The Importance of Scientific Literacy--Even for Scientists!

Why is a public understanding of science important? It’s tempting to say: “how could itnot be important, it’s science! The coolest thing in the world! Everything runs on science!”, but that only appeals to those already preaching the science gospel. In this post I’ll try to dissect and reify what most people intuitively know: that a public understanding of science is important, especially for its civic and economic benefits. Furthermore, I’ll argue that popular science–especially the ‘controversial’ kind (think The Bell Curve) increases scientific literacy among the public by introducing them to the more grizzly, uncouth side of science.

Defining ‘the Public’ & ‘Scientific Literacy’

Who makes up the public? And what does it mean to be scientifically literate? More to the point: are scientists part of the public, and are they all by default scientifically literate?

To answer, let me first state the obvious: scientists aren’t a monolithic bunch. Granted there are common occupational threads, but in an age of specialization it’s not unlikely that the high-energy theorist next door on the right doesn’t know diddly about what thegenomicist on the left is doing. So when I say ‘the public’ I don’t mean non-scientists, I mean non-specialist (in whatever field we happen to be discussing). This definition gives the term “the public” some extra fluidity, since it implies that who we consider part of the public changes from topic to topic.

In 1996, the National Academy of Science (NAS) gave some bullet points (below) outlining a few things that every scientifically literate person should be able to do. It may seem a little pedantic, but let’s just assume for now that it’s better to overshoot our definition than to undershoot it. In case you feel like glazing over the list, let me guide your eyes to points 4 & 5, which is where the real action is—the others are justprerequisites for doing science.

1. Understand experiment and reasoning as well as basic scientific facts and their meaning
2. Ask, find, or determine answers to questions derived from curiosity about everyday experiences
3. Describe, explain, and predict natural phenomena
4. Read with understanding articles about science in the popular press and to engage in social conversation about the validity of the conclusions
5. Identify scientific issues underlying national and local decisions and express positions that are scientifically and technologically informed
6. Evaluate the quality of scientific information on the basis of its source and the methods used to generate it
7. Pose and evaluate arguments based on evidence and to apply conclusions from such arguments appropriately

Those two points actually prevent a scientist from automatically being considered scientifically literate! This may at first seem silly, but a moment’s reflection should show why this makes good sense. Think about any recent science-centered national debate, for example GMO controversies. There’s nothing necessary in a physicist’s education that would place her above a non-scientist in thinking about the details of the GMO debates—they’re both non-specialists, i.e. members of the public. Although of course the physicist does probably have better tools than the non-scientist to conduct data analysis, in the end they both need to amble over to a computer or library and educate themselves. And besides, any advantage the physicist has fades when you consider that non-specialist scientists and lay folk alike will outsource their research and read popular summaries instead of the original journal articles.

To recap: for a scientist to be scientifically literate, they need to be informed about fields besides their own. So while we’ve nailed down what it means to scientifically literate, I still haven’t convinced you that being scientifically literate is even important (which is the hub of this entire post, so I’d better hop to it!)

Civic Duty Vs. Economics

Assume that you came out of your mother as a cognitively complete, fully rational human being. Let’s also assume that, upon extraction, the attending doctor handed you a contract and had you sign under the line that read “I, Applied Sentience Reader, hereby consent to living in a democratic republic and accept the accompanying responsibilities which include, but are not limited to, staying informed about current political and policy issues.” Those responsibilities are called civic duties and that democratic republic is called the United States of America. Sorry if I’m bringing back flashbacks of your high-school civics course, but it had to be done.

Scientific literacy—in conjunction with political, mathematical, and other literacies—is acivic responsibility. Furthermore (and my girlfriend recently took a class on conspiracy theories, so I have solid third-hand knowledge to support my claims here) a scientifically informed electorate is needed to safeguard the country from being sheep-herded by political powers wielding pseudoscience to sway opinion and policy in their favor. The founding fathers understood this well.

