Where Did I Put the Damn Thing

Russ called Sunday morning to ask if I needed anything from Publix. After I read off the few items on my list, he said when he got home he'd take care of depositing the check I received last month as part of a settlement with  Met Life. The depositing had to be done online; I don't have an account at a bank here in Columbus. Because of the social distancing rules here at Covenant Woods, Russ can come no further than the entryway between the two sets of sliding doors.

"Put the check on the table out there, and I'll pick it up when I drop off the groceries," he said. "And I'll need your user name and password."

"They'll be there waiting for you," I said.

They were there when Russ arrived, but they hadn't been waiting. I handed the envelope with the check and log-in information to Shirley, who was working at the desk, and I asked her to put it on the table. Just as Shirley went out one set of sliding doors, Russ came in the other.

What took me so long? I'd made the mistake of putting the check in a safe place, a place I was absolutely certain I wouldn't forget where I'd put it. The second I got off the phone with Russ, I grabbed a sheet of paper to jot down the user name and password. And I didn't stop there, I also put down the answers to the security questions the bank's computer sometimes asks me. Then I opened the drawer to retrieve the check. The place I'd put it so I wouldn't forget where I'd put it. It wasn't there. For fifteen minutes, I searched and searched to no avail. It wasn't long before my biggest concern wasn't finding the check, it was finding a way to tell Russ I'd lost the check, without feeling like a certified idiot. The last possible place I thought it might be was in my checkbook. But, why would I put it there? I don't know, but I did.

The moral of this story? Never put important items somewhere you're sure you'll never forget having put them there.

.

What's in a Name?

Picking up my mail was delightful: no bills, no junk mail, just one official looking envelope. Back in the apartment, I opened it and found a check for $4,800, a settlement of some sort involving Met Life. But there was a problem: I do all my banking at the bank I banked at in Ashtabula. I did have an account at a bank here for a while, but I seldom used it. OPERS and Social Security were sending all my money to the bank up North and it didn't seem worth the effort to have them send it to the bank here.

The question was, how do I get the check out of my greedy little hands in Georgia and into the bank in Ohio? The Internet, of course. I pulled up the July 1st email from the bank that let me know a check had been deposited in my account. I skipped over that part and looked for the link to the site to link up with if there is a problem. 

A click of the link brought up a page that asked for my user name and password. I dutifully typed them in, clicked on "Continue", and waited to be directed to a site with the answers to my questions. Instead, a group of red letters told me something was wrong. It did not recognize the stuff I'd typed in and told me to type in my user name and password. Carefully hunting before pecking each letter, number, or symbol, I reentered the requested information. They again responded by telling me something was wrong. "Enter your user name and password!" I did, for a third time, another big swing and a miss.

Below the red letters telling me to get my act together and enter my user name and password was the number to call if there was a problem. There was, and I called. After pressing a series of numbers in response to a lengthy list of questions, I was permitted to speak with a living, breathing human being. He began the conversation by asking a series of questions in order to be certain I was the person I said I was. 

The question I found most interesting: "What was make and model of the last car you purchased?' "Chevy Aveo," I told him. He went straight to the next question, giving no indication of the correctness of my answer. But I knew I was right. I'm proud of that old Aveo. I bought it in 2005. Seven years later, when I moved down here to Georgia, I gave it to Russ. Eight years later, in 2020, the Aveo is still getting Russ were he needs to go. OK. the car's longevity has more to do with the care Russ gives it than his father's astuteness in purchasing it. But there is plenty of credit to go around, and I'm claiming my share.

Once convinced that I was indeed Tom Harris, the guy on the phone turned to my difficulties with the bank's website. "What's your user name?" he asked. My answer elicited a "Wait a minute," "We have your user name as . . ." One syllable into my user name and my stupidity was obvious, even to me. I'd been typing in the user name and password for my credit card. 

After admitting my nitwittedness, I asked about depositing the check in his bank. "Do you have a Smartphone?" he asked. Alas, my phone is dumb. Russ, being so much smarter than his old man, has a Smartphone and has downloaded an app from the bank's site. Wish us luck.

Setting Things Straight

Saturday evening, as I squandered yet another hour cruising the Internet, my phone beeped, letting me know a text awaited my attention. The text was from the credit card folks. A pending charge to my card seemed suspicious. Did I want them to pay it? It was a small bill. $30, but it was from a company I'd never heard of. The text told me to answer either "yes" or "no". 

