Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Shades of Meaning
The conversation turned to a long ago event, memory of which was triggered by the television clip of a young boy slipping off a steep slide. The memory had father and son flying down a ski run in summertime, probably at Mt. Snow. All remembered bales of hay along the run, and the vehicle soaring through the hay bank and into the woods. "Was Marilyn on that run, or had she safely descended on the previous run with her father? Was the youngest standing with me watching? Who was where when the sled left the course? The five-year-old, listening, chimed in with, "Where was I?"
" Oh, she was told, "you weren't even born yet." Realizing that to be correct, and in her own defense, she said, "Oh, I knew that. I was being sarcastic."
" Oh, she was told, "you weren't even born yet." Realizing that to be correct, and in her own defense, she said, "Oh, I knew that. I was being sarcastic."
Friday, May 26, 2017
If wishes were horses...
...then beggars would be riding, but to where? To a place where a cure was found, paroles granted, and lotteries won? The ride is one thing, the destination quite another.
Thursday, May 25, 2017
Break-Ins History
#1---When we kids were little, the family was asleep upstairs one winter night when we were startled awake by violent banging on our heavy front door, the door with the key attached to a green ribbon, and secured by a chain. Yelling and pounding persisted, with my mother and father trying to decide what to do. From my bedroom, shivering and shaking, I heard my father say: They're yelling "Fire!!' He went downstairs to check it out. We heard voices and finally my father came back upstairs and told my mother that two men were downstairs saying their car broke down and they were afraid they'd freeze to death in the cold. They'd asked him to let them stay inside until morning. He told them they could sleep on the couch or in the chair, though my father had not liked that they'd yelled Fire. I heard my mother say what if they come up and kill us in our beds. I remember wishing we had a lock on the bedroom doors.
But morning came and we were still alive and the men were still in our house. My father had left for work.My mother made them some breakfast and they left, probably to find some place that was open where there was a phone so they could get their car running. We went out to go sledding on the hill behind our house, where as usual several other kids had already gathered. It might have been a snow day, or more probably Christmas vacation. The subject of the conversation was-- Burglars! Different kids reported attempted break-ins of several houses the night before. Someone had called the police. That was unheard of at the time. But the robbers got away, the story went. I remember putting two and two together, and not wanting to admit that the would-be perps had spent the night at our house. I felt kind of embarrassed and not wanting to ruin a good story for them.
#2 ---We were in high school when much the same happened again, minus the cry of Fire. Two men with a broken-down car in the middle of a cold night pounding on our door and asking for shelter from the cold. My father let them in. In the morning, I recall one of them looking at our pictures on the mantle and asking if we knew the Tracy girls. We did, but they were older than us, and not our friends. Again my father was at work before the men left and one of them scared the dickens out of my mother when he extended his hand toward her when she was sitting at the kitchen table, but all he did was give her a handful of change as gratitude for their night's lodging and breakfast, all the money he had, he told her.
#3 ---The most frightening of all. My father was gone by this time and only my mother and I were party to the attempted break-in. Helen and the young Bartholomew girls were tucked away in the other part of the house and blissfully unaware. It was late at night, my mother and I asleep in our separate bedrooms. We were jolted awake by a pounding on the door and voices yelling at the top of their lungs---"LET US IN!!" My mother yelled down the stairs for them to go away but they just hammered and kicked at that heavy old front door and screamed, "We're going to get in! One way or another!" We had a telephone by then: it was downstairs in the living room past the two almost floor-length front windows. I was young enough then to try to reach the phone, in the dark, and by crawling across the floor from the bottom of the stairs to the phone. I heard them run across the porch and around the back of the house. There were several dogs in various dog coops in the back yard and they went wild at the activity in the middle of the night. I did reach the State Police, no 9-1-1 back then, and told them someone was trying to break in my house. As I recall, they called back in the morning to check the status. They never came out. The next morning,the back door of the old store was hanging off. The intruders must have found that unacceptable and not worth entering. As far as I know. The story the next day was that there'd been a big fight at the then notorious Valley Inn, and two men were running away to avoid a disastrous outcome, such as being beaten to a pulp. #4 and #5 were burglaries at my present house, spaced exactly 10 years apart and both when we were not home, so not as frightening, except for the first time when I was not sure where two of my young teenaged children were. I've written about that before, and may again some day.
At present, I'm trying to put out of my mind a certain story read years ago in the Atlantic, a story so gruesome that I don't even want to go near where the magazine is stored away. The horror which befell Mrs. Puttermeister is forever etched in my mind.
But morning came and we were still alive and the men were still in our house. My father had left for work.My mother made them some breakfast and they left, probably to find some place that was open where there was a phone so they could get their car running. We went out to go sledding on the hill behind our house, where as usual several other kids had already gathered. It might have been a snow day, or more probably Christmas vacation. The subject of the conversation was-- Burglars! Different kids reported attempted break-ins of several houses the night before. Someone had called the police. That was unheard of at the time. But the robbers got away, the story went. I remember putting two and two together, and not wanting to admit that the would-be perps had spent the night at our house. I felt kind of embarrassed and not wanting to ruin a good story for them.
#2 ---We were in high school when much the same happened again, minus the cry of Fire. Two men with a broken-down car in the middle of a cold night pounding on our door and asking for shelter from the cold. My father let them in. In the morning, I recall one of them looking at our pictures on the mantle and asking if we knew the Tracy girls. We did, but they were older than us, and not our friends. Again my father was at work before the men left and one of them scared the dickens out of my mother when he extended his hand toward her when she was sitting at the kitchen table, but all he did was give her a handful of change as gratitude for their night's lodging and breakfast, all the money he had, he told her.
