Bus Ride Part II
In the midst of my laughing fits from reading Attack of the Theatre People*, my cell phone rings. Caller ID shows that it’s my brother, Mike, who never calls me for no particular reason. He proceeds to tell me that our Mom is in the hospital, she was taken by ambulance. SHIT!! This is not a phone conversation one wants to have on the bus, especially, the Felini Express. He doesn’t know a lot. Dad, loses/misses a lot of information when transmitting it from one source to another. He’s fully functional and his mental acuity is fine. Communication is just not his strong suit. This is not a judgment nor a value statement, but rather an observation. Add to that the confusion of medical terminology and being flummoxed by the situation, there wasn’t a dearth of information to glean from him, and what Mike did get was even more scant. She apparently was light-headed, almost fainted or actually fainted, then was nauseous. I begin asking Mike about whether she’s been seen by a cardiologist yet. That statement caused the people in close proximity to me, to once again turn and stare at me. Albeit, with different looks on their faces this time. Even in a low voice, this is just not a conversation you want to have on a bus. Had I been out walking, or in a building, I could have at least found a quiet corner or hallway.
Later that night, Dad calls me from home. He doesn’t have a lot more info than what Mike had relayed other than the Cardiologist was going to be by in the morning. I told him that when the Cardiologist, arrived, that Dad was to call me, so I could talk to him.
Sunday morning about 11:00, it’s Dad’s cell phone calling. He gives me the Dr. I tell him where I work, that I’m the Director of CME, and I used to work at the hospital where Mom is (and he works). Without going into detail, there’s no indication of heart attack. They’re doing an Echocardiograph on Monday morning. If everything comes back unremarkable, they’ll send her home.
Last week was such a strange week at work. I may post about that later. It was topped off by a stranger weekend. Was it a full moon?
Post Script--Mom went home Monday evening.
*Marc Acito’s new book
Monday, May 5, 2008
Inspired
Inspired
My blog is mostly the rants and ramblings of a wannabe writer—snippets of my life for anyone who might stubble over here. Often my writings are of a medical nature, as I work in healthcare, and I’m a major consumer of healthcare services. (I write solely for myself and not for, nor do I represent anyone else in my posts.) Imagine my surprise when I popped over to one of my favorite physician blogs http://mouseasthma.blogspot.com/ to see a posting about CVID, http://mouseasthma.blogspot.com/2008/04/common-variable-immune-deficiency-cvid.html my disease. Imagine an even greater surprise to read that I was in part the inspiration for the posting. I’m not usually (read: never before) referenced by a legitimate professional. I’m used to being referenced in vain or in less flattering modes, by non (or lesser) professionals. {nonsequitur: can someone help this techno-challenged man and tell me how to create those one word links in my blog, instead of having to put in the whole url?}
Reading about CVID from a treating physician was great, as it’s not a well known or well publicized disorder. While called Common Variable Immune Deficiency, there’s really nothing common about it. In fact, we often go undiagnosed or mis-diagnosed for years before we get the correct physician who knows of it. It took over 13 years to finally get mine diagnosed correctly. On two different occasions, two different physicians were convinced that I was testing ‘false negatives’ for HIV. I’m a gay man, getting chronic bronchial and sinus infections—gotta be HIV. Let me state for the record, these grasping at straws diagnoses were really effective mind fucks. The possibilities were remote, but not high on the radar. While I’ve not been a chaste monk, I’m not what one would consider a heavy player of the field. I’ve had two previous BFs who were HIV positive. We were always careful. But the remote chance was there.
Having just come back from Washington, DC as ‘Lobbyist for a Day’, it was cool to discover that my writing about that experience prompted a physician to do a scientific/medical post about CVID. Thanks, Dr. Mark: for diagnosing and treating your patients, and for making your medical reading public a bit more knowledgeable. Perhaps we (meaning You) did some CME vicariously.
My blog is mostly the rants and ramblings of a wannabe writer—snippets of my life for anyone who might stubble over here. Often my writings are of a medical nature, as I work in healthcare, and I’m a major consumer of healthcare services. (I write solely for myself and not for, nor do I represent anyone else in my posts.) Imagine my surprise when I popped over to one of my favorite physician blogs http://mouseasthma.blogspot.com/ to see a posting about CVID, http://mouseasthma.blogspot.com/2008/04/common-variable-immune-deficiency-cvid.html my disease. Imagine an even greater surprise to read that I was in part the inspiration for the posting. I’m not usually (read: never before) referenced by a legitimate professional. I’m used to being referenced in vain or in less flattering modes, by non (or lesser) professionals. {nonsequitur: can someone help this techno-challenged man and tell me how to create those one word links in my blog, instead of having to put in the whole url?}
Reading about CVID from a treating physician was great, as it’s not a well known or well publicized disorder. While called Common Variable Immune Deficiency, there’s really nothing common about it. In fact, we often go undiagnosed or mis-diagnosed for years before we get the correct physician who knows of it. It took over 13 years to finally get mine diagnosed correctly. On two different occasions, two different physicians were convinced that I was testing ‘false negatives’ for HIV. I’m a gay man, getting chronic bronchial and sinus infections—gotta be HIV. Let me state for the record, these grasping at straws diagnoses were really effective mind fucks. The possibilities were remote, but not high on the radar. While I’ve not been a chaste monk, I’m not what one would consider a heavy player of the field. I’ve had two previous BFs who were HIV positive. We were always careful. But the remote chance was there.
Having just come back from Washington, DC as ‘Lobbyist for a Day’, it was cool to discover that my writing about that experience prompted a physician to do a scientific/medical post about CVID. Thanks, Dr. Mark: for diagnosing and treating your patients, and for making your medical reading public a bit more knowledgeable. Perhaps we (meaning You) did some CME vicariously.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Bus Ride, Part I
It’s all Marc Acito’s Fault
This story requires some set up.
