Disfigured Texas Woman Allowed To Sue Therapist For Transgender Medicine Fraud
Patients harmed by the atrocities of transgender 'medicine' may not experience the full effect for years, especially those coerced into treatment as minors.Patients harmed by the atrocities of transgender 'medicine' may not experience the full effect for years, especially those coerced into treatment as minors.Rural health is the next MAHA frontier
As a Virginia farmer, I have spent years fighting regulatory overreach and corporate consolidation that hollow out rural America.
So when Rep. Anna Paulina Luna (R-Fla.) recently led the effort to remove a pesticide-liability shield from the House farm bill, rural families had reason to cheer.
If we are serious about children’s health in rural America, we should examine whether newer technologies can reduce toxic exposures.
The provision would have given pesticide manufacturers such as Bayer broad protection from “failure to warn” lawsuits brought by Americans who allege glyphosate caused their cancer. It also would have limited the ability of states and local communities to establish no-spray zones near schools and weakened protections for waterways.
In other words, it was top-down federal overreach and a corporate handout disguised as “regulatory uniformity.” It had no place in legislation meant to serve farmers and rural families.
Luna’s amendment passed 280-142, with more than 70 House Republicans joining all but six Democrats.
Republicans such as Luna deserve credit for refusing to grant blanket immunity to corporations at the expense of American families. They also showed that Make America Healthy Again can become a governing philosophy — one that puts children, families, and farmers ahead of well-connected industries.
More than three years after Robert F. Kennedy Jr. announced his presidential campaign and later joined forces with President Donald Trump, the MAHA movement continues to secure policy victories with consequences that families may feel for decades.
The pesticide fight is only one part of a much larger question. Once policymakers begin examining preventable chemical exposures, the issue does not stop at the edge of the field.
Former Rep. Renee Ellmers (R-N.C.), a nurse and Tea Party leader, has noted that many of the same rural children whose schools and waterways Luna’s amendment would protect also spend hours each week riding older diesel school buses. Exposure to diesel exhaust has been linked to pediatric asthma, ADHD, and other health and developmental concerns.
If we are serious about children’s health in rural America, we should examine whether newer technologies can reduce those exposures.
That does not mean Washington should dictate transportation choices to rural districts. It means farmers and small-town families should have a seat at the table and access to resources when cleaner options, including electric school buses, become practical.
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The American Lung Association projects more than $43,000 in health savings per electric bus through reductions in asthma attacks and respiratory illness. Electric buses are also substantially quieter than diesel models, which could benefit students with autism or sensory sensitivities.
Each community should weigh the costs and benefits for itself. But the issue deserves serious local consideration.
Rural water quality deserves the same attention.
A recent national analysis found that more than one in five Americans receive drinking water from systems with elevated nitrate levels associated with cancer and birth defects. Many of the hardest-hit communities are in agricultural regions.
Researchers and public health advocates have also raised concerns about PFAS “forever chemicals” contaminating farmland and groundwater, sometimes forcing farming operations to shut down.
Farmers understand better than anyone that stewardship has consequences. The land, water, and infrastructure we pass to the next generation will shape rural health long after today’s political battles are forgotten.
Reducing unnecessary exposures and modernizing aging infrastructure where it makes sense are practical, pro-family goals that fit squarely within the MAHA vision.
Luna and her colleagues showed that Congress can still deliver for rural American families when lawmakers put them ahead of corporate interests.
They should keep going.
The new kid in the waiting room
The receptionist asked me to verify my date of birth.
I gave her Gracie’s.
For years, I have encouraged fellow caregivers to pay attention to their own health rather than waiting until a crisis forces the issue. This experience has only reinforced that conviction.
She glanced down at the chart in her hand and then back at me with a puzzled expression. Before she could say anything, I caught myself.
“Oh ... that’s my wife’s birthday.”
After 40 years as a family caregiver through surgeries, appointments, hospital admissions, medications, insurance forms, and enough medical paperwork to clear a small forest, I had automatically answered with the date I have given thousands of times before.
