Sporting more and more widely spaced colors. At least nothing hurts, pretty much. The one minor exception is the femoral site. Until today, standing annoyed the bruise. I did forget the prohibition against bending over and wiped up a spill on the kitchen floor. Oops. But necessary. Minor burning feeling periodically afterwards for a couple days.
Driving didn't bother anything. There was Steve's doctor appointment. I stayed in the car. These days that's the norm, not a reaction to the surgery. Even that early in the morning now, the sun pours in the window and heats things up too fast.
I also drove to another doctor office since I needed to make an appointment and found out my voicemail and ringer were both fubar. Then there was the evening trip to take Steve to his favorite grocery store. He announced his need for stocking up about 5 minutes after I'd changed into pajamas, but I figured in the dark of the parking lot, who'd care? I just told him he better not fall or have some other kind of emergency where I'd have to come into the store for him, 'cause I wasn't doing it! Not wanting to be visible to the general population, I chose not to bring along my Kindle which required light in the car, so the big entertainment as I waited was noticing the car opposite had attached huge fake eyelashes along the top of each headlight.
Whatever.
I finally decided it was high time to remove the bandage. I was already over 24 hours from when they told me I could, but I harbored concern that all the pulling and tugging of the adhesive might open something up again, and this time it could be critical. It could be seen as a sign of where my head isn't at yet that it took me that long to figure out that if I had Steve right next to me watching for any ill effects that I'd be OK, in case. So he was, and I was. The bulky gauze pad inside the big adhesive square was black, fully soaked with now very dead blood cells.
Smelled like it too! GAG!
Funny, it never occurred to me before that I might smell one of those things. It's not that I actually tried it this time, it was just inescapable. A couple of wet-wipes later I was much more approachable, no longer something that might, as a certain ex liked to say, knock a buzzard off the shit wagon.
Next day was, blessedly, shower day. Grin-n-n-n-n-n.
Yesterday a form letter came from our HOA. I don't know why, exactly, they hadn't noticed that the weeds in the front yard were growing nice and tall, but they apparently hadn't. Until now. It's not that we've completely ignored them. But our combined health issues have kept us from addressing them as well as we all would have liked.
Reading the letter, I was tempted to send them an email along the lines of "Now that I'm beginning to recover from my cardiac surgery I had earlier this week, I can start getting back out and taking care of the weeds. Though still on activity restrictions, I will do what I can, in small chunks. Your 30 day deadline should be doable. We appreciate your concern."
Still thinking about it.
I'd been out with Round Up a few weeks earlier, and pulling weeds a couple times before that. Some weeds were impervious to those little spots of chemical that were all the bottle nozzle emitted, some died and blew away, some were beyond the limits of how much Roundup we had left from last year. New ones have not been shy about popping up as soon as backs were turned. I think it's a gift they have.
Those weeds actually were appreciated in some quarters. Quail scurried around underneath and reached up to pick off whatever seed or bug might be tasty. Some tiny bird yet unidentified by us would hop up into a branch I'd been sure was incapable of holding even such a tiny bird, also finding edibles.
But....
I waited until early this morning when temperatures had dropped from yesterday's 100 to a very brief 70, filled a different but usable spray bottle, and went out to spray till the bottle was empty. That covered about a quarter of them. Uh... a quarter of that chunk of front yard. I returned to the house to recuperate and grab coffee with my morning news. Steve woke up and took the ice chopper we'd moved down from Minnesota (you ask why?) and chopped down deep into the roots of the tall weeds until they were unattached and horizontal. (With luck they'll blow away before he can get out for the picking-up phase. Anybody got the weather wind report? Any big fronts coming through?) Then my turn again with another refill, covering the next quarter yard. I didn't actually empty the bottle this time, just my energy reserves.
Did I mention a whole lot of the front "lawn" is spurge? Spreads out flat, grows like crazy, shelters tiny biting ants, and takes a lot of Round Up, often multiple sprays. If you have a magnifying glass and a flexible back, you can actually see pretty little flowers scattered across the top, eagerly producing the next million seeds.
I left them. Not exactly by choice. By exhaustion. I didn't think that little bit of work, with about an hour respite in the middle, was that significant. Apparently right now my recovering body disagrees.
There are now several fewer selections in the recorded list in the DVR box. Maybe 20? They weren't all wonderful and got deleted early.
I'm used to bouncing back. Apparently my body stomped on the brakes this time. This post has been my first actual accomplishment since this morning. Such a lot of work....
Saturday, April 27, 2019
Thursday, April 25, 2019
Rainbow Girl
Rainbow Girl:
You can call me that for the next couple months, maybe. I will be exhibiting a spectrum of colors starting with black and blue, ranging through burgundy, green, yellow.... In other words, I sport an abundance of hematomas. Bruises. Rainbow Girl.
A Good Friend:
With Steve on meds which keep him away from behind the wheel, and me not being allowed to drive myself home from the hospital, (and theoretically another two days ... ahem...) I took up a friend's offer of a round trip lift. She happens to be the president of the jewelry club I go to. We've gotten closer over the last couple years over the day-to-day of fellow officers. I'm not special in regard to this offer as she's given lots of us assists with medical transportation and visits.
Timing:
I'd gotten three different phone calls from medical personnel about what I needed to do and when. After I'd confirmed a ride to drop me at the hospital for check-in Tuesday at 1:00 (yes, that's PM, a long time to fast) for 3:00 surgery, another employee called back and stated surgery time was now 3:30 and I should be there at 1:30 or so. I got there before 1:00 anyway, not willing to mess with my ride's schedule for her day, prepared for however long a wait.
As I was finishing signing all the forms they give you at the admitting window, my cell rang. Though impolite to do so, the fact that the number was an unidentified local one might mean it was medical, and should be answered. It could also be a roofer or some scammer, but I was taking no chances. It was indeed medical, from my next stop of the day, the place where I was to be prepped for surgery. It turned out they had a cancellation and might I be able to leave home and come in a bit early? I told her she was too late, I was already in position to be at her door in the basement in about 5 minutes. She sounded like I just made her day. Or maybe just saved her from having to make more phone calls. No matter, happy to help.
My Usual Jinx At Work:
Those who know me well are aware that machines tend to glitch up when I'm near them if it's going to happen at all. It's like the cash register at the grocery store, for example. This tendency covers more than just machines. I think the pre-op room was accustomed to prepping us in a fairly short time. Well, there was some inaccurate information about what meds I was taking, though they had just been entered into the system upstairs. The chat with the anesthesiologist -or maybe anesthetist? - took a while as I made sure he knew what he needed to about my experiences. He had a tendency to parrot back things I hadn't said, or not wait for a full list of answers to his questions. Once in the gown.... OK, well, gown is a very loose and misleading term, especially any hint that it may actually cover around more than 3/4 of my body or bear the remotest resemblance to fashion. Anyway, once in it, an earlier suggestion which I ignored at the time that I might need to use the bathroom started working its magic on my bladder, turning my denial into a lie. By this time, the team is paranoid that, even though reasonably healthy, sane, able-bodied and undrugged, I might overcome the gripping ability of their precious little yellow rubber-ribbed booties and take a tumble, so I had to be escorted. One wonders what they might know about the gripping capacity of those booties....
Once back to my cubicle, I realized my cell phone, being of little battery capacity in its old age, hadn't been turned off for the however-many hours until I was in shape to actually use it again. I really needed it at the end of my stay to coordinate my ride home, it being my only record of the necessary cell phone number. My oversight was helpfully taken care of for me by the first (!) in the crew attempting to hit a vein for an IV. I was really dehydrated by then, no food or liquids since about 8:30 the previous evening, so I can't really fault his two tries, the next person's two tries, or the third one's. Each try leaves a bruise and a spot that can't be tried again due to contamination. It they hadn't finally found a somewhat viable vein in my hand, they were going to borrow the ultrasound that the guy waiting his turn in the needle que to put in the A-line needed to make sure he tapped an artery so they could take the freshest blood samples throughout the procedure to know... well, hell, by this time I didn't give a hoot what this was needed for. Besides, the lidocaine they put in that spot didn't really kill the pain of whatever else was going in.
Next came the EKG. Or would have, but it turned out the screen on that machine showed only static. A search was conducted and interview held trying to find out what I possibly would have on / in / near me to cause the static. Twenty minutes later a couple of those patches they snap the leads into were replaced. The new ones worked perfectly. Squiggles were produced.
