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Still Writing
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Thursday, February 12, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Gilbert Family Vacation
Chapter 4
The Black Cloud
We often joke there is a black cloud hanging over our house. Our house must have been built atop an old Indian Burial Ground because we’ve always had the worse luck. I am convinced that someday I’ll arrive home from work to a scene right out of Poltergeist where a swirling black cloud sucks our house into oblivion. If it isn’t an old Indian Burial Ground, then how else can you explain it?
The van is repaired and my mother is home from her trip to St. Mary’s Mental Hospital. We are in the final stretches of vacation preparation with less than three weeks to go. Like the project manager I am, I have developed our Work Breakdown Structure complete with tasks printed on a calendar detailing everyone’s responsibilities. The charter has been signed off, the specifications completed, and the executive sponsor (my wife) is onboard. We are knee deep in the execution phase of our family project. Each night, every family member (even the 5-year-old) updates the project with their task progress.
The first week passes and everything is on schedule – a testimony to my acute project management skills. As we enter the second week, my wife calls me. “You Mom wants to go back to the hospital.”
I talked with my mother because she didn’t feel good, she can’t explain it, and she doesn’t know what is wrong. I immediately think she is having a panic attack, so I ask her what is going on. “I don’t want you to go to Florida,” she admits. “You don’t realize how much I rely on you!”
“Mom, we have a large network of friends,” I calmly explained, ”You and John will be fine,” (John is my father). “I want you to get a follow-up doctor’s appointment to make sure everything with the UTI is fine.”
My mother visited her doctor where, as a matter of routine, they check her pulse and determine it was irregular. Now, when I go to the gym, I strive to keep my heart rate around 145. If I can get it to 150 – I am doing a really hard work-out. Her heart was 160 beats per minute. “Can you feel your heart beating that fast?” the doctor asked her.
“No,” she answered. “I feel perfectly fine!” And with that, she took her third ambulance ride to a hospital, and I spent another all-nighter in an Emergency room before they finally admitted her into a room.
Doctors practice medicine. They have to practice because they never get it right. That is why people have to be patients. You have to be patient while the doctor practices on you. And so, for a week my mother is poked and prodded and zapped and electrically burned. They gave her medicine that make her heart go nuts just so they could see if they could get it to return to normal. They crammed this down her throat and that in her nose. She has taken it all in stride and only really complains about how long it takes to get ice for her drinking water.
T Minus three days before we depart
I had a lengthy conversation with my Mother’s nurse. Should we cancel the vacation? I’d hate to get to the Pennsylvania border and have to turn around! The nurse assured me that everything was fine and we should go enjoy ourselves in Florida. Our concerns immediately shifted to ‘who is going to take care of the dog and cat? Who is going to make sure my Dad gets fed (because he is Microwave Illiterate)? Who is going to bring my mother home from the hospital?’ Luckily, our long list of friends are willing to volunteer to help. I was able to sit in my easy chair, relax, and take a deep breath. This vacation was really going to happen!
T Minus two days before we depart
“Do you want to buy a new van?” my wife asked.
“Why? Are you having trouble getting our deposit back from my attempt to get us one?” I laughed.
“Well, yes,” she answered, “but that’s not the reason. Our van died on the way to work this morning.”
Have you ever had one of those days when nothing seems to go right? Have you ever had a bad luck stream last for a week? Or a month? How about years – have you ever had a bad luck stream last for years? If your house was built on an old Indian Burial Ground, your answer would be “Why, yes!” If your name was Craig T. Nelson, you would warn me about the big black cloud, dead bodies in the pool, and voices coming out of your television. If, on the other hand, you are part of the normal population – all this must seem very odd to you. For me, this is just ‘A Day in the Life of the Gilberts’.
“Since you had YOUR chance to get us a van,” she chaffed, “it is now MY turn. I am going with my friends tonight to find us a new van.”
There is only one answer any self-respecting husband can provide to such a rude and arrogant remark: “Yes, Dear.”
And so, as a pride of cougars on a nightly hunt, the three women went after unsuspecting salesmen. They tore them apart! They made them squeal! They made them beg for mercy! And they came home with a deal that is… well… let’s just say it is huge Rochester. Huge. “We leave town in 37 hours and you are going to buy a Kia?” I asked my wife.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I really liked the van.”
Oh no. I don’t like where this is going!
Holiday Roooooo oh oh oh oh oh oh oad. Holiday Roooooo oh oh oh oh oh oh oad.’
Chapter 4
The Black Cloud
We often joke there is a black cloud hanging over our house. Our house must have been built atop an old Indian Burial Ground because we’ve always had the worse luck. I am convinced that someday I’ll arrive home from work to a scene right out of Poltergeist where a swirling black cloud sucks our house into oblivion. If it isn’t an old Indian Burial Ground, then how else can you explain it?
