(Here we are, revisiting a common theme in this blog. It’s as if they are not listening!)
I was fully prepared (okay, 85% prepared) to post last night for today, as this morning I was to be occupied during my blogging time-frame. Another medical procedure. Sigh.
Another endoscopy. A camera-down-the-throat (and biopsy) to see the ‘progress’ of my esophageal erosion due to chronic acid reflux. Which might lead to cancer and/or surgery.
Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t be doing it!
This was set-up by my primary physician, as she saw I was suffering from this condition, and wanted to see the progression of the disease.
SO…I was referred to a specialist who saw me six weeks ago, and scheduled this procedure. One day, outpatient, a few hours. Roomie J will be driving, as I will be rendered unconscious by propofol (the Michael Jackson drug) for the procedure.
Last time I had this done, the clinic-de-jour called me (and sent me a letter) a month in advance to ask me questions about medical power-of-attorney, organ donation, that kind of icky stuff. And advised me there would be an intake charge. Up front.
I was grateful for the heads-up, as being on disability I don’t have lot’s of spare cash lying around for unexpected expenses. I still wasn’t thrilled at the charge, of course.
But this time, the different facility (I changed doctors as the previous guy seemed to want to get as much Medicare money out of me as possible) had not called or sent a letter. I assumed (NEVER do that – D. Brown) that if there were a charge, they would bill me.
They called me yesterday afternoon at 1630 hours (I was to be at the hospital at 0700 this morning) and advised me there would be a charge of over one hundred dollars! They would not bill me, and if I didn’t have the funds, I would have to reschedule!
Of course, I don’t have the money. And the caller had NO IDEA why I was upset, that this was in the very least an inconvenience and poor customer service!
THEN, she hung-up on me!
But not before telling me to reschedule I had to call my specialist’s office – THEY couldn’t do that! At 1630 in the afternoon.
(I did rant, but used no foul language.)
Fortunately, my doctor’s office was still open.
SO…it’s been rescheduled for August 16.
PS – While I was writing this, the hospital called to see where I was. I advised them of yesterday’s conversation and the rescheduling. Must I do everything?
“(a)Whoever willfully and unlawfully conceals, removes, mutilates, obliterates, or destroys, or attempts to do so, or, with intent to do so takes and carries away any record,
proceeding, map, book, paper, document, or other thing, filed or deposited with any clerk or officer of any court of the United States, or in any public office, or with anyjudicial or public officer of the United States, shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than three years, or both.(b)Whoever, having the custody of any such record, proceeding, map, book, document, paper, or other thing, willfully and unlawfully conceals, removes, mutilates, obliterates,
falsifies, or destroys the same, shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than three years, or both; and shall forfeit his office and be disqualified from holding any office under the United States. As used in this subsection, the term “office” does not include the office held by any person as a retired officer of the Armed Forces of the
Yes, it explicitly states “shall forfeit his office and be disqualified from holding any office under the United States.”
A couple of weeks ago, I made one of my semi-annual doctor visits. Having many maladies including diabetes and neuropathy make this a requirement. To see ‘where I am’ with regard to my overall health and make certain my medications are up to date.
My numbers were ‘okay’ (same weight as 6 mo. ago (maintaining my lowest weight in years!), low bp from meds, good A1c, good fasting blood sugar, low PSA), but my doc did ‘recommend’ taking fish oil supplements, as my bad cholesterol number was up.
I had taken some before, but stopped because they made me belch what tasted like aquarium water!
But, I found a non-belching version on Amazon, and am now taking it! Thus far, success!
So, I was feeling pretty good about myself.
And, I was doing my bit, looking at stuff online (always dangerous).
And found THIS:
Underweight = <18.5
Normal weight = 18.5–24.9
Overweight = 25–29.9
Obesity = BMI of 30 or greaterThe BMI TablesAim for a Healthy Weight:
Limitations of the BMI
Assessing Your Risk
Controlling Your Weight
And according to this, I remain OBESE! (Just barely)
My roommate and I differ slightly in which movies we like to watch to commemorate the holidays.
My roommate likes everything Christmas, especially SANTA CLAUS related. The three Santa Clause films (Tim Allen), Miracle On 34th Street (two versions), It’s A Wonderful Life, Holiday Inn, White Christmas, The Bishop’s Wife – you name it, we’ve (I’ve) been
subjected relegated thoroughly enjoyed them over the past week or so. Some multiple times.
On DVD or BluRay, in Stereo High Fi…
Don’t get me wrong. I like some of those, in small doses. Some even get me a little misty…
But over-and-over tends to be a bit much. (Sorry J.)
