I love the internet. You can find some of the best information about all kinds of things. Since I'm a crafter, I am always on the lookout for good craft sites - and I found a really good one. The lady's moniker is Happybird and her website is Happybird's Crafting Haven. I've posted the link to her site here. Happybird loves to share her joy of crafting with everyone and acts as a clearing house of information. Her blog is what I hope mine evolves into one day. In the meantime, I'll just keep popping into hers every once in a while to see what's new. Do yourself a favor and check her site out, but I've got to warn you. Once you start checking out her site, it is really hard to stop.
Happy Crafting!
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Family Reunion
A couple of weeks ago, the Mathy Family got together for one of its reunions (we have them about every five years). We gathered in Clifton, Illinois on June 28-29 for two days of food, photos, and remembrances. There were two books handed out at this reunion. The first was the family directory, which lists all of the descendants of Edward and Mary (Riordan) Mathy - my grandparents - and current addresses, emails and phone numbers. The directory shows that there are 405 family members (including stepfamily members). Subtracting the deceased members (25), we have a total of 380 living family members. There were approximately 350 family members at this reunion. The second book handed out is titled "Recipes & Remembrances - The Mathy Family Cookbook". It is a compilation of 349 recipes passed on from five generations of family. I can't wait to try some of them. Of course, there are a few from our branch of the family that I'm already familiar with, but there are still a lot of others that I want to experiment with.
The weekend started with a hotdog/hamburger cookout on Saturday afternoon. We ended up with about 180 folks there. This meal was originally put together to deal with all of the out-of-town family who came in on Saturday for the main reunion on Sunday. When you bring that many folks into our little towns, it puts a real strain on the local restaurants, so we started having a Saturday night meal for all of those family members. That way, they didn't have to worry about getting everybody dressed up to go to a restaurant. It also helped cut down on the cost!
On Sunday, there was a mass at Sts. Mary & Joseph Catholic Church in Chebanse, the town just north of Clifton. That church is bigger than the one in Clifton, and since a lot of the family are members there anyway, we use that church for mass. Each family wears a different colored teeshirt, so mass was a brightly colored affair that Sunday morning. It was easy to tell who the Mathys were - they were all in teeshirts! We started using the colored teeshirts at our first big reunion in 1989. It has become the way to tell which family the kids belong to. There have been some color changes over the years, but not many, so you know that if you see someone in a green teeshirt, they're from Duane and Jennie's family, and if they're in blue, Russ and Rosie's. We used to take a big panoramic photo of the family, but we've gotten so big that this time we just took pictures of the individual families. Even those took a while to get set up (one family is over 75 and another over 60). Getting all those folks to sit still for five minutes can be a real pain. I'm going to post a photo of my family (Duane and Jennie's) here. Hope it works.
In case you're wondering how you feed a group of over 300, here's how we did it. Each family brings a meat dish (lots of fried chicken, some meatloaf, ham and roast pork loin), vegetables, salads and desserts - enough to feed their own family. Of course, everyone thinks they need to make just a little more than usual, so we end up with enough food to feed three times as many as show up. This year was no exception. We had enough food left over to feed at least another 300 people. There were at least six huge containers of fried chicken, on top of the other meats. We had potatoes of every sort (mashed, cheesed, fried, hashed) as well as green bean casseroles, broccoli rice, mostaccoli, spinach, corn souffles and Italian style vegetables. Not to mention potato salad, cole slaw, fruit salads and jello salads galore. Then there were the desserts - three 8foot tables full! If anybody went away from that day hungry, it was their own fault.
We shared old photos and old stories. The older generation (there are only six of them left now) told us about the day their brother Donald's body was returned from Denmark after WWII. He had been killed in action in Germany in 1945, just before the end of the war and was buried in Denmark until 1947, when his body was returned with a full honor guard. Uncle Donald had been awarded the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star (for meritorious conduct) posthumously. A lot of the third generation family members had never heard the story, so Aunt Dorothy, Uncle Ed, Aunt Marilyn and Aunt MaryAnn related the events of the day Uncle Donald came home. There were many tears as we heard of his heroism in the face of enemy fire and about the honor guard of officers who brought him to his final rest.
The day continued with card games and visiting. The youngsters went swimming at the pool next door and the older folks sat in groups talking and catching up with others. Late in the afternoon, ice cream was served. It was store-bought, since there were so many of us, but it did bring out the stories of how we used to have Sunday dinner at the farm with Grandma and Granpa, and how, after dinner, Grandma would mix up a batch of her homemade vanilla ice cream and us kids would be put to work cranking the old-fashioned ice cream maker. No electricity was used back then. Just good old-fashioned kid power! And if the season was right, we'd have fresh strawberries from Grandma's patch to go with it. Ah, that was great ice cream.
It started clouding up around 5:30 on Sunday, so folks started packing up. Food was wrapped up and sent home with everyone. Chairs and tables were folded up and the hall was swept up. The ladies cleaned up the kitchen and the men cleared off the pavilion, and one by one, the families started leaving amid many hugs and kisses. And suddenly, after months and months of planning and organizing, the reunion was over. We won't be getting together again, except for weddings and funerals, for six years. At that time, it will be Ed and Mary's 100th anniversary. By that time, we may have lost a few more of the older generation, but I'll bet we'll have gained a lot more of the younger ones. Who knows, by 2014 we may be over 500.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
I'm Retired
The past six months have been full of change in my life. The arthritis in my joints had gotten so bad that I could no longer do my job without a lot of pain - and a lot of mistakes - so, at the end of February, I quit working. I've been in the process of filing for Social Security Disability since then. You wouldn't believe the forms, and the redundancy. Hopefully, though, the end is in sight and I'll get a positive adjudication. If not, I'll have to hire an attorney, or just get along on my savings until I can file for early SS in November (I turn 62 in December). In the meantime, I have made some pretty big changes in my life.
I just finished moving down to Clifton, Illinois, the home village of my family. My sisters and brother live in Chebanse, just to the north, but I have nephews and nieces who live in Clifton. For the first time, I didn't have to do it all by myself, or hire movers. And that is evidently thanks to my mother.
Mom passed away in September of 2007, after a valiant five year battle with breast cancer. Unbeknownst to me, she made my siblings promise to help me when the time came. You see, Mom is the only one who ever really understood just how much pain I've been in for the past eleven years. It seems that one of my doctors told her something after one of my knee replacement surgeries in 2000 that made her worry. I have no idea what he told her, but it was enough to cause Mom to exact promises from my siblings before she died. My sisters, by the way, don't think I'm as disabled as all that, primarily because I still do my crafts. What they fail to understand is that I've been able to adapt my crafts so that I can continue to do them. I could not do the same for my work skills.
I was a legal secretary who used to type at 80 wpm with no errors, and could sustain that speed for extended periods of time (extremely helpful when preparing large court documents on a deadline). At the end, I was pushing myself as hard as I could, but my speed had slowed to less than 65 wpm and I was having to spend more and more time making corrections due to my growing inability to control my finger movement. Also, I had to keep taking breaks to stand up and move around. I used to be able to sit for 4-5 hours straight without stopping. Just before I retired, I was having to get up every 40 minutes or so to walk around and to shake out my hands and fingers in order to continue. The pain in my wrists and fingers was also reflected in the loss of strength in my hands. I was having trouble lifting file folders of any size (and in litigation, file folders can get to be six or seven inches thick). I dropped a folder one day which resulted in my spending about 20 minutes reorganizing the file, which put me even further behind.
The skills I need for crafting are different from those I used for working. When I'm sewing, I can keep my hands flat and fairly immobile. I'm not causing too much stress on my joints that way and I'm not lifting any weight. I don't do as much creative work on my jewelry as I used to because of the loss of dexterity in my much stiffened fingers. Most of my work now is simple stringing - and even that is beyond me on certain days. And at this point, however, it is my crafts that have been keeping me afloat financially. During this past spring, I was doing at least two craft shows a month, which resulted in my not having to dip so much into my savings, and which is why I didn't have to move from my old apartment until now.
As I said earlier, my sisters helped me with my move. Of course, I'm not as neat a housekeeper as they are, so I have been having to put up with a barrage of disparaging remarks about my lifestyle for the past three weeks. One sister told me that I had too many clothes and that I should get rid of everything but two weeks worth of outfits for summer and two weeks of outfits for winter. I don't know about you, but I like to have choice in what I wear. My friends think her idea is absurd. But that's just the way she is - a material minimalist when it comes to other people. She and her husband, daughter and son-in-law helped me move my things from my old apartment down to the new one (it cost me less to do it that way ($160) than it would have to hire movers ($180/hr with a 7 hr minimum)), and I am extremely grateful for their help. However, I am glad that she is letting me put my new apartment together myself. She has offered to come help me finish unpacking and organizing next week. Hopefully, I'll have most of that finished before she comes down.
It's getting late now and it's taken me a lot longer to get this post prepared than usual. My fingers and hands are really beginning to ache, so I guess it's time to stop for now. (Time was when I could have sat writing for hours without a problem.) More later.
I just finished moving down to Clifton, Illinois, the home village of my family. My sisters and brother live in Chebanse, just to the north, but I have nephews and nieces who live in Clifton. For the first time, I didn't have to do it all by myself, or hire movers. And that is evidently thanks to my mother.
Mom passed away in September of 2007, after a valiant five year battle with breast cancer. Unbeknownst to me, she made my siblings promise to help me when the time came. You see, Mom is the only one who ever really understood just how much pain I've been in for the past eleven years. It seems that one of my doctors told her something after one of my knee replacement surgeries in 2000 that made her worry. I have no idea what he told her, but it was enough to cause Mom to exact promises from my siblings before she died. My sisters, by the way, don't think I'm as disabled as all that, primarily because I still do my crafts. What they fail to understand is that I've been able to adapt my crafts so that I can continue to do them. I could not do the same for my work skills.
I was a legal secretary who used to type at 80 wpm with no errors, and could sustain that speed for extended periods of time (extremely helpful when preparing large court documents on a deadline). At the end, I was pushing myself as hard as I could, but my speed had slowed to less than 65 wpm and I was having to spend more and more time making corrections due to my growing inability to control my finger movement. Also, I had to keep taking breaks to stand up and move around. I used to be able to sit for 4-5 hours straight without stopping. Just before I retired, I was having to get up every 40 minutes or so to walk around and to shake out my hands and fingers in order to continue. The pain in my wrists and fingers was also reflected in the loss of strength in my hands. I was having trouble lifting file folders of any size (and in litigation, file folders can get to be six or seven inches thick). I dropped a folder one day which resulted in my spending about 20 minutes reorganizing the file, which put me even further behind.
The skills I need for crafting are different from those I used for working. When I'm sewing, I can keep my hands flat and fairly immobile. I'm not causing too much stress on my joints that way and I'm not lifting any weight. I don't do as much creative work on my jewelry as I used to because of the loss of dexterity in my much stiffened fingers. Most of my work now is simple stringing - and even that is beyond me on certain days. And at this point, however, it is my crafts that have been keeping me afloat financially. During this past spring, I was doing at least two craft shows a month, which resulted in my not having to dip so much into my savings, and which is why I didn't have to move from my old apartment until now.
As I said earlier, my sisters helped me with my move. Of course, I'm not as neat a housekeeper as they are, so I have been having to put up with a barrage of disparaging remarks about my lifestyle for the past three weeks. One sister told me that I had too many clothes and that I should get rid of everything but two weeks worth of outfits for summer and two weeks of outfits for winter. I don't know about you, but I like to have choice in what I wear. My friends think her idea is absurd. But that's just the way she is - a material minimalist when it comes to other people. She and her husband, daughter and son-in-law helped me move my things from my old apartment down to the new one (it cost me less to do it that way ($160) than it would have to hire movers ($180/hr with a 7 hr minimum)), and I am extremely grateful for their help. However, I am glad that she is letting me put my new apartment together myself. She has offered to come help me finish unpacking and organizing next week. Hopefully, I'll have most of that finished before she comes down.
