The first time it happened, I was young and clueless. I had consumed something that was probably an approximation of beer at a friend’s house over the course of a half hour. It was sweet, fizzy, and tasted like lemon soda. I was doubled over in pain for about twenty minutes, and my friend offered me her couch. Eventually, the pain went away,
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God knows the not-talking-about-it is what drives me cr*zy about my parents. My mother's cousin died of cancer a decade ago, and I don't even know what type of cancer she had, because my mother never learned it I think, and chickened out of checking her when things got bad.
Playing devil's advocate: not talking works for some people, or it wouldn't have been such a prevailing mode of thinking for so long.
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