I was ready to go. Well, oops, not so fast. Blood needed to be drawn for tests, STAT, now that I'd been successfully tapped. Just as they started wheeling the gurney, somebody realized (me, of course, who else?) that the shaving needed in the groin area so they could get a sterile tap on the femoral artery hadn't yet happened. Whoa pony!
Going Under:
Once wheeled into the O.R., there was the issue of positioning me on the table. It WAS an issue. The woman on my left insisted I was way too far over in her direction. My hands on either side of me said I was smack dab in the middle, equal space on both sides. Moving while flat is such fun anyway, and after doing more wiggling than actual moving several times, she finally declared me in position. I felt no difference.
My hands were just flopping down off this narrow table, pulling on my shoulders. I dreaded the thought of how the shoulders would feel after surgery. After all, I figured I'd have issues with one leg and would need both arms to assist with mobility. Those already give me enough pain after multiple rotator cuff tears. The staff had a plan for this though. A pair of velcroed wide straps on either side of the table were fastened around my wrists, and another problem solved.
My machine jinx was still functional. The same woman who'd been fussing with my position needed to have a certain software window up on her screen, the one that showed the heart area and exactly where their “zapper” (technical term) was during the procedure. First, though, it was needed to show the location of some magnet under me. Finally somebody arrived who set it up properly and huge sticky patches were slapped on me front and back. COLD!!! Anesthesia central (yeah, so I still can't tell you if he was an anesthetist or anesthesiologist. OK?) arrived, informed me here comes the happy juice, and my last thought was I agreed.
Coming Out Of It:
Instantly my next thought was being aware of feeling like shit, unfocused, slightly dizzy, slightly nauseated, and incurable cold. I had to tell them that, even though I couldn’t quite, not yet. Once I was able to speak, recovering some of my bodily control, and licking my mouth enough to mitigate dry-mouth if not the raspy throat left from the breathing tube, two words were managed: “Cold. Shivering.”
Indeed I was, both. It still didn’t stop after they piled on what they described as 20 heated blankets. The shivering was so intense I wondered that they didn’t seem to either notice it or care, and how on earth they could distinguish it from a seizure. My hands were, no exaggeration, moving about 6” in every direction from the shivering. So was the rest of me, though my legs were locked rigidly in place. Strangely appropriate, considering there was an incision we strongly needed to protect. It finally quit about an hour and a half later, though I still didn’t really feel warm yet. The energetic shaking was later explained to me as a very common reaction to the drugs used in the procedure. I wondered whether, if someone did in fact have seizures after the procedure, would anybody notice? I am still amazed that after all that unaccustomed exercise, I don't feel like the morning after that first day in the gym.
At least most of the rest of my symptoms went away a few minutes after waking. Hey guys, next time let me sleep that final five minutes? Really. I could skip the blecchhh and the queasy. All that lingered was dry mouth and a scratchy throat, much like I was already used to from this extreme pollen allergy season, particularly since they didn’t bother giving me my allergy meds until I requested them next morning. By the way, with all the sneezing and nose running I was also doing, I was now upstairs "just" in an observation room and there was no $25 box of Kleenex to be found. Paper hand towels from the restroom dispenser get scratchy after a while. Very short. The napkins sent on the food trays aren't much better.
Spanish Only:
A roommate arrived shortly after I was somewhat settled in. The room was extra busy for a while. She was elderly, weak and frail, and accompanied by a younger female relative. Both of them only spoke Spanish, though the younger had tried to gain a few words. I still have enough left from school to recognize a few words, but in a “conversation” with her attendant, we both recognized we were better with the other’s language if we had time to organize what were were going to try to say, and lousy at understanding whatever the answer was. Needless to say, most of the time it was a very quiet room.
There was one glaring exception. Every time the medical staff needed to converse with this patient, they tried English first, despite arriving knowing she didn’t speak it. Apparently it took a few seconds for it to sink in that “Spanish only” didn’t mean “slightly conversant in English”. Luckily, there’s an app for that.
The staff connected to a translation service. After giving a patient file number, and getting back a translator ID number after a short wait for somebody with the right language skills, communication of a sort commenced. There were drawbacks. Like any typical cell communication, interruptions were abundant, one not understanding when the other was finished. This was exacerbated by it being a three-way communication. There was too little comprehension that questions needed to be answered and then, hey guys, PASSED ON before the next issue was tackled. The reason I know this is it seems everybody seemed to try to compensate for communication issues by upping the volume significantly, like that works. “Spanish Only” does NOT translate to “deaf”! Who needs HIPA laws when everybody yells?
Sleeping:
Not. It's more than all the staff visits, the need for vitals taken, pills given, food trays in and out, yet another source for tissue substitutes found, and the yelling from behind the privacy curtain. The bed: too hard, wrong angles. Pillow: too flat, won't stay under the head, keeps slipping down under the shoulders, neck stiff. TV: wrong angle, always off to the side so neck gets too stiff to be comfortable in any position so the pillow problems are exacerbated. At least I was becoming less dehydrated slowly so not too many disruptions for middle of the night potty breaks. Don't usually think of slow rehydration as a plus.
Restrictions:
First, of course, I'm restricted from driving. Theoretically. I had of course forgotten Steve's medical appointment early Thursday morning. 'Nuff said. There's also no immersion, no tub, pool, or whatever for however long they said. The sheet's right across the room so I'll check. Later. Need to take it really easy. This part, no sweat, any puns intended. That humongous bruise in the "groin area" - they're so polite in their terminology - really hurt that first time up for a potty break. In fact the whole leg did, but the next break surprised me by how close to normal the leg felt. It felt so normal that the next time walking I was surprised all over again, this time by how much the leg hurt. Anyway, I have this constant reminder, so am doing just the truly necessary stuff. Right now those weeds in the lawn don't look so urgently in need of spraying like they did before surgery, even fast as they're growing and flowering, particularly with my restrictions including no lifting over 10 pounds and no bending over.
Wait. What? No bending over? How the heck am I supposed to put my feet in my socks? I mean, I can slide my heels backwards on the rug and work socks off, but it doesn't work the other way. For the projected 100 degrees the next two days, barefoot might not be so bad an idea, but that won't work for driving. Wait, pretend you didn't just read that. Since my current home jewelry projects involve bending over a chair, I'm choosing to be on the side of caution and forgoing them a while.
There's also admonishment about no heavy-duty pooping. Uhhh, okay....
Meds “Management”:
There are two sheets of "new" instructions of medications. I'm already making two changes without further consulting him. First, he thinks I'll be taking amiodarone again. Ri-i-i-i-ight. That pig ain't flying again. It kept my heart rhythms perfectly for nearly three years, keeping me from even needing this surgery. But toxicity is toxicity. Line in the sand.
Second, he arbitrarily switched me from Warfarin to Eliquis for a blood thinner. I have already had that discussion with my regular cardiologist, and chose to manage the warfarin for any needed dosage changes. I called my pharmacy since this doc sent in a prescription before discharging me, to inquire about the price. With my insurance coverage, my co-pay for Eliquis would be $400! Warfarin costs me 1% of that. Don't know about the rest of you, but I don't have a loose $400 to throw around on a regular basis when there is a perfectly acceptable - to me - alternative. I told the pharmacy to cancel that prescription. An occasional INR test is no biggie.
Evaluation:
I've already gotten my first request for feedback on my experience. I think I'll send them here. After all, minimal exertion, right? The one really really big thing not addressed yet is that the staff, without exception, was unfailingly helpful, friendly, and informative. Give them all raises ... so long as my bills don't go up.
There was one thing, though. The doc who was in charge of discharging patients at the time needed to take a last look to see if the femoral hematoma still hadn't spread. Seems a wise idea. He had me lie back in the bed and told me to "cover up". Since I'd been wearing my undies since early morning, and nothing he needed to see was blocked but everything else was, I didn't jump to follow that instruction. He repeated it and then before I could move to do it, reached for my blankets and covered me to the waist, then pushed them over from the side to view my leg. Now modesty tends to fly out the door in hospital settings, by necessity. Three babies, pelvic exams and PAP smears, mammograms and EKGs all trump over any need to hide skin. I had to wonder what his issue was. Is this guy really in the right profession?