It's getting late now and it's taken me a lot longer to get this post prepared than usual. My fingers and hands are really beginning to ache, so I guess it's time to stop for now. (Time was when I could have sat writing for hours without a problem.) More later.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
My Horrible Summer - Part 2
I went into the hospital for my surgery on Monday, July 3. I did not have my surgery on that date, however. The doctor stopped by to see me later that evening and told me that they were going to try to get me into the operating room on Tuesday, July 4th. Unfortunately, there were a couple of major accidents that day that tied up the operating rooms (5 major surgeries) for the entire day. Dr. Perez said we would try for Wednesday. I called Mom to tell her what he said, and early on Wednesday afternoon, Mom showed up with my sister, Karen. Karen works for a doctor so she asked questions and told me exactly what had happened to me two weeks earlier. It seems that the acute pancreatitis could have killed me if I hadn't gotten treatment so quickly. Mom, Karen and I watched the Cubs game on television. The nurses were checking in with us every few hours. Finally, at 7:30pm, the chief surgical resident, Eric Woo, came into my room to tell me that if I had the surgery on Wednesday, it would be close to midnight. He felt we should just go ahead and do it on Thursday, so I sent Mom and Karen home. The doctor ordered a heavy duty sedative for me so that I could get some rest.
The next morning started with a bout of vomiting and pain. I was only allowed ice chips in preparation for the surgery. I asked when it would be, because I promised Mom that I would call her before I went in so that she could come to be with me when I came out of the surgery. No one knew the answer. I talked to Mom about four times during the day. Then suddenly, at about 7:30, the orderlies showed up to take me to surgery. I told them that I had to call my family, and one of the nurses said that she would do it. I showed her the phone number and asked her to call for me. Then off to surgery I went. I was brought back to my room at about 11:30 with an IV in my neck (all of my other veins had been blown by the nurses and aides drawing blood over the previous three days). I asked if my mom had been called, but the night nurse didn't know. What I didn't realize was that I had been put in a different room (my second in three days). When I woke up on Friday morning, I thought it was odd that Mom hadn't called to check on me. Finally, about 11 am, the phone rang, and there was Mom crying. I asked her what was wrong. She told me that she thought I had died because she had been calling my room for hours and hours and couldn't get anyone to answer. She finally got the main phone number for the hospital and got through to the surgical floor nursing station. That's when they told her that I had gone to surgery the night before and been put into a different room. Mom was frantic trying to find me.
I was furious (even if I was still groggy from the anesthetic). I called for the nursing supervisor, who showed up two hours later. I told her that I had been promised by the nurse that she would call my mother to let her know that I had gone into surgery, but that not only had the nurse not called her, no one had bothered to answer the phone in my old room to tell Mom that I had been moved. I told them that my mother had cancer and was not in good health, and what they had put her through did not help. The supervisor apologized for any stress, but said that it wasn't the hospital's policy to call relatives. I yelled at her that I would have called myself, but the nurse and the orderlies wouldn't let me have five minutes to do it. I had been in that hospital for three and a half days waiting for surgery, and the f***ing staff wouldn't let me have five minutes to make a call to my family. By the time I finished my tirade, the nursing supervisor was much more apologetic and had changed her tone. I think I even threatened a law suit for emotional abuse.
The nurse who was assigned to me that afternoon was a sweetheart. She asked me what I did to scare the nursing supervisor. I told her about what had happened the night before and the supervisor's attitude when she had finally showed up to talk to me. The nurse laughed and said, "good for you. Some of these people around here forget that we're here to help the patients, and they don't treat them very well." I agreed with her. She became my favorite helper during the rest of the ordeal that I went through. You see, because of the pancreatitis, I had developed a life-threatening infection in my blood. I was on antibiotics for almost three months to get rid of it. I spent the first 16 days of that time at St. James, during which time there were no less than four doctors taking care of me. I had test after test to try and figure out just exactly what was ailing me. All the time, I kept throwing up or having diarrhea. My blood sugar went crazy because I wasn't taking my medication. The doctors ordered insulin boosters, which, once I started taking my glucouphage again, caused me to crash in the middle of the night a couple of times. One night about 2am, I rang for the aide to help me get to the commode next to my bed (all of my IV tubes were tangled up) and I asked her when my blood sugar was going to be taken again. She asked me why, was I feeling funny. I said yes, I'm not feeling too great, so she went to get the meter and tested my blood sugar. It was 64 (normal is 100+) and she went running out of the room. She was back in a flash with two cartons of orange juice, and told me to drink both of them.
A couple of nights later, the same thing happened. I was given an insulin booster at about 9pm (after the last blood sugar test for the day), and I woke up around 1:30am, again feeling really weird. I rang for the aide and asked her to test my blood sugar. I told her that I thought I was crashing, and sure enough, the blood sugar level was only 78. She got me some apple juice and I felt better. The next night, the nurse came in after the blood test and said that she had to give me an insulin booster. I asked her if I really had to have it. She told me that it was my right to refuse any medication that I wanted to. As far as she and the other nurses were concerned, they thought the doctor's orders for insulin if my blood sugar was over 140 was not right. Normally, they would not give an insulin booster to someone unless their blood sugar was over 180. So I refused the insulin, and slept through the entire night without a problem. After that, if my blood sugar was below 160, I refused the insulin. The nurses were with me. I was taking my other medicine and that was doing the job. No more insulin.
On top of the problems with crashing, the insulin was also causing me to retain fluid and my legs swelled up very badly. My skin was so stretched that water started seeping from the cells. I had a towel under my feet to catch the drips. My feet were freezing because they were wet and the room was air-conditioned. It was so cold in my room because it was so hot outside (the temperature during my stay in the hospital had been in the 90's for almost two weeks). One of the med students who looked in on my every day told her internal medicine supervisor about my swollen legs. He came in and asked if anything was being done for them. I said, no, and I had told the nurses that when my legs started swelling, I was taking 20mg of furosemide to get rid of the fluid, but I wasn't getting any in the hospital. He said, I'll take care of that and ordered an immediate injection of 40mg of lasix to start the process. After that I would get a 20mg tablet each day. Of course, that meant that I had to start running to the bathroom a lot, but at least something was being done.
Speaking of my room, by day ten, I was in my fifth different room. I kept having to call Mom and tell her the new room number and extension. The problem was that all of the rooms were two beds and most of the patients were women, so when two guys came through emergency surgery, they needed a room for them, so they kept moving the women around in order to free up a room. I ended up with several new roommates during my stay, once I was finally settled in my last room. One was only there for one night (she was the nicest). There was one old lady who had had hip surgery that came in on Saturday evening. She was in my room for two and a half days. The old woman's daughters (one was a nurse) kept trying to bully her into doing what the doctor wanted. She refused to do therapy so that she could be moved to rehab and had been making every roommate that she'd had miserable. They put her into a machine that moves the leg and hip joint, but she kept undoing the straps and getting out of it because it was uncomfortable. Of course, that meant that she was screwing up the surgery and causing herself a lot of pain, so she was constantly ringing for the nurse to get painkillers. The problem was that she was not letting them take effect before she'd start yelling for the nurse again. On Sunday night, I was trying to sleep and this old woman just kept screaming. I pleaded with the nurse to please, please give her a sedative to put her out so that I could get some sleep. By the time the morning shift came on duty, I had a serious migraine and was close to screaming at the old bitch to shut up. The nurses finally got her out of the room to therapy, then they gave me a heavy duty painkiller and closed up the area around my bed so that I could get some sleep. They also had some words with the woman's daughter. Luckily, she was moved to the rehab facility that afternoon and I didn't have to put up with her any more.
By that time, I had been in the hospital for two weeks, and I wanted to go home. They had put a PICC line into my right arm because I no longer had any viable veins to use for my IVs. My body was covered in bruises from all of the blood draws and IVs. My right hand had swollen to double its normal size because of an IV that blew out and a nurse who didn't believe me when I told her that. She just wiggled it around, causing me mucho pain, and said it was fine. The problem was that the needle had slipped out of the vein and the IV fluid was simply going into the tissue of my fingers and hand. My fingers were nearly purple when the night nurse came on and I showed her. She ran to get a doctor. The took out the offending IV and ordered alternating ice packs and heat pads. The doctor told me to keep the hand as elevated as possible to promote the release of the excess fluid. My fingers looked like purple sausages and I was afraid that I was going to lose the use of my right hand. After one of her visits, my sister, Karen, told my other sisters that they needed to get me out of that hospital before it killed me. I agreed with her.
I was finally able to find out exactly what was going on that Monday after I woke up from my much needed nap. A new intern came in, Christina, and introduced herself. She asked me what was going on with me, and I told her that I didn't really know. There was a constant stream of doctors in to examine me, but they never told me anything. They just seemed to be writing conflicting orders in my chart at the nurses station. I told her about the so-called infection and that I didn't know why I couldn't go home since the surgery scars were healing nicely. I also wanted the PICC line out of my arm. She promised to look at my chart and come back later to discuss it with me. She returned about four hours later and that is when I finally found out just how deadly the infection in my blood was. Christina also told me that I would have to keep having IV antibiotics for a couple of months after I left the hospital. I called Mom and told her what Christina had said. Mom said, come home and we'll take care of it. So I called for one of my doctors and said that I was leaving the hospital on Wednesday and that they had better get busy and make it happen. He didn't want me to leave. I pulled back the blanket and showed him my feet and held up my right hand, and I said that if he and the hospital didn't want a multi-million dollar lawsuit for what they had done to me, he'd better make sure that I was allowed to go home within the next couple of days with the necessary in-home care - or else.
Suddenly, there were people from the patient services department coming in and out and making the arrangements that I wanted. I told them where I was going to be for my recovery and which home nursing organization they should call. For people who are supposed to take care of patient needs, these folks didn't have a clue if the patient was going to be outside of their immediate circle for recovery purposes. Finally, everything was in place. Mom came to the hospital on Wednesday afternoon with Diana and Ken (bless them for being such caring people), and I was finally discharged. Kenny pulled the car up to the front door and I got out of the wheelchair into the front seat. I hooked up my seat belt, Mom and Diana got into the back seat, and we pulled away from the hospital. I burst into tears. Ken asked if he should take me back. I said, no, I'm crying because I thought I'd never get out of that place alive. I got myself under control and we headed home. I was so weak, I didn't believe it. When we got to Kankakee, we stopped to drop off my prescriptions at the Walgreens, then Ken and Diana took me to Mom's and went on home. That's when I really lost it. Mom understood and just held me. I had been so scared that those people were going to kill me with all of their conflicting orders. I really was very happy to be out of that hospital. Mom made me go lay down on the bed while she ran back into Kankakee to pick up my drugs. I went to bed at 8 o'clock that night and it was the best sleep I had had in over a month. After that my healing really began.
The following morning, Mom went to get her hair done and to get her allergy shots with my sister, Janis. I let the guy from the home health care in. He was bringing all of the supplies that I would need to give myself my IV antibiotics. Mom got home around 12:30 and the visiting nurse showed up right after that. She was a wonderful young woman and helped Mom and I set up my first IVs. She stayed with us all afternoon while the IVs were dripping. She had her computer with her and took all of my information. Mom and I were a little nervous, but the nurse was very good at showing us everything that we had to do. Mom wrote it all down, step by step. Later that afternoon, my cousins from New York arrived for a visit. Judy, who is an inhalation therapist, looked through all of the stuff that I was taking. She checked me out thoroughly and said, what did that hospital do to you? I told her the story of my last two weeks and she was horrified. She said that you had to have someone there looking out for you or the hospitals would take advantage. She told about what she had to do when her brother, John, had his heart attack. She fought with the hospital personnel in order to get John the necessary treatment. His doctor told him that if Judy hadn't insisted on the one test that the hospital didn't want to do, John probably would have died. Anyway, Judy was telling my sisters and my Mom what I should be getting and what support I was going to need. I excused myself at around 8:30 and went to bed. It was so nice having all of those people looking after me. My healing was really happening. More later.
The next morning started with a bout of vomiting and pain. I was only allowed ice chips in preparation for the surgery. I asked when it would be, because I promised Mom that I would call her before I went in so that she could come to be with me when I came out of the surgery. No one knew the answer. I talked to Mom about four times during the day. Then suddenly, at about 7:30, the orderlies showed up to take me to surgery. I told them that I had to call my family, and one of the nurses said that she would do it. I showed her the phone number and asked her to call for me. Then off to surgery I went. I was brought back to my room at about 11:30 with an IV in my neck (all of my other veins had been blown by the nurses and aides drawing blood over the previous three days). I asked if my mom had been called, but the night nurse didn't know. What I didn't realize was that I had been put in a different room (my second in three days). When I woke up on Friday morning, I thought it was odd that Mom hadn't called to check on me. Finally, about 11 am, the phone rang, and there was Mom crying. I asked her what was wrong. She told me that she thought I had died because she had been calling my room for hours and hours and couldn't get anyone to answer. She finally got the main phone number for the hospital and got through to the surgical floor nursing station. That's when they told her that I had gone to surgery the night before and been put into a different room. Mom was frantic trying to find me.
