LOFT LIFE: One moment please

 I know they’re trained to be polite, not to argue with the customer, to make every effort to decelerate combustible situations, but, I just don’t do well with what I call the Tape Recorder Voice (TRV), especially when it is not really a tape recorder. I know, I know, my expectations are way too high. I expect human beings to be actual thinking, reasoning persons, not pre-recorded, automated responses, which if they came from an actual robot, would at least not leak emotion.

I hope it doesn’t sound prejudiced, or lacking in multi-cultural savvy, but when this TRV is obviously in India or the Philippines, the obsequious attitude is even more annoying than were it a dripping courtesy from someone in my own country. Really, if this were a person from the U.S. who is originally from India or the Philippines, that wouldn’t faze me, because I would imagine they can better relate to my questions, predicaments or needs. What it comes down to is that I think this trans-oceanic person actually IS polite, and will go to any length to keep cool as I heat up, even if they don’t understand what I am saying. (I’m aware I’m using the word actual multiple times. It makes me feel better in this virtual world we live in.)

On this particular call to India (purported to be a United Airlines call center), I was merely inquiring about the actual cost of changing my ticket from a return trip to Hartford from Chicago and adding a third leg--a quick trip to Los Angeles, then back to CT.

I haven’t seen my eight grandchildren in two years due to trying to sell or rent our Illinois home during the whole years of 2008 and 2009 when we lived in the hotel in CT.

My call to United was just a question of cost. I wouldn’t book the change on the phone. That costs more. My never-to-be-challenged get-it-for-less skills wouldn’t tolerate that. I needed to know cost so I could make the changes online.

“I’d like to know the cost to change my ticket, add the Los Angeles trip and fly back to Connecticut,” I plied.

“One moment, please,” came the exotic accent from afar.

I waited many moments, only to be asked back my own question. We were still at the beginning. I looked at my watch. A moment is less than a minute. I was willing to grant at least three or four.

“One moment please,” he repeated. Oh, and his name, which we all believe, is Mike. I am certain UA doesn’t want to stress out American callers by forcing them to pronounce his real name. Once I actually asked a call center guy for his “real” name. He answered. They’re right, hard to pronounce without the spelling. 

They don’t want us stressed over this irrelevancy. They’re saving that energy for the reaction guaranteed by the end of the call, when none of the questions are actually answered, and the TRV continues the polite thing, knowing full well he isn’t answering the questions.

I felt my blood pressure rising as five and then seven minutes passed. There was a storm this Chicago evening; my phone needed charging. By the twelfth minute, I knew I was losing the battle. The storm raged, my phone died.

You already know what I did if you follow me here. I made a second call to India, ever-positive, sense of humor mostly intact, believing I might actually find a real human being, ask my questions, get an actual cost of changing a ticket, adding a leg. Ha ha. You also know that didn’t happen.

My second android was named Nick. (Do they choose their own names? Is this some film star they admire, or a name in a novel when they were perfecting English?)

Nick had the “one moment please” down pat, and seemed to love saying it, even adding the polite phrase, “I’m attempting to get the information for you.” That sounded hopeful.

Alas, my storms, the inner and outer ones, deepened. I was put on hold. On Nick’s return, we started anew. I was put on hold again, the TRV continuing to say, “One moment please.”

“A moment is not twenty minutes,” I blurted, realizing I was beginning my uncool journey.  “A moment is two, maybe three, at the most five minutes.” 

“Yes, ma’am. One moment please.” No emotion sounds. I suspect there was some.

Okay, now I was officially losing it. I don’t mind not getting my own way (well, of course I really do mind), and I understand the question was a tad complicated, but my cell was approaching its own red zone, the rain worsening. I knew this conversation would soon be curtailed.

“If I do change my ticket and don’t return to CT directly, will I lose my frequent flyer miles?” I interjected, hoping a new question would let me know if Nick was still paying attention.

“Yes,” he said. “You would not get the miles.”

I sighed.

“I just want to know the cost of the ticket,” I pleaded. “It’s the change fee, and then the cost of the additional destination, minus the credit from my already-purchased ticket, right? Is this a difficult question?” I hoped against hope, as Kierkegaard would say.

“One moment please,” Nick said, as though my ranting hadn’t bothered him in the least, and as though this was the first, not the fifteenth time he had said it.

The phone died, the rain belted, and even I have a point where I give up. I flew back to Hartford, booked a round trip to L.A. for the following day. It worked out--probably cheaper than the change ticket.

I’m wondering. I had 14 more hours in the air and a three hour layover in Chicago, to consider changing my approach. After all, I do not want to qualify for insanity.

So on my next call to India or the Philippines, or to any super-polite call center, what do you think of my answering the initial, “May I help you?” with “One moment please.” Of course I may have to give up wanting to get answers, but then I don’t usually succeed anyway. When they ask me a question, I could put them on hold, and return to them as if they had not already clearly asked me something. I could delay asking a question, get them really interested in what I have to say, and still keep cool as they do. Maybe it is a little passive-aggressive. That’s surely better than being all-aggressive. 