I took the third choice and ignored the text. It says on my card that I've been a cardholder since 2003. In those seventeen years, the company had never sent me a text for any reason. Granted, the only other time they got suspicious was on a very un-Tom like shopping day. Russ took me several places that day. I used the card to fill Russ' gas tank, fill our stomachs with lunch, get a few things at Target, then to get a new laptop to replace the one I had spilled water on a few days before. The laptop was too much for the credit card's suspicion detectors, and they wouldn't accept the charge. The clerk called the credit card company, and I was able to convince them that I was who I said I was. 

There was also the matter of the phone number the text said I could call if I had any questions: It wasn't the same number my card said to call with questions about my account. Someone was trying to scam me, I was sure of it. And I neither called nor texted the credit card company, forgot the whole thing.

Although, I didn't forget it for long. Monday, an email from Publix's pharmacy lurked in my inbox. Did I want to be notified by email when my prescriptions are ready for pickup? Well, of course. There used to be a very dedicated computer that alerted me that my meds were ready. Every time Publix had a bottle of drugs with my name on it, the computer called me. "Hello, this is the Publix Pharmacy in the Milgen Plaza," it said,  "A member of your family has one prescription ready for pickup. The amount due is [exoribant]. If you have picked up prescriptions in the last 24 hours, please disregard this message."

Recently, however, the computer has been less than dependable. I think this is because it has been given more work to do. Now, two weeks before my supply of atenolol or bupropion is about to run out, the computer calls to ask if everything with the drug remains the same. When I push the number that means "yes" to the computer, it tells me it will call back when the prescription is ready. Ha! It might call back, but more often it doesn't. 

Getting an email notification seemed like a great idea, and I quickly set about typing in the information needed to get on their email list. When I finished that, I was told there was a prescription for atenolol ready for pick up. Would I prefer to pay for it now by credit card? Another great idea. Russ would have to pick up the atenolol for me. If it was paid for before he got to the Publix Pharmacy in the Milgen Plaza, he could just get it and go.

Of course, to do that, I had to type in the credit card information. I did, only to be told that the information was not correct. Hitting the wrong key isn't unusual when I'm at the computer, so I tried again. No luck. And there was no luck on my third try, nor my fourth attempt. Maybe I should call the credit card company. I did, using the number on the credit card, not the one in the text.

Once satisfied that I was Thomas Harris, I was told there were five suspicious charges. My panic subsided when the list of questionable charges was read to me. The first was the item from Saturday's text. The other four were my unsuccessful attempts to pay Publix for the prescription. 

"We're going to send you a new card," the woman said. "Destroy your old card. The new card should arrive in five to seven days." I did, and the new card arrived yesterday.

Monday evening was notable for another reason. The Columbus Clinic called to remind me I had an appointment to see my primary care doc Wednesday morning at nine o'clock. Trouble was, I knew I had an appointment Wednesday morning at the Amos Center for an ocrevus infusion at 8:30. Ocrevus is one of the few drugs that has had some success slowing the progress of primary-progressive MS. Each infusion takes four or five hours. I couldn't do both in a day, let alone finish at the Amos Center in time to get to the Clinic a half-hour later.

However, the gods of motor vehicle maintenance were looking out for me. On Monday the Covenant Woods bus wouldn't start and was towed away. Tuesday morning, Dennis, the bus driver, told me that the bus might be ready Wednesday, or it might not. What did I want to do? Rescheduling the appointments seemed like the best way out, And, I wouldn't have to face the embarrassment of telling the people in the doctor's office that I had been stupid and careless. "Can't make it. The bus is in the shop." And, as things turned out, it was still in the shop Wednesday morning.

Odd Moments

I was roused from my waiting-room drowse when a woman called my name. She was shuffling folders as she  searched for someone named "Thomas Harris." She looked toward me, I nodded and guided the wheelchair through the maze of waiting patients. Then I followed her down a hallway to an examining room. She moved a chair to make way for my chair and watched as I eased into the space she had created. "Can you move a little more to the left?" I did, at least I thought I did. But my effort got no more than an "I guess that will do," from her. She asked if there had been any changes to my medications and if I had fallen in the last month. I answered "no" to both  questions. "OK, Someone will be with you in a minute," she said and left.

Five minutes later, there was a gentle knock on the door and a nurse let herself in. She took my temperature, clipped a small plastic device to the index finger of my right hand. A moment later, she took it off, looked at it, and said, "Good." Then came the blood pressure.

"I really like your shirt," she said, as she pumped up the band she'd put on my arm. "I love that color blue. It looks so good on you and it goes so well with the silver in your hair."

I mumbled a halfhearted "thank you."

"Your blood pressure looks good," she said. "125 over 68."

My blood pressure hasn't been that low in 20 years. Obviously, the remark about the silver in my hair took the life out of me.

*                    *                    *                    *

As Katie was leaving the dining room, she stopped by a table and handed a newspaper to the woman sitting there.