I blame commercial television. Most networks essentially shut down production for the holidays, having fall or winter finales, promising new shows in February!
And giving us fewer choice in the likes of reruns, cartoons and the stuff enumerated above for our viewing pleasure.
It’s like Steve Martin said. 127 channels and nothing’s on.
For television addicts like me, it’s dire.
But, I found a way to counteract the Christmas movie doldrums. I’ve included in the DVD rotation, Lethal Weapon and Die Hard!
As was recently stated on Facebook, it isn’t really Christmas until Hans Gruber is seen falling from Nakatomi Plaza!
Merry Christmas to all you movie fans like me out there…
Billy Shakespeare said that.
I’d a recent experience, wherein I left a blog post comment @ one of my blogfriend’s™ blogs. A few minutes later, it occurred to me that I’d addressed him by someone else’s name!
And there was no method in his blogging software by which I could make a correction.
(I did go back and make a second comment, apologizing.)
This reminded me of a year-or-so ago, when a kind soul sent me a few dollars on my sidebar Paypal link. (hint, hint). It was late, I was preparing to retire, and had taken my evening meds. (HALF of the medication I am prescribed has possible side effects of memory loss!)
And I thanked him profusely, using a wrong name!
Then, I sent him another email, apologizing. Hopefully, I got it right the second time(?) I’ve not heard from him ever again.
At least, in the few significant personal relationships I’ve had in my lifetime with the opposite sex, I’ve not uttered another woman’s name whilst in flagrante delicto!
I don’t think? I wasn’t on this kind of medication, then…
I don’t know…
(Sadly, not the exceptional book by Paul Brickhill, nor the film based on it by John Sturgis)
I rent-a-room from my ex-gf J. We dated a few years ago for about four years, and have remained friends. Hell, she offered me a room in which to land when I lost my home!
The point being, we have been acquainted for going on eleven years(!) And I with her menagerie – a smattering of chihuahuas and cats. Some of whom have passed on (Mike was a terrific boy kitty!). Others remain, and continue to age.
Fooling us into complacency.
The drill used to be to make certain the gate from the back yard into the parking lot was secure, because DYLAN could escape. And has.
When I first met Dylan (which I privately spell Dillon – gun folk will get it), she was three, and very animated and active.
And she did get loose a couple of times, running willy-nilly, constantly checking for pursuers over her shoulder and laughing. She was a rescue dog, and had probably lived on the street for some time. Of course, the main fear was she’d run into the street and get killed.
Now, she’s going on 15-years-old, and has an arthritic back leg. Spends most of her time sleeping, sometimes with one eye pealed for the cats or the puppy. She moves kinda slow.
We were alerted by the (evil) HOA to keep our back gate unlocked (an impossibility, due to the spring-loaded lock) lest they need access to make ‘authorized’ repairs and improvements. For a specific three day period. And we were used to the gate being closed and secure.
So we had to leave it ajar for the three days.
I wasn’t worried. Dylan could barely walk, and D.J. (the happy boy idiot dog) wouldn’t leave, regardless. And Lola (the puppy) generally used paper inside by the back door. (She was a showgirl, ya know!)
Part of the morning routine was to check the backyard for maintenance folk, close the gate, THEN let the critters out. But the habit, based on years of programming, was just let them out.
You can see where this is going, can’t you?
I let them out, then looked up to see the gate still ajar about a foot. I wasn’t worried.
Then, Dylan looked at me and bolted out the gate like a shot! I quickly ran (well, relatively quickly) and called to her. There she was, as if she were again three, running away, looking over her shoulder at me.
I let D.J. back inside, secured Lola in her kennel and yelled to J that Dylan was loose. She ran out back with her car keys. I searched the opposite direction on foot.
J. is asthmatic. Going to her car is her best bet. I’m crippled. Hobbling slowly after a very fast
puppy old lady dog is the best I could do.
Dylan did her best to stay about 60 feet ahead of me, even taking time for a ‘rest stop’ – just to mock my pursuit! J. drove around the parking lot slowly, searching. After about 15 minutes, I chased her to Judy, who scooped her up into her car and went home!
She ended up running a few hundred yards. Which I ended up walking. Slowly and painfully.
The important things are Dylan is back home safe, Judy is breathing okay, and I have additional pain medication.
Here is Dylan, after her little ‘adventure’.
A number of folks close to me have pre-deceased me. And with some (not all) it would be nice to have another 15 minutes.
Or a day.
