...and reaches for his gun.
My mother left the hospital yesterday, having had a knee replacement surgery on Friday, and subsequently whining for three days that she wanted to go home and "be comfortable", as if it is possible to be comfortable with several pounds of titanium alloy with gears and hinges, and 20 or so staples in your leg.
Anyways, the incredible banshee-quality whining of the hospital bed (It's too hot, it's too cold, the food stinks, there's nothing on television, they didn't give me my pain meds ten seconds after I asked for them, 'The Other One' in the next bed kept me up all night, etc, etc.) was soon replaced by the shrill keening wail of a whole new range of conditions to complain about (the medical transport driver deliberately hit every bump on the way home, the seat belt is too tight/too loose, can you turn the heat down then back up, and so forth). And that's before we even got into the house.
I am caring for my mother during her recovery, and I must admit, I'm not exactly equipped for this job. For a start, I have very little patience for whining. I understand that this sort of procedure usually results in the most monumental waves of pain known to anyone not interred at Gestapo Headquarters, but hell, it was an elective surgery, so I don't want to hear it. I already know, and your constant harping on the subject just wants to make me drug you up; I can't do anything else about it.
But, someone has to deal with it, right? I can, to a certain extent, suck it up and soldier on, but it's only been 24 hours and I'm ready to burn the house down.
To begin with, My mother is, and always has been, all of the following;
a. A drama Queen
b. Neurotic and given to bouts of acute anxiety.
c. An attention whore.
d. A sympathy junkie.
And Saint Carol the Martyr, heir-apparent to the Virgin Mary (btw, most Italian mothers behave this way), is making certain she milks this situation for all it's worth. That's when she's not engaging her other great skills in never having a positive word to say about anything, and complaining about everything under the Sun. Oh, and for speaking in sentences which always contain at least two variations of the personal pronoun (I, Me, My, Mine, and so forth).
If you read this blog regularly, you can probably see that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree in many respects. But really, I got help...
Truth is, there was never any pleasing her, and now that she's helpless and in need of care she has taken this most distasteful personality trait to new and dizzying heights. I'm seriously contemplating murder, but won't do it if only because the insurance company would get suspicious when the required paperwork never turns up and might leave a message on the answering machine.
I'm not even expecting as much as a "thank you" when her recovery is complete. That's just the way she is. It's expected that because she gave birth, I'm supposed to be at her bedside 24/7/365. I'm to take my impending galley-slave existence gracefully and maintain the proper attitude.
Except that She's a Pain in the Ass, and the process of taking care of her is an even bigger Pain in the Ass. It's only 24 hours, and I'm already discovering:
1. That I'm seeing parts of my mother's anatomy that I haven't seen since the day I was born, and which no Son past the socially-acceptable breastfeeding age should ever see. This is embarrassing, uncomfortable and just fucking creepy.
2. My mother is an expert whiner, complainer, and petty taskmaster. If you were to give her a winning Lottery Ticket, a Pot of Gold, and a Ferrari, she would bitch about why you didn't pick any of her favorite numbers, why it's only one pot, and really, couldn't you have gotten a better color and automatic transmission? Whenever she requires something, the dreaded phrase "as long as you're up" is uttered, shadows cross the floor, and a feeling of impending doom overtakes me, because I now know that the simplest of tasks will now become a torrent of petty make-work-for-her-comfort projects that will eat up the majority of the day.
And overnight, she'll be thinking of more stupidity to lay on me the following morning; The Sun is too bright,please close the curtains...oh, as long as you're up....my water is too wet, I need you to rearrange the seven pillows on the bed, and find a way for me to sit at a perfect 90-degree upright angle so that I can watch television and split atoms simultaneously. Oh, and find me some atoms, too.
If that doesn't drive you batshit insane, there's the myriad of tasks that need to be done every day that remind you that being human is often a humiliating and disgusting experience, full of the most unpleasant aspects that we barely think about...until we have to wipe someone else's backside, and there isn't a diaper or a 4 a.m. bottle feeding involved. Don't get me started on the problems inherent in sponge-bathing your own mother.
