Just Say No To Medical Fluff

Would you go in to a car dealership, jewelry store, a realtor's office, a clothing store. . . . or anyplace and say, "Just give me what you think I ought to have. I don't care what it costs."

I wouldn't.  But when a physician ordered three MRIs and an EVR  it took several phone calls to find out how much they would cost. I guess when it comes to medical tests, hospitals consider that I am one of two kinds of people.  I'm either a person with medical coverage - in which case I shouldn't be so gauche as to ask how much something should cost; or I'm a person without insurance in which case. . . well, in which case I wouldn't have gotten as far as to see a physician to have tests scheduled in the first place.

As near as I can tell with the information I was able to rip from the strong, tight jaws of the hospital and my insurance company, my responsibility will be for 20% of the charge plus $75.  That means ol' Fay here, would end up spending $2441.60. 
That's right, the charge for the three MRIs and some test where I stare into a box with changing lights for a couple of hours - which by the way, sounds to me like something guaranteed to cause a migraine - is $11,833.  This does not include the tests on the three quarts of blood they took from my ever-weakening arm.

Well, I ain't doin' it.  I've had MRIs before. They showed some spots on my brain.  I reckon they'll still be there.  But this guy doesn't even want to see my old pictures.  Actually, I'm kicking myself for going to this neurologist in the first place.  Well, live and learn.

Seriously, what was I thinking?  This electrician doesn't care about symptoms.  He cares about numbers and locations of spots.  He's a spot-treater. 

Well I don't care about the spots. I would like to stop running into door jams and having blurry vision.  I'd like to stop toppling from personal earthquakes and I'd like my muscles to behave.  How will counting spots do that?  He can't answer that question.

So I fired him. 

But what sort of a system is this where physicians see you for 15 minutes and order $12,000 worth of tests?  Where it's so rare to ask for the cost of procedures that the hospital switchboard isn't really even sure how to forward the call? Where physicians don't care about symptoms, which are subjective but only signs that can be measured and calibrated.  Do you think this sort of practice has anything to do with why 40% of South Carolinians can't afford health care coverage at all?

I'm very grateful to have "good insurance" and I think it's too precious to use frivolously.  Just because my local hospital has an MRI machine and I have insurance isn't a good enough reason for me to have $12,000 worth of pictures.

I want to make sure that the main reason I'm having a test or procedure isn't because I have "good insurance."

I'm the one running the show when it comes to my health care.  I hire my physicians and fire them if they don't answer my questions.  I pay for my insurance and copay and deductibles and vitamins and medications and I am responsible for deciding what is necessary and helpful and what is just fancy, fluffy, unbelievably expensive procedures.

I don't have to be a physician.  If my physician can't or won't explain things in a way I can understand,  or if she somehow makes me feel as if I shouldn't be asking, she isn't doing her job.  And we all have to be responsible for understanding as well as we can, our health care and be willing to say "Enough is enough, already!"

In a Pickle

In early spring, when planting a garden, it's impossible to remember how big tomato plants get and how many cucumbers one vine produces.  It's inevitable, then, that I over plant each time. 

Why do cucumber seeds come in such large numbers anyway?  The only reason I can think of, is that the people who package the seeds expect us to lose at least three quarters of the produce hidden under leaves until they are just too big to do anything with except to look at them in wonder. 

This year I planted some little pickling varieties so I could pick them at a reasonable three inch length to make into dills.  But if I don't get out there to pick them twice a day, and if I don't find them in their hiding places under the wide leaves in time, they just become shorter, fatter, too-big-to-use, gold-green monstrosities.  I swear today a vine grabbed me as I was passing by and pointed at some of the little devils that were hiding from me. 

Zucchini will hide from a gardener, too.  But even a very large zucchini can be used for something.  I've stuffed and baked a couple this year with a sausage, Parmesan, onion, bread crumb stuffing. That was quite yum.  And I plan to grate a hider tomorrow and make some zucchini bread.  Once when I was very young, a zucchini got away from my dad until it was the size of a newborn.  I drew a face on it and wrapped it in a blanket.  But an overgrown cucumber would make one very ugly baby doll.  You just have to find them in time, that's all.

Even with the hiding vegetables, I always bring in more vegetables than seems possible, from vines that move around the garden like homesteaders. And I've got lots and lots of volunteer cucumbers as well as squash and melons that appeared where ever I used my home made compost.