This time, however, I was the patient.I was at the cancer center for imaging and treatment planning in preparation for radiation therapy for prostate cancer. Thanks to routine screenings and excellent physicians, it was caught early. The prognosis is excellent.
Still, it felt strange.
I have spent most of my adult life in hospitals because of someone else. This time, they called my name.
Looking around the waiting room, I realized I was easily the youngest man there. That does not happen to me very often anymore. Later, one staff member told me most of their patients are in their 70s and beyond. Sometimes, they see men in their 60s like me, and every so often someone in his 50s.
For this visit, I was the new kid.
I took a chair off to the side, careful not to intrude on this fraternity of men who seemed to know the ropes. They reminded me of the old men who gathered at Nick’s grocery and gas station near my childhood home in rural South Carolina. As a boy, I would stop in for a soda and candy bar while they held court around the coffee pot, solving problems that ranged from weather and crops to politics and church business.
The subjects changed from day to day. The cadence never did.
Men of a certain age possess a remarkable conversational gift. They can begin with trout streams and end with urologists without anyone noticing where the turn occurred.
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True to form, this conversation drifted toward prostate cancer, treatments, and the assorted indignities that accompany aging. One fellow described an examination during which the sheet covering him slipped.
Before he could react, the nurse matter-of-factly told him, “Don’t worry. If I see something I’ve never seen before, I’ll kill it.”
Such is the sort of thing you expect to hear in a cancer clinic in Montana.
The men laughed.
I raised an eyebrow and thought, “How comforting.”
But I still laughed.
Soon enough, they called me back. The technicians positioned my legs, explained the process, and slid me into a machine that looked remarkably like something from an old “Star Trek” episode. If memory serves, it resembled the device that kept Spock alive after somebody stole his brain.
After the instructions were complete, they eased me into position and left the room.
A few minutes later, one of the technicians returned looking slightly sheepish.
“We have a bit of a challenge.”
“Do tell,” I replied.
“There’s a gas bubble.”
The expression on my face evidently communicated that I was not following.
She delicately clarified.
“It’s in ... you.”
“Oh.”
I considered several responses, including one with my outstretched index finger that would have made my four brothers proud and the medical staff considerably less appreciative. Fortunately, decades of maturity prevailed.
“What do you recommend?” I asked.
“Maybe take a walk and see if anything happens.”
So there I was, strolling through the halls of a cancer center, trying to solve a problem that five boys growing up under one roof would have regarded as entirely manageable without professional consultation. At times, our household rivaled the campfire scene in “Blazing Saddles.”
The problem was that they had instructed me to drink a substantial amount of water beforehand to achieve the proper imaging. Solving one problem too enthusiastically threatened to create another.
Men over 50 approach certain situations with caution for good reasons.
Eventually, however, everything worked itself out.
Ahem.
The imaging was completed, the planning was finished, and in a few days, I will return to begin treatment.
As I left, I noticed the bell hanging in the hallway. I have seen bells like that before. Patients ring them when treatment ends.
Lord willing, I will ring that bell myself within a month.
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Driving home, I thought about those older men in the waiting room. None of them appeared eager to be there, but neither did they seem intimidated by it.
They knew where to park. They knew where the coffee was. They knew which jokes were worth telling.
In short, they knew the territory.
Eventually, if you stay on any road long enough, you stop asking for directions and start giving them.
One day, perhaps sooner than I would like to admit, I may be the guy telling stories to the new kid who walks through the door — even if the story involves a gas bubble that needed to be walked off.
For years, I have encouraged fellow caregivers to pay attention to their own health rather than waiting until a crisis forces the issue. This experience has only reinforced that conviction.
Prostate cancer is often called a silent disease.
Mine was.
Fortunately, silent does not have to mean deadly.
'Top Gear' host Jeremy Clarkson reveals devastating medical diagnosis on new show: 'Really early'
Former "Top Gear" star Jeremy Clarkson had heartbreaking news for his friends during the season finale of his new show.
After leading "Top Gear" to fantastic ratings over 33 seasons between 2002 and 2022, Clarkson moved on to "Clarkson's Farm," a show about him running a farm in West England.
