What We’re Reading: 10/31/24

From the New Yorker
Illustration from the New Yorker for Laura Kolbe's poem shared below.

A couple of highlights from around the web that made it into our feeds this week.

This Is Your Body on Sugar

This interactive article explores how added sugars impact every system—from your teeth to your heart. Frequent blood sugar spikes can stress your pancreas, contribute to Type 2 diabetes, and even alter your brain’s reward system, fueling cravings. Meanwhile, your liver turns excess sugar into fat, increasing the risk of liver disease, obesity, and cardiovascular issues. The piece also offers practical advice: limit added sugars to 10 percent of daily calories and beware of hidden sources in everyday foods.  (From nytimes.com) 

Health Care's Colossus - A Series

A six-part series where each part is important and relevant to our collective experience receiving medical care in the United States. It uncovers how UnitedHealth Group, the largest U.S. healthcare company, uses its vast physician network to drive profits and influence the industry. Through months of investigative reporting, reporters reveal questionable practices—from pressuring doctors with financial incentives to inflating patient costs, all while lawmakers push for regulatory curbs. A must-read.  (From statnews.com) 


Closing it out with a beautiful poem from the New Yorker:

Pregnancy on Street-Cleaning Day
By Laura Kolbe

When I thought myself most honest

I was merely moving

aside from the relevant surface
 

and not getting down

to the nature of things.
 

Me in my rattletrap

baring the black road

so the sweeper truck touches

its gray skirts there and departs

with ratty nibbled leaf.
 

Then I would roll my vehicle back

to the lip of stone fringed above

what’s happening in the street.

Little changed.
 

I mean to announce the coming of a child.

Not a god, not more particular

than all particulars,

but I get lost in simple repetitions

and forget to speak

with my whole heart.
 

I was what’s known

as a good girl, completing the exercises,

claws trimmed, a zip on my coat.

O diagnosis!
 

I see myself now in those forgotten unbeloved

presidents of the nineteenth century

gaunt even when they were fat—
 

zones of flesh who lied

a bit, bluffed, bought items

not quite for sale, came down

with wintry infections and warred

on small islands.
 

Who chose a tiny corner

of a big borrowed house as the one place

to slake their muzzles in

foreign stamps, say, or Latin, or theatrical

women.

There is nothing to pity

them for, and yet, watching my white breath

lather and shave

these brick edifices,
 

I am dumbstruck by all those of us

who evade true grandeur and the crimson

calypso of feeling,
 

unwrite our own parts

faster than the couriers

can lay sheaves of script at our feet,
 

slide our phones in and out of pockets—

silvered oars sculling up and down—
 

as though by dint

of our small motions

the great river would stay down

and be stroked and not enter us.

 

Also, check out:


Subscribe to Healthpoints and never miss an update.