The Complaint Department

The Sunset of My Eighth Year

I hardly remember those heady, carefree years.  The years of my young and early-middle adulthood, when I called my life my own.  I had work, friends, fun.  It all seems like a dream now.  Was there really EVER a time when there wasn't the weight of caring for elderly parents pressing on my mind?

In the coming months, I'll celebrate eight full years of being a dutiful daughter.

Right now, I want nothing more than to disappear for a month or two or six and take myself on a leisurely, lengthy road trip.  Anywhere.  Everywhere.  All by myself.

Yes, I'm dutiful.  I'm also angry, bitter, exhausted, frustrated and sad.

At times, I wish the responsibilities would all come to an end.  There.  It had to be said.

I'd feel worse about it if my mother was still "my mother."  But she isn't . . . and never will be, again.

You know, they call Alzheimer's Disease the Long Goodbye.

Today, I took Mom for a couple of appointments--a follow-up with an endocrinologist and a cleaning at the dentist.  The endocrinologist appointment was pretty easy, although Mom didn't remember being there back in October.  She kept asking, "Why am I here?"  We never did get to the bottom of the low blood sugar business from this past summer, but her blood pressure's been low, so the endocrinologist has discontinued the medication Mom takes for high blood pressure.

We'll just have to see what happens next with that.

After that appointment, we got a bite to eat.  I sat through another weekly lunch with Mom, which never fails to test my ability to hear the same conversation, the same stories, the same observations over and over, again.  When I talk about anything not ordinarily "on the menu" of conversation, her eyes glaze over.  I kid you not.  I don't think she can follow what I'm saying.  I've also noticed that her food seems to mystify her at times.  It's as though she doesn't recognize it.

In recent months, Mom's been saying, "We should take a vacation somewhere.  I've always wanted to go to Hawaii.  Do you want to go to Hawaii?"

Have you ever traveled with an elderly, demented person?  I have, and it's no vacation.  None.  Whatsoever.

After lunch, we went for a drive.  Again, the same conversation, sparked by her observations.

Passing the fields of trees owned by a landscape company, "Is this the Ruppert's?"

"Gawd, they must be MILLIONAIRES!"

"Whatever happened to that person you used to date who worked for the Ruppert's?"

"Mrs. Ruppert used to work at NIH when I was there."

Always the same.

Always.

After our drive, we went to the dentist.  A dentist Mom's been seeing for some years now.

In the waiting room she asked, "Have I been here before?"

It was discovered that Mom has a broken tooth (which they want to cap) and that her oral hygiene is not what it once was.

The hygienist approached me with an envelope containing some tiny brushes, explaining to me that Mom should use them to brush between her teeth every night before going to bed.  Not straight through, but kind of at an angle.

I just stared at her for several moments.

Finally I said, "That's not gonna happen."

Then the office lady/dentist's wife wrote out the instructions on a prescription pad, signed her husband's name and told me to give it to the nursing staff at Antique Village.

When Mom and I got back to Antique Village, I did as I was told, giving the tiny brushes to the nurse, along with the detailed instructions.

I watched the nurse read the instructions, examine the tiny brushes, and become crestfallen.  I saw her heart sink down through her pant leg and slide out onto the floor.  Swear.

Oh, and I guess I forgot to mention that my mother inadvertantly gave herself a facial chemical peel yesterday.  The staff thinks she slathered on her face some cheap body wash from the Dollar Store, or some funky lotion from one of those questionable baskets of spa products.  Mom emerged from her room with her face as red as a beet, alarming everybody who crossed her path.  I received a call from the nurse, alerting me about what had happened.

About a million people mentioned it when I arrived at Antique Village this morning, so it must have been something.

By today, the color had mellowed to a lovely pomegranate.

Podiatrist to the Stars

Mondays are not usual visiting days for me to see Mom at Antique Village (and just so you know, Antique Village is not really the name of the place where she lives, but I saw a business by that name and thought how appropriate it would be for an old folks' home).

But I'm a little off schedule this week, so I happened to arrive on the same day as the podiatrist, who was making her quarterly visit to the Village.  She is lovingly known as the Toe Doctor among the residents.

