TALK ABOUT A PAIN

I am of two minds about whether to call anyone or send anyone a letter about the woman I spoke with last night, even if I could (or wanted to make the time to) track down her superior.  Reason?  Well, I once got called on the carpet for playing Solitaire on the computer at my station behind the desk at the library where I worked.  I had to remind the head librarian, who was actually gracious and one step away from rolling her eyes, that she'd told me to do this when it was quiet because I'd never used a computer before, and it was a good way to learn how to move a mouse.  It definitely had the air of "just a formality" but I didn't like being called on the carpet, and maybe this lady last night was just having a very, very bad day and I should just let it slide.  In fact I got fired once for something way less consequential than this by a boss who was an embodiment of evil and I would hate to cause somebody to lose her job -- you never know who's out to get you.  Nevertheless I worry about other people who might call this lady and not be as persistent as I was in getting an answer and because of it, literally suffer.  You tell me, because even in the light of day this seems kinda awful.

I had outpatient surgery yesterday at the UConn Health Center (yes, it's all connected to the University of Connecticut).  The surgery was to take a muscle biopsy from my thigh.  I was referred to a neurologist at UConn when the blood test for my muscle enzymes doubled, and at the same time I was having pain and weakness.  (A high muscle enzyme indicates that muscle tissue is deteriorating and leaking into the bloodstream.)  The neurologist repeated some tests and ordered this procedure to help narrow down what might be going on.  This was in December 2011.  It took until February 2012 to get a date for the surgery because "we have a doctor who comes over from Hartford Hospital to help out and he waits until he has more than one person needing this so he can 'stack' patients," I was told.  Makes sense.  

But damn, guess what happened to me in February?  You may never guess so I'll tell you: stomach bug.  "Bug" seems a small and innocuous word to describe that misery, but anyway, that's what it was so I had to cancel.  And then wait...and wait...and wait, until yesterday -- August 23, 2012 -- for it to be rescheduled.  As par for the course I met briefly before the procedure with a couple of O.R. nurses, an anesthesiologist and the surgeon, a gentlemen I had never seen or met before and whose name completely escaped me, but then I didn't think I needed to remember it.  (Wait till I tell you what it is.  It has a very exotic ring to it and you're not gonna remember it after, either.)

All went fine, and again as par the nurses in the recovery room went over post-op instructions and had me sign release forms.  "Here's the number you call if you have any problems or questions," they said, pointing to a phone number on one of the forms.  "You ask for the surgical resident.  There is someone there 24 hours a day."  You always like to have this bit of reassurance after something like this.  Well, as the afternoon went on and the local anesthetic wore off, that damn thing really started to throb.  I'm surprised at how painful this deal really is, and I'm no pain wimp -- I've had fillings done without Novacain more than once.  I figured I could take a little more Vicodin than the directions on the bottle said, because the same painkiller but in a higher dose had been prescribed to me for foot surgery several years ago.  Nevertheless I wanted it somewhere on record (records can be useful) that I needed better control of the pain from what turned out to be a pretty substantial incision.  I called the number.  I got an operator.  Here's a basic transcript of the conversation:

OPERATOR: UConn Health Center, can I help you?

ME: Yes, may I have the surgical resident, please.

OP: Who is your doctor?

ME: The doctor who ordered my procedure?

OP:  Your DOCTOR.

ME:  The doctor who ordered the surgery is Dr. Ascadi.  I don't know the name of the surgeon.

OP:  You don't know your doctor's NAME?

ME:  No, maybe it's here on the paperwork. [I look at the paperwork.  It's not.] No, I don't see it.  I just know he's a black gentleman who comes over from Hartford Hospital to help out.

OP:  We don't cover Hartford Hospital doctors, ma'am.

ME:  I'm just looking to speak to a surgical resident.  I have a question about medication.

OP:  What made you think you could call here?

ME:  It says!  Right on the paper!  Right here, I'll read it. [I read it.]

OP:  Who did your surgery ma'am?

ME:  I don't know his name!

OP:  Well, I can't pull a doctor out of the sky for you ma'am!

ME:  I don't need a doctor, I just have a question about medication.  Painkillers.  I had surgery today.

OP:  The surgical center isn't a part of this complex, ma'am.

ME:  But I was there today.  Having a procedure.

OP:  Okay, you had a PROCEDURE.  That's different.  Hold on.

[I hold on and listen to some muzak.  I DREAD this woman getting back on the line.]

OP:  Okay, how are you spelling your doctor's name?

ME: A, S, C, A, D, I.  Ascadi.

OP:  Oh, Johnny Ascadi.

ME:  No, it's a woman.  Agnes.