The van is repaired and my mother is home from her trip to St. Mary’s Mental Hospital. We are in the final stretches of vacation preparation with less than three weeks to go. Like the project manager I am, I have developed our Work Breakdown Structure complete with tasks printed on a calendar detailing everyone’s responsibilities. The charter has been signed off, the specifications completed, and the executive sponsor (my wife) is onboard. We are knee deep in the execution phase of our family project. Each night, every family member (even the 5-year-old) updates the project with their task progress.
The first week passes and everything is on schedule – a testimony to my acute project management skills. As we enter the second week, my wife calls me. “You Mom wants to go back to the hospital.”
I talked with my mother because she didn’t feel good, she can’t explain it, and she doesn’t know what is wrong. I immediately think she is having a panic attack, so I ask her what is going on. “I don’t want you to go to Florida,” she admits. “You don’t realize how much I rely on you!”
“Mom, we have a large network of friends,” I calmly explained, ”You and John will be fine,” (John is my father). “I want you to get a follow-up doctor’s appointment to make sure everything with the UTI is fine.”
My mother visited her doctor where, as a matter of routine, they check her pulse and determine it was irregular. Now, when I go to the gym, I strive to keep my heart rate around 145. If I can get it to 150 – I am doing a really hard work-out. Her heart was 160 beats per minute. “Can you feel your heart beating that fast?” the doctor asked her.
“No,” she answered. “I feel perfectly fine!” And with that, she took her third ambulance ride to a hospital, and I spent another all-nighter in an Emergency room before they finally admitted her into a room.
Doctors practice medicine. They have to practice because they never get it right. That is why people have to be patients. You have to be patient while the doctor practices on you. And so, for a week my mother is poked and prodded and zapped and electrically burned. They gave her medicine that make her heart go nuts just so they could see if they could get it to return to normal. They crammed this down her throat and that in her nose. She has taken it all in stride and only really complains about how long it takes to get ice for her drinking water.
T Minus three days before we depart
I had a lengthy conversation with my Mother’s nurse. Should we cancel the vacation? I’d hate to get to the Pennsylvania border and have to turn around! The nurse assured me that everything was fine and we should go enjoy ourselves in Florida. Our concerns immediately shifted to ‘who is going to take care of the dog and cat? Who is going to make sure my Dad gets fed (because he is Microwave Illiterate)? Who is going to bring my mother home from the hospital?’ Luckily, our long list of friends are willing to volunteer to help. I was able to sit in my easy chair, relax, and take a deep breath. This vacation was really going to happen!
T Minus two days before we depart
“Do you want to buy a new van?” my wife asked.
“Why? Are you having trouble getting our deposit back from my attempt to get us one?” I laughed.
“Well, yes,” she answered, “but that’s not the reason. Our van died on the way to work this morning.”
Have you ever had one of those days when nothing seems to go right? Have you ever had a bad luck stream last for a week? Or a month? How about years – have you ever had a bad luck stream last for years? If your house was built on an old Indian Burial Ground, your answer would be “Why, yes!” If your name was Craig T. Nelson, you would warn me about the big black cloud, dead bodies in the pool, and voices coming out of your television. If, on the other hand, you are part of the normal population – all this must seem very odd to you. For me, this is just ‘A Day in the Life of the Gilberts’.
“Since you had YOUR chance to get us a van,” she chaffed, “it is now MY turn. I am going with my friends tonight to find us a new van.”
There is only one answer any self-respecting husband can provide to such a rude and arrogant remark: “Yes, Dear.”
And so, as a pride of cougars on a nightly hunt, the three women went after unsuspecting salesmen. They tore them apart! They made them squeal! They made them beg for mercy! And they came home with a deal that is… well… let’s just say it is huge Rochester. Huge. “We leave town in 37 hours and you are going to buy a Kia?” I asked my wife.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I really liked the van.”
Oh no. I don’t like where this is going!
Holiday Roooooo oh oh oh oh oh oh oad. Holiday Roooooo oh oh oh oh oh oh oad.’
Monday, February 09, 2009
Gilbert Family Vacation
Chapter 3: My Aunt Edna
Every chance you get, tell people that you want to live. No matter what the circumstances (location, time of day, what you ate for lunch), tell people you want to live. Because I’ve never had a Urinary Track Infection (UTI), but I’ve come to understand they can be very painful. Recently, a beautiful young model in South America developed a UTI that expanded into her blood stream. Doctors tried saving her by cutting off her hands and feet. I’m uncertain how dismembering someone helps with painful peepees, but that was the medical thinking at the moment. Dismembered and peepeeless, the model died within a week.
