Tenacious G: The Eyes Have It

I’ve decided that what’s wrong with our healthcare system boils down to two factors—my mother and doctors.

First, let's talk about Mom.
My 86-year-old mother nagged me for the better part of November to get her a new pair of eyeglasses because the old ones "weren't working anymore." Naturally, I'm not ethically able to accomplish this without the assistance of an ophthalmologist (aka, eye doctor). She had cataract surgery last year, so this problem should have already been cleared up. I responded as soon as I could. The challenge was finding a nearby doctor with an appointment time open in the same year that I was calling.

Which brings us to doctors.

I made an appointment with an ophthalmologist and after three weeks of waiting, we arrived to get her glasses prescription checked.

Flashback: 
When I was a child, we went to an eye doctor who had a practice in his home, a lovely Victorian house near Main Street in Boonton. We would sit in his parlor listening to a grandfather clock tick until the patient before us was finished. There were no televised commercials blaring. Just blessed silence. And the ticking sound. Then the eye doctor would invite us into his examining room and spend the next hour with us. He knew us by name and asked us how everyone in the family was doing. On the way out, I got a lollipop.

Today, eye doctors are strangers located in office buildings and deal in patient volume. We stood in line for 15 minutes, much like is done at the Division of Motor Vehicles, waiting to check in with the receptionist. Then we spent another 20 minutes waiting in a room packed with dozens of other patients before being shown in to an examining room. Mom was complaining loudly and bitterly about the wait time throughout.

Patient volume is important. That means standing-room-only.

The examining room allowed Mom and me plenty of additional quality time until a young girl with a perky smile came in and gave my mother several vision tests. Unfortunately, the girl had a thick accent and I am hard of hearing, so it was difficult for me to understand anything she said. She asked Mom a number of rapid-fire questions about her eyesight and my mother had no idea how to answer the technical terms that were being thrown her way. So, Mom denied having any problems whatsoever. While this was happening, I experienced more flashbacks—this time, of her nonstop eye complaints during the past two months.

We were escorted back into the standing-room-only waiting room where we sat for another 15 minutes before being re-invited into a second examining room. Like sands in an hourglass, more of our lives passed into a sandy lump of boredom. Just as we were both about to doze off, the doctor swept into the room. He reviewed what the young girl had written on Mom’s chart and asked Mom if she had any vision complaints.

Which brings us back to the patient:

Eye problems? Me? No way.

Like the Biblical disciple, Peter, in the high priest’s courtyard, Mom denied her vision problems a second time.

“No,” she replied. “I’m fine.” Mom comes from that generation of women who were taught never to complain—except to their daughters. I reminded her that she was having problems seeing out of one of her eyes and as a result wasn’t able to read as much or generally see things when we went shopping.

She denied this a third time, looking irritated, and I gave up.

Which returns us to the doctor:

The doctor smiled, peered intently at her eyeballs, then announced that in 30 percent of cataract surgeries, the eye clouds over, and that’s what happened to her. The solution is a five-minute laser surgery that corrects it. Having delivered his prognosis, he left as quickly as he had come.

By now, both Mom and I had lost interest in her eye problems. We just wanted to leave. As the afternoon wore on, Mom’s primary concern became getting back to her assisted living facility for dinner.

Dinner became Mom's focus.

This day’s appointment had been for 12:30 p.m. and it was now almost 4 p.m. I must assume that the eye doctor believed that anyone who had the audacity to schedule an appointment with him was grateful to spend a half day playing musical chairs in his office.

The young girl returned to fill out paperwork for my mother’s office surgery that would take place in about six weeks. She asked my mother detailed questions about her eyesight, trying to establish what needed improvement. Nothing, according to my mother. The young girl flashed a disingenuous smile and told us someone would be calling the following day to set up a surgery appointment.

Two weeks later I received the call. In a month, she will have another opportunity to spend the better part of a day with this doctor. We can only hope the surgery will clear up her vision. I don’t know if we have the stamina to return to his office again.

Tenacious G and the Cord of Eternity

“Every action of our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity.”—Edwin Hubbel Chapin

This past Sunday, as with every Sunday, I dropped my mother off at the front door of her assisted living facility following a low-key afternoon together. We have a ritual for parting. First, she complains about how uncomfortable my car is and how difficult it is to get out of it. Then, outside the car, she smiles at me as she pushes the car door shut, dramatizing how heavy it is. She walks slowly to the entrance of the facility, then just before crossing its threshold she turns back, and seeing I’m still there, waves before she goes in. I wave back.