So, you know I am not really going to do this. It’s not Mike or Nick’s fault. They are mere cogs in the wheels of “progress.” But, when United Airlines sends me their survey (which I wonder if anyone actually reads), I am going to let them know exactly what I think about this attempt to remove the customer from customer service. Polite is good if it isn’t a cover for, “I can’t really help you, so I’m just going to keep saying, “One moment please.”

I just wanted a simple piece of information; the robotic system makes that almost impossible. Maybe it has nothing to do with language and culture differences. But, then why in a half hour isn’t there a simple answer? Does anyone else feel this level of frustration at the TRV?

LOFT LIFE: You (food) are always on my mind

OK, enough about lungs. One can only be passionate about a lung if one is in danger of losing one. Now that living is back on the front burner, so is food, my true passion, aside from Jay and my kids, and grandkids, of course. (Good thing no one can see inside my brain for the truth.) You may want to read my second hotel story (March 09) for my detailed perspective on packaged food and the American dilemma on finding fresh food.

It occurs to me how moving to a new locale really affects what and how we eat and what we buy.

In my neighborhood walkabout, (scroll back somewhere around November 09 of my blog stories), I talked about bread from Diana’s Italian bakery, and imported ham, turkey and cheese from Helen’s Polish deli, and then there’s Silvia’s, which is a one-of-a-kind experience each time we go there.

We did have Valentine’s brunch at Silvia’s with Thomas and Andi, and they enjoy the drama of the place as much as we do. We keep trying to figure out why there are usually so few cars in a place with such amazing food. Some of this may be due to Silvia herself, who seems a bit intimidating to some. We watched as one couple arrived for brunch, sat down, and then decided to leave. Silvia caught them just in time, and with her invisible shepherd’s crook, guided them back to their table, with them looking sheepish, and a bit disgruntled at the coercion. We had a hard time not gaping at the scene, but then, as I have said before, Silvia doesn’t behave how we would think of as professionally. She is a business woman as well as a hostess in her homey place, though hospitality may not be her gift. It feels like she just can’t stand to lose even one patron. I don’t think it’s about money. I think she truly believes that if she can get you to stay, and eat, you will come back. It ends up feeling less like an invitation than an order from a mom-like control freak. But, the food is great.

It turns out not all of Diana’s goods are raving successes with us, but we did love her fruit cake over the holiday (still some in the freezer), and we enjoy her multigrain bread, which is seldom available, and her multigrain ciabatta. That said, I still confess to sorely missing my Great Harvest Bread bakery, and even though there is one near Boston, and nearer, in Manchester, that surface street drive is more daunting than Holyoke (scroll back again), so I won’t be going there by myself. Multiple hints to hubby haven’t resulted in trips to Manchester. 

Helen’s deli is great, and obviously, from the clientele, a neighborhood pillar. Her imported deli meats, kilbasi, cheeses, and other Polish treats like chocolate and pirogues are special. But, one can only eat so much of lunchmeat and pirogues.

My big find has been the Turkish-owned discount produce store on Rte. 5 in Enfield. The small parking lot is always burgeoning with double-parked cars of shoppers who know they must get to this produce.

I took my daughter there. She was jealous and knows no place like this in the Chicago suburbs. It’s really like an enclosed European outdoor market, but no flies (so far). 

On my first few visits, I spent around $75, mindlessly throwing everything, which had been growing under the sun quite recently, into my smallish cart. I think it reminded me so much of Italy, I just couldn’t help myself. It was euphoric.

I started budgeting.  Though I could seldom stick to my list once I saw pineapples for $2.49, and clementines’s from Spain for $3.99 a box, and avocados, and ripe, but firm cucumbers and zucchinis, and so much more, I just had to get it to my fridge.

After four months, and the experience of some produce rotting in my fridge because we two couldn’t eat it fast enough, I have begun to shop with more discernment.

I now realize that I have to go there more often, buy only what I will prepare in a day or two, and really start thinking of this as a market, not a supermarket. I mean, what is the point of shopping here, if I still treat it like the place that delivers food already two or three weeks old to the chains?

And, I don’t need every jar of olives, or the big $16 aged cheese, or the exotic things I can’t even identify yet, or halvah, or the Turkish delight candies on every visit.

This week, I spent about $29 and got my pineapple, juices, fresh cream cheese, an amazing yogurt drink, some feta-like cheese (which the owner told me how to cook for breakfast. YUM!!), and the makings of tabouli. No more packaged tabouli in the box. I bought a 2lb. bag of bulgur wheat for the price of one (supermarket) box, and it will make portions equal to five or six boxes of inferior stuff at the supermarket. Then the grape tomatoes, cucumber, parsley (sooo fresh), and lemons were a steal as as well. I decided instead of using plain boiling water to inflate my tabouli wheat, I made mint tea and poured it over the grain. Wow. It popped. Then when I added the olive oil, lemon, and the produce, I had the freshest, most delicious tabouli I have ever tasted. It's robust grain morsels are chewy, flavorful even without that ridiculous little spice-packet, and it's healthful! 

This may not be what you eat, or want, but it is what I eat and want, and I am delighted that now I feel like I am eating similar food to my European friends, I am lowering my cholesterol, blood sugar and weight, and best of all, I am enjoying the freshness and quality of this incredibly cheap food. The Mediterranean diet has always made the most sense to me. Now with this store at hand, I don’t have to wait until I find produce that isn’t wilted or soft or spoiled. 