I am told I have a very distinctive laugh. Once, when I was grad school, I went to see a movie. After a particularly funny moment, in a dark theatre, someone yells “(my surname) is that you?!" After I’d’ been in Chicago for a few years, I went to see/hear David Sedaris do a reading. It was a fundraiser for our local Public Radio station. It was also recorder for future listening. Some months after, I get a call from a friend out of the blue, who asked if I’d been at said reading. I replied, “Yes”, somewhat perplexed. “I knew it! I was just listening to it on the radio, and I knew that was your laugh that I heard!” So, apparently my laugh gives me away.
Certain bus and train lines of CTA (Chicago Transit Authority) are known for the patrons who frequent them. A former columnist for one of Chicago’s Gay weekly magazines once referred to the Clark Street #22 bus as “The Felini Express” for the menagerie of freaks and nuts who seemed to always be on every bus. They’re the people who talk to themselves—loudly; or they may look like a close facsimile of the uni-bomber. You get the idea. They are the people you move away from.
This bus is one of the lines that I live close to and use with some frequency. In fact, I was on this bus on Saturday. Friday night, I was at Unabridged Books, (my favorite bookstore in Chicago) and bought Marc Acito’s new book, Attack of the Theatre People”. It’s funny. It’s very funny. I was reading it Saturday on my ride home on the Felini Express. The bus was full—SRO. I manage to score a seat when someone gets off. I pull the book out of my backpack, I read a passage that made a direct hit to my funny bone. I let out resounding chortle. People stared. I buried my face in the book. It happens again. I let loose with a guffaw. The bus is less crowded now. The guy sitting next to me gets up and moves to another seat. I have become one of those people. I have become a Felini Expressite. It’s all Marc’s fault. Laughing has been comodity of short supply for me. I’ve not been laughing much lately. It felt good—even if it's caused me to join the ranks of the Felini Express People.
Don’t ask me what made me laugh so hard. Go buy the book and find out for yourself. Support your independent bookstore and put Marc’s book on the charts.
Post Script--Tonight (Tuesday) I was transferring trains (EL) coming home from work. I get on the crowded train--SRO. I'm standing near the doorway, holding the bar in one hand, and Attack of the Theatre People in the other. A young, hip woman who was next to/behind me notices the book, and asks, "Have you read his first book? IT was hillarious!" I tell her, "No, this is my first. But it's causing me to have outbursts of laughter on the CTA." She tells me she's going to have go get this one, and tells me to get the first book.
This story requires some set up.
I am told I have a very distinctive laugh. Once, when I was grad school, I went to see a movie. After a particularly funny moment, in a dark theatre, someone yells “(my surname) is that you?!" After I’d’ been in Chicago for a few years, I went to see/hear David Sedaris do a reading. It was a fundraiser for our local Public Radio station. It was also recorder for future listening. Some months after, I get a call from a friend out of the blue, who asked if I’d been at said reading. I replied, “Yes”, somewhat perplexed. “I knew it! I was just listening to it on the radio, and I knew that was your laugh that I heard!” So, apparently my laugh gives me away.
Certain bus and train lines of CTA (Chicago Transit Authority) are known for the patrons who frequent them. A former columnist for one of Chicago’s Gay weekly magazines once referred to the Clark Street #22 bus as “The Felini Express” for the menagerie of freaks and nuts who seemed to always be on every bus. They’re the people who talk to themselves—loudly; or they may look like a close facsimile of the uni-bomber. You get the idea. They are the people you move away from.
This bus is one of the lines that I live close to and use with some frequency. In fact, I was on this bus on Saturday. Friday night, I was at Unabridged Books, (my favorite bookstore in Chicago) and bought Marc Acito’s new book, Attack of the Theatre People”. It’s funny. It’s very funny. I was reading it Saturday on my ride home on the Felini Express. The bus was full—SRO. I manage to score a seat when someone gets off. I pull the book out of my backpack, I read a passage that made a direct hit to my funny bone. I let out resounding chortle. People stared. I buried my face in the book. It happens again. I let loose with a guffaw. The bus is less crowded now. The guy sitting next to me gets up and moves to another seat. I have become one of those people. I have become a Felini Expressite. It’s all Marc’s fault. Laughing has been comodity of short supply for me. I’ve not been laughing much lately. It felt good—even if it's caused me to join the ranks of the Felini Express People.
Don’t ask me what made me laugh so hard. Go buy the book and find out for yourself. Support your independent bookstore and put Marc’s book on the charts.
Post Script--Tonight (Tuesday) I was transferring trains (EL) coming home from work. I get on the crowded train--SRO. I'm standing near the doorway, holding the bar in one hand, and Attack of the Theatre People in the other. A young, hip woman who was next to/behind me notices the book, and asks, "Have you read his first book? IT was hillarious!" I tell her, "No, this is my first. But it's causing me to have outbursts of laughter on the CTA." She tells me she's going to have go get this one, and tells me to get the first book.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Sweeney Todd --Redeemed!
Sweeney Todd has been redeemed!—No, not the travesty of a movie. It’s still a piece of shit. Over the weekend, as part of my birthday (February 6, for those taking notes), my best friend got tickets for the touring production of Sweeney, which is in Chicago for a brief (way too brief) time. Additionally, the universe showed me some kindness, and by a fluke I was able to see it on Tuesday night as well. I responded to an ad on CL. This guy had a friend back out on him, and he had an extra . I didn’t even have to pay for the ticket. Blind date, great show, nice guy. For both performances we were in the orchestra level at the theatre.
When the revival opened on Broadway two years ago, I was really bummed that I was not able to see it. (This doesn’t qualify as a regret—see previous post—as it’s not that I had an opportunity to see it and passed on it, I just was unable due to circumstances and finances to get to NYC to see it. I couldn’t wrap my mind around how the actors were also the orchestra. How the heck would/could this work?! I did get to NYC last summer and saw Company, which was done in the same manner (same director) and I got an idea, but these plays are so different, I still couldn’t see how this would work with ST.