I was furious (even if I was still groggy from the anesthetic). I called for the nursing supervisor, who showed up two hours later. I told her that I had been promised by the nurse that she would call my mother to let her know that I had gone into surgery, but that not only had the nurse not called her, no one had bothered to answer the phone in my old room to tell Mom that I had been moved. I told them that my mother had cancer and was not in good health, and what they had put her through did not help. The supervisor apologized for any stress, but said that it wasn't the hospital's policy to call relatives. I yelled at her that I would have called myself, but the nurse and the orderlies wouldn't let me have five minutes to do it. I had been in that hospital for three and a half days waiting for surgery, and the f***ing staff wouldn't let me have five minutes to make a call to my family. By the time I finished my tirade, the nursing supervisor was much more apologetic and had changed her tone. I think I even threatened a law suit for emotional abuse.
The nurse who was assigned to me that afternoon was a sweetheart. She asked me what I did to scare the nursing supervisor. I told her about what had happened the night before and the supervisor's attitude when she had finally showed up to talk to me. The nurse laughed and said, "good for you. Some of these people around here forget that we're here to help the patients, and they don't treat them very well." I agreed with her. She became my favorite helper during the rest of the ordeal that I went through. You see, because of the pancreatitis, I had developed a life-threatening infection in my blood. I was on antibiotics for almost three months to get rid of it. I spent the first 16 days of that time at St. James, during which time there were no less than four doctors taking care of me. I had test after test to try and figure out just exactly what was ailing me. All the time, I kept throwing up or having diarrhea. My blood sugar went crazy because I wasn't taking my medication. The doctors ordered insulin boosters, which, once I started taking my glucouphage again, caused me to crash in the middle of the night a couple of times. One night about 2am, I rang for the aide to help me get to the commode next to my bed (all of my IV tubes were tangled up) and I asked her when my blood sugar was going to be taken again. She asked me why, was I feeling funny. I said yes, I'm not feeling too great, so she went to get the meter and tested my blood sugar. It was 64 (normal is 100+) and she went running out of the room. She was back in a flash with two cartons of orange juice, and told me to drink both of them.
A couple of nights later, the same thing happened. I was given an insulin booster at about 9pm (after the last blood sugar test for the day), and I woke up around 1:30am, again feeling really weird. I rang for the aide and asked her to test my blood sugar. I told her that I thought I was crashing, and sure enough, the blood sugar level was only 78. She got me some apple juice and I felt better. The next night, the nurse came in after the blood test and said that she had to give me an insulin booster. I asked her if I really had to have it. She told me that it was my right to refuse any medication that I wanted to. As far as she and the other nurses were concerned, they thought the doctor's orders for insulin if my blood sugar was over 140 was not right. Normally, they would not give an insulin booster to someone unless their blood sugar was over 180. So I refused the insulin, and slept through the entire night without a problem. After that, if my blood sugar was below 160, I refused the insulin. The nurses were with me. I was taking my other medicine and that was doing the job. No more insulin.
On top of the problems with crashing, the insulin was also causing me to retain fluid and my legs swelled up very badly. My skin was so stretched that water started seeping from the cells. I had a towel under my feet to catch the drips. My feet were freezing because they were wet and the room was air-conditioned. It was so cold in my room because it was so hot outside (the temperature during my stay in the hospital had been in the 90's for almost two weeks). One of the med students who looked in on my every day told her internal medicine supervisor about my swollen legs. He came in and asked if anything was being done for them. I said, no, and I had told the nurses that when my legs started swelling, I was taking 20mg of furosemide to get rid of the fluid, but I wasn't getting any in the hospital. He said, I'll take care of that and ordered an immediate injection of 40mg of lasix to start the process. After that I would get a 20mg tablet each day. Of course, that meant that I had to start running to the bathroom a lot, but at least something was being done.
Speaking of my room, by day ten, I was in my fifth different room. I kept having to call Mom and tell her the new room number and extension. The problem was that all of the rooms were two beds and most of the patients were women, so when two guys came through emergency surgery, they needed a room for them, so they kept moving the women around in order to free up a room. I ended up with several new roommates during my stay, once I was finally settled in my last room. One was only there for one night (she was the nicest). There was one old lady who had had hip surgery that came in on Saturday evening. She was in my room for two and a half days. The old woman's daughters (one was a nurse) kept trying to bully her into doing what the doctor wanted. She refused to do therapy so that she could be moved to rehab and had been making every roommate that she'd had miserable. They put her into a machine that moves the leg and hip joint, but she kept undoing the straps and getting out of it because it was uncomfortable. Of course, that meant that she was screwing up the surgery and causing herself a lot of pain, so she was constantly ringing for the nurse to get painkillers. The problem was that she was not letting them take effect before she'd start yelling for the nurse again. On Sunday night, I was trying to sleep and this old woman just kept screaming. I pleaded with the nurse to please, please give her a sedative to put her out so that I could get some sleep. By the time the morning shift came on duty, I had a serious migraine and was close to screaming at the old bitch to shut up. The nurses finally got her out of the room to therapy, then they gave me a heavy duty painkiller and closed up the area around my bed so that I could get some sleep. They also had some words with the woman's daughter. Luckily, she was moved to the rehab facility that afternoon and I didn't have to put up with her any more.
By that time, I had been in the hospital for two weeks, and I wanted to go home. They had put a PICC line into my right arm because I no longer had any viable veins to use for my IVs. My body was covered in bruises from all of the blood draws and IVs. My right hand had swollen to double its normal size because of an IV that blew out and a nurse who didn't believe me when I told her that. She just wiggled it around, causing me mucho pain, and said it was fine. The problem was that the needle had slipped out of the vein and the IV fluid was simply going into the tissue of my fingers and hand. My fingers were nearly purple when the night nurse came on and I showed her. She ran to get a doctor. The took out the offending IV and ordered alternating ice packs and heat pads. The doctor told me to keep the hand as elevated as possible to promote the release of the excess fluid. My fingers looked like purple sausages and I was afraid that I was going to lose the use of my right hand. After one of her visits, my sister, Karen, told my other sisters that they needed to get me out of that hospital before it killed me. I agreed with her.
I was finally able to find out exactly what was going on that Monday after I woke up from my much needed nap. A new intern came in, Christina, and introduced herself. She asked me what was going on with me, and I told her that I didn't really know. There was a constant stream of doctors in to examine me, but they never told me anything. They just seemed to be writing conflicting orders in my chart at the nurses station. I told her about the so-called infection and that I didn't know why I couldn't go home since the surgery scars were healing nicely. I also wanted the PICC line out of my arm. She promised to look at my chart and come back later to discuss it with me. She returned about four hours later and that is when I finally found out just how deadly the infection in my blood was. Christina also told me that I would have to keep having IV antibiotics for a couple of months after I left the hospital. I called Mom and told her what Christina had said. Mom said, come home and we'll take care of it. So I called for one of my doctors and said that I was leaving the hospital on Wednesday and that they had better get busy and make it happen. He didn't want me to leave. I pulled back the blanket and showed him my feet and held up my right hand, and I said that if he and the hospital didn't want a multi-million dollar lawsuit for what they had done to me, he'd better make sure that I was allowed to go home within the next couple of days with the necessary in-home care - or else.
Suddenly, there were people from the patient services department coming in and out and making the arrangements that I wanted. I told them where I was going to be for my recovery and which home nursing organization they should call. For people who are supposed to take care of patient needs, these folks didn't have a clue if the patient was going to be outside of their immediate circle for recovery purposes. Finally, everything was in place. Mom came to the hospital on Wednesday afternoon with Diana and Ken (bless them for being such caring people), and I was finally discharged. Kenny pulled the car up to the front door and I got out of the wheelchair into the front seat. I hooked up my seat belt, Mom and Diana got into the back seat, and we pulled away from the hospital. I burst into tears. Ken asked if he should take me back. I said, no, I'm crying because I thought I'd never get out of that place alive. I got myself under control and we headed home. I was so weak, I didn't believe it. When we got to Kankakee, we stopped to drop off my prescriptions at the Walgreens, then Ken and Diana took me to Mom's and went on home. That's when I really lost it. Mom understood and just held me. I had been so scared that those people were going to kill me with all of their conflicting orders. I really was very happy to be out of that hospital. Mom made me go lay down on the bed while she ran back into Kankakee to pick up my drugs. I went to bed at 8 o'clock that night and it was the best sleep I had had in over a month. After that my healing really began.
The following morning, Mom went to get her hair done and to get her allergy shots with my sister, Janis. I let the guy from the home health care in. He was bringing all of the supplies that I would need to give myself my IV antibiotics. Mom got home around 12:30 and the visiting nurse showed up right after that. She was a wonderful young woman and helped Mom and I set up my first IVs. She stayed with us all afternoon while the IVs were dripping. She had her computer with her and took all of my information. Mom and I were a little nervous, but the nurse was very good at showing us everything that we had to do. Mom wrote it all down, step by step. Later that afternoon, my cousins from New York arrived for a visit. Judy, who is an inhalation therapist, looked through all of the stuff that I was taking. She checked me out thoroughly and said, what did that hospital do to you? I told her the story of my last two weeks and she was horrified. She said that you had to have someone there looking out for you or the hospitals would take advantage. She told about what she had to do when her brother, John, had his heart attack. She fought with the hospital personnel in order to get John the necessary treatment. His doctor told him that if Judy hadn't insisted on the one test that the hospital didn't want to do, John probably would have died. Anyway, Judy was telling my sisters and my Mom what I should be getting and what support I was going to need. I excused myself at around 8:30 and went to bed. It was so nice having all of those people looking after me. My healing was really happening. More later.
Monday, July 16, 2007
My Horrible Summer - Part One
As posted previously, 2006 turned out to be an awful year for me. First, I lost my job, but that was just the high point. I was laid off in May and in mid-June, I got sick. I had been scheduled to have a gastric by-pass on June 6, but the insurance company insisted that I do a year of doctor-supervised diet first. It wasn't like my regular doctor and I hadn't been trying to get my body to shed weight for years before. I eat a healthy diet, but because of the degenerative joint disease that I suffer from, I cannot maintain a good exercise program. I've had both of my knee joints replaced, but now the DJD is settling in my hips and lower spine, which makes it near impossible to do cardio exercises for any length of time (standing in one place for 10 minutes causes me pain). So we made the decision that I would look into having the surgery.
I found a surgeon at Rush University Hospital that a friend of mine had used. Anne had a gastric by-pass in 2004. She lost 103 pounds and in late 2005 she had plastic surgery to remove the last 30 pounds of excess skin. She went from a size 24 to a size 8 and looked great. I was hoping to lose about 130 pounds, too. I weighed in at 265, and at 5'1", that extra weight was just too much for my poor bones to carry. Oops, I mean my poor joints, because, you see, exercize helps to make your bones strong, and carrying around an extra 130 pounds every day made my bones pretty good. Tests confirmed that I have good bone density. It's the stress that the weight puts on my joints that is bad. So, anyway, I went through this whole series of tests (I took 2 personal days to get through them all), and was scheduled for surgery on June 6. Then I got laid off.
The lay-off wasn't going to hurt my getting surgery, though, since the firm had agreed to pay the Cobra on all of my insurance for six months. So, I went ahead with my plans to have the surgery. Then, the week before the surgery was scheduled, I got a letter from the insurance company saying that they would not pay for the surgery unless I did a year of doctor-supervised diet. I called the surgeon's nurse and was told not to worry about it. The insurance companies send those letters all of the time. She was working on it. The week before the surgery, I still had no time for the surgery start so I called the nurse back. It turns out that she was on vacation, and the nurse covering for her told me that they were still trying to get the approval from the insurance company. This was on a Thursday, and my surgery was scheduled for the following Tuesday. I asked when the other nurse would be back. I was told she would return on Monday. I asked to speak to the doctor and was told that he was on vacation, too. I said, fine, then tell them when they get back that I've decided to do the year of supervised diet, and since I already have an appointment with the dietician set for the end of June, I'll start it then. The back-up nurse was quite upset with me. She said that I should wait. I told her that if the surgeon and his nurse didn't care enough about my surgery to make sure everything was set before they left on vacation, then we would do it my way, and the hell with them. That was on June 1.
