Long before Tinder was a thing, I went out on a computer date. Turns out our fleeting, star-crossed love affair was doomed from the start. The computer concluded we were a perfect match. The computer was wrong.
This is a true story about the shortest date in my life. Now, technically you could make the case that my wife was my shortest date, given that she tops out at 5 feet 0 inches.
But I’m not talking about the shortest person I ever dated. No, I mean the shortest date in terms of hours… um, make that minutes. Because my shortest date lasted exactly 37 minutes. Despite its brevity, this date still doesn’t rank as my worst date. That would be another date you can read about.
As much as this may come as a shock to some of my readers, I was not exactly a Ladies’ Man in my youth. That’s because I went to a private all-boys’ military prep school from grades one through twelve. I had literally no interaction with girls, and thus virtually no dating experience, until I headed off to college.
In my first year at the University of Virginia, the dorm I was assigned to was an upperclassmen dorm, because they’d run out of space in the freshmen dorms. I lacked the self-confidence and charisma to approach any of the female upperclassmen in my dorm for a date. I asked out precisely one girl during my freshman year, named Jocelyn. She was a cute girl in my Astronomy class. But when I asked her out in October, she replied (and I will never forget her exact words): “I’m going to be pretty busy until April.” To this day I regret not having the presence of mind to come back with, “I hear you. I’m pretty busy, too. How’s the month of May looking?” So, no, we never went out.
I actually did have one date my freshman year. My dorm-mates, always up for a fun practical joke at my expense, decided to enter my name – without telling me – into a computer dating dance party. To participate, you filled out a form with information about yourself, your personality, likes, etc., which information was fed into a computer database. It then matched you up with another student the algorithm determined was compatible with you. Like a primitive version of Tinder but without the ability to swipe right.
A week later, I received a notification that I had been matched up with a computer date. WTF?? How did this happen? Then realizing that I had had roughly about as much sex in my freshman year as a neutered Boston Terrier, I decided to “go with the flow” and see where this unexpected opportunity might lead.
The rules explained you were supposed to meet your match prior to the actual event. Her name was Judy Spivey, from Suffolk, Virginia. When I knocked on her door, she immediately greeted me with an almost guilty look on her face.
I quickly determined why she had that almost guilty look on her face. Because after ten minutes of mindless, mundane conversation about “what are your favorite hobbies” and “what’s your major,” my soon-to-be date dropped this bomb: “Tim, you probably should know something before we go out on this date. I’m engaged.”
“I’m sorry. You’re engaged? Engaged in what?” I replied, pretending not to understand what she’d just said.
“I have a fiancé,” she clarified. “We both decided to enter our names in this computer dating thing, just to see what kind of people we would get paired up with. We meant it as a joke.”“Wow. Hilarious. So, I’m the joke, is that it?” I thought to myself, realizing this was a complete waste of my time.
“I got paired up with you,” my not-so-dream date sheepishly explained.
“Oh, I see. And who did your future husband get paired up with?” I asked, barely hiding my annoyance.
“He didn’t.” [Insert long, extremely awkward pause….] “But we both agreed that I should go through with this date” – like it was her civic responsibility, like jury duty – just an unpleasant commitment she’d have to endure, spending an evening with me.
The dance was two days later. I knocked on her door. She was dressed in a knee-length red dress. I was wearing my finest lavender corduroy bell-bottom slacks and matching red-and-blue striped shirt, with what in retrospect was a way too wide white tie (hey, give me a break, I went to a military school, so I had zero fashion sense).
After we arrived at the dance, we sat nervously for about fifteen minutes, sipping our Diet Cokes as I struggled to keep the conversation going with cliched questions like “Do, you think Uva will have a good basketball team this year?” and “So, how did you and your fiancé meet?”
Before long, I noticed Judy kept diverting her glance to something in the distance. Make that, someone. Who was she looking at? Now, don’t get ahead of me. Then she looked back at me, noticeably agitated, and said, “Pardon me, I’ll be right back.”
In case you were thinking I made up this entire story, I did not. This is a photo of my computer date from our college’s book that showed the names and faces of all the incoming freshmen.
She headed off to talk with the person in the distance. You guessed it. Her fiancé had been watching us the entire time. In retrospect, it probably was the right call not to try to slow dance with her in front of her future husband. Decades later, I still remember Judy’s words when she returned to our table: “Would you like to see World War Three begin? Or would you like for this date to be over right now?”
