Godammit, I’m Mad!

Today some woman called from the medical supply company to talk about Max’s wheelchair. She wanted to schedule a pick-up time, since the insurance company won’t pay for the rental “once the client has passed.” I don’t want to hear the word “passed.” People die, even though we don’t want them to. Passing is a euphemism that seeks to downgrade the truth. Let us speak of death openly.

The woman says that we already owe $400 for the chair but guess what? I looked up the exact model and it sells for $325. I am not giving them the fucking chair because it’s still at the dining table where it belongs. When the woman calls back, I plan to tell her that I’m keeping the wheelchair and she can take me to small claims court. It’s staying here no matter what.

But nothing  is ever enough. My dad was admitted to the hospital yesterday after losing 25 pounds. He can’t swallow or talk. He’s 89 years old and they wanted to send him home. They had no idea they were dealing with a hardened veteran of hospital chicanery. Fuckers. Now the whole group of my father’s 7 children are assembling to handle the situation. Some of us barely know each other. None of us can bear to see him suffer, now that he’s old and helpless.

The man in the next bed was telling his imaginary friend about 1933. He was incensed at times, ranting about ten children, and then slipping in and out of Word War II.  At one point, he said, “Why, thank you!” with such graciousness that I wanted to cry.

I’m not close to my father but I was grateful to have someone to care for, a hand to hold, a head to stroke. I just want to take care of someone again.

Back in October, I had a first-hand experience of conditions at a Los Angeles nursing home. I was stunned by the blatant inhumanity: I don’t know what else to call it. How can this shit go on? How can people live with themselves after consigning a loved one to such misery and neglect?

Hearing about a 98 year old woman who killed a 100 year old roommate, my first reaction was to laugh. I guess it’s still funny on some level, but I’ve lost the thread of whatever black comedy I perceived there. Now that I’ve learned the circumstances, I am furious beyond words. It’s an obvious case of nursing home negligence, but the nursing home won’t be held responsible and for the administrators and stockholders, it will be business as usual.

Laura Lundquist strangled her roommate, Elizabeth Barrow, at the Brandon Woods nursing home in New Bedford, MA, after Barrow’s son made repeated complaints about Lundquist on his mother’s behalf. Lundquist believed that Barrows was “taking over her room,” and had already made threats to the older roommate as well as an attempt to block her from leaving her bed.

Guess what? When you complain about anything in a nursing home, NOTHING HAPPENS! People might nod as though they are listening, but nothing will happen. The staff is not there to provide care. They are there to earn a low wage and to bitch to each other about how annoying their duties are. The patients are discussed by their room and bed number. “24B needs service” announced on the intercom will not bring anyone to 24B’s room, not until some CNA is good and ready to walk her ass down the hall.

Lundquist has a lawyer who will argue that she has dementia. Of course she does! She’s 98 years old and rotting in a fucking nursing home! I don’t think Lundquist can be held responsible. But I’d like to see the administrators of Brandon Woods be restrained in their own nursing home for the next several years, subjected to bedsores and the ravings of mentally ill roommates.

The CEO of Brandon Woods, Scott Picone, says said the home was “deeply saddened by this tragic event, and our thoughts and prayers go out to both families.” He declined to comment further. But in another statement, the home said the roommates acted like sisters, walked and ate lunch together daily and said, “Goodnight, I love you,” to each other every night.

Here’s a story for you:  Max’s last roommate at Kindred Hospital was a man named Willie. He is an elderly black man who has cancer and may have also had a stroke. At the time he arrived, he was unable to talk. He had a tracheotomy and had some plastic thing in his mouth. He could gesture with his hands though and he had a legal pad on his table where he could write to communicate.  Just before Max was discharged, I saw that Willie had written “Why do they handle me like a terrorist??” Why indeed.

The next day, I paused outside the room and said to a nurse who had just exited: “Willie is such a sweet guy.” She replied: “Yes, he is. Doesn’t talk much, though.”

In the Q & A section of the Brandon Woods website,  one is assured that: “Music, physical fitness, outings, and laughter are the key ingredients to enabling residents to enjoy their environment.”

