SOLTuesday: It’s Work

Getting old is hard work. We have lots more visits to doctors, physical therapists, dentists and ophthalmologists (if we can afford them). It seems to take longer to do almost everything, especially when trying to find things, like the keys when we’re getting ready to go out, or a photo I saw just the other day and now has vanished. Our glasses. Where are our glasses, and which ones do we need, the reading ones, or the ones to watch TV?

I’m now discovering that even going to bed has become work. A pain in my right hip turned out to have nothing to do with the hip joint. My physical therapist said I had a compressed tendon, the one attaching my butt to the underlying bone. How did this happen? I sit with my legs crossed ALL THE TIME. So I have to stop that.

 

But in addition, I have to be careful of what position I place my body when I get into bed. I’ve never been able to sleep on my back, so that won’t work. If I lie on my side, I have to put a pillow between my legs. Have you ever tried to sleep like that? I can’t relax in that position. Lying on my belly seems safest, but with my head turned either right or left so I can breathe, and a pillow under the leg with the compressed tendon. But this does not feel natural and sometimes hurts my hip, and I wake frequently, toss and turn, get tangled in the sheets. Sleeping is now work to avoid the hip pain. Will it work? We’ll see.

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SOLTuesday: Poor Hospital IT Communication

Today, I went to a nearby hospital for an x-ray of my hip. The x-rays are done on a walk-in basis, so I did not need to make an appointment. I arrived and was, I guess, logged into the computerized system at 12:20 p.m.

 

Here’s the e-mail I sent to the hospital about what happened next. “Almost AN HOUR LATER, I received three e-mails, one telling me to check my Mt.SinaiAccount because I had a new message, the second telling me to Prepare for my visit by completing forms online, and the third had the subject line ‘Have you arrived?’ and the following text: ‘Hello Sonia, It's almost time for your 12:20 PM appointment. Once you arrive, let the clinic know by logging in.’ The three texts said exactly the same thing.

 

“THIS IS RIDICULOUS. I was already there, the x-ray was done. Why is the system sending me e-mails and text AFTER the fact? Obviously, the system has to be told to NOT send these e-mails and texts for walk-in appointments. It's extremely annoying.”

 

I wanted to inform the hospital that something was wrong with their default e-mail and text communications. First, I went to the the hospital’s website and found a phone number for Patient Relations. A recording reported that because of “higher than usual call volume,” I should leave my name and phone number. About 15 minutes I got a call from a difference phone number.The caller was clearly in a call center, as I could hear sounds in the background. I told him what I later described in an e-mail to the Patient Relations e-mail address. The caller then started asking questions. He knew my zip code. He then asked whether I had diabetes — and his accent was so thick I did not understand him for several tries. He asked if I had pain and if I had arthritis. Then he wanted to know my Medicare number. I do not know why he needed to know that, I said several times I didn't have it with me, and he kept asking if I could get it. I began to wonder if he really was calling from the hospital and hung up the phone. I've never been asked for my Medicare number when speaking to anyone else at this hospital.

 

After this abortive phone call, I sent the e-mail above to the hospital’s Patient Relations office. And then I sent another e-mail to them: “If the number I called above, 212-659-8990, is not your number, your webpage needs fixing. If the number that called me, 212-601-9340, is not from your call center, then perhaps your webpage and phone number have been hacked.”

 

At least I didn’t give out my Medicare ID. But how did this happen?

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SOLTuesday: I made a joke!

            Yesterday I stopped at the Shake Shack to get a chocolate milkshake and fries for my supper. No one was at the counter, so I went to one of the screens to order there. I had to give my phone number and name so they could send me a text. So I went outside to sit and wait, reading on my phone so I’d see the text when it popped up.

            Instead, a young man came out with a bag and called my name. As he brought my order to where I sat, I said, “You’re a human text!” It cracked him up, and I was glad that I can still come up with a snappy comeback.

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It’s Slice of Life Tuesday over at Two Writing Teachers. Check out this encouraging and enthusiastic writing community and their slices of life every Tuesday. And add one of your own.