OP:  Yes.  Johnny Ascadi.  Hold on.  

[I hold on a minute.]

OP:   You had Dr. Onyiuke and he is NOT a Hartford Hospital doctor.

ME:  Okay, I was told he was.  Can I just speak to the surgical resident?  About my painkillers?

OP:  Hold on.

[I hold on another minute.]

OP:  I have [whatever her name is, I don't remember but I guess she's the surgical resident] on the line and she's going to help you.

ME:  Whew.

And help me she did.  She asked the appropriate questions.  We came to a consensus about the pain pills and supplementing them with ibuprofen.  I thanked her, and meekly mentioned I'd had "such trouble with that operator tonight!"  She laughed politely.

Years ago when I was the Social Services administrator for my town, part of my duties included approving or disapproving medical bills submitted on behalf of indigent residents.  The money ultimately came from the State of Connecticut coffers.  If I okayed a payment without the supporting documents, the town would have to pay the state back come audit time.  I had one provider, a radiology practice, that continued to call and basically harass me because I had not yet paid their bill.  I tried to explain that I simply couldn't, because the patient had not yet been in for an interview, and please, don't call me every day -- I'll keep you informed of the progress.  The office called the Selectwoman, who hated me for political reasons.  She called me into her office and fired me on the spot.  Yes, I did appeal and get my job back -- in fact I SUED the bitch.  But my point is, someone complained about me.  That did not bode well.  If I complain about this woman, will anything happen?  Should anything happen??

I am a fifty-something person with my wits mostly about me, and I can persist (although I admit I was in pretty bad shape) when someone on the other end of the phone who is charged with helping you plays the snotty idiot instead; what about an elderly person, or someone whose first language is not English?  This person could have handled it differently; she could have said "Let me see if I can help you," instead of sounding put out by my apparent stupidity.

I have a lot of stuff to do in my life.  A LOT.  It would be a pain in the ass to take this woman to task but she sounds like she needs it.  You tell me; you put yourself in my place; am I reacting appropriately by being blatantly disgusted with her?  Shouldn't I at least find out her name and send her a copy of the discharge papers so she knows the protocol and that yep, that building IS located on the grounds and yep, sometimes you just need to talk to the surgical resident.  (Note: if you are ever in the same situation and they up your painkillers, be prepared to wrap this woman in your arms as it may appear that hey, it's cool, it's all good, dude.)  Meanwhile, ouch, but ouch a little less now.  Thank heavens.  But no thanks to the UConn Health Center operator who was working last night.

HOW I GOT TO JAMAICA

My cats are bad.  I love them, but they are incapable of good behavior.  Good behavior consists, among other things, of letting me sleep.  Yeah, I know, that's laughable -- like ANY cat will let you sleep when they want something (or nothing, for that matter).  But in my case, with these particular two, I am not allowed to sleep AT ALL no matter WHAT TIME OF DAY OR NIGHT.  Buddy (he of the golden coat) will leap onto my chest, abdomen or legs and then spring off again, quickly, as if I were a human trampoline.  He weighs 16 pounds and something like that landing on you when you're catching some zzzz's is unpleasant and startling, at best.  Molly, my black-and-white daughter, is way worse.  She catches me nodding off and she will sneak up onto my bedside table and start knocking stuff off, including, at times, a full but opened bottle of spring water, pills, hand lotion, Kleenex boxes, and my telephone.  (She is just now sitting insolently on the kitchen table across from me.  Not supposed to be up there.  Right.)

I wracked my brains thinking how I was going to work this one out.  I have had cats all my life, and I have never before had one who wasn't completely content to snuggle up in bed (even if occasionally it was on my head or face) for most of the night.  In fact back in the days when it was safe to let your cats out day and night without worrying about predators, I kept my bedroom window slightly cracked (as it opened onto a low portion of the roof and they could just come in and out whenever), and TWICE I woke up in the morning with a totally unfamiliar cat nestled in my bed.  One was a Siamese that I knew lived somewhere nearby as I'd seen him before, and one was a small black cat with half a tail.  (This scared me since I HAD a small black cat and without my glasses I thought it was her.)  Now, these cats were conked out WITH A STRANGER and apparently very content.  What I'm trying to say is, what the hell kind of furry little demons possessed me here that I had to live my life as sleep-deprived as the mother of a newborn?  Do they not know when they've got it good?? 

