The Snow Incident

February 25, 2011 at 6:02pm

 

 

Time: 10 a.m.  My attire: Black dress pants, black pea coat, red knit gloves, and luckily, snow boots instead of my dress shoes.

As I'm on my to work, heading out of the neighborhood nearing Alexis Rd., the small car in front of me fishtails and veers into a yard, deep into the snow.  It's a young guy maybe 18 years old in sweats and a Whitmer knit cap.  I'm the only car around, so I pull off to the side and turn on my hazards while he makes a call on his cell, with no success.  I have a shovel in my trunk and offer to help.

I start digging around his tires while he kicks the snow with his feet too.  We spend 15 minutes alternating use of the shovel, while I get down on one knee and try kicking the snow as well.  I get in the car every couple minutes and reverse while he tries to rock it out.  We have no luck.

Enter a big Dodge Ram with a couple guys wearing baseball hats and Carhartt coats.  They have a hitch and a rope and back up near the car while the young kid gets on the ground trying to find someplace to attach the rope to his rear end.  I stand back and watch now instead of leaving, mainly because I'm nosy and want to see if it works.  I also notice the couple cars that turn into the neighborhood now smile at me sympathetically as they pass.

While this is going on, one of the men in the truck comments on how it's slippery and you just have to drive really slow.  He asks if I know if my car is front- or rear-wheel drive.  I kinked my head to one side like a dog trying to decipher a sound, as I realize his assumption.  I pointed to my car and tell him the one in the street is mine, and it's front-wheel drive, as I chuckle a little and explain I am on my way to work, this kid and I do not know each other, and I just stopped to help because I have a shovel.  He realized his error at this point and pondered for a moment, as if I've just put him in a parallel universe or knocked something off keel.  Wait, the broad in office clothes didn't spin the car into the snow?  I jokingly made a comment about 'damn women drivers' and we moved on.  They got the car back on the road easily as the kid thanked me for trying.  I half laughed all the way to work.

After being without power 4 days this week, displacing my kids, dog (thank you Eric:), and that silly bearded dragon I carted around in a box while keeping him warm with disposable hand warmer squares, having a sick child and a mother with a violent stomach flu, waking up to a once-again dead snowblower this morning, and this morning's incident in my dress clothes, I'm now looking forward to dinner with Eric finally, with a much-needed raspberry lemondrop martini! It appears I've made it through the week.

A Different Kind of Lunch

A Different Kind of Lunch

April 18, 2011 at 10:41pm

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I attended the Lucas County Children's Advocacy Center annual luncheon last week.  Now, I'm not a business executive, nor am I a funder of such organizations. I was invited to be a guest speaker after a string of traumatic family events involving my three daughters and myself.   I am simply a success story.
 
My daughters were invited to attend as well, a first for children at this particular venue.  It is through this program that they received crisis counseling after a violent experience.  We were honored to be invited, but troubled at the idea of giving a 'speech' regarding the events that surrounded such a dark time.  I prepared my own for weeks, trying to decide where to start, what to include, what to leave out, how to deliver a moving message, and yet keep it light enough for my children to hear me discuss in front of hundreds of strangers.  My daughters likewise wrote their own paragraph of thanks.

The luncheon was at the Inverness Club.  The conference room was a bright, cheery one with posh green carpet, white walls, and giant picture windows overlooking the golf course.  The tables were all white linens with colorful pastel tulip arrangements.  It was immensely cheerful and welcoming, yet contradictory to why we were all there.

The first speaker introduced was a woman who'd been abused and had the courage to leave, only to have attempts made on her life and then was forced to take on her attacker via the court system.  Luckily she had an advocate from this organization to attend her court appearances with her while facing this man (monster) across the room in shackles and an orange jumpsuit.  She says she had an angel with her during those days.

The second woman to speak looked to be about 50 years old, and had recently taken in a 6-year-old victim of assault and repeated sexual abuse.  Six years old.  The little girl of course was not in attendance but it was clear from this woman's middle-age perspective that she had needed help in not only raising the girl, but seeing her through the remnants of her ordeal.  The Children's Advocacy Center was there to help.

