An Open Letter To My Neighbor

I am fed up with idiots.

~Sean Connery

An Open Letter to the Anonymous Neighbor Who Put That Venomous Flyer in Our Mailbox Because He Disagrees With Our Political Choices

Dear Coward:

I would like to thank you for placing your homemade, venomous flyer in our mailbox—against the law as it was for you to do so—because it has changed my mind about a few things. The first is that your surreptitious act has convinced me that even though I usually stay away from political postings, I should not stay silent any longer. I am going to be quite blunt in my reply to you even thoughI know you probably will never see this (although I do have a pretty good idea who you are).

The First Amendment states that “Congress shall make no law...abridging freedom of speech.”  We, as Americans, are lucky we have that right because there are countries whose citizens do not. That means that you absolutely have the right to support the candidate of your choice just as *we* have the right to support the candidate of our choice.

Where your right ends, though, is with giving us—and the other neighbors who support the same candidates and causes–that flyer. (And let me point out that you broke a second federal law in doing so as voting laws prohibit intimidation, coercion, threats, and interference “… with the right of such other person to vote or to vote as he may choose…”).  It ends when you—and others like you—spew vitriolic, negative, and threatening words at those with whom you disagree. 

So, here’s the deal.  I’m With Her. I am voting for Hillary Rodham Clinton. I am voting for Catherine Cortez-Masto. I am voting “YES” on Issue 1. I am voting for progress.  I am voting for what I think is right for this country.  I have that right.  You have the right to vote for whomever and whatever you want. I don't have a problem with that. 

But, if who and what I support bothers you so much that you cannot accept it and talk to me politely face-to-face, then you have a problem. A serious problem.

Sincerely,

Your Nasty Woman Neighbor

Let's Talk Health Insurance

“Angels have very nasty tempers. 

Especially when they’re feeling righteous.” 

~ Clive Barker

I have had shoulder and neck problems for years.  I think it's hereditary because my brother has had shoulder problems, too, and he's had to have shoulder replacement surgery.  I, on the other hand, have had less-invasive surgery on both shoulders—one in 2005 and the other in 2008.  I had an easier time recovering from the first surgery, and about three or four years ago, both shoulders started to give me problems again.  

Last year, my orthopedic surgeon gave me a cortisone shot and a few exercises to help the left shoulder as it was the one that was hurting.  He wanted an MRI, but the insurance company denied it.  Lucky for me, the shot and exercises helped a lot.

Since last fall, my right shoulder has been bothering me again.  I've seen my internist, and he's given me ibuprofen (Rx strength), though it's not helped.  In May, he advised me to see my orthopedic surgeon, and I finally got in to see Dr. Kam a few weeks ago.  He took x-rays and gave me the physical tests: Lift your arms.  Put your arm behind your back. Push down on my hand.  And so on.

"How do you feel about a cortisone shot?" he asked me.

"How do you think I feel?" I replied.  "I think you know."

"It's the quickest way to relieve the pain," he said.  I knew that.  It didn't change my mind.

"I still hate it," I signed. "I'll still take it. Just make it fast."


So, he got that 10-foot long needle and shoved it into my shoulder. If you've had a cortisone shot, you know how much fun it isn't. If you haven't had one, count your blessings.  "Give it two weeks," he told me, "and come back in. We'll go from there."

Two weeks later, I was still in pain, and he prescribed an MRI.  I brought up the fact that Aetna had denied it the year before.  "We've tried other things," he assured me. "They won't deny it this time."

So, I made the appointment (which took another two weeks), and this afternoon the radiologist's office called.

"Your appointment was canceled by your insurance company," the receptionist told me.

"Say what?" I exclaimed. "What do you mean by my insurance company canceled my appointment?"

"That's a nice way of saying they denied the procedure," he said. "You can have it if you pay for it out of pocket."

"Fat chance," I told him.  "I'll call you back after I talk to the doctor's office."

I'm not going to go through all of that, but let me tell you that I was not happy.  That said, I knew what was up.  Allow me to explain.

When we moved to Atlanta in the mid-80s, I worked as a medical claims examiner for the now-defunct Mutual Benefit Life Insurance Company.  I was a senior claims examiner and specialist, so I handled a lot of the more-involved claims and decided whether we would cover them or not. Those of us in that position knew that the unwritten rule was to deny, deny, deny...even when we knew the insured's procedure should be okayed.  The reason? Most people will not appeal, so the insurance company wins.  And, when people do appeal, the appeal takes time, so the premium stays in the company's pockets longer.

It's all about money, you know.  We pay thousands in premiums annually so that if we need healthcare of any sort, the insurance company will pay for it. Most of the time, we really don't need it unless we have something minor.  But there are times when we do need that coverage, and the insurance companies hold our lives and health in their proverbial hands.

As I said when I wrote about that obscene hospital bill from earlier this year, the insurance companies dictate our health care, not the doctors. Someone in an office who has neither ever seen us or even talked to us decides whether or not we need a certain procedure. That person, undoubtedly someone who did not go to medical school, gets to decide our care.  Should I mention that that decision maker is working for the insurance company and not for us.

Think that's not true? Let me give you a couple of facts about Aetna...no explanation necessary.

• Aetna's fourth-quarter profits in 2015 rose 38% while their operating revenue increased 2.2%.
• Aetna CEO Mark Bertolini's compensation in 2015 amounted to $17.3 million. In 2014, it was a mere $15.1 million.
• Bertolini's bonus was paid at 153% of its target.
• Bertolini raised the starting pay at Aetna to $16/hour saying it would help production.

By all accounts, Bertolini is a nice guy. I've read quite a bit about him today, and I see that he's involved in a lot of good work and is so concerned about his employees that he's instituted programs to improve their health. I also  looked at his Twitter page and saw that he has a sailboat, works with service dogs, goes to concerts, loves vacations, likes relaxing on a rooftop in Manhattan, and more.  

Back to my personal saga with Aetna...

I was not happy about this latest denial.  Five minutes after I wrote about the denial today on Twitter, I received a notification from the company asking me to follow them so they could private message me.  I did, and they did. They wanted my personal info as well as the details to my case.  I wrote them a quick email with all of the requested information, a question, and a promise:

My monthly premiums are in the neighborhood of $1300.  What am I paying that for?  So Mark Bertolini can go to Billy Joel concerts, have a relaxing evening on a rooftop in Manhattan, can sail through Mt. Desert Narrows?  (Yes, I did look at his social media.)  I used to be a claims examiner for a different company, and I know the games you play.  I did not fight back last year, but I sure am going to do it this year....and it will not be only through this letter, the appeal, and Twitter.

Yes, angels have tempers, and when they flare, stay out of the way.

