Cleanliness…

I was raised in the Midwest. My blood sings with a heavy German accent, and my DNA is imprinted with a blue-collar work ethic. I was brought up to believe if you weren’t ill, you should be sweating. The South has taught me to slow down. Granted it’s taken me a few years, but I do appreciate a good drawl and the rock of a porch swing.

This week we’re expecting visitors from the North, and my dead mother’s sainted head shook in disdain at the dirty windows and grimy fingerprints on every surface. I thought about hiring a young woman to help clean, but mom said, “You can do this yourself. Spread it out over several days.” Evidently she must have been talking to my husband, too, because we have worked doggedly washing windows inside and out, vacuumed, dusted, mopped, primped, and cooked for days.
 
Sitting on the couch, I am enjoying the view of the river out my clean windows, but now I see all the stuff in the yard that needs tending. Those darn German ancestors were workaholics. I need a bier.

Stressed

The cardiology office had scheduled both a stress test and an echo cardiogram on the same day, for my convenience. Embroiled in a convoluted tour of the health care system, running from one doctor’s appointment to the next, this sounded good to me. I arrived early at 8:30 to a full waiting room. Looked bad, but I only needed tests. Our electronic relationship already established a few weeks prior with my visit to the nurse practitioner, there was nothing to fill out, just sit down. I looked around. Not only was I the youngest person in the room, but the only one wearing sweats.
 

Feeling self-conscious about my clothing choice, I noticed a dapper gent in white ortho walkers checking in with the receptionist. He barely sat down before he’s called back for his test, and I’m hoping—no, I’m delusional that this won’t take all morning. My name’s called soon, but the voice comes from a different direction. It seemed the billing office was serious when they phoned the house looking for the co-payment prior to service. The voice had informed me that waiting to pay until the day of my visit might slow my forward progress. Who’d have thought—evidentially the dandy in the white shoes. I vowed to pay upfront the next time. Back in my seat, several people proceeded to the test area before my credit cleared.

Not long and the echo tech, Lynette, called my name. When she instructed me to strip down to my waist and put on the pretty blue paper number with the opening to the front, I realized I had no idea what this test was about. Lynette dimmed the lights and quietly explained that an echo cardiogram is basically a sonogram of the heart. Instead of my grandson in the little V shaped shadow, I reclined to watch my valves beat out a percussive number that would make a marching band Gangnam. Each of the four chambers grooved a different beat—Zah-zim-zah, Zah-zim-zah, Zah-zim-zah or my favorite, Whack-a-do, Whack-a-do, Whack-a-do. My little cupped valves swung and jived while Lynette’s calm voice assured me nothing was enlarged. I knew I was healthy, but then there was that stress test I didn’t study for.

The radiology team of Frick and Frack put me through my paces. I made nine minutes while fussing with the electrode belt, trying to keep it from falling around my knees. With the treadmill goosed four times, I was pleased with myself for not fainting or falling off the back of the machine. After an hour or so of waiting for the nurse practitioner, she shows me my poor test scores and orders (of course) another test.

Driving home, the billing office called. They had contacted my insurance provider and wanted to warn me of the co-pay amount. Did I want to pay by credit card. I explained that the test wasn’t even scheduled yet. The voice assured me, someone would call to set the appointment that afternoon. That seemed wrong, worse than paying before receiving services. I declined payment again, feigning dangerous driving conditions.

They haven't called, yet. A nuclear stress test—sounds dangerous. I wonder if I should wear a hazmat suit.

 

Waiting Game

Thankfully, I haven’t had much need to sit in a doctor’s waiting room the past few years. Recently, my internist left his clinic for fairer shores, and I was forced to find a new doc. I decided on a female physician, nice woman, I like her a lot. After listening to my litany of aches and pains, she suggested some screenings—my age. Okay.

The past month I have worked full time scheduling appointments, driving to one clinic after another and WAITING. I’ve been stuck, prodded, smeared, squished, and nearly killed (a stress test) ultimately for my good health.
 