I'm also discovering that the battery of cuss words at my disposal is quite limited. I once would have thought this absolutely impossible, being able to swear like a sailor at the drop of a hat, and often for no reason, at all. I'm a New Yorker: we use the F-word as a noun, verb, adverb, adjective, and often like punctuation, so imagine my surprise when the usual litany of curses muttered under my breath just doesn't seem to cut it, anymore. They don't seem adequate to express my feelings and frustrations, and I'm seriously going to reach for a Thesaurus so as to find newer expressions of fundamental disapproval. I may even have to learn another language.
It probably sounds terrible for a Son to speak of his Mother in this way -- and on a public forum for all the world to see! -- but there is a point to all of this; I'm beginning to have a new and healthier respect for caregivers....even the unionized hacks. They must bump up against the most miserable people in the world every day, and people who are normally unpleasant and then burdened by sickness must be the absolute worst. Like Nazis in heat, I would imagine.
Either these are the most patient and loving people on Planet Earth, or they all go home, drink themselves silly, kick the dog and beat their kids, just so that they can present the miserably ill with a plastic smile and the impression that they actually enjoy this kind of work. Considering that would make them even more miserable than the miserable bastards they often have to care for, I find that idea highly unlikely.
So, I will simply have to conclude that they are much better people than I am.
I will persevere. I'll get through this, and get Mom back on her feet so that I can go back to my overarching goal in life since the age of 14; finding a way to put as much distance between us as I can possibly manage.
But, damn, if it isn't enough to make you psychotic...
UPDATE: The response to, and popularity of, this post has been amazing. Thanks to everyone who continues to forward it to everyone they know! If you're interested in what's happened since this was originally posted -- plus many more observations related to taking care of the sick folks -- then please click the "Caregivers" label at the bottom of this post!
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Monday, December 06, 2010
The Word of God...Or Performance Art?
It must be my face. There is, maybe, something on my ugly mug that says "Come on, you can talk to me...Let me hear whatever insanity it is that's rattling around inside your head. I'll give it a fair hearing, and won't laugh or get hostile, honestly!"
Scene from the Staten Island Ferry, approximately 8:30 P.M., Sunday, December 5th, 2010;
We find our hero (that would be Me) engrossed in his book -- The Peloponnesian War, by Donald Kagan. The story so far: the Spartans have the ball on the Athenian's 35 yard line, down by 6, no time outs, and under two minutes left to play. Sparta's veteran quarterback, King Archidamus, unfortunately died after a vicious blind-side hit (no flag on the play!) in the 2nd quarter, and so the Spartan side must depend upon career bench-warmer, King Pleistoanax. Elsewhere, Cleon and Diodotus are locked in a heart-wrenching custody battle over the renegade Mytileneans, with Cleon believing they only really require a stern, disciplinarian father-figure, while Diodatus believes the poor waifs just haven't been properly nurtured, and are perhaps eating too much sugar. In the meantime, the Athenian Pnyx (sort of like the Glee Club, only slightly less gay, and with the power to make law in Athens) has decided that the Mytileneans are just irredeemable, and despite the fact that they might be cute-as-the-dickens, they should still be slaughtered wholesale.
On the other side of Greece, Thucydides writes about Rainbow Ponies and Purple Unicorns in his frilly and fruit-scented diaries, waiting for the days when his thus-far unrequited love for Pericles oif Athens will finally bloom, and bring forth a New Day in the Ancient World, and so he idles away the time writing "Mr. and Mrs. Pericles...Mr. and Mrs. Thucydides-Pericles, Mrs. T. Pericles of Athens...." and thinking he will just D-I-E if Pericles doesn't call soon.
I can't wait to see how it ends. They should make a Lifetime made-for-TV movie out of it. But I digress...