Mini Me

Olivia, my new Mini

"Though she be little, she is FIERCE."

~ Billy Shakespeare

The first time I saw a Mini Cooper up close was when Mike bought a BMW in 2003. The dealer sold both, and they had a number of Minis in the used car lot.

"What kind of clown car is that?" I wanted to know.  Brian, the salesman, told me about Mini Coopers. "Hmmmm.  Not my kind o' car."

Over the next two years, I saw Minis all over the Nashville area. They started to grow on me especially when I saw a bright yellow one with black sport stripes on it parked in front of my store one morning.  I talked with the owner who told me how much she loved it.  A few days later, I talked to a guy in the grocery parking lot about his red Mini, and he reassured me that it was such a fun car.   When it came time for me to trade in my 10-year old Explorer, though, I told Mike I wanted a sporty Crossfire. Considering I'm not that much into cars, that was out of character for me, but I thought I'd have some fun with a sports car.

Mike humored me, and we went to the BMW/Mini dealer to test drive the used Crossfires they had. Straddling the sleek, black Crossfire that interested me were a red and a blue Mini. I stared at them.

Add caption

"That red car is smiling at me," I said to Mike.  He rolled his eyes and advised me not to tell Brian that I thought the car was smiling at me.  "I want to test drive it," I added, and soon I was driving the Mini down the street.  I also drove the Crossfire, but it didn't stand a chance.  A few days later, the Chili Red Mini was mine.  It has been the best car I've ever owned.

Fast forward ten years, and Röd (Red in Swedish) started having problems. Within the last year or so, we've had to replace brakes, battery, struts, tires.  Sometime last fall, he started moaning when I turned the steering wheel.  Automobile arthritis had struck, and I started looking for another car.  I admit that I went to other dealers—Fiat, Smart, Volkswagen—but I didn't like any of them as much.

The new key fob is bigger than the car

"You need to stick with a Mini," Mike advised.  He knew how safe I feel in it and how much I like how it handles.  "You're not going to like anything else." i didn't.

On Saturday, we went to Carmax to look at a Mini they had there. It had a number of the options I wanted (sun roof, navigation, storage package) but lacked a few others (heated seats, back-up camera, comfort access doors).  It drove okay, but I wasn't sold. I drove a Fiat and a Smart car, too, and we left.  "I'm not ready yet," I told Mike.  "And I'm not looking at anything other than a Mini from now on."

I love the LED lighting in the cockpit.

Back home, I decided to check the Mini dealer again.  I had decided I wasn't going to buy from the dealer, but I thought I'd look.  Darn if they didn't add four "new" used cars to the lot that morning.  Back down to the valley we headed, and I fell for a metallic hot chocolate Mini with 12,400 miles and heated seats and the pepper white Mini with 8700 miles and everything else (but the back-up camera).

"Do you think the white one is smiling at me?" I asked Mike. He rolled his eyes.  I put it out there on Facebook, and everyone agreed that it was.

Very uncharacteristically, then, I decided the pepper white was the right car, and we signed the papers Saturday afternoon.  (You have to know that I usually take forever to make a decision on almost everything. When it's right, though, I guess it's right.)  Giving us a tremendous deal (less than what we paid 11 years ago for the red Mini with 19000 miles) and a lot more than we thought they'd give us for the trade helped in the decision.  "Can't walk away," Mike said.

The door handle lights up

So, I brought the white one home today.  As much as driving her is similar to driving the red one in a lot of ways, there are a number of differences in comfort and ambience.  Both the drive and the ride are smoother, although considering technology is more advanced, I'd expect that.  Then again, I drove a Fiat and a Smart car, so maybe not all auto manufacturers are into improving comfort.

One thing that I really like is that Mini now has ambient LED lighting in the doors and on the cockpit dash.  I set mine to pink surprising, I'm sure, absolutely no one. If I can't have a pink roof yet, I'll have pink light in the car.

By the way, I did name the car, Olivia.  It just happened, and I can't take it back now.  She apparently likes it because she's been smiling wildly since I christened her.

Weight! Weight! Don't Tell Me, II

 

Arugula & fresh tomato pizza = Good (in moderation)

“I finally figured out the big, elusive secret 

to weight loss. Don't eat! Who knew?”
― Richelle E. Goodrich

 My post yesterday got a lot of people talking about weight, diet, exercise.  Great! I have a few additional thoughts and comments that I'd like to add. I wanted to wait to see if anyone commented before I wrote this part. (Actually, that's only partially true.  I was dead tired last night when I wrote that thing since I had slept only two hours the night before and had spent the day car shopping. I'm not sure I could have written anything more that would have made sense.) 

So, if you permit me, I will step on the soapbox a bit.  ( I'm writing stream of conscious here, so I hope it all blends together....)

We all struggle to some degree with weight and body image. A number of you have written me privately or via FB to mention that you do not think of me as "fat."  Neither do my doctor or husband, but here's the thing:  It is a self image.  As I mentioned yesterday, my dear mother had a need to remind me that I was bigger than she. The problem was more hers than mine in the beginning, but it did affect me even to this day. I started, at some point, rebelling by eating just to show her. It gave her more fodder and me more despair. I knew what I was doing, but it was a vicious cycle.  Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up.

Tangerines = Good

After Mom passed 10 years ago, I lost weight and was down to what I weighed when I was 25. Most of my friends thought I was too thin.  *I* thought I was too heavy.  What did I do?  I ate.  We moved back to Las Vegas, and I ate more. Up. Up. Up. Down. Down. Up. Up.  There is one person to blame, and you'll be surprised, maybe, that I'm not blaming Mom.  It is I.  I *know* what I have to do, and i *know* how to do it.  The thing is that i *have* to do it.  Exercise. Diet. Food choice.

I was going to talk about European lifestyle and food and such, but I deleted all of that because I thought I sounded preachy. I don't mean to be. I just like the fact that there I walk and eat differently. Can I do it here?  Of course, and I do to a point.  I buy fresh produce as much as possible, and if it isn't available, I'll buy frozen.  The only canned vegetables I buy these days are beans for chili or tomatoes for sauce. We've cut portions greatly, and we try to eat main meals earlier many days.  That does make a difference. 

Mixed vegetable salad = Great

I don't, however, walk as much, and that is my fault. No excuses. It's my fault.

When I was in with Dr. Bedotto two weeks ago, we had a short conversation about exercise.

"Do you exercise regularly?" he asked me.

"Regularly? How regularly?" I was thinking that once every six months is pretty regular as long as I keep it on a regular schedule.

He apparently thought something different. "At least 5 days a week. "

"I have a sedentary job," I replied in hopes that it would end the conversation.  He just stared at me, so I continued.  "No. Truth is, I'm lazy. I hate exercise."