Since Mom and I were going out, the other residents waiting in line to be seen by Dr. Toe Doctor let Mom move to the front, right after the wheelchair-bound, elderly man with diabetes.

Ugh.

Why does anyone choose this line of work?  I know it's really a mission of mercy, because the elderly have such a hard time maintaining their toenails.  And it's not a job for the faint-hearted.  Still, is she the new kid on the block at the podiatry practice?  The low man on the toe-tem pole?

Ha ha ha.  Ugh.

Regular person waiting to be seen by podiatrist:  Remove shoes, stockings/socks.  Wait patiently and humbly until podiatrist summons foot.  Timidly present foot, atop golden, sanitized pillow, if possible.

Demented individual waiting to be seen by podiatrist:  Remove shoes, stockings/socks.  With nary a care in the world, breezily chat up podiatrist, while digging furiously between own toes and under toenails.  Remove gunk and debris, examine closely, then roll between thumb and fingers and flick to the ground.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat. 

Ugh.

Dr. Toe Doctor was wearing scrubs, gloves, eye-wear and a surgical mask, protecting her fully from flying, old-people toenails, which littered the area around her chair.  She also had a big, black bag of tricks, including various scary, metal digging tools and clippers, alcohol wipes and an electric, metal-brush gizmo that looked suspiciously like the instrument I recently saw Tony using on our patio furniture to remove rust.

Ugh.

I'll be having all of my toenails surgically removed at age 75. 

My First Inkling

I'm guessing most of you readers of God Bless Y'all are in roughly the same age group as I am--say, 45 to 55 years old.  As such, we have shared, or are sharing, some common life experiences.  We are, for the most part, members of the famous, and infamous, Baby Boom generation, born sometime between 1945 and 1963.

We've probably had it relatively easy during our most of our lives, compared with, perhaps, our parents' generation, and, certainly, those generations before theirs.  We've attended good public or private schools, possibly gone on to college, had plenty to eat, benefited from the discovery of penicillin, drank fluoridated water, had good dental care, and been given the tools to earn a decent living.  We've enjoyed plenty of leisure time, especially in our youth, and probably didn't have too many responsibilities until sometime in our 20's.  If we were careful, we saved a little money and made some wise investments, and maybe we have (or had) some money for our golden years.  Am I on target here?

There comes a time for all of us, however, when we will be required to Pay the Piper.

For many of us Baby Boomers, that's surely going to come in the form of caring for our elderly parents.  Perhaps for a very, very, very long time.

The oldest old (those over age 85) are the fastest-growing segment of the population, according to the U.S. Census Bureau.

(Maybe some of you are thinking, What's the Big Deal?  They're your parents, after all.  You SHOULD take care of them.  Well, of course.  I already know that.  But, I want to convey to you that the caregiving experience CAN be excruciating, and it is, more often than not, fraught with anger and sadness, as well as humor and joy.)

I have been traveling the elder-care road for six years.  It is a long, desolate stretch of highway.  There are no lights, no signs and no exits.  Only on-ramps.  Until the Final Exit.

My journey began in early 2003.

My father, who was nearly 80 and in very poor health, decided that he wanted to have a hip replaced.  Oh, he needed it, but he waited too long.  He went to his family physician, who basically told him that he was not at all a good candidate for the procedure, given the current state of his health.  The family physician told my mother that he had never seen someone whose health was so compromised still walking around.

But my father forged ahead, disregarding his physician's advice.  Dad's next stop was a visit to a cardiologist, to get checked out for hip replacement surgery.

Not so fast, said the cardiologist.

After some tests, the cardiologist determined that, while Dad might not be a good candidate for hip surgery, he was an excellent candidate for quadruple-bypass heart surgery.  Hip replacement surgery could not even be considered until the heart problem was resolved.  Dad was referred to a heart surgeon.

Once Dad decided to visit the heart surgeon to discuss bypass surgery, I entered the picture.  Because of the serious nature of the surgery and my parents' advanced ages, I felt that they might benefit from another perspective and a helping, if sometimes overbearing, hand.

So, I went with them to the heart specialist appointment.  The surgeon said that, while he would be able to perform the surgery, my father should consider quality-of-life issues, as well.  The surgeon was honest and forthright about possible complications and the fact that those complications might detract from the quality of post-operative life, even if Dad survived the surgery.