Anyway, there I am, reading quietly, all by myself in my own little corner of the ferryboat, not bothering a soul, perfectly content to imagine that nothing outside those written pages before me exists, when HE shows up.
"He" is something of a puzzler. At first glance, I can't tell if he's a recovering alcoholic (nah, can't be. Not enough stitches in his face), an ex-drug user (no sign of trackmarks, seems to have most of his original teeth), or just an idiot. Then "He" opens his mouth, and the mystery has been solved. Yep, idiot.
Excuse me, Sir. Have you heard the Good News?
Did the Yankees resign Derek Jeter?
*Chuckle* No, nothing like that. I meant have you heard that He Has Risen?
Oh, that. Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not really interested in discussing religion with you at the moment. Perhaps there's someone further up the boat that needs saving? Good evening.
There are none so blind as those who will not see.
There are none so bloody as He who won't take a hint and scram.
I'll pray for you, Sir.
Yeah, you do that, Numbnuts.
And there it should have ended. But it was not to be. For having decided that there was at least ONE soul on this ferry that was in dire need of saving, Mr. Have-You-Heard-The-Good-News decided to set up shop not 10 feet away. The Lecture had begun. He began to pour forth a load of rubbish that was so from left field (even for those in this captive audience Washed in the Blood) that even those who DID want to hear what he had to say were like "What page in the Bible was that on, Dude?".
For you see, we had before us the absolute worst of the Godbots; the ones that combine the contradictory gobbledeegook of the Gospel with the absolutely bulletproof stupidity of conspiracy theory. This was too good to ignore.
Because Jesus was an alien being, you see, and he was sent -- in human form, really he looked like something akin to a squid with an erection, I gather, a feat only made possible by the advanced scientific knowledge possessed by the inhabitants of Andromeda -- on a super-secret mission to Save the World, but he was killed before he could truly warn Mankind of it's imminent, galactic danger, and so the secret has been lost.
Except for people like Mr. Have-You-Heard-Good-News, who have had the entire inside story revealed to them in a series of visions, presumably broadcast from another galaxy and picked up on the fillings in his teeth.
You see, the Romans knew who Jesus REALLY was, and there's Scripture written to prove it. So long as you play with definitions and torture meanings.
This douchebag recited that "Scripture that Proves It", word-for-word, and if you listen carefully, the "clues" in all of these passages are evident when one bumps up against a"deliberate mistranslations" (all part of the conspiracy to obscure the Real Truth, you see) of Scripture from Aramaic-to-Greek-to-Latin-to-Vernacular. Jesus was "set up"; the Romans sent spies to see what he was up to, and then they framed him on a fraudulent tax charge (the whole "Render unto Caesar..." routine). Almost like Al Capone. The systematic re-writing, and re-editing of Scripture through the years is all part of the sinister plot (that's why there was a Martin Luther, you know. He was an alien, too, who was sent to finish what Jesus started, but he was easily lead astray and the Truth was further obscured by the Reformation).
Just who is this "They" involved in this conspiracy, and why they should do what "They" have been accused of doing, is never stated, naturally.
Anywho, the Romans had discovered the True Origin of the Extraterrestrial Savior, performed crude medical experiments upon him (related in the Bible, through "deliberate mistranslation" of course, as "scourging"), and then Crucified him, under the mistaken impression they had rid themselves of someone who was capable of destroying the Roman Empire single-handedly. How they discovered this, and how Jesus was supposed to achieve this destruction is covered by at least five verses from both Old and New Testament that must be"re-interpreted", and the"deliberate mistranslations" expunged, in order to make sense in this context.
So, Jesus is crucified, but three days later is "Resurrected"; another deliberate mistranslation, for it was really an impostor who was Crucified, and Jesus was held in the Roman equivalent of Gitmo, only secret-er, for three days, until he escaped by utilizing his amazing alien scientific knowledge to manipulate and transform matter -- powers mistakenly described as "miracles"; the water-to-wine routine, the really neat loaves-and-fishes trick, and let's not forget the perennial favorite, walking on water, just for example. He's "beamed up" by the"Mother Ship" when his Alien Overlords decide this species is too stupid to be told The Truth, never to return.