My mother has had complained about aches and pains for a long time but refused to go to the doctor until one evening (only three weeks from the start of our vacation) the urge struck her to such a degree, she gladly took an ambulance ride to the first doctor they could find. As she was diagnosed with UTI, the nurse asked her to measure her pain on the scale on 1 to 10. Her unfortunate response was “The pain is so bad, I wish I were dead!” And thus the dilemma. In today’s modern age of high technology and big thinkers, one can not wish they were dead (even due to UTI) unless, through obvious conclusion, they have suicidal tendencies. By law of the great state of New York, such a statement prompts a psychological evaluation.
When it comes to purchasing cars, I am much smarter due to a story a friend sent me: Confessions of a Car Salesman. I have learned car salesmen make you wait so the salesman can control you. I guess that is why you have to wait so long at the emergency room: they want to have control over you. They want to beat you submissively until you can not longer question the $10 Advil.
Even though my mother’s ambulance arrived to the hospital at exactly 5:15pm, it wasn’t until 1:00am that my mother was diagnosed with UTI and given her first dose of antibiotics. Unfortunately, the story doesn’t end there. Remember my mother’s rabid attempts at suicide when she arrived at the emergency room (complaining about the pain)? That requires a trip to the county psych ward for the psychological evaluation. My mother’s second ambulance ride was to St. Mary’s in downtown Rochester. As they loaded her into the ambulance at 1am, after 8 agonizingly long and terribly boring hours waiting at the ER, I only had one thought on my mind: “I wonder if Taco Bell is still open for Fourth Meal?” Because if a man is to stay awake all night, he needs Mexican substance.
After a satisfying Taco run, I allowed my GPS to steer me into the deep bowls of the city. This was clearly not a neighborhood I would want to be caught in after sun-down (much less after 1am). After parking in a very scary parking garage, I couldn’t find an unlocked door into the hospital. “This must seem odd,” I thought, “I am trying to break into a mental institution.”
I stood at the main entrance waving my arms frantically to a security guard within. He seemed un-phased (probably due to how normal my antics to get his attention must have seemed to him). “You have to go to the emergency entrance,” he explained.
“How do I get there?”
“It is on the other side of the hospital,” he motioned with his hand. After walking completely around the entire city block in the cold dark of night in a neighborhood I should not have been in, I reached the emergency room entrance to find that same security guard that coldly greeted me before. “I am glad you found it,” he waved me inside while looking around the parking lot, “This isn’t a very safe neighborhood, you know?”
‘Then why didn’t you let me take the way you took?’ I thought, but did not say.
Mom had already been taken in, and after passing through two security check points, I was allowed to see her. I had to leave all my belongings at one of the security check points because the crazies might take them from me and use them. I considered removing my belt because someone might tackle me, rip it from me, and run off to hang themselves. But I’ve recently lost weight and know the belt was my pants only savior from gravity – I pulled my sweater down to hide my belt from the guards and decided to take my chances.
I found my mother in a large brightly lit completely white room. There were only two items in the room – an uncomfortable gurney , and a TV within a wood plexi-glass cage. From the hall way came screams and incoherent babble from the other guests. If you weren’t crazy before entering this place, you had a good fighting chance to become crazy before leaving!
The entire visit to the psych ward was because my mother failed to tell someone she wanted to live. Instead, she admitted the pain was killing her. Therefore, I must repeat and plead with you – please, at every turn in your life, tell people that you wish to live. Anything less and you risk a short trip to St Mary’s in the middle of the night.
As we waited for the psychologist, I asked “How long do you think you’ve had a UTI?”
“At least 2 or 3 months,” she admitted. 2 or 3 months? At least? I get ornery if there isn’t an ample supply of 2-ply Extra-soft Charmin, and she lived with this for 2 or 3 months?
A psychologist interviewed my mother and determined she possessed the appropriate amount of insanity to be released. But by now it was 4am, and I needed to get up for work in 30 minutes. I was just glad to get to bed before I needed to get up!
The next day, I visited my mother to see how she was doing. She seemed unsatisfied with her eleven hours of medical car. “I still don’t feel very good,” she admitted. Oh no. We are set to leave in only three weeks. I don’t like where this is going!
Holiday Roooooo oh oh oh oh oh oh oad. Holiday Roooooo oh oh oh oh oh oh oad.’