While this is happening, a ghostly memory from days past overlays itself on us both. I return to kindergarten. My mother’s car is big and uncomfortable. It takes some effort to lower myself out. I turn and smile at my mother as I struggle to close the heavy car door. Then, walking slowly to the entrance of the school, I turn to see her still watching me. I wave, she waves back and I go in.

Life has a peculiar way of reversing itself. Perhaps it’s generational karma.

This past December, my mother’s assisted living facility had a holiday program where its elderly residents sang Christmas carols for us. The singers donned Santa caps and rang hand bells at the pre-arranged moments in each song. They all searched the audience for family members as they sang. When they spotted their kin, they beamed with pride. At the end of the program, Santa came around and gave them gifts.

Tenacious G dressed for the Christmas program.

Again, echoes from my childhood stole into the festivities. How many Christmas pageants had I performed in at school? How many times had my eyes combed the audience for my mother, and finally connected with her, filling me with the joy that comes from knowing you're loved? How many times had a cheesy Santa walked around handing out presents to my classmates and me?

The first time I realized that my mother had become the child and I the parent, I felt profoundly sad. How could something so unnatural occur?

My mother was, and continues to be, an extremely intelligent woman. A brain hemorrhage several years ago impaired her ability to speak. Unfortunately, because of her speech challenges, she really needs to be in a protective environment.

Somewhere along the years, her world of politics and art and family gradually shrank until it became no larger than the confines of her assisted living apartment. Her sense of accomplishment now rests within those sheltered walls.

Mom has been at her facility for three years. It has been an adjustment for us both, but I no longer feel sad about it. Her life is relatively independent. Her caretakers are kind. And she has certainly not faded away. A direct descendant of William the Conqueror and the Viking Kings before him, she still asserts her feisty will with definitive judgments on food, people and the world. She lives defiantly within her limits—in the moment—daring to savor her vintage years with dignity and optimism.

Postscript: Today is her birthday. Happy 85th to you, Mom!

Tenacious G and Many Happy Returns

Last September, my mother and I went to a local store to buy a full mattress for her room at the assisted living facility. After much pondering and badgering, she chose a mattress set that suited her sensibilities. Two weeks ago, she called to inform me that her bed had sunk in the middle after only five months of use. The facility manager there told me that the box spring wood had warped.

Would you deny this woman a good night's sleep? (Offending bed not pictured.)

I called the local store. The salesman there said I needed to call the national customer service number. I called the national customer service number and was informed that an inspector would have to go out to investigate the mattress before a replacement could be issued. My mother is 84 years old. What improper use did they think she made of the mattress? I feel certain she did not jump up and down on it. Being a morally upright Protestant, it is unlikely she invited over any rambunctious gentleman friends.

After a week, I called to see where the inspector was. I was informed he would call my house and leave a time he was available. Unfortunately, he left a message during an evening that I was at a professional meeting and I did not notice the blinking message light until 11 a.m. the following morning. His voicemail informed me that tomorrow—which was now today—he was only available from 10 a.m. to noon, which meant his time window was about to close. Woops. I called and left a message. He called back and said he would visit my mother after lunch. I called to let her, and her facility manager, know about it. The inspector visited and I heard nothing more.

Oh, Laura Ashley! Warped after only five months.

A week later, my mother called and insisted I had to call the store "right now" to find out when the new box spring would be delivered. I called and was informed that the box spring was indeed found to be defective and was told that my mother would get a letter in the mail in a week or so informing her that she had a $368 credit to buy a new one. Unfortunately, she would be responsible for an $80 delivery fee. Apparently, the manufacturer was willing to supply a new box spring, but the delivery was contracted out independently.

I will not repeat my reaction to hearing that. However, following my reaction, the woman at the other end asked me to hold so she could see what could be done with the delivery charge. When she returned, she offered to have a box spring delivered the next day at only half price—$40. I proceeded to lecture her on corporate responsibility and the limitations of someone retired on a fixed income. Why should my mother have to pay more money to replace a shoddy product? She put me on hold again, then returned to inform me that this time, only, they would generously waive the delivery fee. Were they expecting more returns?