Then it was my turn.  As I stepped on the small portable stage with the podium and microphone, I realized just how many business suits were in the room, I realized what I was about to share, and I began visibly shaking.  It was embarrassing more than anything. I heard one daughter whisper, "Calm down."  I had so wanted to give a sophisticated, empowering talk.  I lost all train of thought and couldn't even look at the paper I was holding.  I began from memory and just ad-libbed the whole way through.  I saw lots of gasping, mouth-covering, and nodding in agreement as I spoke about the night my daughters lost the parent they knew, figuratively speaking.  I did manage to remember a few of my humorous ice-breaker lines in between though, and got the appropriate laughter in response.  Whew!  I finished up with their current-day childhood successes.  We got lots of "Wow" upon the announcement of my oldest's 4.2 GPA at school.  With the mention of my middle daughter's 3.8 GPA, I was immediately corrected with "3.83."  More laughter.  I then had them step up on the stage and read their own paragraph while I beelined down.  Aaaaand scene!

We must have done something right, maybe moved someone in a new manner they weren't used to, because it was announced immediately after we stepped down that an anonymous business donor had just offered to match a portion of the day's funds raised!  My heart was actually warm.
Sashem Brey was the emcee for the day, and I must add that I have not met such a lovely, warm woman in quite some time.  She gravitated over to my girls more than once, seeming to thoroughly enjoy chatting it up with them in between her duties.  My middle daughter proudly announced that she 'does the video announcements at her school' and planned a career in media. They got along famously.  She left with Ms. Brey's e-mail address and cell phone number. I don't believe this sweetheart of a lady realizes what she may have just done to herself.  My oldest daughter left with a job application for Inverness.  And the youngest, well, she was happy to be carting out a gigantic cookie.

I'm glad we stepped up and shared our story now.  I'm not sure which was worse - thinking about it, or thinking about talking about it.  I'm glad I got it out there for a good cause, and I'm glad it's over.  What I marveled at most was the fact that while I initially knew there were two other women there from crisis backgrounds, I could not tell them from the business executives in attendance until they stepped forward from random tables.  We really are all the same.

Dog Karma

It was 13 years ago that my chocolate lab Jake burned our house half down.  I'm seeing some similarities in this Weimaraner that we now own and wonder if they communicate telepathically..."Do it again!  Do it again!"

Courtney was just over a year old.  I received a phone call from my step-dad that my mother was being admitted to the hospital and I could come up if I wanted to see her before surgery.  I panicked and rushed around, dog-proofing the house before I grabbed Courtney to run out the door.  I put up baby gates to keep Jake, 4 months old, in the kitchen.  He always, always, always tipped over the garbage can.  I stared at the can, quickly pondered, and mindlessly plopped it on top of the stove before walking out the door, because he could NEVER reach it up there, right?

Fast forward to the hospital room, where my mom is in pre-op and miserable.  The nurse is trying repeatedly to get the I.V. started.  Courtney is a little antsy and I'm trying to keep her quiet.  The bedside phone rings, the nurse grabs it, looks at me and asks, "Are you Amy?"  It's my sister and this is what she says: "Umm, I don't want you to panic, but your house is on fire."

The drive home was a mental battle.  "Go fast, wait Courtney is in the car, take your time.  Don't take your time, your house is on fire you fool!  Okay it's just a house, slow down."  What am I gonna do anyway, charge in there with a garden hose? I turned down my dead-end street to about five flashing engines and several police cars.  Side note: We learned the carbon monoxide detector did indeed work.  Everybody should have one.

They suspected that the dog jumped at the gas stove, which had the knobs on front, and clicked one on with his paw, lighting up something on the stove, no idea what (insert innocent bug-eye look).  They knew this because when the department arrived, the burner knob was still in the 'light' position and clicking.  My neighbor had been taking a walk, looked through my front window, and saw my kitchen engulfed in a giant flame.  Good thing I'd left the curtain open.  She was able to open the side door and shoo out the dog.  The worst part of this story is that I had to live with my (ex) in-laws for five weeks.  The insurance company ruled it negligence and dropped our policy after repairing $25,000 in damages.  The good news is that in the end, it increased the value significantly and we made a nice profit when we sold.  It still wasn't worth five weeks of in-laws though.