SOLTuesday: Why I Hate Insurance

Back in March I had my annual mammogram. It included a sonogram since I’d had some pinchy feelings in my breasts and they are dense, so easier for mammos to miss things.

A few weeks ago I got a bill for the sonogram, which was unusual. I called the radiology center (only had to wait on hold for four minutes) and was told that Medicare had started routinely rejecting these as not medically necessary, and that I should have my doctor send Medicare a letter explaining the medical necessity, and the center would follow up. Today I called center’s customer service again (only had to wait on hold for five minutes), of course got a different representative, so I had to explain the situation twice. This representative said she would pass on the information.

 

Is traditional Medicare thinking it will save money by following the private insurance companies’ practice of rejecting claims in the hope that we will give up fighting the rejection?

Later I ran into a neighbor who said her method of fighting the insurance rejection was to try to get the name of the doctor who works for the insurance company who made the “not medically necessary” judgment and get her doctor to call that doctor. Would that really work?

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SOLSCMarch 22: Where Does the Time Go?

            A friend in my age group (post-80) and I were commiserating yesterday about how we have no time anymore. And here is one reason why.

            I have spent almost 40 minutes the past few days double-checking that my primary doctor got the report on my routine mammogram and sonogram. The tests were three weeks ago. On Monday I called my doctor's office to verify that she'd gotten the results (the tests were not done in the same hospital system that my doctor is attached to). Four days later a nurse in the doctor's office called me back to say they had not gotten them. Today I spent some time finding both the phone number of the site that did the tests and the fax number for my doctor. Then I called the site where the tests were done, had to wait through what seemed endless choices from the recording that answers the phone and finally spoke to the person who sends the reports. She said the report had been sent the day after the tests were done (she had the correct fax number), but she would send again. Then I called the doctor's office to alert them to look for the faxed results. The person answering the phone said she’s be on the lookout and would call me that they were received. She kept using the word “uploaded,” and I had to remind her that faxing and uploading are different methods, and this report was coming via fax.

            (I’m having trouble writing something every day. There just doesn’t seem to be any time!)

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SOLSCMarch 19: Be Prepared

            I have to have some blood work done today, so go to a nearby lab. At the reception desk is a sign saying that the person sitting there at the computer is doing other work, so I should use the automated check-in kiosks against the far wall. (One of the two kiosks is not working.) I’m a good girl and follow instructions. At the kiosk I have to show a photo ID, so I put my expired driver’s license under the reader. It’s accepted. Then it’s not clear to me if the medical insurance info is up-to-date, so I do the same with my insurance cards. Nothing changes on the insurance info page, so maybe I didn’t need to do any of that. At the end, there’s a survey asking how my check-in experience was, and I click on 1. I hate online check-ins.

            Before I finish, a man comes and talks to the woman at the reception desk. (I guess he’s not a good boy.) He says he has a 2 p.m. appointment, and it’s not even noon yet! Does he plan to sit here for two hours, or does he hope to get whatever he needs done earlier? Two people were waiting when I arrived. Four more have come in since.

            After maybe five minutes (I’ve done about half of the newspaper’s daily crossword puzzle), the woman at the reception desk calls my name and asks for my paperwork. A couple of minutes later I’m sent to Room 3. The nurse/tech is a 7.5 on inserting the needle. And I’m in and out in just half an hour. Not nearly as bad as I’d expected (an hour, two hours?).

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SOLSCMarch 18: No More Nice Girls

 

 

            No More Nice Girls was a feminist guerrilla theater group in the 1970s and 1980s. Perhaps Ellen Willis came up with the name at a meeting in July 1977, shortly before the lights went out all over the Northeast. I think our first action was in the early 1980s, when Reagan’s administration was cracking down on abortion rights and pornography. We wrote a skit called “Sex Cops,” with half of the group ordinary women and girls going about our lives—taking birth control, having an abortion when the birth control didn’t work, looking at porn or making porn, having sex without being married or being married having an affair—and the other half were cops arresting us for doing any of those things.

