At two in the morning, I lie awake in the quiet of the night.
A police car, siren blaring, whizzes by. Silence returns.
Thoughts tumble endlessly in my mind, some happy, others not quite.
The kids' faces on a long-ago Christmas morning, pure delight.
Playing catch with them, watching a school play, times for which my heart yearns.
At two in the morning, I lie awake in the quiet of the night.
I realize the fridge was running when it shuts off. A moth in flight
Flitters about the room. The croaking peepers can't hush my concerns.
Thoughts tumble endlessly in my mind, some happy, others not quite.
Things I should have done; things I should not have done that now can't be put right
Haunt me in the wee hours. I made mistakes and I took wrong turns.
At two in the morning, I lie awake in the quiet of the night.
My kids, my grandchildren, my friends make the world bright.
Damn MS; this spastic body; how will I cope? The question burns.
Thoughts tumble endlessly in my mind, some happy, others not quite.
The furnace comes on. White noise subdues the uproar, the mental blight,
And the meeting between my high hopes and low expectations adjourns.
At two in the morning, I lie awake in the quiet of the night,
Thoughts tumble endlessly in my mind, some happy, others not quite.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Notes from the Home - January 11, 2015
Al, concerned about the state of his bowels, saw his doctor Tuesday, and the doctor said, "I'll call in a prescription." Wednesday morning, Daniel, who works for Hospice Advantage, stopped at CVS to pick up the prescription that consisted of a couple inches of white powder at the bottom of a one-gallon plastic jug. Daniel read the instructions, filled the jug with water, shook well, and told Al he was to drink one eight-ounce glass of the stuff every ten minutes until he had a clear bowel movement.
Al stayed in his apartment on Thursday but was out and about Friday. He came down the stairs as I was on my way to check the mail. It was quarter-past eleven, and the hallway was filled with people heading to lunch. Along the way, several folks asked Al how he was doing. The squeamish, no doubt, regretted it.
"The doctor gave me a prescription," he'd say. "I had to drink a glass full every few minutes. After three or four glasses, I had a movement. It was black, the blackest movement I've ever had. Then I drank another glass or two and had another movement. It was black, too.
"So I had to keep drinking that shit. Eventually, I had a couple movements that were black and brown. Then I had a couple brown movements. Then I was shitting water with just a few brown flakes in it. You'd think I'd be all cleaned out by now, but I still have pressure here [rubbing his gut]. I tried to have a movement this morning, but all I did was pass some gas. Those doctors don't know shit."
By the time Al had gotten his mail and was about to climb the stairs up to the second floor - he doesn't use the elevator unless he is toting a bulky package of some sort - he'd told the story of his movements ten times or more.
I went to check on Al Saturday morning. "About five o'clock this morning, I finally had a good movement. I'd sit on the toilet every couple hours trying to shit. Then it happened. It was brown, about eight or ten inches long and round, about this big," he said, making a circle with his thumb and index finger. "It looked like shit is supposed to look."
With that out of the way, Al turned his attention to getting a fair settlement from an apartment-rental group he has been associated with for many years. It is a long, convoluted tale. From what I gather, Al wants his money before he dies or becomes too addled to know what he is doing. The folks in Savannah offered him $25,000, Al figures his share is closer to $100,000, but he says he'd be happy with $60,000.
Friday night, while waiting for his bowels to work, Al went through some of his records and Saturday he asked me to make some copies of them. "I'm sending this stuff to my lawyer," he said. "This proves that bastard in Savannah is trying to cheat me."
I'm not sure the stuff proves that, but anything that get Al's mind out of his bowels is a good thing.
Janet moved into one of the Covenant Woods' duplexes in early December. She is a little pudgy and looks to be in her early seventies. She is obviously English. When she speaks, it's easy to imagine being in a pub and Janet taking your order for a pint of bitters and a steak-and-kidney pie.
Despite the bright sunshine Thursday morning, the temperature lingered around sixteen or seventeen degrees as I made my morning rounds.
"You're an awfully brave man riding around in this cold," Janet said as I wheelchaired by her driveway.
"No braver than you," I told her.
"I'm not brave. I'm dumb," she said, holding up her cigarette. "If I didn't smoke, I wouldn't be out here."
"I love my little dog," Burt says every time the conversation turns to pets. "I don't know what I'd do without Georgette."
Saturday morning, Georgette, a small, poodle-like dog, wasn't around when Burt got up. He enlisted the help of three or four others, and they scoured Covenant Woods inside and out for an hour. Then Burt remembered, "My daughter-in-law came by last night to get Georgette so she can take her to the groomer today. If I wasn't crazy I would have remembered that." An hour or two later, Georgette was back, shaven, shorn, and cuter than ever.
Al stayed in his apartment on Thursday but was out and about Friday. He came down the stairs as I was on my way to check the mail. It was quarter-past eleven, and the hallway was filled with people heading to lunch. Along the way, several folks asked Al how he was doing. The squeamish, no doubt, regretted it.
"The doctor gave me a prescription," he'd say. "I had to drink a glass full every few minutes. After three or four glasses, I had a movement. It was black, the blackest movement I've ever had. Then I drank another glass or two and had another movement. It was black, too.
"So I had to keep drinking that shit. Eventually, I had a couple movements that were black and brown. Then I had a couple brown movements. Then I was shitting water with just a few brown flakes in it. You'd think I'd be all cleaned out by now, but I still have pressure here [rubbing his gut]. I tried to have a movement this morning, but all I did was pass some gas. Those doctors don't know shit."
By the time Al had gotten his mail and was about to climb the stairs up to the second floor - he doesn't use the elevator unless he is toting a bulky package of some sort - he'd told the story of his movements ten times or more.
I went to check on Al Saturday morning. "About five o'clock this morning, I finally had a good movement. I'd sit on the toilet every couple hours trying to shit. Then it happened. It was brown, about eight or ten inches long and round, about this big," he said, making a circle with his thumb and index finger. "It looked like shit is supposed to look."
With that out of the way, Al turned his attention to getting a fair settlement from an apartment-rental group he has been associated with for many years. It is a long, convoluted tale. From what I gather, Al wants his money before he dies or becomes too addled to know what he is doing. The folks in Savannah offered him $25,000, Al figures his share is closer to $100,000, but he says he'd be happy with $60,000.
Friday night, while waiting for his bowels to work, Al went through some of his records and Saturday he asked me to make some copies of them. "I'm sending this stuff to my lawyer," he said. "This proves that bastard in Savannah is trying to cheat me."