And tomato plants!  When I buy them they are just tiny little things in four inch pots.  And those tomato cages?  Give me a break!  They are made to fit the tomato plants in my planting-time imagination, not the Godzilla-sized dark green trees that are crowded together making a jungle of my garden now.  Those plants ate my little tomato cages about a month ago. 

Tomatoes don't have the color camouflage thing going for them, so the plants have developed their own protection. Picking tomatoes in my garden requires courage.  I have to brave the mosquitoes and Grimm knows what else that might be lurking in the deep, dark recesses of the tomato patch.  But if ever there was a worthy adventure it's doing just that.  I could probably live on ripe tomatoes still warm from the vine. 

For some reason, I think pepper plants should be planted near tomatoes, so finding peppers is a trick, too.  But let me say this.  If I had to walk through snake-filled pits and jump shark filled water to pick fresh veggies, I would do it.

Yesterday I made 21 half pints and ten pints of a variety of pickles and canned 5 pints of green beans and a quart of tomatoes.  Today I made a big bowl of gazpacho.  And of course I eat fresh tomatoes and cucumbers at every turn. 

Having too many fresh vegetables is like having too many friends, or too much beauty, or too much smarts.  I'm learning to live with it. Is life good, or what?

Carthage With My Girls!

I'm back in my hometown, Carthage Illinois, for a few more hours.  I've been around for over a week.  Probably the best place to celebrate a Fourth of July is in a little Midwestern town in the middle of corn fields.  There was a street dance and a parade and lots of food and fireworks, of course.  Great good fun.

Of course, I haven't been back for a while so lots of folks didn't recognize me at first.

They'd say, "Weren't you Nancy's sister?" expressing some amount of disbelief. To this I'd answer, "Oh, yes, Nancy. Poor thing. But really, she's not nearly so ugly now."
(My sister was and is gorgeous)


My favorite is all the people who came up to me and said, "Oh, you're Phyllis Campbell, I remember you!  You used to be so cute!"

Excuse me? Used to be? Well, ok, I can see their point.  I used  to be cute, and now I'm hot and beautiful.  That must be what they are talking about.  Cause Babies, it's true.  I'm fully expecting 55, an age which I'll become in a matter of days, to be the slickest year yet.

I can't imagine what could be better than being 55.  I still got it and I know how to use it.  Life is grand!  The best part is that I'm not in competition with anyone anymore.  I know what I'm good at and I know what I'm not good at and what the heck, if it makes me happy I'll do the not-good-at things with gusto.  If I would have had this confidence when I was young, I would have been. . . .

Oh, who cares.  The important thing is that every single event that I've lived has led me to (drum roll please)  this living example of the Goddess I am today!

I got to see Richard, Mike. Roger, Shirli, Sherry, other classmates whom I believe have learned the secret. I talked with Amy, Dean, Brucie (just love him) Deborah Kay, Little Ricky, Robbie, and lots of people who were in other classes.  I could just hug them and hug them.  How fun to see us all grown up. And now it doesn't matter who's got the cool clothes, who has the clear skin or the longest hair or the nicest car or gets the best grades.  I don't remember who was a cheerleader.

But mostly, I got to hang with my girls.  When you've known someone since age 3 and have always had a special language; when you know their ickiest secrets and they know yours; when you've had angry times, and sad times, and silly times, and lonely times and somehow stuck together through it all - when you don't try to suck in your tummy or even have to put on makeup to sit comfortably with them - when you carry them daily in your heart and in your mind and in your soul - those are friends.

And it's not because we have that much in common.  We live in different states.  Jac has been married for a gazillion years to the same really cool guy. Graham has never married, and I have got the marriage thing well practiced.  No one brags about our marital status and I know we can all see the advantages in all situations.

We've all had very different experiences in life.  Whew!  And among us, we've covered enough experiences to keep a novelist quite happy for volumes.  We are different shapes and sizes, though we are all beautiful and perfect.  What we have in common is Carthage Illinois.  Go figure.

I can (and have) made and received phone calls from these women at what would be considered inappropriate times by other people without a second thought.  I have verbally cut down people who've said bad things about them and I'm sure they've done the same for me.  Heck, I've even been in (a much exaggerated, but nonetheless true) bar fight defending one of them.  I would gladly kick ass and take names for these women, or fly cross country to be with them, or give them my last piece of chewing gum. 

