People in Airport Bars and the Chaos of Everything (A note from 30,000 feet)

It might be that there are 2 kinds of people in airport bars.

The bartenders at LAX never take your order without asking if you'd like a double instead of a single  for x dollars more. Everyone answers the question without hesitation. Sure. Or no thanks.

I had a gin and tonic before I boarded the plane. I still worry a bit about a full blown anxiety attack although I haven't had one in a couple of years. I also had a turkey sandwich. I don't eat turkey sandwiches. I planned to save half for my in-flight meal for the more than 5 hour flight to Baltimore. That resolution lasted until I finished the first half. Like I said, there are 2 kinds of people.

The bartender refilled the diet coke for the young woman on the barstool next to me. He mistakenly set it in front of the guy next to her and then caught himself. We all laughed. I don't think he wants to drink out of my glass, the woman said. The guy looked at her. She looked at him. I think he would have loved to drink out of her glass. Getting to know you, airport bar style, I said. We all laughed again and talked about Baltimore. When I got up, they were still talking.

At the gate I bumped my roller bag into the work-booted foot of a guy standing in the middle of things. I apologized. You didn't hurt me...yet, he said. Kinda creepy. A minute later he was chatting up a young woman who mentioned to him that she was on stand-by waiting for a seat. You can sit on my lap, he said. Definitely creepy. I circled around to get a better look at her, wondering if she was an adult or a teenager. They kept talking. She seemed okay with it. I kept out of it, but kept an ear open, listening. There were no stand-bys called to board the plane.

I created a certain amount of chaos for myself in the time between Alaska and getting on the plane to pick up my mom. I started projects that were too big to finish. Left a stack of mail unopened mail on my desk for both me and my mom. I wonder if I'm losing my organizational edge. If I just don't care anymore. Or if the cumulative strain of being the CEO of Pillville is wearing on me. (Of course it is.) Nowadays it always feels like I will let something slide off the edge. Somehow though I got my mom back onto hospice with a simple phone call. The hospital bed and the oxygen were delivered promptly within the one-hour window I requested. Maybe things are going to get easier, I tell myself. Sure. Maybe next time I'll save the other half of the sandwich, and just tell the bartender no thanks.

Monday Morning Beach Report

Post-holiday Emptiness

It was quite a bit busier in Pillville. We had a meeting with the case manager. I was barraged with phone calls from the medical equipment place. Due to the ins and outs of who pays for what, we must get rid of my mom's current hard won hospital bed and get a different one. We have to change out the oxygen concentrator too. It all has to do with who will pay for what, and hospice has its own pipeline. I really have no beef with that basic concept (well, I do, really, but never mind) but I did draw a line in the sand when I got the call that said the bed was about to be delivered, and I was having my time off, and the caregiver told me my mom was napping in her current bed. The medical supply office called me twice. When would I be home? The driver called me once. Why wasn't I home? And why wouldn't my mom's caregiver let him in?  I called the hospice case manager and asked for her help. She jumped in and sent the guy with the truck idling in my driveway AWAY. It's all funny, really. First we couldn't get the fucking hospital bed a year ago, and now they're beating down the door to give us another one.

Here's the best Pillville news today. My mom looks radiant. Most of her pain is gone. She feels good. She's a bit dreamy. While I was fixing dinner, she asked me if I remembered the time we stopped at the baseball diamond. She was sitting at the table with her martini, halfway between real life and dream life. For some crazy reason, she dreams a lot about baseball. I have absolutely nothing to say that can explain that.

Is this a hospital bed.....or an April Fool's joke?

Note the industrial gray headboard and the remote control. Note the smile on my mother's face. This is not an April Fool's joke. This, believe it, or not is a hospital bed. How did this happen?

On Friday I came across THIS ARTICLE in the New York Times--a fabulous piece with quite a bit of good info for anyone on Medicare. (And by the way, the New York Times has dozens of great pieces about aging.) In the article was a link which led me to HERE, and from there I followed the state specific link to THIS SITE, where I clicked on the complaint form. The next morning, I filled out the form, attached it to a detailed narrative, also attached the doctor's prescriptions, the handout from the medical supply company, then took it to my local UPS store and faxed it.