Fortunately or unfortunately, the argument above doesn’t really cut it for most people, including myself, since patriotism is now seen as passé, if not plain weird. The better argument is the one from economics—the one championed by America’s favorite popularizer of science, Neil Degrasse Tyson, in this interview below.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P0E-9uJgDZU

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, out of the 20 highest paying jobs in year 2012, only 2 did not require training in science. If you look at the list, you’ll see doctors, dentists, surgeons, engineers, etc. This isn’t surprising. There’s a high demand for these professions and a comparative shortage of people with the training and skill-set needed to carry out the tasks.

But what about the rest of the jobs at the top of the salary bell curve, so to speak? What are employers looking for? Well, if we believe NDT (and he’s definitely not the only one to expound this view) then employers are indeed looking for analytical-yet-creative thinking—whatever that means. They’re looking for people who can solve problems; they’re looking for people who can look at, diagnose, and fix something that’s gone wrong. This is a really tough skill to learn for people who aren’t ‘good’ at math/science/handiwork, but there’s definitely hope!

We Need More Controversial Pop Sci

I’m a big fan of the learn-by-arguing pedagogy, adopted from the ancient Greeks and perfected by the Jews (an old saying goes: 10 Jews, 11 opinions). Controversial popular science, like The Bell Curve and more recently A Troublesome Inheritance, require us–if we’re being honest—to acknowledge and face-up to subtleties in the arguments and evidence that might not have been apparent earlier. It’s through this process of scrutiny and final resolution that an opinion is formed. For me, and I’m sure many others, this type of reasoning is akin to the reasoning used in problem solving: I like to understand why things are correct by seeing why the alternative is wrong. This is just one positive aspect of controversial popular science. The second one below is, in my view, much more important.

At the heart of science is an error-correcting mechanism, almost like a self-harming pacemaker.   The acrimonious exchanges one often sees following the publication of controversial pop-sci show —despite being ugly and unclean— how science is done: ideas are thrown out into the marketplace to either be annihilated or hailed as triumphs. Controversies serve to heighten public understanding of how science works outside of the “scientific method” algorithm taught in government school. It also serves tohumanize scientists and to curb the trend of science idolatry we’ve been seeing a bit in our society, something I’ll also discuss in the second part of this post.

Conclusion

I’ve touched on a lot of stuff, so let’s summarize and wrap it all up. I first defined what was meant by the public and scientific literacy, arguing (nitpickingly) that scientists should be considered part of the public. I then went on to bolster my claim that a public understanding of science is important for civic responsibilities, and doubly so for economic needs.  I concluded by arguing that controversial popular science serves to increase scientific literacy by introducing people to the non-standard components of science, namely the ‘marketplace of ideas’.

The Ravine

The Ravine

Seven-year old Lev fingered at the yellow star on his lapel as he and Henri, his older brother by 13-years, walked through the forest with the rest of their village.

“But why do we have to go, Henri?” Lev asked. “If it is a village meeting, should not the only ones attending be adults?”

“I told you Lev, they want everyone here.”

“But will there still be time for games after? You promised to play with me, remember?” Lev implored.

The villagers looked beaten down. The woman had bags under their already sad eyes and the men looked scraggly and malnourished. Children were tugging at the skirt bottoms of their mothers, alerting them of their boredom. The sky was grey above and the leaves were soggy and dead below. Up ahead Henri could see uniformed guards, keeping the line marching forward. He looked down at his brother. “Lev, how about a game now?”

“Here?” Lev gasped. “Now? Sure! What?”

“Have you heard of the quiet game?”

“Aw Henri, that’s so boring!” Lev cried. “I play that all the time in school. I don’t want to play that now.”

“Well, have you ever played the candy version of the quiet game?” Henri asked.

“No!” Lev was shocked, having thought himself familiar with every game known to humankind. “What is it?”

“Oh, no, you don’t want to play that game” Henri teased, “so we won’t.”

“Aw no come on Henri, please?” Lev begged.

“Nope! That’s what you get”

“Hennnrriiiiii pleeeaaaaseeee”.

“Alright fine. You see that ditch up ahead?”

“Yeah?”

“When we pass by it, I’m going to push you in. Don’t make a sound, or else you lose the game. Okay?”

“Okay…but how do I win?”

“If you stay in the ditch until nightfall, you get my after-dinner sweets for a month.”

“A month?”

“A month.” Henri confirmed.