Ha! Jesus. Off with their fucking heads.

That’s right, you meanies. She has shut done her comments because of you. Well, not exactly.  Let her explain in her own words:  “Comments aren’t necessary.”

Who cares what you people think?!? Fuck all y’all. Sea of Shoes is famous now, at least to blog followers, and their feedback doesn’t matter. She’s not here to make friends, after all! And she doesn’t need your stupid opinions.

But wait, I have an opinion, and now it’s too late.  Shit. Let me share it anyway, alright?

My opinion is, Take your new Dolce and Gabbana Wedges ($1,010 at farfetch) and get the money back. Take the money and buy a wheelchair for the guy I met last week who is paralyzed after a motorcycle accident. His sons are hoping the family can raise $1,000 to buy one.

I know it’s not your fault that people are paralyzed. And yet. Oh well.  Like you said, Sea of Shoes, “some people are just born with the compulsion to collect.“

Despite all my talk about being a samurai, I fell off my horse yesterday. It was bound to happen sometime, but it left me shaken and badly bruised.

Among my family troubles are Other family troubles. Things spun out of control, meaning I lost control. It really did feel like a damn bursting. All the careful containment of my grief and fear has allowed me to forget that I am a fucking wreck.

However! I picked myself up and got back on the horse. I got a ride to Chinatown, where Max has been transferred to a wonderful rehabilitation facility. Now he can learn to walk again and get ready to come home.

Everything about the new place is great, even the food. We are all still traumatized by the pretend “hospital,” which I can now divulge is a subsidiary of Kindred Healthcare, a corporation that made $4 billion in 2008. Why did they make $4 billion? Because their “hospitals” charge the insurance company $4,000 a day and then DON’T DO ANYTHING FOR THE PATIENT!

Ah well. I haven’t even begun with those fuckers. First things first. Here is Max having his dinner tonight and looking like Elvis.  If you send him your blessings, I will pass them on.

A trusted advisor told Max last week,”Wallowing in self pity is a choice.” Ha, I beg to differ.

Sometimes, self pity is the rational response to one’s situation. Just as depression, anger or grief are rational responses to heartbreak, betrayal, and loss, for example.

Our culture insists that we have the power to change things by being positive, and inherent in this thinking is the disapproval of “negativity.” If I were in Max’s position and someone had delivered such an inane assessment of my mood, I hope I would sock him in the face.

Barbara Ehrenreich has written a book about the pressure to be positive, and I couldn’t agree more. She recalls being admonished at a cancer support group, soon after she was diagnosed with the disease. At one point, she was even offered a book called “The Gift of Cancer.” Having hope is one thing. Denying fear, rage or self pity is unhealthy at best, and it’s often just another way to blame the victim of disease or tragedy or unlucky circumstances.

Me, I am full of negative emotions. When things are hard, I freak out. But I know I will keep fighting. That’s why I like to identify with the samurai, and I guess that part is a choice. I could choose to identify with Sylvia Plath, or Joan of Arc, but there is no resonance there for me.

I like the idea of staying on my horse no matter what. I intend to plunge into any battle with total commitment, even if I’m outnumbered.

In the case of the pretend “hospital,” they told me once again that Blue Cross had denied further treatment there, even though Blue Cross denied this. I told the case manager at the “hospital” that we would refuse any discharge plan and appeal any refusal of payment by Blue Cross.

Meanwhile, Max’s current roommate, the one with the noisy oxygen machine, now has an infection from his PICC line. His family has not returned after one visit. I’m afraid he won’t get out of there alive. I ask him every day if he needs anything, and he shakes his head, No. A social worker came to see him last week and asked him to rate how tired he was on “a scale of 6 to 20.” I swear I’m not making this up. Where are numbers one through five??

Today, Max stood up for the first time in nearly ten weeks. Hallelujah. I’ve found a great hospital with an Acute Rehab Unit, but he’s not quite strong enough for their program.

Everyone who has sent their blessings and good wishes, the saints who donated to the Sister Wolf Fund, and the people who made purchases from the Sister Wolf Museum of Hoarding, you have given more comfort and cheer than you can imagine. My sword would be so much heavier without you.