Chapter 3: My Aunt Edna
Every chance you get, tell people that you want to live. No matter what the circumstances (location, time of day, what you ate for lunch), tell people you want to live. Because I’ve never had a Urinary Track Infection (UTI), but I’ve come to understand they can be very painful. Recently, a beautiful young model in South America developed a UTI that expanded into her blood stream. Doctors tried saving her by cutting off her hands and feet. I’m uncertain how dismembering someone helps with painful peepees, but that was the medical thinking at the moment. Dismembered and peepeeless, the model died within a week.
My mother has had complained about aches and pains for a long time but refused to go to the doctor until one evening (only three weeks from the start of our vacation) the urge struck her to such a degree, she gladly took an ambulance ride to the first doctor they could find. As she was diagnosed with UTI, the nurse asked her to measure her pain on the scale on 1 to 10. Her unfortunate response was “The pain is so bad, I wish I were dead!” And thus the dilemma. In today’s modern age of high technology and big thinkers, one can not wish they were dead (even due to UTI) unless, through obvious conclusion, they have suicidal tendencies. By law of the great state of New York, such a statement prompts a psychological evaluation.
When it comes to purchasing cars, I am much smarter due to a story a friend sent me: Confessions of a Car Salesman. I have learned car salesmen make you wait so the salesman can control you. I guess that is why you have to wait so long at the emergency room: they want to have control over you. They want to beat you submissively until you can not longer question the $10 Advil.
Even though my mother’s ambulance arrived to the hospital at exactly 5:15pm, it wasn’t until 1:00am that my mother was diagnosed with UTI and given her first dose of antibiotics. Unfortunately, the story doesn’t end there. Remember my mother’s rabid attempts at suicide when she arrived at the emergency room (complaining about the pain)? That requires a trip to the county psych ward for the psychological evaluation. My mother’s second ambulance ride was to St. Mary’s in downtown Rochester. As they loaded her into the ambulance at 1am, after 8 agonizingly long and terribly boring hours waiting at the ER, I only had one thought on my mind: “I wonder if Taco Bell is still open for Fourth Meal?” Because if a man is to stay awake all night, he needs Mexican substance.
After a satisfying Taco run, I allowed my GPS to steer me into the deep bowls of the city. This was clearly not a neighborhood I would want to be caught in after sun-down (much less after 1am). After parking in a very scary parking garage, I couldn’t find an unlocked door into the hospital. “This must seem odd,” I thought, “I am trying to break into a mental institution.”
I stood at the main entrance waving my arms frantically to a security guard within. He seemed un-phased (probably due to how normal my antics to get his attention must have seemed to him). “You have to go to the emergency entrance,” he explained.
“How do I get there?”
“It is on the other side of the hospital,” he motioned with his hand. After walking completely around the entire city block in the cold dark of night in a neighborhood I should not have been in, I reached the emergency room entrance to find that same security guard that coldly greeted me before. “I am glad you found it,” he waved me inside while looking around the parking lot, “This isn’t a very safe neighborhood, you know?”
‘Then why didn’t you let me take the way you took?’ I thought, but did not say.
Mom had already been taken in, and after passing through two security check points, I was allowed to see her. I had to leave all my belongings at one of the security check points because the crazies might take them from me and use them. I considered removing my belt because someone might tackle me, rip it from me, and run off to hang themselves. But I’ve recently lost weight and know the belt was my pants only savior from gravity – I pulled my sweater down to hide my belt from the guards and decided to take my chances.
I found my mother in a large brightly lit completely white room. There were only two items in the room – an uncomfortable gurney , and a TV within a wood plexi-glass cage. From the hall way came screams and incoherent babble from the other guests. If you weren’t crazy before entering this place, you had a good fighting chance to become crazy before leaving!
The entire visit to the psych ward was because my mother failed to tell someone she wanted to live. Instead, she admitted the pain was killing her. Therefore, I must repeat and plead with you – please, at every turn in your life, tell people that you wish to live. Anything less and you risk a short trip to St Mary’s in the middle of the night.
As we waited for the psychologist, I asked “How long do you think you’ve had a UTI?”
“At least 2 or 3 months,” she admitted. 2 or 3 months? At least? I get ornery if there isn’t an ample supply of 2-ply Extra-soft Charmin, and she lived with this for 2 or 3 months?
A psychologist interviewed my mother and determined she possessed the appropriate amount of insanity to be released. But by now it was 4am, and I needed to get up for work in 30 minutes. I was just glad to get to bed before I needed to get up!
The next day, I visited my mother to see how she was doing. She seemed unsatisfied with her eleven hours of medical car. “I still don’t feel very good,” she admitted. Oh no. We are set to leave in only three weeks. I don’t like where this is going!
Holiday Roooooo oh oh oh oh oh oh oad. Holiday Roooooo oh oh oh oh oh oh oad.’
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