It is 3:30 am and I am sitting, clothed, in my waterless bathtub reading a novel. Fleishman Is in Trouble.1 My son is playing video games on the toilet. “I felt a little tummy rumble,” he said, when he whispered me awake. “I need company.” We are waiting for poop. Hours ago, he sat at the dinner table with a cup of blue juice mixed with laxatives. Sobbing. “It tastes like skin, Mommy.”
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Fleishman R. Listless. JAMA. 2020;323(14):1347–1348. doi:10.1001/jama.2020.3540
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