I still have to find a meat store. So far I’ve had the best luck buying online--steaks, chicken and salmon. Costco isn’t terrible, but I don’t always want the quantities. 

For now I have the market cornered for bread, deli goods, produce, dairy, grains and oils. I am eating like a princess, and soon, hopefully, will shed the hotel pounds that made me feel more like a sumo wrestler without the muscle tone. :(  Who knows, I may even start thinking about clothes, not just food.

LOFT LIFE: Finding my way

I figured since my alveoli have to re-puff, and since that happens with activity, I needed to get going. In my usual extremism, I planned a trip to the Holyoke Mall, 16 miles away, to begin my Apple workshops, where, in my fantasy life, I pictured myself becoming proficient, and even creative, thanks to my new MacBook Pro. But, 16 miles stood between me and my fantasy. 

Why is 16 miles extreme? Harrowing?

Well, for starters, I don’t do Interstates. I only see out of one eye at a time, and don’t process visual information very quickly, i.e. I enter an Interstate ramp, turn my head left to peruse oncoming traffic, turn my head back to the road (ramp) in front of me, and don’t really know what lane I'm accelerating into for a few seconds. Doing this with oncoming traffic isn't a good thing. 

Try it. Something, possibly less life-threatening. Cover one eye as softball flies at your face. Switch eyes. You won’t know where the ball is exactly. You get close. But, traffic isn’t softball. This is semis and fast cars. Close may not be good enough.

Suffice to say that the seconds finding out what lane oncoming traffic is in, and whether I will collide with them or not, isn't my idea of a good time.

Once I came to a dead stop, on I-57 in California, in front of a Greyhound bus. It was then, around 1981, I realized I didn’t belong on Interstates. The other convincing came on another ramp, with traffic chomping at my rear bumper and semis wheeling their 18 toward me. I stepped on the gas, lunged into traffic and somehow didn’t die.

When I told my husband I'd actually closed my eyes and accelerated, he said, “Well, you do everything that way. And. some people have skill, others angels. Either will work if you stick to your system.”

I take surface streets.

Heading for Holyoke Mall, I got to West Springfield, slowly realizing that New England roads are not perpendicular. It isn’t always clear where to turn. And, they don’t believe in signs. That street name on the Google map is not posted on the road, meaning at that bear left thing, you’re not sure it’s the road on the map. Mostly likely, it’s not.

And, rotary circles. If you haven’t experienced these, you must come visit Massachusetts. One cannot live a full life without this adventure. If you think ramps and accelerating onto Interstates were challenges please picture me circling the rotary, reading signs for multiple spoke-exits, then crossing over four rotary lanes when I do finally locate the exit. 


On this Holyoke Mall trip, it was raining; I had to circle twice before I ventured across the four lanes, and before seeing where the  5 N exit was; I couldn’t see signs very well in the rain.

I arrived at the mall, rattled, ten minutes late for my 10:30 a.m. workshop. It had taken me an hour and 20 minutes for the 16 miles. 

I was there for the “Marketing Your Business” training. The tech tried to volley between me and the other participant, but since I had arrived late, they were at work on her personal project. 

I thought I could work on beautifying my blog, since she was working on her blog. I also wanted to learn how to plug in my new microphone, turn it on, and record something. 

My microphone didn’t record, had to be replaced, and tapping on the mike, trying to make it work, pretty much took up the last 20 minutes of my time.

What I ended up learning was how to find the place on my blog to add pictures. Not sure that was worth the hour and 20-minute road trip. And, that was only one way.

By the time I got my microphone replaced, packed my things, and looked apprehensively toward the door, one of the lovely Apple techs decided he had better walk me to my car. I wasn’t positive where I had parked it. Armed with a return trip Google map, where I had made clear I needed a route with NO Interstates, and preferably smaller bridges. Gavin walked me to the elevator in the JC Penny store, and attempted to explain to me as we rode the elevator down and then up and then down again, that even though it looked different, this had to be the right elevator. Once he finally realized I had used an outside elevator in the parking structure, before walking across the parking lot to JC Penny, I realized I had forgotten that small walk outside, in the rain.  

“Oh yeah,” I confirmed. “Now I remember.”

I felt old; I felt blind; I felt handicapped. But, I felt cherished by this sweet man who implied I reminded him of his grandmother. That’s okay. 

It was about 2:30 p.m., the rainstorm worse, the sky dark with black clouds. I was not feeling confident at all.

My return trip involved some surface streets; I got lost and ended up crossing the BIG BRIDGE in Springfield, After a DIFFERENT ROTARY, which dumped me onto I-91, IN THE RAIN, where I almost had heart failure. Thankfully, Highway 5 was only a few feet to the right off the Interstate.

Not the right route at all. I did the whole accelerate without looking--didn’t close my eyes this time, but might as well have. I really don’t know how I did it, but at least they had lights on, so I could gauge car-length margin a bit better to jump into traffic.

Constant prayer, I arrived back in my own parking lot at 4:00 p.m. I had not shortened the trip and had not shortened my life. 

All I can say is those alveoli had better be re-puffing.

LOFT LIFE: Getting back to normal

Saw Dr. G last week, and expected him to tell me about the 2cm and 3cm nodules, and had rehearsed my “so what” speech. I was thrown a curve when he told me I had a partially collapsed lung! I really was speechless--not breathless, mind you.