On June 17, I was out doing some shopping and I started to feel really bad. I recognized the symptoms - a gall bladder attack. I headed for home to do the usual "throw up a couple of times and have a horrible bout of diarrhea". I spent the rest of Saturday afternoon and night throwing up, but the diarrhea never came. My belly just kept getting bigger and I was in so much pain, I didn't know what to do. I called my regular doctor early on Sunday morning, and he said that it sounded like my gall bladder had really blown up and to get myself to an emergency room. I called my sister Diana and told her where I was heading and how to get there. My family lives about 40 miles aways from me and doesn't know the South Suburbs too well. Anyway, I asked Diana if she could get Mom up to see me, 'cause I knew that Mom would be upset and would want to come, and I didn't want her driving on her own. I then headed to the emergency room at St. James Hospital, about a mile from my apartment.
I got to the emergency room and checked in. They put me in a wheel chair to wait, since the pain was so bad that I couldn't walk any more. I was there for about an hour when my Mom showed up with my sister Diana and her husband, Ken. It was Father's Day, and Ken and Diana were headed down to Charleston to their youngest son's house for dinner, but they called to cancel to help Mom get to the hospital. We were in the waiting room for another hour when I asked Diana to grab the wastebasket sitting in the corner. I was about to throw up again. Diana got it for me, then went to the desk and told them that I was throwing up and how much longer it would be. The nursing staff took me back to a holding room immediately and gave me a little tub to use instead of the wastebasket. I emptied my stomach again, and sat there for about 30 more minutes before they got me a bed.
Once I got to a bed, I changed into a dressing gown and got on the bed. The nurses set up an IV and got me comfortable. It was another hour before I finally saw a doctor. History was taken and tests were ordered. Mom stayed with me constantly, but Diana had to leave when they started putting the needles into me. She can't stand the sight of needles and tubes, 'cause they make her pass out. Mom went out to check on her and came back and said that they were going to leave and that I should call once I knew what was going on. I said that it was okay. It was 7:30 pm and I had been at the hospital since 1:30 that afternoon. I had my calling card with me and told Mom that I would call her as soon as I had a room, but not to wait up that night because I had a feeling it was going to be a long wait. And long it was.
A second doctor came in to check on me at about 9:30. He said the preliminary tests were showing that I had acute pancreatitis. I said, "what about my gall bladder?" He told me that it was the gall bladder going bad that was causing the pancreatitis. They were going to have to get the pancreatitis under control before the gall bladder could be removed. I finally was put into a room at 2:15 am. I had been at the hospital for over 13 hours. They gave me more pain medication and started me on antibiotics. I slept fitfully throughout the rest of the night, and I kept waking up to throw up. They finally gave me something to stop the vomitting.
The next morning, I called Mom to let her know what room I was in and what the doctors had told me. I had a visit from a surgeon, but she did primarily breast surgery and her partner who did the abdominal surgery was out of the country, so she wanted to wait for his return the following week. In the meantime, they kept giving me antibiotics and pain killers and there were finally sounds in my bowels again, so they sent me home on Friday afternoon with instructions to call the surgeon on Monday morning. I called his office first thing on Monday, told them what I had been instructed to by the other surgeon and got an appointment for Wednesday. I told them I thought I could hold out that long. In the meantime, I was living on vicodin and levaquin. I'd take a 30mg of vicodin, which would put me out for about two hours. I'd get up and try to eat something. Yogurt was about the only thing I could keep down. I'd watch tv for a while, but the pain would start coming back after about four and a half hours, and I would start throwing up again. I knew that I had to endure it as long as I could. I was only supposed to take the vicodin every six hours. It never lasted that long, but I'd hold out at least five hours before I took the next one.
Wednesday morning, I was getting myself ready for the visit with the surgeon that afternoon when my phone rang. It was the surgeon's office calling to say that his mother had died in Puerto Rico (which is where he had been the week before) and that he had gone back for her funeral. They would have to move my appointment to the following Monday. I cried and asked if there wasn't someone else who could do the surgery now. They said that they could contact his partner, but she had already told me that she wouldn't do it. So I had to survive another five days of pain and throwing up. It was the longest week of my life. I cancelled all of my job-search meetings and only went out of the apartment to get my mail. It was a never-ending cycle of pain killers, sleep, eating and vomitting. There were constant phone calls from my mom. She was so worried about me, and I felt bad that she was having to worry so.
Monday morning, July 3, I took a pain pill about 5am. At 8, I got up, took a shower and started packing a bag. I arranged for a cab to pick me up at 12:30. I didn't eat anything, just drank water. At 10:30 I took another pill and laid down for about 45 minutes. I got a call from the cabbie that he was at my front door at 12:15. I went right down and gave him the address to the doctor's office. I didn't mind being early because I knew that I was going to have to fill out papers. I did and was sent downstairs to Dr. Perez's office right on time. I was in a wheel chair, 'cause walking was very painful. I went in to an examining room and a few minutes later, Dr. Perez came in. He was looking over my chart from the stay in the hospital and asked if I was still in much pain. I said yes. He said that my gall bladder was indeed going to have to come out, but that we could do it one of two ways. He could treat me as an outpatient and then do a laparoscopic removal in a couple of weeks, or I could go into the hospital immediately and they would do the surgery as soon as they could get me into the rotate. My answer was to throw up all over the floor. I did manage to get to the sink for most of it. Dr. Perez said that he was going to call the hospital to arrange for a room and he sent a nurse in to help me. I got myself cleaned up from my just-in-case bag and the nurse helped me call a cab, which took me directly to St. James.
Once I got to the hospital, they admitted me. I looked for my phone card in order to call Mom, but I couldn't find it. The young lady working with me asked for Mom's phone number and she dialed it for me. I told Mom that I was being admitted and what room I was going to be in. I also told her that I had forgotten my phone card so I wasn't sure how often I could call her. She said get a pen and gave me her calling card info and told me to use it. She had over 1000 minutes on the card and not to worry about it. It was like she gave me a life-line when I got that number. A few minutes later, an orderly showed up to wheel me to my room. The nurses got me settled in and got an IV started. I settled in to await my surgery.
More later.
I found a surgeon at Rush University Hospital that a friend of mine had used. Anne had a gastric by-pass in 2004. She lost 103 pounds and in late 2005 she had plastic surgery to remove the last 30 pounds of excess skin. She went from a size 24 to a size 8 and looked great. I was hoping to lose about 130 pounds, too. I weighed in at 265, and at 5'1", that extra weight was just too much for my poor bones to carry. Oops, I mean my poor joints, because, you see, exercize helps to make your bones strong, and carrying around an extra 130 pounds every day made my bones pretty good. Tests confirmed that I have good bone density. It's the stress that the weight puts on my joints that is bad. So, anyway, I went through this whole series of tests (I took 2 personal days to get through them all), and was scheduled for surgery on June 6. Then I got laid off.
The lay-off wasn't going to hurt my getting surgery, though, since the firm had agreed to pay the Cobra on all of my insurance for six months. So, I went ahead with my plans to have the surgery. Then, the week before the surgery was scheduled, I got a letter from the insurance company saying that they would not pay for the surgery unless I did a year of doctor-supervised diet. I called the surgeon's nurse and was told not to worry about it. The insurance companies send those letters all of the time. She was working on it. The week before the surgery, I still had no time for the surgery start so I called the nurse back. It turns out that she was on vacation, and the nurse covering for her told me that they were still trying to get the approval from the insurance company. This was on a Thursday, and my surgery was scheduled for the following Tuesday. I asked when the other nurse would be back. I was told she would return on Monday. I asked to speak to the doctor and was told that he was on vacation, too. I said, fine, then tell them when they get back that I've decided to do the year of supervised diet, and since I already have an appointment with the dietician set for the end of June, I'll start it then. The back-up nurse was quite upset with me. She said that I should wait. I told her that if the surgeon and his nurse didn't care enough about my surgery to make sure everything was set before they left on vacation, then we would do it my way, and the hell with them. That was on June 1.
On June 17, I was out doing some shopping and I started to feel really bad. I recognized the symptoms - a gall bladder attack. I headed for home to do the usual "throw up a couple of times and have a horrible bout of diarrhea". I spent the rest of Saturday afternoon and night throwing up, but the diarrhea never came. My belly just kept getting bigger and I was in so much pain, I didn't know what to do. I called my regular doctor early on Sunday morning, and he said that it sounded like my gall bladder had really blown up and to get myself to an emergency room. I called my sister Diana and told her where I was heading and how to get there. My family lives about 40 miles aways from me and doesn't know the South Suburbs too well. Anyway, I asked Diana if she could get Mom up to see me, 'cause I knew that Mom would be upset and would want to come, and I didn't want her driving on her own. I then headed to the emergency room at St. James Hospital, about a mile from my apartment.
I got to the emergency room and checked in. They put me in a wheel chair to wait, since the pain was so bad that I couldn't walk any more. I was there for about an hour when my Mom showed up with my sister Diana and her husband, Ken. It was Father's Day, and Ken and Diana were headed down to Charleston to their youngest son's house for dinner, but they called to cancel to help Mom get to the hospital. We were in the waiting room for another hour when I asked Diana to grab the wastebasket sitting in the corner. I was about to throw up again. Diana got it for me, then went to the desk and told them that I was throwing up and how much longer it would be. The nursing staff took me back to a holding room immediately and gave me a little tub to use instead of the wastebasket. I emptied my stomach again, and sat there for about 30 more minutes before they got me a bed.
Once I got to a bed, I changed into a dressing gown and got on the bed. The nurses set up an IV and got me comfortable. It was another hour before I finally saw a doctor. History was taken and tests were ordered. Mom stayed with me constantly, but Diana had to leave when they started putting the needles into me. She can't stand the sight of needles and tubes, 'cause they make her pass out. Mom went out to check on her and came back and said that they were going to leave and that I should call once I knew what was going on. I said that it was okay. It was 7:30 pm and I had been at the hospital since 1:30 that afternoon. I had my calling card with me and told Mom that I would call her as soon as I had a room, but not to wait up that night because I had a feeling it was going to be a long wait. And long it was.
A second doctor came in to check on me at about 9:30. He said the preliminary tests were showing that I had acute pancreatitis. I said, "what about my gall bladder?" He told me that it was the gall bladder going bad that was causing the pancreatitis. They were going to have to get the pancreatitis under control before the gall bladder could be removed. I finally was put into a room at 2:15 am. I had been at the hospital for over 13 hours. They gave me more pain medication and started me on antibiotics. I slept fitfully throughout the rest of the night, and I kept waking up to throw up. They finally gave me something to stop the vomitting.
The next morning, I called Mom to let her know what room I was in and what the doctors had told me. I had a visit from a surgeon, but she did primarily breast surgery and her partner who did the abdominal surgery was out of the country, so she wanted to wait for his return the following week. In the meantime, they kept giving me antibiotics and pain killers and there were finally sounds in my bowels again, so they sent me home on Friday afternoon with instructions to call the surgeon on Monday morning. I called his office first thing on Monday, told them what I had been instructed to by the other surgeon and got an appointment for Wednesday. I told them I thought I could hold out that long. In the meantime, I was living on vicodin and levaquin. I'd take a 30mg of vicodin, which would put me out for about two hours. I'd get up and try to eat something. Yogurt was about the only thing I could keep down. I'd watch tv for a while, but the pain would start coming back after about four and a half hours, and I would start throwing up again. I knew that I had to endure it as long as I could. I was only supposed to take the vicodin every six hours. It never lasted that long, but I'd hold out at least five hours before I took the next one.
Wednesday morning, I was getting myself ready for the visit with the surgeon that afternoon when my phone rang. It was the surgeon's office calling to say that his mother had died in Puerto Rico (which is where he had been the week before) and that he had gone back for her funeral. They would have to move my appointment to the following Monday. I cried and asked if there wasn't someone else who could do the surgery now. They said that they could contact his partner, but she had already told me that she wouldn't do it. So I had to survive another five days of pain and throwing up. It was the longest week of my life. I cancelled all of my job-search meetings and only went out of the apartment to get my mail. It was a never-ending cycle of pain killers, sleep, eating and vomitting. There were constant phone calls from my mom. She was so worried about me, and I felt bad that she was having to worry so.