I'm not sure the stuff proves that, but anything that get Al's mind out of his bowels is a good thing.
Janet moved into one of the Covenant Woods' duplexes in early December. She is a little pudgy and looks to be in her early seventies. She is obviously English. When she speaks, it's easy to imagine being in a pub and Janet taking your order for a pint of bitters and a steak-and-kidney pie.
Despite the bright sunshine Thursday morning, the temperature lingered around sixteen or seventeen degrees as I made my morning rounds.
"You're an awfully brave man riding around in this cold," Janet said as I wheelchaired by her driveway.
"No braver than you," I told her.
"I'm not brave. I'm dumb," she said, holding up her cigarette. "If I didn't smoke, I wouldn't be out here."
"I love my little dog," Burt says every time the conversation turns to pets. "I don't know what I'd do without Georgette."
Saturday morning, Georgette, a small, poodle-like dog, wasn't around when Burt got up. He enlisted the help of three or four others, and they scoured Covenant Woods inside and out for an hour. Then Burt remembered, "My daughter-in-law came by last night to get Georgette so she can take her to the groomer today. If I wasn't crazy I would have remembered that." An hour or two later, Georgette was back, shaven, shorn, and cuter than ever.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Notes from the Home - January 3, 2015
Al managed to get out of St. Francis Hospital on New Year's day. He called from the hospital at nine that morning to express his displeasure with the medical community in general and the hospital staff in particular. He'd been there four days, and he was ready to leave.
"I slept on a gurney for three nights, because they didn't have a room for me," Al said. "If I had to urinate, I had to press a button. Then a nurse brought me a bottle to piss in. To piss in it, I had to get over on my side. But the god damned gurney was so damn narrow I could hardly move, let alone get on my side. I ended up pissing all over myself and all over the fucking bed.
"And the god damned doctors don't know shit. They keep telling me they can't find anything wrong. Bullshit! Damn it, there is something wrong. That's why the hell I'm here. I think they run tests just so they can charge people for them.
"I have to get out of here. Get a hold of Penelope right away and tell her I need to talk to her."
And so, 2015 was barely nine-hours old when the year's first dilemma arose: Do I wait an hour or two before calling Penelope, in case she had celebrated with gusto Wednesday night, and risk the wrath of Al? Or do I risk incurring Penelope's wrath by calling her immediately? Well, William Congreve, the man credited for the line, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," died three centuries ago and never met Al. I called Penelope.
"There's nothing I can do for him," she said. "But I'll give him a call."
Later in the day, as I was thinking about getting ready for dinner, Al called. "Tom, I'm back. Penelope just dropped me off."
Al hasn't told me how he obtained his release, although I image more than a few medical professionals were told to "go to hell" in the process. Al is home now, but the raging storm of complaints continues unabated.
"I don't know why the hell they didn't do a colonoscopy and find out what the blockage is," he told me Friday. "I've been trying to have a movement all day. There is a lot of pressure right here," he said rubbing the area around his belt buckle. "I sat on toilet for forty-five minutes after lunch, but nothing happened. Shit."
On the other hand, Al has signed on with Hospice Advantage and seems reasonably pleased with it so far.
"A lady from hospice was here a few minutes ago. She asked me a bunch of questions, and she listened to what I had to say," Al told me. "She told me, if I need anything all I have to do is call them. They're going to pick up a prescription for me tomorrow.
"And she helped me get a bath. There I was, butt-naked, and she helped me get in the tub. She helped me clean myself. She has nice fingers."
Last week, Annie drove Al to Publix. During that journey of less than a quarter mile, Al criticized Annie for obeying the stop sign at end of Covenant Woods' drive - "What are you stopping for. There's no one coming" - for ignoring the first entrance to the Publix parking lot and using the one a hundred yards beyond it - "Why didn't you go in back there. This is the wrong one" - and for parking in the "wrong" place, even though Annie let him out at the door to the supermarket and picked him up there when he came out. Annie and Al made another trip to Publix Friday, and Annie reports that Al didn't complain at all, never, not once.
I dropped in on Al Saturday evening. He cast more aspersions on doctors, nurses and just about everyone else in the health care biz. He also bemoaned his life without a car - a day or two before Christmas, Al gave his car to a friend in Savannah. Among other things, he wouldn't be able to go to the store and pick up strawberries, blueberries and tomatoes until at least Monday. Well, I had all those things, and I went down to my apartment and went back up to Al's with the three things he said he wanted along with a few bananas, some apples and a couple oranges.
"But now you don't have any of this stuff," he said.
"So? I'm going over see Russ and Karen tomorrow. On the way back, I'll ask Russ to stop at Publix and I'll replace it all."
With that, Al reached in his pants pocket, pulled out two fifties and handed them to me. "Here, give this to Russ and Karen for all the help they give you."
That's the kind of guy Al is.
Isabelle is in hospice, and Al has been in the hospital or eating in his room, so it has been just Burt and me at table A-2 at dinner. That ended Friday, when Leon joined us. Leon is a recent arrival at Covenant Woods. He is loud enough that I had heard him from several tables away on a couple of occasions. I was hoping he wouldn't notice the two empty seats at our table. He did.
The first words out his mouth weren't "Hi, my name is Leon." His first words came as he stared at me while sitting down.
"Where are you from?" he asked in his harsh, gravelly voice.
"I grew up in the Pittsburgh area. . ."
"What I want to know," he said, cutting me off, "are you Jewish?"
I'm not Jewish, but I have been asked that question a million times. Hell, in my time at West Virginia Wesleyan College, people called me Jew more often than they called me Tom. But Leon's "are you Jewish?" sounded more like an accusation than a friendly inquiry.
Before I could spit out, "Are you with the Gestapo?" Leon hastened to say, "Not that it makes any difference, but you look like a damn Jew."
Not that it makes any difference, but Leon sounds like a damn bigot.
"I slept on a gurney for three nights, because they didn't have a room for me," Al said. "If I had to urinate, I had to press a button. Then a nurse brought me a bottle to piss in. To piss in it, I had to get over on my side. But the god damned gurney was so damn narrow I could hardly move, let alone get on my side. I ended up pissing all over myself and all over the fucking bed.
"And the god damned doctors don't know shit. They keep telling me they can't find anything wrong. Bullshit! Damn it, there is something wrong. That's why the hell I'm here. I think they run tests just so they can charge people for them.
"I have to get out of here. Get a hold of Penelope right away and tell her I need to talk to her."
