Category Archives: bitching

we’ve been punked; wake up Mr. Pres.

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Now, politics is the art of the possible. Mr. Obama was never going to get everything his supporters wanted.

But there’s a point at which realism shades over into weakness, and progressives increasingly feel that the administration is on the wrong side of that line. It seems as if there is nothing Republicans can do that will draw an administration rebuke: Senator Charles E. Grassley feeds the death panel smear, warning that reform will “pull the plug on grandma,” and two days later the White House declares that it’s still committed to working with him.

It’s hard to avoid the sense that Mr. Obama has wasted months trying to appease people who can’t be appeased, and who take every concession as a sign that he can be rolled.

Indeed, no sooner were there reports that the administration might accept co-ops as an alternative to the public option than G.O.P. leaders announced that co-ops, too, were unacceptable.

The above from Paul Krugman’s piece in the Times.

C’mon, Mr. Pres. You can’t be that naive, and I hope that you’re not as wishy washy as you’re starting to seem.

C’mon, Mr. Pres. Time to conjure up FDR’s ghost and put some spine in your stand. He might not have looked like he had it, but he had it when it counted.

We voted for change when we voted to you, Mr. Pres. Not small change, either.

They all might be right-wingers, but you were in the right when you promised to push the single payer plan.

Hold your single payer line, Mr. Pres. If not you, who?

I just paid more than $160 for a month’s supply of Nexium because United Health Care does not have that med on its list of drugs that it will cover. (That’s $160 even with a coupon that got me a 20% discount.) I’ve tried three other substitute drugs that are on the list, but none of them work on my GERD problem.

Now, it’s not as though I have a fatal illness or some precondition that my health care insurance refuses to provide medication or other coverage for. But I do pay premiums for which I, obviously, am not getting the benefits I used to get.

And it ain’t going to get any better because the system, as it is, sucks.

Stop letting the ignorant/greedy/selfish (take your pick or add more descriptors) right-wingers nickel and dime us all to death, Mr.Pres.

We voted for change.

CHANGE OUR HEALTH CARE SYSTEM TO SINGLE PAYER!

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW???

the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single “Ow!”

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bilateral facet hypertrophic degenerative change
bilateral paravertebral disc osteophyte complex
bilateral neural foraminal stenosis
marked central spinal stenosis
bilateral subarticular recess compromise
flattening of the interior thecal sac
multilevel disc bulging and spondylosis
multilevel facet arthrosis and disc herniations

That’s what my recent spinal MRI showed. It’s not going to kill me, but it sure gives me some pain and concern. Some of it’s simply a result of aging. But some might have been prevented.

So, how come all of my former doctors who saw X-rays of my spine only told me that I had bone spurs on my spinal discs and that was nothing to worry about. How come not one of them thought to send me for an MRI to get a better sense of what was going on.

Well, my new excellent doctor, who also sat down and went over all of the details with me, took that extra diagnostic step. The next step for me is to see an arthritis specialist. Then, probably some physical therapy. Ow!

As a friend of mine says the Jewish Buddha says:

Accept misfortune as a blessing.
Do not wish for perfect health, or a life without problems.
What would you talk about?

and

If there is no self, whose arthritis is this?

a day in purgatory

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Eight hours in the emergency room and12 in a hospital room with my mother. And brother.

It wasn’t hell, but it sure was as close to purgatory as I can imagine.

At my insistence and her doctor’s recommendation, we took my mother to the emergency room soon after I arrived on Tuesday. She had a minor fall just before the weekend, and the doctor wanted to get her an x-ray and also — as long as she was there — get the blood and urine tests taken for which she was long overdue.

The emergency room only had one doctor on the premises. And then it turned out that the hospital itself didn’t have ANY doctors on the premises when they finally admitted my mother just after midnight.

The nurses, however, were outstanding — except for one. But there’s always one, isn’t there.

While it turned out that my mother hadn’t broken anything, she did have a major urinary tract infection going, and they hooked her up to an intravenous antibiotic.

HOWEVER, they couldn’t hook her up until they could calm her down, since her dementia was in full swing and she kept trying to fight everyone off. Solution? Drugs, of course.