Monday morning, July 3, I took a pain pill about 5am. At 8, I got up, took a shower and started packing a bag. I arranged for a cab to pick me up at 12:30. I didn't eat anything, just drank water. At 10:30 I took another pill and laid down for about 45 minutes. I got a call from the cabbie that he was at my front door at 12:15. I went right down and gave him the address to the doctor's office. I didn't mind being early because I knew that I was going to have to fill out papers. I did and was sent downstairs to Dr. Perez's office right on time. I was in a wheel chair, 'cause walking was very painful. I went in to an examining room and a few minutes later, Dr. Perez came in. He was looking over my chart from the stay in the hospital and asked if I was still in much pain. I said yes. He said that my gall bladder was indeed going to have to come out, but that we could do it one of two ways. He could treat me as an outpatient and then do a laparoscopic removal in a couple of weeks, or I could go into the hospital immediately and they would do the surgery as soon as they could get me into the rotate. My answer was to throw up all over the floor. I did manage to get to the sink for most of it. Dr. Perez said that he was going to call the hospital to arrange for a room and he sent a nurse in to help me. I got myself cleaned up from my just-in-case bag and the nurse helped me call a cab, which took me directly to St. James.
Once I got to the hospital, they admitted me. I looked for my phone card in order to call Mom, but I couldn't find it. The young lady working with me asked for Mom's phone number and she dialed it for me. I told Mom that I was being admitted and what room I was going to be in. I also told her that I had forgotten my phone card so I wasn't sure how often I could call her. She said get a pen and gave me her calling card info and told me to use it. She had over 1000 minutes on the card and not to worry about it. It was like she gave me a life-line when I got that number. A few minutes later, an orderly showed up to wheel me to my room. The nurses got me settled in and got an IV started. I settled in to await my surgery.
More later.
Friday, July 13, 2007
I'M BACK!!!
I actually finally managed to find my way back to this blog that I started in 2006. It was just a coincidence that I saw the blogspot.com website this morning, while I was checking out a quilt top made by one of the ladies who posts on the HGTV message boards. As I was looking at her pictures, I realized that they were part of her blog page, and it stirred my memory, so I tried logging on and discovered that my previous posts were still here!
So, what's been happening since I was last here - a whole lot. It started in May 2006 when I got laid off from my job at a law firm in Chicago. The firm had had a great 2005 and settled four major litigation cases. The bonuses that year were great. Unfortunately, as those cases wrapped up, it became very apparent that there were going to be a lot of attorneys with no work to do, and the firm decided to counsel about twenty attorneys to find jobs elsewhere. I lost one of my attorney, a fourth year associate. She was pretty much out of the office by November of 2005, but still on the payroll until February of 2006. My workload dropped. Then, in April, I started noticing that the partner that I had worked with for nearly nine years had started having "mysterious" lunches with other law firms. He announced that he would be leaving the firm on May 4. He told me that he could not take me with him at that time. I said not to worry about it because I had five years in at that firm and really wanted to stay there until I retired. So he left having been assured that I would be okay.
Three days later, on a Tuesday afternoon, I was to meet with the folks in HR. I figured it was to get my new assignment. Instead, I was informed that I was to be terminated as of May 12, the next Friday. I was given a settlement package that would be mine only if I agreed not to sue because of my separation. I was more than a little upset. You see, I was scheduled to have a gastric bypass surgery on June 6. The good news was that the firm was offering to pay the Cobra payments on my medical for six full months (the end of November) as part of my settlement. Needless to say, I didn't sign anything that day. The firm had my computer turned off while I was meeting with HR, so I couldn't even make copies of my personal stuff to take with me. I had to tell them what I wanted and they put it on a cd for me, which was shipped with the boxes of my personal stuff the following week. I went home immediately after the meeting and started calling My attorneys (the partner and associate that I used to work with).
The partner (Jeff) was absolutely pissed when he found out that I had been let go. He had been told by HR the previous week that I would be taken care of. The associate (Myra) was totally angry with the firm. Her fiance is a labor lawyer, so she had me talk to him to discuss what my options were. His advise was to get out of the office immediately, then wait a week before signing any documents. I was going to be paid for all of the vacation time I had coming, but I would not be paid for the 19 hours of personal time that I still had available. So, I went into the office on Wednesday (where, by the way, I was not allowed to discuss my termination with anyone). I finished packing up the rest of Jeff's files, then when my nosy neighbors left, I started packing up my personal stuff and putting the boxes in Jeff's old office. By 6:10, I had finished everything, so I took a bag of stuff with me and left five boxes in Jeff's office. Before leaving, I left a voice-mail message for the head of HR, telling her that "on advice of counsel" I was using 14 hours of the personal time that I had coming to cover Thursday and Friday, and that she would find the boxes of my personal stuff to be messengered to my home in Jeff's old office. I then left and caught the 6:38 train home.
The HR lady called me on Friday morning about getting the documents signed. I told her that my attorney was reviewing them and that we would be making a decision on how to proceed in a few days. I would let her know then what my plans were. She sounded a little shaken. You see, the firm was hoping that I'd just take what they offered without any discussion. When I let them know that I had contacted an employment lawyer, they were more than a little upset. If I had been able to afford it, I could have sued them for age discrimination, discrimination against the disabled, and illegal termination due to health problems. If I could have afforded it, I would have tied them up in litigation for several years, costing them thousands of dollars in legal fees, as well as most likely forcing them to pay me considerably more than they were offering. In the end, I just made them wait a week and a half before signing the documents. That was the beginning of one of the most horrible summers of my life, but that's for another post. I've got to get going for now. Later, all.
So, what's been happening since I was last here - a whole lot. It started in May 2006 when I got laid off from my job at a law firm in Chicago. The firm had had a great 2005 and settled four major litigation cases. The bonuses that year were great. Unfortunately, as those cases wrapped up, it became very apparent that there were going to be a lot of attorneys with no work to do, and the firm decided to counsel about twenty attorneys to find jobs elsewhere. I lost one of my attorney, a fourth year associate. She was pretty much out of the office by November of 2005, but still on the payroll until February of 2006. My workload dropped. Then, in April, I started noticing that the partner that I had worked with for nearly nine years had started having "mysterious" lunches with other law firms. He announced that he would be leaving the firm on May 4. He told me that he could not take me with him at that time. I said not to worry about it because I had five years in at that firm and really wanted to stay there until I retired. So he left having been assured that I would be okay.
Three days later, on a Tuesday afternoon, I was to meet with the folks in HR. I figured it was to get my new assignment. Instead, I was informed that I was to be terminated as of May 12, the next Friday. I was given a settlement package that would be mine only if I agreed not to sue because of my separation. I was more than a little upset. You see, I was scheduled to have a gastric bypass surgery on June 6. The good news was that the firm was offering to pay the Cobra payments on my medical for six full months (the end of November) as part of my settlement. Needless to say, I didn't sign anything that day. The firm had my computer turned off while I was meeting with HR, so I couldn't even make copies of my personal stuff to take with me. I had to tell them what I wanted and they put it on a cd for me, which was shipped with the boxes of my personal stuff the following week. I went home immediately after the meeting and started calling My attorneys (the partner and associate that I used to work with).
The partner (Jeff) was absolutely pissed when he found out that I had been let go. He had been told by HR the previous week that I would be taken care of. The associate (Myra) was totally angry with the firm. Her fiance is a labor lawyer, so she had me talk to him to discuss what my options were. His advise was to get out of the office immediately, then wait a week before signing any documents. I was going to be paid for all of the vacation time I had coming, but I would not be paid for the 19 hours of personal time that I still had available. So, I went into the office on Wednesday (where, by the way, I was not allowed to discuss my termination with anyone). I finished packing up the rest of Jeff's files, then when my nosy neighbors left, I started packing up my personal stuff and putting the boxes in Jeff's old office. By 6:10, I had finished everything, so I took a bag of stuff with me and left five boxes in Jeff's office. Before leaving, I left a voice-mail message for the head of HR, telling her that "on advice of counsel" I was using 14 hours of the personal time that I had coming to cover Thursday and Friday, and that she would find the boxes of my personal stuff to be messengered to my home in Jeff's old office. I then left and caught the 6:38 train home.
The HR lady called me on Friday morning about getting the documents signed. I told her that my attorney was reviewing them and that we would be making a decision on how to proceed in a few days. I would let her know then what my plans were. She sounded a little shaken. You see, the firm was hoping that I'd just take what they offered without any discussion. When I let them know that I had contacted an employment lawyer, they were more than a little upset. If I had been able to afford it, I could have sued them for age discrimination, discrimination against the disabled, and illegal termination due to health problems. If I could have afforded it, I would have tied them up in litigation for several years, costing them thousands of dollars in legal fees, as well as most likely forcing them to pay me considerably more than they were offering. In the end, I just made them wait a week and a half before signing the documents. That was the beginning of one of the most horrible summers of my life, but that's for another post. I've got to get going for now. Later, all.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
The Davis/Hedrick Feud
I've been watching the Olympics for the past week, and I'm surprised by the bad and very unsportsman-like attitudes the U.S. speed skaters, Shani Davis and Chad Hedrick. I read a guest editorial in this morning's Chicago Tribune that says that Shani Davis, as a black man, has the right to be sullen, moody and rude after winning a gold medal. My question to the professor who wrote that opinion is this -- where in the world did you ever come up with that absurd notion?! Lady, this is not about race. This is about nationalism, and some people's lack of it.
True, Chad Hedrick has been very vocal in his opinion that Shani Davis isn't a team player. But when the time came, after the 1500 meter race where they won silver and bronze, to put aside the animosity and behave in a civilized manner, it was Shani Davis who fired the first divisive remark. Of course Chad Hedrick is going to respond. Wouldn't you, if someone were so rude as to insult you and then walk away before you could say anything? I would.
I am also appalled by the fact that Shani's mother has enlisted the aid of a bunch of also-ran Dutch athletes, who have no business getting involved in this. For someone who wants to be considered a private person, she sure is out there in the middle of the press stirring up a storm.
My final opinion on this is that, while Chad Hedrick made some brash comments earlier in the week, this whole thing has been blown out of proportion by Shani Davis and his mother. I'm glad that Davis is finished with his races. Maybe he and Mom will finally drop it. If not, then they will only prove just how un-American and unsportsman-like Shani Davis really is.
True, Chad Hedrick has been very vocal in his opinion that Shani Davis isn't a team player. But when the time came, after the 1500 meter race where they won silver and bronze, to put aside the animosity and behave in a civilized manner, it was Shani Davis who fired the first divisive remark. Of course Chad Hedrick is going to respond. Wouldn't you, if someone were so rude as to insult you and then walk away before you could say anything? I would.
I am also appalled by the fact that Shani's mother has enlisted the aid of a bunch of also-ran Dutch athletes, who have no business getting involved in this. For someone who wants to be considered a private person, she sure is out there in the middle of the press stirring up a storm.
My final opinion on this is that, while Chad Hedrick made some brash comments earlier in the week, this whole thing has been blown out of proportion by Shani Davis and his mother. I'm glad that Davis is finished with his races. Maybe he and Mom will finally drop it. If not, then they will only prove just how un-American and unsportsman-like Shani Davis really is.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Valentine's Day
Today is February 14, Valentine's Day. Not that it means so much to me anymore. When I was in grade school, it was a big deal. Unlike now, back then we didn't give everyone in our class Valentines, only the people we really liked. So Valentine's day was a competition to see who got the most cards and gifts. Of course, the popular girls, like the cheerleaders, always got lots of Valentines. The brainy types, like me, hoped somebody would give us a card or two. Usually, though, I did get a bunch of cards from my friends, and one or two from some boys who gave all the girls cards.
I will always remember the look on some of the kids' faces who didn't get any cards. I think that's why I started giving everyone in my class one. I didn't want to see anybody hurt like that. Some kids couldn't afford to give cards out. I didn't care. One of the girls felt bad because I gave her one and she didn't have one for me. I told her that didn't matter because I liked giving Valentines more than getting them. The next day her mother called my mother and told her that she had a wonderful daughter and should be proud of me. Mom said she was and that was the greatest Valentine I ever got.
