For Customer Service ...

The computer-spawned voice gives direction —

A long list of numbers that I might press.

Though, all I have is one easy question,

The computer-spawned voice gives direction,

Dispensing numbers for my selection,

And all I can do is take a wild guess.

The computer-spawned voice gives direction —

A long list of numbers that I might press.

With phone at my ear, I’m lost in a maze

Of “press one” for this, or “seven” for that,

An on-going process that might take five days.

With phone at my ear, I’m lost in a maze

Of strange, foreboding, computerized ways.

Is there no person with whom I might chat?

With phone at my ear, I’m lost in a maze

Of “press one” for this or “seven” for that.

Notes from the Home - November 12, 2013

   Ralph passed away a week ago, and last night Isabelle had dinner in the dining room for the first time in two weeks or more.

   “He died in my arms,” she said. “I was in bed next to him reading a book on death and dying that someone had given me. Ralph asked me to get closer, and I put my arm around him. Then I heard that terrible sound and I knew he was gone.”

   Their daughter and son-in-law had driven from Oregon and were able to see Ralph before he died. They began their return trip yesterday.

   “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t promised my daughter I would come down for dinner,” Isabelle said.

   Whether or not she will be back remains to be seen. Ron turned dinner into an ordeal for Isabelle. Ron is sixty-four, lost his left eye somewhere along the line, and used to work for Tom’s, the snack food people. He has other problems, but other than social ineptitude, I’m not sure what they are.

   “You know, Isabelle, Ralph’s age was against him,” Ron said. “He was an old man, and we all have to go some time. None of us live forever. We all die some time. His age was against him. Ralph was an old man, you have to expect those things when your ninety-years old…” and on and on he went. Everything he said was true, but it was an endless stream of words, just words, no emotion, no sign of concern for what Isabelle might be going through, no pauses to give her an opportunity to respond.

   Then Ron moved on to Isabelle’s plans. “What are you going to do about … If I were you I’d … Don’t you think that … Wouldn’t it be better if … Why don’t you … Maybe you ought to …”

   Ron ordered his usual last night: a chicken sandwich, a bag of potato chips and a bowl of chocolate ice cream. He was done almost before Isabelle, Al and I got out entrees. But then, for the first time ever, or at least the first time in the months I’ve been eating at that table, Ron didn’t say, “I’ll see you all tomorrow” and leave. Instead, he asked for a cup of coffee. And when he finished it, he asked for another.

  

   Back in September, Beverly, a friend of Penelope’s from California, spent several days here interviewing some residents. I’m not sure what the plan is; I think they want to put them together in a small book for the residents and their families. Penelope gave Al a copy of the story they had written about him and asked for his comments. Then Al showed me the story and asked what I thought. We both thought it needed some work, although for different reasons.

   Al was concerned about what was left out. I was concerned about what was in it. Al would like to make sure that every unit he served in is mentioned. This is a problem because Beverly and Penelope want to keep the stories short, and there is a battle of wills going on. I’m almost convinced – darn that Suzanne, I want to say, I’m pretty sure, but she always said that use of pretty wasn’t pretty – that Al will relent on this one. He is smoking less marijuana and drinking less, too. And to stay busy, he is finally getting around to writing the story of his life, or at least going through all his papers in preparation for writing the story.

   “Damn it, Tom, it’s all your fault.”

   It is my fault, because when he asked me if I could find anything about the Battle of Song Be on the Internet, I found some stuff.

   “That’s what got me started,” he said.

   My concerns about Beverly’s story center around what is in it. For instance, in the second paragraph, she writes that Al was raised as an only child. A sentence or two later, she mentions Al’s brother. She misspelled soldier several times – she wrote “solider” – and she wrote that in 1960 Al was deployed to North Vietnam as an advisor.

   Yesterday, when we passed in the hall, Penelope asked if Al had let me read the story. When I said he had, she asked me what I thought. “Well, it’s a good story, but …”

   “I’ll have to take a look at that,” she said. “Would you mind reading some of the others?”

   I think I might have myself a non-paying editing job to fill some empty hours.

  

   Madeleine Crum, Huffingtonpost.com’s associate books editor, recently wrote a column defending the use of “like” in utterances such as, “it’s, like, really cold today.” But she began by writing about going out with a man who filled the conversation with “you know.” “My assumption [that he was unintelligent] turned out to be false, but, you know, his convoluted way of speaking was seriously off-putting,” she wrote. Then in the next paragraph, she says, “… I included the word ‘seriously,’ which is a classic case of excessive adverb usage, and frankly, I'm okay with that. Had I followed traditional grammatical guidelines and written, ‘his convoluted way of speaking was off-putting,’ my criticism would have seemed more severe than I intended it to be.”

