Mysteries of the Universe

 

Pretty Flowers

 

In the last week and a half, I've been to the hospital for x-rays, seen an orthopedic surgeon, and gone to a physical therapist. Each of these people are in the same so-called medical network. The hospital is about five hundred yards from my primary care physician's office, the other two offices are in the exact same building. 

At each visit, when I walk into their office, the receptionist asks for my name, stares at the computer for a minute, and after a few clicks, asks me to confirm my date of birth, address and so on, indicating after each response that I've given them a correct answer.

What I want to know is, why, at each one of these places, am I having to fill out variations of the exact same three forms, asking me the exact same questions - what prescriptions am I taking? What is my medial history? What is my family's medical history? What are my allergies? And on and on and on. Why do they keep asking me this? Why is this not in their system?

A few years ago, I went through this with a different specialist, also in their network. When I went back for a follow-up a month later, the nurse practitioner asked me the exact same questions AGAIN. When I responded that I just went through this a month earlier, she didn't miss a beat. She just continued on. 

The only thing that seemed to get a reaction from her is when she got to the point of asking me about my medications, I could remember all of them - except for the one that was prescribed for me one month earlier by the doctor I was there to see. 

When I couldn't remember what the prescription was, Nurse Ratched replied with a sarcastic, "Well, that's helpful." 

I told her that "this very doctor is the one who prescribed it for me. I would think it would be in your system - but apparently your system doesn't work that way!" She stopped writing, glanced up at me for about three seconds - then started writing again. 

What she was writing, I can only guess.

Warm Weather and Happy Thoughts

 

Today was the warmest day of the year so far. It was probably the warmest day since last fall. To celebrate, Sam and I went for a walk on the finally non-ice covered bike path for the first time in I don't know how many months.

I had kind of forgotten how nice it was to walk this route. There was a gentle, almost spring-like breeze. Out on the water, large flocks of geese noisily bickered over god-knows-what. Further in the distance, a few swans floated downstream. 

As enjoyable as it was, it would have been even more so had some of the other folks bothered to wear their friggin' masks.

For Sam's sake, I tried not to let it get to me. Instead, I focused on the fact that perhaps some of these specimens may, at some point, find themselves lying in a hospital bed, alone, with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and think, "If only I had worn a mask."

 I found this helped my attitude considerably.

Twenty-four Years of Sam

Sam and his Grandpa, circa October 1998 (I think).

Happy birthday to one of my favorite people.

Best Wishes

When I picked Sam up from work on Wednesday, I was met, as I often am, by Sam's supervisor. Usually she wants to catch me up on something about his day or to flag my attention to something upcoming. Sometimes it's just for a little small talk. 

This time though, she was trying to catch me before Sam came out. She wanted to know if it was ok if they surprised Sam with a birthday cake when he came to work on Friday. 

These people are so good to him. I don't know how long this job will last but, however long it is, they have my unending gratitude for their thoughtfulness and the kindness they've shown him. No wonder he loves going to work.

Helpful Advice From the Cranberry Sauce Company

I wonder why the cranberry sauce company felt the need to do this.  Were too many people calling customer service, complaining that they couldn't figure out how to open the can?

Smells of the non-Season

My twenty-three pound turkey in my twenty-four pound turkey-sized oven.

 

The last few times Sam and I have gone grocery shopping, we've toyed with the radical off-season idea of buying a still-in-stock, still-cheap, frozen turkey. But like so many ideas we’ve toyed with before, we (meaning me) never actually went through with it. 

Part of the reason for this (speaking specifically frozen-turkey-wise) is because our refrigerator is too crammed full of once food-like items of an unknown variety and an unknown age, to even think about cramming in a frozen turkey. Buying a frozen turkey might mean that I would be forced to clean out the refrigerator - or at the very least, clean out a turkey-sized spot in the refrigerator.

But last weekend we went for it. Before we left of our latest death-defying trip to the grocery store, I cleared out a turkey-sized spot in the refrigerator and we went and bought our usual, family-size twenty-three pound frozen turkey (even though our home is currently at below family-size) - and today, I’m cooking it.

As the smell of roasting turkey fills the air, a couple of things occur to me.

First of all, I think this is the only time I’ve ever cooked a turkey when it wasn’t either Thanksgiving or Christmas. I love the smell of roasting turkey but this feels a little odd and a little out of place.

Also, not being Thanksgiving or Christmas, this means I don’t think I've ever cooked a turkey when the entire family wasn’t around. Oh sure, there might have been a Thanksgiving or two when someone either couldn’t make it or at best, had to eat and run, but those don’t count.

It makes me feel very nostalgic. And when I feel nostalgic, this often means contemplating fond memories - before rapidly cascading into borderline depression.

And since I'm halfway there anyway, I decided to go all in and light a balsam-scented candle. I figure, if I’m going to be depressed, I might as well go for the full effect.

Tonight's Weather

It's snowing...again! The good news is that this time, instead of it being light and fluffy, it's heavy and wet. I'm taking this to mean that spring must be right around the corner.