“Deal.”

They approached the ditch. It was covered with a flat bed of leaves and pale-brown twigs. The soldiers were still safely far ahead, harassing a grandmother who had tripped and fallen.

“Okay Lev—now!” Henri shoved his brother into the ditch. Lev, always the best at games, made no sound. Someone behind Henri hissed fool, what are you doing! He responded with a backward glance that ended the conversation before it began.

Lev hugged his knees as he sat in the ditch, listening to all the footsteps above him. He could hardly keep from giggling—how he loved to hide! He sat until all the footsteps were far away and to the left of him, towards the village meeting. He wondered when night would come. He tried to locate the sun, but it was well-hidden behind the familiar, drab clouds of Ukraine.

He was startled by a loud POP coming from the direction of the village meeting. He wondered what it could be. Balloons? Then there was another POP. POP. Another. POP. They kept coming. For a second he entertained the idea of going to investigate. He even got up to his feet—but the thought of losing an additional month’s supply of candy held him momentarily steadfast. But eventually night came, and cold along with it. Lev gave up almost immediately—he didn’t have any intention to freeze to death, thank you very much.

So he walked toward the village meeting on the path everyone else had taken. As he got closer the popping became more thunderous. Now it was more like the cracking of a bullwhip. CRACK. Pause. CRACK. Pause. CRACK CRACK. Pause. Lev for the life of him could not figure out what the noise was. Being a natural voyeur, he decided to snoop rather than make his presence known. He ducked back into the woods and continued towards the source. CRACK CRACK CRACK. Lev was simply taking the approach which made the sound louder.

Finally he saw a person. A soldier with his back facing the forest. His hands were on his hips and he was very still, expect for periodically taking of his helmet and running his hands through his blonde hair.

Lev took a few steps forward, but accidently stepped on a loud branch, which made the soldier whirl around, clutching his rifle and scanning the woods madly. Lev froze. The soldier’s gun was pointed right at him. Lev held his breath so that the only sound he could hear was his heart slamming oxygen-rich blood into his brain. The soldier took slow, tentative steps towards the forest, flinching at every noise. Then, without warning, he fired three rounds into the forest. CRACK CRACK CRACK.

None of them even came near Lev.

The guard, satisfied, turned back to resume his post. Lev waited a few minutes, his heart still beating furiously. He slowly inched backwards into the woods, making sure his steps were light and inaudible. When he was far enough to be sure the solider wouldn’t hear him, he walked back towards the village meeting, this time from a different angle. As he came closer, he saw through the trees three soldiers aiming their rifles at something obstructed by a pile of dirt. Their backs were turned from him. He inched closer. Closer. All he had to do was see over a pile and then…

He stopped in his tracks.

Henri.

CRACK.

Lev turned and ran into the forest. As fast as he knew how. Tears stung his face and fear powered his muscles.

For as long as he could, he ran. Even after the sun came up, he ran.

Even after the last gunshot echoed across the Babi Yar ravine, he ran. 

Mr. Business Degree

Mr. Business Degree

George's wife had grown fat after pregnancy. The smooth, ebony thighs George had worshiped in high-school were now cellulitic and coarse. Their daughter, only three, was obese. When George told his wife that it wasn't good for their daughter to be so overweight, she responded:

"Oh, what do you know Mr. Business Degree?"

At this stabbing remark, George felt a lump climb up his throat and, not wanting to scare his daughter, ran out the front door. As he stomped down his driveway, George cursed his parents for making him major in business; he cursed his wife for becoming fat and dense and cruel after their marriage, and he cursed himself for not having the spine to simply make the decisions he deep-down knew he should make. Then, after a hipster in a Prius slammed into George going 50 in a residential area, killing him instantly, George's dislodged spirit cursed itself for not looking both ways before it crossed the god-dammed road. And as George's soul was being lifted out of its crumpled, bleeding shell by the hand of a radiant human form, he cursed cursed himself for his militant atheism these past 30 years. 

"Are you God?" George asked the light.

"Yes," the light responded, in a deep voice.

"Am I dead?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Why?" The light paused.

"No."

"No?"

"No," the light repeated.

