Great Surgeon, Also a Jerk
Last Monday I had an appointment with an eye surgeon. He came highly recommended, he did my eye doctor’s cataract surgery. My eye doctor warned me I’d be there awhile, as the surgeon was, his words, “very thorough.”
He’s not thorough. He overbooks.
My appointment was at 11. I showed up early so I could fill out the requisite paperwork, then sat down to wait. Me and the mass of other patients. The place was packed. There’s only one doctor. When I say “packed” I mean there were probably 30 people in the waiting area. Some of them were family members (why would you bring your entire family to a medical appointment?), but most were patients. The man sitting next to me had an appointment at 9:30. He was seen at about 1 o’clock.
I got in to see the doc at a quarter to two. Three hours after my appointment time.
It should be said that most of the people in the waiting room were of retirement age (or past it). Me and one other fellow had jobs to go to, and he was about to lose his mind. He went up to the desk at one point and asked how much longer it would be, he had to go to work. The woman told him 20 minutes. It was considerably longer than that, but what was he going to do?
When I got in to see the surgeon, he looked in my eyes and confirmed I had cataracts. Great — I’d waited 3 hours so far (it wasn’t over) to hear what I already knew. The assistant put drops in my eyes so they could measure the pressure (the ones that numb your eyes, and I hate those, your eyelids disappear). Then they put the drops in to dilate my eyes (I hate those, too) and put me back out in the waiting room.
For an hour.
When I went back in, the doc confirmed the cataracts needed surgery. So, by then I’d waited a little over 4 hours to hear what I already knew. He also said I’ve got some sort of thing going on with my eyelids, blephar-something, and I’m to scrub my eyelids with baby shampoo every day. And use an ointment for two weeks. The idea is to remove any chance of contamination during the surgery. Which is… we know not when. I have another appointment March 13th so he can measure my eyeballs and figure out what kind of lens he’ll be implanting. Tricare will pay for the basic lens, which will take care of the cataracts and hopefully my farsightedness, but I’ll still need reading glasses. The fancier lenses that will take care of everything Tricare won’t fund. He says they’re “expensive.” I don’t know what that means, and he didn’t say. $500? $5,000? $50,000? We don’t know. I hope when I go back in I’ll be given information so I can make a semi-informed decision.
I might be better off doing my own research, though.
I left the office at 3:40 and got to work a bit before 4. I couldn’t see (my eyes were still dilated), my eyelids had yet to finish de-numbing, and I was seriously pissed off. I stayed until 7, because there was work to be done and just because I got trapped somewhere doesn’t mean the work disappears. I was steamed, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it.
Also, Wal Mart didn’t have the ointment in when I brought them the prescription last week. They took my phone number and said they’d call when it came in. Did they call? Hah. No, I wasn’t surprised. I called a little while ago and it’s in, so I guess I’ll go get it.
I was hoping to be able to get the surgery done before National Band in July, but I’m not optimistic.
It sure would be nice to be able to see clearly again. And to be able to read music. *sigh* I know I don’t really have anything to complain about, but how does any health care provider justify treating people with that much contempt?
This Is Just Awesome
Found by way of Patterico’s Pontifications
Michael Z. Williamson has had enough. As the man said, go read the whole thing. It’s stupendous. A taste:
First they came for the blacks, and I spoke up because it was wrong, even though I’m not black.
Then they came for the gays, and I spoke up, even though I’m not gay.
Then they came for the Muslims, and I spoke up, because it was wrong, even though I’m an atheist.
When they came for illegal aliens, I spoke up, even though I’m a legal immigrant.
Then they came for the pornographers, rebels and dissenters and their speech and flag burning, and I spoke up, because rights are not only for the establishment.
Then they came for the gun owners, and you liberal sh**bags threw me under the bus, even though I’d done nothing wrong. So when they come to put you on the train, you can f*****g choke and die.
Really, go read the whole thing. Also, bit of a language alert.
They’d Never Pass This Stupid Law in South Carolina
Found by way of Scratching to Escape.
Yet another reason to be glad I don’t live in New York, where you can order a pizza anytime you want one, but beginning March 12th, no 2-liter sodas.
I’ll bet you could get 2 liters of booze delivered, though. Not with the pizza, I guess, unless you knew a guy….
Maybe It’s a Generational Thing
Why would an ostensibly loving husband post a photo of his wife, the mother of his daughter, on Facebook prior to their going out for an evening, looking like a $25 hooker?
I don’t know, but there it is. This is my nephew’s wife, by the way.
People baffle me.
My Mom Makes a Monumental Decision
I talked to my mom the other day. She’d called to thank us for the Valentine’s Day card and candy we’d sent, but it was during band rehearsal so I couldn’t talk to her then.