If this had happened today, the far more self-confident, wise-cracking version of me would have grinned and said, “Thanks for giving me a choice. I think I’ll go with the first option, Judy.” But the shy, freshman college student version of me instead said, ”I understand. I wish you both the best of luck.” What a wimp. Then I looked at my watch. 37 minutes had elapsed since the start of our first and last date. As I plodded back to my dorm, it occurred to me that I could have stayed in my room and watched an entire episode of Hawaii Five-O. It would have lasted much longer than my date.
Now and then I look back on our surreal, aborted courtship and wonder whatever happened to Judy. I tried to look her up on Facebook but without success. I will never know. But I like to imagine her future without me. Maybe – just maybe – she had a miserable, tumultuous marriage, and her husband left her for a younger woman he found on Tinder. That makes me smile.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Recently I created a bit of a panic with a buddy of mine who became deeply distraught over my wife’s shocking passing – because I texted him that she had been killed. Let me back up a bit. Like most people, I use my phone for texting all the time. But I don’t like typing, because it takes too long. So, unless it’s a short message like, “okay” or “I’ll be home in 10 minutes” or in the case of one of my daughters, “No, I won’t loan you $800 for a new iPhone,” then I usually dictate my text using the voice recognition feature. Saves me so much time.
Which brings me to the subject of my wife’s death, which – and I can’t stress this enough – never happened. She’s fine. Honest. If you’re a regular reader, or even if you’re someone who’s irregular, you probably know by now that throughout our marriage, we’ve always had cats. We’ve also fostered kittens – dozens of them by now. I love cats. Heck, I even sing to them – mainly to annoy my wife.
We had this one adorable calico kitty named Mischief. But over time, I gave her the nickname of Misha. She was a sweet furry companion, a real lap cat. She would routinely follow me to bed at nighttime and sleep on my pillow. She’d often knead my hair – adorable, I agree – and occasionally painful. I loved Misha deeply, which is why I was profoundly saddened to learn one day that she had escaped out the front door, ran off, was hit by a car and killed.
The next day, I got a text from a buddy of mine named Frank, reminding me about our lunch plans. I texted him back and told him that I would have to pass on lunch. I was not up for it because, as I texted, “I’m feeling a little down today. Misha was killed last night.”
Only that was not how my dictation came through. The message Frank received was: “I’m feeling a little down today. Michele was killed last night.”
“OMG I’m so sorry, man. Howd it happen?” Frank texted back in shock.
“She was hit by a car,” I nonchalantly replied, unaware of the typo that changed Misha to Michele.
“A car? A car??? Did they catch the guy? Was he a drunk driver? Were you there when it happened?” a stunned Frank replied.
“No idea what happened or who the driver was. I was watching an episode of The Simpsons at the time. You know the one where Homer almost blows up the nuclear plant he works at when he falls asleep on the job. Pretty funny episode, I have to say,” I wrote back.
“Tim, U okay? Do U want me to come over, buddy?” Frank inquired.
“That’s okay. I have a busy day today. I need to go to Costco. And after that I have to go to the post office,” I casually explained.
“Tim, buddy, are U sure U should be doing a Costco run after what just happened?”
“Well, I’m almost out of Twizzlers and granola bars, And I could use some more detergent,” I clarified.
“Wow, I have to say, not sure I could handle this tragedy as calmly as U. Tim, I think maybe U R in shock,” Frank probed.
“Nah, not really. To be honest, she was getting pretty old anyway. I figured she wasn’t going to be around much longer,” I wrote back.
“Seriously, dude? That seems a bit callous, pardon me for saying. She had a lot of good years left in her,” Frank wrote back, now starting to freak out.
“Well maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I sure miss her,” I sighed in response.
“I know this might be a bit premature to ask, but are U thinking about any sort of memorial service?” Frank asked, feeling uneasy about what to say next.
“Nah, I don’t think so. I don’t want to go to all that fuss. I’ve been through this a few times before.”
“Tim, What are U saying???!!! R U thinking clearly, my friend? How can I help?” Frank implored.
“Well, I was planning to bury her in the backyard. You don’t happen to have a shovel, do you, Frank?” I asked.
“A shovel? A SHOVEL??? Of course, I have a shovel. Dude, U R really not thinking clearly right now,” Frank texted back, increasingly concerned about my mental state.
“I don’t want to impose. I was going to get a shovel at Costco anyway,” I calmly texted back.