            In another skit, half of us were pregnant women being forced to keep our pregnances against our will by the sex cops. For this performance, we had to put pillows under our garments so we’d look pregnant, and while it had been about 10 years at that point since I’d been pregnant, the feeling of being so was distinctly disorienting and unpleasant. I did not even want to imagine myself pregnant, willingly or unwillingly.

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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 18 of the 31-day challenge.  It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about.  Join in!

SOLSCMarch 17: 50 Objects, Political Buttons

 

            I have a huge collection of buttons collected over  the past 60 years. Several years ago, when I still had an office, I pinned some of them to black strips of cloth and hung them from bookshelves. But I still had many others, which have been residing in two envelopes in the top of a closet.

 

           Today, I went to the Museum of Art & Design to see if I could find a bowl or basket to hold the buttons. There was this lovely ceramic, handmade by Ana Martin (her name is etched on the bottom), and a label on the bottom reads “This is Latin America.” So I don’t know what country Ana Martin is in, but I’m guessing Mexico or Central America.

            The subject matter of the buttons is varied: anti-censorship, pro-union, feminist, political campaigns, antiwar, and some just generally opinionated. Here are some of them.

 

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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 17 of the 31-day challenge.  It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about.  Join in!

 

SOLSCMarch 16: Easter Eggs

            No, not the hidden message ones — a meaning I only recently learned from the Strict Scrutiny podcast (which is about the Supreme Court, not about video games).

            No, this is a real Russian painted Easter egg. I think I got this one from Valentina Uspenskaya, political scientist and founder of the Association of Independent Women's Initiatives, as well as women’s studies at Tver State University, in Tver, Russia, neither of which may still exist. Sadly, I have not kept in touch with her over the years, and do not know how she is faring in the authoritarian and patriarchal Russia of Putin.

            I also once had a Ukrainian painted Easter egg, from one of my students. The designs were quite distinct from the Russian ones. Alas, that one broke some years ago, and I had never thought to take a photo of it, so cannot show you the differences. Images I find online show some alternative designs.

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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 16 of the 31-day challenge.  It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about.  Join in!

 

SOLSCMarch 13: A Boring Day

             I agreed to do a couple of extra days of copyediting for Publishers Weekly, today and tomorrow. This means I sat in front of my computer for most of four and a half hours, reading 15 reviews of forthcoming books and a feature about small publishers who did really well during the past three years.

            I learned that Natalie Goldberg has a new book out this summer on what she doesn’t want to call “writer’s block.” She titles it “Writing on Empty.” Also a book about how life came to be on Earth, including the suggestion that kelp forests (in the ocean?) could work to capture carbon from the atmosphere. Interesting. The feature was mostly biz info—how much sales had increased, what books were leading those sales, etc.—so I like being able to help the writing be less repetitive, but I’m not that interested in what the story is about. Though it is encouraging that these small presses are still doing well after the first two years of the pandemic sent book sales way up.

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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 13 of the 31-day challenge.  It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about.  Join in!

 

SOLSCMarch 12: A Family Photo

             I love this photo because it shows so much of family dynamics that I was not aware was being revealed.

            By which I mean, that’s me, on the left, leaning away from all these other people and staring into the distance. I’m 13, and I know I was thinking something like this: I don’t know what I am doing in this family. They don’t understand me, and I don’t understand them. I sometimes wished I was adopted, or found in a cabbage patch (old fairy tales sometimes had babies found in a cabbage patch; the Cabbage Patch Kids didn’t exist in the ’50s), but I also knew my parents were married two years before I was born so they probably were my parents.

            My father, on the right, looks very pleased with himself. Maybe he’d been out in the garden, or inventing something in his workshop in the basement/garage. I know we were living out here in what was still country in West Haven, Connecticut, because that’s where he wanted to be. I didn’t know until many years later that he’d been blacklisted after WWII (“I belonged to a political discussion group,” he told me, and a woman in the group talked to the FBI), so perhaps he felt he was hiding out here.

            My sister is between us, very unhappy. She never felt she belonged in our family either; she felt stupid because her interests were spiritual, while the rest of us had no concern for anything like that.