"What do you mean, no?"

"No. The answer to the question of why you are dead is no," the light said, sounding rather impatient.

"Oh," George's brow furrowed, "Am I going to heaven?"

"Again, no. Come with me."

The light put its palm on George's shoulder. Suburbia melted away to reveal cloud underneath, above, and as far as George could see in every compass direction. The clouds above were corpuscular, the clouds below were firm and opaque.

"Where are we?" George asked.

"Where do you think we are?"

"Heaven."

"Are you thick?" the light asked, "I already told you weren't going to heaven."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Nevermind it. This is where we take the souls who still have bodies we can put them back into."

"I can go back?" George's eyes widened.

"Yes. But listen to the alternative first," the light cleared its throat, "With ease, I can put you back into your body. You will resume life as it was ten minutes before your death, with no recollection of me or the accident or anything."

"Okay..."

"But there is another option. Your daughter is in no small danger, as you know. She is tragically overweight, and your wife is doing irreparable damage to her mind. She should be outside, running, exploring, learning. You know all this."

"Yes," George nodded solemnly.

"So here is my offer. I can kill your wife."

"No!" George gasped.

"Ah, ah. Listen. I can kill your wife, but I can save your daughter. It's true, your daughter will grow up an orphan. But I can embed in her your love for science early enough so that she can pursue it with natural ease as she grows. But to do this you will have to be erased. It's the only way."

George thought about it for a few moments. "Will it hurt?"

"Will what hurt?"

"Being erased."

"Not at all. You will fall asleep on that pedestal over there..." The light motioned with its head to the left, towards a raised cloud bed, "...and fall asleep forever. I can assure you there's no pain involved."

"And will my wife's death hurt?"

"Assuredly not. She will die in a way similar to you--in bed, in peace."

"Will she be erased?"

"No."

"Will she know of my decision?"

"Yes."

George looked up at the light shining through the clouds. In his head he saw his obese wife and daughter, sitting together on the couch, irradiated by the television's anemic light, eating from a box of pop-ems. They were watching a show called Catty Housewifes of the Midwest. It wasn't a hard decision, but something still didn't quite make sense to George.

"I don't understand. If you're real, if heaven is real, what's the point of studying science? Why would I want my daughter to study something I know is wrong?"

"When you were alive, did you know science was right?"

"I mean it worked...you know, it predicted things. So I thought it was at least on the right track..."

"And indeed it is." the light said.

George smiled. "Then I know what I want to do" he said. "I reject your options and propose a third. Give my daughter a choice. Visit her in a dream when she's ready and show her all the possible life-paths she can walk down. Let her pick the one that makes her the happiest."

"I can't do that, George." the light said.

"Why not? You’re God…” George protested.

"Because that was not an option. And because as a general rule I don't grant prophetic visions to humans. But your idea is noble nonetheless. I'll tell you what. I will give your daughter the means by which she can discover what she loves. I’ll let her go down a thousand roads before she chooses her own. I can do this. But because you are not a God, I will not tell you how."

"Will I still be erased?" George asked.

"Yes."

"And will my wife still be killed?"

"That I cannot answer." the light said.

George thought about it for a few moments and said. "Do it".

And it was done, before George could reconsider. He lost consciousness, and his spirit fell to the cloud floor. The light leaned down and picked it up easily, the paltry thing that it was, and dropped it onto the cloud-bed, which subsumed it upon contact.

------------------

CENTRAL NEW JERSEY NEWS BLOG

4/21/15

BREAKING: STEAMROLLER EN ROUTE TO BEGIN NEW PUBLIC LIBRARY CONSTRUCTION KILLS OBESE WOMAN CROSSING STREET

Rosemary

Rosemary

It was the way she looked up from the stretcher that got me. It was a look that all at once seemed to say thank you, why did you bring this on me, and I’m scared. But I think it was the juxtaposition of this person—incontinent, obese, unable to walk, short of breath, old — against the picture of this same person hanging on her fridge— young, bursting, intense— that really got me.