Mirror Test:
This was my fun first chance, now home, to see my self other than my face since leaving for the hospital. There were a couple of the stickers for the EKG still clinging to the hope of usefulness, one per shoulder, and another pair, nevermind where. Removed, adhesive residue rubbed off. No skin blistering. Then came the peek - should I write that pEEK! ?) at that groin bruise. Holy Moley! Holey Moley! Black, big, ugly. They said there was a magic marker ring drawn around the outer edge of the bruise as I left surgery so they could check for size changes. I don't see any line. Covered with plastic, though I was told I could remove it any time now. I still haven't. I'm debating whether it should be removed since that thing is so ugly. Will removing it tear open the hole or is it healed enough? It left on, might it prevent a reopening from some activity? Or prevent anyone from recognizing something had torn and blood was coming out of the vessel but hidden under tissue and skin? Which might be worse, if either is even possible? A surface bleed would warn me that 911 needed to be called immediately. Really, immediately. So, I'm still pondering it. At least with the area shaved, once I start pulling, it won't be bringing hairs with it.
Ahhhh, Home!:
Twelve hours uninterrupted sleep overnight. Wunderbar. Bad bed-head. Curable this weekend with a nice shower. My kind of food again. Amazing that everything they brought me in the hospital on their cardiac diet was so filled with carbs that I didn't eat much of anything at all so as not to violate my pre-diabetic diet. Supper tonight: greek yogurt and freshly thawed blueberriees. And I am making room before bed for one of those Klondike bars in the freezer!
You can call me that for the next couple months, maybe. I will be exhibiting a spectrum of colors starting with black and blue, ranging through burgundy, green, yellow.... In other words, I sport an abundance of hematomas. Bruises. Rainbow Girl.
A Good Friend:
With Steve on meds which keep him away from behind the wheel, and me not being allowed to drive myself home from the hospital, (and theoretically another two days ... ahem...) I took up a friend's offer of a round trip lift. She happens to be the president of the jewelry club I go to. We've gotten closer over the last couple years over the day-to-day of fellow officers. I'm not special in regard to this offer as she's given lots of us assists with medical transportation and visits.
Timing:
I'd gotten three different phone calls from medical personnel about what I needed to do and when. After I'd confirmed a ride to drop me at the hospital for check-in Tuesday at 1:00 (yes, that's PM, a long time to fast) for 3:00 surgery, another employee called back and stated surgery time was now 3:30 and I should be there at 1:30 or so. I got there before 1:00 anyway, not willing to mess with my ride's schedule for her day, prepared for however long a wait.
As I was finishing signing all the forms they give you at the admitting window, my cell rang. Though impolite to do so, the fact that the number was an unidentified local one might mean it was medical, and should be answered. It could also be a roofer or some scammer, but I was taking no chances. It was indeed medical, from my next stop of the day, the place where I was to be prepped for surgery. It turned out they had a cancellation and might I be able to leave home and come in a bit early? I told her she was too late, I was already in position to be at her door in the basement in about 5 minutes. She sounded like I just made her day. Or maybe just saved her from having to make more phone calls. No matter, happy to help.
My Usual Jinx At Work:
Those who know me well are aware that machines tend to glitch up when I'm near them if it's going to happen at all. It's like the cash register at the grocery store, for example. This tendency covers more than just machines. I think the pre-op room was accustomed to prepping us in a fairly short time. Well, there was some inaccurate information about what meds I was taking, though they had just been entered into the system upstairs. The chat with the anesthesiologist -or maybe anesthetist? - took a while as I made sure he knew what he needed to about my experiences. He had a tendency to parrot back things I hadn't said, or not wait for a full list of answers to his questions. Once in the gown.... OK, well, gown is a very loose and misleading term, especially any hint that it may actually cover around more than 3/4 of my body or bear the remotest resemblance to fashion. Anyway, once in it, an earlier suggestion which I ignored at the time that I might need to use the bathroom started working its magic on my bladder, turning my denial into a lie. By this time, the team is paranoid that, even though reasonably healthy, sane, able-bodied and undrugged, I might overcome the gripping ability of their precious little yellow rubber-ribbed booties and take a tumble, so I had to be escorted. One wonders what they might know about the gripping capacity of those booties....
Once back to my cubicle, I realized my cell phone, being of little battery capacity in its old age, hadn't been turned off for the however-many hours until I was in shape to actually use it again. I really needed it at the end of my stay to coordinate my ride home, it being my only record of the necessary cell phone number. My oversight was helpfully taken care of for me by the first (!) in the crew attempting to hit a vein for an IV. I was really dehydrated by then, no food or liquids since about 8:30 the previous evening, so I can't really fault his two tries, the next person's two tries, or the third one's. Each try leaves a bruise and a spot that can't be tried again due to contamination. It they hadn't finally found a somewhat viable vein in my hand, they were going to borrow the ultrasound that the guy waiting his turn in the needle que to put in the A-line needed to make sure he tapped an artery so they could take the freshest blood samples throughout the procedure to know... well, hell, by this time I didn't give a hoot what this was needed for. Besides, the lidocaine they put in that spot didn't really kill the pain of whatever else was going in.
Next came the EKG. Or would have, but it turned out the screen on that machine showed only static. A search was conducted and interview held trying to find out what I possibly would have on / in / near me to cause the static. Twenty minutes later a couple of those patches they snap the leads into were replaced. The new ones worked perfectly. Squiggles were produced.
I was ready to go. Well, oops, not so fast. Blood needed to be drawn for tests, STAT, now that I'd been successfully tapped. Just as they started wheeling the gurney, somebody realized (me, of course, who else?) that the shaving needed in the groin area so they could get a sterile tap on the femoral artery hadn't yet happened. Whoa pony!
Going Under:
Once wheeled into the O.R., there was the issue of positioning me on the table. It WAS an issue. The woman on my left insisted I was way too far over in her direction. My hands on either side of me said I was smack dab in the middle, equal space on both sides. Moving while flat is such fun anyway, and after doing more wiggling than actual moving several times, she finally declared me in position. I felt no difference.
My hands were just flopping down off this narrow table, pulling on my shoulders. I dreaded the thought of how the shoulders would feel after surgery. After all, I figured I'd have issues with one leg and would need both arms to assist with mobility. Those already give me enough pain after multiple rotator cuff tears. The staff had a plan for this though. A pair of velcroed wide straps on either side of the table were fastened around my wrists, and another problem solved.
My machine jinx was still functional. The same woman who'd been fussing with my position needed to have a certain software window up on her screen, the one that showed the heart area and exactly where their “zapper” (technical term) was during the procedure. First, though, it was needed to show the location of some magnet under me. Finally somebody arrived who set it up properly and huge sticky patches were slapped on me front and back. COLD!!! Anesthesia central (yeah, so I still can't tell you if he was an anesthetist or anesthesiologist. OK?) arrived, informed me here comes the happy juice, and my last thought was I agreed.
Coming Out Of It:
Instantly my next thought was being aware of feeling like shit, unfocused, slightly dizzy, slightly nauseated, and incurable cold. I had to tell them that, even though I couldn’t quite, not yet. Once I was able to speak, recovering some of my bodily control, and licking my mouth enough to mitigate dry-mouth if not the raspy throat left from the breathing tube, two words were managed: “Cold. Shivering.”
Indeed I was, both. It still didn’t stop after they piled on what they described as 20 heated blankets. The shivering was so intense I wondered that they didn’t seem to either notice it or care, and how on earth they could distinguish it from a seizure. My hands were, no exaggeration, moving about 6” in every direction from the shivering. So was the rest of me, though my legs were locked rigidly in place. Strangely appropriate, considering there was an incision we strongly needed to protect. It finally quit about an hour and a half later, though I still didn’t really feel warm yet. The energetic shaking was later explained to me as a very common reaction to the drugs used in the procedure. I wondered whether, if someone did in fact have seizures after the procedure, would anybody notice? I am still amazed that after all that unaccustomed exercise, I don't feel like the morning after that first day in the gym.
At least most of the rest of my symptoms went away a few minutes after waking. Hey guys, next time let me sleep that final five minutes? Really. I could skip the blecchhh and the queasy. All that lingered was dry mouth and a scratchy throat, much like I was already used to from this extreme pollen allergy season, particularly since they didn’t bother giving me my allergy meds until I requested them next morning. By the way, with all the sneezing and nose running I was also doing, I was now upstairs "just" in an observation room and there was no $25 box of Kleenex to be found. Paper hand towels from the restroom dispenser get scratchy after a while. Very short. The napkins sent on the food trays aren't much better.
Spanish Only:
A roommate arrived shortly after I was somewhat settled in. The room was extra busy for a while. She was elderly, weak and frail, and accompanied by a younger female relative. Both of them only spoke Spanish, though the younger had tried to gain a few words. I still have enough left from school to recognize a few words, but in a “conversation” with her attendant, we both recognized we were better with the other’s language if we had time to organize what were were going to try to say, and lousy at understanding whatever the answer was. Needless to say, most of the time it was a very quiet room.