With the exception of the leads, most of the Broadway cast (or understudies/standbys) are in the touring production. The character of Tobias (Toby) is also an exception. Edmund
Bagnell, the young man (as opposed to a prepubescent boy in the POS movie) who plays him is EXCEPTIONAL. In my opinion, he stole the show. Instrumentally, he played the violin, and clarinet. All of the characters are on stage the whole time, even when he was not in a scene, he was so totally in character. His facial expressions were incredible. He conveyed so much with his eyes, even from the middle of the orchestra section, he was that expressive. He would get this wonderful maniacal look, and even his violin playing looked maniacal at crucial times. He made the violin a character in the show. Vocally, instrumentally, and theatrically, he was sublime.
It was great to hear Sweeney and Judge Turpin singing in those booming, menacing baritone/bass voices, as Sweeney should be. The “Pretty Women” duets were bravissimo! While vocally, Johnny Depp didn’t completely suck (like HB-C did as Mrs. Lovett), a tenor Sweeney just doesn’t evoke the same sense of foreboding that that a deep bass singing Sweeney does. Benjamin Eakeley, who played The Beadle, and instrumentally played keyboard, clarinet and saxophone, gave a very subdued, yet strong, nuanced performance. He played a slick, smooth operating political sycophant, not some greasy snaggle-toothed street bum.
The performance that was not exceptional, and let me state, she was not bad was Johanna. But her star was less bright in this galaxy of comets and supernovas. Vocally and instrumentally, she shone with the rest. I felt though, that she ‘dumbed down’ the character of Johanna to a caricature, being a bit too ditzy, as though being placed in the lunatic asylum may have been the right choice. Also, I didn’t think that she stayed in character when she was playing cello, but not singing. I’m not sure why a woman was cast as Pirelli, the Barber. That didn’t really work for me. This actress did an OK job, but I would rather see that role play by a man with at tenor voice, not a female alto.
Casting this show had to be a nightmare. The instrumental assignments were not random. Toby HAD to be able play the violin. Mrs. Lovett had to be able to play the tuba. Not only did Benjamin Magnuson, who plays Antony have to be able to sing the role, and act it, but also be able to play, cello and keyboard. Finding the right person for each character who also played the instruments assigned to that character. Then there are the Understudies and Standbys, who are US & SB for multiple characters. It blows my mind. Sondheim writes difficult music to sing. But the music is integral to the character and character development. The music is just as important as the words that are attached to the notes. That’s why I can’t understand why he let the movie be done with sub-par (shitty) singers. (I won’t call them musicians). OK, so you want big name actors to be the box office draw. There are plenty of A listers who can sing well. Cast them. But I digress. If this touring production comes to close to you, go see it! ©wtf/rle
When the revival opened on Broadway two years ago, I was really bummed that I was not able to see it. (This doesn’t qualify as a regret—see previous post—as it’s not that I had an opportunity to see it and passed on it, I just was unable due to circumstances and finances to get to NYC to see it. I couldn’t wrap my mind around how the actors were also the orchestra. How the heck would/could this work?! I did get to NYC last summer and saw Company, which was done in the same manner (same director) and I got an idea, but these plays are so different, I still couldn’t see how this would work with ST.
With the exception of the leads, most of the Broadway cast (or understudies/standbys) are in the touring production. The character of Tobias (Toby) is also an exception. Edmund
Bagnell, the young man (as opposed to a prepubescent boy in the POS movie) who plays him is EXCEPTIONAL. In my opinion, he stole the show. Instrumentally, he played the violin, and clarinet. All of the characters are on stage the whole time, even when he was not in a scene, he was so totally in character. His facial expressions were incredible. He conveyed so much with his eyes, even from the middle of the orchestra section, he was that expressive. He would get this wonderful maniacal look, and even his violin playing looked maniacal at crucial times. He made the violin a character in the show. Vocally, instrumentally, and theatrically, he was sublime.
It was great to hear Sweeney and Judge Turpin singing in those booming, menacing baritone/bass voices, as Sweeney should be. The “Pretty Women” duets were bravissimo! While vocally, Johnny Depp didn’t completely suck (like HB-C did as Mrs. Lovett), a tenor Sweeney just doesn’t evoke the same sense of foreboding that that a deep bass singing Sweeney does. Benjamin Eakeley, who played The Beadle, and instrumentally played keyboard, clarinet and saxophone, gave a very subdued, yet strong, nuanced performance. He played a slick, smooth operating political sycophant, not some greasy snaggle-toothed street bum.
The performance that was not exceptional, and let me state, she was not bad was Johanna. But her star was less bright in this galaxy of comets and supernovas. Vocally and instrumentally, she shone with the rest. I felt though, that she ‘dumbed down’ the character of Johanna to a caricature, being a bit too ditzy, as though being placed in the lunatic asylum may have been the right choice. Also, I didn’t think that she stayed in character when she was playing cello, but not singing. I’m not sure why a woman was cast as Pirelli, the Barber. That didn’t really work for me. This actress did an OK job, but I would rather see that role play by a man with at tenor voice, not a female alto.