Being with them is precious and I'm so, so glad to have had this time.  I don't need a therapist, I've got my girls!  Graham, Jac, I love you.

Word Casserole

If I tell you I'm fixin to pitch a fit, you probably know what I'm talking about.  If you're from the South, you definitely know. You may even know the different kinds of fits one may pitch.  I could pitch a tizzy or a conniption or a shit fit.  But what if you were talking to someone who was just learning to speak American?  How would you justify saying you were fixin to pitch a conniption when you meant you were becoming upset?

The words don't make sense.

If you tell me you were petrified or mortified, I probably understand you were afraid rather than turned to stone or became gangrenous.  Why do we say really good or really tired?  Do we need to inform people that this time we mean what we say?

Why is it cool to be called hot but an insult to be called cold? How neat is a pin?  Do pigs sweat?  Do fish drink? Are whistles slick? Do you realize that birds eat all day long?

What does it really mean to haul off and pop somebody a good one?  What does it mean to be a piece of work?  Is pie easier than a piece of cake?  Wouldn't it be scary if things really came out of the blue and hit you like a rock? Are buttons really that cute?

Dogs are man's best friend but if you call someone a dog or a bitch you might get socked and it would have nothing to do with what you wear on your feet.

Sometimes we just exaggerate or we redundantly say the same thing over and over again repetitively.  Do we need to say brutal when describing a murder or a rape?  If something is very, very, very strange is it stranger than just very, very strange?

I knew of a man who gave his brother a ton of shit for his birthday.  It was cow manure, actually and he had it delivered to his brother's driveway.  But usually if we say that, we don't mean it quite that literally.  The same goes for giving someone flack or grief.

It was a scream!  It was a riot!  That guy was killing me!   All that might mean t comedian was good !

I've only scratched the surface, too.  I could go on forever.  There's a ton of examples I could use.  But you get my drift don't you?  I mean you get my point, right?

At a meeting this morning, someone mentioned that someone was really into the ganja and no one batted an eye.  We didn't skip a beat. Of course, we were all pretty laid back and took it all easy. 

Don't get your undies in a bundle or anything, I mean I guess it's not that big a deal.  Let's just try to think about the words we use.  It will blow your mind, Baby.

Invasion of the Body Savers

When someone dies in our society, we generally have the blood drained from the body then refill it with toxic preservatives. Then we have the body gussied up with nice clothes and makeup and give the hair a good do, put it in a very fancy metal or polished wood box that’s well-cushioned and put it on display under pink lights,. Then people who cared about the person can parade past and talk about how life-like it looks. Actually, it looks like a dead body that’s been gussied up. I prefer not to look.

After the funeral, we close the fancy box and put it in a fancy car that is driven ever-so- slowly – presumably to not cause the embalmed boxed body discomfort - to a beautiful piece of land, where the box is then lowered into yet another box at the bottom of a six foot hole. These boxes are often guaranteed not to leak for many years to come. Then we cover the lot with dirt and put a fancy engraved stone on the top.

None of this makes the person any less dead.

Meanwhile, back among the living, people wait on long lists for organs that would help them live longer, healthier, more productive lives. There is a need for all sorts of bits of bodies from bone and skin for grafts to corneas to livers and hearts. And there is need for whole bodies to be used to advance medical research and training.

There are stories of poor people selling one of their kidneys. Horrible. There has also been some talk lately about funeral businesspeople who sold body parts to companies who supply hospitals, research and teaching facilities without the consent of the families. That is disgraceful. I think if there is selling to be done, the family of the person who used the body should get the money. But then I suppose there would be the danger of people knocking off old Uncle Henry to sell his organs.

People are like that.

So I reckon the only way to solve this problem is for everyone to make arrangements for the responsible disposal of their bodies once they are done with them. I have sent away to sciencecare.com for planning kits for my husband and I. We are also both organ donors and have indicated that on our driver license and in our instructions to each other. So chances are good that my body will actually do someone else some good once I’m done with it. That thought is comforting to me, although at the time I don’t reckon I’ll care one way or the other.

Now, if you’re concerned about the Rapture, when according to some Christians bodies will rise again; I don’t think you need worry. I am absolutely positive that a God who can raise up dead bodies from their graves, reanimate them and take them to Heaven, isn’t going to be flummoxed over organ donation or even cremation. Heck, if those guaranteed vaults and fancy caskets don’t slow him down, I reckon he can handle reuse of his greatest creation.