And so, 2015 was barely nine-hours old when the year's first dilemma arose: Do I wait an hour or two before calling Penelope, in case she had celebrated with gusto Wednesday night, and risk the wrath of Al? Or do I risk incurring Penelope's wrath by calling her immediately? Well, William Congreve, the man credited for the line, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," died three centuries ago and never met Al. I called Penelope.
"There's nothing I can do for him," she said. "But I'll give him a call."
Later in the day, as I was thinking about getting ready for dinner, Al called. "Tom, I'm back. Penelope just dropped me off."
Al hasn't told me how he obtained his release, although I image more than a few medical professionals were told to "go to hell" in the process. Al is home now, but the raging storm of complaints continues unabated.
"I don't know why the hell they didn't do a colonoscopy and find out what the blockage is," he told me Friday. "I've been trying to have a movement all day. There is a lot of pressure right here," he said rubbing the area around his belt buckle. "I sat on toilet for forty-five minutes after lunch, but nothing happened. Shit."
On the other hand, Al has signed on with Hospice Advantage and seems reasonably pleased with it so far.
"A lady from hospice was here a few minutes ago. She asked me a bunch of questions, and she listened to what I had to say," Al told me. "She told me, if I need anything all I have to do is call them. They're going to pick up a prescription for me tomorrow.
"And she helped me get a bath. There I was, butt-naked, and she helped me get in the tub. She helped me clean myself. She has nice fingers."
Last week, Annie drove Al to Publix. During that journey of less than a quarter mile, Al criticized Annie for obeying the stop sign at end of Covenant Woods' drive - "What are you stopping for. There's no one coming" - for ignoring the first entrance to the Publix parking lot and using the one a hundred yards beyond it - "Why didn't you go in back there. This is the wrong one" - and for parking in the "wrong" place, even though Annie let him out at the door to the supermarket and picked him up there when he came out. Annie and Al made another trip to Publix Friday, and Annie reports that Al didn't complain at all, never, not once.
I dropped in on Al Saturday evening. He cast more aspersions on doctors, nurses and just about everyone else in the health care biz. He also bemoaned his life without a car - a day or two before Christmas, Al gave his car to a friend in Savannah. Among other things, he wouldn't be able to go to the store and pick up strawberries, blueberries and tomatoes until at least Monday. Well, I had all those things, and I went down to my apartment and went back up to Al's with the three things he said he wanted along with a few bananas, some apples and a couple oranges.
"But now you don't have any of this stuff," he said.
"So? I'm going over see Russ and Karen tomorrow. On the way back, I'll ask Russ to stop at Publix and I'll replace it all."
With that, Al reached in his pants pocket, pulled out two fifties and handed them to me. "Here, give this to Russ and Karen for all the help they give you."
That's the kind of guy Al is.
Isabelle is in hospice, and Al has been in the hospital or eating in his room, so it has been just Burt and me at table A-2 at dinner. That ended Friday, when Leon joined us. Leon is a recent arrival at Covenant Woods. He is loud enough that I had heard him from several tables away on a couple of occasions. I was hoping he wouldn't notice the two empty seats at our table. He did.
The first words out his mouth weren't "Hi, my name is Leon." His first words came as he stared at me while sitting down.
"Where are you from?" he asked in his harsh, gravelly voice.
"I grew up in the Pittsburgh area. . ."
"What I want to know," he said, cutting me off, "are you Jewish?"
I'm not Jewish, but I have been asked that question a million times. Hell, in my time at West Virginia Wesleyan College, people called me Jew more often than they called me Tom. But Leon's "are you Jewish?" sounded more like an accusation than a friendly inquiry.
Before I could spit out, "Are you with the Gestapo?" Leon hastened to say, "Not that it makes any difference, but you look like a damn Jew."
Not that it makes any difference, but Leon sounds like a damn bigot.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Al, Isabelle and Amy
Early Monday afternoon, as I was stuffing the evening's menus into the folders, Sherrie, one of the nurses' assistants, came by and said the EMTs were upstairs with Al. His heart was racing, she said, 122 beats a minute. Al had asked her to let me know he was going to the hospital. Hoping to see him before he left, I headed to the B building, but I got to the door just as the ambulance left.
"He was cussing out everyone," Sherrie said. Others who had seen Al earlier that morning said he seemed fine and wasn't cussing out anyone, at least not to an unusual degree.
Penelope saw Al this morning (Tuesday). He was still in the emergency room. The doctors want him to remain in the hospital and were waiting for an available room. Al is less than delighted with the situation; he wants to come home.
Penelope said she had spoken to the doctors about prescribing something to help Al deal with his anxiety. I have known Al for almost three years, and several times a week every week during that time Al has said he was ready to die. On three or four occasions during the last month, Al seemed convinced his end was near, and it scared him to death. Anything the doctors can do to help Al deal with his fears would be a good thing.
One of the things that has been upsetting Al is the prospect of going on hospice. One of his doctors told him he should. By happy coincidence, Daniel recently landed a job with a local hospice group. Al has been a friend of Daniel's family since before Daniel was born, and Daniel comes by to see Al once a week or so. Penelope said Al agreed today to go on hospice with Daniel's group. Perhaps, if Al trusts these people, he'll be more relaxed and less eager to self-medicate. He has spent a fortune on laxatives, enemas and assorted other stuff for his bowels in the last month.
Isabelle is in hospice again. She has been weak and tiring easily. From what I hear, they're hoping the hospice stay will help Isabelle regain her strength. I hope that's all it is.
Isabelle, Al and I have been eating dinner together for over two years. Ralph, Isabelle's husband, who was the fourth person at the table, died in November 2013. Since then, she has told several people how much having dinner with Al and me every night helped her through that difficult time.
Until a week or two ago, I didn't understand how those Covenant Woods' dinners with Al and me could be so important to Isabelle. Now I know why. For three or for days before he went to the hospital this time, Al, concerned about his alternate bouts of diarrhea and constipation, had opted to eat in his room. Isabelle, because she was so tired and weak, ate in the Personal Care dining room several times in the two weeks before her most recent trip to hospice.
Then there is Amy. Until a month ago, she had been the regular server in the A section of the dining room, where Isabelle, Al and I sit. Amy has one of those personalities that fills a room. When she is there, you know she is there. And when she isn't there, you know she isn't there, you feel like something is missing. When Amy comes toward you with a big grin on her face, you know she is up to something. These days, Amy spends most of her time in the D section, and if all goes well for her, she will soon be working somewhere other than Covenant Woods - somewhere where she will earn more, work more hours and get a few benefits.