So, of course, I had more questions--but not many, because, as I said, I was taken by surprise. In general, this thing should self-correct.

It is a blessing to have friends, and especially smart friends like Matt, who is an EMT. I gave him the scoop about how the radiologist found “ground glass opacity” on my CAT scan. I asked him what in the world that meant. I should have asked Dr. G. but in some ways Matt was better--more detailed. He guessed from my description that I do not really have a true pnuemothorax--collapsed lung, but the deflation of some alveoli, which he explained are the grape-like clusters (alveoli) of air in the lungs. Some of my grapes lost their puff. No problem, most likely. As I begin more normal life--instead of the cushy bedridden Mac-world I have been living in for 2 months, I am likely to have them re-inflate. I just love Matt. He turned around my fear in a second. I can just see those little alveoli puffing as I walk around the loft, to the mail box, around the mall, etc.

Matt says that saying I have a partially collapsed lung is like telling me I have a hemorrhage when it is a nosebleed. Isn’t that just like the medical community to put it the most terrifying language they can find. Collapsed alveoli are NOT the same thing as a collapsed LUNG.

In any case, I am now arising at 6:30 a.m. and going pretty strong till 10 p.m., with just a bit of congestion left, which Matt says getting rid of will dramatically speed up recovery. Coughing is good.

So for all you sweet friend who keep telling me to rest--the rest happened, and now I have to go, go, go--till right BEFORE I am short of breath. That is something like the directions I was given which told me to turn a block before the movie theatre. Think about it.

So our loft life continues, and believe me, I am grateful that my most challenging task is cooking. I am also back to “work” which amounts to writing, interviewing, and, of course, starting up as many new businesses as I can dream up. The most current is networking consulting I've wanted to continue from my workshops in 1981, after I wrote an article for Toastmaster Magazine on networking. It got some acclaim; I was still being asked for reprinting rights FOUR YEARS later--from Taiwan. No kidding. So I was ahead of my time--and am now behind the 8-ball to do something concrete with my ideas. Met this morning with a business owner and we will meet with some in the MA/CT stateline area to help each other learn about this. 

Thanks again to you all for your encouragement, comments and love during my two months of recovery from--well, let’s just say,  respiratory challenges.

LOFT LIFE: Winding up the medical stuff and re-visiting life

Only two days until I see Dr. G. and learn that, except for some continued chest pain (when I cough), and the feeling of fatigue if I run around doing things like shopping, I am mostly well. The CT scan came back with a radiologist’s report saying I have some small cysts in my lungs. They want another reading in six months, “just to be sure.” I am pretty sure what they want to be sure of is that I don’t sue them for missing something.

I have never sued a doctor, and believe me, I have had plenty of occasion to do so. It alarms and terrifies me how many doctor-mistakes cause thousands (250,000) of deaths every year. In fact, some statistics cite doctors as the third leading cause of death in the U.S. (Told you it was terrifying.)

But, to my thinking, doctors are humans, in spite of the myth circulating our society that they are deities. They just are not. And, frankly, I’d rather have the medical savings, health care cost reduction of NOT having outrageous malpractice suits, clearly causing doctors to up charges, than to have the human errors costing our health care system to skyrocket to the extent that some can be convinced government-run systems are a better answer. When a doctor has to literally pay millions for malpractice insurance, clearly there is some problem in the way we think. We do NOT need government to run things badly. We need people to stop thinking that a windfall of cash for an error is worth an overall costly health care system. Changing this one area, in my opinion, would make this whole health care cost thing cease to be a problem, and would correct most of what’s wrong: over-treatment and too many tests for instance. And, the other two areas would be for people to educate themselves and upgrade their healthful lifestyles. If they don't do that, they are going to get sick. As for me, I am positive that these cysts have been on my lung for years. And, yes, if there had been some malignancy, we would have caught it early, and I would be grateful. But, I knew it wasn’t that, and my usual intuitive self-diagnosis is dependable enough for me. I pray. God speaks. I will depend on that.

As for our society deifying doctors, it just has to change. Nurses may get close to deity, but not doctors. Most of my friends are nurses, or phlebotomists, or some other version of below-doctor status medical practitioner, and I can tell you, they are at least saints. (I always laugh when I call someone a saint, because, you do know that the Bible says every Christian is one.) But, I am using the Roman Catholic category of people who have performed at least three miracles, and who have been martyred--if not literally, at least in some fashion, like doctors yelling at them, when really they deserve medals.

OK. Back to me. :) Actually, I have some small cysts all over me. I am a cyst-maker! I know several people who are cyst-makers also. Now, I will have to devote my medical research to why some people make cysts and some don’t. My friend who is a doctor tells me no one knows, which, of course, makes me all the more sure I can discover this secret. In my next life I think I want to be a diagnostician. I have a knack for it. I could tell you stories of people I have helped with my intuitive ability to diagnose--unofficially, with disclaimers that I am not a doctor, and do not play one on television. Nonetheless, they were grateful, and they got well.

