Words from The Crone

I have been reading obituaries since I was a young girl. I have been reading obituaries long before most people even think of reading them with any regularity. I remember when I first got my real estate license back in the dark ages and the broker handed me the newspaper and told me to read the obituaries to see if there were any recent widows who might be interested in selling the family home. Eeew. How macabre, I thought. Something about that kind of tactic even struck me as being unethical. The broker did, however, tell me to wait a few weeks after the funeral before calling the widow. I never did.

I am not obsessed with death and dying although at my age that reality is getting closer and closer. But, reading the obituaries is like reading a story-book of biographies for me. I read about all of those interesting people and all that they have accomplished or enjoyed in life. Of course, people only put the good stuff in obits, never any of the bad stuff, which helps.

I’ve never read an obit that went something like this: “Jayne was a wonderful homemaker, beloved by all in spite of the fact that she was a hurtful gossip, cheated on her husband, and regularly belittled her children and used foul language behind closed doors.” Or, this: “Jonathan was an upstanding citizen who served his church as leading elder, sang in the choir, and was Rotarian of the year. Jonathan was also known to beat his wife and children unmercifully, and could be found dead drunk most Saturday nights as he staggered home from O’Brien’s Saloon.”

Sadly, every family has dark shadows, but they also know that they can’t hang the family’s dirty laundry out in the obituary. This carries over to the pastor’s homily, the family eulogies, and the memories we hold in our hearts for our deceased loved ones. And, so I love to read the good parts of life’s stories. The parts about how they are loved. The parts about the variety of activities people choose to live. The parts about all the family they have and doted on when they were vibrant and alive. The parts about the good they did for others, the awards they won, and the challenges they met and conquered. And oh, how I wish I had met and been friends with all of these fabulous folks. And so, I read the obits. Almost daily.

I’ve often thought about writing my own obituary. My children have even told me that I should because they are sure to forget something. But, you know, I’m not going there. Obituaries are written by the living, the survivors. Obituaries are the way they want to remember us and the parts of us that they remember the most and best. Obituaries are not really about the dead, but about all the collective memories the living have of the one who is no more.

I don’t have a clue what my children will write about me. I guess we all hope it will be good stuff. And you know, it will. It will be good stuff because the bad stuff isn’t worth writing about or remembering. It hurts. It will be good stuff because, in the final analysis, those left behind want the rest of the world to believe that the life of their dear departed was beautiful and grand and positive. They want to believe it too. In death the darkness of our life is left in the closet and only the light and good is put out there for the public in our obituaries. I like that, and so I read the obituaries because it is all good stuff.

It has been 23 days since my last post and I feel as though I have been on Mars, no Venus. Yes, I like Venus better. At any rate, on March 6th I entered the nether world of germs and bacteria called the “hospital” for more surgery. Being as how it was my 27th surgery I guess that is my treatment of preference for whatever ails me. Of course, it was the scheduled by-pass surgery on my right leg that I knew was coming and so, I was ready. I had even rehearsed my request “would you please wash your hands here in my room so I can see you,” speech so the germs would be held at bay. The nice nurses finally put a sign on my door to save my vocal chords.

Although I managed to have the surgery and get home in good time, I did in fact also manage to get myself re-admitted back into the hospital with a minor infection for another two days. It was monotonous, but necessary, and now I am back at home resting and recuperating. I am not going back to work for several weeks and so, I have a lot of time on my hands.

Prior to the surgery folks were saying things like, “With all this time on your hands you can…..” One or the other of us filled in the blanks with things like get a lot of reading done, write my memoirs, clean out my office files (actually after a year or two I just toss them), or as one friend said, “you can teach me how to cook.” I even believed all of this. I mean, what else would I be doing staying at home just taking pain meds, napping, and healing.

The doctor had told me that it would take all of six weeks for me to recover from the surgery. It wasn’t the incision healing, nor the interior arteries that had been cut open, by-passed, cleaned out, and sewn up. No, it was the loss of energy, or fatigue I would experience as the body recovered from the trauma of two incisions totaling 16” inches. Oh, okay, it should wear off in a couple of weeks methinks to myself, and I would have “all this time to…..”