EXCEPT we have yet to find a drug that will calm her down. Stuff like Xanax has the reverse affect. They finally had to resort to morphine. As long as she was totally knocked out, everything was fine. (Well, fine for her. My brother and I got no sleep, and the most we ate in all that time were cheese sandwiches and potato chips from the nearby convenience store. My reflux was starting to protest.)

Recommendations from two neurologists indicated that she needs 24/7 supervised care. With relentless pressure from me, my brother has agreed to interview home health care workers from a private-pay operation that provides aides trained in geriatric caregiving. Taking care of a 93 year old with severe dementia and all sorts of aches and pains is not a one person job. “Just keep her comfortable,” one neurologist advised. (If only!)

When the Social Worker came in to tell us what our options would be for help when she got home, she suggested a place (private pay) that provided home aids that specialize in geriatric care. Being the assertive “bitch” sister that I am, I had her immediately call the head of the outfit, who came right over to give us the information even before we left the hospital.

One or two of the possible aides are supposed to come over tomorrow for interviews.

There is enough money available to pay for help with her care, but it’s not under my control.

My brother believes that I am a lying, controlling, manipulating bitch.

Whatever.

I’m just going to do whatever I have to do to make sure that my mother gets the compassionate care she needs to have at this stage of her life.

Now, at home, she often speaks gibberish, will fall down if she tries to stand up or walk by herself (which she constantly tries) and has a battery of meds that we all hope will make it easier on everybody. Much of the time she cries — one breath in and on the outbreath a two-note loud sigh. Over and over. For hours at a time. This is not new; it started months and months ago.

I can’t wait to get back to my home. And I want to make sure that my brother hires someone good to help him with my mother’s care. I just don’t know how long I can last here. My sciatica is really acting up from having to help her up and down.

There is no perfect solution to all of this. I’m just too ornery to give up trying for a decent one, for my mother’s sake.

ending entropy

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Entropy is a term used to define (among other things), a process of deterioration of a system.

In terms of technology, my life seems to be one big process of entropy. My old desktop died a slow death over the past several months. Last week, I totally fried the new laptop that I inherited from my once husband. (That frakkin’ Vista!) Now I’m on a old little laptop that does not hold the wifi settings that I need to get online. It’s only a matter of time with this machine as well. How do you end entropy?

I think the first thing for me to do is cut my losses. and not spend any more time and money trying to fix messes of machinery that have aready joined the slide into infinite entropy.

I have to start over, with an inexpensive CPU with XP that can keep me online. If I ever have enough money to get a new laptop, it will be a Mac. That’s a big IF.

And then there’s my mother, whom I somehow have to rescue from the entropy of her care by my brother. I’m leaving tomorrow, driving into what I know will be a battleground for what’s left of my 93 year old mother’s demented life. She deserves better than she’s getting.

She fell yesterday, and the doctor wanted her to go to the emergency room, but that didn’t happen. I want to take her there when I arrive tomorrow. It could wind up a fierce and legal battle if things do not change to her benefit.

Took a sleeping pill to calm me dowm.

TOMORROW’S ANOTHER BATTLE FOR FREEDOM AND INTEGRITY AND SELFLESSNESS.

cross that doctor off the list!

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After I moved here a little over a month ago, I immediately began to find a new doctor and dentist. My new dentist, a woman, is young enough to be my daughter. But then, just about every professional I see these days is apt to be the ages of my offspring.

Two weeks ago, I went for my initial visit with (what I thought would be) my new doctor. I chose him because the website of the group practice indicated that he had a sub-specialty in geriatrics, and I figured if I started now, I wouldn’t have to find another doctor when my age REALLY caught up to me. While I had sent my old medical records on ahead, it was obvious that he never even looked at those or the questionnaire that I had filled out summarizing my medical history. Instead, he began asking me those same questions, scribbling my answers in the margins of the form on which I had already written the answers. He did ask a few more questions about my education level and what kind of job I had; I’m not sure why he had to know that.