There was one girl in our class who was very popular, but not very sensitive. She always liked to flaunt how many Valentines she got, and not just from our class. There were boys in the class ahead and the class behind who used to give her cards, too. And she was not shy about letting us all know it either. Having someone bragging about how many cards they got while there were some kids who didn't get any was terrible! I don't think it ever sank into that vain head of hers that she was being petty and hurtful.
Nowadays, parents and teachers make sure that every child gives a Valentine to and gets a Valentine from every classmate. No one gets hurt feelings. In a way, I think that's very good. Children have enough to worry about when growing up without having to worry if they are good enough or popular enough to get any Valentines.
I will always remember the look on some of the kids' faces who didn't get any cards. I think that's why I started giving everyone in my class one. I didn't want to see anybody hurt like that. Some kids couldn't afford to give cards out. I didn't care. One of the girls felt bad because I gave her one and she didn't have one for me. I told her that didn't matter because I liked giving Valentines more than getting them. The next day her mother called my mother and told her that she had a wonderful daughter and should be proud of me. Mom said she was and that was the greatest Valentine I ever got.
There was one girl in our class who was very popular, but not very sensitive. She always liked to flaunt how many Valentines she got, and not just from our class. There were boys in the class ahead and the class behind who used to give her cards, too. And she was not shy about letting us all know it either. Having someone bragging about how many cards they got while there were some kids who didn't get any was terrible! I don't think it ever sank into that vain head of hers that she was being petty and hurtful.
Nowadays, parents and teachers make sure that every child gives a Valentine to and gets a Valentine from every classmate. No one gets hurt feelings. In a way, I think that's very good. Children have enough to worry about when growing up without having to worry if they are good enough or popular enough to get any Valentines.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
The Women's Movement
Last week we lost Betty Friedan, the mother of the modern women's movement. Betty Friedan is credited with the founding of the National Organization of Women (NOW) and other forward-thinking ideas for the protection of women's rights. It is sad that the younger women today have no idea what Betty and the women who followed her had to go through to ensure some of the rights we enjoy today. And I just don't understand that.
Today's young women take for granted all that we fought to gain in the 1960s. They have no idea what it was like before the likes of Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinham. We may not have gotten the Equal Rights Amendment ratified, but we sure did get the issue of women's rights before the public. We started a dialog about job and wage parity that benefited working women by allowing them into workforces that previously only allowed men. Women were finally accepted into high paying blue-collar jobs like construction and plumbing. Opportunities were opened in higher paying white-collar jobs, too. More women were going to law school and medical school. They became attorneys and doctors, and, for the most part, had access to the power and money associated with those careers.
Back in the 50s and 60s, women were still being pushed toward clerical positions. Very few held managements positions, and discrimination in the job place was rampant. I, for one, found out what it was like to not be given a better paying job simply because I was a women. In the late 60s and early 70s, I worked for a stove manufacturing company (Roper) in its Repair Parts Division. After seven years with the company, I had worked my way up to a Clerk III and was earning a salary of about $123 a week. A job was posted in the main plant for a Junior Purchase Parts Analyst. The starting salary for the job was $185 a week. My seven years of experience in the Repair Parts Division gave me the qualifications for the job, so I submitted my application.
I had interviews with Personnel (HR, in less fancy days) and with the Plant Supervisor that I would be working under. Two weeks later, I got a call from the head of Personnel saying that the company had decided to freeze the position for the time being. I asked why they had waited until after posting the position to do that. Personnel told me that he was upset by what they were doing, and I asked him why. He told me that there had only been three people to apply for the position, me and two young guys right out of college who had no experience. Since neither of the college boys were qualified to do the job, rather than give such a high paying position to a woman (me), the company decided not to hire anyone for the position, until such time as a qualified male could be found. Their official policy was that a woman didn't need such a high salary. She should be married with a husband to support her.
Needless to say, I was furious. I went looking for another job right away and left that company within three months. About four years after I left, some other women filed a class action discrimination law suit against the company. No one thought to let me know about it, but the company ended up paying out close to $3 million to its women employees (including those who left due to discriminatory practices).
At the same company, a woman named Marci that I worked with in Repair Parts had been doing her job as Inventory Control Assistant for close to ten years. Her boss was a wonderful man who had had a couple of open heart surgeries. When Pete came back to work after his last surgery, the company brought one of the union guys up to work with him and Marci. Marci had to train Brian in the job. After about six months, we somehow found out that Brian, who Marcia trained and was doing exactly the same job as, was actually making almost double her salary. The company's rationale for this was that Marci was married and even though she was doing the same work, she didn't need as much money because she had a husband to support her. The truth was that Marci's husband was a farmer in bad health. Marci's salary was the primary financial support for her family. When the women of our department complained about the salary disparity, the company basically said that if we didn't like it, we could always quit.
We had to put up with this type of discrimination for many years. I was involved in one class action suit against Montgomery Wards. I had worked there for about 18 months in the Buying Office when I applied for the Junior Buyers Training program. My goal was to eventually become a buyer for the company. I was told that I didn't qualify because, despite the fact that I had over 70 hours of college credit, I didn't have my degree. A couple of weeks later, a Phillipino gentleman who had joined our department six months earlier was accepted into the program, despite the fact that he had no college credit at all. When I went to HR to question that decision, I was told that women were required to have degrees in order to participate because the company didn't want to spend all of that money training a woman who was likely to get pregnant and then leave. I offered to have my gynecologist provide a letter stating that I was sterile and not able to get pregnant, but the company still wouldn't let me into the program. I left the company a couple of months later.
I had worked for a couple of other places after that, and then I joined Paul Simon's Senate campaign in 1983. After his election, I accepted a position on his staff in Washington, and stayed there until early in 1986. I came back to Illinois and found a new job. I had only been back in the Chicago area for a few months when I received a letter from a law firm regarding a class action suit against Montgomery Wards. I called the attorney and told her my story. She told me that I qualified for a settlement and sent me the forms. I asked how they had found me, since I had moved to DC and back. She told me that their first attempt to contact me had resulted in a returned envelope and that someone in her office had taken one last attempt to find the folks whose letters had been returned. Since I had listed my phone number when I moved back to Chicago, they had been able to get my address. The result was that I got a $2400 settlement check a couple of months later. Montgomery Wards finally went out of business a few years ago. The class action settlement against them was a whopping $23 million dollars, and they never recovered from it. Serves them right!
Anyway, my point of this entry is that the working women of today have no idea about how hard it was to get salary parity for women. They simply enjoy the benefits of the work and activism of those of us who had to fight for our rights back in the 60s and 70s. Most of these younger women don't know who Betty Friedan was and how much they owe her. I think they should find out what the members of the Women's Movement went through to protect their rights. Youngsters (anyone under the age of 40), you need to learn about the women who've gone before you, and then you need to pick up the standard and continue forward.
Today's young women take for granted all that we fought to gain in the 1960s. They have no idea what it was like before the likes of Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinham. We may not have gotten the Equal Rights Amendment ratified, but we sure did get the issue of women's rights before the public. We started a dialog about job and wage parity that benefited working women by allowing them into workforces that previously only allowed men. Women were finally accepted into high paying blue-collar jobs like construction and plumbing. Opportunities were opened in higher paying white-collar jobs, too. More women were going to law school and medical school. They became attorneys and doctors, and, for the most part, had access to the power and money associated with those careers.
Back in the 50s and 60s, women were still being pushed toward clerical positions. Very few held managements positions, and discrimination in the job place was rampant. I, for one, found out what it was like to not be given a better paying job simply because I was a women. In the late 60s and early 70s, I worked for a stove manufacturing company (Roper) in its Repair Parts Division. After seven years with the company, I had worked my way up to a Clerk III and was earning a salary of about $123 a week. A job was posted in the main plant for a Junior Purchase Parts Analyst. The starting salary for the job was $185 a week. My seven years of experience in the Repair Parts Division gave me the qualifications for the job, so I submitted my application.
I had interviews with Personnel (HR, in less fancy days) and with the Plant Supervisor that I would be working under. Two weeks later, I got a call from the head of Personnel saying that the company had decided to freeze the position for the time being. I asked why they had waited until after posting the position to do that. Personnel told me that he was upset by what they were doing, and I asked him why. He told me that there had only been three people to apply for the position, me and two young guys right out of college who had no experience. Since neither of the college boys were qualified to do the job, rather than give such a high paying position to a woman (me), the company decided not to hire anyone for the position, until such time as a qualified male could be found. Their official policy was that a woman didn't need such a high salary. She should be married with a husband to support her.
Needless to say, I was furious. I went looking for another job right away and left that company within three months. About four years after I left, some other women filed a class action discrimination law suit against the company. No one thought to let me know about it, but the company ended up paying out close to $3 million to its women employees (including those who left due to discriminatory practices).
At the same company, a woman named Marci that I worked with in Repair Parts had been doing her job as Inventory Control Assistant for close to ten years. Her boss was a wonderful man who had had a couple of open heart surgeries. When Pete came back to work after his last surgery, the company brought one of the union guys up to work with him and Marci. Marci had to train Brian in the job. After about six months, we somehow found out that Brian, who Marcia trained and was doing exactly the same job as, was actually making almost double her salary. The company's rationale for this was that Marci was married and even though she was doing the same work, she didn't need as much money because she had a husband to support her. The truth was that Marci's husband was a farmer in bad health. Marci's salary was the primary financial support for her family. When the women of our department complained about the salary disparity, the company basically said that if we didn't like it, we could always quit.
We had to put up with this type of discrimination for many years. I was involved in one class action suit against Montgomery Wards. I had worked there for about 18 months in the Buying Office when I applied for the Junior Buyers Training program. My goal was to eventually become a buyer for the company. I was told that I didn't qualify because, despite the fact that I had over 70 hours of college credit, I didn't have my degree. A couple of weeks later, a Phillipino gentleman who had joined our department six months earlier was accepted into the program, despite the fact that he had no college credit at all. When I went to HR to question that decision, I was told that women were required to have degrees in order to participate because the company didn't want to spend all of that money training a woman who was likely to get pregnant and then leave. I offered to have my gynecologist provide a letter stating that I was sterile and not able to get pregnant, but the company still wouldn't let me into the program. I left the company a couple of months later.
I had worked for a couple of other places after that, and then I joined Paul Simon's Senate campaign in 1983. After his election, I accepted a position on his staff in Washington, and stayed there until early in 1986. I came back to Illinois and found a new job. I had only been back in the Chicago area for a few months when I received a letter from a law firm regarding a class action suit against Montgomery Wards. I called the attorney and told her my story. She told me that I qualified for a settlement and sent me the forms. I asked how they had found me, since I had moved to DC and back. She told me that their first attempt to contact me had resulted in a returned envelope and that someone in her office had taken one last attempt to find the folks whose letters had been returned. Since I had listed my phone number when I moved back to Chicago, they had been able to get my address. The result was that I got a $2400 settlement check a couple of months later. Montgomery Wards finally went out of business a few years ago. The class action settlement against them was a whopping $23 million dollars, and they never recovered from it. Serves them right!
Anyway, my point of this entry is that the working women of today have no idea about how hard it was to get salary parity for women. They simply enjoy the benefits of the work and activism of those of us who had to fight for our rights back in the 60s and 70s. Most of these younger women don't know who Betty Friedan was and how much they owe her. I think they should find out what the members of the Women's Movement went through to protect their rights. Youngsters (anyone under the age of 40), you need to learn about the women who've gone before you, and then you need to pick up the standard and continue forward.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Out For A Week
I'm sure no one noticed, but I've been gone for a week. Actually, I spent the week at home, in bed with a 100+ temperature and a serious sinus infection. The infection spread to my eyes, which were very red and full of that yucky white stuff they call "matter". I almost cracked a rib with the strength of my coughing, and nothing over the counter seemed to work to turn off the crap that my sinuses were producing.
I left the office on Friday feeling somewhat bad. The night before my temperature was 100.6, so I took some Ibuprofen at bedtime in order to bring it down. It worked to some extent. On Friday morning, I only felt somewhat okay, but I knew I had to come in since my neighbor was out and I was covering her folks (see previous post). So I dragged myself in and stayed the whole day. By the time I got home on Friday night, though, I was really beginning to feel bad.