It gets worse from there, believe me. The story had so many holes in it that it was in danger of taking on water. Ignoring the pleas of the captive audience to "make some fucking sense, Dickwad!" (we New Yorkers are so polite!), our intrepid Alien Acoylete simply plowed onwards.
So, what, exactly is this "imminent" danger that has threatened to wipe out Mankind (so imminent that 2,000 years later it still hasn't occurred)? Fuck if I know! We never got that far, you see. Mr. Have-You-Heard-The-Good-News was too busy explaining all the nuances of the Conspiracy Theory and ran out of time, so that he never got to this Cosmic Truth that only he and his (presumably dumber and crazier) friends apparently know. The ferry had docked, and it was time to leave.
I walked away, quickly, trying to leave before I had to listen to more of this insanity. Mr. Have-You-Heard-The Good-News was following folks down the passage to the gangway, continuing his nonsense.
That's when Mr. Have-You-Heard-The-Good-News did, indeed, finally get his bloody nose; He got it when he walked face-first into a bulkhead, so busy chasing and haranguing the crowd hat as he turned to follow a knot of folks there was no time to avoid that protruding steel flange. I was almost on the gangway when I heard those immortal words:
Jesus Fucking Christ! I think I broke my fucking nose!
I have never laughed so hard at anything in all my life. I saw him talking to the Police inside the Ferry Terminal a few minutes later. It turns out that this idiot is an aspiring actor who does this kind of shit to both to make a few extra dollars, and to polish his mad acting skillz.
Too bad Alien Jesus couldn't use his powers over time, space and matter to save this douchebag...from a broken nose. That's gonna fuck up his glossy head shots, for sure.
Scene from the Staten Island Ferry, approximately 8:30 P.M., Sunday, December 5th, 2010;
We find our hero (that would be Me) engrossed in his book -- The Peloponnesian War, by Donald Kagan. The story so far: the Spartans have the ball on the Athenian's 35 yard line, down by 6, no time outs, and under two minutes left to play. Sparta's veteran quarterback, King Archidamus, unfortunately died after a vicious blind-side hit (no flag on the play!) in the 2nd quarter, and so the Spartan side must depend upon career bench-warmer, King Pleistoanax. Elsewhere, Cleon and Diodotus are locked in a heart-wrenching custody battle over the renegade Mytileneans, with Cleon believing they only really require a stern, disciplinarian father-figure, while Diodatus believes the poor waifs just haven't been properly nurtured, and are perhaps eating too much sugar. In the meantime, the Athenian Pnyx (sort of like the Glee Club, only slightly less gay, and with the power to make law in Athens) has decided that the Mytileneans are just irredeemable, and despite the fact that they might be cute-as-the-dickens, they should still be slaughtered wholesale.
On the other side of Greece, Thucydides writes about Rainbow Ponies and Purple Unicorns in his frilly and fruit-scented diaries, waiting for the days when his thus-far unrequited love for Pericles oif Athens will finally bloom, and bring forth a New Day in the Ancient World, and so he idles away the time writing "Mr. and Mrs. Pericles...Mr. and Mrs. Thucydides-Pericles, Mrs. T. Pericles of Athens...." and thinking he will just D-I-E if Pericles doesn't call soon.
I can't wait to see how it ends. They should make a Lifetime made-for-TV movie out of it. But I digress...
Anyway, there I am, reading quietly, all by myself in my own little corner of the ferryboat, not bothering a soul, perfectly content to imagine that nothing outside those written pages before me exists, when HE shows up.
"He" is something of a puzzler. At first glance, I can't tell if he's a recovering alcoholic (nah, can't be. Not enough stitches in his face), an ex-drug user (no sign of trackmarks, seems to have most of his original teeth), or just an idiot. Then "He" opens his mouth, and the mystery has been solved. Yep, idiot.
