Epilogue

So I'm back in the rainy city, having just missed a big snowstorm in Denver that sauntered in after I left.  Thank god for that, though at times I still wish I was there.

Here is where bills need to get paid, where my taxes still need to be done, where I need to get to work on time.  There was where I got to wrestle in the snow with tiny Peyton, where some days all I had to do was laundry, take a walk in the sun and decide where to go for dinner.

Back here I'm researching the General and Special Theories of Relativity, for OMSI's next exhibit on Einstein.  It's interesting, but it makes my head spin and I have a hard time keeping everything straight.  Mostly this: that if the speed of light is constant (and, so far as we've been able to test, it is) no matter the position or distance of the observer, then in order for this equation to be true -

Speed = Distance / Time

(and as far as we can determine, it should be) - then Time is the thing that must be variable in proportion to distance in order to keep the speed of light always the same. 

Wha--?


Yeah.  Time passes - not seems to pass, but actually passes - ever so slightly slower for astronauts in spacecraft going really fast relative to us here on Earth.

Einstein said, "...[T]he distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion."  If that's true, it's mind-blowing, but there's also a kernal of comfort in it.  It means I can always have the time in downtown Denver at the end of the 7K when my legs felt like Gumby and my lungs could breathe in all the atmosphere.  I'll never be far from that moment in the parking lot when Peyton put her mom and me in a simultaneous headlock and started shakin' her booty when 'Single Ladies' came on the car radio.  The feathers from that deteriorating comforter in the guest room will always be mid-air, and I'll always be half-muzzy with sleep watching them drift.


And I suppose I'll always have Relativity as an excuse when I'm late for work.




Also, did you know Einstein moved back in with his parents after University, when he couldn't find a teaching job?  Yeah.  Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Ha!

How the Other Half Lives (Or Doesn't) 2

Part Two: Through the Looking Glass



So, as mentioned, I went to the ER whilst in Denver.  Then I went to the pharmacy, then went home, exhausted, and slept.
The next day, Peyton and I had a grand ol' time at the Children's Museum, though I was sluggish and a much less hands-on aunt than I like to be.  By that evening I was feeling flu-ish and put myself to bed at 6pm.  When I woke up a few hours later, it was like I was walking on the bottom of a swimming pool.  Everything hurt and I was in slow-motion.  When I located a thermometer, it said I had a fever of 103F.  Now, the financial panic from the day before hadn't quite worn off, but I never get fevers that high and I was scared.  So my hero of a sister drove me to Yet Another ER to be admitted.    The front end of that process, this time, was mercifully fast.  I was whisked to a room to don a paper mask and near-paper dress and given only one sheet on my bed because my fever was so high.

If you were to Google Map my house in Portland, you'd have to zoom in very closely to avoid seeing the big ol' hospital right down the street.  I've grown up rollerblading in its parking garages (not strictly allowed), lunching with Mom in its cafeteria, swiping its draw-string pants to use as durable, comfy pajamas.  I'm not scared of hospitals in the slightest.  In fact, I always feel a bit comforted knowing that I'm about to get care for whatever ailment I'm suffering from.  Again this ties back to my identity as a scientist, an educator and a generally curious person - I find the not knowing the hardest part.  So when there's a team of folks working on what it is that's making me feel crappy, I tend to feel less crappy just knowing that.

I will admit, though: I was a little nervous.

I've had blood drawn before, but this time I was out of the exam room when they brought in all the equipment.  Seeing all the empty tubes and latex ties laid out there just so on that tiny silver table was a bit unsettling, as was my phlebotomist probing and probing and probing my right arm before finally striking it rich in my left and saying, "I always seem to pick the wrong arm!  Ha!"  (Note to direct caregivers: though it may be humanizing when you admit to your mistakes and shortcomings and nervousnesses, don't.  It doesn't encourage confidence.  Fallibly human is not what I need you to be right now.)  As I watched her push and pull the tiny hollow tube back and forth right under my skin, all I could think is, "My mom would kick your ass right now."

I also got an IV - my first one. (Mazel tov!)  Did you know that when they pump in a booster syringe of whatever (in my case, anti-nausea meds then narcotics), you can feel it?  I didn't.  I never thought to ask.  But you can.  The liquid going in is cooler than body temp, so it's like a tiny, rushing, flowing feeling happening right in your arm - a river from far away - the Colorado viewed from the Grand Canyon rim.