I called her Rose-Murray, even though her name was Rosemary, because that’s how my immigrant parents bastardized it and it stuck. Her house was pungent with the smell of urine, on account of the incontinence. It used to be lovely with the smell of lilacs in better days, when she would invite me in for some candies. I pointed out to the EMT after they had finished walking her from the living room to the front door, then out the front door and into the stretcher, that she was leaking. He shrugged and said:

“Eh, these shoes have seen worse”.

Here’s what happened. I got dropped off at home by a friend after we attended a lecture together called “Using Supernovae to Measure the Age of the Universe.” We were physics majors back then. The age of the universe was 13.4 billion years back then. Now it’s 13.8, give or take a few million. 

As I walked up my driveway, I saw Rosemary sitting there on her porch with two teenagers from my court crowding her. I should mention I lived in a townhouse back then, so our houses (my house and Rosemary’s) were connected. Her door faced my door. Anyways I saw her sitting there on her porch and she was sitting in that weird, upright-yet-crouching position people use when they’re having difficulty breathing. I approached my house and smiled at Rosemary like I usually do when she’s sitting outside and asked how she was.

“Not too well” she says.

“Oh no, why’s that?” I ask.

“Can’t catch my breath”.

I turned to the two teenagers standing with her. They had no idea what had happened and what was going on and I’m nearly certain they were in the middle of a minor drug deal, so I told them it was fine and that I would handle it and that they could leave and thank you.

“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” I ask Rosemary.

“Oh no, no.” she replies. “I really don’t want to go to the hospital.”

“Well you don’t have to go to the hospital if you don’t want to, you know. But we should call someone” I say.

“Okay…call” she concedes through labored breaths.  

So I dialed 911 and tried to sound as nonchalant as possible about the whole thing, so as not to scare her. 

“911 this is Tom speaking, what is your emergency?”

“Yes hi, I’m calling about my neighbor. She’s elderly and having trouble breathing.”

“Okay, and what’s the address?”

“36 Rock Court”

“Okay, and your last name?”

“Kozachkov. K-O-Z. A-C-H. K-O-V.”

“Okay and first name?”

“Leo. L-E-O.”

“Okay Leo, tell me again what the problem is.”

“My neighbor is having trouble breathing, she’s elderly.”

“How old is she?”

“Uh, hold one sec.” I pull the phone away from my ear. “How old are you Rosemary?”

“Seventy” she responds “but I don’t want to go to a hospital”.

“Okay, she’s seventy” I say into the receiver.

“Okay, we’re dispatching an ambulance over to your location right now.”

“Okay, thanks”.

“Do you know if she’s on any medications Leo?”

“Uh, hold on again.” I say. “Rosemary. Are you on any medications?”

“Yes” she replies “but I really don’t want to go to the hospital”.

“Yes” I say to the operator.

“Okay, great. If you could just gather up all the medications she’s on before the EMTs arrive, that’d be great.”

“Okay sure” I say.

“Okay, thanks Leo. If anything else happens, dial 911 again. The ambulance should be there shortly.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Putting the phone in my pocket, I turn to Rosemary and say, “okay, they’re sending an ambulance. But don’t worry, they’re just going to check you out to see if everything is okay (which I’m sure everything is) and that’s it”.

“Okay that’s fine” she says. “I just really don’t want to go to the hospital. I was just there. I got back yesterday.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. I used to be a lifeguard you know”

“Oh really?” she asks. “That’s good to hear.”

“Oh yeah” I say. “And I would get people out of breath all the time. Young kids mostly and some older people.”

“What was wrong with them?”

“You never know. Sometimes allergies, sometimes something else. You never know.” I lied. She shakes her head, eyes closed.

“I just don’t know what happened…”

A police car pulled around the corner with its lights on, stopping in front of her driveway.

“Oh no” she groans, looking embarrassed. “It really isn’t a big deal…”

“Ah, the cops are bored here” I tell her. 

“It’s just a formal thing. Doesn’t really mean anything.”

The police man’s face had the expression of someone who could and should be off doing something else right now. Like coming all the way out here (10 minutes max) was an utter time-waste for him.

“Hello ma’am. Having difficulty breathing?” he declares, more than asks.

“Yes. But I don’t want to go to the hospital”.

“Okay. And have you taken any medications today?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, do you know what they’re called?”