I especially am intrigued with Dr. Peter J. D’Adamo’s book on Eat Right 4 Your Type. Although I do not go with this 100 percent, I do think it is very interesting that the blood types I know seem to align with what he says, most of the time: O types get reactions of all kinds when they eat dairy; A types can’t have hot peppers or highly-acidic foods; B types eat most things with no problems, and seem to favor getting rare diseases rather than common ones. I don’t think I know any AB types, so I have no opinions on them. I will have to read the book again to brush up, and probably will have to find someone who represents that type, to round out my thoughts.

In any case, I am mostly back to normal and again heap on the thanksgiving for you all. It could have been worth losing two months of ambulatory life to have the followers and comments on my blog. It’s that important! So don’t make me get sick again to continue to have you all in my life--OK?

LOFT LIFE: Almost there

Saint Jay, on his lunch break, is driving my x-rays to the Jefferson Radiology radiologist as I write this. So, hopefully the report will soon be on its way to my pulmonary guy (notice I am trying not to call him a turnip anymore), so it will be there in time for my appointment on the 28th. And, hopefully the final diagnosis that I will survive will be unanimous. (I do think God makes that final decision.)

In the meantime, I am feeling stronger, and am appreciating you all so much. I am working a few hours a day, and doing my best to reserve strength, but not stay in bed all day.

Tonight is the Bigelow book club. Jay and I would rather have movie clubs, and I want an American Idol club--but that is mostly because we still don’t fork out the $150 a month for cable, and the community room has a big screen. :) For some reason, people assume that if you a writer, you like to talk about books. I do, sometimes, but feel a lot of pressure to read faster than I normally do when I have to report on a book. Also, most of the recommendations I give and receive on books in book clubs have little to do with what I actually read.

I have been addicted to Patricia Cornwell’s Scarpetta series, but what more is there to say than that I love them. If you tell anything, you ruin them for the reader. And, I just finished reading Lauren Bacall’s By Myself and Then Some, which frankly ruined what used to be admiration for her, and ended up giving me the feeling, from her own words, that she is a pretty self-absorbed actress. Actually Bogey said it to her: "All you actors are alike” meaning prima donnas. And they are!

Jay and I have become addicted to watching Dexter--a Showtime series about a serial killer. We have heated discussions on Dexter, namely about me saying he is sweet and only kills bad people, and Jay insisting that killing is killing if it is illegal, and that Dex has a big problem. I think Jay doesn’t really “get” people with detachment disorders--like me, and that Dex, except for this teeny problem, and the fact that he memorizes social behavior rather than “feeling” what to do, is a pretty decent guy.

I also seem to compulsively take my polls on Dexter with others: my hairdresser also thinks he is sweet; my pastor says Dex is “not a healthy person.” Okay, I might have to admit his M.O. isn’t “healthy” but still it is helpful to others. Think of all the innocents he has protected from the killers he has killed. I ask you, wouldn’t you want Dex as your neighbor and friend? I like him even more than Sling Blade.

So, you see I am back to my usual self. Thank God, and family and friends. Now I can continue with Loft Life without the self-absorption. Maybe I should consider acting.

LOFT LIFE: More waves

OK. You’re not going to believe this.

Did I mention that when I was having the CT scan, I happened to say this all started with a chest x-ray at the clinic? I left out of my saga that the technician said the radiologist at Jefferson was likely to want to see it. I asked her if I should get it for them--since I had hand carried it back to the clinic from the pulmonary specialist’s office, at his request.

No, she said they would have no problem getting it. No problem. That should have been my first clue.

Now a week later, after the CT scan, I am on prickly pins and needles trying not to worry that a whole week has gone by without a phone call. I am also imagining more turnip-behavior from a guy who probably knows what the lab said and isn’t telling me. But, I would be wrong. He doesn’t even know all this is happening! I look down at my ringing cell phone and it says the name of the clinic--which wouldn't be the people who should be calling. Evidently the radiologist is just getting around to requesting the x-ray, and the clinic needs me to pick them up since they don't mail them.

Remember that long drive to the radiologist, where I needed my husband to drive me in case...well, now my husband, who is rapidly reaching sainthood, is driving to the clinic at 6:00 p.m., missing praise band practice, and will have to take time from work tomorrow to deliver them to the radiologist. No problem! For whom?

I don’t blame the clinic for not mailing original pictures of people’s chests. (I think it’s safe to assume they don’t mail pictures of any body parts.) It has to be hand carried.

In our world of technology, you would think they could make a DVD or something--but then they did that at the Grand Canyon clinic when I broke my foot, and when I handed it to my IL doc, he said, “Nice technology, and very efficient, except it’s not your foot, it’s someone’s chest.” Oh dear. Where's the chest pic when you need it. :)

So after Jay delivers the x-ray, perhaps, within another week, I will have an answer. I’m telling you, this is never simple. And, dare I hint that this is when the government is not running the system. We all know how much more efficient it would be if they were, right?

LOFT LIFE: Navigating the medical system

My husband wants a GPS. I tell him I AM his GPS, and much more flexible, even accurate. But my road navigational skills are nothing compared to my ability to wend through the ocean of complication that is the health care system.

Starting with the clinic that diagnosed pneumonia, which was NOT pneumonia, a radiologist who agreed with the erroneous diagnosis (assuming infection is visible on x-rays as pneumonia), the radiologist did detect the “nodule,” which launched me to the next destination: pulmonary specialist.