I am amazed how quickly the trio of Al, Isabelle and Amy became such a large part of my life. It is frightening when I think of them not being at dinner every night and how empty things will seem if they are not there. They are good people, they are valued friends, and they brighten my days at Covenant Woods.
"He was cussing out everyone," Sherrie said. Others who had seen Al earlier that morning said he seemed fine and wasn't cussing out anyone, at least not to an unusual degree.
Penelope saw Al this morning (Tuesday). He was still in the emergency room. The doctors want him to remain in the hospital and were waiting for an available room. Al is less than delighted with the situation; he wants to come home.
Penelope said she had spoken to the doctors about prescribing something to help Al deal with his anxiety. I have known Al for almost three years, and several times a week every week during that time Al has said he was ready to die. On three or four occasions during the last month, Al seemed convinced his end was near, and it scared him to death. Anything the doctors can do to help Al deal with his fears would be a good thing.
One of the things that has been upsetting Al is the prospect of going on hospice. One of his doctors told him he should. By happy coincidence, Daniel recently landed a job with a local hospice group. Al has been a friend of Daniel's family since before Daniel was born, and Daniel comes by to see Al once a week or so. Penelope said Al agreed today to go on hospice with Daniel's group. Perhaps, if Al trusts these people, he'll be more relaxed and less eager to self-medicate. He has spent a fortune on laxatives, enemas and assorted other stuff for his bowels in the last month.
Isabelle is in hospice again. She has been weak and tiring easily. From what I hear, they're hoping the hospice stay will help Isabelle regain her strength. I hope that's all it is.
Isabelle, Al and I have been eating dinner together for over two years. Ralph, Isabelle's husband, who was the fourth person at the table, died in November 2013. Since then, she has told several people how much having dinner with Al and me every night helped her through that difficult time.
Until a week or two ago, I didn't understand how those Covenant Woods' dinners with Al and me could be so important to Isabelle. Now I know why. For three or for days before he went to the hospital this time, Al, concerned about his alternate bouts of diarrhea and constipation, had opted to eat in his room. Isabelle, because she was so tired and weak, ate in the Personal Care dining room several times in the two weeks before her most recent trip to hospice.
Then there is Amy. Until a month ago, she had been the regular server in the A section of the dining room, where Isabelle, Al and I sit. Amy has one of those personalities that fills a room. When she is there, you know she is there. And when she isn't there, you know she isn't there, you feel like something is missing. When Amy comes toward you with a big grin on her face, you know she is up to something. These days, Amy spends most of her time in the D section, and if all goes well for her, she will soon be working somewhere other than Covenant Woods - somewhere where she will earn more, work more hours and get a few benefits.
I am amazed how quickly the trio of Al, Isabelle and Amy became such a large part of my life. It is frightening when I think of them not being at dinner every night and how empty things will seem if they are not there. They are good people, they are valued friends, and they brighten my days at Covenant Woods.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Notes from the Home - December 28, 2014
Christmas 2014 was delightful. Karen's mom, Penny, and step-dad, Mitch, were down from Indiana, and her sister, Colleen, was up from Florida. Tuesday afternoon, Russ fetched his old man and hurried him to their place for a taco dinner. There are many, many very nice, very interesting people at Covenant Woods. Talk to any of them long enough, however, and the subject of the conversation will turn to the state of their health, or to the state of world, both of which, they will tell you, are going to hell in a hand basket. It was nice to just talk about stuff, and hear a few embarrassing tales of Karen's youth. Mitch is a rabbi, and Tuesday was the last day of Hanukkah. After dinner Penny lit the eight candles of the menorah.
Wednesday, Christmas Eve, we exchanged gifts. But before we did, we enjoyed a dinner of brisket, Swiss chard, asparagus, and cauliflower. I went home with a new seat pad and arm rest for my wheelchair, along with four books:Allegheny City: A History of Pittsburgh's North Side; Their Life's Work: The Brotherhood of the 1970s Pittsburgh Steelers; 399 Games, Puzzles & Trivia Challenges Specially Designed to Keep Your Brain Young and Will's Best: Celebrating the 20th Anniversary of The New York Times Puzzlemaster.
There were also four books under the tree for Russ. They were all on the same subject: baking. Russ didn't bake anything for the Christmas Eve dinner, but he did make the custard we had for dessert. With hundreds of recipes now at his disposal, I see no reason why I shouldn't expect something from the oven every time Russ comes over. He did put his skills to work on Christmas morning, making a pancake breakfast for us all.
Saturday, we had visitors from Birmingham: Jim and Susan. We sat around my apartment for a while, then moved to Russ and Karen's. While there, I realized how antiquated my flip phone is. Jim and Russ got their phones to do things by talking to them. When the discussion turned to lunch, we decided O'Charley's was the place to send Russ to pick up our order. To expedite the ordering process, Karen accessed O'Charley's menu on her phone, and we each perused it. My phone told me later that it felt so inadequate. Even so, spending several hours with Jim, Susan, Karen and Russ was a wonderful way to end the week's holiday festivities. Before everyone went their separate ways, we vowed to do it again in a few months when the Pratts of Orofino come to Columbus. "Is that baby still coming in April?" Susan asked.
After Russ brought me back to Covenant Woods Saturday, I took my shoes off and was about to stretch out on the bed when Al called. "Tom, I need to go to the hospital." He didn't, however, want to call 911. Earlier in the week he had given his car to a friend from Savannah. "I tried to call Penelope, but I couldn't get her," Al said.
"Well, call 911," I said.
"But I don't want to make a big fuss."
"Call 911."
"I guess I'm going to have to. OK, I will."
Al is a man of his word. But I was skeptical enough to put my shoes back on and head to his apartment. I knocked once, pushed the door open and saw Al in his chair with the telephone held firmly against his ear. "Here, you talk to them," he said, handing me the receiver. "I can't hear a god damned thing they're saying." All I could hear when I took the phone was a dial tone. I called 911 and asked if they were sending an ambulance for Al. "We have already dispatched someone. They are on the way."
Al did not receive the news of the EMTs impending arrival calmly. In the manner of the nervous, obsessive-compulsive housewife characters on old situation comedies who ran madly about cleaning the house and putting everything in order before the cleaning lady arrived, Al ran about madly trying to get everything in order before the EMTs got there. "Sit down and relax, Al." "I've got to get this done." Then he'd stumble, catch himself and say, "See that? I'm in a hell of a shape." Fortunately, the ambulance arrived before Al could work himself into a heart attack. "Here's my key. You hold on to it in case I don't make back. You know where everything is." No I don't, but I took the key as Al got on to the gurney.