Excuse me, Sir. Have you heard the Good News?
Did the Yankees resign Derek Jeter?
*Chuckle* No, nothing like that. I meant have you heard that He Has Risen?
Oh, that. Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not really interested in discussing religion with you at the moment. Perhaps there's someone further up the boat that needs saving? Good evening.
There are none so blind as those who will not see.
There are none so bloody as He who won't take a hint and scram.
I'll pray for you, Sir.
Yeah, you do that, Numbnuts.
And there it should have ended. But it was not to be. For having decided that there was at least ONE soul on this ferry that was in dire need of saving, Mr. Have-You-Heard-The-Good-News decided to set up shop not 10 feet away. The Lecture had begun. He began to pour forth a load of rubbish that was so from left field (even for those in this captive audience Washed in the Blood) that even those who DID want to hear what he had to say were like "What page in the Bible was that on, Dude?".
For you see, we had before us the absolute worst of the Godbots; the ones that combine the contradictory gobbledeegook of the Gospel with the absolutely bulletproof stupidity of conspiracy theory. This was too good to ignore.
Because Jesus was an alien being, you see, and he was sent -- in human form, really he looked like something akin to a squid with an erection, I gather, a feat only made possible by the advanced scientific knowledge possessed by the inhabitants of Andromeda -- on a super-secret mission to Save the World, but he was killed before he could truly warn Mankind of it's imminent, galactic danger, and so the secret has been lost.
Except for people like Mr. Have-You-Heard-Good-News, who have had the entire inside story revealed to them in a series of visions, presumably broadcast from another galaxy and picked up on the fillings in his teeth.
You see, the Romans knew who Jesus REALLY was, and there's Scripture written to prove it. So long as you play with definitions and torture meanings.
This douchebag recited that "Scripture that Proves It", word-for-word, and if you listen carefully, the "clues" in all of these passages are evident when one bumps up against a"deliberate mistranslations" (all part of the conspiracy to obscure the Real Truth, you see) of Scripture from Aramaic-to-Greek-to-Latin-to-Vernacular. Jesus was "set up"; the Romans sent spies to see what he was up to, and then they framed him on a fraudulent tax charge (the whole "Render unto Caesar..." routine). Almost like Al Capone. The systematic re-writing, and re-editing of Scripture through the years is all part of the sinister plot (that's why there was a Martin Luther, you know. He was an alien, too, who was sent to finish what Jesus started, but he was easily lead astray and the Truth was further obscured by the Reformation).
Just who is this "They" involved in this conspiracy, and why they should do what "They" have been accused of doing, is never stated, naturally.
Anywho, the Romans had discovered the True Origin of the Extraterrestrial Savior, performed crude medical experiments upon him (related in the Bible, through "deliberate mistranslation" of course, as "scourging"), and then Crucified him, under the mistaken impression they had rid themselves of someone who was capable of destroying the Roman Empire single-handedly. How they discovered this, and how Jesus was supposed to achieve this destruction is covered by at least five verses from both Old and New Testament that must be"re-interpreted", and the"deliberate mistranslations" expunged, in order to make sense in this context.
So, Jesus is crucified, but three days later is "Resurrected"; another deliberate mistranslation, for it was really an impostor who was Crucified, and Jesus was held in the Roman equivalent of Gitmo, only secret-er, for three days, until he escaped by utilizing his amazing alien scientific knowledge to manipulate and transform matter -- powers mistakenly described as "miracles"; the water-to-wine routine, the really neat loaves-and-fishes trick, and let's not forget the perennial favorite, walking on water, just for example. He's "beamed up" by the"Mother Ship" when his Alien Overlords decide this species is too stupid to be told The Truth, never to return.
