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.

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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?"