We went through my medications, and I asked for new scripts for two that had run out. He said I could pick them up on my way out. Because I have been having sinus problems and also need to get my hearing checked (again; it’s getting worse), he said that he office would make an appointment for me with an ENT specialist.

Then he changed the subject to tell me about a book he had published and proceeded to read me the introduction. When I asked him if he ever loaned the book out because I would be interested in reading it, he set the book down, turned around, and mumbled something like “…well, I only have 60 copies left…” — which made me realize the book must have been self-published, and he was trying to sell me one.

He leaned back in his chair and asked me if there was anything else I needed to add. I said no. He left the room.

As I left and went to check out, I found that he left NO scripts for me; neither did he leave instructions to make an appointment for me with an ENT. They asked me to wait while they got the necessary information from him. Which I did. For a half hour. Then I left.

After three phone calls over the next few days, they finally called in my prescriptions. I just let the rest go.

Yesterday, I make an appointment at the Jewish Geriatric Services Family Medical Care located a mile from here. A woman doctor this time.

listings

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Over the years, I’ve accumulated a following of various catalogs. Clothes, especially, but there are other kinds as well.
But the catalog I got in the mail today is one of a kind in my long list of order offers. And I don’t know how or why they got my name. I can’t help wondering if someone put my name on their mailing list just to annoy me.
I mean, this is what this slick catalog is selling:
— a 20 CD set of lectures entitled “The Hand of God in the History of the World.”
— a read-aloud series for children: “How God Sent a Dog, Stopped Pirates, ande Used a Thunderstorm to Change the World.”
— a book: “Passionate Housewives Desperate for God.”
WTF!!! I guess their marketing guru never got a look at the sidebar of this blog.
Oh, and then there’s “The Wise Woman’s Guide to Blessing Her Husband’s Vision.”
Now I’m grinding my teeth!
In between all of this, pages of miltary, detective, construction, outdoor, and battle costumes and tools for boys. And what do the girls get? Equal pages of cutsy dresses and dolls, baking sets and aprons, tea sets and crochet gloves AND a book on “How to Be a Lady.”
Groan. Nausea. Twitches.
And. AND. This, and I quote from the blurb on “Return of the Daughters”:

For the first time in America’s history, young ladies can expect to encounter a large gap between their years of basic training and the time when they marry…if they marry. Now Christian girls all throughout our country are seriously asking: What’s a girl to do with her single years?

This documentary takes

… viewers into the homes of several young women who have dared to defy today’s anti-family culture in pursuit of a biblical approach to daughterhood, using their in-between years to pioneer a new culture of strength and dignity — and to rebuild Western Civilization, starting with the culture of the home.

I have to admit, the writing in this catalog is good, the presentation skilled. And that even makes it more scary. I am not linking to its website because I don’t want to give it any additional visibility.
Finally, the back cover:

A Creation Celebration. … each episode will build your appreciation for the brilliance of God’s design and will teach you how to dispel evolutionary myths…

Evolutionary myths!!!
This is one catalog that I’m going to feel great pleasure in throwing into the recycle pile. That is, after I rip off the address label and stick it in the mail with an order to take my name off their !@#$% list.

who am I?

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That’s the question she asked as she finally sat up in bed somewhere close to noon today. Usually she asks “Where am I?” Obviously, her dementia has gotten worse.
I tell her her name, in Polish, in English, her maiden name, her married name. By then she’s onto her other worry — “Can I go home now?”
It’s night now. I was with her most of the day, since my brother had a dentist appointment. When I’m with her, I try to respond with care to every question, every mood, every demand. After all, her world must be truly terrifying. And I’m her anchor.
Except she’s my anchor as well. I can’t move beyond her peripheral vision, or she panics. She is downstairs now with my brother, banging her cane on the floor and calling for me. My contact at the Alzheimer’s Association local chapter tells me that it’s not unusual for dementia patients to latch on to the most trusted caregiver and constantly shadow them. That’s what she’s doing, and it’s making me crazy.
I am holed up in my room, television blasting so that I don’t have to hear her distress. I am eating cherries and chocolate chip cookies. My stomach is in knots.
Meds only seem to make her worse in other ways. She needs 24 hour care, and it’s become too much for two people. But my brother wants her with him.
And I want to get away from this whole situation, even though she pleads with me: “Take me with you.”
It’s beautiful here on the mountain. But it’s also a prison, especially for her.
“Where are the streets?” she asks. “Where are the families?” she wonders as she looks out the window at the lush trees and patches of blue sky.
It’s hard to take her anywhere because she needs a toilet nearby. And her mood can go from placid to panic in a heartbeat.
She has lived too long. I hope that I am not still alive at 92. Or if I am, I still have my mind and my sense of humor.
Meanwhile, I’m sorting through all the stuff I brought with me to this place and downsizing. And packing.