"Here's the Sunday paper," Katie said. "It's all here but the comics. I guess I left them in my apartment. I'll go get them for you."

"Don't worry about the comics," the woman said. "I never look at them."

"You don't read the comics?" Katie gasped. "That's my favorite part of the paper. They make me laugh, and I love to laugh. Don't you like to laugh?"

"I like to read the obituaries," the woman said.

*                    *                    *                    *

The woman looked to be in her twenties, and she seemed more than a little confused. She looked at the papers in her hand, looked at the sign with the first-floor apartment numbers down the hall to the left of the elevator, and shook her head. She walked to the other side of the elevator, glanced at the papers in her hand, looked at the sign with the first-floor apartments numbers in the hall to the right of the elevator, and shook her head head.

"Are looking for something?" I asked.

"I'm supposed to go to apartment 205," she said.

"The elevator is right there," I told her.

"Oh? I need the elevator?"

And Now to Bed . . . ?

With the clock nearing 10 o'clock last night, I told myself, "It's time for bed." As I got ready to retire for the night, my bowels said, "Not so fast, Bucko, we've got some business to take care of." Once my big butt was out of the wheelchair and properly positioned on the commode, I got to work on one of the crossword puzzles stashed nearby. Twenty minutes later, the puzzle was done, and the bowels hadn't done shit. For the next fifteen minutes, the bowels received my undivided attention. I might as well have done another crossword puzzle.

Satisfied with their little joke, the bowels were now quiet. My gut now undisturbed and my eyelids getting heavy, the time had come to get off the pot and into bed. That would require getting myself from the commode to the wheelchair, and that proved to be a problem. Getting my arse off the commode wasn't difficult, getting it on to the chair was another story.

I gripped the chair's armrests, pulled myself toward the wheelchair, got my backside off the toilet, and pivoted in order to get the butt aligned with the chair. Alas, my legs were not up to the task. As soon as the old gluteus maximus got between the toilet and the chair, the legs faltered, and the butt began sinking. My arms, getting absolutely no help from the legs, were not able to stop my slow descent to the floor, and, as a result, I got wedged between the toilet and the wheelchair. On the plus side, I was able to reach the chair's controls and move it back. When I did, I ended up lying on my side, with my head against the laundry hamper. Once I got my legs sorta untangled and sorta stretched out, and my pants up far enough to avoid embarrassing myself and others, I was about as comfortable as I could be given the circumstances.

I pressed the button on the I've-fallen-and-can't-get-up pendant Covenant Woods gives each resident. In a few moments, John, the night security guy, was in the apartment, standing over me and assessing my plight. Given the lack of space in the small bathroom and my inability to be of any help, he opted to call for EMTs to get me back in the wheelchair. 

Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door and four EMTs entered my humble abode. One came in the bathroom to take look and figure out the best way to get me off the floor and back on to the wheelchair. "Here, hold on to my arms," he said. He got a hold of me as best he could, and with me clutching his arms, he lifted me off the floor. A second EMT came in the bathroom to help, and then a third. It was a struggle, but they managed to get me back on the chair. They asked me several times if I was hurt (I wasn't) and if I needed any more help (I didn't). I thanked them for their help, and they went on their way.

They were hardly out the door when I started asking myself if I had been too hasty when I told them I didn't need additional help. But I managed to get up from the wheelchair and on to the bed without incident.                                                                                   

An Uneventfully Eventful Thursday

Thursday morning, I made my weekly trip to Publix. This week, in addition to the groceries, I needed to have a prescription filled. When I picked it up, the woman behind the counter said, "Your insurance doesn't cover this. It's normally $168.34, but we're giving you a discount: it will be $37.85."

I paid, well, I promised to pay the credit card company the $37.85 and proceeded to Check Out Lane 4 to pay for the groceries. I didn't pay much attention to the clerk ringing up my haul; my mind was on drugs. Giving a guy in a wheelchair a discount is a wonderful thing, but a 75% discount? Come on. The woman had to be joking about the actual cost. But if she was, that smile, that goofy grin which should have shot across her face when she saw the relief come across mine wasn't there.

Back in my apartment, I looked at all the information that came with the small bottle of bills. It showed the price at $37.85, there was nothing about how much the insurance paid, and there was no mention of Publix Pharmacy's generous discount. Thirty days from now I'll need to have the script refilled. What will the price be then? One hundred sixty-eight dollars, or thirty-eight dollars? I'll let you know in a month.

Long about one o'clock that afternoon, as I was headed outside, my next-door neighbor was coming in. "How did you like the Christmas card?" she asked.

"What Christmas card?"