We left the office and reviewed what we had been told.  I reiterated some of the concerns expressed by the surgeon.  I reiterated them, again.  I asked Dad what he thought he might do.  Without hesitating, Dad expressed his desire to move forward with the bypass surgery.  Okey dokey, then.

The date was set.

Good-bye part-time job at local nursing home.  Good-bye drawing class at St. Mary's College.  Good-bye husband and four-legged children.  Good-bye friends and social life.  Good-bye care-free existence.

Hello four-hour, round-trip commutes to Olney.  Hello hospitals.  Hello rehab centers.  Hello nursing homes.  Hello ER.  Howdy parents' taxes and business affairs.  Hello part-time-here, part-time-there living arrangement.  Hello hired home help.  Hello new life as long-distance caregiver for elderly parents.

Oh, and, hello Alzheimer's Disease.  Didn't see you coming.

 

(Note:  I've been wanting to set these experiences down for a long time.  They're lengthy and complicated, emotional and difficult, but not without the occasional bright side.  I mean to lay it on you a little bit at a time.  And so that the entries pop out as part of a serial publication, and for those of you who may not be interested, I'm gonna make the text a different color.  Oh, goody.  I love fooling around with the colors!  I'll try to remember to increase the font size, too.)

 

Ahead of Schedule

A few days ago, I took down all the Christmas decorations.  It's a good start to 2009, because I usually let this unpleasant job linger for, at least, a couple of weeks into the New Year.

Everything was disassembled and packed away for another year, except for a few paintings my father did, oh, 40-some years ago.

 

 

This painting sat on the mantle every Christmas during my childhood since the 1960's.  It, as well as the others, are Swedish in design, and were copied from a magazine article, which I discovered while cleaning out my parents' house.  It's large--about 14" high and 64" long.

I'll be handing it over to a**hole family member this year, but not before making a copy of it for myself.

 

 

These two, smaller, paintings I'll keep for myself, for the time being.  They measure about 18" x 22".  Aren't they sweet?  Dad was half Swedish and half Norwegian, so I'm sure he felt the pictures compelling.

 

 

And, look!  Here's the old, tattered article from which Dad copied the designs.  It's kind of cool that it's still around.  I'll pop it into the book with the other family papers.

 

 

Are your decorations still up?  Yes?  Well, you'd better get busy!  Ha ha ha!

 

 

This and That: Part 2

Heavy traffic.

 

• I got nailed, AGAIN, by one of those speed cameras when I was up to see my mother a couple of weeks ago.  Oh, and it was the SAME camera.  That's a waste of another $40.  I thought it was Tony who had gotten the citation, because he had already opened the envelope and stuffed the contents back inside, without saying anything.  I gleefully pulled it out, again, ready to mercilessly let him have it, when, instead of seeing his car in the photos, I saw my own.  He surveyed the expression on my face the moment I realized it was me, and NOT him, and derived disturbingly immense enjoyment, cracking one of his rare smiles.  I'm gonna tape a note to my dashboard, and plot my travels to just avoid them all.

 

• A recent conversation with an old friend got me thinking about who will look after all of us aging baby boomers who don't have children or other close family.  Not that children are any insurance against being taken advantage of or abused in our old age, but one SHOULD be able to rely on their kids to look after one's best interests, right?  But, who will go to bat for us childless geezers when we can't really manage on our own any longer?  I don't really mean in the day-to-day sense, but more in an oversight capacity.  Who will come to the nursing home to make sure our diapers are dry and our oxygen cannulas haven't fallen out of our noses?  Who will kiss up to the staff on our behalf, so they'll be nice to us?

 

• Do you think it's a good time to start dabbling in the stock market?  I'm embarrassed to say that I'm a complete naif where investing is concerned, but I've been checking out this site recently, trying to learn me some stuff, now.  I know one thing, though.  If I ever want to have any dough to fool around with, I'll have to make sure to avoid those speed cameras.