There was one glaring exception. Every time the medical staff needed to converse with this patient, they tried English first, despite arriving knowing she didn’t speak it. Apparently it took a few seconds for it to sink in that “Spanish only” didn’t mean “slightly conversant in English”. Luckily, there’s an app for that.
The staff connected to a translation service. After giving a patient file number, and getting back a translator ID number after a short wait for somebody with the right language skills, communication of a sort commenced. There were drawbacks. Like any typical cell communication, interruptions were abundant, one not understanding when the other was finished. This was exacerbated by it being a three-way communication. There was too little comprehension that questions needed to be answered and then, hey guys, PASSED ON before the next issue was tackled. The reason I know this is it seems everybody seemed to try to compensate for communication issues by upping the volume significantly, like that works. “Spanish Only” does NOT translate to “deaf”! Who needs HIPA laws when everybody yells?
Sleeping:
Not. It's more than all the staff visits, the need for vitals taken, pills given, food trays in and out, yet another source for tissue substitutes found, and the yelling from behind the privacy curtain. The bed: too hard, wrong angles. Pillow: too flat, won't stay under the head, keeps slipping down under the shoulders, neck stiff. TV: wrong angle, always off to the side so neck gets too stiff to be comfortable in any position so the pillow problems are exacerbated. At least I was becoming less dehydrated slowly so not too many disruptions for middle of the night potty breaks. Don't usually think of slow rehydration as a plus.
Restrictions:
First, of course, I'm restricted from driving. Theoretically. I had of course forgotten Steve's medical appointment early Thursday morning. 'Nuff said. There's also no immersion, no tub, pool, or whatever for however long they said. The sheet's right across the room so I'll check. Later. Need to take it really easy. This part, no sweat, any puns intended. That humongous bruise in the "groin area" - they're so polite in their terminology - really hurt that first time up for a potty break. In fact the whole leg did, but the next break surprised me by how close to normal the leg felt. It felt so normal that the next time walking I was surprised all over again, this time by how much the leg hurt. Anyway, I have this constant reminder, so am doing just the truly necessary stuff. Right now those weeds in the lawn don't look so urgently in need of spraying like they did before surgery, even fast as they're growing and flowering, particularly with my restrictions including no lifting over 10 pounds and no bending over.
Wait. What? No bending over? How the heck am I supposed to put my feet in my socks? I mean, I can slide my heels backwards on the rug and work socks off, but it doesn't work the other way. For the projected 100 degrees the next two days, barefoot might not be so bad an idea, but that won't work for driving. Wait, pretend you didn't just read that. Since my current home jewelry projects involve bending over a chair, I'm choosing to be on the side of caution and forgoing them a while.
There's also admonishment about no heavy-duty pooping. Uhhh, okay....
Meds “Management”:
There are two sheets of "new" instructions of medications. I'm already making two changes without further consulting him. First, he thinks I'll be taking amiodarone again. Ri-i-i-i-ight. That pig ain't flying again. It kept my heart rhythms perfectly for nearly three years, keeping me from even needing this surgery. But toxicity is toxicity. Line in the sand.
Second, he arbitrarily switched me from Warfarin to Eliquis for a blood thinner. I have already had that discussion with my regular cardiologist, and chose to manage the warfarin for any needed dosage changes. I called my pharmacy since this doc sent in a prescription before discharging me, to inquire about the price. With my insurance coverage, my co-pay for Eliquis would be $400! Warfarin costs me 1% of that. Don't know about the rest of you, but I don't have a loose $400 to throw around on a regular basis when there is a perfectly acceptable - to me - alternative. I told the pharmacy to cancel that prescription. An occasional INR test is no biggie.
Evaluation:
I've already gotten my first request for feedback on my experience. I think I'll send them here. After all, minimal exertion, right? The one really really big thing not addressed yet is that the staff, without exception, was unfailingly helpful, friendly, and informative. Give them all raises ... so long as my bills don't go up.
There was one thing, though. The doc who was in charge of discharging patients at the time needed to take a last look to see if the femoral hematoma still hadn't spread. Seems a wise idea. He had me lie back in the bed and told me to "cover up". Since I'd been wearing my undies since early morning, and nothing he needed to see was blocked but everything else was, I didn't jump to follow that instruction. He repeated it and then before I could move to do it, reached for my blankets and covered me to the waist, then pushed them over from the side to view my leg. Now modesty tends to fly out the door in hospital settings, by necessity. Three babies, pelvic exams and PAP smears, mammograms and EKGs all trump over any need to hide skin. I had to wonder what his issue was. Is this guy really in the right profession?
Mirror Test:
This was my fun first chance, now home, to see my self other than my face since leaving for the hospital. There were a couple of the stickers for the EKG still clinging to the hope of usefulness, one per shoulder, and another pair, nevermind where. Removed, adhesive residue rubbed off. No skin blistering. Then came the peek - should I write that pEEK! ?) at that groin bruise. Holy Moley! Holey Moley! Black, big, ugly. They said there was a magic marker ring drawn around the outer edge of the bruise as I left surgery so they could check for size changes. I don't see any line. Covered with plastic, though I was told I could remove it any time now. I still haven't. I'm debating whether it should be removed since that thing is so ugly. Will removing it tear open the hole or is it healed enough? It left on, might it prevent a reopening from some activity? Or prevent anyone from recognizing something had torn and blood was coming out of the vessel but hidden under tissue and skin? Which might be worse, if either is even possible? A surface bleed would warn me that 911 needed to be called immediately. Really, immediately. So, I'm still pondering it. At least with the area shaved, once I start pulling, it won't be bringing hairs with it.
Ahhhh, Home!:
Twelve hours uninterrupted sleep overnight. Wunderbar. Bad bed-head. Curable this weekend with a nice shower. My kind of food again. Amazing that everything they brought me in the hospital on their cardiac diet was so filled with carbs that I didn't eat much of anything at all so as not to violate my pre-diabetic diet. Supper tonight: greek yogurt and freshly thawed blueberriees. And I am making room before bed for one of those Klondike bars in the freezer!
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
REALLY Young Quail
I had been waiting to see them. With a cooler winter and early spring than recent years, it was possible the hatch had been delayed. Or perhaps it was an imperfect memory that thought the new gambel quail should be running around after their parents.
Saturday morning, on my way to demonstrate, I glimpsed my first clutch of the year. Parents were pausing their five babies, just off the curb and onto the street, so that they wouldn't run under my car just as I passed and before I could slam on the brakes. It turned out their timing was perfect for that crossing, missing both mine and the car passing from the other direction. A glance in the mirror showed them safely across seconds later.
Once I know the quail chicks are out and about, I assiduously search for them everywhere as I drive. The next clutch didn't require any driving on my part to be spotted. Rather, Steve and I had to return home from his latest doctor appointment and pause to look at the back yard - the thorn tree is blooming - to notice them.
There were both parents, passing back and forth near the back fence. It caught my attention because usually they go from here, to there, and gone. Turning around with nothing chasing them was new behavior to me. Then I saw why. More movement.
The camera was handy so as we both watched the family, I quietly slid open the patio door enough to have a clean shot without disturbing them. This family included six chicks, the most I've seen. They were so tiny and matched the dirt and rocks so perfectly, that until they each moved we didn't see, nor were able to count them. I decided to pop the camera on "video" to capture the action.
Steve asked how old I thought they were. Perhaps a couple days? Really tiny, after all. Watching longer, I changed my mind. Two of the babies could barely walk. They'd sit for a minute, then flop towards the parents about a foot and sit again. I changed my mind: these must have just hatched! Ground nesting birds hatch nearly ready to run, and with two still not quite at that point, that was the obvious conclusion. Mom and Dad were still encouraging them, heading away a foot or two, then returning, and the last two were slowly becoming more active.
After watching a few minutes, we quietly closed the patio door to avoid disturbing them while they got their legs under them. A quick look showed no obvious predators nearby, and we hoped they had a decent chance to survive long enough to scurry away.
Saturday morning, on my way to demonstrate, I glimpsed my first clutch of the year. Parents were pausing their five babies, just off the curb and onto the street, so that they wouldn't run under my car just as I passed and before I could slam on the brakes. It turned out their timing was perfect for that crossing, missing both mine and the car passing from the other direction. A glance in the mirror showed them safely across seconds later.
Once I know the quail chicks are out and about, I assiduously search for them everywhere as I drive. The next clutch didn't require any driving on my part to be spotted. Rather, Steve and I had to return home from his latest doctor appointment and pause to look at the back yard - the thorn tree is blooming - to notice them.