Today around noon I got a call from a woman at the HSAG telling me she had received my fax and that she'd spoken to the medical equipment company and the doctor's office. She said she had instructed them to communicate with one another and work it out and to do their best to get the bed delivered before the end of the day. If that didn't happen, she said I could give them another 24-48 hours, BUT to call her back and let her know if I didn't get the bed.

We got the bed.

I'm going to call the woman back tomorrow and thank her. Maybe she can help with my alimony.

But we're feeling good here in Margaritaville/Pillville. Flyin' high.

Report from Pillville

This week's wrap-up:

The vascular surgeon: My mother quit smoking 17 months ago. This means that, given her post lung cancer ration of 10 cigarettes a day, she has consumed approximately 5,100 fewer cigarettes than she would have if she still smoked. Unfortunately, the circulation in her legs and feet is worse than ever. The good news is that she's in less discomfort than she used to be. For whatever reason, she's not regularly waking a couple of time per night with pain in her feet. On the advice of her doctor, we are watching and waiting.

The cardiologist and the chemical stress test: First the I.V.. Then the injection of the "special medicine without side effects that won't make you feel any different, but will allow detailed pictures of your heart." Okay. Then 3 glasses of water---this was more difficult for my mother than the I.V. Then the imaging which has to be done while the patient remains silent and lies perfectly still with arms above the head. Then another test. Then a break for lunch and a nap in the car. Then another set of images in the same uncomfortable position. Total time: 5 hours.

For me that equalled a lot of time reading email and scrolling through Facebook. And then there were the magazines:

Somebody in that office has a life when the lab coat comes off!

And now for the final story in Pillville tonight. The doctor's office again failed to successfully complete the paperwork required by Medicare for the hospital bed.

The medical equipment place called me yesterday afternoon to tell me they received a FAX from the doctor, but the information was not written in a clinical note And it failed to state that the patient required frequent changes in position. AND.....the doctor didn't sign it. As a final twist, the person who was handling my mother's case at the medical equipment company has quit. The person who is now handling the case will call the doctor's office tomorrow. I'm considering a crowd funding scheme as a publicity stunt.

Meanwhile, the vascular surgeon suggested a new primary care doctor. And one of the office staff at the cardiologist's raised her gorgeously penciled on eyebrows to the moon when I told her about the bed predicament. "Completely unacceptable," she said three times in a row. She told me that hospital beds are usually ordered by the primary care physician, but that I should give the cardiologist's  medical assistant a call.

Time. All of this takes sooo much time and mental energy. This afternoon M and I went to get groceries, and after we'd unloaded the cart, I realized I'd forgotten my wallet. I think my brain might be a tad bit radioactive. I might need a subscription to that Smithsonian Travel Catalogue.

Please Universe, Send Me a Sign

Could be a music festival, I suppose.

At least I had the good sense to call my mom's doctor and the hospital bed place while I walked on the beach this morning.  While there is not yet a bed on the way, my blood pressure is probably just fine. 

Quote from the conversation with the medical equipment place: "You could just pay out-of -pocket to rent a bed from us."

Quote from the doctor's office staff, (delivered in a whine): "They keep asking us for more paperwork. It's not our fault they keep changing what they want."

I'm grateful that my mom has had more good days than bad days in the past week. 

But I have decided that a formal complaint to Medicare is in order. Probably that will involve my computer, and won't be able to be done from my "office" on the sand.

Today's treasures: A shark egg case (also known as a mermaid's purse) and some beach glass.

Hospital Beds and Other Furniture

Let's begin with my desk:

Which is kind of amazing, considering it was barely visible and could not be approached without fear of bodily harm a week ago. My tax prep stuff is not quite yet off to the accountant, but I'm close. Very close. I predict that the file for a certain story I'm revising will be opened this evening.

Things are not going so well with the hospital bed for my mom. Every week for the last month, I've called the company that will be providing the bed after Medicare approves it. Every week, I've also called the doctor's office. The Company assures me that they are trying assiduously to get the paperwork that Medicare requires of the Doctor. The Doctor assures me that they've sent it to the Company. I call the Company back; they say yes, the Doctor has sent This but not That. I call the Doctor; they say, oh, we will send That. I call the Company who says, well, yes, they sent That, but they did it wrong. Repeat. Repeat. And on and on.