Well, I finally figured it out. See, I have a cellar.  It is not a heated cellar, but it is chock-full of little alcoves and shelves and cubbyholes, all perfectly primed to make cozy sleeping places for a cat.  My whole life long (so far) I have watched my father construct little outdoor houses for stray and/or feral cats who might be roaming through the neighborhood.  He would insulate and waterproof them and locate them out of the wind, so I knew, pretty much, what to do and how to do it.  Really, the place was luxurious when I got through, and -- I hang a thermometer there -- has never dipped below 40 degrees in the coldest of winters.  (In fact a couple of years ago, during a record-breaking snowy winter, an opossum lived down there with them for about three months.  Really.  Read about that interesting saga right here: "The Cellar Dweller" or, "Where is Granny Clampett When You Need Her?"

Cozy Place #1 is a pile of old porch cushions on an old table.   (Like "The Princess and the Pea.")  The possum lived in a loosely-folded tarpaulin behind this table.

Cozy Place #2 is a wooden box underneath the workbench next to my power sander.

Cozy Place #3 is a wicker basket, one for each, lined with old towels.

Cozy Place #4 is a chair I found in the dump with old bathmats on it.  There are more Cozy Places.

I admit I am not entirely appreciative of this plan when it's 11 o'clock at night, I'm in my pajamas and ready to turn over and conk off but there is still the issue of Putting The Cats In The Cellar.  Directly under my bedroom and kitchen is the "warm" (+/-) cellar where my washer and dryer and furnace etcetera are.  A door from there opens to the outer cellar.  That's the cats' room.  (I cannot keep them in the inner cellar as they would simply come up to the top of the stairs where there is a real door and raise holy hell with me.  It would be of no use.)

Molly goes down by herself, but Buddy (16 pounds, remember?) makes me carry him and makes himself a dead weight.  Once in awhile he will jump out of my arms at the foot of the stairs and run and hide somewhere in the "warm" cellar.   The only way to get Buddy through that door into the other cellar, believe it or not, is to chase him with an old crutch.  I don't know why he is afraid of it (or of anything, for that matter, since he's never had a hand raised to him) but he is deathly terrified of that crutch.  Thank goodness.  Sometimes I just rush at him (or where I guess his general whereabouts to be) and I holler "MAMA'S GONNA GET THE CRUTCH!!  GETTING THE CRUTCH RIGHT NOW!!!" and he will behave.  Sometimes.  Again, however, all I really want to do is sleep at this point.

So they're in their room, but there's still the issue of that door between the cellars.  Keeping it shut is not enough, because one of them, I suspect Buddy because he has the weight, apparently throws its body against the closed door repeatedly.  Then there's additional scratching alternating with the door-smashing.  Whichever one is doing it, the point is I can't sleep through it and THEY KNOW.  They're not sleeping either but what do they care, they've caught cat-naps all day and are raring to go.

After trying various remedies, I finally came up with something that seems to work. There was already a screw-and-eye closure at the top; I screwed one into the bottom too.  Originally I had fastened a bungee cord through one of the connections, and I pulled on that cord to make the door as tightly shut as possible after I hooked it, hooking the other end of the bungee cord onto the leg of an old metal chair.  They pounded on this, so I realized I had to PUSH the door tightly closed, not PULL it.  I push a cement block up against it from my side so that really stabilizes it.  (Because if it's possible to make excessive noise with a door that's opened one-tenth of an inch, they know how.)

Cement block; note old crutch leaning against wall to the right.

Since they still managed to scratch, I stretched an old rag rug around the bottom half of the door on their side and I securely fastened it there with a staple gun.  This way I don't hear the scratching - it's muffled.  Because believe me, they work at this door all night long even more skillfully than those guys who actually did escape from Alcatraz.

Rag rug.  Not shredded yet.  Thanks, Christmas Tree Shops.

Success!  I felt the wondrous joy of an uninterrupted night's sleep.  Almost.  Because, don't you know, I worried about those damned cats.  Who was sleeping where?  Were there enough blankets in their baskets and boxes?  What if some chemical thing, paint thinner or something, got knocked off the shelf and tipped over and spilled...would they perish from the fumes?  Did they feel that I was abandoning them?  Were there animals outside, deer or foxes (both seen in this yard) peering in on them through the little ground level windows, taunting them perhaps?  And worst of all, especially on a very windy night, was the old door to the outside holding shut??  It's not a bulkhead or overhead door, see, it's just a regular garden variety one with a doorknob and, of course, a lock that I double-check every night.  After I turn the lock I lean on the door to make sure it's fastened all the way and won't blow open.  It's peace of mind for me; little enough, but some.

