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240 pages, Hardcover
Published September 15, 2026
"The doctor walks in. We can't read his expression. We can't tell if I'm dying or not. "Have you had any issues with your nose in the past? the doctor asks as he gingerly pokes my face."Really, my only problem is with the publisher of Proof of Progress who had it printed in the smallest font he could find. Paper and ink aren't that expensive. Harper can afford it. Older folks of a certain age would enjoy Proof of Progress, but alas ...
"My nose? No," I say confidently.
"Are you sure?" he asks. I hesitate. I think about it. Did I have my issues with your nose in the past? He has a little smirk on his face that seems to suggest that he knows that I have had issues with my nose in the past.
"Oh," I say when the memory comes back. In 1970, a year or so after my father died, I may or may not have shoved nearly an entire pillow up my nose. Each night, while I drifted off to sleep in my lilac bed, I would peel away a little stuffing from a hole in the corner of my pillow and stick it up my nose as a form of self-soothing or stress relief or who knows what. Eventually, I got the flu and my mother replaced all my bedding and I sneezed most of the pillow out of my nose. "No," I say to the doctor. "I can't think of anything."
The doctor waits. He looks at me. "Maria, just tell." George says, thinking that I'm withholding information about a secret nose job. So I tell. I close my eyes and tell the pillow-up-the-nose story, and I end it like this: "I did that until the pillow disappeared."
"And it's still there," the doctors says.
... Pain. I won't go into all the details. But I will say that large metal forceps are involved. We have identified the problem. I have been walking around with a thirty-year-old pillow in my face.