Fascinating and macabre

   The Hero Syndrome       ------       accounts for a lot in field of abnormal psychology. Not to be confused with Associative Identity Disorder

    Must have been during our senior year of high school, pre-graduation, that we all had a meeting scheduled with the building principal. Or possibly, even probably, only with those students who qualified as potentially college material.  Mr. I. was  a reserved and dour personage who seldom spoke unless required to. During the interview, when it seemed that college would not be an option because of the expense, I mentioned that my brother was presently attending college on a NYS Regents Scholarship. The response from Mr. I. was not to count on that, as those scholarships were very rare. My brother was, as I recall, the first and only student at our school to have ever been so awarded. So that was that, end of interview. No help offered there, or from Guidance  Counselor, either, a lame title tacked on to the duties of the business teacher.

  Only the English teacher, Mr. A., whose class I'd been in for my junior and senior years, offered some help and encouragement.  On his own time, after school hours, he told me he thought I belonged in college; we did used to have quite scholarly discussions, even disagreements, in class regarding  literary and other interpretations. English class was the only place I'd ever voiced my opinions, but he was a young teacher, imported from outside the district, so I felt secure in differing or agreeing, as the case may be. He suggested I might consider attending night school, the only other  option available back then. I wanted to agree and hoped it could happen, but deep down, I knew it would be impossible. How would I get there, and where would even minimal college expenses come from.  As it turned out, not long after this conversation, it was announced that both Dorothy and I had won those rare and elusive State Regents Scholarships and so were able to embark on the college journey. 

    I met Mr. A. some years later, at our 20th High School Reunion in Schaghticoke. He had long since left this area, had relocated to the City, had married and had one child, a son.  Mr. A, had left teaching English to become a Guidance Counselor. His son was given his name, with first and middle names reversed, so R.J. instead  of J.R. and I believe was enrolled in private school.

Mr. A., one of the strongest advocates for and influences on my future, is gone now, but he did have the grave misfortune to live to see that his son became one of the most prolific and notorious serial  murderers in the history of our country. Even so cited on Wikipedia. There is no accounting for some things. 

In Sickness or in Health

 It's been a long while since I've vacationed at Disney world, or anywhere else for that matter. But I have visited the exotic world of healthcare, and during the "Premiere Week" as I was informed. 

Glug and Ugh

 Looking for something refreshing to drink as an alternative to soda, I chose this Power Ade White Cherry Sports Drink.   It's probably the worst beverage I've ever tasted. I'd just as soon partake of MiraLAX

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O, Insouciant Blog

      As I stand at the doorstep of another procedure, I turn to you to once again air my grievances, such as they are. No one in the mortal world cares to listen; You, Blog, have no choice. You are my creation. Thus:

   I will try to disregard, though will take steps to circumvent, having an IV inserted by someone who relies on a "vein-finder" to insert the needle. Especially after she says hers is broken, and she is unable to find another. And even more especially if she leaves the room in a huff when another nurse tries to give her advice. He was able to insert the IV. 

  I have no control over or explanation for the vagaries of the sedation protocol. After some time spent waiting in the cubicle, the big man appears, the chief anesthesiologist, who delivers the spiel about  sedation in a voice obscured by accent and mask. His job is done. Some time later, a younger person appears, introducing himself as Bob, Assistant Anesthesiologist, and says he will be with me during the procedure. He starts to say more. Another person enters the cubicle from the other side of the room. Bob abruptly says, "This is Lauren," says  he has enjoyed meeting me, even though our time together was very brief.  I ask if Lauren is his equivalent. He says yes, he is leaving. I ask where he is going. He says, "To get something to eat."  

Now 'Ear This

    If you've ever had your ears cleaned or "dewaxed" in a medical office, you know how unpleasant that can be, with the flushing, the scraping, and siphoning. I underwent such a procedure a few months ago, and the practitioner kindly apologized for the pain, discomfort and the resulting inflammation, for which she prescribed a course of antibiotics. She was unable to complete the process and recommended further treatment.

  So I scheduled an appointment with an ENT. First comment was, "We have better ways of doing that now."  And that was true, a quick and painless way that obviated all the discomfort. 

  Great. But in today's world of mass and fast communication, why is that knowledge not at every practitioner's fingertips. If they don't possess what appears to be a simple piece of equipment, why would they not refer the patient to a facility that does, rather than carrying out a semi-barbaric procedure. Should it be the patient's job to alert doctors to medical advances. Google it, Doc, for Pete's sake.

    I could expand the above concept to an even more crucial surgical undertaking.  I have undergone at least 4 procedures by a single doctor which he acknowledged were not successful. He admitted to me he was unable to successfully achieve the goal of the procedure, even illustrating the graphics  of the difficulty he had encountered. He said he would try again, the alternative being extensive surgery. We don't want that, do we. No! 

   On the advice of my primary doctor, I sought that oft-cited "second opinion."  What I found, right away, was "We have better ways of doing that."  And that too was true. (Although the failed attempts by the first doctor added complications to the procedure, as well as to impending  risks.

  And if I, at my place in life, am now aware of the progress of medicine in these areas, how is it possible that doctors don't know.

   

With Bated Breath...

 ...the world awaited the cause of death for 99-year-old Prince Phillip. The announcement named the cause of death as---old age. Forensics and pathology results  may have contributed to the conclusion that all living things die. Eventually.

A Past Memorial Day

    It was the day of the Memorial Day parade in Valley Falls, an exciting family event back then, in 1977. Dave had gone ahead with the two older kids and I was wheeling Danny in a baby carriage. As we started up the hill on State Street,  both sides of the street were lined with people, and I saw Ethel bringing some food to her grandson and granddaughter who were sitting on the bank. At the time Ethel and her mother lived in one apartment in the former Griggs house, and Sharon and family lived in the adjoining apartment. As I got closer to their house, I greeted them and Ethel walked over to see the baby. Sharon was standing nearby, visibly upset,   and I remember Ethel saying that Mary Ellen probably doesn't know what had happened the night before. I said I didn't and she told me Bob had been in a serious accident, wrecking his new truck on the road past the cemeteries in Troy. (The road behind where the Stewart's now stands on Oakwood.) She said he was in the hospital with life-threatening injuries. When she told me, I was completely shocked. I still have a vivid imprint of the moment. I remember focusing on what was before me: That was Danny, at three months old  dressed in an orange terrycloth suit with yellow trim. For some reason I can still see and feel the texture of that outfit and the baby wearing it.

    Ethel asked if I had a prayer to St. Jude, patron saint of difficult cases. This was at a time before copying or downloading. The original was it.  I always carried a quite well-used prayer to St. Jude card in my wallet. I didn't have it with me. I went home and got it and brought it to her house.

   Some days later, Dave and I visited Bob in the hospital, Albany Med, I think. Bob was alert in his bed, and talking with Dave, who was across from where I was standing. Suddenly a nurse asked Dave if he was all right, and she provided him a chair. Dave had been talking with Bob when he suddenly noticed that his head was being stabilized by screws that had been driven into the bone of his skull. I'd never known  Dave to be prone to fainting, but an alert nurse apparently did. 

  As we left, I heard Bob saying, "Dave, I'm going to walk to your house when I get out of here."