Casting this show had to be a nightmare. The instrumental assignments were not random. Toby HAD to be able play the violin. Mrs. Lovett had to be able to play the tuba. Not only did Benjamin Magnuson, who plays Antony have to be able to sing the role, and act it, but also be able to play, cello and keyboard. Finding the right person for each character who also played the instruments assigned to that character. Then there are the Understudies and Standbys, who are US & SB for multiple characters. It blows my mind. Sondheim writes difficult music to sing. But the music is integral to the character and character development. The music is just as important as the words that are attached to the notes. That’s why I can’t understand why he let the movie be done with sub-par (shitty) singers. (I won’t call them musicians). OK, so you want big name actors to be the box office draw. There are plenty of A listers who can sing well. Cast them. But I digress. If this touring production comes to close to you, go see it! ©wtf/rle
Thursday, April 24, 2008
So long, Gary, with some regret(s)
This past Sunday, I became vehicularless. I sold my car, a 2003 Chili Red Mini Cooper. His name was Gary (as in Gary {mini} Cooper). My cars have always had boy names. It’s the second time I’ve had to sell a car due to economics. Over a five year period, I lost 13 months of income, due to my health, from surgeries, chronic pain, broken arm. I learned to quit asking the question, “WTF can happen next?!” Because when I did, the universe would respond. Let me state, the intent of this entry is NOT a poor me pity party. But, rather a documentation of events. This falls into the category of WASTHTR*
I got Gary in the Spring of 2003. MINIs were just hitting the US. I’m not usually at the far left side of the bell curve known as early adopters. But my friend Ben, had just ordered one. (He IS the early adopter profile.) I was starting a new job in the burbs that was going to be a big commute. I had gotten through the chronic pain debilitation, and one (unrelated) surgery. It was the mark of a new beginning, after a year and a half of hell. I had had to sell my previous car as a result of lost income from the chronic pain convalescence.
The funny (strange funny/ not ha ha funny) thing about working in healthcare is that one would think one would have great benefits relating to healthcare—things like short-term and long term disability. Not so much. Each of those 13 months over that 5 year period was a time with NO income, no disability. The most I ever got was one to two weeks of vacation or PTO time that may have been accrued. So, no income means NO income.
Friends were excited for me. Many made a big deal out of getting Gary, because of the previous year and a half and symbolically what the new car meant for me.
I had Gary less than a month, in fact, I had not yet made my first car payment, when one afternoon, backing out of my space in the parking deck at the Hospital (which would later become known as 5RH**), a Chevy Tahoe backs into me. I have no admissible evidence, but the lady driving the Tahoe was on her cell phone. There was a witness who verified that she was the driver at fault. When the witness (an employee) had to leave, she asked the security guard if she needed to leave her name and contact info. He replied, “No”, as he knew who she was. (I would later regret not taking her info myself.) The funny (this time it IS funny ha ha.) thing was, is that security was there in seconds—literally. Hospital security was not known for their swiftness of action. It wasn’t until I was finally driving out after the police showed up and we did the whole police report stuff, that I realized I had already opened up the moon roof, so my voice could be heard. As soon as I heard the crunch of my back fender, I just started screaming,
“FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!!!!!!!!!”
at the top of my lungs. That’s what got security there so quickly! That was in May. The witness? When I called security the next day to get her name and contact info for my insurance company. They had no recollection of a witness. When I said, “She came up and talked to you!, and you told her you knew who she was!” Of course the Chevy Tahoe driver denied fault. So my first car payment was my $500. insurance deductible.
In September, I was coming back home from a trip downstate to visit a friend. Euckie was NOT with me this time. Being a compliant patient, and following my (PM&R) doc’s instructions, I get out stop at a rest stop to walk around, stretch my legs. Upon re-entering the highway from the rest stop exit ramp, I do my look backwards, see nothing, enter the high, and am immediately hit by someone driving a Cadillac Seville. I veer off to the side, start to open my door, to go to the other car, and I feel pain and dizzy. I stop. I call 911. I get my first (and hopefully last) ambulance ride. While in the ER, on the gurney, on a back board with a C-Collar, I am approached by a police officer who gives me a ticket for improper lane usage. The other driver received the same. Since there were no witnesses, rather than issuing no tickets, as there was no evidence to support either party, they chose to be equal opportunity offenders. I could appear in court to fight the ticket. “I’m sorry for your injuries. I hope you’re OK.” I won’t tell you what words were running through my mind, but I’m sure you can guess. On top of that, I had to piss like a race horse. I learned that this is not an easy task, when flat on your back strapped down, with something pressing on a full bladder. To make matters worse, I find out that the guy who hit me was the son of a Chicago policeman. My chances of contesting the ticket winning that battle were just annihilated.
There was a third incident that happened on December 23 of the same year, leaving the hospital. I was sideswiped by the Electric Company truck. It grazed the side, and took out the side mirror and mirror cap, and door handle. There was no way I was reporting this to the insurance. I went 14 years without an auto insurance claim (and that one wasn’t my fault, either). And, three in a year’s time, with a new vehicle.
I have two philosophies about regrets. The first one is, one should NOT have regrets.
The second one is, or perhaps a corollary of the first is, if you must have regrets, they should be about things you did NOT do. There should never be regrets for doing something, as I think that even the bad experiences in life are hopefully learning experiences.
When I wanted to start my florist business, my Mom was dead set against it. “What’s going to happen if you fail?!” My family has always been a glass half empty (or completely empty) type of people. Affirmation and positive reinforcement were not a part of the arsenal. My response was, “I’d rather try and fail, than not try at all, and when I turn 40 wonder ‘what if’?”
I can say for the most part, I pretty much have led my life with no regrets. And the regrets I do have are of things I did NOT do, or did NOT do sooner. When I was a freshman in college, I was offered a ticket to go see Harry Chapin in Concert. I opted to go to a party instead, rationalizing that Harry came around every year for his ‘World Hunger Concert Tour”. Before Harry got back to a return concert, he was killed in an auto accident.
The next regret is one I vacillate back and forth on. I wish I’d come out of the closet long before I did. It didn’t happen until I was in my late 20s, in grad school. The reason I vacillate on this one is that given the point in history, had I come out in early college, chances are strong that I’d be dead. With my luck, I’d have contracted HIV, when they were still trying to figure out what it was.
My current regret of something that I did NOT do is that I did NOT file bankruptcy when it was recommended by various individuals. I would not allow myself to suffer that sort of shame and become one of ‘those deadbeat sycophants’ on society.