On Saturday morning, the problem with the left eye started. I was rinsing with my eye wash constantly, but it didn't seem to be helping, and by Sunday the right eye was red and scratchy, too. My temperature bounced up and down all weekend and when Monday morning came, I knew that I was in no shape to go to work, so I called in sick. When none of my over-the-counter drugs seemed to be working, I called my doctor on Monday evening. After asking a bunch of questions about my symptoms, he told me that I had a "serious" sinus infection that had spread to my eyes. He called in prescriptions for antibiotics and eye medications to my local pharmacy. He told me that I should plan on staying home for at least another two days, maybe more. While I waited for him to call in the scripts, I called the office and left messages for my attorneys and the Secretarial Supervisor, telling them that I would be out until at least Thursday, but that I would call on Wednesday to update them.
I called the pharmacy for the second time at around 8:40. They told me that the scripts had been called in and that they'd be ready in about 45 minutes. I waited until 9, then got dressed and headed for Walgreen's. I needed to refill my tissues as well as my cough syrup in addition to picking up the drugs the doctor had ordered. I also added a couple of packages of Sugar-Free cough drops. The total came to a little over $74. I paid for my stuff and headed out of the store. I couldn't wait to get home. I felt really miserable.
At home, I took the first of the antibiotic pills and put some of the drops into my eyes. I took 600 mg of ibuprofen, 4 teaspoons of cough syrup (the maximum adult dosage) and went to bed. Two hours later, I was up coughing. I couldn't take anymore cough syrup for another 2 hours, so I popped a cough drop into my mouth and tried to sleep. Thankfully, I was able to get about 3 hours more before coughing myself awake again. I went ahead and took the second antibiotic pill and another full dose of cough syrup, then went back to bed. I slept a full six hours before waking. I thought maybe I'd be going back to work on Wednesday. No such luck.
Despite massive doses of cough syrup and cough drops, Tuesday night was pure hell. I could not lay down at all without the sinuses draining into the throat causing a bout of coughing. The coughing was so hard that my left ear popped. I have been hearing a buzzing sound in that ear since then. My temperature spiked to 101 and it took two doses of ibuprofen to get it down. When I got up on Wednesday, I felt so bad. One of the offshoots of a sinus infection is a sinus migraine, which I had big time. I took my little blanket and my neck pillow into my work room, where I have a straight backed chair with a high back. It was so bright in there (eastern window) that I had to cover my head to block out some of the light. I wrapped up in my coverlet, put the neck pillow and scarf in place, and slept, sitting upright, for about 3 hours. It seemed to help a little.
After I woke up on Wednesday, I spent the day kind of dozing in my big comfy chair. By mid-afternoon, my temperature was over 102, so when I called into the office, I told them that I was still infectious and staying home the rest of the week. They said okay, just get my doctor to send a letter saying it was okay for me to come back to work on the following Monday. I took 1000 mg of ibuprofen and wrapped up in my coverlet. I dozed on and off for a couple of hours before taking the full dose of cough syrup and heading to bed. Miracle of Miracles! I actually slept for 5 hours straight before my bladder woke me (just like normal). I woke up on Thursday feeling a little more human.
Thursday night was also fairly restful, and I awoke on Friday feeling somewhat better. The infection in my eyes was pretty much gone. I continued to use the drops, however. I took a shower and washed my hair. I lounged around while my hair got totally dry. Then I put on some clothes, went to the bank and to Dominick's to get groceries. I was only gone about an hour and a half, and I could not believe how bad I felt by the time I got back. I loaded the groceries from the back seat into the cart and headed inside. I stopped to get my mail and went over to the elevators. I got on the elevator and pushed 3. The door closed and we headed up.
Now, this particular elevator has been acting up for some time (I first complained about it 6 months ago). When it is going to stop at a floor, it sort of does a little hop and then takes about 30 seconds to shudder to a stop at the floor before the door opens. On Friday, it did it's little hop, and then it hopped again, and then again. But it didn't shudder up to the floor and the door didn't open. I pressed the "Door Open" button and nothing happened. I finally pressed the alarm bell and one of the building engineers answered. I told him that the elevator door wouldn't open. He asked where I was and I told him, and he said he would be right up to open the door. In the meantime, the elevator kept doing the little bounces, and I thought I was going to be sick. Suddenly, the door opened - only it wasn't on 3 anymore. I was back down on the main floor.
It seems that our elevators are run by hydraulics, not cables. It also turns that the little hops I had been feeling were actually the elevator descending back to the main floor. Needless to say, I did not stay on that elevator. The building manager was there, and I told her what had happened. I said that I had a hard enough time riding the elevators when I felt fine (I suffer from benign positional vertigo), but what I had just experienced had been no fun at all. The engineer came back down on the other elevator and asked what had happened. I told him that somehow the elevator had come back down to 1. He said they would check it out. I took the other elevator up to 3 and finally made it back to my apartment. I was shaking by the time I got there. I quickly put away the groceries that needed to be refrigerated and went to lie down for a while. My little trip to the bank and shopping, along with the fright on the elevator had absolutely worn me out, and my temperature was back up to 100+.
By Saturday morning, I was feeling better, so I went out for about an hour to pick up some craft supplies that I needed (an errand from the previous weekend that I needed to complete). I stopped at KFC to pick up a bucket of chicken (so I wouldn't have to cook for the weekend), and headed back home. The whole trip took about 70 minutes. I fixed myself some lunch and then took a nap in my chair. After that I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in my work room sculpting clay flowers for pins. I baked the flowers and set them aside to cool. Then I just relaxed the rest of the evening. I was looking forward to a restful slumber, but that wasn't to be.
Saturday night was like Tuesday night. I couldn't seem to stop coughing. When I got up on Sunday morning, the sinus migraine was back with a vengeance. I took some ibuprofen and basically just lounged around all day. I tried working on my pins, but I just didn't have the energy or patience for it. Most of the day was spent dozing in my comfy chair wrapped in a coverlet. Finally, late Sunday afternoon, I started feeling better. The headache had eased, my temperature was down and the coughing had finally subsided. I watched the SuperBowl and then Gray's Anatomy and ER before heading to bed.
I slept pretty much all the way through the night without coughing myself awake. I got up at 6:15 this morning, took my shower, got dressed and caught the 7:55 train downtown. It's now 3:27 pm, and so far I only have a little headache and my temp appears to be normal. I am hopeful that the worst has passed. My ear buzzing is still there, but seems to be getting better. My doctor says that if it doesn't go away by next week, I should call him. Other than that, I appear to be finally on the mend. I really hate being sick and I'm glad this thing is finally over.
I left the office on Friday feeling somewhat bad. The night before my temperature was 100.6, so I took some Ibuprofen at bedtime in order to bring it down. It worked to some extent. On Friday morning, I only felt somewhat okay, but I knew I had to come in since my neighbor was out and I was covering her folks (see previous post). So I dragged myself in and stayed the whole day. By the time I got home on Friday night, though, I was really beginning to feel bad.
On Saturday morning, the problem with the left eye started. I was rinsing with my eye wash constantly, but it didn't seem to be helping, and by Sunday the right eye was red and scratchy, too. My temperature bounced up and down all weekend and when Monday morning came, I knew that I was in no shape to go to work, so I called in sick. When none of my over-the-counter drugs seemed to be working, I called my doctor on Monday evening. After asking a bunch of questions about my symptoms, he told me that I had a "serious" sinus infection that had spread to my eyes. He called in prescriptions for antibiotics and eye medications to my local pharmacy. He told me that I should plan on staying home for at least another two days, maybe more. While I waited for him to call in the scripts, I called the office and left messages for my attorneys and the Secretarial Supervisor, telling them that I would be out until at least Thursday, but that I would call on Wednesday to update them.
I called the pharmacy for the second time at around 8:40. They told me that the scripts had been called in and that they'd be ready in about 45 minutes. I waited until 9, then got dressed and headed for Walgreen's. I needed to refill my tissues as well as my cough syrup in addition to picking up the drugs the doctor had ordered. I also added a couple of packages of Sugar-Free cough drops. The total came to a little over $74. I paid for my stuff and headed out of the store. I couldn't wait to get home. I felt really miserable.
At home, I took the first of the antibiotic pills and put some of the drops into my eyes. I took 600 mg of ibuprofen, 4 teaspoons of cough syrup (the maximum adult dosage) and went to bed. Two hours later, I was up coughing. I couldn't take anymore cough syrup for another 2 hours, so I popped a cough drop into my mouth and tried to sleep. Thankfully, I was able to get about 3 hours more before coughing myself awake again. I went ahead and took the second antibiotic pill and another full dose of cough syrup, then went back to bed. I slept a full six hours before waking. I thought maybe I'd be going back to work on Wednesday. No such luck.
Despite massive doses of cough syrup and cough drops, Tuesday night was pure hell. I could not lay down at all without the sinuses draining into the throat causing a bout of coughing. The coughing was so hard that my left ear popped. I have been hearing a buzzing sound in that ear since then. My temperature spiked to 101 and it took two doses of ibuprofen to get it down. When I got up on Wednesday, I felt so bad. One of the offshoots of a sinus infection is a sinus migraine, which I had big time. I took my little blanket and my neck pillow into my work room, where I have a straight backed chair with a high back. It was so bright in there (eastern window) that I had to cover my head to block out some of the light. I wrapped up in my coverlet, put the neck pillow and scarf in place, and slept, sitting upright, for about 3 hours. It seemed to help a little.
After I woke up on Wednesday, I spent the day kind of dozing in my big comfy chair. By mid-afternoon, my temperature was over 102, so when I called into the office, I told them that I was still infectious and staying home the rest of the week. They said okay, just get my doctor to send a letter saying it was okay for me to come back to work on the following Monday. I took 1000 mg of ibuprofen and wrapped up in my coverlet. I dozed on and off for a couple of hours before taking the full dose of cough syrup and heading to bed. Miracle of Miracles! I actually slept for 5 hours straight before my bladder woke me (just like normal). I woke up on Thursday feeling a little more human.
Thursday night was also fairly restful, and I awoke on Friday feeling somewhat better. The infection in my eyes was pretty much gone. I continued to use the drops, however. I took a shower and washed my hair. I lounged around while my hair got totally dry. Then I put on some clothes, went to the bank and to Dominick's to get groceries. I was only gone about an hour and a half, and I could not believe how bad I felt by the time I got back. I loaded the groceries from the back seat into the cart and headed inside. I stopped to get my mail and went over to the elevators. I got on the elevator and pushed 3. The door closed and we headed up.
Now, this particular elevator has been acting up for some time (I first complained about it 6 months ago). When it is going to stop at a floor, it sort of does a little hop and then takes about 30 seconds to shudder to a stop at the floor before the door opens. On Friday, it did it's little hop, and then it hopped again, and then again. But it didn't shudder up to the floor and the door didn't open. I pressed the "Door Open" button and nothing happened. I finally pressed the alarm bell and one of the building engineers answered. I told him that the elevator door wouldn't open. He asked where I was and I told him, and he said he would be right up to open the door. In the meantime, the elevator kept doing the little bounces, and I thought I was going to be sick. Suddenly, the door opened - only it wasn't on 3 anymore. I was back down on the main floor.
It seems that our elevators are run by hydraulics, not cables. It also turns that the little hops I had been feeling were actually the elevator descending back to the main floor. Needless to say, I did not stay on that elevator. The building manager was there, and I told her what had happened. I said that I had a hard enough time riding the elevators when I felt fine (I suffer from benign positional vertigo), but what I had just experienced had been no fun at all. The engineer came back down on the other elevator and asked what had happened. I told him that somehow the elevator had come back down to 1. He said they would check it out. I took the other elevator up to 3 and finally made it back to my apartment. I was shaking by the time I got there. I quickly put away the groceries that needed to be refrigerated and went to lie down for a while. My little trip to the bank and shopping, along with the fright on the elevator had absolutely worn me out, and my temperature was back up to 100+.
By Saturday morning, I was feeling better, so I went out for about an hour to pick up some craft supplies that I needed (an errand from the previous weekend that I needed to complete). I stopped at KFC to pick up a bucket of chicken (so I wouldn't have to cook for the weekend), and headed back home. The whole trip took about 70 minutes. I fixed myself some lunch and then took a nap in my chair. After that I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in my work room sculpting clay flowers for pins. I baked the flowers and set them aside to cool. Then I just relaxed the rest of the evening. I was looking forward to a restful slumber, but that wasn't to be.