NOTE: the office manager in my dentist office, dear, encouraging woman, told me her mother had a lung growth and was sent straight to an oncologist, not a pulmonary specialist, which she thought was encouraging in my case.

Now that I think about it, maybe x-ray infection just looks like infection, and Dr. G.’s sureness that it wasn’t pneumonia might have been from my 98% oxygen levels and not from the x-ray picture at all. That makes sense. Geesh. A person has to be a logician to get ahead of these guys.

Anyway, before I could move to the next port: CT Scan, Dr. G. said I needed a blood test before the scan, and that it was required for someone my age, just in case I had kidney problems. I told him I had great kidneys, He said, “How do you know?” I replied, “I would be yellow if I had problems.” He just shrugged. and his dear office manager argued that the lab he was sending me to did NOT require the blood test until a much older age than I. That meant I could go right to the CT port without having to do the time-consuming Q &A with Dr. G. about what this age-related blood test was about.

Tired yet?

So my CAT was scheduled for the next Friday. Of course, I had to know 1) how much would it cost? 2) do they discount self-pays like us? and 3) what is this contrast dye that is so gnarly that a blood test is needed, and maybe 4) what would happen if i do not want the dye?

After literally a dozen calls to the lab, with not one person who would answer my questions, no one knew anything about the cost of a CT scan of the chest with dye.

My friend Andi said to Google diagnostic labs in Connecticut until I found my answer, I did, and found Jefferson Radiology. They were not only friendly and willing to talk, they actually knew the answers. (I did tell you this ocean needs lots of skill to sail.)

The billing department priced me at $1090, said they DO discount self-pays, then transferred me to the lab for my other questions. Though they were nice, they suggested I Google contrast dye. (Seeing a pattern here?) They explained the kidneys have to have good creatinine levels to handle the dye without risk of side effects that could be serious.

So whatever it is, it is heavy-duty enough to have to measure creatinine levels in my kidneys, I thought. So I wanted to know. Google’s answer was gadolinium, which turns out not to be the dye my CAT used, but oh well.

After reading side effects of gadolinium, if creatinine levels aren’t right, I was horrified. Among possibilities are: thickening of the skin, compromised bones, blood vessels, yellowing of the eyes...rashes, hives, etc.

I called Dr. G’s office, explained to dear office manager that I was just wondering how important this dye was to diagnosis, that I should risk being a thick-skinned, crippled, yellow-eyed old woman just to find out that the “nodule” was nothing. I was feeling asea.

She assured me my questions were good ones, deserving of answers, and she would have Dr. G call me.

She must have given him a piece of her mind. Dr. G. sounded somewhat recalcitrant and almost personal--and did proceed to answer several of my questions, convincing me that “if it should be something like a malignant tumor” the dye would help him see that. Maybe we should do phone visits in the future.

I also asked them to cancel the first lab and go with Jefferson. (On my 13th call to the first lab, I got a range of $1000 to $2000.) We agreed the range was too broad and vague. So she booked me for Tuesday at Jefferson. Only problem was, Jefferson required the blood test for my age. Phew.

I warned you that once you are in the system, the waves can get choppy. All this pro-active stuff takes stamina. Really, if you need to go get a cup of coffee, or something stronger, I understand. Just relating the facts, so that should you ever need a CAT scan, you know the ropes.

I then booked a blood test back at the clinic. It turned out they do not do blood tests, but there were two possibilities in the same building. I chose Quest, a very positive experience. My phlebotomist was charming. I asked my test question: “Are you a vampire or a gentle soul?” She replied, “Depends on how I feel.” The twinkle and sense of humor let me know I was in good hands. I was. I will buy stock in Quest. Good outfit.

Then the waiting for the blood results. Dr. G sounded happy again, this time at my creatinine, so I was all set. So, glad to bring him some joy in life.

I had planned to drive myself to the scan, but my daughter, Melissa, leaned hard on me to get Jay to drive, if only for the emotional support--which I never believe I will need, but did.

The scan was a bit more traumatic than I expected. The dye felt heavy, I was dizzy and, though they said it would be in my system for 90 seconds, they really meant 90 seconds for the test part. The dye affected me a day and a half: headache, dizzy, nausea, and a heavy feeling. Thankfully my eyes did not yellow and my skin remains un-thick.

I do have to add that the front desk personnel at Jefferson in Bloomington are exceptional. At least these doctors--and that is at all of my providers--know how to hire the best. Thank you all for your compassion, competency and humanity. It makes a huge difference to a patient.

More waiting. I’ve been very tired, off and on--well enough to go on with stuff like writing, laundry, cooking, and getting the mail, but not good after four hours or so of being up and about. Haven’t felt well enough to do much else. Probably it isn’t the “nodule,” but the lingering effects of a serious bronchial infection.

All in all, I know a lot more about the world of CAT scans and dyes, and why they’re the best thing since sliced bread. Truth to tell, I’m hoping the test shows nothing. But, in case it isn’t nothing, and in case this whole ordeal of mold-induced chest infection turns out to be for finding some little lung lump early, I guess i am grateful. No, I AM grateful.

Most of all, I continue to count my blessings: a loving family, great, caring friends, and even a medical system that, if you keep a persistent eye on things, works pretty well.