"Do you hate walking, too?" The man did not give up.

"No. I walk all the time in Italy. The only time I'm in a vehicle is if I'm in a train." I was pretty proud of myself.

"Well, you should go to Italy then."  Hey.  I was not going to argue.  "Until then, you can find 30 minutes a day to walk here. Start now."  ZING.


 "I'd rather just go to Italy."  He was not amused.

Cookies, milk, & cocktails = BAD BAD BAD

 So, I bought a Jawbone. As I mentioned last evening, I do need a good kick in the ass someway to be accountable, and it entices me to walk more because I set a goal of 10000 steps/day.  I've not hit it yet, although I'm working on it. When I was sick from the allergy crap last week, I  walked around the house just to put in steps since I couldn't go outside. Before the concert last week, I walked up and down the steps of the theater to put in some exercise time. I ended up walking about .75 mile in there.  

Now if I can only keep it up.

Weight! Weight! Don't Tell Me!

Ouch!

“I want to weigh less, not through diet and 

exercise, but by acquiring a faulty scale.”
― Jarod Kintz

I had another medical appointment yesterday, this time to go over the results of the gall bladder tests the Dr. Emery ordered and I did not have because I didn't want yet more radiation and nuclear crap near the body. However, given the fact that I've had a horrible sinus infection due to all the mulberry, juniper, grass, dust, and other pollens (exacerbated by the horrible wind this week) in the air, it was a good thing I went in. I needed to beg for a Kenalog shot and to talk to him about diet and exercise, two subjects I hate to approach.

Like most of the population, I struggle with weight, and my obsession depression battle started way too long ago. I blame my mother with body obsession depression battle issues (More on that later), but I have to start getting serious since Dr. Bedotto, my cardiologist and Dr. Emery, my internist, have been after me to exercise regularly.

Two buffalo wings and two fries are okay.

After scolding me for not having the gall bladder tests, praising me for staying in the house for two days while the winds blew the valley to kingdom come, and telling me I needed aforementioned Kenalog shot, Dr. E brought up exercise.

"Funny you should mention that. I have to talk to you about weight," I said.  He rolled his eyes.  "I really need to get serious and lose weight and start exercising. Now Dr. Bedotto wants me walking a minimum of 30 minutes a day."

"What do you want me to do for you?" Dr. E asked, "exercise for you?"

"That would be great," I replied. "When can you start?" He clunked his head on the metal computer desk. "I'll give you my Jawbone so it records your my steps."  He stared at me.

Fresh fruit is #1.

"It's exercise and portion control," he finally said. "You're a smart woman. You know that. You did it before."

"You're a smart doctor. You know I'm one of those people who needs..."

He finished my sentence.  "A kick in the ass."  Actually, I was going to say I needed someone to hold me accountable, but I guess it's sort of the same thing.  "You're not that overweight," he continued,  "but you should exercise more. That will help you lose what you need to lose." 

So, this conversation—particularly his last comment about not being *that* overweight—got me thinking about our obsession with body size and such.  It's not really a new thing...at least I don't think it is. As I mentioned before, I blame my mother for my personal battles. (Of course, most of us probably do if truth be told.)

My mother, God rest her soul, was a tiny thing. She stood 5'1" tall, and her average weight was 102 pounds. I remember the moaning she did when she weighed 110 pounds one time when I was in high school.  You would have thought she was as big as a house.

I was a lot taller and bigger-boned than my mother although through high school, college, and early adult years, I probably weighed no more than 15-20 pounds more than she.  I gained a little weight my freshman year in college, and she more than noticed.

"My God, Christine," she exclaimed. "Did you eat everything in sight? Look at how big you are."  Considering the fact that I still fit into my clothes even though they were a little tight, she hurt my feelings. "Who's going to look at you if you look like that?"  She threw similar comments at me a lot, and while I now realize it was my mother's own poor self-image that caused her to talk like that, I didn't know that at the time.  In turn, those remarks did a number on my own image.

Bad, Christine! Bad!

At any rate, all this led me to think about clothing and such. Back when I weighed little more than my mother, I wore a bigger size of clothes than I wear today. Seriously.  So, I did a little research on this.

Did you know that the average American woman today weighs the same as the average American man did in the 1960s?   How about this one: In 1970, a woman with a 26-in waist wore a size 12. Today, a woman with a 39-inch waist wears a size 12.  Or this one: Clothing manufacturers define their own sizes today, and any given size can differ by as much as five inches depending on designers and manufacturers.  It's vanity sizing today.  They changed the sizes so that women don't "think" that they're bigger than they used to be.  I go along with that. I shop at Chico's for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is their sizing.  I can go in there and buy any piece of clothing in my size without trying it on because I know it will fit.  Besides, Chico's sizes their clothes from 000-to-4.  Wearing the small size I do helps repair the damage my mother did to my psyche so long ago.

Don't even think about Nutella.

At any rate, I'm going to work this weight thing out over the next four months.  Dr. E is going to monitor my progress monthly or, to quote him, "....give me that kick in the ass." Hopefully I'll get to the point that I'll feel crappy if I don't walk or go to our fitness center or something. We'll see. I'm more prone to more sedentary addictions.

Tales of the Hospital Bill

“There is no illness that is not exacerbated by stress.”
― Allan Lokos

You may remember that I had a little heart episode in January that landed me first in the ER and then the hospital.  Over the past two months, I've seen my internist—who sent me to a cardiologist. Both of them assured me that the hospital tests showed that my heart didn't cause the incident. Nonetheless, Dr. B (cardiologist) prescribed one final test (echocardiogram) to prove what we knew after my horrid weekend in the hospital:  I didn't have a heart attack. I then had another follow-up with my internist so he could assure me that the cardiologist was right and that, while there was nothing wrong with my heart, neither one of them really knows what happened that Saturday morning. Of course, last week the cardiologist saw me again to assure me that the echo showed nothing more and that I really needed to start exercising daily.

It turns out that the hospital tests did show something.  The bottom line is that I did not have a heart attack, but I do have both kidney and gall stones. And I need to cut the stress.  Right. Apparently neither one of the doctors thought of what the hospital bill was going to do to me when I finally saw it.

You might remember that before the hospital discharged me, Mike the Husband told the head nurse, the admitting doctor, and almost everyone else in the good hospital that we were *not* paying for my unnecessary admission.  Since we did not receive a bill—and usually one arrives at the house before the patient can get home—I thought that maybe they actually heard him.  Oh, silly me.