My Mother, who passed when I was in the Second Grade. My maternal grandfather, Gramp, when I was 24. Of course my daughter Molly, when she was 12…
And a couple of others.
But, I’ve never had that kind of spiritual connection. And I’m a little envious of those who have!
My friend Bob – who saw a vision of his mother in the moment of her passing. Five miles away!
A girlfriend who saw ‘something’ resembling my deceased dog Ilsa wandering around my house.
My daughter had a childhood friend and neighbor who awakened one night to see a black cat outside on her closed window sill. My daughter loved cats. And the cat opened her mouth and laughed, sounding just like my daughter! Of course, this could have been a dream – except the girl’s mom ran into her room and exclaimed, “I heard her, too!” This was about one month after Molly’s passing.
But for me, bupkis.
I like to think I’m a spiritual guy. Perhaps I am, but just not in that way.
I’m old enough to remember the Watts riots in L.A., Detroit. Rodney King? And a multitude of others. And something has always bothered me:
WHY do these folks feel the need to violently destroy THEIR OWN NEIGHBORHOODS to make a point?
In days of yore, I participated in protests. I remember one at the State Capitol, wherein we stood in the Summer heat (all 250 or so of us) to protest The Clinton so-called ‘Assault Weapons Ban’, and our own State legislature considering similar legislation. This was in the 90’s – the temperature was around 100°.
And not one of us engaged in violence, criminal looting or destruction. We had been advised not to come armed, and we didn’t. We carried signs (and American flags), signed petitions, talked amongst ourselves and drank lots of water. And listened politely to speakers like Sheriff Mack. And watched media trucks circle us deciding whether or not we were worth a spot on the 10 o’clock news.
Apparently we weren’t.
Here’s one opinion as to why they foul their own nests:
The borderline-Jacobins at Slate, who believe spanking is child abuse, and personal responsibility is out of fashion, try to explain looting away as a social phenomenon: “Why would anyone burn down the only CVS in their neighborhood?”
The reason, I think, is likely the same reason that poor black Americans in cities across the country burned “their own” neighborhoods in the late 1960s:
They did not experience those places as their own. Then, like now, police brutality was a precipitating cause of the violence, but it was the long-term experience of the indignities of the ghetto that gave shape to the riots. Then, like now, commentators compared the rioters to animals who had run wild and needed discipline. Rioting, to these bystanders, was not proper political protest but the criminal actions of poor people who merely wanted to grab what they could for free. This narrative, which I heard throughout my childhood growing up in Baltimore in the 1980s, put the blame not on the depredations of the ghetto, but on the character of its residents. It completely misapprehends the political economy of our poorest neighborhoods.
In other words: they riot because society has ignored them. Not only is that a specious argument, but it also highlights the fact that Baltimore hasn’t had a Republican mayor since 1968. So which party is responsible for ignoring the downtrodden social class?
Told another way, Abraham Miller at National Review wrote:More @ Red State
…well, more problems with my 2000 Oldsmobile Intrigue!
I was running an important errand for roommate J. evening last (well, going to a soft ice cream emporium for
pumpkin pie blizzards appropriately healthy treats!), when I noticed the car was running kinda doggy. And the battery light on the dash lit up – as did some other miscellaneous lights. And even seeing the lit dashboard was becoming a challenge…!
All this while in line at the DQ!
Fortunately (or perhaps, unfortunately) this is about 1/4 mile South of our residence.
So I limped her home in the dark, lights and engine in various states of fail, praying for her not to die in the street. And for no constables to be patrolling nearby. And my prayers were answered!
I was able to coax her to just outside our respective marked covered parking spaces. Emphasis on the just.
And there she died.
I attempted to physically push her into my space, being the fat cripple I am, and failed miserably. And the area directly behind the parking spaces is a private drive – a road – wherein traffic has been known to travel. So I couldn’t just leave her there! The H.O.A. would have her towed probably before my key hit my lock.
So, I called J., my roommate, landlady, and friend, who was lounging inside awaiting her
Blizzard healthy snack. Thank the gods for cellular telephones.
She responded tuit suite, and together we pushed my Intrigue into my space. Again kinda.
She’s difficult to maneuver with no power steering, and two persons-of-our-vintage with various physical issues don’t help much, either. J. had to retreat because of her asthma and move HER car to a different space so mine can sit comfortably – albeit diagonally – across our two allotted spaces.
Next, the problem of diagnosing what exactly is wrong, and coming up with the money to fix her.
SIGH – it’s always something!
At least she’s not on the street!
AND, about an hour later, there was enough juice to close the driver’s window and secure the vehicle! HUZZAH!