#3 ---The most frightening of all. My father was gone by this time and only my mother and I were party to the attempted break-in. Helen and the young Bartholomew girls were tucked away in the other part of the house and blissfully unaware. It was late at night, my mother and I asleep in our separate bedrooms. We were jolted awake by a pounding on the door and voices yelling at the top of their lungs---"LET US IN!!" My mother yelled down the stairs for them to go away but they just hammered and kicked at that heavy old front door and screamed, "We're going to get in! One way or another!" We had a telephone by then: it was downstairs in the living room past the two almost floor-length front windows. I was young enough then to try to reach the phone, in the dark, and by crawling across the floor from the bottom of the stairs to the phone. I heard them run across the porch and around the back of the house. There were several dogs in various dog coops in the back yard and they went wild at the activity in the middle of the night. I did reach the State Police, no 9-1-1 back then, and told them someone was trying to break in my house. As I recall, they called back in the morning to check the status. They never came out. The next morning,the back door of the old store was hanging off. The intruders must have found that unacceptable and not worth entering. As far as I know. The story the next day was that there'd been a big fight at the then notorious Valley Inn, and two men were running away to avoid a disastrous outcome, such as being beaten to a pulp. #4 and #5 were burglaries at my present house, spaced exactly 10 years apart and both when we were not home, so not as frightening, except for the first time when I was not sure where two of my young teenaged children were. I've written about that before, and may again some day.
At present, I'm trying to put out of my mind a certain story read years ago in the Atlantic, a story so gruesome that I don't even want to go near where the magazine is stored away. The horror which befell Mrs. Puttermeister is forever etched in my mind.
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Quandary
What would you do? Not in a television setup but in real life:
If you suspect night time prowlers may intend to enter your home, do you leave the outside lights on in an attempt to discourage them, or would the lighting make it easier for them to see and therefore facilitate their access into your home?
If you suspect night time prowlers may intend to enter your home, do you leave the outside lights on in an attempt to discourage them, or would the lighting make it easier for them to see and therefore facilitate their access into your home?
Blade Rundown
If you count each item in your home, what would the number be? We must have thousands of things in our houses, even those of us in modest homes, and on modest budgets. Things just come in the door, over periods of time and from various sources until every drawer is full, all cabinet shelves groan with acquisitions, and the surfaces of every table and stand are covered with accumulations.
Could you explain or document how these items came into your life? I myself think I could. I recall that a little cast iron bank was handed to me in my backyard by a girl named Marianne Mahar. "I have a new house," she told me and then took this little bank from her jacket pocket. She said she didn't want it, and though we were taught by our mother not to take things, I let her give me the bank, still have it. It takes up very little room. But yes, it is a thing. I may post a picture if I can find it.
I also have a cast iron obelisk that was given to me by an old friend, and by now I mean a very old friend. He worked one summer in construction, actually more demolition, and he found this obelisk in the ruins of a church they had torn down. I know where it is at the moment, but can't disturb a slumberer.
Our dining room set, split up in our small house between the kitchen and the living room, was donated to us by my husband's aunt and uncle who enjoyed a pretty lavish lifestyle and replaced furniture frequently. Their furniture arrived at our house in a Colonie Liquor truck the same week David was born.
The jacket I wear most frequently, through about nine months of the year, was given to me by my sister. Coincidentally, we had each bought almost identical black hooded jackets. I wore mine to my migrant teaching job, and it suffered a lot of hard wear, from being placed on the floor in school hallways when that was the only available workspace to being infested with various strains of fauna. Dorothy replaced hers with a new one and she gave me her old one, which I still wear--after all these years.
This train of item memories was triggered today by an item I use probably every other day. It is a little green-handled knife, and I last used it a few hours ago to slash the cellophane on a Marie Callender's Steak & Potato Frozen Dinner.
It has so many other uses I can't enumerate them: suffice it to say it is a favorite knife, albeit having only a 2 and a half inch very slender blade.
I bought this knife myself, at the old Stanley's Department Store in downtown Troy. My daughter had an orthodontic appointment at Dr. Kessler's office on 3rd Street, and it must have been one of her first, probably an installation, because I was told the wait would be about an hour and a half or two hours. Not wanting to spend that much time in his dimly-lit waiting room, I walked outside and crossed over a block to about the only store left in the city at that time. I was prepared to shop, but the store was getting a little dated and seedy then, and I recall not seeing anything I wanted. I went downstairs to the bargain basement, hoping to buy something, anything to justify my reason for being in that store. In a bin of miscellaneous sale items, I spotted this little knife, probably notable due to its lime green plastic handle. The price was less than a dollar or two, and so I bought it. I remember wondering what on earth I would ever use it for, but I stuck it inside of my knife drawer right next to the stove, where it has resided now for almost 35 years. If I ever have to leave this house and have a limit to my possessions, I would choose the little green knife as one to take with me.
And the plastic ruler was from Dorothy's workplace.
Could you explain or document how these items came into your life? I myself think I could. I recall that a little cast iron bank was handed to me in my backyard by a girl named Marianne Mahar. "I have a new house," she told me and then took this little bank from her jacket pocket. She said she didn't want it, and though we were taught by our mother not to take things, I let her give me the bank, still have it. It takes up very little room. But yes, it is a thing. I may post a picture if I can find it.