Then one night a couple of weeks ago when I leaned on the door it unexpectedly flung open and I, in turn, was almost flung out into the backyard in my nightgown (beside the point but I'm including it).  This cannot be, I thought.  I pulled it shut and locked it again, and leaned on it -- and vrooom, again it flings open, and "Shit," I said.   For the lock to just give up the ghost with no warning.  But it had; now what?  I had to get the door to stay shut.  It's not like I could drag a bureau (if there happened to be a bureau in the cellar, which there did not, though there is almost everything else down there) and push it up against the door, because the door doesn't open inward, it opens OUT.  So out I go, looking around for heavy stuff out in the back yard.  

Believe it or not there were slim pickins'.  I ended up pulling an Adirondack chair out of the screen porch, hauling (with no small effort) another one of those cement blocks over and dumping it on the seat of the chair, and leaning the weed whacker against it.  I figured I'd go back down through the inside and finagle something else with another bungee cord just to be on the safe side.

It had started raining, not a heavy rain, but enough to feel like cold spit on my head and make the yard slithery under my bare feet.  So I ran around the side of the house and went to let myself in the front door.  And could not believe it -- I had already locked that door from the inside.  "Isn't this a fine frigging how-do-you-do," I snarled murmured.  It's important to note here that there's a hook-and-eye lock here, too.

I felt sure that something thin would fit in between the storm door and the screw hook so I could lift it open.  Nope.  NOTHING.  Thin twig, no.  Old envelope from the stack of recycling on my front porch, no.  Miserably, I tried yanking the thing open.  I could not have cared less that this meant a new screw hook lock.  But nope.  I have strong arms, too, if I do say so.  But I could not get in my own front door (and was too pissed to acknowledge that this should have made me feel secure).  Back around to the back yard it was, where I morosely dismantled my clever and very heavy improvisation and let myself back into the cellar.  The two of them were sitting there staring at me.  I think they were snickering.  Or they would have been if possible.  I dragged myself upstairs, undid the screw hook on my front door and clumped back down to the cellar.  I caught them both watching the door to see what was going on but as soon as I came in they both started getting washed up (it is a dirty job sleeping for hours on the back of the couch and/or bed).  Like the Pink Panther I slithered back outside and started dragging things to the door; fortunately it was just that spitty little rain still, nothing heavy, but the motion detector light had snapped on and moths were flitting a little too close to my ears, nose and mouth.  I have kind of a phobia about moths.

Finally, when I was again fairly satisfied that the door was blocked with enough heavy stuff to withstand tornadic winds and not blow open, I walked back up the hill on the side of the house and let myself in the front door.  And locked it behind me.  And with my heart pounding, went to bed.  It seems that all the reckless and unnecessary activity had given me restless leg syndrome or something of the sort because I flailed around all night and caught myself turning from front to back to front like somebody flipping a pancake on a hot griddle.  They don't care, I thought.  They do not care what I go through, they have NO empathy.  They only want to eat and play and squabble with each other, and wake me up incessantly and preen.  I should throw them out to the coyotes once and for all.  Little bastards!

I did finally doze off and when I went down the next morning to let them up, I felt a little better about the whole affair.  Or more resigned (I could be confusing that with better).  Anyway there they were, the two of them, big as life.  Molly took her designated reconnaissance walk behind the washing machine, under the window and through an aisle of boxes to get to the stairs (I don't know what she looks for on the way).  Buddy ran halfway up, then did his customary about face so the two of us could head-butt each other twice and then I could loudly kiss his forehead.  I'm too fuzzy headed to recall when all that disgusting behavior began but it's mandatory now. 

My father was kind enough to buy a brand new lock later that day and stand out in the heat and install it.  Oh, and about Jamaica.  I have been to the islands, but not to Jamaica, not yet.  Having grown up in a house full of music and a father who would play guitar and sing "Jamaica Farewell" to me as a lullabye, not to mention the whole ganja-Rasta thing (irie, mon), it's an island I've always wanted to visit.  It's looming there as a dream: Montego Bay, Dunn River Falls, the coffee plantations, the Reggae...please, let it happen.  In winter.  I DESERVE IT.  I don't care how long the plane ride is or how many connections and layovers because I can spend the time writing long essays about my AWFUL CATS AND THE THINGS THEY MAKE ME DO.  Late at night.  With screw hooks, cement blocks and yard furniture.  (In spitty rain.)

ABOUT MR. FRENCH

It's Father's Day, just about.  And I could get going on that easily enough.  My father's packed with 90 years of quite-a-guy and he is the best.  He is bigger than life.  But, I think I'll tell you about Mr. French instead.  He was Dad to my friend Holly, and to her brothers Stanley and Jimmy, and to her sisters Cathy and Leslee and Lynn and Beth and Penny, AND to a slew of foster kids who simply became extra siblings who seemed to have been there all along.