The new fancy orthopedic clinic was a cattle call. In the name of efficiency, I was given an electronic tablet to fill out and got into a line where a young woman took vital signs one patient after another. When I finished entering my life history into the cloud, I was given an electronic survey of my techie experience. Handing the device to a human, I was assigned a number printed on the schematic of the building, complete with all the different doctor’s exam room numbers. I was instructed to listen for the “dings” and watch the TV monitor for my number and its corresponding room number. Sitting down in the gymnasium sized waiting room, I noticed there was not one magazine, newspaper, or pamphlet, on any of the end tables. Everyone who was smart used their phone. Waiting two hours for my number to “ding” and flash across the screen, I proceeded to find my own exam room. I was relieved to see the doctor was human if not harried. I wonder why.

I'll tell you about the cardiologist next time. Right now, I have to answer the phone. They're calling me to schedule an appointment.

 

Tears

I went to Fred's funeral yesterday. He was an older gentleman who lived a long and healthy lifestyle. An active golfer and avid smiler, it was hard to imagine Fred was in his 80's.

I don't do funerals well. I usually try to avoid them because I cry -- a lot. I could have been one of those professional mourners in ancient times. Women who were hired, presumably by the rich, to wail at funerals. I try not to be so emotional, but the tears leak out. Usually I look worse than the family who I'm supposed to be comforting. They inevitably end-up patting me on the back, giving hugs and words of encouragement. Geech.

No one I know disliked Fred.We weren't especially close friends, but he lived and died my ideal. Extending his hand with a smile, he had a welcoming soul. He died in his sleep. What a blessing. There are many things worse than dying.

Godspeed, Fred. And for your family, I cry.

Reality Check

The past few weeks have been a roller coaster ride. My emotions, like eggs rolling on the coaster car’s floor between my feet. I try to stop them, but they crack and ooze with a gooey reality check.

I’ve been on hormone replacement for years, and I was under a delusion my emotions were under control – that I was too old and therefore no longer at the mercies of this monthly ride. How foolish we humans are, so easily sucked into our fantasies of power and restraint. A tiny pill, half the size of a pencil eraser, one milligram, zapped my myth. Between our insurance provider insisting on a generic medication substitution or pay through-the-nose, and our drug store closing because of Obama insurance restructuring, I was left for a month without my milligram of hormonal sanity.

I didn’t care at first. It comes on slow. The coaster moves away from the platform and chugs up a scenic incline. "Oh, LOOK. How beautiful. Maybe I don’t need that pill anymoreeeeeeeeeeeh." I fall headlong into a tantrum. Expletives fly like egg bombs. As I round a bend into a black tunnel, tears streak my yolk covered face.

The doorbell rings. FedEx. My meds delivery – expedited.

Only a few more loops now, and I’ll be back to the platform. What was I thinking? One lie or another. That’s what fiction writers do best. 
 

striations

            the grain of wood
            a tree’s life measure
            jagged and stained
            knotted beauty
            cut and sanded

            pillar and post
            sound foundation
            pressed over time
            striations of strength
            weather the storms
        
         

Goal Cleaning

I’m doing some spring cleaning – spring of 2009 to be precise.

We had company last weekend, and I had to clean my office to make room for an air mattress. I couldn’t believe how much stuff has accumulated since we moved here nine years ago. For the health and well-being of our guests, I hurriedly rearranged one shelf in the closet to shove all the mess laying on the desk, chairs, and floor, and promised to come back.

A few days ago, I stood at the Closet of Truth. “I will never save junk again.” I lied, when we moved. On the top shelf there was an expensive broken camera. On the shelves below were floppy discs with no drive, used (but still good) manila folders, a laptop I haven’t fired up since we got our iPad, wires that don’t connect to a computer, TV, or telephone we currently own, and on the floor (my personal favorite) those two large boxes full of 20 year old photos that “need to be put into albums.”

Today I’ve tackled my file cabinet. You know those antiquated boxes that stack in the corner with drawers. Evidently, I started these when I didn’t have a clue how to file (or spell). It’s all interesting, sometimes just from the curious. What the hell was I thinking?

I came across a file from a workshop I attended in 2009. Besides half used notebooks and a plastic baggy with out-of-date conference news, I came across a list of career goals. We had been encouraged to write a list of one year goals and five year goals. Ouch – 2013. All the things I was going to achieve. Humm, maybe I should have revisited these sooner –worked a little harder.

No, I am not going to share. Actually these look pretty good. No need to waste paper, I’ll just change the date and file it under 2018.