At three minutes to six Sunday morning, my phone rang. "Tom, Al here. I got back about five this morning. Twelve hours in the damned emergency room. All they did was keep moving me back. They told me to see Stein this week. Those doctors don't know shit. Stein won't do anything. I need to lay down and get some sleep. Why don't you come up for a while?"
"You need some sleep. I'll come up later."
We bickered over his getting some sleep, and eventually Al relented and said he was going to bed. Three hours later, I went to check on him and return his key.
"If I needed to piss I had to press a button, and they would bring me a plastic bottle," Al told me, restarting the narrative of his emergency room experience. "I had to turn on my side so I could piss into the damn thing. How the hell are you supposed to turn over when they put all those fucking tubes and wires in your arms? They even put some god-damned thing in my finger. Bunch of damn idiots. Those doctors don't know shit."
The doctors might not know shit, but Al left them plenty to study. "They gave me an enema. Shot the stuff right up my ass. Then I filled that pot with the runniest, blackest shit I ever saw."
Al finally got himself into a reasonably good mood by cursing the medical profession. And he did say he enjoyed talking to the women who tended to him through the night. And they enjoyed him, too. "One of them came over and told me, they had never seen anyone like me. And the EMTs that brought me back this morning were both women. God damn, they were strong. They didn't have any trouble at all moving me around."
Al's plans for the day? "I'm going to stay here and read the paper. I've got plenty to eat, drink and smoke."
Sunday afternoon, Al was pushing the walker he occasionally uses toward the activity room. He looked good and was in a pleasant mood. Then he ran his hands over his stomach and down toward his groin. "It doesn't feel bad," he said. "There isn't a lot of pressure. But I don't know, I haven't had a movement today."
Apparently, filling the pot at the hospital doesn't count.
One afternoon a week or so ago, I was on my way to give Al some information he'd asked me to get off the Internet. In the hall by the laundry room, Herb was looking through the magazines in a small basket on an end table put there for the convenience those doing their wash. A short, stocky man, Herb is bald save for the fringe of white hair that starts about an inch above his ears. He is alert, moves about quickly and has that everyman look of the guy who played whats-his-name's neighbor on oh, what was the name of that show? You know the one I mean; the one about some guy, his wife and their kids. Everybody watched it.
Or maybe Herb was a feisty union steward in a steel mill. Clad in blue jeans and a T-shirt, he looked the part.
"Do you know where I am?" he asked as I came by.
"By the laundry room."
"How do I get to my apartment?"
"What apartment are you in."
"I don't know," he said just before the light came on. Herb pulled a key chain from his pants pocket and showed me the plastic disc with his room number on it.
"That's in the C building," I said.
"Where's that?"
"If you can wait a few minutes, I'll take you there."
"OK."
When I returned from giving Al information he'd asked for, Herb was still going through the magazines.
"Ready?" I asked.
"Just a minute," he said, grabbing four or five old issues of Reader's Digest to take with him.
We took the elevator down to the first floor and started up the long hallway to the lobby. "Doesn't that chair of your go any faster?" he asked. There were a lot of people in the public areas that afternoon, and eventually he couldn't go any faster than I was going. But halfway down the hall to the C building, Herb realized where he was, darted around me and blurted out a quick thanks. I followed at a respectful distance, just to make sure he went to the right room. He did.
Wednesday, Christmas Eve, we exchanged gifts. But before we did, we enjoyed a dinner of brisket, Swiss chard, asparagus, and cauliflower. I went home with a new seat pad and arm rest for my wheelchair, along with four books:Allegheny City: A History of Pittsburgh's North Side; Their Life's Work: The Brotherhood of the 1970s Pittsburgh Steelers; 399 Games, Puzzles & Trivia Challenges Specially Designed to Keep Your Brain Young and Will's Best: Celebrating the 20th Anniversary of The New York Times Puzzlemaster.
There were also four books under the tree for Russ. They were all on the same subject: baking. Russ didn't bake anything for the Christmas Eve dinner, but he did make the custard we had for dessert. With hundreds of recipes now at his disposal, I see no reason why I shouldn't expect something from the oven every time Russ comes over. He did put his skills to work on Christmas morning, making a pancake breakfast for us all.
Saturday, we had visitors from Birmingham: Jim and Susan. We sat around my apartment for a while, then moved to Russ and Karen's. While there, I realized how antiquated my flip phone is. Jim and Russ got their phones to do things by talking to them. When the discussion turned to lunch, we decided O'Charley's was the place to send Russ to pick up our order. To expedite the ordering process, Karen accessed O'Charley's menu on her phone, and we each perused it. My phone told me later that it felt so inadequate. Even so, spending several hours with Jim, Susan, Karen and Russ was a wonderful way to end the week's holiday festivities. Before everyone went their separate ways, we vowed to do it again in a few months when the Pratts of Orofino come to Columbus. "Is that baby still coming in April?" Susan asked.
After Russ brought me back to Covenant Woods Saturday, I took my shoes off and was about to stretch out on the bed when Al called. "Tom, I need to go to the hospital." He didn't, however, want to call 911. Earlier in the week he had given his car to a friend from Savannah. "I tried to call Penelope, but I couldn't get her," Al said.
"Well, call 911," I said.
"But I don't want to make a big fuss."
"Call 911."
"I guess I'm going to have to. OK, I will."
Al is a man of his word. But I was skeptical enough to put my shoes back on and head to his apartment. I knocked once, pushed the door open and saw Al in his chair with the telephone held firmly against his ear. "Here, you talk to them," he said, handing me the receiver. "I can't hear a god damned thing they're saying." All I could hear when I took the phone was a dial tone. I called 911 and asked if they were sending an ambulance for Al. "We have already dispatched someone. They are on the way."
Al did not receive the news of the EMTs impending arrival calmly. In the manner of the nervous, obsessive-compulsive housewife characters on old situation comedies who ran madly about cleaning the house and putting everything in order before the cleaning lady arrived, Al ran about madly trying to get everything in order before the EMTs got there. "Sit down and relax, Al." "I've got to get this done." Then he'd stumble, catch himself and say, "See that? I'm in a hell of a shape." Fortunately, the ambulance arrived before Al could work himself into a heart attack. "Here's my key. You hold on to it in case I don't make back. You know where everything is." No I don't, but I took the key as Al got on to the gurney.
At three minutes to six Sunday morning, my phone rang. "Tom, Al here. I got back about five this morning. Twelve hours in the damned emergency room. All they did was keep moving me back. They told me to see Stein this week. Those doctors don't know shit. Stein won't do anything. I need to lay down and get some sleep. Why don't you come up for a while?"