Yesterday, two months to the day that I left the hospital, we got the final-yes-you-are-paying-this-bill-bill.  Let me digress another minute and remind you that I spent 13 hours on a gurney—an uncomfortable gurney—in ER. While I was in ER, I had an EKG, a chest x-ray, two blood tests, a CT scan, and constant telemetry monitoring, Once I got to the room, I had another blood test, more telemetry, that awful stress test that they delayed a day so that they could admit me, and one aspirin because the delay gave me a migraine.  In all, I was in the hospital about 38.5 hours.

Back to the bill... as you can see (below), the total charges were $39,075. . . more than $1000 per hour that I was in that place.  Our insurance paid $4066, and the hospital's insurance discount was $34,290.  We owe $719.  I am going to ask for an itemized copy of the bill because I want to know what the heck they did that cost almost $40,000 for 38+ hours.

Look. I know this whole billing thing is a game.  The hospital charges outrageous amounts and then gives an insurance "discount" (aka write off) so that it can show a huge loss.  What I want to know, though, is how anyone who does not have insurance can ever pay a bill like this?  We once had a neighbor who lost their house because they did not have insurance other than medicare. He got sick and was in the hospital for a long time. He lost everything. Everything.  What are people to do?

I read recently that the insurance companies are the ones who dictate our health care and that doctors merely follow their orders.  Tell us all something we don't know.  My internist ordered two tests for that newly discovered gall bladder problem. "I'm not sure that your insurance will approve both of them, though," he said.  "We can only try."  I ran into the same thing last fall when an orthopedic surgeon wanted to do an MRI of my shoulder.  "No," my insurance company said.  I have had the problem and associated pain for years and have had previous surgery, but the insurance company said I had to take Ibuprophen longer (didn't work for three years, but maybe the fourth will be different), do more physical therapy (made the pain worse), and try more steroid shots (really made the pain worse). Apparently some idiot in an office knows better than the professionals who actually went to medical school.

The obscene fact is that health insurance companies have a choke hold on all of us. Do you realize that the CEOs of the five largest health insurance companies took home salaries of over $10 million last year? Did you realize that Aetna acquired Humana and Anthem recently acquired Cigna? So what?  Less competition means insurers can hike our premiums because we have fewer options available.  If you're interested, read this great post by Robert Reich, former secretary of labor and current professor of public policy at UC Berkley.

Back to my bill: Even though Mike the Husband was adamant that we were not paying for my admission, we will be paying the $719.  I figure that the tests and ER gurney rent were worth that much.  I am going to look at the itemized bill first, though. If I find out they charged me more than 20 cents for that one aspirin, I'm deleting the charge from my check.

Memories...

"I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead. He is just away.
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,
He has wandered into an unknown land..."

~ James Whitcomb Riley

My friend Phil passed away last night. I'm still trying to process that fact.

I met Phil 28 years ago when I brought my son to OK Adcock Elementary School for the first day of fourth grade.  Jason was supposed to be in another class, but I asked the principal put my son in Mr. G's class.

"We don't do requests," the principal told me.
"I'm sure you can somehow do it this time," I insisted. "I want a teacher who will challenge him."

I won, although I like to think that it was Jason who won in the long run.  Mr. G was the type of teacher who challenged his students to think and do.  Those kids learned, and they loved doing it.

After that school year, Phil, Mike, and I became friends. When we moved from Las Vegas to Nashville some years later, Phil came to visit us every summer when school was out.  Whenever we were in Las Vegas, we were sure to see him.  Phil always joked that he was always afraid when I came back to Las Vegas because it always meant that he would have some home improvement project to complete.

In truth, each time I visited, he always decided he had to paint a room or put up wallpaper.

"I think you just want cheap labor," I told him as I helped paint his "small" family room one time.

"You have better taste than I do," he replied.  Apparently, though, I didn't have the good sense to talk him out of some of his schemes.  One time I told him I had seen a photo of a white bedroom with paint spatters on the accent wall.  He liked that idea and decided that he was going to do that in one of his extra bedrooms.  The bedroom in question was white, and he had black accents in the room.

"You aren't going to do black are you?" I know I probably frowned.

"No," he replied. "I already bought red paint."  He covered the carpet with plastic, poured a bit of the red paint in a cup, and tossed it at the wall.  SPLAT. The red exploded on the spot it hit. Drip. It rolled down the wall.  SPLAT.  Another red bomb exploded. Drip.  SPLAT. Drip. All across the 12-feet of wall he had red splats that dripped down.  It looked like he had murdered someone on that wall.

"Phil," I tried to be gentle, "you really need to throw the paint in another direction so it doesn't look quite like the St. Valentine's Day Massacre on that wall."  He loved that wall, though. I wasn't quite as fond of it and was happy when he moved to a new house a few years later.

When he would come to visit us in Nashville, we would let him use one of our cars. One time he was driving on West End Blvd. when a policeman pulled him over.  He had not been speeding or doing anything wrong, so he was a bit surprised.

"What did I do wrong, officer?" he asked when the cop approached the car.

"Your license plate is expired," the officer replied.

"It's not my car."  Phil explained that his friends had let him drive the car, and he showed his license and the car registration.

"You must have some kind of friends that let you drive a car that is six months late for license plates," the officer laughed.  He also let Phil off and gave us a warning to update the plates.  Oops.

Another time, Phil and I toured the Jack Daniels Distillery in Coffee County, TN.  The tour begins with a short film about the place, and in it, employees talk about what they do.  One of the men talked about how they use "purr" water to get a "purr" product.

"Purr water," Phil choked and started laughing.  Loudly.  I laughed at him.  People turned to look at us because we were laughing very loudly.

"You're not from around here, are ya?" a woman asked, but Phil and I were still laughing so hard we couldn't answer.  We laughed through the rest of the film and as we walked out of the doors towards the tour train.  We were bent over from laughter, and I could barely breathe.

Phil suddenly stopped. "My contacts," he spit out.  We had to stop so he could get his contact lens back in his eye, so we missed our train.   The tour guide told us we'd have to wait for the next tour.

"I can't go through the film again," Phil wheezed. He was still laughing, and I was still laughing at him.  The guide thought it best that we wait outside until the film was over so we didn't interrupt the next showing with our hysterics.

Phil's birthday, 2015

When we moved back to Las Vegas in 2009, our friendship got stronger. We had differing views on religion and politics, but our friendship always was more important to both of us than either of those other things were. We always had more fun laughing about good things than anything else. He was a great cook, and we enjoyed dinners with him at his home or at ours.  We went to shoot photos in Utah and at Strip locations. We played golf a few times. We celebrated with him when he retired from teaching last June.

Phil was in the hospital two weeks ago, and we spoke everyday while he was in and everyday once he got out. He called me last Wednesday to see if Mike and I could go to lunch, but I was too sick.  "We'll go when we get back from Ohio," I told him.

We won't get that chance.