This is what brought me to selling Gary. When I left 5RH to take my current position, I took a HUGE cut in salary—almost half. Yes, it was a conscious decision, partly based on ‘what price do you put on sanity?” The job REALLY was THAT bad. Also, this employer has solid short-term and long term disability plans, as well as a good medical plan. These are things I had to look for in a job. Should I retire from here (it’s unlikely I’ll live to see that), my health insurance is paid for the rest of my life.
I was already asshole deep in medical debt. Last year, to try and reduce some of that debt, I cashed out my life insurance policy, and retirement. As a result, I took a terrible tax hit this year, and owed the IRS. I claim zero dependents, and usually get a very nice return every year. I knew that the cash out would affect that, but I anticipated that it would reduce greatly what I would get back this year, and that I would not end up owing my left nut. I was mistaken. Having no more savings, or retirement to cash out, the remaining thing is to liquidate solid assets…hence, Gary has gone to a new home in Arkansas. If I’d filed bankruptcy, especially before W’s new laws went into place, my life insurance and retirement would have been protected. Stupid fucking pride. What do I have to show for it? Certainly not a car, anymore. On the up side, I've just become more earth friendly.
* Weird Ass Shit That Happens To Randy
** Fifth Ring of Hell
In September, I was coming back home from a trip downstate to visit a friend. Euckie was NOT with me this time. Being a compliant patient, and following my (PM&R) doc’s instructions, I get out stop at a rest stop to walk around, stretch my legs. Upon re-entering the highway from the rest stop exit ramp, I do my look backwards, see nothing, enter the high, and am immediately hit by someone driving a Cadillac Seville. I veer off to the side, start to open my door, to go to the other car, and I feel pain and dizzy. I stop. I call 911. I get my first (and hopefully last) ambulance ride. While in the ER, on the gurney, on a back board with a C-Collar, I am approached by a police officer who gives me a ticket for improper lane usage. The other driver received the same. Since there were no witnesses, rather than issuing no tickets, as there was no evidence to support either party, they chose to be equal opportunity offenders. I could appear in court to fight the ticket. “I’m sorry for your injuries. I hope you’re OK.” I won’t tell you what words were running through my mind, but I’m sure you can guess. On top of that, I had to piss like a race horse. I learned that this is not an easy task, when flat on your back strapped down, with something pressing on a full bladder. To make matters worse, I find out that the guy who hit me was the son of a Chicago policeman. My chances of contesting the ticket winning that battle were just annihilated.
There was a third incident that happened on December 23 of the same year, leaving the hospital. I was sideswiped by the Electric Company truck. It grazed the side, and took out the side mirror and mirror cap, and door handle. There was no way I was reporting this to the insurance. I went 14 years without an auto insurance claim (and that one wasn’t my fault, either). And, three in a year’s time, with a new vehicle.
I have two philosophies about regrets. The first one is, one should NOT have regrets.
The second one is, or perhaps a corollary of the first is, if you must have regrets, they should be about things you did NOT do. There should never be regrets for doing something, as I think that even the bad experiences in life are hopefully learning experiences.
When I wanted to start my florist business, my Mom was dead set against it. “What’s going to happen if you fail?!” My family has always been a glass half empty (or completely empty) type of people. Affirmation and positive reinforcement were not a part of the arsenal. My response was, “I’d rather try and fail, than not try at all, and when I turn 40 wonder ‘what if’?”
I can say for the most part, I pretty much have led my life with no regrets. And the regrets I do have are of things I did NOT do, or did NOT do sooner. When I was a freshman in college, I was offered a ticket to go see Harry Chapin in Concert. I opted to go to a party instead, rationalizing that Harry came around every year for his ‘World Hunger Concert Tour”. Before Harry got back to a return concert, he was killed in an auto accident.
The next regret is one I vacillate back and forth on. I wish I’d come out of the closet long before I did. It didn’t happen until I was in my late 20s, in grad school. The reason I vacillate on this one is that given the point in history, had I come out in early college, chances are strong that I’d be dead. With my luck, I’d have contracted HIV, when they were still trying to figure out what it was.
My current regret of something that I did NOT do is that I did NOT file bankruptcy when it was recommended by various individuals. I would not allow myself to suffer that sort of shame and become one of ‘those deadbeat sycophants’ on society.
This is what brought me to selling Gary. When I left 5RH to take my current position, I took a HUGE cut in salary—almost half. Yes, it was a conscious decision, partly based on ‘what price do you put on sanity?” The job REALLY was THAT bad. Also, this employer has solid short-term and long term disability plans, as well as a good medical plan. These are things I had to look for in a job. Should I retire from here (it’s unlikely I’ll live to see that), my health insurance is paid for the rest of my life.
I was already asshole deep in medical debt. Last year, to try and reduce some of that debt, I cashed out my life insurance policy, and retirement. As a result, I took a terrible tax hit this year, and owed the IRS. I claim zero dependents, and usually get a very nice return every year. I knew that the cash out would affect that, but I anticipated that it would reduce greatly what I would get back this year, and that I would not end up owing my left nut. I was mistaken. Having no more savings, or retirement to cash out, the remaining thing is to liquidate solid assets…hence, Gary has gone to a new home in Arkansas. If I’d filed bankruptcy, especially before W’s new laws went into place, my life insurance and retirement would have been protected. Stupid fucking pride. What do I have to show for it? Certainly not a car, anymore. On the up side, I've just become more earth friendly.
* Weird Ass Shit That Happens To Randy
** Fifth Ring of Hell
Monday, April 21, 2008
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
Earlier this winter I was invited by the Immune Deficiency Foundation to come to Washington, DC to attend their “Capitol Hill Day”, and to meet with my legislators to discuss healthcare funding and reimbursement affecting people who need infusions of IgG to maintain a healthy immune system. If you are a regular reader, you know that I am one of these people. I have CVID and receive monthly infusions of IgG, which is a component of blood, extracted from plasma.