There were both parents, passing back and forth near the back fence. It caught my attention because usually they go from here, to there, and gone. Turning around with nothing chasing them was new behavior to me. Then I saw why. More movement.
The camera was handy so as we both watched the family, I quietly slid open the patio door enough to have a clean shot without disturbing them. This family included six chicks, the most I've seen. They were so tiny and matched the dirt and rocks so perfectly, that until they each moved we didn't see, nor were able to count them. I decided to pop the camera on "video" to capture the action.
Steve asked how old I thought they were. Perhaps a couple days? Really tiny, after all. Watching longer, I changed my mind. Two of the babies could barely walk. They'd sit for a minute, then flop towards the parents about a foot and sit again. I changed my mind: these must have just hatched! Ground nesting birds hatch nearly ready to run, and with two still not quite at that point, that was the obvious conclusion. Mom and Dad were still encouraging them, heading away a foot or two, then returning, and the last two were slowly becoming more active.
After watching a few minutes, we quietly closed the patio door to avoid disturbing them while they got their legs under them. A quick look showed no obvious predators nearby, and we hoped they had a decent chance to survive long enough to scurry away.
Saturday, April 13, 2019
Steve-Approved Pancakes
I make weird pancakes. So say other people. I like them, however. To me, pancakes are a medium for conveying other things to the mouth without a lot of work and baking. That's something I find ideal, being a reluctant and lazy cook, as well as a fan of instant gratification for wrapping myself around something yummy.
It started years ago with the idea of making banana bread when I was in a hurry to eat. There had to be a simpler way that also didn't take two hours. Pancakes cook quickly. Both start with a basic dough. The main difference would be the addition of mashed bananas and lemon juice, nuts being optional. Mash, stir, and pour. Flip, and eat. The addition of just-add-water mix made it all even simpler.
If banana pancakes were good, how about adding chocolate chips? Blueberries? Peach chunks? Crispy fried bacon crumbles? Combinations thereof?
These met with various success over the years. Depending on how much sweet stuff I added, I mostly skipped syrup. Cheaper and even quicker, without the sticky factor they became finger food. No dishes. Add peanut butter and now it's a sandwich. Nutella is still calling my name from the try-me list... mmmmm.
The kids and Steve have varying tolerance for my variety pancakes. Steve tries to be polite about it, though I think he's decided polite can be defined as leave-more-for-Heather. But that just means exactly that: more for me. Packed in a bread bag and fridged, they last... well... longer than it takes me to finish them off.
Today I tried something completely different. Let's call these serendipity pancakes. Everything happened to be on hand and needing to be used. There were packets of plain oatmeal we had been gifted by visitors who didn't want to take them back home with them. That was several months back. They were calling. A banana was in the freezer, again coming on too long. Blueberries left over from a store sale too good to miss had also shared freezer space and didn't want to share freezer burn as well. Molasses bought with the idea of post-Christmas baked ham and beans still sat unopened. Cinnamon is always bought in bulk in this house, and a large bag of Krusteaz instant pancake mix sat looking for more use before we headed north. For that matter, all the ingredients were.
Starting with the banana and ending with the blueberries, I threw them all together and fried them up. The idea behind the combination was the memory of the oatmeal raisin cookies Steve had been bringing home these last few weeks. I was thinking something less sugary, more cakey, little work, and no added expense or travel. Plus, the oven's out of commission until it's been thoroughly cleaned, (Don't ask! It wasn't me!) so no cookies. Pancakes seemed the perfect solution.
Even Steve agreed. He managed three, eaten cookie-like with a watchful eye on where the blueberries were squirting if you bit them in the middle. Let's just say I was glad to still be in my jammies, and even gladder that today's top was purple. I'm just guessing that two days will see the end of this batch.
If there is a next time, I'm thinking bacon crumbles would be a great addition. Of course, I'd have to go out and actually buy some oatmeal. And one more banana than I would eat before the bunch ripened too much, because freezing makes the mashing so easy. Hmmm, and bacon?
It started years ago with the idea of making banana bread when I was in a hurry to eat. There had to be a simpler way that also didn't take two hours. Pancakes cook quickly. Both start with a basic dough. The main difference would be the addition of mashed bananas and lemon juice, nuts being optional. Mash, stir, and pour. Flip, and eat. The addition of just-add-water mix made it all even simpler.
If banana pancakes were good, how about adding chocolate chips? Blueberries? Peach chunks? Crispy fried bacon crumbles? Combinations thereof?
These met with various success over the years. Depending on how much sweet stuff I added, I mostly skipped syrup. Cheaper and even quicker, without the sticky factor they became finger food. No dishes. Add peanut butter and now it's a sandwich. Nutella is still calling my name from the try-me list... mmmmm.
The kids and Steve have varying tolerance for my variety pancakes. Steve tries to be polite about it, though I think he's decided polite can be defined as leave-more-for-Heather. But that just means exactly that: more for me. Packed in a bread bag and fridged, they last... well... longer than it takes me to finish them off.
Today I tried something completely different. Let's call these serendipity pancakes. Everything happened to be on hand and needing to be used. There were packets of plain oatmeal we had been gifted by visitors who didn't want to take them back home with them. That was several months back. They were calling. A banana was in the freezer, again coming on too long. Blueberries left over from a store sale too good to miss had also shared freezer space and didn't want to share freezer burn as well. Molasses bought with the idea of post-Christmas baked ham and beans still sat unopened. Cinnamon is always bought in bulk in this house, and a large bag of Krusteaz instant pancake mix sat looking for more use before we headed north. For that matter, all the ingredients were.
Starting with the banana and ending with the blueberries, I threw them all together and fried them up. The idea behind the combination was the memory of the oatmeal raisin cookies Steve had been bringing home these last few weeks. I was thinking something less sugary, more cakey, little work, and no added expense or travel. Plus, the oven's out of commission until it's been thoroughly cleaned, (Don't ask! It wasn't me!) so no cookies. Pancakes seemed the perfect solution.
Even Steve agreed. He managed three, eaten cookie-like with a watchful eye on where the blueberries were squirting if you bit them in the middle. Let's just say I was glad to still be in my jammies, and even gladder that today's top was purple. I'm just guessing that two days will see the end of this batch.
If there is a next time, I'm thinking bacon crumbles would be a great addition. Of course, I'd have to go out and actually buy some oatmeal. And one more banana than I would eat before the bunch ripened too much, because freezing makes the mashing so easy. Hmmm, and bacon?
Friday, April 12, 2019
Partial Answer, More Questions
OK, I'm back from the cardiac surgeon.
Turns out it is continuing to be a good thing that I acquired and saved EKG strips from that 2015 ambulance ride when my A-Fib was at its worst, aka before going on Amiodarone. And speaking of going off the Amiodarone due to toxicity, this Doc thinks that the diaphragm rupture is another of its side effects. (Oh, fyi, the eye surgeon I saw last week says those brown spots in the back of my eye, the 1st toxicity effect, are not progressing and should cause no future problems.)
Surgery is scheduled for the 23rd. All the usual drug restrictions and NPO limits are in place as for any surgery. This one will be for cardiac ablation only. If you haven't been keeping up, that's the one to cauterize those cells giving bad timing info to one chamber of the heart, disconnecting that signal from the other chambers. It involves an overnight stay and a couple of follow-up visits with the surgeon. We know those will keep me in AZ for 6 weeks minimum.
We don't know if that will also take care of the progressive bradycardia. If, as he thinks, that is caused by the beta blocker I'm taking to prevent more A-fib episodes, and if, as we hope, I'm one of the 80% for whom this surgery works, it's possible the bradycardia will also go away after decreasing/eliminating that med. If not, we discuss pacemakers.
We know at least the soonest I can head north, June 5th. It could be later if further surgery is scheduled. Steve and I are talking about flying him up north, which we're thinking about regardless of my status, due to his back. I won't leave until after he's on his plane, and may plan either the usual 3 day driving trip or a longer one depending on how I feel.
We're not sure when we can start looking at airline reservations. There's the issue of his getting transportation from the airport. Who's available? Willing? Which day or time could well be an issue. You may hear from us if you're on the short list. : )
I have no clue, if further surgery is to be scheduled, when it might be and how it might effect travel plans. I'm guessing the first clue might be as early as two weeks post-surgery, after my first check-up. I am keeping track of BP and pulse rate two or three times daily at home. I've been watching things progress. I may have an idea as the meds flush out of the system as they show up in faster pulse rates - or not. I may also have an idea when I know if walking across a parking lot still leaves me short of breath and exhausted.
Answers to come. Well-wishes accepted.