 

• I decided to sign Mom up with her doctor's new practice today.  There are a lot of good reasons:  access to the doctor, Mom's advanced age, their long-standing relationship, etc.  But I really made up my mind just today when I spoke with someone in the new office.  You see, she had a British accent; and, before I knew it, I was falling all over myself, trying to be cheerful, witty and agreeable.  I sensed that she was a superior human being.  I know it's wrong, but I can't help myself.  The same, but converse, thing happens to me with the deep Southern accent, say, from Mississippi or Alabama or Georgia.  It doesn't matter what is actually being said.  The accent will overtake all that is rational and reasonable, and I will find myself thinking, "What an idiot." 

 

• Why didn't anyone tell me to increase the font size?  Jeez!  You'd probably let me walk around all day with my dress caught up in my panty hose!  Then I'd have to slap you. 

That's all I got.  Class dismissed.

This and That

How was everybody's Thanksgiving?

I worked like a dog on Thursday, preparing a traditional meal for just three of us.  I was unconscious by 6 p.m.

Friday, I took Mom out to do a little shopping at our local department store, over in the next county.

She pooped out on me before we were even in the door.  Nevertheless, we managed to find her a couple of nightgowns, a "jogging" suit for her to wear at "Antique Village," a pair of shoes to replace the 15-year-old ones I had to pry off her feet with a crowbar, and a winter jacket.  I did most (read "all") of the shopping, after I had propped Mom against a wall or hung her up on a rack in each of the various departments.

In between times, there were many other meals to be prepared and served, baths to be given, medications to dole out, laundry to wash, Scrabble games to be played, family pictures to sort through, and questions to be answered and stories to be heard, over and over, again.

Saturday, I drove her back to the "Village," where I collected all of her summer clothes and arranged her winter clothes in her drawers and closet.  Then I drove home.

Sunday I spent in a stupor, gazing into space and twirling my hair.

 

 

 

Before Thanksgiving preparations got underway earlier in the week, I got to have a nice visit with a friend who came over on Monday morning.  We'll just call her Lizzie Dear for now, until I can get her permission to out her on God Bless Y'all.

We had planned to have coffee, but wound up walking on the beach with her dogs the whole time she was here.  I hope she didn't think I was a rude hostess, getting her over here with promises of refreshments and not following through.

After bragging in an earlier post that I take my camera with me everywhere these days, I forgot to bring it on our walk.  While it was a crystal-clear day and we saw some cool icicles to photograph, I'm really more disappointed that I didn't get to take a picture of Lizzie Dear, who is stunningly gorgeous.

She's an interesting, multi-talented gal, too!

I'll tell you more about her later on, if she'll let me.

 

 

 

Last night I had a super-satisfying gab on the phone with my good friend, Peanut, out in New Mexico.  Peanut is one of my oldest and dearest friends, whom I follow around the country, visiting, any chance I get.  She can't seem to stay put in any one place for too long, which is a good thing for me!

Peanut's originally from Baltimore, hon, and I met her when I went back to college in my 30's.  Even though Peanut was only just out of her teens when we met, she never held my advanced age against me and treated me just like any other college coed.  Sniff.  Sniff.  We've been fast friends ever since.

After college, while I continued to languish here, she moved here and there and did this and that, and ultimately became "Peanut, B.A., M.L.S., J.D."

She still needs to earn her M.D. and Ph.D., but it's just a matter of time, really, and a few more college loans.

(Peanut, the ornaments will be in the mail Tuesday.)

 

 

 

I need to introduce you, too, to Miss Madagascar, whom I've known the longest of my friends.  Miss Madagascar might know things about me that even I don't know, 'cause she might have been a tad more lucid during some of those youthful indiscretions that we shared.  Or maybe not.

I met Miss Madagascar in what used to be called Junior High School.  I don't think either of us thought so at the time, but we really became friends when we were still just children!  We've been friends for a long, long time, now.

Most recently, a week after the election, Miss Madagascar and I got together at her place and went to a local deli to grab a bite.  I love to visit her house.  She has cool treasures, like the parrot lamp and the pink glass ashtray.  She has a green, baby grand piano in her living room, and a picture of a line of naked, dancing ladies in her bathroom.  Everything has a story, and nothing comes from Crate and Barrel.  I always tell her that visiting her home is like visiting a museum, but that's not quite true.  It's more like a curiosity shop.  Nothing is ordinary.  Everything is intriguing.