It was so weird to be a patient, privy to all the bother a patient is.  The waxy feeling of the sealant over the IV site, the scratchy sheets, the Oxygen monitor that beeps at you for no reason.  Having to pee and being so hooked up to things that you're not sure what to do about that.  Then, when you finally notify someone (you have to notify someone in order to pee), having so much equipment to roll with you through the hallways that you feel like some sort of one-man-band.  And then you have to hold your gown shut the whole time because the tie in the back is broken.

Again, I'm a dilettante in terms of the patient experience.  I did this for one evening, and had to suffer the inconveniences and indignities for just that long.  But it was strange to be on this side of the bed rails:

 instead of this one:

One constant through all this: I'm connected to (and damn thankful for) my family.  At the same time that I was in an adjustable bed in Colorado, Dad was fitfully dozing in Oregon after his own minor terrifying procedure.  And it was great to have Michele there supporting me, doing her homework, trying to curl up in that tiny chair and rest for a bit.  As a patient, that was the best part.  That and the percocet.

How the Other Half Lives (Or Doesn't)

*Editor's Note to Moms and Mom-like Folks: I'm back home in Oregon now, doing just fine, but still sore in so many ways from this experience.  I wanted to write how it was that day, so here it is, but don't worry unduly.  I swear I'll post prettier things soon.


Part One: Socialize This

I have already had quite enough of hospitals.  And that was as a caregiver.  To a patient with a magical card that unlocks doors.  This card has his name, some mystical, impenetrable digits and the sigil "United Health Care."  In Arizona, I enrolled in the state health insurance plan, which got me flu shots, vaccine boosters and once a free visit to the ER, with free antibiotics and localized painkillers to boot.  Since I left and have yet to find full-time employment, I've been floating free in God's good graces, with my name in the lottery to apply for the Oregon plan. (Pick me!  Pick me!)  Last Wednesday, the acute infection I'd felt building for the past few days hit with decisive force, and I decided to go do something about it beyond the 'fluids and rest' I had self-prescribed.  So.  Put yourself in my shoes.  Ready?

Step 1: While in grocery store, in whimpering discomfort, look for over the counter remedies, painkillers, vitamin supplements or foodstuffs which might help.  Find few, and purchase these in vain optimism.

Step 2: Pain while in grocery store causes you to decide not to wait for the foodstuff's supposed benefits.  Ask Customer Service desk for yellow pages to look up local clinics.

Step 3: Be deferred from first (of many) clinics you contact because your difficulty is not their specialty.

Step 4: Go home to use internet to search for more clinics.  Call around and memorize these disheartening and embarrassing words - "Hi.  I don't have insurance and I'm pretty sure I have [Annoying Infection - Never you mind].  I was wondering if I could get treated for that at your clinic/urgent care/ER and how much it would cost."  Repeat throughout the afternoon.

Step 5: Borrow third-hand car to drive to First Hospital where the following conversation takes place -

     Me - [Disheartening introduction as above]
     ER Registrar - Well, our copay is $230.
     Me - I can't pay that.
     Reg - Oh.  Uh.
     Registrar Behind Her - We have payment plans.  And programs you might be able to qualify for.
     Me - Can you tell me about those?
     RBH - Not until you get triaged as a patient.
     Me - Is there a cost to triage?
     RBH - Minimal.
     Me - Can you estimate what that is?
     RBH - No.  There's a Colorado law that I can't discuss finances with anyone until they're a patient.
     Me - But you can't tell me how much it'll cost to become a patient?
     RBH - Minimal.
     Me - Okay.  I'm going to go.

I've had a fair amount of shit to deal with lately in my life, but this hurt.  It was embarrassing and frustrating and isolating.  I felt stupid, and like a failure.  Compounded with not feeling well physically, it was a miserable, hopeless experience.  And it happened once more, at Second Hospital.

Third Hospital is state-run and so (I was told on the phone) has a sliding scale.  Also a full parking lot, a full waiting room, and a metal detector at the entrance.  And is a 37 minute drive from where I'm staying.

Now, I'm privileged and I know it (let me count the ways).  I have a car to get to said hospital instead of busing it.  And internet and phone service to do research all afternoon.  And a job that allows me, if not vacation time, then time off to sit around in waiting rooms.  And no direct dependents waiting for my caretaking.  And a history of general good health due to good nutrition and previous health care, preventative and otherwise.  The idea that someone might lack not one, but all these privileges is not at all beyond the realm of possibility.  Many of my fellow waiting room compatriots are still in work drag with kids in tow.