I also have a cast iron obelisk that was given to me by an old friend, and by now I mean a very old friend. He worked one summer in construction, actually more demolition, and he found this obelisk in the ruins of a church they had torn down. I know where it is at the moment, but can't disturb a slumberer.
Our dining room set, split up in our small house between the kitchen and the living room, was donated to us by my husband's aunt and uncle who enjoyed a pretty lavish lifestyle and replaced furniture frequently. Their furniture arrived at our house in a Colonie Liquor truck the same week David was born.
The jacket I wear most frequently, through about nine months of the year, was given to me by my sister. Coincidentally, we had each bought almost identical black hooded jackets. I wore mine to my migrant teaching job, and it suffered a lot of hard wear, from being placed on the floor in school hallways when that was the only available workspace to being infested with various strains of fauna. Dorothy replaced hers with a new one and she gave me her old one, which I still wear--after all these years.
This train of item memories was triggered today by an item I use probably every other day. It is a little green-handled knife, and I last used it a few hours ago to slash the cellophane on a Marie Callender's Steak & Potato Frozen Dinner.
It has so many other uses I can't enumerate them: suffice it to say it is a favorite knife, albeit having only a 2 and a half inch very slender blade.
I bought this knife myself, at the old Stanley's Department Store in downtown Troy. My daughter had an orthodontic appointment at Dr. Kessler's office on 3rd Street, and it must have been one of her first, probably an installation, because I was told the wait would be about an hour and a half or two hours. Not wanting to spend that much time in his dimly-lit waiting room, I walked outside and crossed over a block to about the only store left in the city at that time. I was prepared to shop, but the store was getting a little dated and seedy then, and I recall not seeing anything I wanted. I went downstairs to the bargain basement, hoping to buy something, anything to justify my reason for being in that store. In a bin of miscellaneous sale items, I spotted this little knife, probably notable due to its lime green plastic handle. The price was less than a dollar or two, and so I bought it. I remember wondering what on earth I would ever use it for, but I stuck it inside of my knife drawer right next to the stove, where it has resided now for almost 35 years. If I ever have to leave this house and have a limit to my possessions, I would choose the little green knife as one to take with me.
Monday, May 22, 2017
Bird
Fusty Old-School
I know it's a sign of being out of touch with the times, but I would have a little more confidence in the venture if the Clinical Research Nurse at a prestigious medical facility didn't, in a follow-up email to us, express her thanks to "you guys."
It reminds me of Marilyn's long-time dance teacher's referring to her students as "youse guys." But she was from Watervliet.
It reminds me of Marilyn's long-time dance teacher's referring to her students as "youse guys." But she was from Watervliet.
Thursday, May 18, 2017
This is the way the grant goes...
In our present and ongoing situation, we are naturally pursuing all avenues of help. Last year, one of the Medicare reps left me a sheet with a list of resources. One was the Dept. of Aging. I called and they were out of funding for the year, didn't know when they would have more available.
A few weeks ago, out of the blue, a man named Vinnie called and said that there was a "huge grant" available for someone in our situation. He gave me the contact number and I called and spoke to Rep#1 who said I'd have to contact Rep #2 . That rep called and scheduled a telephone conference with Rep #3. Those calls resulted in 2 home visits by 2 different reps--possibly some of the former, but I've kind of lost track, though somewhere there are the memos. So we've withstood the intake visits and I've managed to stay sociable I must say,through all the duplicate questionnaire requirements.
Rep #2 referred me to a facility that had nothing to do with the grant. Rep #3 at the end of her visit indicates I need to contact----wait for it----none other than Rep #1. She later emails about the confusion, and that she will get back to me next week, as she won't be in the office Friday, though she's leaving the message Thurs. morning. (Long weekend?) Seems like nobody is in the office on Fridays.
Now my challenge is this: how to keep my pleasant demeanor while telling them that there is no confusion on my part, despite the idiotic trail of information they've set forth. I want one thing: Respite care of a day and a night so I can comfortably undergo a medical procedure, "caretaker" that I am. That is one of the written purposes of this particular grant,and it would be a very small fraction of the "huge" grant.
Grants, huge or modest, have a history of being depleted before their goals are reached. How? By involving numerous levels of staff in duplicate activities, which expends the funding before it ever reaches its target goal. Home visits are a favored activity, though the telephone would answer most of the questions, which are unnecessary deadends anyway. But staff time and mileage are included in those visits. And, oh, a tote bag, and gadgets, emblazoned with the logo of the agency. (Does anyone on the planet need another tote bag?) Not much can be more self-evident of self-promoting the entity than to be circled back to the person who sent you on the chase.
If we were to benefit from the "huge grant"the total amount paid would be about $250-$300, depending on how much respite. That amount would be dwarfed by the expenses incurred by all the staff employed to administer the grant. And that's where the money goes.
I'll keep plodding though and be grateful for any largesse. And can anyone use a tote bag?
A few weeks ago, out of the blue, a man named Vinnie called and said that there was a "huge grant" available for someone in our situation. He gave me the contact number and I called and spoke to Rep#1 who said I'd have to contact Rep #2 . That rep called and scheduled a telephone conference with Rep #3. Those calls resulted in 2 home visits by 2 different reps--possibly some of the former, but I've kind of lost track, though somewhere there are the memos. So we've withstood the intake visits and I've managed to stay sociable I must say,through all the duplicate questionnaire requirements.
Rep #2 referred me to a facility that had nothing to do with the grant. Rep #3 at the end of her visit indicates I need to contact----wait for it----none other than Rep #1. She later emails about the confusion, and that she will get back to me next week, as she won't be in the office Friday, though she's leaving the message Thurs. morning. (Long weekend?) Seems like nobody is in the office on Fridays.