His parents came to the United States from England when he was a small child.  In World War II he served in the Seabees.  He was smitten with the smiling Irish eyes of Cathleen Resides, and they got married, and they bought a small house by a babbling brook in a country town, and they had kids and dogs and cats, and he was a carpenter.  He was pretty much retired by the time I became friends with his daughters Holly and Lynn and was thus kind of absorbed into the family.  The house was always full of family.  As you can imagine.

If ever there was a male equivalent to the Mona Lisa, his face could do it proud.  His eyes held that same enigmatic twinkle and his mouth that not-quite-smile-but-almost.  He wasn't tall, but he stood straight.  He was the tree around which the flowers grew.  His love was quiet and tough as nails.

Mr. French loved to stay up till all hours and then sleep very late.  Rather than a Lazy Boy or Barca-Lounger, he sat in a plain New England rocker and read the paper or watched TV.  He had no intention of missing anything, and he did not: one time when I was sleeping over Holly and I decided to sneak out of the house and walk up to the lake.  We were probably 15 and 16 at the time.  We never did destructive or cruel stuff as teenagers, but we were unwise at times.  This time, in fact.  Halfway there and we see Mr. French in his station wagon coming up the road.  "Jump!" we yelled to each other and pitched over the guardrails, tumbling down an unseen embankment and lying there out of breath and giddy.  We weren't hurt but we were caught.  A lesson: look before you leap.

He was a quiet feature at the dining room table and one day, as I sat fiddling with the cloth band of my watch and not getting it to stay on, he startled me and said "Hand it over."  I did, and he fixed it.  I felt smugly privileged.  He had noticed me and thought enough of the whole situation to help.  Other friends had fathers, good men all, but none -- even my own father -- would have seen my small dilemma without me verbally complaining, and done something about it.  I may not have the watch any more, but I have the clearest memory of the time.

He died at home, peacefully, holding his wife’s hand, just on the other side of the wall from the yard where just yesterday, it seemed, he chopped wood and planted a garden.  I see him now in his daughters, his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren, steadfast and dreaming.  I hope he was who he started out wanting to be. "Take care of things," he would say, "And they will last."

HOW TO SAVE A LIFE

For ten and a half years, from 1983 to 1994, I worked as a municipal social worker.  I fell into this job; I had not the slightest inclination toward this sort of career and, in fact, could probably have used a little social work myself.  (I was 28 years old, had a 2-year college degree in Liberal Arts and lived with my parents.)  This was not a big city but rather a small town, the one I'd grown up in.  If you think this meant there wouldn't be much real action going on, think again: I saw it, heard it, and very probably smelled it, all of it.   (And on the top floor, alone, without a panic button.)

The job description, basically, was to administer the General Assistance program "in accordance with state mandates."  It's all done by the state now, in fact, but back then if you needed money you came to see me.  If you met the eligibility guidelines I slipped a voucher to the Town Treasurer who would cut a weekly check, either temporarily -- if you had minor children and were pending State Aid, or were disabled and pending Social Security -- or ongoing, if you had no other source of income and agreed to participate in the town Workfare Program.  This was the dry stuff, I'll admit, and required reams of paperwork and keeping a yearly ledger by hand -- I'm lucky I had an adding machine that took tape, never mind a computer.

This wasn't all, though.  There was another aspect of the job, and that was to be a referral service for -- and often a liaison between -- the client who needed help and the agency or person who'd be able to supply it.  There was some guidance for this, of course...conferences, information dissemination, and Info-Line.  (Thank you, whoever invented Info-Line.)  Over the years I'd built up my "Anonymous Angels" too -- townspeople who wanted to help in some way but remain unnamed; I could call them when soon-to-be new parents had need of a crib, or when there wasn't going to be a Christmas this year for a big family, or when someone deserving needed their oil tank filled.  There was no telling who would walk through my door next, or what they'd need; one day it might be a wig for a woman with cancer, the next a grieving father who did not know where to turn for help with his murdered daughter's funeral expenses, the next day finding a lawyer for a 15-year-old boy who wanted to be legally emancipated from his parents.  This was not Happy Valley.  

It was a job that made me feel important, gratified and at times at my wit's end.  And usually, people moved on...I might never know what happened, or how they made out, or what became of them, but it was a learning experience for both (or all) of us.  That much is a given.  And as time went by I realized: with the exception of a few repetitious ne'er-do-wells who felt they were entitled to damn near everything, these people were on the other side of the desk could easily have been me -- and my mantra became: there but for the grace of God go I.

One day a couple a bit older than me came into my office, shaky, wide-eyed and with an air of desperation.  "It's our son," they said.  "He has nowhere to go and we can't take him because we can't help him.  He's 20-[something] and he needs treatment for substance abuse.  No one wants him.  He has no insurance.  We are afraid he is going to die."   Not on my watch, I said.  And I got on the phone.