whacking weeds

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Actually, as much as the weeds around here need whacking, they’re not getting it. They are pretty much out of control. Weeds: plants considered undesirable, unattractive, or troublesome, especially one growing where it is not wanted,
weeds.jpg
It’s not just the weeds around here that are out of my control. I am still living under the tyranny of my mother’s growing dementia and dependence combined with my brother’s demoralizing rules and realities.
Not much freedom for me here, on this Independence Day.
Maybe I should go out and buy my own little weed whacker, vent my frustrations on that army of undesirables that are intruding over every path from the door to the world. Whack! Whack! Take that, you creepy things.
I did murder a whole bunch of Japanese Beetles today as they attempted an orgy on my tomato plant. Whack! Whack!
One can only hold in anger and frustration for so long. Yes, I think I need to go out and whack those weeds, clear a path, clear my head. I know that those weed whackers are pretty loud, loud enough to muffle the yelling I need to get out of my system.
Someday I will be able to celebrate a real personal Independence Day. Until then, I need to go out and get a weed whacker.
On Independence Day back in 2002 I blogged that there should be a “Interdependence Day,” and a commenter sent me to this page, where there is a Global Declaration of Interdependence, as follows:.

Preamble:
In acknowledgment of the many existing documents and efforts that promote peace, sustainability, global interconnectedness, reverence for life and unity, We, The World hereby offers the following Declaration of Interdependence as our guiding set of principles for moving forward into this new millennium. It is inspired by the Earth Charter, the essential values of which have been culled from the many peoples of the Earth.

Declaration/Pledge
We, the people of planet Earth,
In recognition of the interconnectedness of all life
And the importance of the balance of nature,
Hereby acknowledge our interdependence
And affirm our dedication
To life-serving environmental stewardship,
The fulfillment of universal human needs worldwide,
Economic and social well-being,
And a culture of peace and nonviolence,
To insure a sustainable and harmonious world
For present and future generations.

And tonight, as I watched part of New York City’s fireworks, I couldn’t help wondering how all of that money spent on fireworks all over this country could have instead been used for much more important and humanitarian purposes.
But rulers know how to pacify the people using bread and circuses, how to make them forget what the late George Carlin so eloquently reminded us about.

seeing circles

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The poem below by Billy Collins (one of Jim Culleny’s daily poetry emails) makes me sad and angry and wistful and hungry.
I’m not hungry for sweets. I surely eat enough of those.

Rather it’s a soul-deep hunger for the solitude to watch circles become salt, to reach for and conjure the words that make magic of metaphor.

And so I am angry that with each passing year I have had to move farther and farther from that place where destiny can be designed. And I am sad because those years can never be recovered. And I am wistful, finally, because that is what comes of and with age and the utter exhaustion of being someone else’s keeper.

Design
Billy Collins
I pour a coating of salt on the table
and make a circle in it with my finger.
This is the cycle of life
I say to no one.
This is the wheel of fortune,
the arctic circle.
This is the ring of Kerry
and the white rose of Tralee
I say to the ghosts of my family,
the dead fathers,
the aunt who drowned,
my unborn brothers and sisters,
my unborn children.
This is the sun with its glittering spokes
and the bitter moon.
This is the absolute circle of geometry
I say to the crack in the wall,
to the birds who cross the window.
This is the wheel I just invented
to roll through the rest of my life
I say
touching my finger to my tongue.