LOFT LIFE: I Will Survie

I have made a decision. I will survive. Yes, I saw the pulmonary specialist--more about him in a minute. He said I did NOT have pneumonia, never did have it, that the mold probably kicked off a bronchial thing--definitely infection, but not pneumonia.

Also I did not have a mold infection, though my spraying mold cleaner and getting tons of mold droplets in my face (my words) probably did create the infection. His real concern, and I use that word clinically, not personally, was this “nodule” the radiologist at the clinic--that does’t know what pneumonia looks like--found.

My daughter accompanied me to Dr. G’s and she was not pleased at all with him. I’m kind of numb to this kind of non-personal medical type, but she isn’t. She expected a: “Hi, I’m Dr. G and how are you feeling.” In fact, he didn’t even look at me but sat down at his desk, while I sat on the end of the examination table, and as I talked about my symptoms, he typed.

Now, let me tell you I know about doctors. In California most of my PR clients were doctors and hospitals. In Illinois, my best friend is a marriage-family therapist. i know about the hours of transcription necessary after consults and all the paperwork burdens HIPAA and insurance create for time-consuming reporting. Privacy acts now even make it illegal to take the reports home to accomplish in the comfort of an easy chair, beer and soft music. Anyway, Dr. G. wasn’t going to waste any time being personal, looking up from his typing, or saying “Hi.” He got right to typing, and continued, only pausing, my daughter said, to smirk (laugh) at some of my questions, which by the way he did not bother to answer. His answer to everything was that he would tell me what was wrong when he knew. Finding out I didn't have pneumonia or a mold-infection weren't things he volunteered. I gleaned this during the back and forth--mostly back, conversation.

I explained I wasn’t asking for his diagnosis yet, merely input for my extremely analytical data-base of a brain. (OK, maybe that does deserve a chuckle, even though it is dead seriously true) and that I wanted to know what he was doing, why, what he was hoping or not hoping to see, and what logic-tree of possibilities there were for a “nodule” on the lung of the smallish size and shape of mine. Nada. No response at all. Instead, he continued typing, then examined me with no explanation whatsoever, except to say that the finger-impression oxygen machine showed I was at 98% which seemed to make him very happy. I got the feeling after that that he felt I was taking up time and space that could have belonged to his really sick (dying) patients, which should have made me feel better, but didn’t. His elation at my high oxygen level, felt more like an indictment than a relief.

He scheduled CAT scan in the same building for a few days later.

I have been saying that Dr. G. has the beside (ok, office) manner of a turnip. My husband says I am defaming Dr. G’s character with this statement, to which I reply that beside manner is hardly a statement of character. Even though my daughter was most upset at him, wanted me to leave, and said she didn’t trust him, I remained loyal, and didn’t leave, and gave him the benefit of the doubt. I defended that he kind of viewed me as a lung instead of a person, and perhaps he was an expert in lungs, if not in people. I hope that analysis is correct and that it isn’t that: 1) I remind him of his mother or 2) he has really sick patients and thinks I am wasting his time, or 3) that he just doesn’t care and is thinking about playing racquetball with the hour he saved typing instead of relating to me.

Upon taking my usual surveys of almost everyone i know and even some I don’t know well--my dentist, for instance, on whether being a turnip is a question of character, it is about 50-50. Some see it as a lack of kindness, others as simply that some specialists are just not people-persons, even with all the research about how much treating a patient as a whole person counts in the healing process.

Suffice to say that i will stop calling him a turnip, and try to evaluate whether I can continue with someone so non-verbal, so unwilling to answer questions. I did tell him to his face that I needed a doctor who talks. He just smiled. I also told him that most of my California doctor clients were like him, and that I translated them to the public so well that I made them lots of money, and therefore, he might want to call me. I made it quite clear to his office manager, that if it were not for her kind and caring personality, he probably wouldn’t have many patients.

Well, I will have to weigh the pros and cons of remaining with Dr. G until after the CAT scan.

LOFT LIFE: On Death and Dying

OK, I have already raced through all the stages of grief, except maybe acceptance, and I have some comments--probably unrelated to grief, but oh well.

It seems that in addition to the mold-induced pneumonia, the radiologist spotted a spot, which he called a “NODULE” on my lung--not sure if it is right or left. So now my nightmares and bright outlook are in a deeper struggle for victory, and I am instructed to see a pulmonary specialist.

My call for prayer has resulted in emails from around the country, from family and friends who are all so loving, wise and responsive. Do you all know how much that means? Everything! For me, this is almost worth being sick, just to know how much love surrounds me--although no one has sent chocolate yet, which may be good, because I forgot to request the organic dark kind from the sustainable farms of the third world, or something like that. Not completely clear on this.

My daughter says she wishes she had cleaned the fridge, and after a crying jag of feeling overwhelming love, I assured her that I am sooo glad it was NOT her asthmatic self who had to do that awful, pneumonia-ridden task.

I have already made an appointment with Dr. G, the specialist, and even though I told him not to call unless I was dying, after he read my x-ray, he did call, hadn’t read the x-ray, and evidently didn’t know his call would send me into hyperspace. But, he called to answer my prior request of advice on how much activity was wise for a pneumoniac with a nodule. He said walk till right before I can’t breathe and don’t overdo, which as you will see in the next graph, is not easy for me to gauge being slightly OCD or something of that ilk.

