I had 2 appointments on Wednesday, one for myself, Dermatologist, and the other for my car, service check-up.
The medical office was stark, as in today's world, for the safety reasons. Not as many patients as usual, so the wait was not too long. A sign is posted at the desk: "If you have waited more than 45 minutes, do not approach this window asking about the delay. There are 4 practitioners here, so you may not be called in the order you have been waiting." Okay.
Once ushered into the examining room, the doctor drone asks how you are, doesn't bother to address the few issues you may ask about, but just uses the equipment as he sees fit. You leave the exam room on your own, and go to the nearest window where the person there offers to "send out your paperwork." So you go to the adjoining window where the person there says she thought you didn't want it because you left the first window. All's well though. you leave with a faceful of wounds and the paperwork.
I drove over for Honda service, after calling to see if I could come an hour earlier than my appointment. No problem, drive right in. Someone meets you there, drives your car away, and you enter the waiting room, once you are told your service person will be in to apprise you of the car's status. The waiting room is also in sanitized mode, no magazines, newspapers, etc. But there is a large-screen TV turned on, comfortable seating, and a complementary coffee/drinks station with a variety of snacks, which is restocked during your wait.
Since the car needed new rear brakes, which I had suspected due to the grinding noise Id been hearing, I was told it would take a few hours. My service representative offered to drive me home during the wait, even to where I lived. I declined though, and called M., who picked me up shortly after. I was called when the service was completed,their expecting my vehicle to be picked up. But it was Senior Car Parade Night, so there was no problem leaving my car overnight. We drove there the next afternoon, and all went smoothly---meet and greet as usual.
This morning, Jessica (sounded like last name could be Rabbitt) called from Rensselaer Honda, inquiring about my experience there and asking if I was pleased/ satisfied, and to call her if I had any problems or questions.
I no longer have much in the way of expectations, but why does it seem you get more respect concerning your car care than your health.
Friday, June 5, 2020
Thursday, June 4, 2020
Dorothy, Saga Details
History, some say, is a pack of lies or at best false memory, recalled for personal or political reasons. But if a person lived to be 70 years of age, or almost 26, 000 days, think of all the history making up that person's life. And once that person is gone from the earth, as well as the persons who knew them, their history no longer exists. So here is a brief portion of Dorothy's life, the principal participants no longer here, or so destined soon to be.
When Dorothy learned that David had moved his wedding date from the fall of the year to a day in May, her reaction was that well, she should be able to attend on that day. She knew her time was running out, ever since the scourge of cancer had made its dreaded return, exactly 10 years after her battle had first begun. Now it was over 4 years later, and her strength, though not her will, was waning.
She wanted to shop for something to wear to the wedding. She had already decided to wear a certain suit she already owned, but wanted a new top to accessorize it. For a number of years we used to meet at a mall almost every week. We'd usually buy some article or other; there were always sales and then we'd go to lunch. For this shopping trip, in early May, she did something different. She asked me to drive to her house to pick her up. She no longer felt confident behind the wheel of her Subaru. So I did, and our first stop was J.C. Penney's in Clifton Park. She was intent on finding just the right blouse for the occasion, and ever the shopper, searched long and hard. I remember sitting on a chair in the dressing room because I still had my original knees and walking, and worse, standing, was painful. But she outlasted me that day, and finally made her selection of not one, but several tops, so she could see which one would be the best match for her outfit. (It was a sad day when I found those items, still in their shopping bag, outside her bedroom door, deposited against the plant-growing hothouse on the upstairs landing.)
Shopping accomplished, we drove over to Mocha's for lunch, a place we were used to going. We ordered sandwiches, and she confessed that she had lost her appetite, and couldn't finish her meal. I was the driver and offered to drive her home with me, but she said no, because her meds were all at her house. So I drove her to her home.
Not very many days after what turned out to be our last shopping trip, she called me to say that she did not feel able to attend the wedding. She was afraid she might get sick in Boston, and cause a problem. So we arranged to tape the reading she had been asked to deliver at the wedding. Dave was an upbeat and humorous photographer, and there was lots of laughter from both him and Dorothy during the filming on her flower-bedecked patio. Later, she told me she couldn't bring herself to view the finished product---maybe later, she said. I don't know if she ever did look at it, though she felt comforted by having done it.
On a later day that May, Dorothy wanted me to meet her oncologist, Dr. C. She had originally been a patient of Dr. M., who had his practice then at Albany Med. He later moved his own practice to Saratoga, and Dorothy went there for her follow up care with him. But, with the recurrence, and the need for more aggressive treatment, Dr. M. referred her to Dr. C., to make her traveling less taxing.
I drove to Chaucer Place on that day of her appointment, and there I did the last thing I would ever do for her. She was getting ready to leave, and her hands were too unsteady for her to do her makeup, so she asked me for help. I did the best I could.
P. drove us to the hospital for her appointment. I don't know what any of us expected that day, only that it came as a shock. Dr. C. told her that it seemed time to stop treatment, the additional chemo, I think, saying her body was too weak and it would no longer be helpful.She agreed to that, and, with as much courage as I'd ever witnessed, calmly asked how much time did he think she had. His answer started with possibly months, then he added weeks, and maybe he even said one week, but by then I could no longer hear anything. He brought up the subject of hospice.( I remember telling her later that wasn't necessarily an ending, that I knew a man whose mother had returned home after 2 separate hospice intervals. That was true.) I also remember that Dr. C. leaned over her chair and hugged her. Which was to be the last time he ever saw her.