            My brother looks like he might be the same age as my sister, but he’s two and a half years older, 11 to her almost 9 (unless this photo was taken after August 10). Was this the year she was still taller than he was? I’m guessing he might not have been comfortable with that, and I’ve never asked him.

            And my mother looks so delighted with him, like he’s her favorite, which wasn't particularly true in real life. Maybe it’s because of what he is about to read, as he’d holding a piece of paper in his hands and looking expectantly at whoever is taking this photograph—it’s probably our grandfather. What was he going to read? I have no memory.

            We’re on the patio in the back of our small house, built on an acre, from a floor plan my father may have bought from Sear’s.

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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 13 of the 31-day challenge.  It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about.  Join in!

SOLSMarch 9: 50 Objects, a Cuban grasshopper

This is a grasshopper woven from grass. I bought it at a bus rest stop while on a tour of Cuba in December 2016. A young man, and possibly his sister, was sitting at the rest stop with a collection of these freshly woven grasshoppers for sale to any tourist who might wander by.

            My daughter and I were with Go Ahead Tours, and this trip was focused on art and music, with stops at a music school for children and with various artists. The rest stop may have been when we went from Havana to Cienfuegos. We got out of the bus to walk around, and when I saw these hand-woven grass grasshoppers, I had to have one. Even now that it’s dried, it’s still lovely.

            This trip was just a month after our election, and on our last day, we had a chance to ask our tour guide about Cuba, but he wanted to know, what about Trump? What kind of president would he be? He was obviously wondering what Trump would mean for Cuba, since travel like ours was still linked to art and education. And Trump did ban individuals going to Cuba for these purposes in 2017 and group travel in 2019.

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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 9 of the 31-day challenge.  It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about.  Join in!

SOLMarch 8: Another Gift from Eastern Europe

I no longer remember what this object is called. The friend from Bulgaria who gave it to me said it was intended hold perfume, to give scent to a space or perhaps for the user to sniff to overcome any bad smells. The top part screws off, and perfume or whatever sweet-smelling substance goes into the narrow hole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Did this friend also give me the lemon grass bottle? I don’t remember. I’ve never removed the lid of this one, so don’t know whether there still any scent left in the liquid there. But it’s a pretty object. 

 

 

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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 8 of the 31-day challenge.  It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about.  Join in!

 

SOLMarch 7: Politics Tonight

Tonight was the State of the Union speech as a campaign event. Biden was very good. He stumbled just a couple of times, but mostly he was in control of what he wanted to say, even seemed to ad lib a bit, and he dealt well with opposition interruptions when he could tell what they were about. (Who was that man up in the balcony and what was he shouting?) And Biden took excellent advantage of knowing who his competitor will be in the general election and taking direct aim at him.

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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 7 of the 31-day challenge.  It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about.  Join in!

 

SOLMarch 3: My Life in 50 Objects, #13

I was working as copy chief at the Village Voice in the 1980s. This meant, among other things, that I was the liaison between editorial and production. I wanted someone to give me a token of my authority, especially in my attempts to enforce writers’ deadlines. Instead, I had to find that token myself. I no longer remember where this little gavel came from, but it was exactly what I wanted. I waved it at recalcitrant writers — who paid no attention most of the time. I’d have liked to have it larger (it's only five inches long), but still, it had a graceful look on my desk. 

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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 3 of the 31-day challenge.  It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about.  Join in!

 

SOLTuesday: What do you do to avoid writing?

 

What do you do to avoid writing? Is it something otherwise constructive, like cleaning the oven or mopping all of the floors? Or is it totally wasteful, like spending an hour playing Bejeweled on your phone, like I did today? I had intended to work on the final edit for one of my job memoir pieces, but instead, I took out my phone and started playing the totally addictive Bejeweled. Moving the differently colored shapes into groups of three to make them disappear and new arrangements to show up—why is that so addictive for me? Is it satisfying the visual part of my brain? Is it merely giving me something to feel good about as the groups of three, or sometimes four or even five, jewels disappear and new patterns emerge—and the points on the scoreboard mount? I began to wonder how the game algorithm worked. As I scored more points, was the game programmed to keep me playing, was it harder to leave when new patterns kept appearing? When I reached 1,389,950, I stopped. The writing part of my brain woke up and pulled me away to write this slice of life. 