We're in shock.  I can't say he was in the best of health because, quite frankly, he had a lot of little health problems over the past few months.

"I don't think I'm going to last long," he said to me in October.

"Quit talking like that," I admonished him. "The doctor will figure this out."

The doctor didn't figure it out, and my friend is gone.

His passing has left a large hole in our hearts.

Rest peacefully, my dear friend.

Here's to Honey, Lemon, & Tea

Honey, tea, & lemon

“I like to call in sick to work at places where I’ve never held a job. 

Then when the manager tells me I don’t work there, I tell them I’d 

like to. But not today, as I’m sick.”
― Jarod Kintz

You probably have guessed it by the quote and title, but in case you haven't, I'm sick. . . have been for a week now.  It all started when someone's husband (who shall remain nameless) came down with a coughing disease about 13 days ago, and the rest, shall we say, is history.  In addition to canceling both of my memoir classes last week, I also opted out of a Chinese New Year celebration and some other fun magazine stuff. 

Like everyone else, I hate getting sick.  I have too much stuff to do, and I hate being delayed by a stupid virus. A friend told me to take my time and just get well.  I'm trying.  Another person chastised me for not seeing the doctor and getting antibiotics.

"This is bad stuff," she said.  "I'm on my second round of antibiotics. You better go to the doctor this week."

I know this is bad stuff, but I'm not going to the doctor.  There's a reason her second round of antibiotics have not worked, and it's the same reason the first round didn't work.  My doctor and I have had the conversation about antibiotics many times, and he would not prescribe them even if I brought him Italian coffee and pizzelles and threw myself at his feet and begged because antibiotics do not cure viral infections.  Unfortunately, most sore throats, colds, bronchitis, flu, and sinus or ear infections are viral, and antibiotics just will not wipe them out.

Speaking of out, the antibiotic-free-nameless husband and I ventured out for a bit today, and we're sitting in a very busy Starbucks. I haven't had coffee in more than four days since everything tastes like crap.  I had tea earlier, but it tasted like crap, so I thought I'd try the coffee since we were at Starbucks. It still tastes like crap. I do, however, enjoy watching the seven women (Yes, seven!) working here. Two work the registers, and one does pour-overs and coffee pours.  One is cleaning up. The fifth one is refiling supplies, and the last two are doing the specialty drinks.

Most of the specialty drinks are those special chocolate chocolate things that Starbucks is offering this weekend. The nameless husband and I are sitting at the bar next to where they make the specialty drinks, so we get to see the gals making them.  Most have been veintes (the large size for non-Starbucks lovers) topped with chocolate, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream.  The calorie count alone would keep me away from those things, although just thinking about how sickeningly sweet they are gags me.  (No offense to anyone who loves them....)

What it comes down to is that when you're sick, I think your senses are heightened.  I know mine are. A noise that might not bother me on any other day drives me crazy right now (TURN OFF THAT DAMN BLENDER!). The mere sight of a donut or vegetable soup makes me gag (ALL I WANT IS DRY TOAST!). And the smells... the smells... (GOOD GRIEF, LADY!  DID YOU SPILL A BOTTLE OF PERFUME ON YOUR CLOTHES?)   Of course, the smells could be the opposite....if you get my drift.

I digressed a bit.... Sorry. 

BTW,,,, I'm not kidding about the antibiotic thing.  If you want to read more about why you shouldn't always take antibiotics when you get a cold or sore throat, click here.

At any rate, I think my Starbucks visit is over.... Back to the La-Z Boy.  Here's to a better day tomorrow.

Tales From the Hospital, II

"Angels have very nasty tempers.

Especially when they're feeling righteous."

~ Clive Barker

When last I left you, I was on my way to do a nuclear stress test at 1:00 pm on Sunday.

Head pounding and stomach queasy, I said to Gio the Tech, "I hope I don't throw up on the way down there."  He said nothing.  I made another comment, and again he said nothing.  It wasn't until he pushed the doors of the nuclear test lab that he finally addressed me.

"We're here."  He wheeled me to a counter and stopped.  "I'm sorry we're a little late, but I had two patients before you.  One was paraplegic, and I was with him almost three hours.  The other one took over two hours."

"They told me I'd be first today," I told him.

"When did they tell you that?" Gio the Tech asked me. I told him the story as he injected the isotope in my IV.  "They sent me home at 10 am yesterday because they said they didn't have any patients."  I probably don't need to tell you that my blood pressure probably went up at that point.  After 10 minutes, he wheeled me to the imaging machine.

Rather than go into a blow-by-blow of the test and everything that happened during my two hours in the downstairs labs, let me just say that I've had four stress tests. Three of the four included using the treadmill, but for this one, the injected Lexiscan, a medication that races your heart as though you were on a treadmill.  NEVER AGAIN.  NEVER. EVER. EVER. AGAIN.  If you've ever had the Lexiscan, you know what I mean.  If you haven't, remind me to tell you about that someday when the horror has passed and I can deal with the memory without wanting to pass out.

After the test, Gio the Tech took me back upstairs, and I climbed back in bed.  Mike the Husband had piled my clothes on the bed, so I gave him a quizzical look.

"They told me it would take 45 minutes for them to read the scan," he explained. "We're leaving in 45 minutes."

I admit that I was more stressed at that point than at any other.  My head was killing me. I was still sick to my stomach. I wanted to go home. I started crying.  Jenny the Nurse brought a lunch tray and coffee into my room.  All I cared about was the caffeine.  "Are you okay?" she asked me, looking at Mike the husband.  I nodded, and she left.

Let me interject here that when one goes to the hospital, the law requires the nurses to ask whether someone is abusing the patient physically or mentally.  They asked me that both in ER and the room.  Both times I simply answered, "No."  Mike the Husband was sitting there both times, and while my answer would have been the same, I thought it odd that they ask that in front of him. 

While Mike the Husband and I watched the football game, I mentioned what Gio the Tech had tole me about going home the day before.  Mike the Husband was not happy and paced my room.  I tried to sleep a bit, but I heard the door to my room squeak.  I looked at the clock and noticed that I'd been back 90 minutes.  Uh oh.  The door opened, and Mike the Husband walked in.  "They're going to release you in 10 minutes," he said.  Relief flooded over me as I figured my stress test had been okay, too. "Of course," he added, "that could be four hours from now."


Soon after, Jenny the Nurse hurried in with her little cart of machines.  She removed the IV line and telemetry unit. She hurried through discharge instructions and said, "Let me know when you're dressed so I can call a wheelchair." 