   The language is changing too rapidly for me. Here I am, like, stuck in, like, the 20th Century, still convinced that “seriously” means “seriously.” But, I guess I’m, like, wrong.

Notes from the Home - November 5, 2013

   My electric wheelchair is ailing. It seems to have some form of mechanical MS, which perhaps it caught from me. The chair has become very undependable –  another malady it might have caught from me – and has been sitting idle since Thursday morning. I did bring the problem to the attention of the Convalescent Care staff when one of its technicians was out here a few weeks ago. He told me to periodically work the wheel-release levers, because rust and dust can build up and affect the chair’s performance. Mother would be so proud of me, I did as I was told, and for a week the problem seemed to be solved.

   Then the chair developed a mind of its own, refusing to turn when told, suddenly swerving when it hadn’t been told, and occasionally obstinately sitting there and saying, “Fat chance, bub.” That is what happened Thursday. I was on my way back from properly disposing of some trash when the chair got obstinate and refused to go any further. I released the wheels, shot Judy, one of the cleaning ladies, a look of utter helplessness, she asked if I needed a push, and I said “Oh, would you?”

   I had called Convalescent Care earlier that morning and called them again around noon. The service request was in the basket, the woman assured me, but she was uncertain if a technician would make it out that day. I told her, if they couldn’t make it today not to bother sending anyone Friday when I’d be at the Emory Clinic.

   No service technician darkened the doorway to my apartment that day, and I spent the weekend in my manual chair. Covenant Woods is not manual-wheelchair friendly. The hallway from the B building, where I live, to the main lobby and dining room is long and uphill. But the real problem has been adapting to doing the everyday things in the apartment. By everyday things, I mean things like standing up so I can get into bed.

   The electric chair is several hundred pounds of batteries and hardware. Push on it, and it ain’t going nowhere. The manual chair weighs considerably less. For that matter, it weighs considerably less than I do. Saturday, I spent a lot of time practicing how to get up from the wheelchair and into bed. Sunday, short on energy, or short on confidence, or short on both, I failed to make it.

   It all started after I had spent several hours with Russ and Karen, who had carted me to Target and Publix and bought me lunch at The Egg and I. When we were done, I was done in and ready for a nap. The bed looked so inviting. Too bad I couldn’t manage to get in it. I went from being tired to being frustrated and tired as I tried without success to get out of the chair and into the sack. Convinced that all I needed was someone to hold the wheelchair as I transferred, I called Russ. No answer.

   Then I had an idea. Why not put the idle electric wheelchair to work. It was next to the bed. I lowered myself on to the floor and, bracing myself on the wheelchair, tried to push myself up far enough that I could fall into bed. I might have made it if my left ankle worked better. But it doesn’t, and I laid there on the floor and tried to figure out my next move. Then the phone rang. It was Russ. “If you’re not doing anything, come save me,” I said, or words to that effect. He said he’d be right over.

   Once Russ arrived I did my best to be the all-knowing father I’m sure he’s always considered me. “Look, why don’t you … No, maybe it would be better … Wait, move the wheelchair …No, that won’t work …”  And while I was devising a fool-proof plan, Russ got behind me, ran his arms beneath my armpits, clutched his hands in front of me and hoisted me onto my feet, easily, with no help from me. All I had to do then was pirouette and sit down on the bed.

   I was impressed. It’s been well over a year since I last tipped a scale. I was 175 then, and I have to be all that and at least fifteen or twenty more pounds now. I wondered if Russ had taken up weightlifting. His Uncle Bill and cousin Kevin are accomplished weightlifters. Last week, Kevin posted a video of him lifting 500 pounds. And Loni, Russ’ once diminutive cousin, occasionally posts pictures of her now muscular self on Facebook.

   “Are you working out?”

   “No. I walk a lot. And I had to carry a lot of heavy boxes when I worked for Barnes & Noble.”

   He must have been in charge of moving the heavy tomes.

   There is no surprise more pleasant than having your child surprise you with abilities you didn’t know he or she had. It makes a father proud.

  

Notes from the Home - November 2, 2013

   Friday was but three hours old, and Russ and I were on the road to Atlanta and the Emory Clinic again. It was pleasantly cool, and I-85 was eerily devoid of traffic. Or, perhaps it was me feeling homesick for Erie, the lake. I was listening to WCLV on the Internet earlier in the week, and the forecast for Lake Erie included ten- to fifteen-foot waves. Watching them slam against the break wall at Ashtabula would have been worth the price of admission: standing out in the cold, wind and rain.