Since they were sending the same shoddy box spring as a replacement, I expressed the hope that this one would last more than five months. I called my mother back to give her the happy news. She had spent several weeks sleeping on a metaphor for the state of business in this country. I’m sure that can’t be comfortable.

Epilogue

The next day, when the box spring was supposed to be delivered, I received a call from the store. They had put a mattress in their truck, rather than a box spring. When they arrived, the facility refused delivery because they were expecting a box spring, not a mattress. I was informed that the store would have to send a second inspector out to look at the box spring because the first inspector's report stated that he had investigated a mattress.

I asked if they could waive the second inspector since the first one had clearly inspected a faulty box spring. The mattress was fine. After 15 minutes on hold, the customer service rep came back on the line to say that getting the approval to waive the second inspector would take more time; he would have to call me back. At this point, I wondered if it might have helped to bring Henry Kissinger out of retirement for the negotiations.

When he called me back, he told me they could not replace the box spring because its warping was considered normal wear and tear. I pointed out that it had been purchased at the end of September and this was the beginning of March—only five months' time. He put me back on hold. I was now handed over to a woman who informed me that they would only replace the mattress, not the box spring, based on the inspector's report. If Mom had to have another delivery, it would cost $80.

Completely puzzled, I decided to unleash my secret weapon—my brother. At the time of this writing, I do not know what the resolution of this process will be. In the meantime, Mom is still sleeping on a taco-shaped bed.

Tenacious G at the Diner

Of late, my 84-year-old mother has developed a tendency to latch on to random ideas and not let go. This past Tuesday was no exception.

I sprang my mother from her assisted living facility for a 45-minute joy ride through the lush countryside of northwest New Jersey. The destination was Genesis Farms where I pick up my produce every other week. It's a nice outing for Mom and we get to spend some quality time together.

Her first random idea: Eggs are the enemy. When we got to the farm, I expressed disappointment that there were no eggs. Apparently the locally grown variety had sold out because of the recent national salmonella scare. Then, as if lecturing in a classroom, Mom turned and announced loudly to everyone in the farmhouse that "eggs are no good for you and you shouldn't be eating them." This, from a woman who vainly tried to get me to eat egg salad sandwiches for most of my childhood. Was she secretly trying to kill me? As a backup plan, I thought we could stop at Ralph's Egg Farm on the way to lunch. Mom would not hear of it. Not eating eggs had intensified to an impassioned cause. So I promised her I would not get any. This made her happy.

For lunch, we partook of a hallowed Jersey tradition and stopped off at a local diner. Like most restaurants of this ilk, the menu had a few hundred selections and Mom responded by taking a quick look, clapping shut the menu, then announcing that she would have whatever I was eating. Unfortunately, what I preferred to eat was a salad and I knew that wasn't what she wanted. I chose three favorites of hers from the menu and asked her which she liked best. She chose the hot turkey sandwich. Then I ordered a Caesar salad.

Second random idea: Food must match. The waitress left and Mom glared at me as if I had tricked her into ordering lutefisk with arsenic. She informed me in no uncertain terms that she would not eat her meal. I would have to eat it, because she had wanted the same thing I was ordering. I did not follow this logic, but the realization set in that despite my desire to have a salad today, it would have been better to have ordered the hot turkey sandwich.

There was a long silence between this realization and when the waitress finally brought the food. Mom stared at me, her arms crossed. It reminded me of my own stubborn posture when I was little and she had insisted that I could not leave the table until I finished eating everything on my plate.

The waitress came, my mother quietly watched her set down the food and she stared at it angrily because it did not match mine. “Just try it…” I suggested. “It looks good.” Fortunately, Mom was hungry, so she grudgingly picked up a fork, discovered her lunch was tasty and soon scarfed down the entire meal before I finished my salad.

“I’m glad you liked it,” I said, hoping for detente.

“I wanted the same thing that you had had,” she replied bitterly. This had never been a requirement before, so it had caught me off guard.

“You’re lucky you didn’t order it,” I said. “It wasn’t very good.” Which was true. It was a boring pile of lettuce crowned with overly dry chicken chunks and little else. It did not inspire hunger, so I had it wrapped to take home.

Perhaps this latest twist in Mom's behavior is karmic payback for my being an impossibly picky eater when she was raising me. I feel certain I was not a delight to have around at meal time.  Now it's her turn. When you think about it, sooner or later, life has a mysterious tendency to balance things out.