Dorothy was still fighting to stay alive, though. P. was starting to push her wheelchair out the door when she reminded him that she had an appointment that day for an infusion, to help her bones. P. said the doctor told her to stop treatment. I heard Dorothy say, "I'm not an idiot. I know I have that appointment scheduled." While they were arguing, I fled down the hallway, and found Dr. C. He was walking with another doctor and they were discussing baseball. I told him that she had been in treatment for over 14 years, and wasn't ready to completely quit. So he was kind enough to order a type of experimental scan, even though it conflicted with, and delayed for a day or so, hospice intervention. P. drove her to that procedure the next day, I think it was a Friday. I was there when she returned and she said it was rigorous and painful. She was to pass away only several days later. Danny was with her when she drew her last breath.
When Dorothy learned that David had moved his wedding date from the fall of the year to a day in May, her reaction was that well, she should be able to attend on that day. She knew her time was running out, ever since the scourge of cancer had made its dreaded return, exactly 10 years after her battle had first begun. Now it was over 4 years later, and her strength, though not her will, was waning.
She wanted to shop for something to wear to the wedding. She had already decided to wear a certain suit she already owned, but wanted a new top to accessorize it. For a number of years we used to meet at a mall almost every week. We'd usually buy some article or other; there were always sales and then we'd go to lunch. For this shopping trip, in early May, she did something different. She asked me to drive to her house to pick her up. She no longer felt confident behind the wheel of her Subaru. So I did, and our first stop was J.C. Penney's in Clifton Park. She was intent on finding just the right blouse for the occasion, and ever the shopper, searched long and hard. I remember sitting on a chair in the dressing room because I still had my original knees and walking, and worse, standing, was painful. But she outlasted me that day, and finally made her selection of not one, but several tops, so she could see which one would be the best match for her outfit. (It was a sad day when I found those items, still in their shopping bag, outside her bedroom door, deposited against the plant-growing hothouse on the upstairs landing.)
Shopping accomplished, we drove over to Mocha's for lunch, a place we were used to going. We ordered sandwiches, and she confessed that she had lost her appetite, and couldn't finish her meal. I was the driver and offered to drive her home with me, but she said no, because her meds were all at her house. So I drove her to her home.
Not very many days after what turned out to be our last shopping trip, she called me to say that she did not feel able to attend the wedding. She was afraid she might get sick in Boston, and cause a problem. So we arranged to tape the reading she had been asked to deliver at the wedding. Dave was an upbeat and humorous photographer, and there was lots of laughter from both him and Dorothy during the filming on her flower-bedecked patio. Later, she told me she couldn't bring herself to view the finished product---maybe later, she said. I don't know if she ever did look at it, though she felt comforted by having done it.
On a later day that May, Dorothy wanted me to meet her oncologist, Dr. C. She had originally been a patient of Dr. M., who had his practice then at Albany Med. He later moved his own practice to Saratoga, and Dorothy went there for her follow up care with him. But, with the recurrence, and the need for more aggressive treatment, Dr. M. referred her to Dr. C., to make her traveling less taxing.
I drove to Chaucer Place on that day of her appointment, and there I did the last thing I would ever do for her. She was getting ready to leave, and her hands were too unsteady for her to do her makeup, so she asked me for help. I did the best I could.
P. drove us to the hospital for her appointment. I don't know what any of us expected that day, only that it came as a shock. Dr. C. told her that it seemed time to stop treatment, the additional chemo, I think, saying her body was too weak and it would no longer be helpful.She agreed to that, and, with as much courage as I'd ever witnessed, calmly asked how much time did he think she had. His answer started with possibly months, then he added weeks, and maybe he even said one week, but by then I could no longer hear anything. He brought up the subject of hospice.( I remember telling her later that wasn't necessarily an ending, that I knew a man whose mother had returned home after 2 separate hospice intervals. That was true.) I also remember that Dr. C. leaned over her chair and hugged her. Which was to be the last time he ever saw her.
Dorothy was still fighting to stay alive, though. P. was starting to push her wheelchair out the door when she reminded him that she had an appointment that day for an infusion, to help her bones. P. said the doctor told her to stop treatment. I heard Dorothy say, "I'm not an idiot. I know I have that appointment scheduled." While they were arguing, I fled down the hallway, and found Dr. C. He was walking with another doctor and they were discussing baseball. I told him that she had been in treatment for over 14 years, and wasn't ready to completely quit. So he was kind enough to order a type of experimental scan, even though it conflicted with, and delayed for a day or so, hospice intervention. P. drove her to that procedure the next day, I think it was a Friday. I was there when she returned and she said it was rigorous and painful. She was to pass away only several days later. Danny was with her when she drew her last breath.
Wednesday, June 3, 2020
Tap, Tap, Tap
I was half asleep when the sound brought me fully awake. This time, at 1:35 a.m., and sounding more like a rapping on the window. As usual, I got out of bed and looked out the front window. All was quiet, no cars in the driveway, not even mine this time.
Words in the World
The older a person gets, not only do others not want to listen to their uttered words, but they are also sparing of the words spoken---down the rabbit hole, as is said.
E.G. In medical offices, sometimes not even a greeting before the words, "Date of Birth?" Not a sentence that asks, "What is your date of birth?"
That's just one example, and probably not a very good one, as it could be the way they ask of people of all ages. Office staff simulates computers, dehumanizing as it may be.
But the meaning should be clear anyway.
E.G. In medical offices, sometimes not even a greeting before the words, "Date of Birth?" Not a sentence that asks, "What is your date of birth?"
That's just one example, and probably not a very good one, as it could be the way they ask of people of all ages. Office staff simulates computers, dehumanizing as it may be.
But the meaning should be clear anyway.
Dude, Where's My Car?
* Perp in mid-driveway, and sitting on ramp.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)