Now my challenge is this: how to keep my pleasant demeanor while telling them that there is no confusion on my part, despite the idiotic trail of information they've set forth. I want one thing: Respite care of a day and a night so I can comfortably undergo a medical procedure, "caretaker" that I am. That is one of the written purposes of this particular grant,and it would be a very small fraction of the "huge" grant.
Grants, huge or modest, have a history of being depleted before their goals are reached. How? By involving numerous levels of staff in duplicate activities, which expends the funding before it ever reaches its target goal. Home visits are a favored activity, though the telephone would answer most of the questions, which are unnecessary deadends anyway. But staff time and mileage are included in those visits. And, oh, a tote bag, and gadgets, emblazoned with the logo of the agency. (Does anyone on the planet need another tote bag?) Not much can be more self-evident of self-promoting the entity than to be circled back to the person who sent you on the chase.
If we were to benefit from the "huge grant"the total amount paid would be about $250-$300, depending on how much respite. That amount would be dwarfed by the expenses incurred by all the staff employed to administer the grant. And that's where the money goes.
I'll keep plodding though and be grateful for any largesse. And can anyone use a tote bag?
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Cheapskate or Destitute
John G., If you can't afford to take your sweetie with you to your Emmy celebration because it's too costly, that may be understandable, but if she accompanies you on the trip to NYC, at least buy her some butter for her muffin. You say you don't want to use your debit card for 30 cents, and you have no cash. Who the heck would travel to NYC without at least a few dollars cash in their pocket. I also would not expect the Amtrak Cafe to dole out pats of butter for a muffin bought elsewhere. And you did say you bought some nut snack on the city street, so you must have used your debit card for that purchase. You add that you and the sweetie window shopped because you couldn't afford to buy anything, and you further said you slammed the door on an Uber driver who said it would cost your tuxedo-clad self $20 for a 9 block ride from your hotel to the Emmy ceremony. I'm not from the midwest either, but that doesn't seem like an outrageous charge to me.
I've never traveled on an expense account, though for about 14 years attended employer-covered conferences in Syracuse, which covered lodging, meals, and mileage. Most of us employees didn't hesitate to spend our own money on any other purchases or non-covered items, such as alcoholic beverages for example.
I doubt if any of us were paid more than you are, though I would expect reporters such as yourself are not very highly paid. You may be well served to ask your employer for a butter allowance.
I've never traveled on an expense account, though for about 14 years attended employer-covered conferences in Syracuse, which covered lodging, meals, and mileage. Most of us employees didn't hesitate to spend our own money on any other purchases or non-covered items, such as alcoholic beverages for example.
I doubt if any of us were paid more than you are, though I would expect reporters such as yourself are not very highly paid. You may be well served to ask your employer for a butter allowance.
Security System?
I was outside and Nellie told me this:
Last Monday night, at 10:30 p.m. she noticed a white SUV pull over opposite out driveway, heading toward Johnsonville. A figure, may have been a man, got out and walked near my car and to the side of our house, the side next to hers. Nellie said the SUV left, leaving the "prowler" behind. Nellie called 2 people who were with her, and all 3 watched. Nellie went inside and got her flashlight but the person evidently left, but not in the vehicle, from here anyway. Nellie's dog was uneasy, and the next day it threw up, and she found a piece of fabric near it, which was not theirs. Today the dog is sick, and she wonders...
I believe her. The only recent encounter was when I had the brush removed last month. They were local, from Johnsonville. The wife remembered me from my teaching days.The son was 30 and was working with them. He seemed ok.
It's no secret that Dave is helpless. The ramp is a giveaway as well as the transport van, and the fact there is only 1 car in the driveway.
She said my car was there and my living room lights were on.
***I haven't even mentioned it to Dad. He's so helpless he couldn't even run, and doesn't need anything else to worry about. If nothing bad happens, that is.
Last Monday night, at 10:30 p.m. she noticed a white SUV pull over opposite out driveway, heading toward Johnsonville. A figure, may have been a man, got out and walked near my car and to the side of our house, the side next to hers. Nellie said the SUV left, leaving the "prowler" behind. Nellie called 2 people who were with her, and all 3 watched. Nellie went inside and got her flashlight but the person evidently left, but not in the vehicle, from here anyway. Nellie's dog was uneasy, and the next day it threw up, and she found a piece of fabric near it, which was not theirs. Today the dog is sick, and she wonders...
I believe her. The only recent encounter was when I had the brush removed last month. They were local, from Johnsonville. The wife remembered me from my teaching days.The son was 30 and was working with them. He seemed ok.
It's no secret that Dave is helpless. The ramp is a giveaway as well as the transport van, and the fact there is only 1 car in the driveway.
She said my car was there and my living room lights were on.
***I haven't even mentioned it to Dad. He's so helpless he couldn't even run, and doesn't need anything else to worry about. If nothing bad happens, that is.
To H wit it.
Whenever I type the word "with" the "h' drops off. I try to correct it, not wanting to sound gangsta. Could be a defect wit the keyboard or maybe wit me.
Tuesday, May 16, 2017
Office Visit Part 2
I'm in the office now, a big room with seats arranged all over the place. The best word to describe the scene is desultory. No one is complaining; everyone looks resigned, repeat customers most likely. There are numerous doctors in the practice, with their offices on both sides of the room. About a dozen or so people are sitting in various areas of the colorless room. They would have already checked in and so are waiting to be called. Several people are standing in line, a distance back from the half dozen windows lining the front of the room, obeying the sign on the large centrally located posts which tell all comers where to stand while waiting to be called.
