The Case of the Missing Medications

I grew up sharing a bedroom with my younger sister and my paternal grandmother, one of whom was fun and the other who was a hypochondriac whose only way to get anybody pay attention to her was to be sick. Which was sad on many levels; but for the purposes of this post, it was sad because as long as I knew her, she read a book a week and was probably capable of conversation on any number of interesting topics. On the other hand, The Other Guy hasn’t read for many years, and for many years most of his conversations begin like this:

TOG:   I had a bad night last night….

Me:  Sorry, what happened?

TOG:  (Texting words, many of which included: heat, trouble breathing, werewolves, pain in his side, living a life of whiney desperation, not having any appetite, unable to sleep).

I know how to follow this script without breaking a sweat. I’m resting from a particularly strenuous day at the park with the dog, followed by a trip to dog beach with the dog, and I’m watching a particularly good Perry Mason episode with Michael Rennie and drinking watered down bourbon.

Me:  Time to see the doctor?

WISIMH:  Lucky for me texting is literally phoning it in.

TOG:  (Texting words, some of which include: I’m on it like hair on soap, I’ll get around to making an appointment when an iceberg crashes into the gates of hell, ok, trouble breathing, I’m reading a most interesting book.)

Me:  How about starting that course of steroids prescribed by your pulmonologist for when you have a “flare”.

WISIMH:  Flare. Now there’s a term with a metaphorical value of 9 out of 10. It’s short for flare up which is what happens when: a) Smokey Bear doesn’t remind campers to extinguish campfires; or b) the suffocating symptoms of people with COPD spiral into a feedback loop and get worse and worse. Wait, can loops spiral? Also, I’m pretty sure the blackmailer’s girlfriend killed him, not the defendant. TOG has a standing order for steroids to take when flares occur, but he won't think of it on his own.

TOG:  Prednisone?

WISIMH:  No. Cyanide.

Me:  Yup, prednisone. Do you have that, or do I?

TOG:  (Texting words, some of which include: I don’t see the prednisone within my immediate reach, so I’d have to get up and open a cupboard door or at least lift up a stack of mail on the table next to me to see if I have it and that’s not going to happen any time soon, it hurts to move even the slightest distance, why don’t you look for it in your house before I bother to do anything more than sit here and breathe like a failing sump pump, better chance it’s in your kitchen cupboard, had to get my dinner “to go” tonight because I can’t sit in the dining room.)

WISIMH:  Then again, maybe it’s the defendant’s uncle who wants her in jail for murder so he’ll get control of the wealthy company her father left her. He’s pretty sketchy now that I see how mean he is to his alcoholic wife.

Me:  (Having actually gotten up and looked in the kitchen pill cupboard finding only expired tranquilizers prescribed to me and no steroids prescribed to TOG) Nope. I don’t have the prednisone here. It must be with your pills. Suggest you start (the 5-day regimen) tonight with your bedtime pills.

TOG:  K

WISIMH:  Dammit! It WAS the lawyer’s assistant because he was the only one who could have seen the combination to the safe when the defendant accidentally bumped into him in the hallway.  Wait, I might be mixing up the plots of two consecutive episodes here. Maybe that bourbon wasn’t watered down as much as I thought.

Me:  Ok, sweetie. Hope you sleep better tonight. Love you.

Midnight Vexations

I recently spent a wonderful week on the east coast; visiting my family members, far from TOG confined on the west coast with no one to buy his wine or ask him for periodic updates on his always fragile health. Now, these trips away are always problematic. TOG generally finds a way to reach out and - to use an expression an old friend once used to describe a sour and vexing way to spoil someone’s day - piss in my cornflakes. Once he even made me cancel a family vacation the night before a trip because of an academy award-worthy panic attack.

He did the cornflakes thing again this trip. But first a bit of a backstory.

I doubt if he’ll ever top his best several years ago, which paradoxically began with a phone call to the very same place I stayed last week. He called to inform me that his mother’s poor dog Sandy had gone out into the back yard, laid down, and died – several years after he should have been mercifully put to sleep because of all the untreated ills and neglect he had suffered. I was told that morbidly obese dead dog was too heavy for TOG to lift in his (TOG’s not the dog’s) debilitated state, so he’d have to wait several more days until I returned home to help him move the body, which would presumably be easier to lift once the process of decay was well underway. I told him where the wheelbarrow was, but the problem was too insurmountable since the dog was downhill from the wheelbarrow, and besides, then what: push it uphill? Where?

Then, to add some used kitty litter to my corn flakes,  and to reassure me that he and his morbidly obese mother would survive until my return and rescue, he said they were grieving by solemnly drinking my best sherry and remembering what a good boy Sandy had been. Which to be fair, was easier than it would have been to dig a hole next to the dog, roll him in, and say a few respectful words. I had to explain, using very short words and brief sentences that he needed to dispose of the body before I returned. He finally did by calling some guys from the yellow pages. But my sherry was never replaced.