Saturday night was like Tuesday night. I couldn't seem to stop coughing. When I got up on Sunday morning, the sinus migraine was back with a vengeance. I took some ibuprofen and basically just lounged around all day. I tried working on my pins, but I just didn't have the energy or patience for it. Most of the day was spent dozing in my comfy chair wrapped in a coverlet. Finally, late Sunday afternoon, I started feeling better. The headache had eased, my temperature was down and the coughing had finally subsided. I watched the SuperBowl and then Gray's Anatomy and ER before heading to bed.
I slept pretty much all the way through the night without coughing myself awake. I got up at 6:15 this morning, took my shower, got dressed and caught the 7:55 train downtown. It's now 3:27 pm, and so far I only have a little headache and my temp appears to be normal. I am hopeful that the worst has passed. My ear buzzing is still there, but seems to be getting better. My doctor says that if it doesn't go away by next week, I should call him. Other than that, I appear to be finally on the mend. I really hate being sick and I'm glad this thing is finally over.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Hurray for Friday!
Wow. We finally made it to Friday. Only 6 hours until I can go home for the weekend. I don't know why, but this week has been the longest one yet. I think it's because the secretary who sits next to me has been out, and I've been covering her two attorneys on top of my two attorneys. It's not that there's too much work, 'cause there isn't really. I think it's because it's thrown the rhythm of my day off. I think we all create patterns in our lives that make it seem as if everything is going along smoothly. When we have to make changes or additions to those patterns, it disrupts the harmony we've created. That's what this week has been like for me.
Don't get me wrong. I do love the challenge of new things. I just don't like how "off" it makes me feel. It seems like I've been a step or two behind all week. And having to cope with two new people and their little foibles doesn't help. Especially since their secretary has spoiled them so! But then, I spoil my folks, too. I guess it's just that once you've worked with someone for a while, you get to know exactly how they like things done, and they get to know just how far they can push you. When you have to deal with new folks, there's an awkwardness to your communication. I mean, I know that I'm one of the best legal secretaries in this town, but Steve and Brad don't quite know that yet, so they're always double and triple checking things with me. Brad even seemed surprised when one of the items he gave me was already finished. He thought I'd have questions for him. I didn't. I just took care of it.
Things have gotten more relaxed as the week has worn on. However, Brad has started taking advantage of the fact that I'm here later than his regular secretary, who leaves at 4:20 every day. See, I usually take the 6:38 train home, but I get off work at 5:00. So I usually sit at my desk playing solitaire or reading the newspaper until about 6:10. It's warmer and more comfortable than the train station. And while I may still be at my desk after 5:00, I actually clock out at 5:00, and I'm not being paid for that extra time that I'm here. Brad doesn't seem to grasp that concept. He has been coming up to me almost every day after 5:00 with work to do. I finally told him yesterday that, just because I'm still here, doesn't mean I'm still working. As a matter of fact, I usually shut down all of my programs except Explorer right after 5:00, so I would have to open them back up in order to do a letter for him. I think he finally understands.
Oh well, hopefully today is the last day I have to take care of these guys. I'm hoping that Anne (their secretary) will be back on Monday, but she might not be. She has pleurisy, which is an inflammation of the sack around the lungs, and that takes a little while to get over. If she isn't here, maybe there will be desk coverage available, and I'll be able to hand off her folks to them.
Anyway, that can wait until Monday. Today, though, is FRIDAY. And I can look forward to two whole days of not coming into the office. Hurray!
Don't get me wrong. I do love the challenge of new things. I just don't like how "off" it makes me feel. It seems like I've been a step or two behind all week. And having to cope with two new people and their little foibles doesn't help. Especially since their secretary has spoiled them so! But then, I spoil my folks, too. I guess it's just that once you've worked with someone for a while, you get to know exactly how they like things done, and they get to know just how far they can push you. When you have to deal with new folks, there's an awkwardness to your communication. I mean, I know that I'm one of the best legal secretaries in this town, but Steve and Brad don't quite know that yet, so they're always double and triple checking things with me. Brad even seemed surprised when one of the items he gave me was already finished. He thought I'd have questions for him. I didn't. I just took care of it.
Things have gotten more relaxed as the week has worn on. However, Brad has started taking advantage of the fact that I'm here later than his regular secretary, who leaves at 4:20 every day. See, I usually take the 6:38 train home, but I get off work at 5:00. So I usually sit at my desk playing solitaire or reading the newspaper until about 6:10. It's warmer and more comfortable than the train station. And while I may still be at my desk after 5:00, I actually clock out at 5:00, and I'm not being paid for that extra time that I'm here. Brad doesn't seem to grasp that concept. He has been coming up to me almost every day after 5:00 with work to do. I finally told him yesterday that, just because I'm still here, doesn't mean I'm still working. As a matter of fact, I usually shut down all of my programs except Explorer right after 5:00, so I would have to open them back up in order to do a letter for him. I think he finally understands.
Oh well, hopefully today is the last day I have to take care of these guys. I'm hoping that Anne (their secretary) will be back on Monday, but she might not be. She has pleurisy, which is an inflammation of the sack around the lungs, and that takes a little while to get over. If she isn't here, maybe there will be desk coverage available, and I'll be able to hand off her folks to them.
Anyway, that can wait until Monday. Today, though, is FRIDAY. And I can look forward to two whole days of not coming into the office. Hurray!
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Capsizing to the Right
Okay. It looks like Mr. Alito is going to be confirmed to the U.S. Supreme Court, despite the misgivings that many people have. It is just another step to the right, but it is one that could have far reaching consequences. Forget about Roe v. Wade, let's concentrate on all of the personal freedoms that we currently hold dear. Once Mr. Alito joins the crew, we will all be very much in jeopardy of losing our privacy. According to the three briefs of the soon-to-be Associate Justice that I've had an opportunity to read so far, the Constitution doesn't really give us any rights of privacy. I am very much afraid that what we've found out lately about W ordering eavesdropping on private citizens without court order is only going to be the tip of the iceberg.
The last time this country moved so far to the right, we ended up fighting a civil war. The ultra-conservatives of the mid-nineteenth century supported slavery and wanted government out of our everyday lives. The one thing they had in common with today's ultra-conservative, though, is that they, too, believed that only those who agreed with them were true patriots. All others were suspect. I find it ironic that the current ultra-conservative movement has moved so far back in time to find their ideals. They didn't work then, and they are not going to work now.
The biggest difference between what happened just prior to the Civil War and what is happening now is that women couldn't vote then. We can vote now, much to the chagrin of Mr. Bush and his cohorts. I firmly believe that the women of this country have finally had enough of George W, Tricky Dicky, Rummy, and their friends. I look forward to the November elections this year, when I firmly hope that the voters of this country will finally return some sanity to Capital Hill. If we do not, then all of those steps to the right will eventually capsize our Ship of State.
The last time this country moved so far to the right, we ended up fighting a civil war. The ultra-conservatives of the mid-nineteenth century supported slavery and wanted government out of our everyday lives. The one thing they had in common with today's ultra-conservative, though, is that they, too, believed that only those who agreed with them were true patriots. All others were suspect. I find it ironic that the current ultra-conservative movement has moved so far back in time to find their ideals. They didn't work then, and they are not going to work now.
The biggest difference between what happened just prior to the Civil War and what is happening now is that women couldn't vote then. We can vote now, much to the chagrin of Mr. Bush and his cohorts. I firmly believe that the women of this country have finally had enough of George W, Tricky Dicky, Rummy, and their friends. I look forward to the November elections this year, when I firmly hope that the voters of this country will finally return some sanity to Capital Hill. If we do not, then all of those steps to the right will eventually capsize our Ship of State.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Mondays
I don't know why, but I have a really hard time with Mondays. I have to force myself to get up, get dressed and go to work on Mondays. I'm always down on Mondays, too. No matter how much fun I have on the weekend, when Monday comes, I find myself depressed. Is it because I long for the day when I no longer have to get up at 5:30 am to go to work? I don't know.
To tell the truth, I really like my job. I'm a legal secretary who specializes in Litigation. And when I'm busy, I really get a rush out of keeping everything going and in the correct order. When I'm preparing a document for an attorney, and I find a subtle grammatical error, or unclear sentence, I discuss it with the attorney. Most of the time I'm right, and that makes me feel really good. And on those occasions when I'm incorrect, I still feel good because I've learned something new!
I like the folks I work with. I've been with my main assignment for nearly ten years (and two law firms). He's an absolute dear. And most of the other lawyers I've worked with have been good, too. (So far, only one bad apple in the bunch, as far as I'm concerned.) I also enjoy working with the other secretaries and find that we all have the same strange type of humor (what do you call 1000 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? A good start).
So why is it, then, that I have so much trouble with Mondays.
I'm beginning to think that it's not so much the beginning of the work week, but the end of the weekend that bothers me. Maybe if we just didn't work on Mondays, I would feel better. I don't think having only two days for the weekend is enough. I, for one, spend Saturday running around, trying to get all of my errands done as quickly as possible. I try to keep Sunday for rest whenever possible. But all of that running on Saturday has a tendency to really tire me out, so that I'm more tired on Sunday than I would have been if I hadn't run all those errands on Saturday. If I didn't have to work on Monday, then I could spread my errands out over two days and still have a day of rest.
That's it. I think we should push for the 32 hour week (8 hours, Tuesday through Friday). Then I won't have any more trouble with Mondays.
To tell the truth, I really like my job. I'm a legal secretary who specializes in Litigation. And when I'm busy, I really get a rush out of keeping everything going and in the correct order. When I'm preparing a document for an attorney, and I find a subtle grammatical error, or unclear sentence, I discuss it with the attorney. Most of the time I'm right, and that makes me feel really good. And on those occasions when I'm incorrect, I still feel good because I've learned something new!
I like the folks I work with. I've been with my main assignment for nearly ten years (and two law firms). He's an absolute dear. And most of the other lawyers I've worked with have been good, too. (So far, only one bad apple in the bunch, as far as I'm concerned.) I also enjoy working with the other secretaries and find that we all have the same strange type of humor (what do you call 1000 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? A good start).
So why is it, then, that I have so much trouble with Mondays.
I'm beginning to think that it's not so much the beginning of the work week, but the end of the weekend that bothers me. Maybe if we just didn't work on Mondays, I would feel better. I don't think having only two days for the weekend is enough. I, for one, spend Saturday running around, trying to get all of my errands done as quickly as possible. I try to keep Sunday for rest whenever possible. But all of that running on Saturday has a tendency to really tire me out, so that I'm more tired on Sunday than I would have been if I hadn't run all those errands on Saturday. If I didn't have to work on Monday, then I could spread my errands out over two days and still have a day of rest.
That's it. I think we should push for the 32 hour week (8 hours, Tuesday through Friday). Then I won't have any more trouble with Mondays.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
My First Blog
Who would ever have thought that I would be a Blogger?! Not me, for sure. But here I am, about to post my very first Blog. What is my Blog going to be about? I called it "Random Stitches" 'cause I'm a crafter, quilter, doll maker, etc. , and I do a lot of stitching. But that doesn't mean that this is going to just be about crafts. I see my life in many pieces, and this Blog is going to be a look at how I've kept them all together as a whole.
I don't just craft. I work full time. I volunteer. I write. And, yes, I craft. I like to meet new people and try new things. Sometimes it's hard to deal with what life throws your way, and I find that writing about it helps me to cope. Just the act of putting feelings on paper seems to help sort things out in my mind.
So here we go. Hopefully, people will not find what I have to say to be too far out. I hope they can find some humor (laughter always makes you feel better), and I hope that I can continue to polish my writing skills.
Happy Blogging!
I don't just craft. I work full time. I volunteer. I write. And, yes, I craft. I like to meet new people and try new things. Sometimes it's hard to deal with what life throws your way, and I find that writing about it helps me to cope. Just the act of putting feelings on paper seems to help sort things out in my mind.
So here we go. Hopefully, people will not find what I have to say to be too far out. I hope they can find some humor (laughter always makes you feel better), and I hope that I can continue to polish my writing skills.
Happy Blogging!
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