   We did encounter a few rain drops along the way, but none worth mentioning. So, please feel free to disregard the last sentence. It was quarter of five when we pulled into the Emory parking garage. There is an advantage to arriving in the hours before old Sol makes his appearance: no problem finding a spot to park. Using the map we were given Monday, Russ proved himself an able navigator of Emory’s labyrinth of hallways. And in timely fashion, he got us to the place where I was invited to remove my clothes and step into a stylish blue robe that offered a stunning view of my rump.

   The tarted-up gurney on which I was told to lie was easily the most uncomfortable, high-tech bed in the history of the human race. The hospital must be trying to discourage malingerers. Nonetheless, with Russ seated at my side, I promptly fell asleep until I was awakened by an endless line of questioners.

   “Why are you here today?”

   “To get a new battery and whatever else the baclofen pump requires.”

   “Where is the pump located?”

   “Right here,” I told them, gently patting the lower right side of my abdomen.

   Then they would look at the chart, smile and say “Good.” But I was certain that eventually one of them would watch me pat my right side, look at the chart, frown and say, “Oh shit, but it says here…”

   And the questions went on:

   “What is your medical condition?”

   “Multiple sclerosis.”

   “When were you diagnosed?”

   “October, 2006.”

   “Have you had anything to eat or drink since midnight?

   “No.”

   “Have you taken any medications?”

   “No.”

   “Did you take your bupropion?”

    “No.”

   “Did you take your atenolol?”

   “No.”

   “It says here, you occasionally take aspirin. Have you taken any aspirin?”

   “No.”

   “When was the last time you took aspirin?”

   “At least two weeks ago. They told me to stop taking it until I was done here.”

   “Good. Have you taken any Bactrim DS?”

   My face says, “What the hell is Bactrim DS?”

   “The antibiotic we prescribed.”

   “Oh, that. Not since midnight.”

   “But you have been taking it, right?”

   “Twice a day since I got it.”

   “That’s perfect. Are you allergic to any medications?”

   “None that I’ve taken.”

   “Have you ever had trouble with anesthesia?”

   “No.”

   “Did you have any difficulty with the anesthesia when they put your pump in?”

   “Your honor, I object, the medical professional is badgering the witness.” Well, I didn’t say that, but I wish I had. I just said “No.”

   Then this fellow came in, looking far too chipper for seven-thirty in the morning. He introduced himself, but in that stream of people introducing themselves to me I have forgotten if he said he was a doctor or a nurse. In any event, he was there to start an IV. He quickly earned the distinction of being the first medical professional to fail to find one of my veins on the first try. He did, however, find my radius – or maybe it was the ulna – but it certainly wasn’t humerus.

   Ten minutes later, I was carted off to the OR and put into a sound sleep from which I awoke in the recovery room at ten-thirty and was told that all went well. The best news was that there weren’t any problems with the catheters and I would be able to go home shortly. I hadn’t looked forward to the prospect of spending Friday night in the hospital. Then I was wheeled to another recovery room, where they continued to monitor my vital signs for a while, decided I would live, and gave me some orange juice, something they had audacity to call coffee – Juan Valdez turned over in his grave, I’m sure – and a few crackers.

   Russ was invited in and helped me dress. When he finished tying my shoes, the nurse told him to fetch the car and meet us out front. It’s no short walk to the parking garage, and before the nurse took me down, she told me I could shower later in the day so long as I did not aggressively scrub around the incision. She said I should call the surgeon if I experienced uncontrollable pain, and she handed me a prescription for vicodin.

   “Vicodin? I don’t like that stuff.”

   Back in the fall of 2005, when MS began intruding on my lifestyle in earnest, I hyperextended something in my right knee as I tried to master the art of walking with a less than cooperative left leg. The doctor gave me a prescription for vicodin, telling me to take a pill before going to bed, that it would ease the pain and help me sleep. In the words of Colonel Potter, “Horse pucky!!!” Maybe it did help with the pain. I don’t remember. What it did, was bring back memories of my college days, more precisely, my college nights spent in non-academic pursuits at the Old Town Tavern, of going to bed those nights and lying there while the room spun around and around.

   “In that case, just take some Tylenol,” she said.

   Then we got on the elevator and went to meet Russ. By four o’clock we were back in Columbus. Shortly after five, I took to my bed and slept until seven. I puttered around for a bit and was back in bed by nine.

   It’s Saturday morning now, and I’m feeling surprisingly upbeat. I don’t know if this is because I no longer have to worry and fret over having the pump tinkered with, or because they mixed some happy juice in with the anesthesia. And my extremities are a looser than they have been in weeks, which leads me to believe my suspicion that the battery had been dying a slow death wasn’t farfetched.

   And so the day I was not looking forward to turned out to be good after all. Not a great way to spend the day with Russ, but a great day because it was spent with him.