Which brings us to my recent trip. These days, we text instead of speaking on the phone. And he can't reach my sherry.

TOG: Sorry.

Me: Que?

TOG:  Deadbeat Younger Sister (DYS) in CA. For divorce. She has a lawyer but likes your opinon. Now she has your cell phone. S o r r y.

WISIMH:  She must have got my cell phone number via ESP. The passive voice is to be loved, isn't it? DYS hasn’t lived in CA for > 15 years. She left her husband, who I will call by his real name because it’s more evocative and descriptive than any pseudonym I could invent while sober: Tex. Tex lives in a run-down rusty trailer filled with guns. DYS lives in the woods somewhere in MO where she hides from Tex and UFOs and Obama and cares for her morbidly obese adult daughter with Lyme disease.

Me:  WTF. Thanks.

Me:  Seriously.

TOG: Price of fame. Beauty and brains I knew there was a reason I married you.

WISIMH:  So I could provide free legal advice to your morbidly stooped dysfunctional family who apparently have no shame about leaving me holding all the responsibility for family legal matters while they spend their welfare checks on box wine/diet soda and cheese crackers/twinkles? What is wrong with you people when it comes to using reason, common sense, good manners and simple kindness?

Me:  What the hell K. I’m on vacation.

TOG:  (Crickets. Very, very eloquent crickets. Almost like they were saying "HA, pissed in your cornflakes, bitch!")

When I got home, there were two voicemail messages from DYS which I (no shit) didn’t return. Then, at 11:00 PM on the day I returned from vacation, while I’m sound asleep in bed because my internal clock was still tuned to east coast time where it was 2:00 AM, I get a text:

DYS:  would u be willing to give “serve” Tex his “D” papers this weekend? the lawyer said it would be easier & cheaper if i could get anybody over 18 just t

DYS:  (separate text) o say “u r served” than to try to find him at (his place of work). Hes coming to get more stuff this weekend what do you think?

WISIMH: Well, yes, of course: cheaper. Holy Son of God on a fusion powered aluminum pogo stick, do you people have no shame? Not to mention a rudimentary ability to spell or use proper grammar? Or any awareness of the time zones in America? Or recollection of the fact that you didn’t have a word to say to me for the 20+ years I cared for your mother while you conveniently left the state?

Me:  (With remarkable  restraint I modestly consider to border on saintly self-control) Sorry but no. I’d prefer not to get involved.

DYS:  ok thats ok  TOG is really looking forward to his bathtime   I dont blame him  how was your trip?

WISIMH:  This is how TOG notifies me that he wants to visit here to use the bathtub, and also how they both remind me they’re in communication and he told her about my trip. I don't blame him either: he has trouble using his words. And do you know how hard it is to text without having autocorrect learn to capitalize the letter “I” or apostrophize contractions, or put in a period when you skip two places and then automatically capitalize the next word?  Me neither, but I think you have to work at it. You have to admire such a commitment to stoopidity. Not to mention wanting to chat.

Me:  Good but returned to some major electrical problems in the house, Plus, I’m on east coast time and it’s the middle of the night.

DYS:  oh no   what happened   my place looks pathetic too

WISIMH:  Which may be almost as pathetic as I already consider you and your entire self-serving and devious family. Furthermore, now that I’m fully awake, I strongly suspect that the service of process request was merely a foot in the door to getting more free advice and possibly even a place to stay away from your even more pathetic gun-filled trailer with Tex.

And if you think I’m going to reply and continue to chat, you’re dumber than I even suspected and that’s saying something because I already think you’re dumber than a cellophane bag of dried mushrooms.

Ay, there’s the Rub

I’ve been working with Genworth to process a claim for The Other Guy’s long term care insurance. The minimum condition needed to qualify for a claim is that he needs either “standby assistance” or “hands on assistance” with at least two of the Activities of Daily Living. ADLs include stuff like dressing, bathing, transferring (i.e. moving from bed to chair) eating. We don’t have the Cadillac plan that covers heartache or the thousand other natural shocks that flesh is heir to, so it’s a pretty high bar. For example, the ADL about eating doesn’t mean you can’t prepare your own meals. It means you can’t feed yourself. As it happens, we’re almost there. I filed a claim after evaluation by the facility assisted living nurse (D1) confirming that he needs (and will pay for) standby assistance with bathing and dressing.

After TOG starts getting assisted living, the Genworth claim process includes three components. First, we submit a statement by TOG’s primary care physician that he needs such assistance. I took care of that. Then, we need an exam by a nurse contracted by Genworth that he needs such assistance. I took care of that. We also need a statement by the facility where he lives that he needs such assistance. I asked him to take care of that. The last time I talked to a Genworth rep a week or so ago, the facility had yet to submit their forms and itemized bills.  