"Call them now," Mike the Husband said. Since I was still wearing the jeans I had worn the day before, I really just had to put on my shirt.  "She'll be ready in a few minutes."  Jenny the Nurse looked at him and scurried out of the room.  I had just finished putting my shirt on when someone knocked on the door.  I thought it was the wheelchair already, but instead I found the Laverne the Head Nurse (of the entire hospital) and Kim the Nuclear Lab Nurse.

What I did not know at that particular point in time was that Mike the Husband had held a bit of a meeting in my room while I was having the stress test.  Included were Laverne the Head Nurse, Dr. A-S the Admitting Doctor, Jenny the Nurse, and someone else I never met.

"We have figured out what happened," Laverne the Head Nurse said.  She and Kim the Nuclear Lab Nurse explained that the day before, the lab had not seen the orders for my stress test and let Gio the Tech go home. They both talked and talked.  I said nothing, but Mike the Husband, livid as he was, did not stay silent.

"We are NOT paying for this admission," he insisted.  "We are not paying a dime. End of story."

I have a few comments about this whole incident, so please bear with me.

• Chest pain, pressure, or whatever you want to call it, is nothing to ignore.  I made the right decision to go to the hospital.

• I went through the tests and feel okay that all came back negative. My internist is sending me to a cardiologist just to be safe, but I'm okay.

• That said, if I was in real danger of having a heart attack and needed that stress test, why did they wait for 36 hours? Did that not put me in more danger?  If it were not that critical, could they not have sent me home and asked me to return the next day?

• Why would they ask me if someone were abusing me if my husband were sitting right there? Does that make any sense in any stretch of the imagination?  By the way, truth be told, what I wanted to answer was, "Do you see that my husband is sitting here alive and well? Well, if he abused me, he wouldn't be either." 

• We all have to be our own advocates when dealing with health care.

• Chest pain is nothing to ignore.  I made the right decision to go to the hospital. I have to keep telling myself that.


The two nurses finally left my room, and Amy the Volunteer came in with my wheelchair.  She wheeled me down the hall, and not one nurse, CNA, or secretary was visible.  I wonder why.

Tales From The Hospital Room

In ER early Saturday

The fastest way to get attention in the ER 

is to utter the words, "chest pain.”
― Brenda Priddy

I'll concede that I didn't want them to admit me to the hospital Saturday.  In all honesty, I thought that they would do an EKG and some blood tests, figure out whether I had a heart attack or not, and either take care of it or let me go home.  I have always been naive.  At one point I asked Dr. Taylor if she really had to admit me.  "You're a grown-up," she snapped back at me. "I can't make you stay, but you have a 10% chance of having a heart attack if you don't. Do you want to take that chance?"  I said nothing, and by remaining silent gave my ascent, I guess.

Before the CNA wheeled me to my room, Mike the Nurse told me that it was best that they watch me and that I'd be first on the nuclear medicine list on Sunday morning.  "They start at 8:00," he told me. What could I do?

Don't Eat, Drink, or FallAll of the rooms at St. Rose San Martin are private, which is nice.  My room was on the third floor and had a beautiful view of the Las Vegas Strip (below).  It was across the hall from the nurses' station, which was not too great because every time a patient rang his/her call button, all of us in that area could hear the nine-note beep loud and clear.  Yes, nine notes. Do. Do. Do. Do. Dododododo.

A nurse admitted me to the floor and told me that I was not to get up by myself.

"Why?" I wanted to know.

"You're a fall risk," she answered as she snapped the yellow FALL RISK bracelet to my arm.

"I've been walking in ER all day by myself," I retorted.

"Not up here," she said and snapped the red ALLERGY bracelet next to the FALL RISK. She hung a FALL RISK poster on the door and added one that advised NO FOOD OR DRINK AFTER MIDNIGHT.  "Don't eat or drink anything after midnight," she told me, "or they won't be able to do the test in the morning."

As Mike the Husband was leaving, I asked him to close the door so I wouldn't hear that "dodo" all night.  With the door closed, I was also able to get up and move around without asking permission of my medical guard...not that I really had anywhere to go.  I fell asleep pretty quickly, but May the Night Nurse came in at 8:00 to do her rounds.  "Don't eat or drink anything after midnight," she advised me. "You'll have the nuclear stress test first thing in the morning."  She wrote NO FOOD OR DRINK AFTER MN on the whiteboard in my room.  I was surprised I didn't get a bracelet announcing that.

Evening view from my room

Who Needs Rest in a Hospital?
I fell asleep again only to be awakened by the squeaking of the door.  It was a little after 10:00.  Christina the CNA stuck her head in the door and said, "Don't eat or drink anything after midnight. You have a stress test in the morning."  I snapped back, "I KNOW," and turned over to try to fall asleep again.

The squeaking door awakened me once again, and I looked at the clock. 11:00.  "Hi," sang May the Night Nurse.  "I'm going to do your vitals early so you can get to sleep without being disturbed at midnight."  I stuck out my arm and let her do the BP thing.  "Don't eat or drink anything after midnight," she sang as she walked out of the door.  If I'd had something , I would have thrown it at the door.  Instead, I got up, walked around the room for a few minutes, and had a drink from my warm Coke Zero.

When the door's squeaking woke me again at 4:00, I expected to see May the Night Nurse with her little cart of vital-taking machines.  Instead, a gal came in to take blood.  I was still awake 30 minutes later when Christina the CNA came in to do vitals.

If you've ever been in the hospital, you know that the nurses come do vitals and the phlebotomists take blood at any time of the day or night.  I know I am not alone in wondering why hospitals require this intrusion for every patient all through the night.  Please, nurses and doctors, do not get upset.  I know that some conditions may require it, but everyone?  What would taking my blood at 4:00 am show that taking it at 6:00 am wouldn't?  And, I was on telemetry, so if there were a problem with my pulse and BP, it would show and a nurse could then come in at that point.


Does Anyone Around Here Know Anything?
I don't want to bore you with a blow-by-blow description of my wait for the stress test.  Let me say this, though.  Remember how Mike the Nurse and May the Night Nurse told me I'd have the stress test early in the morning?  Right.  Apparently they were thinking that the nuclear medicine department operated on Mumbai time because the med tech didn't come for me until, well, let me tell you.

A little after 8, Jenny the Day Nurse came in to do vitals.  "When will they come and get her?" Mike asked.  Jenny the Day Nurse said she wasn't sure but that they started at 8 am.  "So, is they should come up soon?" he continued.  She said it depended on whether they had to do any stress tests from ER first. That got my attention.

"Excuse me," I snapped.  "I was in ER yesterday and they didn't do it for me."  I was not happy.  I had a headache from lack of food, water, and mostly caffeine. Jenny the Day Nurse shrugged, admitted she didn't know, and shuffled off to do vitals elsewhere.  She reappeared around 9:00 to see how I was doing.  The headache worse, I begged her to find out when nuc med would come for me.