"You need some sleep. I'll come up later."
We bickered over his getting some sleep, and eventually Al relented and said he was going to bed. Three hours later, I went to check on him and return his key.
"If I needed to piss I had to press a button, and they would bring me a plastic bottle," Al told me, restarting the narrative of his emergency room experience. "I had to turn on my side so I could piss into the damn thing. How the hell are you supposed to turn over when they put all those fucking tubes and wires in your arms? They even put some god-damned thing in my finger. Bunch of damn idiots. Those doctors don't know shit."
The doctors might not know shit, but Al left them plenty to study. "They gave me an enema. Shot the stuff right up my ass. Then I filled that pot with the runniest, blackest shit I ever saw."
Al finally got himself into a reasonably good mood by cursing the medical profession. And he did say he enjoyed talking to the women who tended to him through the night. And they enjoyed him, too. "One of them came over and told me, they had never seen anyone like me. And the EMTs that brought me back this morning were both women. God damn, they were strong. They didn't have any trouble at all moving me around."
Al's plans for the day? "I'm going to stay here and read the paper. I've got plenty to eat, drink and smoke."
Sunday afternoon, Al was pushing the walker he occasionally uses toward the activity room. He looked good and was in a pleasant mood. Then he ran his hands over his stomach and down toward his groin. "It doesn't feel bad," he said. "There isn't a lot of pressure. But I don't know, I haven't had a movement today."
Apparently, filling the pot at the hospital doesn't count.
One afternoon a week or so ago, I was on my way to give Al some information he'd asked me to get off the Internet. In the hall by the laundry room, Herb was looking through the magazines in a small basket on an end table put there for the convenience those doing their wash. A short, stocky man, Herb is bald save for the fringe of white hair that starts about an inch above his ears. He is alert, moves about quickly and has that everyman look of the guy who played whats-his-name's neighbor on oh, what was the name of that show? You know the one I mean; the one about some guy, his wife and their kids. Everybody watched it.
Or maybe Herb was a feisty union steward in a steel mill. Clad in blue jeans and a T-shirt, he looked the part.
"Do you know where I am?" he asked as I came by.
"By the laundry room."
"How do I get to my apartment?"
"What apartment are you in."
"I don't know," he said just before the light came on. Herb pulled a key chain from his pants pocket and showed me the plastic disc with his room number on it.
"That's in the C building," I said.
"Where's that?"
"If you can wait a few minutes, I'll take you there."
"OK."
When I returned from giving Al information he'd asked for, Herb was still going through the magazines.
"Ready?" I asked.
"Just a minute," he said, grabbing four or five old issues of Reader's Digest to take with him.
We took the elevator down to the first floor and started up the long hallway to the lobby. "Doesn't that chair of your go any faster?" he asked. There were a lot of people in the public areas that afternoon, and eventually he couldn't go any faster than I was going. But halfway down the hall to the C building, Herb realized where he was, darted around me and blurted out a quick thanks. I followed at a respectful distance, just to make sure he went to the right room. He did.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Someone is Watching
In this wired world some computer somewhere is aware of what I do even as I do it. I know this, but there are times when it is more obvious than others. Last week was one of those times. It started Wednesday, when I called Express Scripts, my pharmacy benefits manager, as it likes to bill itself.
OK, I guess it started a month ago when Express Scripts sent a letter telling me that Dr. Miller had not responded to their request to send them a new prescription for my blood pressure pills. I called the Columbus Clinic, but after spending what seemed an eternity listening to Columbus Clinic commercials interspersed with assurances that my call was important to the Columbus Clinic and an operator would be with me just as soon as one became available, or once hell froze over, which ever came last, I hung up. I tried again the next day and got the same result.
A quick check of my pill supply, however, indicated that I was not in imminent danger of running out of Atenolol, the medication in question. "Hey, no big deal," I told myself, "I can call whenever." With that comforting thought in mind, I promptly forgot the whole thing for two weeks. I didn't remember on my own, of course. The Express Scripts' computer called one evening to say, "We have received a new order for you. It is scheduled to be shipped in one week." Focusing on the word "new," I concluded the new order was for Atenolol; my prescription for Bupropion has two refills to go and is therefore not new.
My intention is not argue semantics with Express Scripts, but don't you think refilling a prescription would be properly referred to as an "existing order?" Apparently those in the pharmacy biz don't think so. The expected package from Express Scripts contained the unexpected Bupropion, not the anticipated Atenolol.
Monday, I called the Columbus Clinic. Either I was more patient this time or the operator was less dilatory in answering my call, and I requested that Dr. Miller send out a new prescription. Twenty minutes later, a woman from the Columbus Clinic called to tell me, "your prescription has been sent to Express Scripts." I thanked the woman and spent Tuesday and Wednesday waiting for the Express Scripts' computer to call and assure me "we have received a new order for you. . ."
The call never came, and Wednesday evening I girded my loins and prepared to tussle with the computer at Express Scripts. "Say 'request a refill' or 'check the status of an order,'" the computer said, when I called. "Request a refill," said I. "Wrong answer," the computer said, in so many words, after I gave it the prescription number for the expired prescription. Disheartened but not defeated, I called back and told the computer to "check the status of an order." "Say the date of birth of the person the order is for," it told me. After I complied, the computer said, "We have one order for you. It is scheduled to be shipped in two days."
The computer never asked for my name, my plan's ID number, or my Express Scripts' ID number. I suppose it got all the information it needed when my telephone number registered in its innards. It is a comforting thought that the pills are on the way. But it is also a little disconcerting to realize so much information can be gleaned from my phone number.
It must have been the emotional trauma of dealing with my pharmacy benefits manager's computer - it certainly couldn't have been klutziness, clumsiness, or carelessness - that caused me to spill a glass of water on my computer ten minutes after talking to it. Despite my valiant effort, the keyboard drowned. Friday morning, Russ took me to buy a replacement. On the way to Staples, I pulled out the credit card when Russ stopped for gas, when I got some bananas and orange juice at Publix, and when I got a few Christmassy things at Target.
It was hardly a spending spree, maybe sixty bucks altogether. But I don't use the credit card much, and almost never use it at more than one establishment on a given day. Still, my profligacy Friday morning was enough to get the attention of the computers at the credit card issuer. At Staples, I picked out computer and handed the credit card to Russ - the units where you swipe the card are never at a good angle for me. He ran the card down the channel, and the machine wouldn't accept it. A message to call the credit card company appeared on the cashier's screen.