It gets worse from there, believe me. The story had so many holes in it that it was in danger of taking on water. Ignoring the pleas of the captive audience to "make some fucking sense, Dickwad!" (we New Yorkers are so polite!), our intrepid Alien Acoylete simply plowed onwards.
So, what, exactly is this "imminent" danger that has threatened to wipe out Mankind (so imminent that 2,000 years later it still hasn't occurred)? Fuck if I know! We never got that far, you see. Mr. Have-You-Heard-The-Good-News was too busy explaining all the nuances of the Conspiracy Theory and ran out of time, so that he never got to this Cosmic Truth that only he and his (presumably dumber and crazier) friends apparently know. The ferry had docked, and it was time to leave.
I walked away, quickly, trying to leave before I had to listen to more of this insanity. Mr. Have-You-Heard-The Good-News was following folks down the passage to the gangway, continuing his nonsense.
That's when Mr. Have-You-Heard-The-Good-News did, indeed, finally get his bloody nose; He got it when he walked face-first into a bulkhead, so busy chasing and haranguing the crowd hat as he turned to follow a knot of folks there was no time to avoid that protruding steel flange. I was almost on the gangway when I heard those immortal words:
Jesus Fucking Christ! I think I broke my fucking nose!
I have never laughed so hard at anything in all my life. I saw him talking to the Police inside the Ferry Terminal a few minutes later. It turns out that this idiot is an aspiring actor who does this kind of shit to both to make a few extra dollars, and to polish his mad acting skillz.
Too bad Alien Jesus couldn't use his powers over time, space and matter to save this douchebag...from a broken nose. That's gonna fuck up his glossy head shots, for sure.
Friday, December 03, 2010
The Things You See in A Hospital...
One of the reasons why I haven't been around to spew my usual caustic bullshit (and why the caustic bullshit I did manage to spew was, in my opinion, of poor quality due to a lack of attention to detail) is that my mother has had a kneee replacement operation...finally.
I say "finally" because the operation was postponed once, having supposed to have been done Tuesday morning, but for the surgeon calling in sick. Well, in any case, it was finally done this morning, and having spent the better part of the last two weeks hanging around New York University Hospital for Joint Diseases, I've managed to make a number of interesting observations.
By the way, as I list these observations I wish to make one thing crystal clear; the people at NYU have been nothing short of brilliant professionals in all of their dealings with my mother and myself. The level of dedication displayed by the Staff --including the administrators, and right down to the security guards and facilities guys -- has been a wonder to behold. They have really gone above and beyond in a way that one would not expect, if one believed the horror stories told about our"Broken Health Care System" as told by by a communist in sheep's clothing...errr...democrat.
I can, with complete confidence, predict the following;
When ObamaCare is finally implemented this level of quality service, covered by insurance -- private or Medicare -- will simply cease to exist.
Anyways, my observations....
The first one is the absolutly amazing amount of paperwork that one must do at each stage of the process before treatment can even begin. The Legal System seems to have made a concerted effort to innundate the Medical System with a deluge of paper that would make an ardent environMENTAList cry at the thought of all those sacrificed trees. It isn't just the usual range of CYA liability waivers, either; living wills, power-of-attorneys, HIPA documents, scads of disclaimer forms, treatment options that must be individually approved (all with their own range of all the other paperwork), organ donor forms, insurance forms, compliance forms, various releases, Medicare forms, and stuff I never even knew existed. All of it in triplicate, naturally.
I remember someone once telling me that closing on a house entailed your having to write a few hundred signatures. That's Bush League; try all the signatures necessary just to have your own blood siphoned off and stored for the operation...just in case it's needed. That alone entailed a stack of documents a quarter-inch thick.
Now imagine what happens when your surgery is rescheduled, and the 14,000 sheets of paper sacrificed are now invalid because they're dated incorrectly...and they have to be filled in all over again. Even your medical chart consists of enough paper to choke a woodchipper running on nitrous, and there's already a PC next to your bed where the same information is being entered, it has to be put on paper, too (paper, after all, doesn't break or require electricity). Somehow, I get the feeling that most of this is not so much medical necessity as legal make-work. I mean, after you've done you job and chased the ambulance, you might as well stick around for what happens next, just in case you can make another shyster buck, right?