Mr. Capote shares a room with Max and has the side with a window. It’s also the side with the television. I used to assume that the window side was reserved for V.I.P.’s (i.e., people with better insurance) but now I have no idea how the beds are assigned.

We want Mr. Capote to leave, so Max can have the window. I don’t want him to die, just to leave.

At first, Mr. Capote was just an obscure and disgusting nuisance.  He is 79 but looks  much older, with a bald bullet head and hunched posture. Every so often, he grunts “Son of a bitch!” with great feeling. No one comes to visit him. Ever.

Most of the nurses and aides have trouble with his name. They call him Mr. Caputo, Mr. Capoat, and at least once, Mr. Cooper. He never corrects them. He sits at the edge of his bed for hours at a time, dozing off and leaning sideways very precariously. He has breathing treatments and physical therapy.  I believe that the toes on one foot have been amputated. He pees in a big plastic bottle that he keeps on the tray where he eats.

For the first time in two weeks, a caretaker engaged him in conversation. He is from central California. In other words, he’s an actual person, not a thing to be warehoused in a gray room in a pretend hospital.

Today, I asked Mr. Capote if I could use the lounger chair that had migrated from Max’s bedside into Mr. Capote’s side of the room. He said “Sure, go ahead.” When I had trouble moving it due to my walker, he even made a move to get up and help me.  I told him, “No no no, I can do it. We don’t want you falling and ending up like me!”

Where is Mr. Capote’s fucking family?! I still want the window, but when Mr. Capote is discharged to god knows where, it will be a hollow victory.

Tonight, I was laying on my bed like a beached whale after my day at the “hospital” and talking on the phone to my sister. She was telling me about the three t-shirts she bought today and while she was talking, my mind drifted to the thought: “I’m glad I don’t need a tracheotomy.”

What a funny place to be, after a lifetime of shopping! I know it won’t last forever. When everything returns to normal, I’ll probably resume the mindless pursuit of clothes, boots and jewelry with as much vigor as the next addict.

But for now, everything is skewed. Photos of street style are particularly difficult to take seriously. The trendier the outfit, the more I feel that the person should just kill them-self. See the girl above? What’s the point of her, you know? She was told to wear a peak-shouldered jacket and painful high heels, and she complied. So what?!

On the other hand, fashion is not without its power to amuse when times are hard. Even though I have no urge to buy anything, I can still appreciate this jumpsuit for sale by Mom of Shoes:

It is described as:  Great 70’s lounge jumpsuit in bold houndstooth print. This is a very high quality piece, feels like wool.

Is she having a laugh or is she curating ironically ugly thriftstore crap? What does the word “great” mean in this context? I don’t get it, but it delivered another little frisson of perverse pleasure, and I use the word “frisson” because it goes so well with the jumpsuit.

Thoughts, complaints, etc?

Today, Scott the Physical Therapist put Max in a special chair and took him outside to get some fresh air.

We joined this nice couple, who were also enjoying some sunlight. They have been married for 61 years and she has been staying by his side for 12 hours every day. He had a massive stroke and has already spent weeks at a real hospital before being transferred to the illustrious facility above.

As we breathed in the fresh air, Max and I were annoyed by the brazen squirrels who came much too close to us, even perching on my bench. As their number climbed to four, Max worried that they might bite his bare toes, a definite danger given the aggressiveness of the squirrels, who some morons in the “hospital” have encouraged by feeding them nuts and cookies.

I swung my walker at the vermin, yelling “Fuck off!” when “Scram!” had no impact whatsoever.

The old man mentioned the Boston Celtics, and his wife told him, “Come on, you know we don’t like the Celtics, we’re Dodgers fans!”  He seemed preoccupied with the number 555, but when she asked him if he wanted to go back inside, he answered graciously: “Oh yes, I would very much like that.”

People, are we learning anything from all this? Are we learning that life and health are incredibly fragile? That love is all that matters? That in one moment, your entire world can be turned upside down forever? That human kindness is a precious commodity? That shoes are irrelevant, as are virtually all other consumer goods?

