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.

Dog Tales, V

Decker

“It's hard not to immediately fall in love with 

a dog who has a good sense of humor.”
― Kate DiCamillo

On the day we moved into our house in Nashville, a litter of Welsh Terrier puppies entered the world in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I was, at that time, a member of Welsh-L, a group mailing list for Welsh Terrier owners. Judith Anspach, owner of Merrylegs Welsh Terriers and that new brood of puppies, was also a member of the list.  Judy and I became friends, and I mentioned I would love to own and show a dog.  Not long after, I agreed to co-own one of the males with Judy.

Thirteen weeks later, I hurried to Nashville International Airport to pickup my new puppy.  His flight was due to touch down at 1:30, and I didn't want to be late.  I arrived at the airport at 1:10 or so and immediately hit a traffic jam. Every car in every lane stopped where it was. We waited and waited. Waited. Ten minutes. Waited. Twenty minutes. Waited. Finally, at 1:40 or so, traffic started again. I rushed to the cargo terminal, parked, and ran in.

Behind the cargo agent's desk sat a blue dog crate.  I know I talked to the agent and signed a paper, but I don't remember doing any of that.  I do remember going to the crate, opening it, and cradling a scared little puppy.  He had thrown up all over himself numerous times.  I carried him in my right arm and the crate in my left hand to the car.  All the way home, he nuzzled the hollow of my neck.  I was in love immediately.

Decker, Kasey, and I in Nashville

Kasey, by then 13 months old, was interested in the little guy when I brought him home, but I'm not sure she was too thrilled.  Her only-child status was gone in the blink of an eye. However, she took on the role of a caregiver, and whenever he whimpered, she ran over to him.  That evening, we put him in his crate, and he started crying.  She took one of her toys and pushed it on the crate door in an attempt, I believe, to comfort him. I cried.

We once again faced a name dilemma. Mike suggested Decker, the name of a Wire Fox Terrier one of our friends had owned years before, or Dexter.  I liked Decker but not Dexter. Jason suggested Donald. I did not like Donald. "How about Chang?" he asked.  "Good grief, no!" I replied.  Chang was worse than Donald.  "He's Decker," I decided. Michael was glad; Jason was not.

Since Decker was going to be a show dog, I had to come up with a registered name for him. That is not quite as easy as it sounds because, believe it or not, the AKC has rules for naming dogs.  The names usually include the kennel name plus the dog's "official" name.  In addition to a bunch of little guidelines, the AKC limits the number of characters in a name to 50 (including spaces and apostrophes).

I played with a variety of names:  a) Merrylegs Black and Decker (26 characters!).  b) Merrylegs Hit the Deck (22!).  c) Merrylegs All Hands on Deck (27!).  d) Merrylegs Cut the Deck (22!).  I proposed those four names to my friends on Welsh-L.  Everyone weighed in with why I should name him Hit the Deck or Cut the Deck or All Hands on Deck. 

"Cut the Deck is a homage to Las Vegas," a few people said.  Mike liked that one.

"All Hands on Deck is good, like a judge putting his hands on the dog during a show," others said.  Another show-dog owner preferred that one.

"Hit the Deck is so appropriate for rambunctious terriers," my friendly terrier-lovers thought.

Kasey and Decker

No one liked Black and Decker.

"Why," most people asked me, "would you name him after a tool company?"

"Where in the name of heaven did you come up with that name?"

Judy, God love her, preferred Cut the Deck, but she left the decision up to me.  In the end, I chose Merrylegs Black and Decker.
Here's the thing.  I loved going to the Black and Decker store in the outlet malls.  "It's my favorite store," I insisted.  In addition, the name was a play on words in a way.  Judy told me that Decker wore a black ribbon while he was with the rest of the litter (Breeders put a different colored ribbon, cord, band, etc. on each puppy so they can identify each one.).

I thought the hard part of owning a show dog—naming him—was out of the way.  Little did I know.


 

Dog Tales, IV

Kasey on the day she arrived at Casa Cutler.

“It's just the most amazing thing to love a

dog, isn't it? It makes our relationships with

people seem as boring as a bowl of oatmeal.”

― John Grogan

Within a three- or four-month period prior to Kasey's arrival, we experienced a number of difficult things. My godmother, Aunt Margie, and Mike's mother were both on life support for different reasons, and they passed within a few weeks of each other.  By the time Corky passed, we were ready for something to take our collective minds off of all the crap.  Kasey fit the bill.

Energetic, sociable, and mischievous, Kasey took up a good amount of our time once she arrived.  Like most puppies, she loved to get into things, and we'd find her rooting through the laundry or the magazine rack to find something to chew up.  She was a voracious eater, and the only big negatives we experienced with her were her growling and snapping when anyone got close to her food and coprophagia (eating feces).

Let me step out of this story again to comment on the food problems.  A good number of experts believe that puppy mill puppies experience food aggression because of their first weeks of life.  Often, the puppies do not receive adequate food and water.  The puppy mill breeders often use lower quality food and water.  Many times, dominant dogs guard the food dish and prevent submissive dogs from eating. The submissive puppies learn to become food agressive.  Coprophagia, another food-related problem, is disgusting to humans.  Both habits are hard to break.

Kasey Girl

So, back to Kasey:  We had to deal with the food-related problems and were pretty successful with the coprophagia within a few weeks.  In addition, we were able to housebreak her pretty quickly which, according to articles I've since read, can also be difficult in puppy mill puppies. 




Four things stand out in my mind from Kasey's first few months with us:

The house we were living in at the time was a two-story house, and we had to carry Kasey up and down the stairs for a few weeks as her little legs were not long enough for her to make them on her own. In addition, she had a bit of a fear of any height.  We had a door that led to the backyard, and the height of the stoop between the door and the patio was about one inch. Kasey was afraid to step off of the stoop onto the patio, and for weeks she would stop, look down, and refuse to take the step.

Like many homeowners in Las Vegas, we had a pool in the back.  A few days after Kasey arrived, Mike was doing some yard work while the little munchkin and I walked around the backyard.  Mike picked up a shovelful of rocks and threw them into an empty wheelbarrow.  KABOOM.  Kasey and I both jumped at the loud bang, but instead of coming down from her jump on the pool deck, she tumbled into the shallow end. SPLASH. I ran over, plucked her out of the cold water, and tried not to laugh too much.  She never did like water after that.

Kasey and the cow-ee

A day or so after that incident, Mike and I sat outside and watched Kasey run around in the little grass we had.  Suddenly, a little bird flew out of a bush and onto the deck railing.  Kasey stopped and stared.  The bird flew from the railing to the roof. Kasey's eyes followed him.  I will forever remember the look of wonderment on her face as she watched the bird.  From that day on, she always watched birds with a bit of wonder in her eyes.

Finally, I gave her a little stuffed cow as her first toy. She loved that thing and would carry it around the house.  She would pick the little thing up and walk from the living room to the family room to the kitchen to the dining room to the living room to the family room to the.... You get the picture. 

She may not have liked water, but Kasey liked snow.

Kasey had been with us about three months when we moved from Las Vegas to Nashville.  Mike and Jason went to Nashville while I finished up selling and packing the house.  Since my mom had never had the opportunity to see much of the country, I invited her to drive with Kasey and me as we crossed through Arizona, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, and Kentucky on our way to Tennessee. I'm  not sure what Mom enjoyed more, seeing the sites or playing with Kasey while I kept my eyes on the road.

Our move to Nashville brought changes to our lives—a new job for Mike, a new school for Jason, and a new house for me to get in order.  Little did Kasey know she was in for a big change, too.