I know a lot of people who spend an amazing amount of time planning their funerals. I know I have. I want certain songs played, poems read, stuff like that. I don’t want anyone parading by looking at my dead body in a casket. That’s just creepy to me. Just leave dead bodies out of my funeral.

In fact, I think I’ll have my funeral when I can enjoy it. I’ll have a party that’s all about me. Have people bring me flowers and parade past me telling me how good I look. Then we can all eat and laugh.

And as for epitaphs, I think we ought to write those where people are more likely to read them. Like maybe on the front door. Or if more appropriate, on the door to the bedroom.

“Here lies Fay. Her life is short, but it is wide.”

Instead of taking up some prime land for a chemically poisoned body inside a box inside another box, you can plant a tree for me. I don’t care where. And for crying in a bucket, use that body every which way you can. I won’t be needing it.

The Only Alternative

We have been waiting for "alternative" energy to be perfect before we start to use it.  We've been told it's not feasible, that someday we might be able to reduce our reliance on fossil fuels by using renewable energy.  How perfect does solar, wind, tidal or harvested methane power need to be before it's as perfect as oil or coal?

It's not some weird, hippy stuff we're talking about here.  When I was a child, (oh, come on, it wasn't THAT long ago) every farm had a windmill that pumped water from a well.  Forty years ago my brother built a functioning solar collector from recycled beer cans and an old storm window.  It put out some major heat. 

The sun has been powering the whole planet for quite some time.  It's going to be around as long as we need it.  Coal and oil are limited.  They will run out.  It takes millions of years to make them and not so many to use them up.  And getting to them isn't pretty.  I don't need to say more about that, do I?  And what fills in the holes they leave behind when we remove them from the Earth?  Does it make sense that we keep removing stuff from deep within the planet in huge amounts and there is no negative consequence.  I'm no rocket surgeon, but I seem to remember that Nature abhors a vacuum. And if scarcity and collection aren't disasters enough, when we burn them we create poison. 

We all feel helpless and guilty about the energy crisis.  After all, what can one person do?  How about

• Wash clothes in cold water.  You don't need hot water for that.  Really.
• Insulate your house.  Plug the holes. Weather strip
• Replace your dead appliances with energy efficient, hopefully solar new ones.
• Cut out unnecessary trips.  Take the bus.  Walk.
• Don't run your dishwasher unless that puppy's full.
• Vent your attic

You get the idea.  Those are little things, but if we all only did the first one - washed in cold - I wonder how much energy we'd save?

And stop thinking about how imperfect alternative energy is.  Even without a battery, we can have a small wind turbine on the roof that creates electricity we use first - before we tap into the grid.  Solar water heaters are hardly hippy technology anymore.  We have to have a roof anyway, why not stick a couple of collectors up there.  Maybe it wouldn't be enough to keep us completely free from the utility company, but it would make a dent.

Renewable energy isn't an all or nothing thing.  It's not weird or unfeasible to cut down on the fossil fuel powered energy we use.  It's ok to take a baby step.  We just need to put one foot in front of the other and stop going backward.

Gardening Fay Style

Today I went to the garden to pick some green beans. But while I was there I thought I should check for other ready veggies. While peaking under the big leaves of cucumber and squash plants, I sort of got stuck in a little fantasy and decided that if I were a fairy, I might make my summer home there. And that reminded me that I’ve been meaning to make a toad home for some time, to encourage a little critter to move in and eat bugs.

So I searched the French drain for the perfect flat rocks and built a nice little cool, shady home and thought about putting up a “Free Rent” sign. But while at the French drain, I’d noticed that there was a lot of silt among the rocks, evidently from the recent downpours.

So I got a bucket and trowel and my little stool and dug out about five feet of the gazillion foot French drain. It was sort of like panning for gold, only I was panning for rocks and bits of broken brick. I did get a couple of buckets of really fluffy, black, worm-filled soil out of it and decided to build a new raised bed.

So I piled up the recovered wormy soil and got some compost out of the bin to mix in with it. But while I was at the compost bin, I noticed that it needed some water and a good stir. I got some great compost from the bottom though.

I mixed the compost and the soil from the French drain and piled it up. I thought about what a great bed this was going to make for some more beans. And then I remembered. I came to pick beans!

And that’s the way I garden!