“Enough about the shovel! Jesus, Tim. I think I better come over. On my way,” Frank wrote back frantically.
Then I texted back, “You know the saddest part about all of this, Frank?”
“I can’t imagine. Tell me, buddy.”
“Turns out she was pregnant. And I had repeatedly told my wife that we needed to get her neutered so that she would not get pregnant. But my wife never got around to doing it,” I wrote with a bit of melancholy.
“Pregnant? Seriously? Oh My God! This keeps getting worse and worse. Tim, I had no idea your wife was pregnant. I hope she and her baby didn’t suffer,” Frank wrote back in utter disbelief.
“What are you talking about, Frank? Michele’s not pregnant.”
“But you just wrote – wait, hold on. Michele’s not pregnant? But you said she was killed in a car crash. You have me totally flipping out, buddy!” Frank wrote back in exasperation.
Eventually we both figured out how this dialogue went off the rails. I explained that it was our cat Misha, not my wife Michele, who had died.
In case you were curious, this kitty’s name was Mischief, AKA “Misha.”
I guess the lesson is to carefully re-read my texts before I press SEND. In fact, now I always check my texts BEFORE I press SEND. Well, most of the time, anyway.
That’s all for now. I need to go. It’s my turn to make dinner tonight. I just dictated the following text to my wife: “Sweetie, dinner will be ready at 6pm. It’s your favorite: Barbecued Chicken.”
My wife immediately fired back a snippy response: “What’s wrong with you? Why in the world would you think my favorite meal is Barbecued Children??”
Uh, oh. I did it again….
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Notice how the wife meticulously measures just the right amount of detergent. Meanwhile, the husband pours half a bottle of bleach directly onto the laundry, thereby bypassing the bleach drawer. That’s just smart efficiency, if you ask any husband.
If you’ve been married for more than six weeks, sooner or later you’ll face one of the most contentious challenges a couple must confront: deciding on the proper way to do laundry. While both men and women technically possess the physical capability to perform this task, their approaches are as different as fine chardonnay and gas station nachos. As a result, these differences can turn into heated battles.
To help you navigate these tumultuous waters, I have compiled a step-by-step comparison of how women and men approach the sacred art of laundering clothes. Check your gender to be sure you know which approach you should follow.
Step 1: Sorting the Laundry
Women’s Approach:
Once a week, gather all the dirty clothes from the various hampers in the house, including the one in the bathroom, the one in the bedroom, and the mystery pile your husband swears he “was totally going to get to.”
Separate whites from colors, ensuring that no rogue red socks infiltrate the pristine whites and turn them an angry pink.
Further separate delicates, towels, jeans, and workout clothes into their own separate piles because apparently, different fabrics have different temperature and washing requirements.
Check all pockets for money, gum, rogue tissues, and – if you have young kids – LEGOs.
Stare in horror at what your husband has wadded up into a jumbled mass the size of a small moose and thrown into the hamper. Debate whether it can be salvaged or should just be set on fire, to prevent a potentially dangerous toxic waste dump from engulfing your house.
Men’s Approach:
Once every four months, grab everything from the hamper and the floor (same thing, really) and stuff it all into the washing machine until it is so full you can barely close the door. Remember, if it’s not overflowing, there’s room for more.
Consider checking pockets but then get distracted by a hilarious Bud Lite commercial on TV and forget.
Step 2: Selecting the Wash Settings
Women’s Approach:
Carefully consult the care labels on each garment.
Select the appropriate water temperature and cycle: cold for delicates, warm for colors, hot for whites, and, for unknown fabrics, Google it just to be safe.
Add just the right amount of detergent, fabric softener, and maybe even a color-safe bleach booster.
Adjust the settings accordingly so nothing shrinks, bleeds, or turns into something a miniature poodle could comfortably squeeze into.
Men’s Approach:
Turn the dial to whatever setting the machine is already on. It was fine last time, right?
Dump in a generous amount of detergent – more soap means cleaner clothes, obviously.If the water starts foaming like your two-year-old’s bubble bath, you probably have the right amount.
Hit the start button.
Check back two days later when you suddenly remember you never took the clothes out of the washing machine.
Step 3: Transferring Clothes to the Dryer
Women’s Approach:
Carefully pull out each item, one by one, and inspect for stains. If a stain remains, rewash immediately by hand to prevent the stain from becoming permanent.
Separate delicate items that should never see the inside of a dryer and lay them out flat or hang them to dry.
