Emily Chan (Neurologist)
  📞 (555) 777-1212 | ✉️ echan@hospital.org
  Knows your medical history and treatment plan

5. Document Your Daily Routines and Preferences

• Write down:

• How you like your coffee

• Sleep schedule

• Favorite foods and music

• Comfort items or calming routines

• How many visitors do you think you can handle in a day

This helps family or caregivers maintain your quality of life and dignity.

6. Write a Personal Letter or Record a Video

It’s hard for me to get my head around, but I know that the time will come (probably sooner rather than later) when I won’t be able to express myself clearly.

I want people to remember my sense of humor and pragmatic style. I admit that I haven’t considered what this might look like just yet. I might even skip it.

That said, there’s no better time to express your love and gratitude than now.

7. Plan for Future Care

This is a tough one. It’s hard to tell exactly what the future will look like for people like me, with dementia. Do I my husband, or another person, to have to soothe me when I’ve wet my bed and am pacing around the house?

My opinion is that once I can no longer recognize or communicate with people, I’m gone.

Therefore, now is the time to look into MAID (medical assistance in dying) so that when the time comes, we’ll be ready.

Religious qualms?

If you don’t believe in MAID for any reason, then it’s especially important to talk about long-term care and what it might mean.

8. Create a Medical Summary

This is just a simple way to ensure that those looking out for you have all the information they need. Of course, things like current medications can change over time, but having the information in hand from the start is a really good idea.

This section could include things like:

• Diagnoses

• Allergies

• Current medications

• Emergency contacts

9. Communicate Early and Honestly

Once your binder is complete, make sure your family knows about it. Lock it in a safe and give your future caregiver a key. It’s a good idea to have a few other locks made for other family members as well.

10. Write down any paid subscriptions you have.

If you’re anything like me, you may have monthly payments coming off your credit card for things like magazine renewals, paid apps, and so on. It’s a good idea to list the apps you use and include your username and password so that people can cancel them after your death.

If there are some you’re not using, go ahead and cancel them now.

Can you think of anything else I should put in my binder? What would you put in your binder if you were facing dementia?

Leave me a comment or get in touch directly!

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Thank you for reading!

From what I understand, the process is more about ruling out other causes. That’s because many treatable or reversible conditions can mimic early-onset dementia.

But here’s the thing…

I just had blood work done a few months ago, and everything was perfectly fine. In other words, the reason for my cognitive decline doesn’t seem to point to things like thyroid dysfunction, infection, liver or kidney problems, diabetes, etc.

I’m otherwise healthy.

Next step: Speaking with a Psychiatrist

The psychiatrist’s office phoned me last week and allowed me 45 minutes to fully explain the signs and symptoms I’ve been experiencing over the past year (or so).

Hey, at least I felt HEARD. My family doctor did not take me seriously, claiming it was just anxiety.

It’s not.

Thankfully, he at least got the ball rolling towards an official diagnosis.

They said the official appointment wouldn’t be until September 3rd.

That would have made it another 7 weeks from the time they spoke to me on the phone and took all my details.

Then they called back!

The office called this morning and asked if I would mind speaking with the psychiatrist TOMORROW at 2 pm.

They didn’t mention a cancellation.

That makes me wonder if they feel it’s urgent enough to get the ball rolling a little faster. I hope so. I mean, I don’t want to be an “urgent case”, but if I have to be, let’s at least push things along.

So what do you think?

When the office called this morning, they didn’t mention they had a cancellation. They just said they wondered if I could speak with the psychiatrist tomorrow.

So, is it urgent, or is the psychiatrist just planning to go on vacation in September, thus the change in appointment?

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Here’s what I think

I think it’s more urgent than initially thought. We may have free healthcare in Canada, but it is a slow, arduous process. If it wasn’t urgent, they would have rescheduled my appointment further out. They wouldn’t ask to speak with me tomorrow.

As it stands, it can take several months to see specialists (neurologists, etc.) and sometimes even longer to get an MRI scan, CT scan, etc.

What will tomorrow bring?

That’s the existential question of the century, isn’t it?

What WILL tomorrow bring? I’m going to be ready when the psychiatrists calls, complete with my full list of unusual symptoms in case I’m asked to talk about them again.

Should I ask the psychiatrist what their recommendations are?

Yes! I think I have a right to know. That way, when my general physician calls me back, I’ll know what options he’s got in front of him. That will help me become a better advocate for myself.

My Worst Fear

My worst fear is that they’ll brush it all off as anxiety. Yes, I have generalized anxiety disorder, but this is not that.

I’ve been well-treated for GAD for many years. GAD isn’t making me forget whole swathes of a morning. GAD isn’t making it hard for me to find the right words while I’m speaking or making me forget what an apron is.

SIGH

I could write about this until the cows come home, but it’s not going to change the fact that I have to wait. But hey, at least I don’t have to wait until September to speak with someone and get recommendations underway!

Hey, if you or someone you know has gone through the process of being diagnosed with early-onset dementia, can you tell me about it?

What was it like? How long did it take to get a diagnosis? Was it something other than early-onset? I could learn a lot from your experiences, so please share!

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Thanks for reading!

Lisa Theriault (pronounced Terry-OH)