I am still trying to formulate a response to all the unwelcome input that keeps assaulting my consciousness. I never knew the danger of bed sores, for example. I never thought much about total helplessness.

I do know that I fucking hate squirrels. Why do people persist in thinking they’re cute? All they do is spread disease and chew through electrical wiring. I genuinely despise them. I need a means of keeping them at a distance, to protect Max’s toes and my own sanity.

What can I bring to the hospital to repel the squirrels, besides rat poison? Any ideas?

Let me begin with I’m Sorry, because I really am. This blog has devolved into a tale of woe that is much too personal but still not personal enough.  Try to bear with me.

I broke my fucking hip. I KNOW it’s not a good time to break my hip. That didn’t stop me. It was dark outside and I tripped and fell on the concrete driveway. I knew something was broken but I waited a few minutes before admitting that I needed an ambulance. In fact, I think I was pretty businesslike, given the pain and horror.

A broken hip hurts so much, you have no idea until you have one. It is agony. For the first couple of hours, I begged everyone not to hurt me. “Please don’t hurt me!” and “Please don’t let anyone hurt me!” over and over. An ER nurse named Debbie and an ex-ray guy did their best to help. Thanks Debbie and ex-ray guy!

The ER doctor told me that I needed surgery. When I pleaded with him, he told me that it was a really “bad” break and that’s why my leg looked “two inches shorter than the other one.” I still don’t know what he was talking about but he gets zero points for bedside manner.

I will try to cut to the chase. It’s five days later and I’m home. The pain is still off the chart but I’m supposed to try to keep moving. I think there are nails and screws in my hip/leg but oh well.

I will let you in on a little secret. All anyone cares about in the hospital are bowel movements. People want you to have one. Patients in other rooms are desperate to have one. I had a little notice board in my room with a list of 3 goals for the day.  Bowel Movement was number 3, after Reduce Pain and Try to Move.

I hope that no one reading this ever has to endure a broken hip, even if I hate you. Please be careful! Take calcium, too.  Max is doing well and I told him that lots of people were sending prayers and Good Thoughts. I know I can count on you to keep up the good work for him while I recover. xo

Today I was at the hospital for 12 hours, waiting for my son’s surgery and then waiting for word about the surgery and then waiting for him to return to his room. The surgery was successful and I am still trying to unwind.

Hospital life is an alternate universe where time is different, people are different, and you start enjoying the hand sanitizer. I’ve gotten so sick of myself and my own story that the sound of someone yelling personal shit into a phone is fascinating beyond belief. I listened to a guy screaming emotionally about obscure family dramas as he paced back and forth, tearing at his hair. I hoped I could lure him into confiding in me before he disappeared down the hall.

Since the hospital Proudly Serves Starbucks, one spends about $15 a day for the relief of having a hot drink to hold when one is kicked out of the ICU for staff changes or Procedures. One soon becomes familiar with all the restrooms, the limited offerings of the gift shop, and the places where one can get a phone signal.

For the fashion-conscious, the hospital is a big wake-up call. I hate the term “wake-up call.” I could have said “eye-opener” but I hate that too, although not with the same intensity. No one dresses with any discernible style at the hospital. In nearly three weeks, I have seen exactly two women wearing Fierce Shoes. One looked like a misplaced prostitute/fashionista, and the other appeared to be a deluded immigrant of some kind. Today in the elevator, however, I saw an old lady (i.e., my age) wearing an embroidered cardigan that I myself purchased last year from the Lucky Jeans store.  The cardigan is dead to me now.

What I’d really like is to slowly re-accustom myself to non-Hospital Life, but that is not going to happen anytime soon.  Maybe I can at least cut down on the coffee but that is even more unlikely.

The weirdest part of all is coming home to my other life, and to my computer. The stuff I paid so much attention to is vaguely absurd, but somehow comforting. I just saw some pictures of Tavi at Fashion Week, dressed like an old lady at a bingo table in Miami. I’m waiting for her to take off that dwarf costume and go “Ha ha, suckers!” Not because she’s too sophisticated to be a kid but because her style is so fucking awful.

That’s it for now.  Who wants to come up with an idea for a contest where the prize is that dead cardigan?