Set the dryer to the appropriate heat level: low for delicates, medium for everyday wear, and high for towels and sheets.
Add a dryer sheet because fresh-smelling clothes are one of the little joys of living in a civil society.
Men’s Approach:
Shovel the entire load into the dryer like you’re shoveling coal into the firebox of an 1830s steam engine train bound for the Dakota Territories.
Forget about delicates. Men don’t wear delicates, so you can ignore this issue.
Turn the heat to “High” because heat equals dry, and dry equals done.
Close the door and return to watching the game.
If you discover that your wife’s sweat pants have drastically shrunk to something a toddler could wear, secretly throw it in the trash and tell her you never saw it. “Are you sure you didn’t misplace it, honey?”
Step 4: Folding and Putting Away
When the laundry is done, notice how the wife neatly folds every item and puts similar items together, like these towels. The husband, on the other hand, uses the time-tested “entropy” system, in which all the clothes are shoved into a giant pile – to be sorted out later. Much later.
Women’s Approach:
Remove clothes immediately to prevent wrinkles.
Fold each item neatly, ensuring shirts are stacked, socks are paired, and towels are folded to fit the closet in their proper spot.
Hang up dress shirts, blouses, and anything that even hints at needing a hanger.
Put everything away in its designated spot, where it belongs. Your work is done.
Men’s Approach:
Remember the clothes you put in the dryer last week and put the game on pause.
Grab the entire pile and dump it onto the nearest available flat surface, the kitchen floor.
Start to fold a couple shirts, then remember how boring this is. Decide to shove the entire mass into the floor of the closet. There! Job finished!
Final Step: Review Your Work
Women’s Approach:
Take note of what went wrong and adjust for next time.
Reflect on how grateful your husband will be when he sees all his clothes so neatly folded and stored in their proper repositories. Yes, he’s lucky to have you as his wife.
Try not to get triggered by the fact that in reality your husband is oblivious to all your hard work and asks if you could get him another beer.
Men’s Approach:
Act slightly indignant when your wife screams that her favorite cashmere sweater has shrunk four sizes.
Calmly de-escalate the situation by saying, “Is it possible you’ve put on a little weight recently?”
Say nothing as your wife gives you a daggers glare that could frighten a terrorist.
Hide your smile as your wife angrily announces you’re permanently banned from doing laundry ever again. Congratulations. Mission accomplished.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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This is Pam. For years Pam has been carrying a grudge against her sister Meg because Meg got the entire $200K of their father’s inheritance. All Pam got was Barkley the dog. Barkley pees on the carpet every day and destroyed her sofa. Okay, Pam, I’d be angry, too.
I’ve rarely been one to hold a grudge. It takes a lot to get me triggered, and even then, I usually move past whatever momentary feelings of irritation I’m experiencing within minutes or, worst case, a couple of hours – unless it’s ANYTHING that my annoying neighbor Bert Higgins says or does, in which case, I will never let it go. What can I say, I just don’t like the guy.
Other than with my neighbor Bert, I never saw the point to letting personal resentments fester. Research shows that holding onto anger and bitterness is bad for your emotional and physical well-being – much like the feeling of rage that consumes many readers after having been subjected to my latest humor article: “Damn it, Jones! That’s ten minutes of my life I’ll NEVER get back!” is the usual complaint I receive.
Nelson Mandela once wrote, “Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.” On a related note, for months I resented my first college girlfriend for making out with a friend of mine. Six months later, she still hadn’t died. So yeah, turns out Nelson was right.
I come from a hearty stock of grudge holders. One of my brothers who will not be named (okay, you twisted my arm – his name is Ted) would not speak to me for over a year because sixmonths after he had asked me for a three-month loan, I had the temerity to ask him to pay me back the $500 I had lent him. My egregious offense was asking to be paid back at all. Thankfully, my brother explained his understandable outrage at my insensitive treatment: “Family members should never expect to be paid back.” That was over forty years ago. He still harbors hard feelings. I’m confident in time, he’ll forgive me and reimburse me. Do you think it’s too late to ask him to include interest? Nah, that probably wouldn’t end well. Forget I even mentioned it.
Everybody holds onto grudges. Even famous people. For example, did you know that John Adams, America’s second president, was a close friend of Thomas Jefferson, our third president – until 1801? That’s the year that Jefferson defeated Adams for the presidency. Adams never forgave Jefferson (his VP when Adams was president) for running against him. They soon became bitter enemies, refusing to settle their differences for more than twenty years. It wasn’t until very late in life that they finally made amends. Personally, I’m not so sure they forgave each other so much as dementia may have set in, and they each thought they’d made a new friend.