'Where it is of no concern of anybody.'
Difficult conversation
In the final two episodes of Season 5, Clarkson revealed to his friends and co-stars Charlie Ireland and Kaleb Cooper that his recent disappearance was because he was getting tests done.
The show aired Clarkson having a difficult conversation with his mates, revealing his diagnosis: "I've got cancer," Clarkson said.
Cooper appeared shocked, replying, "No."
Clarkson offered a shrug and a "yep." Cooper asked, "Where?"
"Where is of no concern of anybody," Clarkson firmly stated. "I've known since May."
In the later episode, however, Clarkson confirmed to his co-stars that he has prostate cancer.
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'Fingers crossed'
As reported by Variety, Clarkson said he had "disappeared off the other week," had had a biopsy done, and that the cancer is "aggressive," but it's "really early."
He added, "I'll have to go and have an operation, and then — the operation is in and out in no time — but your body's out of action for a little while."
By the final episode, Clarkson had already gone through the procedure, seemingly telling his friend that part of his prostate had been removed.
"10% of it is dead, the 10% where the cancer is," Clarkson explained, per the BBC.
"I had the op, and just fingers crossed it's worked; we don't know yet."
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Carry on
Clarkson took to his Instagram page on Tuesday to say that the Season 5 finale was "really, really difficult," but it was his words in the show's last episode that displayed Clarkson's true perseverance and classic English attitude.
The season started "with me in a hospital bed and we are at the end of Season 5 and I'm back in a hospital bed," the 66-year-old said. He noted that if his treatment is "successful, I'll see you for Season 6, and if it isn't, I won't."
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Tulsi Gabbard calls it quits
Tulsi Gabbard notified President Donald Trump on Friday that she is resigning as director of national intelligence, effective June 30.
Gabbard, whom Trump allegedly considered replacing in recent months and whose judgment regarding Iranian nuclear aspirations Trump publicly questioned last year, said in a letter to the president that she is "deeply grateful for the trust you placed in me and for the opportunity to lead the Office of the Director of National Intelligence for the last year and a half."
'Tulsi has done an incredible job, and we will miss her.'
The former Hawaii congresswoman and retired Army Reserve lieutenant colonel noted that her "husband, Abraham, has recently been diagnosed with an extremely rare form of bone cancer" and "faces major challenges in the coming weeks and months."
Gabbard married cinematographer Abraham Williams in 2015. In addition too putting his skills to work in service of Gabbard's 2020 presidential campaign, Williams has worked on numerous documentaries, music videos, and commercials.
"At this time, I must step away from public service to be by his side and fully support him through this battle," continued Gabbard. "Abraham has been my rock throughout our eleven years of marriage — standing steadfast through my deployment to East Africa on a Joint Special Operations mission, multiple political campaigns, and now my service in this role."
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"His strength and love have sustained me through every challenge," wrote Gabbard, adding that she could not "in good conscience ask him to face this fight alone while I continue in this demanding and time-consuming position."
In her letter, Gabbard emphasized the "significant progress" that she has made at the ODNI "advancing unprecedented transparency and restoring integrity to the intelligence community."
For instance, she helped expose the genesis of the Russia hoax; revoked the security clearances of dozens of officials over Russiagate; started the ball rolling on investigating hundreds of shady taxpayer-funded biolabs outside the U.S.; unearthed damning documents highlighting the bogus basis of Trump's 2019 impeachment; and cleaned house at the ODNI, canning a multitude of deep-staters and saving taxpayers oodles of cash.
Despite her successes, Gabbard said that there is work left to be done and noted that she is "fully committed to ensuring a smooth and thorough transition over the coming weeks so that you and your team experience no disruption in leadership or momentum."
Gabbard concluded her letter by stressing she will "remain forever grateful" to the president and "to the American people for the profound honor of serving our nation as DNI."
Trump characterized the director's resignation as unfortunate, said Gabbard will be missed, and noted that he has no doubt that Williams "will soon be better than ever."