On Friday, while the blessed Rosa was with my mom, I drove to the Company. Hi, I said, just thought I'd stop by and see if we could phone the Doctor together, so that I'm not in the middle of this weird ping-pong game, blindfolded. Well, I didn't say that exactly, but something much more prosaic. Sure, the guy said. For fifteen minutes, the Doctor's line was busy. Okay, I said, how about you show me exactly what you need. I will go get it and bring it back to you today.

They actually have a hand-out that explains what Medicare needs. The piece the Doctor failed to provide is explained in the photo above, annotated and highlighted, propped up against my dashboard. I took it to the Doctor. Explained. Wrote my mother's name and birthdate on it. I'll wait for it, I said. Oh dear, that's not how it works, the woman behind the desk said. Oh yes it is, I almost said, mentally unfurling a sleeping bag and pillow while I yawned and stretched and said, I'm waiting for that fucking piece of paper, and I plan on sleeping here. Instead, I said okay. She said, I'm sorry. The doctor will get to it soon. I said, Thank you.

That was Friday. At approximately 11:30. The Woman said they would fax it to the Company. Uh-huh.

And you know what, I don't really blame the Doctor or the Woman at the front desk. Or the Company. I blame Medicare. The pile of paper the Doctor has already sent the Company is enough to paper the wall of a large room. The doctor wrote out a prescription for a hospital bed, just like he writes out a prescription for my mother's 10mg opiate pain killers. I could sell those. I could take those little pills myself and get doped up enough to never give a damn about her hospital bed. No big deal. Here's one little piece of paper. Now sign here. Take it to the pharmacy. Bingo. Opiates. A hospital bed? Nope. Let's not give an old woman who's almost 90 and in constant pain a hospital bed. God knows what might happen.

Monday I will call the Company. Visit the Doctor again, if necessary. When I get that bed, I'm going to work on changing the regulations. Any tips, readers?

Oh, and of course, when we get the bed, I'm gonna have a crazy party. We'll raise our heads, and then our feet, oh my god, we'll put up the sides so we don't fall out and then we'll put the sides back down and take pain pills until we fall on the floor.

Report from Pillville: The hospital bed, the wheel chair, the companion

photo of my mom after her birthday trip to Maryland last September

On my second day of trying, I believe that a hospital bed is working its way through the bureaucracy to my mother. It may or may not be accompanied by a hospital bedside tray table. The transfer (or is is transport or transit?) wheel chair is another story. Medicare does not seem to provide those--or maybe they do, and the agency in my area that "won the bid" is just too dysfunctional to provide one. Anyhow-- I bought the damn chair so I can get my mother to Miracle Ear (oh, if only their hearing aids were actually miraculous) on Wednesday. The trek through Sears to its remotest corner where Miracle Ear is housed is another of the inexplicable inconveniences of old age--and will be impossible if she's having a bad day.

I have a phone call in to an agency that provides a free 1-hour consultation with a lawyer to help me figure out the ins and outs of paying a companion for my mother since the IRS information sheet on paying a domestic employee is devoid of plot and character and poetry, and therefore cannot be read by me. I have an email into the CPA that does my taxes regarding the same issues, and meanwhile I'm concocting a story whereby we just pay this wonderful woman under the table in cash, and I cook the books here in Margaritaville to "prove" that we've been ordering expensive take out every night on my mom's dime. If she has to eventually go into a nursing home,  food would be a permissible spend down of her savings, and making it look like we eat caviar and lobster (so easy to chew!) every night seems preferable to actually figuring out withholding and Social Security and how to file Schedule H with her taxes when her income is so minuscule that she hasn't filed taxes in years.

Oh, and I have to check something about accidents and domestic employees on my homeowner's insurance policy, but it's too late to do this this evening, so I think I'll just get drunk. My sciatica which was kicked up a week or so ago by lifting a regular wheel chair in and out of my hatch 3 times is killing me. So yeah, I'm calling out for some caviar right now. If you want to come over and join us, give a call so I get enough for all of us. Oh and yeah, there'll be martinis, too. We're switching to the expensive gin.