This story came to mind today because recently my dog has been jumping on the windows and curtains, pulling down an electric candle I have on the sill that automatically lights up at night.  If it falls while on, the bulb is hot and lays on the curtain and carpet.  Of course I'm stubborn and refuse to conform to this stupid dog and insist he will conform to this house instead, so I will not just unplug and remove the candle.  I put adhesive on the windowsill.  I put a blanket rack in front of the window.  This is MY house and MY windowsill.  Except the other day Mackenzie pointed out, "That bulb gets hot and he keeps knocking it over.  He's gonna catch the house on fire one of these days."   Please not again.

Hospital Wars

I had the unfortunate opportunity to experience our two major local healthcare system competitors in a 48-hour time period this week.  I found quite a difference.

On Thursday I started at the doctor's office, where a STAT MRI of the brain was ordered.  They called one local hospital, who fit me into an already-booked diagnostic schedule. I arrived there in bad shape and was met with a sweet, sympathetic young lady in registration who spoke softly for my benefit, filled out much of my paperwork for me, and came out from behind her station to walk me to a chair in the waiting area. Once in Radiology, a man helped me onto the table, gave me a cold washrag on my face, a set of headphones, and a panic button. Laying down was excruciating and I was clearly shaky. He chimed in repeatedly during the 20-minute scan to ask if I was doing okay (side note: to anyone facing an MRI, I highly recommend sedation, especially in a STAT situation while in pain). My mind was wandering and scrambling.  Amusingly, I'd recently seen that true-story movie 127 Hours starring James Franco, who had to talk himself out of a mental breakdown several times.  I decided to have this same conversation with myself throughout the procedure, and also wondered if this was the kind of torture our military underwent when captured. Melodramatic? You betcha. But it made the minutes pass and I was losing it. The extreme loudness of the clicking and beeping was more than a normal person can tolerate with debilitating head, eye and ear pain. I made it through the worst 20 minutes of my life and was removed from the 'tunnel'. The tech sat with me for as long as necessary until I could stand. No rushing, he said, even though I knew the next patient was waiting right outside.  I proceeded to the lab for bloodwork and at this point my pain tolerance was crashing. I was pale, dizzy, had blurred vision and was severely nauseated. The young phlebotomist noticed this, and although I was not next on the draw list, she nabbed me from the waiting area and took me back to a reclining chair in the lab room.  She asked repeatedly if I needed anything, and gave me a mint from her purse to help my stomach. Now, while normally a diagnostic procedure and report would take a day or two to report out, mine went like this: MRI at 1 p.m., review of images by radiologist at 1:50 p.m., dictated, transcribed and faxed to my primary ordering doc's office by 2:30 p.m.  Prescriptions were called to the hospital pharmacy, ready for me in ten minutes. Not one person discounted my situation or herded me through like cattle. While I provided my insurance card, there was never any talk of benefits or co-pays. That was the least of their concern. Those touches alone kept me together. My mommy drove me home and I crashed to sleep with Percocet.