Do you really think that sort of tangled, impenetrable (to me, anyway) sort of bureacracy is going to somehow go the way of the brontosaur when President Odickhead has his Eyedrops-and-BandAid rationing system fully operational? I'll bet it fucking doubles, easily, because there will be another three layers of rubber-stamp bureaucrats to employ at taxpayer expense, and more lawyers. Somehow, the people who have to keep track of all this paper manage to do so in a way I find amazing; I've spent my life trying to get computers to do what these people do (so that they don't have to, and thus, can be made redundant...and unemployed), and I'm telling you there is just no way thatyou can easily automate that sort of system short of a major investment in IT and software engineers that might signify a crippling investment for most hospitals.
If you expect the government to design such an automated system, it would cost three times as much, rely on carbon paper, crayons and cave paintings, probably require at least three chickens killed in a voodoo beastiality ritual, and be engineered in Mumbai, and fail miserably to the point where it would actually kill people.
My next observation has to do with the difference between the quality of Staff at a Private Institution (like NYU) and a public one (like a hospital run by New York City). I've been in city run hospitals before (and I have to admit, the better ones; I've never been in a hospital that serves the Urban Aboriginies...errr...lower-income community, for example), and the difference is Night and Day.
The NURSES were able to answer my questions about specifics, like the medications my mother would be taking, her physical therapy requirements, and made an effort to update me on her condition after surgery approximately every 90 minutes. If the first nurse I was dealing with wasn't available, another one stepped right in seemlessly. They were knowlegable, they were dilligent, they gave a shit. Not like the union hacks at the City-run hospitals, and while I have to admit some of those came close to the NYU nursing staff, the number of those was very small, indeed.
My mother's anesthesiologist and orthopeadic surgeon (Doctor Zuckerman, the Chairman of the Department!) both spoke to us before and after the operation and layed out every stage of the proceedure from start to finish,and answered every question, no matter how stupid. In fact, Doc Zuckerman even cancelled his vacation to stick around this weekend, since he had had to reschedule her procedure earlier in the week, and he's already -- not 8 hours after surgery was completed -- answered a page from my sister to answer HER dumb questions, too. Cheerfully, no less.
I wonder how that will work when ObamaCare makes every nurse and doctor little better than a Teamster?
Another observation; surgeons apparently smoke. An awful lot. When they had some time between patients, you could find a small knot of them across the street from the hospital enjoying a quick cigarette. I guess it's one way they deal with the stress attendant with screwing with people's insides, and at least they're not in the local bars when they have the time. You'll also find the surgical staff out there having a ciggie as time permits, too. Not all, mind you, but a fair number.
Take THAT Mayor Bloomberg! If you had your way, cigarettes would be banned, and those doctors -- the best in New York City -- would be across the street in Stuyvesant Park scoring crack, wouldn't they?
Another thing that I found incredible was the clientele. We're talking people with all sorts of maladies from a torn ACL, degenerative arthritis to shattered spines...and all of them seem to come and go from the hospital with smiles on their faces. I have seen a woman in a wheelchair regularly over the last week, whose spine is deformed in such a way that she sits in that chair like a folded ruler. Her chin, literally, hovers above her feet. She was singing to herself this afternoon (on HER smoke break!) and told me how much better she's gotten since she started going to NYU for her treatments and therapy...rather than the crummy old Veteran's Administration hospital she used to go to (as I understand it, she was involved in a vehicular accident while on active duty).
I can't imagine what sort of care our troops are getting at the VA if a woman in that bad a condition can find it in herself to sing in the process of what I gather will be a very long ordeal of repeated surgeries and various therapies. It's the hospital, she tells me; they do things no one else can, and the people there care about their patients, and their reputations. Heck, within 3 hours of surgery this morning, they already had my mother up on her new replacement knee trying to walk. If she had been in a City hospital, they would probably leave her lying in bed until she was a mass of sores.