The cashier assured us that this happens all the time during the holiday shopping season and then called the credit card company. She talked to them for a few minutes and handed me the phone. The credit card lady asked me my name. I told her. She asked for my user name on the credit card website. I told her. She asked one of my personal questions. I must have answered it correctly, because, however hesitantly, she approved the purchase.
It was reassuring to know the credit card people and their computers where on the job. But a little embarrassing to be hanging out at the check-out counter trying to get the purchase approved.
Then it was back to Covenant Woods, where Russ was kind enough to get my new computer up and running. The first order of business was to check my bank account to make sure the Social Security Administration had deposited the monthly pittance into my account. When I typed in my user name, however, the bank's computer shot back, "You scoundrel! You're not accessing us from Mr. Harris' computer. Think you're pretty smart, don't you? See these three personal questions, answer them, you crumb bum." I did, the bank computer apologized and asked me to give a my new computer a name. Once I christened the computer, I was allowed to view my bank accounts.
As the curtain came down on another week, I felt more secure knowing I wasn't the only one keeping an eye on my credit card and bank account. Then again, I also felt like I'd been walking around in the pages of 1984, and Big Brother had been watching me very, very closely.
OK, I guess it started a month ago when Express Scripts sent a letter telling me that Dr. Miller had not responded to their request to send them a new prescription for my blood pressure pills. I called the Columbus Clinic, but after spending what seemed an eternity listening to Columbus Clinic commercials interspersed with assurances that my call was important to the Columbus Clinic and an operator would be with me just as soon as one became available, or once hell froze over, which ever came last, I hung up. I tried again the next day and got the same result.
A quick check of my pill supply, however, indicated that I was not in imminent danger of running out of Atenolol, the medication in question. "Hey, no big deal," I told myself, "I can call whenever." With that comforting thought in mind, I promptly forgot the whole thing for two weeks. I didn't remember on my own, of course. The Express Scripts' computer called one evening to say, "We have received a new order for you. It is scheduled to be shipped in one week." Focusing on the word "new," I concluded the new order was for Atenolol; my prescription for Bupropion has two refills to go and is therefore not new.
My intention is not argue semantics with Express Scripts, but don't you think refilling a prescription would be properly referred to as an "existing order?" Apparently those in the pharmacy biz don't think so. The expected package from Express Scripts contained the unexpected Bupropion, not the anticipated Atenolol.
Monday, I called the Columbus Clinic. Either I was more patient this time or the operator was less dilatory in answering my call, and I requested that Dr. Miller send out a new prescription. Twenty minutes later, a woman from the Columbus Clinic called to tell me, "your prescription has been sent to Express Scripts." I thanked the woman and spent Tuesday and Wednesday waiting for the Express Scripts' computer to call and assure me "we have received a new order for you. . ."
The call never came, and Wednesday evening I girded my loins and prepared to tussle with the computer at Express Scripts. "Say 'request a refill' or 'check the status of an order,'" the computer said, when I called. "Request a refill," said I. "Wrong answer," the computer said, in so many words, after I gave it the prescription number for the expired prescription. Disheartened but not defeated, I called back and told the computer to "check the status of an order." "Say the date of birth of the person the order is for," it told me. After I complied, the computer said, "We have one order for you. It is scheduled to be shipped in two days."
The computer never asked for my name, my plan's ID number, or my Express Scripts' ID number. I suppose it got all the information it needed when my telephone number registered in its innards. It is a comforting thought that the pills are on the way. But it is also a little disconcerting to realize so much information can be gleaned from my phone number.
It must have been the emotional trauma of dealing with my pharmacy benefits manager's computer - it certainly couldn't have been klutziness, clumsiness, or carelessness - that caused me to spill a glass of water on my computer ten minutes after talking to it. Despite my valiant effort, the keyboard drowned. Friday morning, Russ took me to buy a replacement. On the way to Staples, I pulled out the credit card when Russ stopped for gas, when I got some bananas and orange juice at Publix, and when I got a few Christmassy things at Target.
It was hardly a spending spree, maybe sixty bucks altogether. But I don't use the credit card much, and almost never use it at more than one establishment on a given day. Still, my profligacy Friday morning was enough to get the attention of the computers at the credit card issuer. At Staples, I picked out computer and handed the credit card to Russ - the units where you swipe the card are never at a good angle for me. He ran the card down the channel, and the machine wouldn't accept it. A message to call the credit card company appeared on the cashier's screen.
The cashier assured us that this happens all the time during the holiday shopping season and then called the credit card company. She talked to them for a few minutes and handed me the phone. The credit card lady asked me my name. I told her. She asked for my user name on the credit card website. I told her. She asked one of my personal questions. I must have answered it correctly, because, however hesitantly, she approved the purchase.
It was reassuring to know the credit card people and their computers where on the job. But a little embarrassing to be hanging out at the check-out counter trying to get the purchase approved.
Then it was back to Covenant Woods, where Russ was kind enough to get my new computer up and running. The first order of business was to check my bank account to make sure the Social Security Administration had deposited the monthly pittance into my account. When I typed in my user name, however, the bank's computer shot back, "You scoundrel! You're not accessing us from Mr. Harris' computer. Think you're pretty smart, don't you? See these three personal questions, answer them, you crumb bum." I did, the bank computer apologized and asked me to give a my new computer a name. Once I christened the computer, I was allowed to view my bank accounts.
As the curtain came down on another week, I felt more secure knowing I wasn't the only one keeping an eye on my credit card and bank account. Then again, I also felt like I'd been walking around in the pages of 1984, and Big Brother had been watching me very, very closely.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Notes from the Home - December 20, 2014
Last week, Isabelle moved from her two-bedroom apartment in the B building to a room in Personal Care (nee Assisted Living). She had not been looking forward to the move, but now that it is done, she seems to have relaxed.
A month ago, when she returned from her second week-long stay in hospice, Isabelle was told she should move to Personal Care. Arranging the move would take time, and she would need a caregiver with her twenty-four hours a day until she moved. From three thousand miles away, her daughter and son-in-law, who live in Oregon, worked out most of the details of the move.
The caregiver helped Isabelle with showering and other necessary chores, for which Isabelle is extremely grateful. Mostly, however, Isabelle spends her days on the recliner watching television, and the caregiver spent her days on the loveseat watching Isabelle watch television. Living with a person to whom she was not married or otherwise related to took a toll on Isabelle's nerves. Having her relatives on the other side of the country handling her move was frustrating and at times left her feeling useless, a pawn in her own life.