 

 

So, are you ready for Christmas?

 

 

Let the Madness Commence!

Hello, loyal readers!  Have you missed me?

It's that time of year, again.  Time to shake down the house with a good clean, and plan and execute paralyzing meals.

Holiday martyr, at your service!

I don't have kids, so Tony and I often have been required to travel here and there over the holidays to visit relatives.  We're viewed, I guess, as the branch (really just a twig) of the family with the fewest encumbrances (never mind the two dogs and four cats).

Oh, I appreciate the wonderful meals and fine hospitality we've enjoyed, but I'm always glad when it's over and I can go back to being my scowling, cynical self.  I find it exhausting to be on my best behavior. 

This year, both Thanksgiving and Christmas will be here at home, with company coming in.

I don't know which is worse.  They're two sides of the same coin.

There's back-breaking cleaning to do and seven-item meals to prepare.  I'll never master the art of having each dish ready at the same time.  Wouldn't it be great to serve each item as it became ready?

My sweet potatoes are already done, so maybe we'll have those for breakfast.  I plan to whip up a pineapple upside-down cake in the morning, before I pop the turkey in the oven.  Maybe that'll do for lunch.  (I've never made a pie in my life, okay?  Do not judge me.)  Turkey and stuffing for the main afternoon meal, followed by mashed potatoes and gravy later in the evening.  We'll round it all out with a big ol' bowl of green beans just before bed.  Done!

My mother is here for the next 3-4 days.

Loyal readers, you know where I'm coming from.

I'm not sure why I'm even bothering with all this stuff.  Mom doesn't notice my shiny, glimmering house, nor does she care what we have for dinner.  Thanksgiving is not on her radar.

Our visit started with a little accident of the Number 1-kind on the sofa.  As I type this, I can hear her rummaging and moving about in the bedroom above me.  What mischief is she getting into up there?  The last time she visited, she opened the door and wandered into our bedroom during the night.

I must strive to ramp up my capacity for listening to "chatter" during these next few days.  Conversation is inconsequential and circular.  Conversation is inconsequential and circular.  Conversation is inconsequential and circular.  And repetitive.

Happy Thanksgiving!  What day is it?

Inheritance

For a long time now, I've been working on cleaning out my parents' house and getting it ready to sell.  Dad's been gone for almost three years, and Mom's been residing at "Antique Village" for nearly a year.

What's the hold up on the house, then, you might ask.

Well, let's just say there's been some ugly conflict regarding issues of financial elder abuse with a family member.  Personally, I don't think it's ethical to "borrow" money from an elderly person who displays cognitive impairment.  Nor do I think it's okay to "convince" that person to alter legal documents drawn up when the person was of sound mind.  But, hey, that's just me!  Oh, and it's the law.  Someday, I'll record the whole, disgusting affair.

Anyway, among the, literally, tons of detritus of long-lived lives--the broken lamps, wobbly space heaters, ancient college text books, rusty tools, bent beach chairs, frayed towels, stained pillow cases, chipped dishes, burned pots and greasy pans--treasures have been rediscovered and buried memories brought to the surface. 

 

 

 

My father's early college career, studying engineering, was interrupted by World War II.  He was a PFC and Tech 5, eventually winding up in Europe, serving in General Patton's Third Army.  After the war, he continued his education, but shifted his course of study to geology.  He eventually earned a Master's degree in that field.

Sometime around 1949 or 1950, he was recruited to join a relatively new organization called the Central Intelligence Agency.  He went to work there, starting off as a cartographer, and then serving as an intelligence officer before becoming a branch chief in the assessments of foreign missile/space research and development programs.  The family consensus has been that he did not enjoy his work, particularly later on in his career.

All this is a matter of semi-public record, I guess.  But more important to me than all the discovered letters, commendations, certificates, service medals, photos, and so forth, from the CIA, was the long-forgotten collection of rocks and shells and coral and wood that I came across while sorting through my parents' things.  This collection was a manifestation, I think, of his first love--geology.  It was poorly maintained, and I wound up chucking most of it, keeping only the most attractive, intact pieces.  Life, and the need to earn a living, took him away from that love, but, along the way, he instilled in me an appreciation of the beauty of the natural world.