"Tulsi has done an incredible job, and we will miss her," wrote Trump. "Her highly respected Principal Deputy Director of National Intelligence, Aaron Lukas, will serve as Acting Director of National Intelligence.
Gabbard's resignation comes just two months after one of her deputies, Joe Kent, resigned as director of the National Counterterrorism Center in protest of the Trump administration's war in Iran.
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What my colonoscopy taught me about stewardship
Recently, I wrote about my cancer diagnosis. In the aftermath of that ordeal, I finally scheduled something I had put off too long: a colonoscopy. It had been 11 years since my last one.
Part of that gap was due to neglect, I suppose. But much of it came from the reality of caregiving. Over the last six years alone, my wife and I have spent nearly 12 months in hospitals. The stretches at home often felt like military logistics.
And since we live about 60 miles from the nearest facility performing colonoscopies, scheduling one is not exactly like stopping by the barbershop.
Truthfully, I was nervous. Not panicked, but uneasy enough to want reassurance that this was one area of my body not planning an uprising. Once you hear the word “cancer,” your imagination suddenly takes on a full-time job.
When we learn to steward our bodies and hearts well, it often spills into our finances, our work, our relationships, and the way we carry responsibility itself.
So there I sat in the curtained pre-op area waiting for the doctor.
As I watched, the curtain beside me kept shifting while he searched for the opening. A hand appeared, disappeared, then the curtain moved again.
After decades of hospitals and surgeries with my wife, I’ve learned something important: If you lose your sense of humor in these places, the fluorescent lighting wins.
So when the doctor finally stepped through the curtain, I said to him in my best Roy D. Mercer impression:
“Look a here ... if you’re havin’ a hard time finding the hole in the curtain, I’m a little concerned about you rootin’ around where you’re about to go.”
He burst out laughing and sheepishly assured me he knew exactly what he was doing. A few minutes later, they wheeled me toward the procedure room.
As we rolled through the doors, I gave the Mercer impression another go:
“Ahhright then ... y’all gonna get to the bottom of this now. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”
Then, just before they put me under, the doctor answered in his best Larry the Cable Guy voice:
“Let’s get ’er done!”
My last thought before going to sleep was: “How reassuring.”
Thankfully, the procedure went well. I’m good for several more years. I’ve seen moments like that one in hospital rooms, waiting areas, funeral homes, and around kitchen tables where exhausted families carried burdens they never imagined carrying.
Two weeks before the colonoscopy, I was playing the piano for the funeral of a beloved pastor here in Montana. The sanctuary was heavy with grief. Then, while adjusting my music, my sleeve caught the piano lid.
Apparently, the thing had been engineered by the same people who design bear traps. The lid slammed shut with a crack loud enough to wake the dead, which, considering the setting, felt especially unfortunate. The whole congregation jumped. Then, they laughed while I turned the color of a stop sign. And for just a few seconds, in the middle of grief, people breathed again. Not because suffering is funny, but because despair is heavy, and laughter gives weary people enough strength to pick the load back up.
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Somewhere along the way, we started confusing seriousness with rigidity. We became suspicious of humor in hard moments, as if laughter dishonors grief.
I don’t believe that. The older I get, the more I believe humor can be an act of stewardship rather than denial.
It’s not pretending things don’t hurt or making light of tragedy. Just refusing to surrender every corner of the heart to darkness.
Hospitals have a way of distilling what matters. Sitting in waiting rooms, hearing monitors beep through the night, or listening to the wheels of a gurney rattle down a hallway strips away much of the endless noise masquerading as importance in our culture.
You start remembering what matters.
A friend recently asked how I’m approaching decisions about my cancer treatment. My answer was simple: Stewardship will drive this decision. Thankfully, we caught my cancer early enough that I have options. That didn’t happen through panic. It happened through paying attention.
Caregivers are notorious for postponing their own health while tending to everyone else. I’ve certainly done my share of that over the years. But healthy caregivers make better caregivers. Screenings matter, rest is important, and laughter is essential from time to time.