On a more positive note, Steve, her son-in-law, flew down from Oregon to supervise the move and do the heavy lifting and the not-so-heavy lifting. Between her age - Isabelle is eighty-eight - and her infirmities, Isabelle couldn't do much more than tell Steve what was to go with her, and what was to go wherever.
Friday morning, I made my way over to Personal Care to see Isabelle in her new home. She was in her recliner, watching TV and smiling. She wasn't ecstatic about the move. The staff gets her up at seven and makes sure that she eats breakfast. Isabelle doesn't mind the breakfast, but she'd like to have it a little later. Then again, except for those times when she needs the staff's assistance, she has the room to herself.
On the end table there was a picture of a blushing bride. At least I think she was blushing. The picture, taken in 1947, was in black-and-white.
"I can honestly say Ralph and I never had a serious argument in all the sixty-six years we were married," Isabelle said. "Ralph proposed to me before he went overseas during World War II. I told him, 'no.' I didn't want to be tied to a ring, and I wasn't. While he was overseas, Ralph wrote every day. I wrote him about once a week. When he got back, he proposed again, and this time I accepted.
"When his active obligation ended, Ralph went into the active reserve. A year or two later, he was called up and ended up making the Army his career. When he was called up, we wondered if going into the active reserve had been such a smart thing to do. But back then, the ninety bucks a month he got for being in the reserves helped a lot. And everything worked out well for us in the long run."
Sunday morning was weird. I woke up around two-fifteen and spent the next forty-five minutes trying, without success, to go back to sleep. So I got up, got dressed and set about the task of solving Merl Reagle's Sunday crossword puzzle. Twenty minutes later, barely able to keep my eyes open, I bid Merl a fond adieu, crawled back into bed and immediately fell asleep. Shortly after six, my bladder roused me. I took care of business, got back into bed and slept until eight-thirty. Eight-thirty is two-and-a-half or three hours later than I usually get up. I went to bed at nine o'clock Saturday night, for Pete's sake, and I didn't feel sick or anything. Tis a mystery.
Later, when Mickey's big hand was on the nine and his little hand was nudging the eleven, I had just gotten out of the shower and was standing naked between the wheelchair, the sink and the toilet, on the theory that if I fell I would fall against something, as opposed to falling onto the floor. As I toweled myself off, there came a knocking at my door. "Not a good time," I yelled. Another knock. "Who's there?" "The police." Now it was my turn to be silent. "Did you call the police?" "No, sir."
"OK, thank you."
Why the police were in the building remains a mystery. I was up front later in the day and asked Aliesha, who was working the desk. She said William had reported their presence, but she had no idea what they were doing here.
Tee, a now former housekeeper at Covenant Woods, was fired last week. I found out one morning as I was cruising around the parking lot and Tee was heading home after dropping off Luke, her significant other, who works in the kitchen. She stopped, told me she'd been fired, but didn't say why. I said, I hoped she and Luke had a Merry Christmas despite the circumstances. In return, she offered an out-of-the-ordinary holiday wish. "You have a merry Christmas, too," she said. "And I hope you find yourself a woman. Someone to sit on your lap."
The caregiver helped Isabelle with showering and other necessary chores, for which Isabelle is extremely grateful. Mostly, however, Isabelle spends her days on the recliner watching television, and the caregiver spent her days on the loveseat watching Isabelle watch television. Living with a person to whom she was not married or otherwise related to took a toll on Isabelle's nerves. Having her relatives on the other side of the country handling her move was frustrating and at times left her feeling useless, a pawn in her own life.
On a more positive note, Steve, her son-in-law, flew down from Oregon to supervise the move and do the heavy lifting and the not-so-heavy lifting. Between her age - Isabelle is eighty-eight - and her infirmities, Isabelle couldn't do much more than tell Steve what was to go with her, and what was to go wherever.
Friday morning, I made my way over to Personal Care to see Isabelle in her new home. She was in her recliner, watching TV and smiling. She wasn't ecstatic about the move. The staff gets her up at seven and makes sure that she eats breakfast. Isabelle doesn't mind the breakfast, but she'd like to have it a little later. Then again, except for those times when she needs the staff's assistance, she has the room to herself.
On the end table there was a picture of a blushing bride. At least I think she was blushing. The picture, taken in 1947, was in black-and-white.
"I can honestly say Ralph and I never had a serious argument in all the sixty-six years we were married," Isabelle said. "Ralph proposed to me before he went overseas during World War II. I told him, 'no.' I didn't want to be tied to a ring, and I wasn't. While he was overseas, Ralph wrote every day. I wrote him about once a week. When he got back, he proposed again, and this time I accepted.
"When his active obligation ended, Ralph went into the active reserve. A year or two later, he was called up and ended up making the Army his career. When he was called up, we wondered if going into the active reserve had been such a smart thing to do. But back then, the ninety bucks a month he got for being in the reserves helped a lot. And everything worked out well for us in the long run."
Sunday morning was weird. I woke up around two-fifteen and spent the next forty-five minutes trying, without success, to go back to sleep. So I got up, got dressed and set about the task of solving Merl Reagle's Sunday crossword puzzle. Twenty minutes later, barely able to keep my eyes open, I bid Merl a fond adieu, crawled back into bed and immediately fell asleep. Shortly after six, my bladder roused me. I took care of business, got back into bed and slept until eight-thirty. Eight-thirty is two-and-a-half or three hours later than I usually get up. I went to bed at nine o'clock Saturday night, for Pete's sake, and I didn't feel sick or anything. Tis a mystery.
Later, when Mickey's big hand was on the nine and his little hand was nudging the eleven, I had just gotten out of the shower and was standing naked between the wheelchair, the sink and the toilet, on the theory that if I fell I would fall against something, as opposed to falling onto the floor. As I toweled myself off, there came a knocking at my door. "Not a good time," I yelled. Another knock. "Who's there?" "The police." Now it was my turn to be silent. "Did you call the police?" "No, sir."
"OK, thank you."
Why the police were in the building remains a mystery. I was up front later in the day and asked Aliesha, who was working the desk. She said William had reported their presence, but she had no idea what they were doing here.
Tee, a now former housekeeper at Covenant Woods, was fired last week. I found out one morning as I was cruising around the parking lot and Tee was heading home after dropping off Luke, her significant other, who works in the kitchen. She stopped, told me she'd been fired, but didn't say why. I said, I hoped she and Luke had a Merry Christmas despite the circumstances. In return, she offered an out-of-the-ordinary holiday wish. "You have a merry Christmas, too," she said. "And I hope you find yourself a woman. Someone to sit on your lap."
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