“Um. Thoro…thoro-something. And then Albu…something. I’m not sure.”

“Okay. And what were you doing right before you had this shortness of breath?”

“Nothing” she exclaims “just writing!”

“Okay, just writing, I see. Okay, I brought along this oxygen tank with me that will help you breathe easier. If you just could put these two tubes here in your nose for me just like that…yeup…just…like…that… good. And then take this part here and put it behind your ears to hold it all in…place…just…like…great. Better?”

Rosemary inhales deeply through her nose. 

“Better” she says.

“Okay great. I think the EMTs are almost here…” he puts his ear to his shoulder and presses a button on his walkie talkie. “Ah okay, here they are”. An ambulance truck rounds the corner, stopping behind the police truck, blocking my driveway.

Rosemary says “oh no, oh they didn’t have to call everybody, I’m okay. Really. I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

The five EMTs step out of the car one-by-one, like it’s a clown car, and I notice that one of the EMTs is a kid I used to sort of hang out with in high school. He walks right past me like I’m not ever there. This I expected. They taught us at lifeguard training that whenever the EMTs arrived, your job was done and it was time to stand back and get out the way. So I stood back and got out of the way, watching the five EMTs descended upon Rosemary. I could only really catch snippets of their conversation with her…

“…taking any medication...?”

“…who is the president of the united states…?”

“…happened before?”

Throughout their exchange Rosemary kept looking over in my direction, through the shifting bodies, with that face—thank you, why did you bring this on me, and I’m scared. Finally they decided it was best for her not to be out in the cold (this was around the end of wintertime, it was still chilly), so they brought Rosemary and the oxygen tank indoors. She could barely walk, which came as a surprise to her. As they shuffled painfully inside, with all the EMTs supporting her, she asked to no one in particular: “why can’t I walk all of the sudden? Why can’t I walk anymore?” No one replied.

I stood against one of the support beams outside my house, not really sure what to do with myself. Eventually the kid I knew from highschool came back out, gave me a head nod, and said “sup dude” as he walked over.

“So what happened?” he asked, arms folded.

“I dunno, I came home and she was just sitting there and she told me she couldn’t really breathe. So I called. Do you know what’s wrong with her?”

“Nah” he replied. “She doesn’t seem too bad. I mean, she should go to hospital.”

“Yeah” I say. “But she really doesn’t want to.”

“I know. But the thing is she answered all our questions, so we can’t force her. It’d technically be kidnapping, you know?”

“Yeah. You should convince her to go though I mean.”

“We’re trying. She says she was just there for something else and the doctors cleared her so she doesn’t want to go back.”

“Ah.”

“I mean I don’t blame her” he continued. 

“People spend like all fucking day just sitting there in the hospital waiting for the test results to come in. Sucks”.

“Yeah…but still…”

“Yeah, I’m sure we’ll convince her. Anyway thanks for calling it in.”

“Yeah sure.”

“Hey, so do you see Patty a lot still? I never even see him anymore. Been so busy with this shit.”

“Yeah actually, I was just over there yesterday. I mean you know him…nothing’s really changed” I smile weakly.

“Yeah” he laughs “I don’t think Patty will ever change”. The walkie talkie on his shoulder starts going off, garbled, static voices come through.

“Ah alright, I gotta head back in there. Hey it was nice seeing you again man. ”

“Yeah definitely. Hey, if you need anything or whatever just knock. I’m right here” I motion to my front door.

“Yeah sure. Hey, tell Patty I said ‘sup’ next time you see him”

“Alright man, I will. Take it easy.” I say as I open the door to my house.

“Yup, you too” he says as he walks into Rosemary’s house.

I don’t leave the window by my door. I watch for about half an hour even though nothing is happening outside. I just feel somehow attached to the situation, being the person that called it in and all. Finally I see the EMT I know open Rosemary’s front door again, walk down her driveway to the ambulance and pull out a stretcher. I open my door and say “you convinced her?”

“Yeah” he says. “Wasn’t too hard”.

“Can I go in there?” I ask.

“Yeah sure” he says.

