Back in New York, I joined the Midtown Y and fell in with a crew of hard-hat bruisers – vice cops and garbagemen in chalk-smudged Speedos and calf-high wrestling boots. I thought they were giants until the day in June when the real size kings walked in. Two of them, Tommy and Spiro, had chiseled trunks and the complicated, quasi-Cubist planes that give away hardcore juicers. But it was the third one, a mocha-skinned guy named Angel, that I couldn't pry my gaze off. When he doffed his Puma jacket and burned through upright rows, I saw the kind of vascular, strand-on-strand rhomboids you find in Da Vinci studies. There was art in what he did and art in what he made: muscle from a fourth dimension. I gathered my flimsy nerve and said hello.
Steroids killed nine-year-old Lexie McConnell after only five and a half weeks. In August 1993, Lexie was diagnosed as having toxoplasmosis. The consultant put her on 80 mg per day of prednisolone. Immediately, she suffered severe side effects, huge weight gain , terrible pains, holes in her tongue and black stools. After nearly a month, at her parents' pleading, the doctors quickly lowered the dosage to 60 mg, 40 mg, 20 mg. In excruciating pain, Lexie was taken to a hospital, where it was discovered she'd contracted chickenpox. Four days later, she died. A few years later, another eye specialist declared that a simple course of antibiotics could have cleared up her infection. The above excerpt is from Ursula Kelly's site