Wednesday night: 9:48 pm (EDT)
We had our dinner and training session for tomorrow. I got my appointments. I’m going to a ‘constituent breakfast’ with Senator Durbin. Throughout the day, I’ll be meeting with someone from Senator Obama’s staff, and two House Reps. It was nice meeting some of the IDF staff, and other Primary Immune Deficiency patients. A special guest was the Mom of “The Boy in the Bubble”. She is the one responsible for getting this bill introduced by one of her legislators. Some of the patient stories were horrific. One woman was told by her insurance company, “We’re not approving your IVIG because it’d be cheaper for us if you died.” This kind of bullshit should be criminal! “Oh, the U.S. healthcare system is fine!” We have a great healthcare system—as long as you’re not a consumer. For one of the richest countries, we have the shittiest healthcare system for an industrialized nation. But that’s not news.
I’m looking forward to the meetings and reporting further. (Although this is all going to be in one post most likely.) The unfortunate part of being in DC right now is that, the Youth for Hitler alumus, with the big hat and red Prada shoes is here at the same time. That’s a pisser. Oh, our dinner meeting got bumped to a smaller room because vp (evil incarnate) cheney took our original room for some function. church and this administration, I’m going to wretch before I get back to Chicago.
The weather is great. I got here mid afternoon, checked in, and went out to enjoy a few hours outside. The hotel is near Dupont Circle –aka “the fruit loop”. That’s a bonus. So I walked down to the “FL”, go to Kramer’s Bookstore and Restaurant (A GREAT Place), and get a table outside on the sidewalk, order a drink, and appetizer and pull out the laptop and relax for an hour and half. I also don’t get out the door without buying a book, “The Best Buddhist Writing 2007”. This is one of my favorite bookstores. I discovered it last fall when I was here. I’m rambling. I have to be ready to roll at 6:30, and you may remember, I’m NOT a morning person. So, signing off for tonight.
Thursday morning, April 17, 6:25 AM. (EDT). I am SO NOT a morning person. Luggage is checked with the bell station. I’m out to get on the bus. Bus is rolling out at 6:45 SHARP! NOT! One person in our group is in a wheelchair. The fucking bus driver doesn’t know how to operate the wheelchair lift. I shit you not, it is 8:00 before we finally leave the front of the Hilton. Traffic is rerouted due to the pope. The President of the IDF is sitting next to me. She keeps saying, “This route doesn’t seem right.” We are assured that it is, that the bus driver knows what he’s doing. We’re deep in Maryland before this imbecile admits that he’s lost. I posed the question, “How does someone get a job in transportation in Washington, DC and not know where the Capitol is?!?!” There is another Illinoisan in the group. We miss our breakfast with Senator Durbin. We’re bummed and pissed. We are finally dropped off at the Capitol, nearly two hours late. A couple of Reps were supposed to get awards from the organization. That didn’t happen either. Those of us who don’t have 8:30 appointments, are able to go to the Capitol building and chow down some breakfast before our previously reserved room is cleared.
We are in DC to Lobby our legislators about HB 2914, which is a Medicare reimbursement add on so that our medical providers can get appropriate reimbursement. Currently, providers get reimbursed for the IgG product, but not for infusion nurses, nor the IV pump. (One woman told about how she had to give herself her own IV, because insurance would not pay for the infusion nurse.) Because our medical conditions are somewhat rare and unusual, medical providers don’t always know how to treat us. Often, we are sent to Oncology centers, to Chemo suites for the infusions. Chemo patients get IgG as a boost to their chemo. For us, IgG is not the add on. It’s the primary ingredient. There are different manufacturers. Each of us responds differently to each ‘brand’ of blood product. We can have adverse reactions to the infusion. I’ve had reactions a few times, fortunately not severe. All this to say that IgG is not generic, as one physician told one of us.
It’s another beautiful Spring day. It’s a great day to be walking Capitol Hill. We are off to our first meeting. It is with Rep’s office of my other Illinois compatriot. IDF has set it up so that we have an ‘escort’, either staff person, volunteer, or blood product manufacturer employee. This person introduces us, and gives the ‘quick and dirty’ of why we’re there—tells about the proposed bill that we are hoping our legislator will support. As constituents/IVIG patients, we are there to tell our stories, and why it (the proposed bill) is important to us. We are the ‘human faces or stories’ of IVIG recipients. The first meeting goes OK. The person we meet with at the Rep’s office does not seem very engaged—like he’s meeting with us only because he has to.
We have some time before our next meeting, with Sen. Durbin’s office. We will have a different host/escort. We arrive sans escort, early. We apologize for missing the breakfast, and relay the bus driver story. We are told that it’s too bad as this morning’s breakfast was a small group and we would have actually had some face time with the Senator. We are doubly bummed and pissed at the bus driver. Our escort arrives, and we are introduced to the liaison that we are to meet. After our ‘presentations’ she asks a number of questions, takes notes, and is much more engaged than our first meeting. We feel this meeting was a success. We have almost two hours before our next appointment. We walk over the Old Union Station for lunch. Our next meeting is with Obama’s Office. This meeting seems as successful as the last one. The liaison we meet with is equally engaged, and tells us she will bring the issue up with the other medical liaisons at their weekly staff meeting. Our final meeting is with my Representative, Jan Schanowski. She actually comes out to meet us, shake our hands, and apologize that she has to catch a plane. Her staff person that we met with listened to our stories and took notes, like the others. She also asked us some really good questions about the legislation, and made connections, “Rep. S is on ‘this’ committee which has crossover to the committee that deals with medical. It was our best and most successful meeting of the day. As we are leaving, returning to the hotel to collect our luggage and head to the airport, our escort for this meeting says to us, “You are lobbyists!”