"You want me to call them?" She seemed incredulous.

"My head is splitting," I whined.  "Please."  At 9:30, Jenny the Day Nurse walked back into my room and said that the nuclear medicine tech said it would be between 12 and 1 before they came to get me.  "I cannot survive until even 12 with this headache," I moaned.  "Please. I need an aspirin."

"I'll see if I can give you Tylenol," she said.

"It doesn't work," I replied.  "I want aspirin."

"Do you want Oxycontin or Morphine?"  

"No-wha," I grumbled.  "I want aspirin.  Simple aspirin."

"Just aspirin."  The words trailed her out of the room.

View from my room during the day

I freely admit that I am addicted to caffeine.  If I do not have some bit of caffeine early in the morning, I start to get a horrible headache.  Horrible does not do justice, actually.  If you get migraines, you know what I mean.  Those headaches feel as though someone has put your head in a vise and, while tightening it, pounds on it with a sledgehammer.  Add in the nausea, the light sensitivity, and the eye pain, and the sufferer is having less than a pleasant day.

By 10:30, Jenny the Day Nurse had not reappeared.  "Please," I begged Mike the Husband.  "I have to walk a bit to get some fresh air. Maybe that will help."  I ripped the compression leg wraps off of my calves and asked him to unplug the machine.  "I cannot stand these things any longer. " (The compression circulation machine is another story altogether. Sigh.)

Mike the Husband held me as I stumbled out of the room.  Jenny the Nurse saw me and ran over to me.  "Are you okay?" she asked. "I haven't heard from the doctor yet."

"No, I'm not okay." I started crying.  I won't go through the whole conversation, but she finally said she'd call the doctor again.

Almost 45 minutes later, she shoved her vital machines into my room.  "The doctor said I can give you one aspirin," she announced. She handed me a cup of water and a tiny cup that held one aspirin. "Drink only enough to push it down."  She typed something into the computer and huffed out.

Even Angels Have Tempers, I
The squeaking door woke me up, and I saw it was 12:45.  Mike the Husband walked in.  He was furious. "I gave them 15 minutes," he told me.  I just looked at him. The pain behind my eyes was gone, but my head was still splitting.  I got up and walked toward the door.  "What are you going to do?" he asked me.

"I'm going to tell them to take this d@mn IV thing out of my arm so we can go." I opened the door and almost bumped into Jenny the Day Nurse.

"They're coming for you right now," she told me.

"What is right now?" I asked her.  "Another hour?"  She moved out of the doorway to reveal a guy and a wheelchair behind her.

"He's here right now," she said.

They helped me into the wheelchair, and Gio the Tech took off before I could refuse to go.

"I hope I don't throw up on the way down there," I said to him.  Gio the Tech said nothing.


Next: Angels really do have tempers.

Note for those not from Las Vegas: If you look at the photo I took from my room during the day, you'll see a mountain in the background. Sunrise Mountain, as we call it, is 28-30 miles from the hospital.  The mountain, which is actually Frenchman Mountain, resembles a man lying down.  You can see his head to the left and his torso to the right.

Emergency Room Observation

"There are always going to be hospital dramas because 

if you're sitting in an emergency room for two hours, 

I guarantee you you are going to see something that 

makes you gasp. That's where drama comes from."

― Rocky Carroll

 The pain and pressure behind my left shoulder blade woke me up. I tried to lie still and willed it to go away. It didn't. I raised my left arm to see if there was any pain there. Nothing. Good. The pressure got worse, so at 3:55 am, I finally woke Mike.

"Is it heartburn?" he asked me. We had had Mexican food the night before.
"This is definitely not heartburn," I whined.  I got up in hopes that standing would help, and I was immediately nauseous and dizzy.  Not good at all. "Oh, my God." I couldn't stand up straight.

Because we have a history of heart problems in our families, Mike and I have always been on top of our heart health.  I know the six signs of heart attacks in women, but I looked them up Saturday morning anyway.  "Pressure or pain in the back or chest.  Shortness of breath.  Pain in the neck, jaw, stomach, back, or arms. Nausea or vomiting. Sweating. Fatigue. My God. I have five of them."  We got dressed and headed to the hospital.

A nurse came out as soon as we told the desk clerk what was wrong, and as soon as I mentioned the pain and pressure in my back, he interrupted me.

"Let's get you back here right now." From the time we hit the door to the time I was on a gurney in ER32, maybe five minutes had passed.  One nurse asked me questions while another hooked me up to an EKG, blood pressure cuff, and oxygen sensor; inserted an IV line; and took a blood sample.  The ER physician came in and asked me a few questions.  X-ray came in and took a chest x-ray.  The ER doc came back in and asked more questions.  The nurse hooked me up to fluids and left.  It was, by that time, about 5:30 or so.

I ended up spending 13 hours in the hospital emergency room Saturday while they ran tests and admitted me to the hospital so I could have a stress test (more on that next blog).  For most of those 13 hours, I tried to get comfortable on the gurney—sit, recline, lie flat, sit, lie flat, recline—and watched what went on around me.

 The Old Man
About an hour after I arrived, an older man (aka Gramps) clutching a set of x-rays and doctor's notes walked into the ER9 across from me.  A female nurse  talked with him, and while I couldn't hear what she was saying, Gramps was loud enough for everyone within a five-mile radius to hear.  He proceeded to explain that he came in because he had a "retention" problem. His doctor had catheterized him and instructed him on doing it himself, but he was unable to do it that night, so he had retention. "I probably have an infection," he continued.  I tried to block him out, but he was so loud, it was impossible.  I put my arms over my head and ears and was able to fall into a slight twilight sleep.

 When I got back from my CT scan, Mike the Husband had returned from getting coffee.  "It seems the guy across the hall has a bit of a problem," he informed me.

"Yep. You missed the explanation of his problem to the nurse," I said.  Mike the Husband informed me that Gramps had loudly told the doctor what was wrong, too.  "Too much information," I said.

Oxygen sensor

The ER Doc
At 7, a new ER doc came on duty and came to talk to me.  Slight, young, and dressed in nothing that would lead anyone to know she was a doctor, she introduced herself as Dr. Taylor.  Wearing black jeans and a red shirt with "SCRIBE" stitched across the back, an equally slight and young gal pushed a mobile computer desk and followed Dr. Taylor into my cubbie.  While the doctor talked and I answered, the scribe typed into the computer.

When Dr. Taylor left, the young gal scurried after her. For the rest of the time I was in ER, I would see Dr. Taylor sprint down the hall followed momentarily by the scampering scribe.