From time to time, a doctor or other professional crosses the room, from one office to another. They all have the same comportment: walk quickly, purposefully and avoid eye contact with any of the people they walk among. A youngish man enters the room just as one of the most vaunted doctors happens to be crossing the room. The man has the temerity to stop him in his path and ask him where he should go for a bloodtest. He must be a new patient. The doctor tells him he needs to check in. And that is the issue that irritates me the most; the line is the same for checking in and checking out. After my test of the day was over, the technician handed me the discharge sheet or whatever it's called and told me to hand it in at the desk. So I waited, in line, the 8th of 7 others, until I was called. I walked to the window, silently handed in my paper, and that was it.
At my last visit there, I noticed a sheaf of handouts at each of the windows. The paper was an announcement of the "New PHR Portal." I previously had signed up for this office's Patient Portal, which was mostly non-working even before they replaced it with the PHR. I'd brought the information sheet home to activate it, but was unable to because it depended on a new username and temporary password supplied by the office. I called the office for the info as instructed, but my calls were never returned. You can't contact this office directly unless it's an emergency. so I asked at the desk today how I could activate it---the sheets promoting the PHR Portal are prominently displayed on the counters of each.
window. She didn't know, and she didn't respond when I said nobody ever calls back when I leave a message. She asked another rep, who didn't know either, but told her to verify my email. Which we did, and she said she'd email me a new password, which she did not.
From time to time, a doctor or other professional crosses the room, from one office to another. They all have the same comportment: walk quickly, purposefully and avoid eye contact with any of the people they walk among. A youngish man enters the room just as one of the most vaunted doctors happens to be crossing the room. The man has the temerity to stop him in his path and ask him where he should go for a bloodtest. He must be a new patient. The doctor tells him he needs to check in. And that is the issue that irritates me the most; the line is the same for checking in and checking out. After my test of the day was over, the technician handed me the discharge sheet or whatever it's called and told me to hand it in at the desk. So I waited, in line, the 8th of 7 others, until I was called. I walked to the window, silently handed in my paper, and that was it.
At my last visit there, I noticed a sheaf of handouts at each of the windows. The paper was an announcement of the "New PHR Portal." I previously had signed up for this office's Patient Portal, which was mostly non-working even before they replaced it with the PHR. I'd brought the information sheet home to activate it, but was unable to because it depended on a new username and temporary password supplied by the office. I called the office for the info as instructed, but my calls were never returned. You can't contact this office directly unless it's an emergency. so I asked at the desk today how I could activate it---the sheets promoting the PHR Portal are prominently displayed on the counters of each.
window. She didn't know, and she didn't respond when I said nobody ever calls back when I leave a message. She asked another rep, who didn't know either, but told her to verify my email. Which we did, and she said she'd email me a new password, which she did not.
The Office: An Overview
Getting there: Sometimes it's simple. More often it's not. Today was not. The very limited parking spaces in the lot opposite to the Hospital are not only all filled, but there are 2 vehicles lurking there, evidently waiting for others to leave. I don't even pull into that lot because it's a dead-end and turning around usually impossible, and backing out always risky, what with elderly and or sickly drivers. Many of those few spots are reserved for physicians anyway. There is a new lot for the Samaritan Arts offices on the side facing the Parking Garage, with somewhat more spaces, but today they are all taken also.
So into the Parking Garage I go. I'm probably not the most expert driver, and I may be a little biased by now, but it seems that the entrance to this particular garage is especially problematic, at least compared to the others I've driven into. The access is a hard right turn onto the ramp, which seems quite narrow. Then the search for a spot begins. I spot an open space and start to pull in but then see a sign that reads physicians only. Can't do that. Don't want to be towed. I drive through a darkened tunnel of parked cars, take the next left, and see another open space. I drive into it this time, before I read a different sign that says that nobody is ever permitted to park in this space, ever. So I drive further and spot an area of handicapped spaces. I park there, and apply my permit tag. (I did not say it is contraband.)
I walk down the winding ramp, being careful to note any oncoming or departing vehicles. Their drivers of necessity tend to be somewhat distracted or irritated, either searching for a parking spot or looking for an exit. On my return trip, walking toward my car, a truck pulled up beside me and the driver, a man slightly on the north side of middle age, asked me where he should go to try to park. I told him to just keep driving upwards. He said he'd been doing that and it just circled him back around. I told him well, I'd parked here, which was a handicapped area. He said, before driving off, "And you got away with it." I suppose he thought I wasn't handicapped.
Down the rampway, through the construction site, and across both the aforementioned parking lots brought me to the Office Building. The office is vast. and despite recent major renovations, conveys a dreary, worn-out ambience. The atmosphere reflects the attitude of the patients (More later--thinking about it is putting me to sleep.
So into the Parking Garage I go. I'm probably not the most expert driver, and I may be a little biased by now, but it seems that the entrance to this particular garage is especially problematic, at least compared to the others I've driven into. The access is a hard right turn onto the ramp, which seems quite narrow. Then the search for a spot begins. I spot an open space and start to pull in but then see a sign that reads physicians only. Can't do that. Don't want to be towed. I drive through a darkened tunnel of parked cars, take the next left, and see another open space. I drive into it this time, before I read a different sign that says that nobody is ever permitted to park in this space, ever. So I drive further and spot an area of handicapped spaces. I park there, and apply my permit tag. (I did not say it is contraband.)