So the other day, we’re out to lunch.

Me:  Have you talked to D1, D2 (assisted living coordinator) or M (business and billing manager) about submitting the facility paperwork to Genworth?

TOG:  The what? Me? Do anything? At all? Ever? (Or words to that effect.)

Me:  Remember? I asked you to follow up to be sure they sent in their form. It’s the third part of the three-part claim process.

TOG:  (Truly expert look of clueless wonder on his face) I thought all things happened by magic without me having to do anything, let alone thank you for putting money in my pocket. (Ok, he probably didn’t say those exact words, but trust me, he said words that totally sounded like that.)

Me:  Please talk to one or more of the three facility employees who can follow up on this and ask them to give you copies of what they’ve sent so I can have them in my file.

WISIMH (or maybe I said it out loud):  Look sweetie, this is money that will go to you, so there’s absolutely no financial incentive for me to lift a finger. The one tiny piece of this process I’ve asked you to be responsible for is to follow up with the people who work where you live. It’s not terribly complicated.

WISIMH (for sure, not out loud):  And by now you should know which of the three women are responsible for this. I do. It’s M. But why do I bother? The likelihood of you following up is greater than the likelihood of me being attacked by a dozen zombies on surfboards while I’m surfing off the coast of San Diego in a snowstorm. And I don’t even surf. But it gives us something to talk about when we’re together.

***

Last Week.

TOG:  Talked to D1 and D2 today. If the word Genworth crosses their paths in association with me they will alert me with copies. I will leave a message at the front desk for M so that she will do same as well as send Genworth a receipt every month. (Remember, M is the go-to person here, so by pure coincidence, he’s managed to avoid her).

WISIMH:  Yes he said that. Even when he’s attempting to use words, he doesn’t use good ones.

Me:  I’ll check w Genworth. Residence HAS rec’d something from Genworth.

WISIMH:  Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished for. Not sleep, aka death, but getting this claim processed. Ay, therein lies the fucking rub. And by rub, I mean ay, there’s the tiresome game he plays. He’s punishing me for kicking him out of his house and selling off his precious hoard piece by piece by not cooperating with anything I ask him to do, regardless of whether it’s in his interest or not. So I end up doing it anyway, but not before I first suffer the slings and arrows of his outrageous passive aggression. Eventually, inevitably, I take arms against a sea of troubles, which, by opposing, is my only hope of ending them.

Meanwhile, TOG and I have texted and it turns out he needs actual hands on assistance in bathing. This would, of course, probably be another wrench in the LTC claim process because even though it wouldn’t change the cost of the assisted living services, it would probably require re-examination and re-certification by doctors et. al. So I’ve asked him to wait on that. Which is as likely as a pod of killer whales suddenly appearing and attacking the zombie surfers, thereby allowing me to slip away unharmed into the increasingly blinding blizzard. (I'm wearing a wetsuit, so I'll be ok).

***

Yesterday:

TOG:  For your edification. As I drive through the facility Deana whispering Genworth Genworth…

WISIMH:  WTF?

Then, the cryptic text: “Wait”.

Turns out there was an “episode” where he couldn’t breathe, and couldn’t stay in dining room to finish lunch, and panicked, and almost barfed, and they had to assist him to his room, and monitor his O2 saturation rate, which bottomed out at 82 before increasing back to low 90s where he usually is.  Which clearly means he needs even more assisted living. Much suspenseful texting and waiting happened while this drama played out. I was working in the vegetable garden, so not particularly caring about this act of the play.

However, as Hamlet ruminated, conscience does make cowards of us all. I know I have to do this, even if I end up like Ophelia  - who put her head in the oven or something halfway through the play. As Hamlet ended his monologue when Ophelia showed up “The fair Ophelia!  Nymph, in they orisons/ Be all my sins remembered.” Which is as likely as that killer whale pod being ignominiously defeated by the zombie surfers and turned into zombie whales, and eventually catching up with me and turning me into a zombie surfer.

Vast Imbecility

This morning it was Randy and his granddaughter Allison who knocked at my door at 10:22 am.

It seems that "from time to time" they drop by unannounced to "chat about the Bible".  Randy was holding a briefcase which I suspect had either a) a lot of proof about the literal veracity of the Bible; or b) a very sharp butcher knife to cut my throat. Again, Allison was clearly there to assure paranoid householders that Randy wouldn't by trying to steal my money that I have squirreled away in books all over my house while I bled out on the floor.

I politely told them I was not interested.  I wonder if these white people ever knock on doors in the hood?