Turns out it is continuing to be a good thing that I acquired and saved EKG strips from that 2015 ambulance ride when my A-Fib was at its worst, aka before going on Amiodarone. And speaking of going off the Amiodarone due to toxicity, this Doc thinks that the diaphragm rupture is another of its side effects. (Oh, fyi, the eye surgeon I saw last week says those brown spots in the back of my eye, the 1st toxicity effect, are not progressing and should cause no future problems.)
Surgery is scheduled for the 23rd. All the usual drug restrictions and NPO limits are in place as for any surgery. This one will be for cardiac ablation only. If you haven't been keeping up, that's the one to cauterize those cells giving bad timing info to one chamber of the heart, disconnecting that signal from the other chambers. It involves an overnight stay and a couple of follow-up visits with the surgeon. We know those will keep me in AZ for 6 weeks minimum.
We don't know if that will also take care of the progressive bradycardia. If, as he thinks, that is caused by the beta blocker I'm taking to prevent more A-fib episodes, and if, as we hope, I'm one of the 80% for whom this surgery works, it's possible the bradycardia will also go away after decreasing/eliminating that med. If not, we discuss pacemakers.
We know at least the soonest I can head north, June 5th. It could be later if further surgery is scheduled. Steve and I are talking about flying him up north, which we're thinking about regardless of my status, due to his back. I won't leave until after he's on his plane, and may plan either the usual 3 day driving trip or a longer one depending on how I feel.
We're not sure when we can start looking at airline reservations. There's the issue of his getting transportation from the airport. Who's available? Willing? Which day or time could well be an issue. You may hear from us if you're on the short list. : )
I have no clue, if further surgery is to be scheduled, when it might be and how it might effect travel plans. I'm guessing the first clue might be as early as two weeks post-surgery, after my first check-up. I am keeping track of BP and pulse rate two or three times daily at home. I've been watching things progress. I may have an idea as the meds flush out of the system as they show up in faster pulse rates - or not. I may also have an idea when I know if walking across a parking lot still leaves me short of breath and exhausted.
Answers to come. Well-wishes accepted.
Thursday, April 4, 2019
Progressive Bradycardia
That's kinda the punch line for this one, with a month-long lead-up.
Most of that has been posted, so just a quick review. Heart monitor for cardiac study, technology issues, restart study, more issues, and finally, today, the visit with my cardiologist to get the results.
You know it couldn't go that smoothly, didn't you, by now? Nothing to do with the cardiologist, of course. She's been top notch. But at the office visit, only part of the results had been sent on to her from the monitor company. Whoever sent them in didn't allow for the restart, so data cut off early. What it showed wasn't particularly useful. So we had a long chat (imagine a long chat! with a cardiologist!), made plans to change a couple meds, adding one to deal with symptoms from the last new med, and dropping the dosage on another. Just a bit complicated, but doable.
Around suppertime, she called me back. The rest of the study results were in, along with some assessment of the results. During the study, a couple episodes of flutter didn't even register, even though I had a button to hit to mark the spot electronically that they were to evaluate. I had been hoping for some kind of feedback about what was happening during those times, leading ultimately to weighing in on one side or another of surgery and/or pacemaker. Can't evaluate what you don't see.
The study also showed no episodes of A-fib. The heart beat never sped up to where there might have been an issue. Heck, I could have told them that! I've always known when I had an A-fib attack.
The completed results did show something definitive. Not only was the heart not kicking up into high gear, it was slowing down! It started with an increasing percentage of a 24-hour day with a heart rate below 60 bpm. Then nearer 50 bpm. Most recently it's been spending way too much of its time in the 40s. We had a technical term now: progressive bradycardia. It means what she'd just described to me, an increasingly slowing heartbeat.
We made more definitive plans to adjust those meds that might be contributing to it, keeping careful to avoid kicking me back up into A-fib again, along with a plan for communication of any progress. I also had an appointment already scheduled with a cardiac surgeon for next week. The original idea was that the study might show whether ablation surgery - zapping those heart cells that were sending the wrong timing signals to the different heart chambers - would be appropriate to deal with A-fib now that amiodarone - the only med that prevented A-fib for me - had been discontinued due to its toxicity for me. It's now looking like the conversation might swing more to the advisability of a pacemaker. Possibly even both.
Both my parents wound up with a pacemaker. I recall the golden oldies of technology when a monthly phone call would prompt connecting a bracelet to an intermediary machine so that the signal could be sent over the landline and read without an actual doctor's visit. I wondered how that might work in the age of smart phones, and whether a pacemaker would finally require me to break down and buy one. Hey, I still love my little flip phone.
I also recall that phone call from Mom the day Daddy had his pacemaker implanted. The whole thing was news to me. Some version of "don't scare the kiddies"? I never had known he was even going to the hospital, much less for surgery and what kind. When I asked why he needed one, the only answer I ever got was because his heart was beating "a little slow". She never did explain hers.
I also recall them worrying about how close to the microwave they could get and still live, and needing to avoid the airport x-ray machines, with a card to prove the need was real. These days I might be in a position to do them one better at an airport. The latest version of a pacemaker looks like a small caliber bullet in the heart!
It's an entertaining thought.
Most of that has been posted, so just a quick review. Heart monitor for cardiac study, technology issues, restart study, more issues, and finally, today, the visit with my cardiologist to get the results.
You know it couldn't go that smoothly, didn't you, by now? Nothing to do with the cardiologist, of course. She's been top notch. But at the office visit, only part of the results had been sent on to her from the monitor company. Whoever sent them in didn't allow for the restart, so data cut off early. What it showed wasn't particularly useful. So we had a long chat (imagine a long chat! with a cardiologist!), made plans to change a couple meds, adding one to deal with symptoms from the last new med, and dropping the dosage on another. Just a bit complicated, but doable.
Around suppertime, she called me back. The rest of the study results were in, along with some assessment of the results. During the study, a couple episodes of flutter didn't even register, even though I had a button to hit to mark the spot electronically that they were to evaluate. I had been hoping for some kind of feedback about what was happening during those times, leading ultimately to weighing in on one side or another of surgery and/or pacemaker. Can't evaluate what you don't see.
The study also showed no episodes of A-fib. The heart beat never sped up to where there might have been an issue. Heck, I could have told them that! I've always known when I had an A-fib attack.
The completed results did show something definitive. Not only was the heart not kicking up into high gear, it was slowing down! It started with an increasing percentage of a 24-hour day with a heart rate below 60 bpm. Then nearer 50 bpm. Most recently it's been spending way too much of its time in the 40s. We had a technical term now: progressive bradycardia. It means what she'd just described to me, an increasingly slowing heartbeat.
We made more definitive plans to adjust those meds that might be contributing to it, keeping careful to avoid kicking me back up into A-fib again, along with a plan for communication of any progress. I also had an appointment already scheduled with a cardiac surgeon for next week. The original idea was that the study might show whether ablation surgery - zapping those heart cells that were sending the wrong timing signals to the different heart chambers - would be appropriate to deal with A-fib now that amiodarone - the only med that prevented A-fib for me - had been discontinued due to its toxicity for me. It's now looking like the conversation might swing more to the advisability of a pacemaker. Possibly even both.
Both my parents wound up with a pacemaker. I recall the golden oldies of technology when a monthly phone call would prompt connecting a bracelet to an intermediary machine so that the signal could be sent over the landline and read without an actual doctor's visit. I wondered how that might work in the age of smart phones, and whether a pacemaker would finally require me to break down and buy one. Hey, I still love my little flip phone.
I also recall that phone call from Mom the day Daddy had his pacemaker implanted. The whole thing was news to me. Some version of "don't scare the kiddies"? I never had known he was even going to the hospital, much less for surgery and what kind. When I asked why he needed one, the only answer I ever got was because his heart was beating "a little slow". She never did explain hers.
I also recall them worrying about how close to the microwave they could get and still live, and needing to avoid the airport x-ray machines, with a card to prove the need was real. These days I might be in a position to do them one better at an airport. The latest version of a pacemaker looks like a small caliber bullet in the heart!
It's an entertaining thought.
Tuesday, April 2, 2019
Quinnipiac Polled
I rarely get polled.
Much of that is my age. Once the poller gets to that point, usually on of their first three questions, it's, "Oh, you're not in the age group we want good-bye." Translation: my attitudes are set, push-polling will be ineffective, I don't buy the same type of products they want to promote. I only take that as their declaration that I'm not important... to them. Their loss.
Other parts of not getting polled include having a cell phone, having caller ID to help me screen for already-wanted callers, and simply hanging up on pollers because I choose not to take the time for it.