"The one I put on your door."

"There wasn't a Christmas card on my door."

"I'm sure I put one there. I walked all over the building last night, taping Christmas cards on my friends' doors. Maybe I missed you. I was awfully tired."

"Well, thank you so much. I really do appreciate the gesture. It's so nice to have friends."

"Don't worry," she said. "You're going to get a card from me."

An hour or so later, hungry for a cookie, I set out for the Nook. Going out my door, I noticed an envelope taped on it. It was the card my neighbor promised me. Then, as I was on my way down the long hallway after supper, another woman who lives a few doors down from me handed me a card.

"How nice. Thank you," I said.

"Oh, that's not from me. Someone put it in my box by mistake."

When I opened the card, I discovered it was from my next-door neighbor. From no card to two cards in just a few hours. When I saw my neighbor Friday morning, I thanked her for both cards.

"Both cards?"

"Yea, the one you put on my door yesterday afternoon. And on my way back from supper last night, Ruth gave me a card. She said someone must have put in her box by mistake."

"I didn't put any cards in the boxes. I probably dropped it, and someone spotted it on the floor and put it in the wrong box by mistake."

Thursday evening, after watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, I started reading The Book of Lies, by Brad Meltzer. I got the book from the library here at the old-folks home, hoping to find a book I could get lost in. When I got to page 18, The Book of Lies took me to a very familiar place: the Conneaut Community Arts Center on a Thursday morning eight or ten years ago.

Chapter Three begins:
"'Cal . . . I need help!' Roosevelt screams.
My tenth-grade English teacher once told me that throughout your life, you should use only three exclamation points. That way, when you put one out there, people know it's worth it."

In the Arts Center, at our weekly class, eight of us are seated around a table listening to Suzanne Byerly, our teacher, read from the things we wrote. Inevitably, somewhere in our scribblings, there is an exclamation point. When she reaches it, Suzanne stops, looks at the person who wrote the piece and says, "You do know, we're each allotted just three exclamation points in our lives."

The writing class was an outstanding experience, and I am indebted to Mary Lewis for getting me involved in it. Suzanne was a wise and wonderful teacher, and the others in the class were all friendly, helpful, encouraging, and great company. I can't thank Mr. Meltzer enough for taking me back there for a few minutes Thursday night.

Blasts from the Past

I sit down at the computer every day, sit there for hours, accomplishing nothing most days, and less than nothing the other days. It has been months, many more than a few months since I've sat down to write and actually written. With that in mind, I have resolved to write at least 250 words a day.

At least 250 Words a Day

There, that takes care of today.

*                    *                    *

Every now and then I'll hear something that sounds out of place. Not out of place in terms of propriety, but out of place in terms of time. A word of phrase that wouldn't have stirred the least bit of curiosity or garnered the smallest bit of my attention fifty or sixty years ago.  In 2019, though, the words are fascinating relics of the past.

At dinner, one evening a month or two ago, Dee Dee, our server, was singing softly as she cleared some dirty dishes from the table. I thought I recognized the song. "Nah, she's too young," I told myself, "She's never even heard that song." But, I had to know for sure, and when she brought us dessert, I asked if she had been singing "Que Sera, Sera." "Yes," she said. "I really like that song."

I can't say, "I really like that song." But it was unavoidable in the mid-50s and early 60s. In addition to the DJs sending it our way at every opportunity, Dad picked up the sheet music on his way home one night so Mom could play it on our organ. As a result, the moment Dee Dee said she had been singing "Que Sera, Sera", the song became my constant companion for the next three days.

When I was just a little girl

I asked my mother, what will I be

Will I be pretty

Will I be rich

Here's what she said to me

Que será, será

Whatever will be, will be

The future's not ours to see

Que será, será

What will be, will be

The lyrics moved into my brain. Over and over, repeating and repeating, ad infinitum, they pushed everything else out of my brain - not that there is ever much in my brain. Alone in my apartment, I sang "Que Sera, Sera" over and over again. The neighbors never complained, but they're all hard of hearing and probably couldn't hear me. 

It wasn't long afterward that Doris Day died. Did my singing do her in? Quite possibly.

 A week or two after getting back to 2019, my mind found itself wondering what decade it was again. After a morning ride through the parking lots, I was about to go inside but stopped to allow two women to come out. A middle-aged lady came out first. The moment she passed from the air-conditioned lobby into the Georgia sunshine, she said, "Mom, it's awfully hot out here."

Mom took two steps into the outdoors before issuing an emphatic "Aye yigh yigh!"

"Aye yigh yigh," where did that come from? From several decades past, that's where. At least, it's been more than a few years since I'd heard anyone say those words. Strange.