They were quite right; none of the inpatient treatment programs in the surrounding areas wanted him.  "We have no beds available," they said, or "Sorry, but without a guarantee of payment..."  I looked into the eyes of these parents.  I got back on the phone.  I begged.  I pleaded.  I stopped just short of offering to pay for the treatment myself, which of course I could not do.  I took it as my challenge and my mission -- to find help for this kid, a kid who, sadly, would probably slip right back into the self-destructive behavior anyway, but he was going to have at least a chance.  I tapped hospitals and treatment centers in a gradually widening circle.  We were so discouraged.  I knew the State Hospital would take him for a detox but after that he'd be pretty much on his own again...and he needed more.  He needed an ongoing program, and by Jesus, I was going to find him one, and then -- a facility said okay.

I wrote down the information for the parents and they literally ran out the door with it.

Weeks went by; maybe a few months, I don't quite remember.  Every day something new came down the pike, another challenge, some new law to learn or case to be researched, more goddamn paperwork, and worst of all, the politics.  This was a municipal position, and non-union; we were subject to new and often unpleasant treatment by new employers every two years, and if they didn't like us or didn't like the job we were doing, it was one, two, three you're out.  Election time was nearing.   The atmosphere at Town Hall began to shift and change.  We could no longer operate as a well-greased cog; we had to watch our backs.

One day, a striking young man in a leather jacket strode into my office, holding a single red rose.  He was smiling broadly.  I could only begin to imagine what this was all about.

"Hi," he said.  "I'm Tyler Smith."  (Not his real name, of course.) It was the substance-abuse case, of all people, and the kid standing in front of me looked a little the worse for wear, but happy nonetheless.  "I know what you did for me," he said, "And I just want to say thank you."  Thank you!?  In the midst of all the slings and arrows came a beating heart, a big smile, and a sign of hope.  I hugged him, and wished him all the luck in the world.

Out with one administration and in with another and the workplace became needlessly miserable for not just me, but a number of others.  We were told to keep hand-written logs of everything we did each day, from opening the mail in the morning to locking our desks at night.  We had Staff Meetings every week which accomplished nothing and took up precious time, since each of us had our own separate tasks which until now had simply fallen into place as they should have without interference.  This new atmosphere did not bode well.  There were rumors.  There were whispers and closed doors.  There were ongoing "Executive Session" (strictly private) meetings by the powers-that-be.  Our hours were slashed, especially mine, and after I turned in my daily log I was told not to get involved with helping people any more -- just do the assistance applications and distribute the checks.  Helping people wasn't in my Job Description.

I was completely bewildered.  How do you do this, I thought...when they come to you and look you in the eye and ask you, how do you say you can't when you know you probably can?  Do you just turn your back?  What do you say, that your hours have been slashed so you just don't have the time to help them?   I realized my days were numbered now and the way I felt about the job's evolution and the suddenly shifty eyes and shadowy offices, that was okay by me.

Years went by as years do, and I found happiness as a library technician until I became disabled from a neuro-muscular disorder.  I worked as long as I could, with double vision, weak arms and numb legs, but finally, I had to stop and apply for help, first from the state and then from Social Security.  This wasn't easy, and was made more difficult by the sometimes harsh and haughty demeanor of the person I had to apply to -- at times it was an old colleague, for one reason or another, and there was a collective sigh and rolling of the eyes at that.  But I had no choice.

Yesterday I was shuffling around the grocery store, tired, sweaty, and in a hurry.  A guy with a carriage passed me by the ice cream section and from the corner of my eye I saw him stop, turn around and look in my direction.  It didn't register that he had stopped to look back at me.  "Um," he said quietly, "Excuse me, but are you...Linda?"  I didn't recognize him, but because people do confuse my first name (it's the Linda Blair/Exorcist thing I guess) I corrected him, figuring maybe he knows me from somewhere, maybe he's someone's brother or husband or son or... "I'm Laurie," I said.   "You worked at the Town Hall?" he said.  "I did," I answered, and I felt a flicker of familiarity -- I have seen this guy somewhere before.  "You helped me a lot when you worked there," he said.  I was still puzzled and then he smiled and said "I'm TYLER?!!"

Oh my God, I thought, and "Oh my God," I said, "Tyler."  Of course he politely asked "How are you?  How have you been?"  I haven't been all that great, but what do you say, really -- "I'm good," I said, and then I realized I was good, seeing his handsome, healthy grown-up face.  "And you?"  Funny, even as I asked, his smile broadened until it outshone the fluorescent lights overhead and I suddenly knew what he was going to say.  "I'm doing really well," he said.   I hoped he was telling the truth.   "That was a long time ago, Tyler," I said, "That was in the late 1990s."  His smile widened.  "Yes," he said.  "I'm 42 years old now, and I've been clean and sober for 19 years."