Fast forward two days. Shopping with Mom (heart condition) and daughter Courtney at the mall. Just as we enter the food court, Mom's heart rate takes off for no good reason. She takes a seat in a vestibule area with couches, chairs and a TV. We try a few tricks that can sometimes slow your heart rate.  Several shoppers walk by wondering if they should call security as I'm squeezing her neck in a choke hold to try and put pressure on her pulse points. We finally drive to the other system's ER, the large conglomerate in Toledo; this is where she's always attended and they have her records on file.  The first thing I notice while we're sitting in the little ER Triage room is the main desk behind us.  A young guy is on the phone discussing a patient's condition and ordering a room number for him/her. An obviously-aching woman is standing in front of him waiting to check in while he's on the phone. He does both at the same time.  All the while he is scrolling down Facebook on the computer, reading status updates on his Home page.  Once in the ER room, my mother is light-headed, short of breath, not able to talk a lot. The first nurse instructs her to remove her sweater and tank top (thanks for the help, she can barely exert an ounce of energy). Another nurse, with butt crack and undies protruding from her scrub pants pulled down ghetto-style, attempts to start the IV and comments how "This is the 3rd stick today I'm not getting, I'll have to back out and stick you again. Oh look at the needle, I guess I had it the first time, should have left it in.  Ok, big poke..."  It didn't help that the ceiling light above her was out. I jokingly commented that my cell phone has a flashlight feature if it would help her.  She ignored me:) A couple people begin hooking up EKG wires, nasal oxygen, and securing the difficult IV. They begin explaining what she'll receive, although she's been through this before and knows the drill. My mother 'introduces me' more than once as each person enters the room as I sit in the chair next to her bed. Not a single nurse/doctor look at me or acknowledge. Droopy-pants nurse stands at the counter now, back facing us, and begins talking to my mom through the back of her head.  "Any history of high blood pressure? Diabetes? High cholesterol? Any other history of heart problems?" We didn't see her face during this shouting session. If we would have, she may have noticed the chest scar, a clear indicator of previous heart surgery. Then comes the kicker.  A woman enters with a rolling laptop and announces that she is going to take my mom's registration information for billing. She goes line by line, asking first and last name, with spelling, street address, phone number, and asks for the insurance card.  It is clear by her ignoring my presence and looking directly at my mom that she expects the information to come from her and not me. I fumble the insurance card out of my mom's purse. Lady then asks expectantly, "What is your husband's social security number, we need it for billing?"  At this point I'm amazed at the lack of civility in here, but I keep my mouth shut. Are these demographics really necessary while her heart rate is 168 per minute? By the way, the average heart rate is 80-100; she has been pumping double-time for an hour now. The doc tells us later that the heart can tolerate this strain for about a half hour before bad things can happen. In all the chaos, my mom amazingly (not really though) spouts off the requested digits. Next question, while gown, EKG and oxygen are still being applied, "There is a $25 co-pay due today. How will you be taking care of that? We take cash, check and credit cards."  That was about it for me. I'd seen enough. If I were standing near her I'd have whipped that computer right out of the room. I could only stare in awe. I sometimes have a history of running my mouth, so I made a mental effort to bite my lip and again fumble for a credit card in her wallet, although there were too many people between us to deliver it to the lady before she stepped out. At this point I decided to exit the room; I could feel my irritation spiking. Also along for the ride were my boyfriend and his daughters, who'd met us at the mall and followed behind in his car while I drove my mother's. I'm sure they weren't anticipating spending an hour or two of their Saturday in this manner.  I was thankful he/they stuck with me.  I should have taken them for ice cream after!  Half hour later, Mom has been treated with adenosine, which momentarily stops the heart and allows it to reset to a normal rhythm. She hates this with a passion. It is startling. Anyway, as they're wrapping things up and she's regular again, she comments to the nurse about how they seem to closely watch the heart monitor screen when she gets this injection.  His response is that they like to watch her flat-line and then re-start because it 'looks cool' on the monitor.  Glad we could entertain them! Is that the most thoughtful response he could deliver to his patient?  I'm sure it wasn't cool for my mother.  Eventually we exited the facility and she was feeling good and looking colorful again.  Registration boy still had his Facebook page up.  I never did pay that co-pay.

Now, I recognize that the visitation of various departments during my own hospital visit is not an apples-to-apples comparison of my mother's ER trip. I'm sure the emergency environment is different.  However, I happen to work for one of these hospital systems and always knew of the quality and warmth at the patient-care level and focus on well-being versus our less-sensitive-yet-sophisticated-and-advanced counterpart.  I have lived in Toledo my whole life and now seem to have personally experienced a little of each!  Both did the trick in different ways. I left mine happy on Percocet (with a measly diagnosis of sinus impaction:) and Mom left hers with a happy heartbeat.