Hah! My thoughts were that when I got tired I would nap and then I could get many things accomplished with “all this time.” Seems it doesn’t work that way. Rather than the take a nap from fatigue it is more like a huge lack of energy. I would simply walk around without the motivation to do almost anything. I wasn’t even that interested in food or reading. I love to eat and I love read even more. I used to hide a flashlight in my bedroom as a child and read under my pillow after lights out so my mom wouldn’t discover me. But now, I would read a few sentences and then go into this trance-like state where I just wouldn’t do anything. Nor, would I want to do anything. A little television is about all I seem to be able to handle. I’ve been wanting to blog for lo these many days, but it just hasn’t happened. My checkbook is unbalanced. I haven’t even visited Facebook much and it is an effort just to manage my email. Oh my, this isn’t at all like I imagined it.

It has now been almost three weeks since my surgery and it isn’t getting any better. I keep thinking today might be the day I’ll feel awake, motivated, alive, energetic again. So far, nope. And, so I wait. I do a bit here and a bit there, but nothing of any significance and most assuredly nothing like all of those things I could do “with all this time” on my hands. Maybe tomorrow.

The Doctor’s Visit

I like to believe that I am a patient woman. Most of the time. Well, almost most of the time. But, my visit to the vascular surgeon for a final check on my right arm surgery tested not only my patience, but R’s patience, and probably several dozen other people in the waiting area. It was, in a word, unconscionable!

My appointment was upstate which meant for starters a two hour drive. Okay, that was my choice, well sort of (see my blog “Twas the Crisis Before Christmas” posted 12/20/2011). No matter, that is in the past. My appointment was scheduled for 11:00 am and when I was called to jog my memory and remind me of said time, I was told to come in 15 minutes early to fill out paperwork. OK, I can do that. And, so it was.

Actually, we – R came with me as we had plans to have lunch with a friend and then go to Longwood Gardens for the Orchid display – arrived a half hour early for the fifteen minute early. So, we had a cup of coffee and waited. Promptly, at 10:45am we checked into the imaging department for my pre-doctor visit ultrasound. As expected, we filled out the “paperwork” which took exactly 7 minutes.

Then, we waited and waited and waited. At 11:50am I was whisked back for the ultrasound on my arm as well as a blood pressure check. At 12:15pm we were done and the nice technician said that the doctor would come through a second door in the exam room to go over the results with me. She was kind enough to get R and let him join me.

Then, we waited and waited and waited. At 12:45pm the nurse came in, re-took my blood pressure and said the doctor would be right in. Ten minutes later she came in again and said she had paged the doctor and he would be right in. At that point we had been “waiting” a total of one hour and 35 minutes. Waiting. More waiting.

It was at this point, 12:55pm that I lost my patience. I think it is still there in the office somewhere, but it wasn’t with me. With a nice smile on my face I informed the nice nurse that if the doctor did not appear in five minutes we were leaving. He didn’t, we left. As we passed the nurse in the hall we told her good-bye, suggested that if there was a problem the doctor had our phone number, and R added, “We don’t expect to get a bill from the doctor for this visit.” Nice nurse, apologized as if it was all her fault and said, “Of course not.” I really felt sorry for her because it was definitely NOT her doing.

Out in the lobby as I waited for R to bring the car up, I was talking to my friend saying we would meet her for lunch in a few minutes, I saw the doctor saunter down the hall, cup of coffee in hand, and disappear into the office. It was 1:12pm by this time. Nice, sweet, I wanted to do something quite unseemly to him. (Read grit teeth, suppress scream).

If I have the time I plan to send this inconsiderate doctor a bill for my waiting time. At $300/hour (I figure my time is worth as much as his time) that should come to $475. He’ll probably ignore it, but I hope that our walking out and sending him said bill might make him a bit more aware of the unconscionable practice of bad scheduling and keeping people waiting way beyond a reasonable time. And, maybe I’ll throw in a letter to the Chairman of the Hospital board since it was hospital-based practice located within the hospital.

I firmly believe if more people complained about such treatment we wouldn’t have to go around feeling as if we were just, oh what is that expression, yes, “chopped liver.” Oh, by the way, due to all this waiting it was too late to get to Longwood Gardens for the orchid display, which of course, pissed me off too! There. I‘ve had my rant. Thanks for listening.