And when Chicago can't help you, go to Rochester.
Dear Chicago:
I write with a heavy heart, my love. I’m leaving you.
Not forever. Not for more than a few days, really. But I have to go, darling. You simply haven’t been able to give me what I need.
What I need is a solution to my really unpleasant, officially chronic health concern. I’ve seen specialists from Kennilworth to the Loop, from Northwestern to the University of Chicago hospitals. No one from your fold has been able to help me, Chicago, so I’m off to the Mayo Clinic on Monday, where I’ll be poked and prodded by doctors that my mother says, “are the best.”
My mother loves you too, you know. She always has. This is hard on her, too.
Goodbye, Chicago, and farewell. And when you have a second, could you please work on moving yourself up the healthcare ladder? Because there are a zillion magazines that love to rate that kind of shit and you’re probably really low on the totem pole at this point. I mean, come on. I live in the third-largest city in the country and I can’t find a doctor who can help me? You suck!
Anyway.
I love you.
Always,
Mary
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