I found it a pleasant surprise when I got a call from the Quinnipiac folks last week. The only qualifier they wanted was whether I lived in Minnesota. I answered, truthfully, that I was a part-time resident but was currently in Arizona. I think it left it open for the young man to interpret that as a "Yes" for whatever percentage point was important to him. At any rate, this was a call I wanted to take. I was also pleased when my age only came up in the final questions.
The general topic centered around national politics. What did I think about various issues, how important were they to me, did I intend to vote and what drove my choices on the ballot? I'm sure all who know me can fill in the blanks for any of those questions on my behalf. No need to belabor the obvious.
Two things, however, stood out. It wasn't just my having more knowledge on several topics than my caller did. They stood out in how they showed just how unaware of current issues he was, way beyond any possible attempt to avoid influencing me. First, he had no idea how "Mueller" was pronounced. I corrected him gently, acknowledging it was spelled as if it had a long "u", but in this case was pronounced "uh".
How could anybody have missed that in the last couple years?
The second came when, at the end of the call, he thanked me for taking the time to participate in the poll. In turn, I thanked him for his call, informing him I had heard a lot about this polling organization and was delighted to take part. He was astounded I -or perhaps anybody - had ever heard of it.
Hmmm.... Maybe he needs to listen to public radio?
Maybe he just needs to listen?
Much of that is my age. Once the poller gets to that point, usually on of their first three questions, it's, "Oh, you're not in the age group we want good-bye." Translation: my attitudes are set, push-polling will be ineffective, I don't buy the same type of products they want to promote. I only take that as their declaration that I'm not important... to them. Their loss.
Other parts of not getting polled include having a cell phone, having caller ID to help me screen for already-wanted callers, and simply hanging up on pollers because I choose not to take the time for it.
I found it a pleasant surprise when I got a call from the Quinnipiac folks last week. The only qualifier they wanted was whether I lived in Minnesota. I answered, truthfully, that I was a part-time resident but was currently in Arizona. I think it left it open for the young man to interpret that as a "Yes" for whatever percentage point was important to him. At any rate, this was a call I wanted to take. I was also pleased when my age only came up in the final questions.
The general topic centered around national politics. What did I think about various issues, how important were they to me, did I intend to vote and what drove my choices on the ballot? I'm sure all who know me can fill in the blanks for any of those questions on my behalf. No need to belabor the obvious.
Two things, however, stood out. It wasn't just my having more knowledge on several topics than my caller did. They stood out in how they showed just how unaware of current issues he was, way beyond any possible attempt to avoid influencing me. First, he had no idea how "Mueller" was pronounced. I corrected him gently, acknowledging it was spelled as if it had a long "u", but in this case was pronounced "uh".
How could anybody have missed that in the last couple years?
The second came when, at the end of the call, he thanked me for taking the time to participate in the poll. In turn, I thanked him for his call, informing him I had heard a lot about this polling organization and was delighted to take part. He was astounded I -or perhaps anybody - had ever heard of it.
Hmmm.... Maybe he needs to listen to public radio?
Maybe he just needs to listen?
Monday, April 1, 2019
New Butterfinger?
One thing I agree with Bart Simpson about: Butterfinger is its own food group. I try not to indulge... too much... but it's a challenge after that 1st bite in a long time. Everything is great about it, to me, including that stick-to-your-teeth quality. After all, that means it's releasing that wonderful flavor in your mouth for longer. With supreme self-control, should one happen to possess it. it might result in slightly fewer consumed, or at least maybe not chomped down so quickly.
I've seen the new commercials. Somehow they say it's improved. Really big challenge. But when I saw the display at the grocery check-out, I was game to give it a try, even realizing it might completely destroy all my most recent efforts to reduce my weight.
I bought one. As soon as the fridge at home was full of what needed to be in it, I sat down with the new bar. Could they really improve on perfection? Or would this join the ranks of, say, the New Coke?
Bite. Hmmmm.... Try another one. Hmmm..... It resembled a Butterfinger. Slightly.
Puzzled, I went online to try to figure out what was changed and why. Most of what was there was verbal drooling by (presumably paid) folks who put their imaginations to work and just couldn't wait to try the new product. No, they hadn't actually tried it yet. Why did that matter? It was definitely positively absolutely going to be wonderful!
Really! Trust them!
I finally found a site which specified what the changes were. It's gluten free now. Just a label change or an ingredients change? No clue. No old Butterfingers lying around for an ingredients check. Somehow they all got eaten right away.
They used a different variety of peanuts. Why? How were these supposed to be better? Maybe they just got a better deal on them? I love good peanuts. Roasted. Buttered, creamy or chunky, with or without jelly or bananas. In cookies and other baked goods. And Ooohhh, Snickers!!! This bar left me flat. Somehow though, I was searching for something that gave me a reason to eat the new Butterfinger.
It doesn't stick to the teeth like the old one. Color me weird, but not a plus. If I get to the point where I'm over having that original flavor in my mouth, I'll dig out the handy dandy toothbrush and deal with it. Meanwhile it would have been tasting wonderful.
I think dieting just got easier.
I've seen the new commercials. Somehow they say it's improved. Really big challenge. But when I saw the display at the grocery check-out, I was game to give it a try, even realizing it might completely destroy all my most recent efforts to reduce my weight.
I bought one. As soon as the fridge at home was full of what needed to be in it, I sat down with the new bar. Could they really improve on perfection? Or would this join the ranks of, say, the New Coke?
Bite. Hmmmm.... Try another one. Hmmm..... It resembled a Butterfinger. Slightly.
Puzzled, I went online to try to figure out what was changed and why. Most of what was there was verbal drooling by (presumably paid) folks who put their imaginations to work and just couldn't wait to try the new product. No, they hadn't actually tried it yet. Why did that matter? It was definitely positively absolutely going to be wonderful!
Really! Trust them!
I finally found a site which specified what the changes were. It's gluten free now. Just a label change or an ingredients change? No clue. No old Butterfingers lying around for an ingredients check. Somehow they all got eaten right away.
They used a different variety of peanuts. Why? How were these supposed to be better? Maybe they just got a better deal on them? I love good peanuts. Roasted. Buttered, creamy or chunky, with or without jelly or bananas. In cookies and other baked goods. And Ooohhh, Snickers!!! This bar left me flat. Somehow though, I was searching for something that gave me a reason to eat the new Butterfinger.
It doesn't stick to the teeth like the old one. Color me weird, but not a plus. If I get to the point where I'm over having that original flavor in my mouth, I'll dig out the handy dandy toothbrush and deal with it. Meanwhile it would have been tasting wonderful.
I think dieting just got easier.
Fubar. Rinse. Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Yes, I'm back to whining about the cardiac monitoring system, the one I was to wear for three weeks. Like a lot of wanna-be-great ideas, the concept was much better than the execution. In fact, it was the execution which made me want to also. Execute somebody, that is. Maybe just a little?
Quick refresher: The first system was sent out with the wrong parts so they didn't communicate with each other. It also came with medical adhesive which I'm allergic to. Many many phone conversations with the company tech reps later, it was sent back - on their dime - and replaced, with my three-week trial to start over at no extra cost to me.
One might be tempted to believe this replacement was the perfect solution, right? Well, say your prayers and resist that temptation, folks.
These parts actually did talk to each other this time. Just, not back to the company keeping track of - supposedly - my every little heartbeat and electronic squiggle. But hey, who doesn't want the chance to talk to another dozen or so company reps in the attempt to find a fix for this problem?
Turns out I'm not quite that lonely. Nor am I quite so fond of the sound of my own voice that I delight in explaining from the very beginning to each and every one of them what the problem is and what we've gone through so far to try to fix it all. I'm not even so full of myself that I can believe all those moderately competent reps are thrilled at mimicking polite interest in my issues as the irritation creeps (creeps? Hell!) into my voice more audibly with each passing hour on the phone.
I'd already been through enough calls with the reps that I had a fair familiarity of what the different steps and menus were for. There were times I was even a couple steps ahead of the company staff in procedures. I already knew, for example, which numbers on my equipment they needed and where they were to be found amid all the screen info. I knew before they asked that my problem was not because I was inside a building or in the wrong part of the building because nothing, inside or out, made a difference. I also get to explain that no, Sun City, Arizona, suburb of Phoenix, was not in a rural area!!!! Just to tweak them at this point I would even tell them how cell towers here were "disguised" as palm trees and how easily they stood out anyway. I even knew how many blocks - not miles, blocks - it was to the next several fake palms. And heck, no, there isn't even one of our mini-mountains in between to block the signal.
