A nearby resident, Miss Lula May, sauntered into my crowded rehab room wearing 4 inch silver heels and a painted face reminiscent of Tammy Fay to announce her miracle:
“Look at me, people.  Do I look different to you?”  Her eyes darted from face to face.  “I don’t sleep around, lemme tell you.  I haven’t had sex in years and I AM PREGNANT.”

Of course, all conversation halted and attention centered on Miss Lula.

“You ain’t pregnant, Lula you crazy old bat.  You’re just fat like the rest of us,” heckled the Yankee transplant, Miss Pessimistica.

“YOU AREN’T A BELIEVER!”  Miss Lula fired back.  “I am a CHRISTIAN and this is a MIRACLE.”  Spittle flew from her mouth as she lunged towards Miss Pessimistica.

“When are you due?”  My fabulous OT partner slid between them on one of our rolling stools.

Miss Lula’s face softened.  “Well, by my calculations I’m about 7 months along, so a spring baby.  Oh I love babies, don’t you?”

“Get the hell outta here, you dingbat.”  Miss Pessimistica waved the psuedo-pregnant 75 year old off like a mosquito.  “I’m thirsty here.  Can someone get us some sodas?”

“I can’t have caffeine.  It’s bad for the baby.”  Miss Lula rubbed her protruding belly.

“Then go get the rest of us some and shut the hell up.”

Miss Lula clacked down the hall in pursuit of sugar free orange soda and we spent an hour discussing pregnancy, lunacy, and why our jobs would make a great reality show.

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