 

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It’s Slice of Life Tuesday over at Two Writing Teachers. Check out this encouraging and enthusiastic writing community and their slices of life every Tuesday. And add one of your own.

SOLTuesday: An Adventure on America’s Deteriorating Transportation System

I was supposed to return to New York this afternoon on an Acela, after a lovely long weekend at niece Emily’s in Salem, Mass. Her husband drove me to South Station in Boston in plenty of time for me to pick up food for dinner on the train. However, when I checked the train board, I saw my 4:15 had the dreaded “Delayed” next to it.

            It was now just 4 p.m. I went to the information booth and the young man there knew nothing. “There’s a delay” was the extent of his knowledge. Around 4:20, there was an announcement: no Amtrak trains would be leaving Boston “until at least 8 p.m.

            Back to the information desk. A woman in a red-beige-white-black print had more information. It appeared that a tree or some trees had fallen on the track, maybe around Providence, and gotten entangled in the electric wires that power the trains. They had to be cleared out and hopefully that would happen before 8  p.m.

            I immediately texted my daughter and my niece, but they were both still at work and didn’t respond.

            For the next couple of hours, that announcement was repeated every 15 minutes, conveying no more information. It did, of course, end with the obligatory “We are sorry for the inconvenience.”

            Lolita, the woman in the print dress, was more forthcoming. At one point, with four young women and me huddled around her wondering what to do next, she pointed out our options: (1) rent a car from Enterprise because they would deliver the car to the station, (2) walk a block or so away to the bus station and take a bus, (3) get a flight and take the MTA to the airport, or (4) change your ticket for a train tomorrow. Or wait for that illusory train sometime after 8. How long does the station stay open? I asked; until all the trains have left, Lolita assured me.

            My niece was the first to call back. Of course, we’ll come get you and you can take a train tomorrow, she said. At the ticket window, my choices were either too early in the morning, or too late. My niece works during the day, her husband at night; their boys are starting school tomorrow. I’m an optimist—there will be a train tonight. I decided to stay at the station.

            Around 6:30, a young woman sitting near me pointed out updates on Twitter. Each tweet announced that “due to ongoing power issues” various numbered trains were terminating somewhere or originating somewhere not Boston. When I saw my Acela originating in Kingston, Rhode Island, I went back to the information desk. The young man had no idea who sent that tweet.

            However, a tweet that all service between Boston and New Haven was suspended “until further notice” alarmed me. “Until further notice” to me means not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe never. There followed a rather wild period of me rushing back to the info desk, getting encouraging words from one worker, but somewhat more measured comments from Lolita, who was besieged, but being as helpful as she could with the limited information she had. Maybe I should try to change my ticket for tomorrow again? But now the line at the ticket window was long. Had I missed my chance? Just in case, I called my niece, who was just sitting down to dinner, to see if she could come get me.

            Outside, I noticed Lolita in more conversation and I thought she might know something more. My daughter called just then and I had to tell her I’d call her when I know something more substantial. Then a new announcement about trains boarding, and my train number was 2173 was among them. Gate 8.

            Finally, I was in a line to get on a train. Texting my niece to say, “there is a train.” Getting on the train and finding a seat and calling my daughter to say, “I’m on a train.” I was in the Quiet car, but half the people there were on their phones to report: “we’re on a train!” The conductor gave us some leeway for maybe 10 minutes. We left Boston at 7:35.

            Somewhere between Providence and Kingston, we stopped for 20 minutes. We were at the disrupted area, which now had only one track open, and waited for three northbound trains to use that track. And tomorrow I will have to call Amtrak to get the Acela fare I paid reduced since I’m not on an Acela now.

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It’s Slice of Life Tuesday over at Two Writing Teachers. Check out this encouraging and enthusiastic writing community and their slices of life every Tuesday. And add one of your own.