Yep, bases covered on that point, eh?
Eventually, we figured out that going through the "restart" process on my phone would reconnect it to whichever cell tower was around. It just wouldn't stay connected. Up in the corner of the tool bar on the phone screen there was a little tiny print message that would flash after about two minutes of being connected, saying "invalid sim card". It was so brief that if I wasn't watching right then I would miss it. The phone wouldn't, however. As the message dropped off the screen, the connection to a cell tower also dropped.
Every time.
Rinse.
Repeat.
I'd know the cell was failing to reconnect for it's next download because the phone gets worn hooked on my waistband, and it vibrates.
Whee.
So I get to pull it off, slide off the cover, hit restart, watch it reboot, relocate me, do its little song and dance to figure out it was trying to connect to send data, and finally send data. Or as much as it could before the connection shut down again, having discovered yet again that its sim card was suddenly invalid after having worked for it's allotted two minutes.
OK, I'm guessing at the two minute limit. It might have been a minute forty-three, or two minutes seventeen. I never actually dug out a stopwatch. I just knew it happened. I also knew how much I cared to fix it versus ignoring it for a couple extra hours.
I could pop in and out of menus, follow how many bytes of data were left to send, check the percent of connection to my monitor at any given time. Really, I could.
Doesn't mean I wanted to. Just means I was competent at it. I knew what the phone was telling me. Big whoop.
Today, April 1st, is my last scheduled day on the monitoring system. I actually wore the damned thing for 46 minutes into the day. They implied I'd have it for 24 hours, and was to send it back on the 2nd. I decided my sleep was more important. The danged thing took so much time and gave so much frustration that by the time I changed monitors so the other would charge, after, of course, making sure the most recent download was completed and the adhesive patch was still keeping adhered properly to my skin without folding under and blocking one of the imbedded sensors and the phone was now on my headboard and plugged in to its charger for the night (after lights were out because I wasn't to be more than 10 feet from the phone and the light switch was farther away than that, and hey! you try plugging that stupid cord in to your phone in the dark the right-way up the first or even the 17th time by the time all this crap is done!)...
Big inhale....
After all that, no matter how wiped out I'd been when I started for bed, I was now wide awake again and stewing. Among everything else, I was heartily tired of sleep deprivation. It gets worse. the toilet is even farther away than the light switch, so the process of disconnecting from the charger, hooking on my pj's waistband, wandering down the hall and back again, replugging to the charger, again all in the dark...
So, the system is in its return box, a note accompanying the phone in its "malfunctioning equipment" bubble wrap bag which the company thoughtfully supplied "just in case". After a nap and shower, I'll head out to the local UPS store and ship it off. Thursday I'll go see the cardiologist to go over results. My bet will be on "inconclusive". Nothing major happened during these three weeks, just a flutter or 90, and I don't need a machine to tell me that. Meanwhile, I've kept their office apprised of the technical issues, having to reschedule the appointment to discuss results.
They did drop the idea into that conversation that the office is considering going with a different company's system for their next set of patients. At least somebody's listening.
On the plus side, the rash from the 1st adhesive patches, now 4 weeks old, has finally gone away. The silicone adhesive worked well in that regard. And everybody who saw the phone case, as I pulled it out to restart the system, wanted to know how they could get their own just like it. Ummmm... get a funky cardiac rhythm?
Repeat.
Repeat.
Yes, I'm back to whining about the cardiac monitoring system, the one I was to wear for three weeks. Like a lot of wanna-be-great ideas, the concept was much better than the execution. In fact, it was the execution which made me want to also. Execute somebody, that is. Maybe just a little?
Quick refresher: The first system was sent out with the wrong parts so they didn't communicate with each other. It also came with medical adhesive which I'm allergic to. Many many phone conversations with the company tech reps later, it was sent back - on their dime - and replaced, with my three-week trial to start over at no extra cost to me.
One might be tempted to believe this replacement was the perfect solution, right? Well, say your prayers and resist that temptation, folks.
These parts actually did talk to each other this time. Just, not back to the company keeping track of - supposedly - my every little heartbeat and electronic squiggle. But hey, who doesn't want the chance to talk to another dozen or so company reps in the attempt to find a fix for this problem?
Turns out I'm not quite that lonely. Nor am I quite so fond of the sound of my own voice that I delight in explaining from the very beginning to each and every one of them what the problem is and what we've gone through so far to try to fix it all. I'm not even so full of myself that I can believe all those moderately competent reps are thrilled at mimicking polite interest in my issues as the irritation creeps (creeps? Hell!) into my voice more audibly with each passing hour on the phone.
I'd already been through enough calls with the reps that I had a fair familiarity of what the different steps and menus were for. There were times I was even a couple steps ahead of the company staff in procedures. I already knew, for example, which numbers on my equipment they needed and where they were to be found amid all the screen info. I knew before they asked that my problem was not because I was inside a building or in the wrong part of the building because nothing, inside or out, made a difference. I also get to explain that no, Sun City, Arizona, suburb of Phoenix, was not in a rural area!!!! Just to tweak them at this point I would even tell them how cell towers here were "disguised" as palm trees and how easily they stood out anyway. I even knew how many blocks - not miles, blocks - it was to the next several fake palms. And heck, no, there isn't even one of our mini-mountains in between to block the signal.
Yep, bases covered on that point, eh?
Eventually, we figured out that going through the "restart" process on my phone would reconnect it to whichever cell tower was around. It just wouldn't stay connected. Up in the corner of the tool bar on the phone screen there was a little tiny print message that would flash after about two minutes of being connected, saying "invalid sim card". It was so brief that if I wasn't watching right then I would miss it. The phone wouldn't, however. As the message dropped off the screen, the connection to a cell tower also dropped.
Every time.
Rinse.
Repeat.
I'd know the cell was failing to reconnect for it's next download because the phone gets worn hooked on my waistband, and it vibrates.
Whee.
So I get to pull it off, slide off the cover, hit restart, watch it reboot, relocate me, do its little song and dance to figure out it was trying to connect to send data, and finally send data. Or as much as it could before the connection shut down again, having discovered yet again that its sim card was suddenly invalid after having worked for it's allotted two minutes.
OK, I'm guessing at the two minute limit. It might have been a minute forty-three, or two minutes seventeen. I never actually dug out a stopwatch. I just knew it happened. I also knew how much I cared to fix it versus ignoring it for a couple extra hours.
I could pop in and out of menus, follow how many bytes of data were left to send, check the percent of connection to my monitor at any given time. Really, I could.
Doesn't mean I wanted to. Just means I was competent at it. I knew what the phone was telling me. Big whoop.
Today, April 1st, is my last scheduled day on the monitoring system. I actually wore the damned thing for 46 minutes into the day. They implied I'd have it for 24 hours, and was to send it back on the 2nd. I decided my sleep was more important. The danged thing took so much time and gave so much frustration that by the time I changed monitors so the other would charge, after, of course, making sure the most recent download was completed and the adhesive patch was still keeping adhered properly to my skin without folding under and blocking one of the imbedded sensors and the phone was now on my headboard and plugged in to its charger for the night (after lights were out because I wasn't to be more than 10 feet from the phone and the light switch was farther away than that, and hey! you try plugging that stupid cord in to your phone in the dark the right-way up the first or even the 17th time by the time all this crap is done!)...
Big inhale....
After all that, no matter how wiped out I'd been when I started for bed, I was now wide awake again and stewing. Among everything else, I was heartily tired of sleep deprivation. It gets worse. the toilet is even farther away than the light switch, so the process of disconnecting from the charger, hooking on my pj's waistband, wandering down the hall and back again, replugging to the charger, again all in the dark...
So, the system is in its return box, a note accompanying the phone in its "malfunctioning equipment" bubble wrap bag which the company thoughtfully supplied "just in case". After a nap and shower, I'll head out to the local UPS store and ship it off. Thursday I'll go see the cardiologist to go over results. My bet will be on "inconclusive". Nothing major happened during these three weeks, just a flutter or 90, and I don't need a machine to tell me that. Meanwhile, I've kept their office apprised of the technical issues, having to reschedule the appointment to discuss results.
They did drop the idea into that conversation that the office is considering going with a different company's system for their next set of patients. At least somebody's listening.
On the plus side, the rash from the 1st adhesive patches, now 4 weeks old, has finally gone away. The silicone adhesive worked well in that regard. And everybody who saw the phone case, as I pulled it out to restart the system, wanted to know how they could get their own just like it. Ummmm... get a funky cardiac rhythm?
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