Thomas Jefferson (L) and John Adams famously fell out of favor with each other and became bitter enemies. Jefferson was envious of Adams’ great wealth. Adams resented Jefferson for his lush, full head of hair and his hot mistress Sally Hemings.
Many famous people throughout history refused to let go of longstanding grudges: Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr, Van Gogh and Gauguin, Thomas Edison and Nicola Tesla, Joan Crawford and Bette Davis, Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono, Donald Trump and… well, just about everybody who’s ever worked for him.
The above list includes several extremely intelligent, talented people… and Donald Trump. In each case, they chose to keep the fires of grievance burning for years. At least Hamilton and Burr eventually found a way to abruptly resolve their feud – if you consider pistols at dawn an effective way to end a dispute.
Have you ever noticed how for some people, it’s easier to offer criticism than a compliment? Similarly, some of us would actually choose to stay angry and resentful rather than forgive the other person. Why is this? Here’s my theory: Sincere forgiveness can require a lot of effort. Worse, it just might require us to accept that we played a part in creating this rift. And why should we waste our time on self-reflection about our own shortcomings when it’s far less work to place all the blame on my annoying neighbor, Bert Higgins?
Besides, if we forgive the other person, that lets them off the hook. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Charlie Jamison forget about the fact that he ran over my pet guinea pig Bubbles with his Schwinn bicycle back in 5th grade. He still has never apologized for murdering my best friend.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that holding onto a long-simmering resentment offers several useful benefits. First, you’ll no longer need to worry about getting them a birthday present or sending a Christmas card. You won’t have to invite them over for Thanksgiving. And you can relax as you watch the football game knowing they’ll never interrupt the game with a pesky phone call to vent to you about their disappointing teenage son Norman.
If you expand your network of people towards whom you could harbor resentment, just think of how much spare time it will open up in your weekly schedule. Of course, it works in reverse as well. If there is someone in your life you find slightly unpleasant to be around, you might consider insulting them about their appearance or parenting skills. That way, they’ll start to resent you and, if you’re lucky, refuse to acknowledge your existence. Mission accomplished.
Why do people carry grudges? Well, in this case, it’s because Maria was named the prom queen, while her identical twin sister Evelyn lost out. So unfair. And Maria even had the nerve to wear the same dress as Evelyn. What a bitch.
So, I’ve changed my mind. Instead of letting go of past resentments, I’m going to start to embrace them. You hear that, Coach Steck? Perhaps you’ve forgotten about the time you demoted me to second string on our high school football team after I had one bad game back in 1973. Well, I haven’t forgotten, Coach. I’m coming to even the score with you – assuming that at the age of 104 you’re still alive, you son of a b*tch.
And Larry Elmendorf, don’t think I’ve forgotten that in 5th grade you once called me “Thunder Thighs Jones” because you thought I had fat thighs back then. Vengeance will be mine, by which I mean I will post a snarky comment about your recent weight gain on your Facebook page.
Tonight I’m supposed to make dinner, but I’m feeling lazy. I’d rather just have some leftover pizza and watch the game. I think I’ll get out of cooking by pretending to carry a grudge against my wife for nagging me repeatedly that I still haven’t mowed the lawn. Yeah, that should do the trick. And I’ll forgive her the next day, when it’s her turn to cook.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Little Yong Li, around age 1. Little did she know what challenges her life would have in store for her.
She was found on a busy street corner in a city of over four million people. She was only a few days old – abandoned, lost, completely unknown. No identification on her to indicate whose family she belonged to. An orphan, a tiny baby whose first meaningful life experience was to be abandoned by her parents for no other reason than the misfortune of having been born a girl. Such was the fate of hundreds of thousands of baby girls in China between 1979 and 2015.
The orphanage where she was taken, thankfully, was a good one. The staff gave her the name Yong Li, which meant “Forever Beautiful.” Despite her tumultuous beginning, in less than five months, little Yong Li would be matched to a childless couple in America and headed to her new forever home in the States.
Yong Li overcame her traumatic origin and would eventually thrive. But like many young Chinese adoptees in English-speaking countries, she had serious speech challenges, struggling to pronounce many sounds that she’d never heard during her brief time in China – sounds like the letters R, S, and T. For several years as a young child, her parents had her take speech therapy classes.