That stopped me in my tracks.  I shook my head; I didn't know what to say, and I had to just hug him again.  "I'm an operating engineer now," he said with obvious pride.  I wanted to ask more questions, to know if he was living in the area, if he'd ever gotten married and/or had kids, but he began to push the cart down the aisle again.  So I wouldn't get to know everything, but that was okay.  He had told me the most important thing.  You remember the old "Mary Tyler Moore" show?  Remember how she's walking in the city and she suddenly takes off her hat and throws it up in the air?  I would have done that, I think, if I'd been wearing one.  I smiled all the way home.

For the last four years that I'd worked there, I'd have to say that the job at Town Hall had been the worst job I'd ever had.

Yesterday I think it became the best.

A CANADIAN PERSPECTIVE ON SO-CALLED "SOCIALIST MEDICINE". WE PREFER "PUBLIC HEALTHCARE."

Time for a Guest Post of no little importance.  It was penned by Judith Smith, a member of a Yahoo Group called "Our Myositis" which I also belong to.  It's here verbatim with her okay, with the exception of a few typos I cleaned up.  Ready?  Here goes:

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Dear Folks,

I am known as a plain talker who would prefer the unvarnished truth to comfortable half-truths spoken to make the hearer feel good. So when I wade in with my two cents worth about the Canadian health care system, I do so fully aware that many corporate interest groups, branches of political parties and insurance company mavens who subvert the Canadian experience because these groups make the most noise to attract the most media attention. Whoever squeaks the loudest will usually get the most oil.

I have lived all my life in or near Toronto, Canada's biggest and most cosmopolitan city. My alma mater, U of Toronto, has a medical school which is affiliated with more than ten world-class hospitals in the city's vital downtown core.

I have NEVER waited overly long to consult ANY specialist. It became apparent  that I needed an MRI to solve a mystery that ordinary x-ray could not. This was 5 years ago. I CHOSE to be flexible. When a Friday evening app't after 5 p.m. was available, I was there. (Four days from the time that the appointment was requested.) Another example of how "socialized" health care works: I presented with an enormous and painful swelling on the bottom of my left foot to my rheumatology at the hospital clinic one Tuesday afternoon in October 2009. She made one phone call, and I had an MRI that very afternoon.

I am not a wealthy patron of this particular hospital. I did not bribe the  doctor to "jump the queue". Nor did I have an insurance company administrator dictating what tests I could or could not have or when I might be allowed to have them.

I suspect that the horror stories from the British Isles are a result of the  fact that, despite claims to the contrary, those countries have never been able to rid themselves of the disgusting class system. It's why most of our ancestors (who weren't forced, of course) left Europe for the New World. Yeah, I loved watching Will and Kate's wedding, and I love the parliamentary democracy in which I live, but this loyal Canadian would NEVER curtsy to anybody--Queen or otherwise. I have tremendous admiration for the Queen, do not misunderstand, she is, after all, the actual head of state for the Dominion of Canada. So we can love her and slag the stink out of our elected Prime Minister and other Members of Parliament without being disrepectful! Lots of fun!

In Ontario, I pay Health Insurance premiums on my income tax return which is  filed annually by the end of April. The higher the income, the more you pay.  The lowest amount Health Premium is $300.00 and increases by increments of $150.00. Every adult, no matter their marital status is obliged to file a return. Since Canada has been collecting income taxes since 1911, the bureaucracy is already in place with no added expense for funding the public healthcare system.

If you guys want to talk about public healthcare, the least you could do is get the facts from someone that you know--like me--who has no political axe to grind and isn't going to blow smoke up your anatomy.

Just sayin' Judith

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Okay!  Eye-opening...and I'm so jealous.  Now...what do you have to say about this??

TIME AND AGAIN

I have a blog called "Help, My Compass Broke."  I am very proud of it.  But I think the only way to keep going is to start fresh, start a whole new blog.  I have not published a post since March 2, 2012.