I walk down the winding ramp, being careful to note any oncoming or departing vehicles. Their drivers of necessity tend to be somewhat distracted or irritated, either searching for a parking spot or looking for an exit. On my return trip, walking toward my car, a truck pulled up beside me and the driver, a man slightly on the north side of middle age, asked me where he should go to try to park. I told him to just keep driving upwards. He said he'd been doing that and it just circled him back around. I told him well, I'd parked here, which was a handicapped area. He said, before driving off, "And you got away with it." I suppose he thought I wasn't handicapped.
Down the rampway, through the construction site, and across both the aforementioned parking lots brought me to the Office Building. The office is vast. and despite recent major renovations, conveys a dreary, worn-out ambience. The atmosphere reflects the attitude of the patients (More later--thinking about it is putting me to sleep.
Monday, May 15, 2017
The Price We Pay
The VA is now providing "palliative care" at his Day Care visits. And no, it is not the same as hospice care. Palliative care is presently in vogue among the medical community, providing invaluable assistance to patients whose care doctors and medics are too busy to be involved in. That's how I interpret it. An accompanying benefit is providing assistance to the caretakers of the palliative care patients. I qualify now as a caretaker, so every so often I get an email with helpful information and suggestions. Today's was a list of helpful hints, one of which was anecdotal in nature, intended to show how one woman caretaker found a way to relieve the stress of her duties. During the day she would write down on a piece of paper all the things she found negative and distasteful, and then, at the end of the day, she brought the piece of paper to the seashore and set the paper adrift in the ocean.
So a Viking Funeral for a piece of paper may relieve stress? In what world do the people live who come up with this stuff? And who in any world would believe a story like this? I wonder how much stress would lessen if the negative thoughts were written on tissue paper and flushed down the toilet. Not all of us live near the ocean...
So a Viking Funeral for a piece of paper may relieve stress? In what world do the people live who come up with this stuff? And who in any world would believe a story like this? I wonder how much stress would lessen if the negative thoughts were written on tissue paper and flushed down the toilet. Not all of us live near the ocean...
Hew and Cry
I spent yesterday doing both of the above. The second part speaks for itself, but the Hew part may require an explanation. But I did indeed fell a tree, although not with an axe. And since it was a sumac the wood was very soft, and a hacksaw could easily bring it down. But still it was an actual tree and I did cut it down. Kind of a catharsis to destroy something. Here it is:
Last Thursday's Trip
Not mine, but the VA trip. The early morning was slightly chilly, but a fairly nice day. We wait for the transport outside on such days. We don't want to keep people waiting. So we're outside a little early and I'm telling him where the workers removed the brush and stuff, and decide to push him a little ways onto the lawn so he can see better. Okay, that was fine. But there had been a lot of rain, the ground was soft, and the wheels won't move. In other words, we're stuck on the lawn a distance from the driveway. I try pushing, with what's left of my shoulders, but can't manage to move more than a few yards. I consider trying to reach the road but he says no, just wait. But he's starting to shiver, immobile as he is. I go inside and get a couple of blankets and bundle him up, hoping and praying that the driver does indeed get here. What would we do if he doesn't show up? I guess the 9-1-1 call would go out for a blanket-wrapped man in a wheelchair stuck in a field with a helpless old lady beside him. Oh, the horror!
Monday Doldrums and Dreary Drama
Today didn't get off to a good start.First, I woke with a headache but got up anyway.
Then, from the bedroom a call-out that he didn't want to go to the VA today. Why not? Just didn't wanna. Same thing last Monday, so I had to go all investigative. After all, I made many many inquiries to get him into the program and then many many many more to get transportation the first time, and after that ride couldn't continue, it took even more efforts to secure him other transportation. Questioning disclosed that the attendants at the VA have put him, or maybe all the patients, on a pee and poop regimen, with insistence on regulated times and efforts. So I had to steamroll him: he's there now for only 3 1/2 hours and it's better for him and me that he leaves the house from time to time. So he agreed to "get on the schoolbus."
I need to open a few doors to get the wheelchair down two ramps and out to the driveway. And it's drizzling rain. So, uncharacteristically, I open the outside door and leave it open so as to be ready and to avoid waiting outside in the rain. Back inside,on watch for the van, and all skids greased, I notice the cat is nowhere in sight. Could she have left through the opened door? She's never gone outside, but I've never left the door open. I call her and look in her usual spots, to no avail. As I'm pushing the wheelchair through the kitchen door, I see her curled up on the kitchen chair, concealed by the tablecloth. Usually she responds when I call her name, but she's already had breakfast, so she ignores my call. Story of my life.
Next, I decided to pay some bills. I received a medical bill last week. No surprise, it's early in the year, so we still have not paid up our annual deductibles. The bill was from Samaritan Hospital the amount due $49.43. But wait, we haven't been there this year. I checked the date, and it's May 14, 2013. That was when I had my first TKR and before Samaritan was subsumed by St. Peter's Health Partners. Now that's not a lot to pay, especially considering we've paid several thousand in out-of-pocket expenses for clinical trial endeavors etc. but I balk at paying what I don't owe. If it truly is an insignificant amount, why did they go to all the trouble to bill me? Four years later? So I called the number on Samaritan's statement, for NPAS, Inc.