Here's who I'll let into to chat. If somebody knocked on my door and wanted to talk about Thomas Hardy's Nature's Questioning: "We wonder, ever wonder, why we find us here!" His best guess was:

"Has some Vast Imbecility,
Might to build and blend,
But impotent to tend,
Framed us in jest, and left us now to hazardy?"

Judging by the people who come to my door to talk about Creationism myths or chat about the Bible, I think the answer is yup.

The Slippery Slope of Child Exploitation

Three people knocked on my door at 10:18 this morning: two grown men and a four-year old boy. The boy was presumably brought along to provide assurance that the two men wouldn’t rape me or try to steal my tea towels.

Man:  Hi, I know you were not expecting us today.

Me:  No.

Man:  We wonder if we could talk to you to dispel some of the myths about Creationism.

Me:  Would the first myth be that it’s total nonsense?

Man:  Um, well….

Me: Then god no. Goodbye.

Man: Thank you for your time.

WISIMH:  I miss intelligence. And to bring a child along as part of this sad parade makes me want to call Child Protective Service to see if they could intervene and save the boy; although stifling a child’s curiosity is probably not a crime. I suppose his presence was more than assurance against rapey behavior. Perhaps it was even more than part of a program to brainwash the child into mindless acceptance of daddy’s crazy.

His presence also prevented me from unleashing a profanity-laced rant about how an inexcusable ignorance of obvious and provable scientific facts, when combined with a blind determination to stake out a position based on inferior intellectual acumen, leaves no room for your child to develop his intellectual capacity beyond the point where he follows you around to make old ladies feel safe when you show up at their front door. For shame.

And then I realized I made my daughter sell Girl Scout Cookies and I owe her an apology for pimping her out for what I still think is a good cause. But thinking about exploiting children to promote their parents’ questionable agendas then brought me a PTSD flashback circa 1958 when my parochial school made me sell subscriptions to The Catholic Standard for prizes like glow-in-the-dark light switch plates with the BVM on them. While I never labored in a Bangladesh clothing factory, or participated in a beauty pageant as a child, I feel their pain.

That upset me more than that those crazy people who knocked on my door this morning. Who will think of the children?

It's Not Going to Suck Itself

TOG got a letter from LTC, which he scanned and sent to me to read and explain. The letter says the claim is being evaluated and so far the carrier has determined that the place TOG lives is “an eligible Residential Care facility” as regulated and certified by the state and thus he’s allowed to live there. Our second choice of residential care facility - beneath the highway underpass - is probably not certified, which means the company wouldn’t pay benefits if he lived there. Which is just as well because mail delivery to that address is problematic.

But then the letter takes and ominous inscrutable turn: “Please also be aware that your policy may not provide facility benefits if you reside in an independent living bed within a facility. If we determine that you reside in an independent living bed, we will separately communicate what, if any, policy benefits may be payable.”

TOG’s bed is a hospital bed he got for his mother and it does go up and down but you need to press a button to lift or lower the head or foot. In other words, much like it's occupant, it doesn't move by itself. It doesn’t have a massage function either, so arguably it has no pulse. Thus, strictly speaking, his bed is neither independent nor living. So that is good, right? Somebody is going to have to find out what that means. Let's see how that goes. 

ME:  Now I’m getting worried that Genworth won’t pay rent but only services because your bed isn’t living independently.

TOG:  I must admit. I wouldn’t be surprised. But there still might be other things to do.

WISIMH:  Notice the passive voice here. Those things apparently will eventually do themselves.

ME:  Yeah. Like call MR (the insurance agent) and ask her.

WISIMH: Sometimes, I’m so hilarious, I crack myself up. Like he'd take a hint.

TOG:  Or R&P (the elder law attorney)

WISIMH:  I must admit. He can dish out hints while dodging them like The One in Matrix dodges bullets. He’s also a master at suggesting yet more things that might yet do themselves.

ME:  Let’s think about this for a minute R&P charge >$300 per hour and a call to MR is free.
WISIMH:  'Nother swing and a miss. Hint not taken.

TOG:  But that’s all down the road… no need planning NOW

ME:  Actually, the definition of planning is to figure out what to do before events overtake you… Why do I feel like I’m on my own here?  Oh yeah… Because if anything is going to be done it will be done by me.

TOG:  (Crickets)

WISIMH:  (Double face-palm) Lamentable, dreadful, hopeless, unsurprising, typical.

ME:  I am surrounded by people incapable of planning. I am very uncomfortable without a plan. My problem. Which I will solve by myself. Resenting those who failure to plan causes me more work and stress is an unfortunate side effect. 

WISIMH: Notice the general rather than specific claims set forth above. Let it never be said I specified who was incapable of planning and/or causing me stress. My life these days is like a popsicle: it’s not going to suck itself.