Nervous about entering Kindergarten, she overcame her anxieties and in time settled into school life. A relatively shy child, Yong Li learned to play chess at a young age. Some of her favorite times were the quiet moments she would play chess with her dad. Over her first 12 years, she became even more introverted. She didn’t have many friends. But she discovered the joy of the wizarding world of Harry Potter and would spend hours upon hours reading one Harry Potter book after the next.
As she reached her early teen years, she became a bit of a tomboy and excelled at sports, especially soccer. She was a fierce competitor, playing defense. Always the shortest girl on every soccer team, Yong Li was also her team’s fiercest competitor. It did not matter the size or physicality of her opponent. If they had the ball, it wasn’t going to be theirs for long.
Yong Li doing what she loved more than anything as a teenager: soccer. She was not very big, but wow, could she play the game with passion.
Soccer became her passion. Unfortunately, Yong Li’s fearless, overly aggressive style of play came at a steep price. She suffered a series of minor concussions playing the sport she loved. One time she and an opposing player collided heads when they both went to head the ball. Concussions, her parents would learn, tend to be cumulative, meaning the effects of multiple concussions over time are more severe and long-lasting than the effects of a single concussion, thus leading to a build-up of cognitive damage and persistent symptoms.
Finally, a soccer collision in the spring of her junior year of high school was so severe that Yong Li was forced to take a medical withdrawal from school for the rest of the school year. This would be the last soccer game she would ever play. It crushed her spirit. On top of that, she had to attend full-time summer school to retake her spring semester in order to graduate on time. Doctors told her she could never play any contact sport ever again. The risk to her long-term mental and physical health was just too great.
Despite the upsetting setback, Yong Li would go on to university. But in the spring of her sophomore year, she slipped and banged her head on a wall pipe in her dorm. The brain injury was so serious that for the second time in three years, she was forced to take a medical withdrawal from school. Somehow, thanks to her stubborn determination, Yong Li overcame this latest misfortune and completed her nursing school education, graduating Magna Cum Laude.
Yong Li began her career as a cardiology nurse. After a few years, she decided to pursue a DNP (Doctor of Nursing Practice) program to become a Nurse Practitioner. While going to grad school part-time and working full-time, one day she was working with a difficult patient who was in such an agitated mental state she had to be strapped to her hospital bed. When the patient asked if she could use the bathroom, Yong Li cautiously removed the straps and helped her up out of the bed. Then in a flash, the patient, completely unprovoked, angrily landed a severe blow directly on Yong Li’s temple with her fist. Yong Li fell hard, smashing her head forcefully into the hard linoleum floor. She briefly lost consciousness.
Yong Li on her graduation day from Nursing School.
This time, her traumatic brain injury was so extensive that Yong Li could barely speak or even open her eyes for days. When she tried to talk, her words came out so slurred she sounded like she was drunk. She could not concentrate at all. She couldn’t conduct even a short conversation because it hurt her brain too much.
She had to undergo intensive therapy of all types – cognitive, speech, balance, psychological, and more – for almost three years. Her cognitive impairment was initially so profound that doctors were doubtful she would ever be able to work in the healthcare field again, let alone become a nurse practitioner. She had to face the stark reality that she might be forced into a future of part-time low-paying jobs because the concept of her working a full eight-hour shift was unthinkable, according to the doctors.
But Yong Li never gave up. She spent just under three years in intensive physical therapy, going to multiple medical appointments most weeks, slowly, painfully regaining her ability to concentrate, communicate, and handle stress. During this grueling period, she was unable to work for almost three years and had to withdraw completely from her graduate program. She came close to losing all her academic credits because so much time had passed.
Eventually, incredibly, she returned to work, albeit only part-time for the first year. But slowly, over time, she was able to increase her hours and return to full-time work. Today she is back working as a full-time nurse and once again pursuing her dreams of becoming a DNP.
After almost three years of watching Yong Li struggle to regain her cognitive function, Yong Li’s doctor told her dad that he was amazed at her progress. “She’s a real fighter.,” he said. “Most people in her situation just give up. It’s too hard, too overwhelming, and too emotionally draining, to keep going. The progress is just so slow, it becomes demoralizing. But she never gave up. She is one tough young woman.”
Yes, she is. Yong Li never gave up. She has always been a fighter. It’s one of the many things that her father always admired about her. And I should know. I’m her dad.
Me with my amazing, resilient young daughter, Yong Li.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook. 