This day was a really cool experience. It was much more educational that any social studies or government class I was ever in. For those of us who feel like we’ve had so much taken from us (health, financial solvency, dignity, control of our lives) it felt like (for me anyway) that I was taking back a small bit of control. I was at least, not sitting by complacently, letting something happen to me. I was fighting back in some small way. I was able to tell my story to someone who may be in a position to affect change. I was able to be my own advocate. I’m most grateful to IDF for the opportunity to be a lobbyist for a day. ©wtf/rle
Wednesday night: 9:48 pm (EDT)
We had our dinner and training session for tomorrow. I got my appointments. I’m going to a ‘constituent breakfast’ with Senator Durbin. Throughout the day, I’ll be meeting with someone from Senator Obama’s staff, and two House Reps. It was nice meeting some of the IDF staff, and other Primary Immune Deficiency patients. A special guest was the Mom of “The Boy in the Bubble”. She is the one responsible for getting this bill introduced by one of her legislators. Some of the patient stories were horrific. One woman was told by her insurance company, “We’re not approving your IVIG because it’d be cheaper for us if you died.” This kind of bullshit should be criminal! “Oh, the U.S. healthcare system is fine!” We have a great healthcare system—as long as you’re not a consumer. For one of the richest countries, we have the shittiest healthcare system for an industrialized nation. But that’s not news.
I’m looking forward to the meetings and reporting further. (Although this is all going to be in one post most likely.) The unfortunate part of being in DC right now is that, the Youth for Hitler alumus, with the big hat and red Prada shoes is here at the same time. That’s a pisser. Oh, our dinner meeting got bumped to a smaller room because vp (evil incarnate) cheney took our original room for some function. church and this administration, I’m going to wretch before I get back to Chicago.
The weather is great. I got here mid afternoon, checked in, and went out to enjoy a few hours outside. The hotel is near Dupont Circle –aka “the fruit loop”. That’s a bonus. So I walked down to the “FL”, go to Kramer’s Bookstore and Restaurant (A GREAT Place), and get a table outside on the sidewalk, order a drink, and appetizer and pull out the laptop and relax for an hour and half. I also don’t get out the door without buying a book, “The Best Buddhist Writing 2007”. This is one of my favorite bookstores. I discovered it last fall when I was here. I’m rambling. I have to be ready to roll at 6:30, and you may remember, I’m NOT a morning person. So, signing off for tonight.
Thursday morning, April 17, 6:25 AM. (EDT). I am SO NOT a morning person. Luggage is checked with the bell station. I’m out to get on the bus. Bus is rolling out at 6:45 SHARP! NOT! One person in our group is in a wheelchair. The fucking bus driver doesn’t know how to operate the wheelchair lift. I shit you not, it is 8:00 before we finally leave the front of the Hilton. Traffic is rerouted due to the pope. The President of the IDF is sitting next to me. She keeps saying, “This route doesn’t seem right.” We are assured that it is, that the bus driver knows what he’s doing. We’re deep in Maryland before this imbecile admits that he’s lost. I posed the question, “How does someone get a job in transportation in Washington, DC and not know where the Capitol is?!?!” There is another Illinoisan in the group. We miss our breakfast with Senator Durbin. We’re bummed and pissed. We are finally dropped off at the Capitol, nearly two hours late. A couple of Reps were supposed to get awards from the organization. That didn’t happen either. Those of us who don’t have 8:30 appointments, are able to go to the Capitol building and chow down some breakfast before our previously reserved room is cleared.
We are in DC to Lobby our legislators about HB 2914, which is a Medicare reimbursement add on so that our medical providers can get appropriate reimbursement. Currently, providers get reimbursed for the IgG product, but not for infusion nurses, nor the IV pump. (One woman told about how she had to give herself her own IV, because insurance would not pay for the infusion nurse.) Because our medical conditions are somewhat rare and unusual, medical providers don’t always know how to treat us. Often, we are sent to Oncology centers, to Chemo suites for the infusions. Chemo patients get IgG as a boost to their chemo. For us, IgG is not the add on. It’s the primary ingredient. There are different manufacturers. Each of us responds differently to each ‘brand’ of blood product. We can have adverse reactions to the infusion. I’ve had reactions a few times, fortunately not severe. All this to say that IgG is not generic, as one physician told one of us.
It’s another beautiful Spring day. It’s a great day to be walking Capitol Hill. We are off to our first meeting. It is with Rep’s office of my other Illinois compatriot. IDF has set it up so that we have an ‘escort’, either staff person, volunteer, or blood product manufacturer employee. This person introduces us, and gives the ‘quick and dirty’ of why we’re there—tells about the proposed bill that we are hoping our legislator will support. As constituents/IVIG patients, we are there to tell our stories, and why it (the proposed bill) is important to us. We are the ‘human faces or stories’ of IVIG recipients. The first meeting goes OK. The person we meet with at the Rep’s office does not seem very engaged—like he’s meeting with us only because he has to.
We have some time before our next meeting, with Sen. Durbin’s office. We will have a different host/escort. We arrive sans escort, early. We apologize for missing the breakfast, and relay the bus driver story. We are told that it’s too bad as this morning’s breakfast was a small group and we would have actually had some face time with the Senator. We are doubly bummed and pissed at the bus driver. Our escort arrives, and we are introduced to the liaison that we are to meet. After our ‘presentations’ she asks a number of questions, takes notes, and is much more engaged than our first meeting. We feel this meeting was a success. We have almost two hours before our next appointment. We walk over the Old Union Station for lunch. Our next meeting is with Obama’s Office. This meeting seems as successful as the last one. The liaison we meet with is equally engaged, and tells us she will bring the issue up with the other medical liaisons at their weekly staff meeting. Our final meeting is with my Representative, Jan Schanowski. She actually comes out to meet us, shake our hands, and apologize that she has to catch a plane. Her staff person that we met with listened to our stories and took notes, like the others. She also asked us some really good questions about the legislation, and made connections, “Rep. S is on ‘this’ committee which has crossover to the committee that deals with medical. It was our best and most successful meeting of the day. As we are leaving, returning to the hotel to collect our luggage and head to the airport, our escort for this meeting says to us, “You are lobbyists!”