This may sound completely insignificant to anyone else, but considering it is now May 9, 2012, it's actually pretty off-putting.  I was doing splendidly there for a while -- quite a long while, in fact -- giving myself the assignment to write something every Friday (a suggestion from a group I belong to call She Writes).  Often it would be in my head all week to compose this or that but when I went to do it, the piece took a totally different turn and what I'd intended to write about ended up as a draft.  I have a lot of drafts.  So when the brook dried up shortly after my best friend died unexpectedly in fall of 2011, and I could not (and still can't quite) put a cohesive piece together (especially if it's funny), you would think I'd just go to one of these drafts and it would kick-start my brain again.  I really, really thought this was the answer.  But no.  I looked at the drafts and thought, "These were written then.  These were written before."  And I craved and coveted then and before as a smoker craves a cigarette, as a gambler covets the coins spilling out of the slot machine next to him.  I have lost, a loss that left me dazed, sad and helpless.  How do I rewind this tape?

You can't go back and start life over again, of course.  You can only keep going.   Living without my friend -- my sister, my supporter, my truth, my comfort -- viciously pulls the shade of mortality down.  There is so much I have not done and never will do.  (While I'm young, at least.)  It seems peculiar to be old enough to have regrets, but I am, and I do.  Mortality again, and looming ever closer: I have a parent who will be 90 tomorrow.   In my family there are no old men or old ladies.  But my father will be 90 tomorrow.  When you see a piece on the evening news about a 95-year-old man who still cheerfully donates blood (though he seems feeble and quavery), you have to rethink aging; you think of 101-year-olds jumping out of airplanes and teaching the tango and Jack Lalanne with his one-armed pushups, John Glenn in the space shuttle.  But when you have a parent who is 90, you are really trying to convince yourself: I am not middle-aged, and he is not an old man -- not yet.

Nonetheless, you know the truth: he is living on borrowed time, he won't get much older than this, and mortality jabs you in the heart, your heart that beats because his does.  "You guys had a good childhood, didn't you?" he asked me not long ago.  "Good?" I said, "We had a great childhood!"  And it is true.  My brother and I grew up in the quintessential post-war baby boom, with a stay-at-home mom, a house, a yard, summer vacations, Sunday School and snowy Christmases, a black and white console TV and Little League and Barbie.  We were doubly blessed to live with my aunt and uncle for the first 10 (in my brother's case, 15) years of life.  Four parents who loved us more than life itself.  The discovery that not everyone had such a childhood was overwhelming.  Not that it was perfect.  But our childhood was an idyll, a fairy tale despite the occasional bumps and bruises (mix a purebred Scot with a fiery Italian-Norwegian gal) and what I have come to realize is this:  that it continues.  
 
Dad is still the dapper and mercurial troubadour, boyishly eccentric, out raking the yard with a ski pole in one hand and his cane hanging off the front of his shirt.  We are still the kids, at 56 and 61, he worries about, gifts us with his advice and astuteness and fills us with wonder as he has his hand on our shoulder, constantly showing us the way.  He drives his truck out to the road to get the mail now because his walking is so bad.  He can't hear us.  But he is bigger than life, he is like a whole world.

For the last couple of months there has been a fun meme on Facebook; people are forwarding snapshots of things, suggesting that if we know what it is, we say nothing and just hit "Share."  I know, damn it!  I remember; the reason why you'd occasionally need to use a pencil or pen on your cassette tape (and what cassette tapes are)...what the switch on the floor of the car by your left foot is there for...the round plastic adapter you needed for 45rpm records (and what records are).  It's fun, but it has a way of making you feel, well, ancient.  But Dad...Dad will be 90.

We soak him up as time tumbles forward.  We fear for and want to protect him but for us it is the other way around.  We want his approval and hang our heads at his criticism.  He divides his time equally between us, including my brother's two kids, because we fight over him:  "Want to take a ride to the dump today Dad?"  "Let's go look at cars, Dad."  "Dad, come and see the color I painted my bathroom."  Dad still knows everything: the right way to get a stripped screw out, how to shim a fencepost, the best way to spackle a wall, when to plant lettuce.  He knows the difference between swamp maple and sugar maple, what kind of gravel to use in a walkway, how to put a storm window back in its track, the way to tell if a fan belt is going.  He is a marvel.

The other day he and I were outside at my house, getting rid of some overgrown shrubbery.  He did some sawing and then he got tired and I did some sawing, and he stood beside me, watching, teaching: "The saw cuts on the way back, remember.  Put your left hand here and use some pressure.  There you go.  Good job.  You've got it now."  When we were done, he took an axe out of his truck and started to determinedly chop some errant and bothersome tree roots that were growing right in the path from my front door to the back yard.  "These will kill somebody some day," he said.  Not today, Dad.  Not with you here.  But stay and show me.  I know how to ride a bike because you taught me, Dad.  I know how to prime an oil burner.  I know to smile when I'm on the phone to someone.  I know all the words to "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening" and "Jamaica Farewell."  I know how to check the antifreeze in my car.  But I don't think I know how to tear away my roots.

                   HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDY.  I LOVE YOU.