See that group of flat, striped shell pieces at the bottom right?  They're from Nag's Head, North Carolina, where our family often vacationed when I was a child.  All equally beautiful and no two alike.  And the red, petrified wood.  I almost can hear my father trying to explain to me what that was when I was small.

There's rose quartz and a piece of a geode.  Moon snail and oyster shells.  Coral and polished rocks.  There's a piece of driftwood and some fossil plant fragments.

Do you see the two Lucite discs?  One contains a miniature crab, and the other a tiny ocean scene, complete with seaweed, shells and a seahorse.  I was intrigued by these as a youngster.  I still am.

Later, when my father was in a nursing home before he died, I took shells and rocks for him to look at when I went to visit.  I made things to decorate his room from the bits of the natural world that we have here where I live.  He was always appreciative and, humoring me, took an interest in the things I showed him.

 

 

(Fossils from Calvert Cliffs.)

 

 

(Ornaments I made from local fossil shells.)

 

Both of my parents were from backgrounds and of an age when many people created their own decorations and art work, out of necessity.  Home-made, hand-crafted items were sources of family pride, and Mom and Dad have carried on that tradition.  They've created paintings, made decorations, braided and hooked rugs, knit sweaters, mittens and afghans, carved wood and made and finished furniture.

 

 

(A painting done by my father's paternal aunt, Louise Larsen Elwell, of an ancestral homestead in Norway.  This painting has been in the family since I was an infant.)

 

 

(A braided rug my mother made.  I love the colors.)

 

 

(A hooked rug, also made by my mother.  The flowers make me think of snails!) 

 

 

(Above and below, sketches by me.)

 

 

 

I appreciate that my family has had this tradition of creative expression.  I know most families do, as well, but each family and tradition is unique, and that's why it's so special in every instance.

Recently, my mother's been asking me often if I'll be taking up rug braiding or knitting or sewing, in such a way that conveys that anything different, like drawing or painting, isn't enduring or worthwhile.  I never said my mother didn't have a little bit of a nasty streak, which has become more pronounced with the dementia.

I gently and lovingly remind her that during her last Mini Mental Status Exam, she couldn't replicate two intersecting pentagons for the neuropsychiatrist.  So there.

(Just kidding.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Crisis in Healthcare Hits Home

For some years now, I've been taking my elderly mother to her various medical appointments.  She's pretty healthy--at least, physically.  However, as I tell her, she has a "touch" of Alzheimer's.  In the past year, she's seen a regular eye doctor, an eye specialist, an emergency room doctor, a cardiologist, a neuropsychiatrist, a dentist, a variety of imaging technicians and, of course, her family doctor or general practitioner.  Many of these folks we've seen more than once.  Some more than twice.

My mother loves, LOVES, her family doc.  She's been going to him for over 20 years now, and feels really comfortable with their relationship.  My mother is a former registered nurse from a time when nurses were expected to stand when doctors entered a room and to give up their chairs to them.  She rather idolizes doctors in much the same way she is awed by Catholic priests.  Additionally, her doctor is of Irish extraction and left-handed; both big bonuses in her mind.

Honestly, I've grown fond of Dr. H, as well.  He's 60-ish, handsome, kind, fashionable in the corduroy slacks/turtleneck/cool eye-wear kind of way, and best of all, he has a wonderful bedside manner with my mother.  He takes time to answer her questions.  Sometimes, two or three times.  He patiently has the same conversation with her each time we see him--the conversation about how she is mostly Irish, is left-handed, how she used to be a nurse, how she had to walk-to-school-when-she-was-young-and-that's-why-she-has-such-good-health, blah blah blah.  He is measured, considerate and pleasant.  He takes time to meticulously check her medications list, to fill out forms required by her assisted living facility.  Really, he's the best.

Today, I got a letter from the practice he shares with some five or six other doctors announcing that he and another one of the docs are leaving the group to form a "concierge-type practice." 

Huh?  What the hell is that?