There I spoke with Ceicel, and told her I received a statement I was sure I didn't owe, because my insurances completely cover in-hospital services, and furthermore because the billing was for labs, which are covered regardless. She said both my insurance companies had denied the charges. She said, when I asked, the late date probably was the result of an audit which had uncovered "overpaid liability." I don't understand that terminology, and told her so, just said I didn't owe the bill, and she should check with my insurance. She insisted I owed the amount, and said any checking should have to be on my part. I'm not arguing because all she does is answer the phones, but by now I've made up my mind that I will never pay the bill. Let them sue me, jail me--I'd welcome any action,
So I call BC/BS and wend my way through the hell that is the route to reaching a rep, who in person has always been courteous, professional and helpful. After a few lengthy times on hold, (after all, this bill has had its fourth birthday), Nicole tells me that it appears they double-billed and that's why there was a denial. She will need to go further into the archives before calling them to set the record straight.
I said thanks, but it doesn't matter. I'm not paying that bill. And now it's 10 a.m. and I have only a few hours before the bus pulls up. I've wasted valuable time.
Then, from the bedroom a call-out that he didn't want to go to the VA today. Why not? Just didn't wanna. Same thing last Monday, so I had to go all investigative. After all, I made many many inquiries to get him into the program and then many many many more to get transportation the first time, and after that ride couldn't continue, it took even more efforts to secure him other transportation. Questioning disclosed that the attendants at the VA have put him, or maybe all the patients, on a pee and poop regimen, with insistence on regulated times and efforts. So I had to steamroll him: he's there now for only 3 1/2 hours and it's better for him and me that he leaves the house from time to time. So he agreed to "get on the schoolbus."
I need to open a few doors to get the wheelchair down two ramps and out to the driveway. And it's drizzling rain. So, uncharacteristically, I open the outside door and leave it open so as to be ready and to avoid waiting outside in the rain. Back inside,on watch for the van, and all skids greased, I notice the cat is nowhere in sight. Could she have left through the opened door? She's never gone outside, but I've never left the door open. I call her and look in her usual spots, to no avail. As I'm pushing the wheelchair through the kitchen door, I see her curled up on the kitchen chair, concealed by the tablecloth. Usually she responds when I call her name, but she's already had breakfast, so she ignores my call. Story of my life.
Next, I decided to pay some bills. I received a medical bill last week. No surprise, it's early in the year, so we still have not paid up our annual deductibles. The bill was from Samaritan Hospital the amount due $49.43. But wait, we haven't been there this year. I checked the date, and it's May 14, 2013. That was when I had my first TKR and before Samaritan was subsumed by St. Peter's Health Partners. Now that's not a lot to pay, especially considering we've paid several thousand in out-of-pocket expenses for clinical trial endeavors etc. but I balk at paying what I don't owe. If it truly is an insignificant amount, why did they go to all the trouble to bill me? Four years later? So I called the number on Samaritan's statement, for NPAS, Inc.
There I spoke with Ceicel, and told her I received a statement I was sure I didn't owe, because my insurances completely cover in-hospital services, and furthermore because the billing was for labs, which are covered regardless. She said both my insurance companies had denied the charges. She said, when I asked, the late date probably was the result of an audit which had uncovered "overpaid liability." I don't understand that terminology, and told her so, just said I didn't owe the bill, and she should check with my insurance. She insisted I owed the amount, and said any checking should have to be on my part. I'm not arguing because all she does is answer the phones, but by now I've made up my mind that I will never pay the bill. Let them sue me, jail me--I'd welcome any action,
So I call BC/BS and wend my way through the hell that is the route to reaching a rep, who in person has always been courteous, professional and helpful. After a few lengthy times on hold, (after all, this bill has had its fourth birthday), Nicole tells me that it appears they double-billed and that's why there was a denial. She will need to go further into the archives before calling them to set the record straight.
I said thanks, but it doesn't matter. I'm not paying that bill. And now it's 10 a.m. and I have only a few hours before the bus pulls up. I've wasted valuable time.
Sunday, May 14, 2017
Saturday, May 13, 2017
Friday, May 12, 2017
Thursday, May 11, 2017
The Listener
To say that the mind is a complicated thing may be a cliche, but it is nevertheless a truth. To say that something has a mind of its own is true, though that mind can have separate parts. Psychologists have tried to categorize the working of the mind into enough various components so as to formulate a science of it, but their efforts have been about as useful as attempting to categorize all the grains of sand that exist in the world.
The mind is always at work, isn't it? Even when asleep, our thought processes are active, albeit in dreams. To think that we can control what happens in our minds is a misconception of how our minds work. No one welcomes nightmares, but we all have them. And it's the same for neuroses, worrying, obsessions, bad thoughts. Well, we think we don't want them, but the way the mind works, yes we do. A part of the mind invites darkness. We wouldn't know how to fill the void if we didn't have those dark areas. Psychologists and psychotherapists don't try to rid their patients of their monsters, but try to show them how to live with them. And not always done successfully, as witness the numbers in those professions who have mental problems themselves.
However, the schisms of the mind are not always a bad thing. Or at least I hope not. When my mind is churning, accusing, rationalizing, regretting,seeking, looking for a rationale, and most critical, for a place to lay my thoughts, another dimension of mind opens, and there is an anonymous but familiar listener. I recount all my troubles, hopes and dreams to a seemingly understanding presence who hears and accepts as valued what I confide. I believe it's only in fiction that minor characters exist, such as the sympathetic and understanding listener. Every human being considers themselves to be the major character,and their brains can only secondarily absorb the plight of another. So I transfer all my miseries from the everyday part of my mind to the lesser used third-party section where I can find support of some nature, ephemeral as it may be. And so it goes.