As I opened the door to Rosemary’s house the first thing that hit me was the smell. I hadn’t been in there for I guess probably around two years. The stench of urine was so overwhelming, so acute, I felt lightheaded and my knees buckled a bit. The second thing that hit me was the musty darkness of the place. There was hardly any artificial lighting, just the sun beams coming through the dusty windows. There were papers and Bibles and Jesus Candles strewn all over the place with no logic to it whatsoever. It looked like the inside of a church-turned-office after it had been abandoned for twenty years.

We walked from the front door to the back of the house, where I saw Rosemary sitting on a big chair in her living room surrounded by the four EMTs, still asking her questions. She noticed that I had come in the room and again gave me that look again: thank you, why did you bring this on me, and I’m scared.

“Rosemary, I know this guy” pointing to the EMT from highschool, “you can trust him”. All the EMTs laughed genuinely, she forced it. She looked weak and afraid. One of the EMTs walks over to me and asked if I was the one who placed the call.

“Yup, that was me”, I say.

“Okay” she replies, thrusting a clipboard in my hands “I’m going to need you to print your name here and sign you name here…and…good. Thanks.”

A different EMT, one standing with Rosemary says “okay miss, we’re going to get you up now and get you into the stretcher. Is that okay?” He talks rather loudly, as if she’s partially deaf. And partially slow.

“Yes, that’s fine” she nods.

“Okay, just grab your walker here and…I gotcha…yup, now push yourself off the chair...just like that, good. Now just hold on to me and we’ll get you over there.”

As they tottered past me, again—that look. That obscene, stabbing glare. Thank you, why did you bring this on me, and I’m scared.

I tap the EMT I know on the shoulder to be discrete and point to the puddles trailing Rosemary. He nods understandingly.

“Yeah, she’s leaking a bit” he says. Then he shrugs. “Eh, these shoes have seen worse.”

Throughout the entire excruciating five minutes it took her and the EMTs to get from the back of the house to the front Rosemary was muttering, wondering again to apparently no one but God and herself, “why can’t I walk all of the sudden?” When they eventually got to the door, there was a little ledge between the inner wood and the concrete outside. Rosemary couldn’t lift her leg over that half-inch bump. The EMTs had to lift it for her. And then they had to lift all of her—and she wasn’t a light woman by any means—out the door and into the waiting stretcher.

As she laid all strapped in to the thing I stood in the doorway of her house. I asked her:

“Rosemary, do you want me to turn off the lights in your house?” She closed her eyes and nodded yes and then she said:

“Lock the door too, would you?”

Then they rolled her away and into the truck and the EMTs all thanked me again for calling it in and they left with Rosemary. Right before they closed the ambulance door she looked back at me standing there in her doorway and gave me that look again. Thank you, why did you bring this on me, and I’m scared. That was the last time I ever saw Rosemary. She died a few days later. I didn’t even know her last name. I still don’t. I think it was something Greek sounding.

I turned and walked back into her house, the smell of urine no less forceful in my nose. I went to turn off her kitchen light, which was the only light on. As I looked around the find the switch, I noticed a picture on the refrigerator. It looked like one of those carnival booth pictures, the one you usually take with a boyfriend or girlfriend. A vertical strip, three quick snaps in succession. All three were of a young women. She was beautiful. She had full cheeks and eyes that (even though the picture was in black and white) looked vital and alive. The women in the picture even reminded me of my girlfriend a bit. The date at the bottom said 1950. It took me a full minute to realize that it was a picture of Rosemary. Jesus Christ I thought to myself. How the fuck does this turn into that? I thought about the woman just taken away by the ambulance. Her mind had been slipping for years, and she struggled with weight problems for as long as I had known her. I thought again about my girlfriend and tried to imagine what she would look like at 70 years old. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t see it. Then I thought, what will I look like when I’m seventy years old? 

Again, just couldn’t see it.

Shutting off the light, I walked back to the front door. I took another look at the inside of the house. All the dust, the papers, the clutter, the piss puddles on the laminated wood.

I made sure the door was locked before I shut it. After that I stood on her doormat—which said WELCOME ALL! in flowery print—for a little while, noticing that I had accidentally left the door to my own house open.

Great I thought, now the whole house is probably cold.