This day was a really cool experience. It was much more educational that any social studies or government class I was ever in. For those of us who feel like we’ve had so much taken from us (health, financial solvency, dignity, control of our lives) it felt like (for me anyway) that I was taking back a small bit of control. I was at least, not sitting by complacently, letting something happen to me. I was fighting back in some small way. I was able to tell my story to someone who may be in a position to affect change. I was able to be my own advocate. I’m most grateful to IDF for the opportunity to be a lobbyist for a day. ©wtf/rle
Monday, April 7, 2008
Never Enough
No matter how much time you have, it’s never enough. You want more. But you take what you’re given, and you learn to treasure the good, cloud over the bad—not completely, because hopefully in the bad you’ve gained a valuable life lesson. That part shouldn’t be forgotten. But you don’t want to hold on to the bad like you do the good.
In order to feel the exhilarating heights of joy and euphoria, the converse must be present. You also have to be able to feel utter despair and pain of grief. It’s the yin and yang. Not long after Ficus (the dog, not the plant) died, I felt very guilty because I was so grief stricken over losing her. I realized that I’d cried a lot over her, but never cried when my Grandma or favorite Uncle died. Did that mean I didn’t love them enough, because I didn’t cry when they died? Cognitively, I know that’s not the case. I’m not sure I can explain it. They were part of my life—a major part of my life. But they were not a part of my everyday routine. They did not impact my daily schedule. My Uncle had Alzheimer’s. For many intents and purposes, the Uncle/Man that I knew and remembered had died a few years before his body finally expired. In so many ways, it was a relief. Caring for him was taking an emotional and physical toll on my Aunt. Now the universe is repaying her with her own onset of Alzheimer’s. But, I digress.
There have been three times in my adult life that I have had a grief of this magnitude: Euckie’s death, which obviously is still very raw; when Ficus (the dog, not the plant) died; and when Bruce (henceforth known as the Stupid Fucking Mormon—SFM) told me he was leaving me and moving back to Utah to be with a man he met a two weeks before, when he went back to visit his parents. Ficus (the dog), I was prepared for—as much as one can be. I knew she had cancer. She was put to sleep the day the movers packed up my house for my move to Chicago. The good aspect of that, is that there were so many changes that happened at once. I was in a new city, in a new home which never housed Ficus. There weren’t constant reminders of her absence, because everything was different. That made the adjustment easier (or less difficult). It was 3 months later that SFM left me. As the man (a friend) who bought my house downstate commented, “Man, if you took one of those ‘changes in you life’ stressors test, you’d blow that fucker out of the water!” And so I did.
I wanted more time with Ficus (the dog); with the SFM; and with Euckie. The other thing about time is, when enough time HAS passed, after the grief making event, you are able to be grateful and hold the good memories, gently in your mind, heart, and soul. They do sustain you—even the ones with the SFM.
One of my neighbors gave me a bottle of wine, and told me to “Drown your sorrows.” I’ve never been a depressive drinker. I opted to hold on to the bottle, and will open it when I can drink a toast to the good times I had with Euckie—which is nearly all of them. Although there wasn’t enough time for my liking, in time enough when it’s less raw, I’ll walk our usual route, and it will feel good. It will feel right. She will look down, taking a break from chasing a squirrel, and will smile that crooked dog smile. And the sun will shine brighter for just a moment. ©wtf/rle
In order to feel the exhilarating heights of joy and euphoria, the converse must be present. You also have to be able to feel utter despair and pain of grief. It’s the yin and yang. Not long after Ficus (the dog, not the plant) died, I felt very guilty because I was so grief stricken over losing her. I realized that I’d cried a lot over her, but never cried when my Grandma or favorite Uncle died. Did that mean I didn’t love them enough, because I didn’t cry when they died? Cognitively, I know that’s not the case. I’m not sure I can explain it. They were part of my life—a major part of my life. But they were not a part of my everyday routine. They did not impact my daily schedule. My Uncle had Alzheimer’s. For many intents and purposes, the Uncle/Man that I knew and remembered had died a few years before his body finally expired. In so many ways, it was a relief. Caring for him was taking an emotional and physical toll on my Aunt. Now the universe is repaying her with her own onset of Alzheimer’s. But, I digress.
There have been three times in my adult life that I have had a grief of this magnitude: Euckie’s death, which obviously is still very raw; when Ficus (the dog, not the plant) died; and when Bruce (henceforth known as the Stupid Fucking Mormon—SFM) told me he was leaving me and moving back to Utah to be with a man he met a two weeks before, when he went back to visit his parents. Ficus (the dog), I was prepared for—as much as one can be. I knew she had cancer. She was put to sleep the day the movers packed up my house for my move to Chicago. The good aspect of that, is that there were so many changes that happened at once. I was in a new city, in a new home which never housed Ficus. There weren’t constant reminders of her absence, because everything was different. That made the adjustment easier (or less difficult). It was 3 months later that SFM left me. As the man (a friend) who bought my house downstate commented, “Man, if you took one of those ‘changes in you life’ stressors test, you’d blow that fucker out of the water!” And so I did.
I wanted more time with Ficus (the dog); with the SFM; and with Euckie. The other thing about time is, when enough time HAS passed, after the grief making event, you are able to be grateful and hold the good memories, gently in your mind, heart, and soul. They do sustain you—even the ones with the SFM.
One of my neighbors gave me a bottle of wine, and told me to “Drown your sorrows.” I’ve never been a depressive drinker. I opted to hold on to the bottle, and will open it when I can drink a toast to the good times I had with Euckie—which is nearly all of them. Although there wasn’t enough time for my liking, in time enough when it’s less raw, I’ll walk our usual route, and it will feel good. It will feel right. She will look down, taking a break from chasing a squirrel, and will smile that crooked dog smile. And the sun will shine brighter for just a moment. ©wtf/rle
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