She’s given up driving. She says my brother is helping her get the car sold. It’s an ancient Cadillac she got from her sister when her sister’s husband died, it’s probably 23 years old. Built like a tank, with gas mileage to match and requires premium. She’s suffering from macular degeneration, and finally decided while she thinks she sees well enough, it’s not worth the risk to other drivers.
She was very matter-of-fact about it, which is the way she is. If something has to be done, even if she doesn’t want to do it, best to just get it over with. My aunt and uncle have told her anytime she needs to go anywhere all she has to do is call them. I know she’ll be able to go wherever she needs to.
But it’s a huge step for her. She’s always been very independent, got up and went whenever she felt like it. And now she can’t. She can’t read because of the large area in her left eye that just doesn’t see anymore, and she loves to read. She won’t do the audiobook thing, I’m not sure why, but when I suggested it she was clear she wasn’t interested. I wish when I was visiting last summer I’d dragged her to Staples to get a Kindle, and adjusted it so she could read it. I could have loaded it up with whatever books she wanted and kept it filled whenever she needed new ones. I got so wrapped around the axle with the stupid satellite radio, a Kindle just never bubbled up to the top of the list of things to consider.
She does have the radio, and the television. And she’s resilient, and resourceful, and a believer in Christ, so I shouldn’t worry. But I do, because I’m so far away I can’t just pop over and check on her.
She said she’s better off than her older sister, who turns 92 in April. Jack can’t see and can’t hear. Not well, anyway. She’s living with her daughter and her family, though, so she’s got people all around her.
My brother lives about 45 minutes away (depending on traffic) but his job doesn’t allow him to pop in very often, and when he brings the kids with him it just wears her out.
*sigh*
She’ll be 89 in July. She’d be thrilled to know I told you.
Humor Is Subjective
Just an observation, FWIW. Either I completely misunderstand my boss’ sense of humor (very possible), or he’s actually got a mean streak a mile wide.
If I figure it out I’ll try to remember to notify you.
Church Retreats and Stomach Viruses
I’m not keeping up here, I know. And I remember promising to do better. *sigh* Sorry. Good thing nobody’s reading this.
A couple weekends ago I went on a church retreat in Myrtle Beach. It was for women only, Friday evening and Saturday morning. I caught a ride with 3 other women and we shared a room. It was my first experience with a church retreat, and it was very enjoyable. It’s nice being together with other women, a very non-threatening environment, everybody very nice and nobody much caring if I didn’t have anything to say. As an introvert I can do the quiet thing very well, although some people find it bothersome. We had several meetings, listened to testimonials (one of them astoundingly long-winded, they were supposed to be limited to 20 minutes but she had a lot to say — and she kept remembering things she forgot to say when she was supposed to say them and had to add them in). Food was provided, our church kitchen staff did an awesome job preparing and then sending along lots of packable sustenance. The chicken salad was stupendous, there was fruit and salad and pasta and desserts galore.
About the testimonials — I have to try to remember, when I’m in a self-pitying mood over some stupid failure on my part or unfortunate circumstance that I really don’t have anything to complain about. People all around us are fighting battles we have no clue about. Some of these battles are literally life-and-death.
We left a bit after noon on Saturday to come home. Overall, a really nice trip. If they have one next year, for sure I’m going. Maybe I’ll have figured out who’s who by then and will be better at remembering names.
So, Sunday morning I woke up at about 3:30 with my stomach clamped tight into a knot. Or at least that’s what it felt like. I kept still, thought maybe if I didn’t move it would be okay and I wouldn’t get sick. I fell back to sleep until about 6 when my stomach woke me up again. I took some Pepto-Bismol, hoping that would take care of things. Unfortunately I didn’t get to keep it. This might be more information than anybody wanted but since nobody’s here but me I suppose it doesn’t matter — but on my list of fun things to do, sitting on the toilet with a plastic trashcan in my lap does not appear anywhere. Zero fun. Efficient, I suppose, and a great time-saver, getting it all over with at once (over and over and over….). But not happy-making. My husband went to a nearby store and got me some ginger ale. He prepared a large cup full of ginger ale and a straw, and another large cup full of water with a straw. And then he went golfing.
I was annoyed, at first. Then I was too busy being sick to care. It would have been nice to have him home in case I needed anything, but really all I needed I had — water, ginger ale and easy access to indoor plumbing. And a plastic trashcan. And heaven knows he didn’t want to sit at home and listen to all that going on, as I’ve never learned to throw up quietly.
I managed to get up about 10:30 that night and eat a few saltines. Then I went back to bed. Next day was Monday, and I actually managed to go to work. Wasn’t sure I’d be able, but Monday is a very busy day — music to put away, getting things organized for choir practice Wednesday and for the next Sunday service. Sixteen hours a week is enough, but only just. And then when I got there my boss called and had a project for me to work on. Not hard to do, but I had to jump on it and get it done ASAP as he needed it the next day. Stomach cramps or no stomach cramps. I was done yarking but my stomach was still a bit unhappy.