The waiting room is busy.  (The others not nearly so much.)  Clearly the need is there for this facility and its accessibility.  I don't expect to be seen for awhile, and when I do, I'm not dreading any procedures or prognoses.  I'm worried about the final bill at the end.  I don't wonder that the fear of that paperwork keeps people already less comfortable with the medical system (folks who weren't raised within blocks of a hospital, for example) away entirely, or until the situation is too dire to put off or ignore.

In a recent conversation with a friend of strong opinions, he asserted that healthcare was not a right, but a burden on society. [EDIT: "I never said it was a burden, I just said I didn't want to pay for people who abuse it."  Better?]  Many who know me won't be surprised to hear that in the face of opinionated, I often shy away from making strong declarations.  My debate style is to mull and consider and feel out.  I'm intimidated by tricksy rhetoric and fast facts and unfamiliar references.  I'm fascinated to hear your case, but don't ask me mine.

That said, that's bullshit.

I clog up the works by being in the ER and I know it.  I'm ambulatory, cognizant and only in mild pain.  Maybe an hour and a half after I arrive and am triaged, the hospital manager makes an announcement that they're diverting ambulances in the area to other hospitals because the waiting room is so full.  I should be able to go to an intermediate care center and leave the 50 beds (40 in rooms and 10 in hallways) for people who really need them.  I shouldn't have to worry about my "network" when I'm worried about my wellbeing.  How arbitrary is it that I can't see a doctor because she signed a different paper than the one I signed, even if I need her services and she wouldn't mind being paid for it?

Get me care.  Make the process easy and streamlined.  Allow me reasonable options, before my Worst Case Scenario complicates my life, my care and my burden on the system.  As it is, this is not the way to heal.  Not the way to care for others.  Fix this shit up.

Coming up Next: Part Two, in which the Personal is the Political is the Personal Again.

S'no shoe, s'crazy!

One feat down, one to go.  I went up into the Rocky Mountains, to Silverthorne, CO (fancy as it sounds) to a gigantic warm house and played in the snow with my niece and sister.  The night before the snowshoe race, as we were ducking the spitting snow on the way into the brewery/grille, I remembered how little I like living with the cold, and felt very over it.  But the next morning, it was clear and bright and warm even - no wind and I didn't even have to wear an outer jacket along the trail.  That day and the next, rolling down hills and wrestling with a tiny four-year-old bundle of energy, trying to explain weight displacement and trying (and occasionally failing) to keep her and myself from falling on our faces - then I didn't mind the cold and snow so much.  Maybe it was even kind of nice.  The inside bits of the weekend were spent in deep bathtubs, playing dominoes with tiny trains and loud noises, eating, drinking, eating, and watching Mythbusters.  I couldn't live here, but man is it nice to visit.

She's Going the Distance

On packing, from The Complete Works of T.S. Spivet  by Reif Larsen -

STEP FOUR: The Great Doubt
Then, inevitably, just as I would zip up the suitcase, I would see the leftover pooter or sextant or 4x telescope and think of a scenario such as a woodpecker soundscaping for which I would need the seismoscope and then I would rethink the entire trip and also my entire life.

I made it here!  And I fit all I thought I would need into one carry-on sized orange suitcase.  I deserve a medal.  So far, though, all I've needed the equipment to do is hang around, drive around, walk around, drink margaritas, visit friends, and go swimming.  And if you wanted to be reasonable about it, all that could've been done in only two outfits.  Ah well - I take my victories where I can find them.

It's neat to be in this place again - and for more than a few nights!  It is just Denver's bad luck that it is so centrally-located in cross-continental roadtripitude.  But this time, it is my destination and my temporary home.  Part of me was disappointed to be leaving Portland when I did, because I could smell the spring coming.  I could feel it in my thighs rubbed raw with the cold.  I could see it shining out from the clouds.  Those gorgeous days when the mountain is out.  Ah, friends!

But Denver has given me a taste of its own pleasant climate.  Sunny, 50s, breezy.  I don't know why I can't keep it in my head, but every time I visit it surprises me again: the golden light of this place.  The dry grasses pay homage to the sun.  The thin air makes it seem so much closer, a naked light that heats the skin like a blanket fresh from the dryer.  True, nothing is budding here.  Snow crouches in patches under trees and next to fences, turning all the would-be shadows light blue.  But on a walk (my walk, the walk of last August* and every time I visit) hidden deep in a breath, I smelled the mud.  And the grass stretching out from under the ice.  And the yucca stalks rubbing against each other (they have them here!) sound like a drumroll, and everything is waiting, waiting.

Thanks to the people here, and this place that can make my fingers tingle and my head swim a bit.  My nose run a bit in the cold breeze, my breath scour out my lungs.  My face turn pink.  My heart happy.

*Meta!