The Old Lady
I was trying to sleep again when I heard commotion in the hallway.  Paramedics wheeled a gurney down the hall and stopped in front of my cubicle.  Sitting stock straight on the gurney was a little old lady (Mom) dressed in a black pant suit. She clutched a large leather purse in her hands and had matching black shoes on her feet.

"She had chest pain," one of the paramedics said to the nurse.  "She lives in Pacifica." (Pacifica is an assisted living facility next to the hospital.)

"She was here a month ago," the nurse replied and turned her attention to Mom.  "Honey, are you okay?"  The squad transferred Mom to the ER gurney, and while one completed paperwork with the nurse, the other wheeled the ambulance gurney into the hall.

"Ooooo.  There's a different uniform," Gramps said.  "You don't work here."  The paramedic looked at the old man.

"I work on the ambulance," he replied.  Gramps tried to engage the paramedic in a conversation about the guy's job and his experience with ambulances in the past. The poor tech tried to be polite, but he seemed extremely happy when his partner finished and they could go back to work.

The Old Man
"When do we get lunch?" Gramps asked our new nurse, Mike.

"Well," Mike the Nurse replied, "it's only 10:00 am. Besides, we don't serve lunch in ER."

"Okay," Gramps said. "I'll wait.  Can we order what we want, or do they just bring something." Mike the Nurse explained again that they didn't serve meals in ER. 

The Old Lady
A portly man with long, curly hair lumbered into Mom's cublicle.  "What happened this time?" He asked his mother.  I couldn't hear her answer.  He reminded me of Newman from Seinfeld if Newman had long, curly hair.  Dr. Taylor dashed into the cubbie, and the scribe skidded to a stop behind her.

"I'm Dr. Mike So-and-So. I'm a pediatrician here," Mike the Son said to Dr. Taylor.  They proceeded to discuss Mom and her condition for a few minutes.  Dr Taylor, followed by her scribe, hurried away, and Mike the Nurse went in.  "I'm Dr. Mike So-and-So. I'm a pediatrician here," Mike the Son informed Mike the Nurse who asked him a number of questions about Mom for the record.

Mike the Son's phone rang after Mike the Nurse left. "Yes," Mike the Son answered, "she's here again.   It's the same-old-same-old," he whined. "She had chest pain, and they called for an ambulance. So, here we are."  He handed the phone to his mother. "Here. Talk to Martha." Mom  chatted with Martha for a few minutes, and when she hung up, she and her son discussed her condition.

"I don't know if they'll admit you again," he informed her. "They may send you home."

"I can go back to Pasadena?" she asked.

"No, you can't go back to Pasadena," he told her. "You live here now. I chose the place next door since it's close to me, my work, and the hospital."

"Oh, Michael. Why don't you go home? I don't want to be a problem."

"It's too late, Mom," he snapped at her. "You already are."


The Old Man
Dr. Taylor dashed into the old man's cubicle around noon to let him know that they had found nothing and that he could go home.  Gramps started to cry. 

"What's wrong?" she asked him.

"I know something's wrong," he insisted.  She told him that all the tests were negative, even the one that would show an infection.  "But," she continued, "we are going to do a culture just to make sure. That will take a few days, though, and we can't keep you here that long." 

Dr. Taylor skated down the hall with the scribe close behind, and Mike the Nurse went in to help Gramps calm down and change. Mike the Nurse closed the curtain, and Gramps gave him a lesson on insurance and the insurance business.  Thirty minutes later, the old man shuffled out of the cubicle clutching the same x-rays and doctor's notes he had brought with him. 

In ER

The Old Lady

 Mike the Son had left for a bit, and while he was gone, Mom called to everyone who walked by her cubicle.

"Nurse.  Nurse.  Nurse."  Most of them walked past without stopping, but the CNA would go in.  Usually Mom just wanted to go to the restroom, and she needed help since they had leashed her to an IV pole. 

"Nurse," she called out as one of the gals working another area walked by.  The nurse made the mistake of going into the room.  "I want lunch," Mom informed her.

The nurse repeated basically what Mike the Nurse had told Gramps earlier.  "We don't serve lunch in ER."

"Well, you better get me lunch," Mom threatened, "or I'm leaving here.  I will not stay."  The little nurse walked out and rolled her eyes.  "I mean it," Mom yelled from behind her.

Mike the Son came back, and Mom asked him why she was in the hospital.  He explained, and for a minute, Mom was silent.  She said, "I can walk home from here when they let me go."

"You cannot walk home, Mom," he again snapped.  "I'll have to take you." His phone rang again, and he answered and repeated his mantra.  "Yes, she's here again.  It's the same-old-same-old. Chest pain. Ambulance.  Here, Mom. Talk to Celeste."  Mom was talking to Celeste when a cardiologist walked into her cubicle. Sonny stood up and offered his hand.  "I'm Dr. Mike So-and-so," he said.  "I'm a pediatrician here."

The cardiologist glanced at him and replied, "I know who you are." He turned his attention to Mom who was still chatting on the phone. Mike the Son grabbed the phone from Mom, and the cardiologist started asking her questions.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked her.  "What hospital is this?"
"Kaiser," she replied.
"No," Mike the Son said.  "You're not in Pasadena. You're in Las Vegas."
"Oh," she replied. "That's right. I forgot." 
 'Let her answer," the cardiologist said. "I'm talking to her."  For the next 10 or so minutes, Mom and the cardiologist talked, and the son interjected comments here and there. "She needs to learn when to call the paramedics and when to let the nitro do its job," he moaned to the cardiologist. 

The Voice From Somewhere
The cardiologist left Mom's room.

"Get that doctor here now or I'm walking out," someone not in my line of sight hollered.

"You'd leave the hospital without being discharged?" a nurse asked.

'You bet your @$$ I would," the slightly angry voice replied. "When the #3!! is that doctor going to get here?"

"We've been busy all day," the nurse replied, and Dr. Taylor scampered past my cubbie on her way to the voice. "Here she comes now."  The scribe dashed after her.

"It's about %$@%@^& time," the voice said.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Taylor sprinted up the hall with the scribe in hot pursuit.

The Gal in ER 32
Mike the nurse came to talk to me.  "What are my chances of getting a room sometime in this century?" I asked.  The hospital was completely full, and I had been number 6 on the list of admits from ER Saturday.  He checked and came back to tell me that they were readying my room as we spoke.  It was 4:15 or so.

Mike the Husband returned from a trip home to walk Riley, and I told him I was going to have a room for the night.  We watched football again for a bit while we waited for my transport to the room.  At 5:15, Mike the Nurse took the old wires off my telemetry unit, put a portable unit on me, and told me one of the CNAs would take me upstairs.

At 5:30 pm, 13 hours after we arrived in ER, the CNA rolled me into room 316.