Reading further, I learn the details of this business arrangement.   The new practice will not have any relationship with health insurance groups or Medicare/Medicaid.  Here's what you get for an annual retainer fee of $1,500:

• A comprehensive annual physical exam
• All routine lab work associated with your annual physical
• Same or next day appointments when you are sick
• Our experienced and professional staff answers the telephone personally when you call, no answering machines or voice mail and no buttons to push
• Access to Drs. H and M 24 hours a day, 365 days a year
• Telephone, e-mail or fax communication as you prefer
• Unhurried on-time appointments, none less than 30 minutes
• Prescriptions can be phoned or faxed in to your pharmacy to reduce waiting time
• Most routine immunizations are provided at no additional charge
• Travel consultations will be included (travel immunizations at cost or by prescription)
• You will be provided with a statement suitable to be sent to your insurance company for possible reimbursement directly to you
• Practice is limited to the first 400 adults who register for each doctor; after that names will be placed on a waiting list

The exam includes an EKG when medically indicated, and the following laboratory tests:  a CBC (complete blood count), chemistry panel, full cholesterol panel, thyroid screen, blood test for prostate cancer and PAP smear.  Covered  immunizations include annual flu shots, tetanus-diphtheria update every 10 years and pneumonia vaccine.  Meningitis vaccines will be provided to children and adolescents.  Other immunizations are not included, but will be available at cost.

There was some more stuff about payment schedules and how much more it'll cost you if you don't pay the entire fee up front.  If you're 12 to 25, you're half price.  For those 25 to 35, it'll cost you a cool grand each year, but still cheaper than the geezer rate.

Oh, and I guess this is pretty important:  "While we will not be participating with any health insurance, you will need to keep your regular health insurance to pay for specialists, hospitalization, prescriptions and blood tests (those not included in the physical) as you do now."

After I read through the information, I went online to LEARN MORE about these boutique practices, or as they were sometimes labeled, "platinum" practices.  You can see where this is going.

Thoughts, anyone?

At Rest

Who doesn't love a cemetery?

On my way up to visit my mother yesterday at her assisted living center (let's just call the place "Antique Village"), I stopped off at one of our local churches here in Calvert County, Maryland, to snap a few pictures.  When Mom asked me why I was late, I told her that I got held up shopping for a grave site for her.  Don't worry, she has a great sense of humor, despite the dementia.  She turns 85 next week.

Anyway, Mom already has final resting digs.  (Ha ha ha.  Digs.  Get it?)  She'll be buried at Arlington National Cemetery, when the time comes, along with my Dad.

The local cemetery surrounds this quaint little chapel.  Don't you just love the little red door?And the windows!  To die for!  I think I was inside a long time ago.  I believe it was very plain--bare, even, because, you see, it's  . . . an Episcopal church.

Me, I come from a Catholic tradition, and we're always rather taken aback by the lack of sumptuous decoration in many of the other denominations' houses of worship--even if we haven't set foot in our own churches in a very, very, very long time.

Still, I would like to be buried in a cemetery next to a little church like this.  But then I'd have to join a church, I suppose.  It's like when I was looking at assisted living places for Mom.  I called a couple which were part of larger, continuing care retirement communities.  They wouldn't accept a person for assisted living who had not already paid their dues by purchasing an independent living share in the operation.

I actually visited two cemeteries yesterday, the second by sheer happenstance.  Mom and I have a pretty set routine during our weekly visits.  We pick up and sort through her mail, have lunch at a restaurant, run errands, and maybe visit the hairdresser.  And, we almost always take a drive.  Mom is from farm country up in the Canadian Maritimes, so she really enjoys getting out in the nearby countryside.  We stumbled upon this place.  I've never been to a cemetery which was in deep woods before.  It was a gloomy, dark place, damp and quiet, way off the beaten path and very neglected.  Even the sign.

It didn't look as though the graves had seen any visitors for many years.  I saw some very degraded artificial poinsettias decorating a cluster of headstones.  Many of the other markers were damaged: cracked, leaning or fallen over entirely.  Lots of trees had fallen or were leaning precariously on the others.

 

Hidden from the public eye, dark, damp and decaying, I found the place compelling.

Peaceful and quiet, and sad.

Who doesn't love a cemetery?