Stewardship rarely stays confined to one corner of life. When we learn to steward our bodies and hearts well, it often spills into our finances, our work, our relationships, and the way we carry responsibility itself.
In a culture consumed with debt, rancor, fraud, and endless outrage, the problems can feel too large and tangled to fix.
But perhaps stewardship still begins the same way it always has: with individuals willing to accept responsibility for what’s right in front of them.
This include our health, families, work, and our other obligations.
Healthy cultures are built the same way healthy lives are: one act of stewardship at a time.
When the caregiver needs care
I don’t get sick days, so the test results were posted to my chart while I was sitting in my office. I opened them before I ever saw the doctor.
I knew what I was looking at, but I checked it again. After researching what I already suspected, I sat there for a moment. The first thought came and went, then the one that remained: What about Gracie?
For 40 years, I have been my wife’s caregiver. After a catastrophic car wreck at age 17, doctors didn’t expect her to survive the night. No one imagined she would marry, have children, and live to see grandchildren.
Trusting Him does not remove the burden, but it defines how I can carry it.
But she did. What didn’t change was the crises.
When the surgery count approaches 100, a crisis is no longer an interruption. It becomes the environment. For 40 years, it has never plateaued.
The pressure doesn’t arrive once a month in tidy episodes. Sometimes it arrives daily. You live on alert, always vigilant, always calculating what could go wrong next. Choking. Seizures. Code blue. Falls. Wound care. Non-responsive. I’ve seen it all. This is the terrain we live in.
Our life runs on a system most people never see and few could imagine. Meals, medications, transfers, safety, transportation, finances, advocacy. I carry all of it. I speak when she can’t. I’m there when she needs something as simple as a glass of water.
It’s a highly specialized operation with no backup, no redundancy, and no margin for error. And like millions of caregivers across this country, I am the one running it.
Two days after I received my test results, sitting in the exam room, the doctor asked if I had any questions. I had the usual, plus two more: How much care will I need afterward? And how much care will I still be able to provide?
That’s how close this is.
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So when cancer enters the picture, the question isn’t so much about survival as collapse. If I go down, what happens to her?
That’s not fear; it’s just math.
We spend a great deal of time arguing about who is fit to lead this country. But across this country, there are millions of people quietly carrying responsibilities that would break most of the people we argue about.
Those responsibilities don’t come with cameras or talking, and they have no margin for error. There is just the weight of responsibility.
And when something like cancer enters that equation, the question isn’t political, but structural. What actually holds up when the person holding everything together can’t?
This diagnosis was caught early. That gives me time to deal with it.
Caregivers are told to take care of themselves. I have said that for years, and I meant it. But this case is no longer maintenance. It requires intervention, recovery, and being pulled away from the work. And that interrupts and affects everything: Health. Emotions. Lifestyle. Profession. Money. Endurance. Nothing is left untouched.
Spell that out, and it says what so many caregivers struggle to say: Sometimes we need help.
I need the system to hold while I step away long enough to deal with this current issue, and that means accepting care that won’t be done the way I would do it. It means training others and paying for help. It means absorbing the reality that things will go wrong, as they inevitably do.
But this is where conviction steps in. My wife has a Savior, and I am not that Savior.
But still, breakfast has to be made and the laundry has to be done. Trusting Him does not remove the burden, but it defines how I can carry it.
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The question I have asked for years now returns to me: Christian, what do you believe?
If I believe what I say I do, then what is required of me in this moment? We sing hymns about trusting God, and times like this are when that trust is tested.
Years ago, a reporter asked me, “What would Jesus do as a caregiver?”
I don’t know what He would do. I know what He did do. From the cross, He looked at His mother and entrusted her to John.
Over the years, I have trusted surgeons I barely knew to take my wife into a room and do what I could not. I have signed the papers, handed her over, and waited. Not because I understood everything they were doing, but because I trusted that they did.
I trust surgeons I barely know. How much more can I trust the Savior whom I do?
In His hands, what looks severe is not careless. It is precise and purposeful.
I don’t get to step out of this, but I am not standing in it alone. So I take the next step.
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