I am grateful beyond my ability to express that it didn’t hit me 24 hours earlier. For the trip home they’d have had to strap me to the roof of the car like Mitt Romney’s dog.
I’m fine now, have been to a couple of Zumba classes since with no ill effects. I’m hoping I didn’t expose too many people to the thing, as I was carrying it all over the place during the retreat. I had no idea, felt perfectly fine, until 3:30 Sunday morning. Some of the women I was with are elderly, and a stomach virus is the very last thing they need to have to deal with.
Hubby just came home from golfing (of course), and I’ve got to get dinner started. Have a great weekend!
New Job Commentary
Well, it’s not really a “new” job anymore, I suppose, but I’m tired and I need to go to bed, after cleaning up from dinner. So I’m not into finding a clever title.
I’ve been doing the Music Assistant thing on my own, so to speak, for a month. Some observations:
1. There’s more to this job than some people may know. It’s not hard, but mental flexibility and/or agility is required. I’m not unfamiliar with having my priorities rearranged with a phone call, so it’s no big deal. But it is sort of interesting to have your whole plan flipped over in a matter of seconds. Still, I work indoors and everybody’s nice, so no complaints.
2. Grown people do not pay attention. I’m referring to certain choir members here. They’re nice folks, mostly, until you do something to annoy them. Or even if what annoys them has the square root of zero to do with you, but you’re a convenient target so they blame you. Week before last in choir rehearsal one of the long-time members, a soprano, accused me in a not-so-subtle fashion (and in front of the choir) of going into her folder and removing pieces she was supposed to hang onto. Um, no. I go into the folders to remove what we sang on Sunday, but what they need to keep I leave alone. I do, however, find pieces they’re supposed to keep while clearing out the baskets where they drop off what we sang on Sunday. Every. Single. Time. Some folks are pulling out what they need to keep while they’re pulling out what they don’t need to keep. That’s if they pull out anything, some folks don’t. That would be helpful, but they’re in a hurry, I guess, after the service, want to go to lunch, whatever, and it is part of my job. Last Tuesday I spent an hour and a half going through all the folders that were there (some people take them home) and what they needed, I added. Think anybody appreciated it? Um, no. But, I work indoors and… well, you know.
3. Grown people do not read. Again, certain choir members. There’s a small dry-erase board that gets posted in the sanctuary next to the altar where the Sunday music is placed for rehearsal on Wednesday nights. On the dry-erase board is, among other things, the list of items they’re supposed to keep in their folders. Some people make no note of this information. Every rehearsal someone effects astonishment that they’re supposed to keep something, in spite of the fact that this was stated clearly on the dry-erase board for the previous three weeks.
4. Grown people focus on odd stuff. Choir rehearsal week before last, upon asking if anyone had any prayer requests our director, my boss, was buttonholed about where he sits during the service. Not where he’s located when he’s having to direct the congregation during a hymn, but where he sits when he’s in the choir loft with us. He mentioned later the weirdness of it. Why does where he sits matter? The choir loft isn’t very big, we can see him, he’s in front of us and he’s very tall so it’s not like he’s easy to miss. Apparently the complaint had to do with the sopranos not being able to see him directly if they’re looking out towards the congregation when we’re singing. There’s a screen that hangs over the balcony in the back with the words on it, so we don’t have to use our folders, but it seems their peripheral vision isn’t sufficient to keep a bead on what he’s doing and read the words at the same time. Or, maybe the sopranos are just a funny bunch. I wouldn’t know. I’m an alto. I’m not sure if the issue is tempo or what, but they could just, you know, listen to what’s going on around them to stay with everybody else. People don’t listen in the band, either, so I have no solution here. It’s just strange.
Tired. Going to bed.
Well, Cindy, Maybe You’re Just Tiresome
One of my Facebook “friends” is not a fan of Snopes. Whenever she posts another hoax or rumor or otherwise debunked “story” and someone points her to the link at Snopes that explains the erroneousness of the thing, she gets her underwear in a bundle, grouses about Snopes being touted as the “authority of the Internet” and asks who elected them king.
Today, she did it again. Posted a link to an article that has been exposed as a hoax for years. Got snippy with me when I found other sources and posted them, so she didn’t have to put up with Snopes as the “authority of the Internet” yet again.
She suggested I unfriend her. So, I did.
Problem solved. Next?
Lost Parrot
As seen on Facebook:
At first, I figured “quaker” referred to this:
Turns out there’s a quaker parrot, and they look like this:
So my post idea just went up in smoke.
I have other news, but dinner’s almost ready.
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