My pastor also dropped by to pray for me, and after I showered, dressed, and frantically tried to convince my husband that we had to clean the house in the 20 minutes for our pastor to travel to us, I was told to sit down--kind of reminding me of my father ordering us girls to “light” as if we were bugs. Anyway, I obeyed--both times.

So, I will being seeing a specialist, I will be doing some light touring with Mic and Andy when they visit, and I can carry on with life, including chocolate (which is important, I tell you). It appears as if I may live, and since I am not dying (yet), this may curtail my getting all my wishes granted (I choose all the movies, we go to Italy soon, and I get to beat all my friends at Bejeweled). But at least I have you all, family and friends so loving and sweet to me. Who could ask for more than that? Except, maybe choc...OK, OK, I will stop with the hinting.

LOFT LIFE: Invasion of the Body Snatchers

Well the holidays being hard took on new meaning when I seemed to be sinking by Christmas eve at Greg and Marybeth’s. Fortunately, their friend, Deb, when she heard i had cleaned out the IL home freezer’s layer of black mold, insisted I get checked out and get on an antibiotic. Good thing I listened.

By the time I went to the doc, the day after Christmas, I developed full-fledged pneumonia. Now I ask you, is this fair? I get to fly back and forth to IL, do all the heavy lifting, clean the house (well with a lot of help from my amazing neighbor, Becky and her girls), tackle MOLD growing from October to December in a fridge I turned off, but forgot to open said door of, and then, just because I forget a silly thing like a face mask...well, the doc said it is mold-induced pneumonia.

So my bod has been bedridden for days, and I have practically missed all of Jay’s Christmas break, and hopefully will at least be better by the time Mic and Andy arrive.

Of course, my nightmares race through a montage of all the friends I know who have died of pneumonia, and I try to keep a bright outlook, but it is sometimes difficult.

They say the antibiotic makes its headway within 48 hours, but mine has taken 60. And, only today have I been well enough to pour my own pita chips onto a plate and spoon on some mango salsa. I think I figured out the cookies and the chocolates earlier, but they take so much less effort, and the motivation is so much greater--even if the nutritional values or lack of could have something to do with the 60 hour benefit vs. the 48. But who’s counting?

Anyway, I am not dead, and seem to be going to survive, and though I do feel like body snatchers invaded my holiday, I am thankful for God's faithfulness, good friends, good doctors, and chocolate. (Thought I would throw that in in case someone feels prone to cheer me up.) And, though "they" may snatch the body for a time, even holiday time, they cannot rob the spirit, in spite of nightmares, slow medications, and what not (I always wanted to say what not), because He who is in us is greater than he who snatches but cannot win.

LOFT LIFE: Holidays

Holidays can be hard. Even though Jay and I make the best of having just us two, it is an adjustment to celebrate without family around.

Our friends make it bearable. Andi and Thomas came over for Thanksgiving. Well, what really happened was that I told Jay that we should just go to a buffet for Thanksgiving and that it would end up cheaper than cooking, even for two. But, we owed Bob a dinner, so I said, why don’t we have him over for a dinner, and, “What kind of meat does he like?” which I erroneously assumed meant to Jay that I was NOT talking Thanksgiving meat, ‘cause we all know what that is, right?

Anyway, in our usual roundabout communication, Jay did not assume anything like that, and proceeded to go to work and ask Bob if he would like to come over for Thanksgiving. After ranting a tad, I adjusted and began to enjoy the thought of company for Thanksgiving. I had forgotten that Andi said they, too, didn’t like being just two for big holidays, and in my normal poodally and insensitive (War Games) manner, didn’t automatically invite them. But, since Bob was coming, I called Andi for the invite, to which she said, “Well, Thomas invited a co-worker,” to which I said, “Well, bring him along,” to which she said, well the Argentinians might come over too, but not for sure. So when the Argentinians did not end up deciding to share Thanksgiving with them, Andi accepted our invite and that included the co-worker. So we were to have six.

Thanksgiving arrived, and Bob was sick, and couldn’t come. Thomas and Andi arrived sans co-worker, who evidently was also sick. So the four of us had a glorious holiday. Andi brought orange cups filled with sweet potato, and the best cranberry bread I have every had (sorry Melissa, it had a coffee cake topping). Note: our family has cranberry bread contests (unofficial) because of Cranberry Thanksgiving, a children’s book with a recipe on the cover. Melissa finally figured out how to use the recipe (she won’t tell) and get the bread to bake all the way through.

Anyway, now it’s almost Christmas, and we are just two again. Marybeth invited us over for Christmas Eve dinner, which is really heartwarming. She says she never has fewer than 20, and we only make 17, so we accepted, and look forward to Greg’s stuffed sole and pork roast.

And, we will go to Andi and Thomas on Boxing Day (I don’t think they know it is Boxing Day), and have cookies and cocoa.

And, then Mic and Andy are coming by train on January 2, and we will watch Mystic Pizza at A & T’s and then all go to Mystic on Sunday.

All in all, these festivities will give us enough Christmas joy to permeate even the just us two on the 25th. In fact, we may need the rest. :)