The mind is always at work, isn't it? Even when asleep, our thought processes are active, albeit in dreams. To think that we can control what happens in our minds is a misconception of how our minds work. No one welcomes nightmares, but we all have them. And it's the same for neuroses, worrying, obsessions, bad thoughts. Well, we think we don't want them, but the way the mind works, yes we do. A part of the mind invites darkness. We wouldn't know how to fill the void if we didn't have those dark areas. Psychologists and psychotherapists don't try to rid their patients of their monsters, but try to show them how to live with them. And not always done successfully, as witness the numbers in those professions who have mental problems themselves.
However, the schisms of the mind are not always a bad thing. Or at least I hope not. When my mind is churning, accusing, rationalizing, regretting,seeking, looking for a rationale, and most critical, for a place to lay my thoughts, another dimension of mind opens, and there is an anonymous but familiar listener. I recount all my troubles, hopes and dreams to a seemingly understanding presence who hears and accepts as valued what I confide. I believe it's only in fiction that minor characters exist, such as the sympathetic and understanding listener. Every human being considers themselves to be the major character,and their brains can only secondarily absorb the plight of another. So I transfer all my miseries from the everyday part of my mind to the lesser used third-party section where I can find support of some nature, ephemeral as it may be. And so it goes.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Notices of Death
The section of the newspaper lies open, double pages exposing this day its contents of almost two dozen short stories. Hesitation sets in as to whether to read the stories or not. I do so and unveil a slice of humanity. The featured protagonists have undergone rich and varied series of adventures. Their life stories reveal where they began, their courses of education, the paths they traveled to pursue what they wanted to do for a living, and the people they chose to accompany them on their life's journey.
The stories reveal their authors' immense accomplishments, tremendous challenges, boundless joy. Some took long winding paths to the end of their stories. Other stories ended way too soon. Most are success stories, enumerating all the positive events that have occurred. It occurs to me that if all the characters in these stories could meet, they could form a happy and successful community of their own. But realize, these people did not write their own stories. There are few first person accounts on these pages.
The stories reveal their authors' immense accomplishments, tremendous challenges, boundless joy. Some took long winding paths to the end of their stories. Other stories ended way too soon. Most are success stories, enumerating all the positive events that have occurred. It occurs to me that if all the characters in these stories could meet, they could form a happy and successful community of their own. But realize, these people did not write their own stories. There are few first person accounts on these pages.
Sunday, May 7, 2017
Cats Galore
Another health care representative is due to visit here, with the usual questions being asked before assigning anyone. One of the questions asked is if there are any pets in the house.
It reminds me of the social worker who visited when I was to be assigned a physical therapist after knee replacement surgery. Now Maybe, being a cat and therefore curious, almost always runs to the door when she hears someone there and usually places herself very near whoever the visitor is.
But this day, or for this visitor, for whatever reason, she took the opposite approach and ran away and down the hallway. But, still curious, she would criss-cross the hall from one of the four rooms and then back into another, peering into the living room to see what was going on. The social worker sitting in the living room chair could evidently see the action because she stopped, pen in hand, to ask, "How many cats do you have?"
When I said one, she said she thought she saw a number of cats running down the hall and into the bedrooms and bathroom. While I may be a bit of a hoarder, I can state without a doubt I'm not a cat collector.
It reminds me of the social worker who visited when I was to be assigned a physical therapist after knee replacement surgery. Now Maybe, being a cat and therefore curious, almost always runs to the door when she hears someone there and usually places herself very near whoever the visitor is.
But this day, or for this visitor, for whatever reason, she took the opposite approach and ran away and down the hallway. But, still curious, she would criss-cross the hall from one of the four rooms and then back into another, peering into the living room to see what was going on. The social worker sitting in the living room chair could evidently see the action because she stopped, pen in hand, to ask, "How many cats do you have?"
When I said one, she said she thought she saw a number of cats running down the hall and into the bedrooms and bathroom. While I may be a bit of a hoarder, I can state without a doubt I'm not a cat collector.
Truth
"...every single one of us one day, will be brought to our knees by a diagnosis we didn't expect, a phone call we can't imagine, and a loss we cannot endure."
Congressman Joe Kennedy III
He and his family should know.
Saturday, May 6, 2017
Thursday, May 4, 2017
1000 Words
.The trees are attempting a good show, but they're old now and distorted and decrepit just like us.
Wednesday, May 3, 2017
Full Circle
I kept an appointment this morning with an endocrinologist for a consult on tests he had ordered. I had been referred to him by a nephrologist (now retired). I had been referred to the nephrologist by a urologist who had treated my kidney stone episodes.
All of the results read today were normal. So he told me to keep doing what I'd been doing. (Little does he realize.) He said taking Vitamin D would help in the prevention of kidney stones, and to come back in 6 months. And, oh, he told me a story. About Mahatma Gandhi. He called him Mohandas.
All of the results read today were normal. So he told me to keep doing what I'd been doing. (Little does he realize.) He said taking Vitamin D would help in the prevention of kidney stones, and to come back in 6 months. And, oh, he told me a story. About Mahatma Gandhi. He called him Mohandas.
The Course of Life
I was driving this morning, all my cares aside for a while, my mind a blank, or as close as it gets. Then I saw a car parked in a driveway, its trunk open, a set of golf clubs nearby, with a towel draped across the top of the bag. Just cleaned them maybe, or could be because the weather had been drizzly. Stark reminder. From somewhere I heard the sound of sobbing.
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
Language Lapse
Every time I hear people say they are bored "of" something, it makes me want to strip them of their literacy license. Of course language changes with the times, but shouldn't there be a reason?
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