If ever there was an example of just how outrageously good our medical system is -- despite all the obstacles, the hassles, the stupid and petty regulations -- NYU Hospital for Joint Diseases is it. I would highly recommend it to anyone who has a bum hip, knee, genetic defect, disability or was the victim of a cruel accident. These last two weeks have been an education in dedication and skill.
This is the EXACTLY the reason why ObamaCare needs to be strangled in the cradle.
Thank you, NYU!
I say "finally" because the operation was postponed once, having supposed to have been done Tuesday morning, but for the surgeon calling in sick. Well, in any case, it was finally done this morning, and having spent the better part of the last two weeks hanging around New York University Hospital for Joint Diseases, I've managed to make a number of interesting observations.
By the way, as I list these observations I wish to make one thing crystal clear; the people at NYU have been nothing short of brilliant professionals in all of their dealings with my mother and myself. The level of dedication displayed by the Staff --including the administrators, and right down to the security guards and facilities guys -- has been a wonder to behold. They have really gone above and beyond in a way that one would not expect, if one believed the horror stories told about our"Broken Health Care System" as told by by a communist in sheep's clothing...errr...democrat.
I can, with complete confidence, predict the following;
When ObamaCare is finally implemented this level of quality service, covered by insurance -- private or Medicare -- will simply cease to exist.
Anyways, my observations....
The first one is the absolutly amazing amount of paperwork that one must do at each stage of the process before treatment can even begin. The Legal System seems to have made a concerted effort to innundate the Medical System with a deluge of paper that would make an ardent environMENTAList cry at the thought of all those sacrificed trees. It isn't just the usual range of CYA liability waivers, either; living wills, power-of-attorneys, HIPA documents, scads of disclaimer forms, treatment options that must be individually approved (all with their own range of all the other paperwork), organ donor forms, insurance forms, compliance forms, various releases, Medicare forms, and stuff I never even knew existed. All of it in triplicate, naturally.
I remember someone once telling me that closing on a house entailed your having to write a few hundred signatures. That's Bush League; try all the signatures necessary just to have your own blood siphoned off and stored for the operation...just in case it's needed. That alone entailed a stack of documents a quarter-inch thick.
Now imagine what happens when your surgery is rescheduled, and the 14,000 sheets of paper sacrificed are now invalid because they're dated incorrectly...and they have to be filled in all over again. Even your medical chart consists of enough paper to choke a woodchipper running on nitrous, and there's already a PC next to your bed where the same information is being entered, it has to be put on paper, too (paper, after all, doesn't break or require electricity). Somehow, I get the feeling that most of this is not so much medical necessity as legal make-work. I mean, after you've done you job and chased the ambulance, you might as well stick around for what happens next, just in case you can make another shyster buck, right?
Do you really think that sort of tangled, impenetrable (to me, anyway) sort of bureacracy is going to somehow go the way of the brontosaur when President Odickhead has his Eyedrops-and-BandAid rationing system fully operational? I'll bet it fucking doubles, easily, because there will be another three layers of rubber-stamp bureaucrats to employ at taxpayer expense, and more lawyers. Somehow, the people who have to keep track of all this paper manage to do so in a way I find amazing; I've spent my life trying to get computers to do what these people do (so that they don't have to, and thus, can be made redundant...and unemployed), and I'm telling you there is just no way thatyou can easily automate that sort of system short of a major investment in IT and software engineers that might signify a crippling investment for most hospitals.
If you expect the government to design such an automated system, it would cost three times as much, rely on carbon paper, crayons and cave paintings, probably require at least three chickens killed in a voodoo beastiality ritual, and be engineered in Mumbai, and fail miserably to the point where it would actually kill people.
My next observation has to do with the difference between the quality of Staff at a Private Institution (like NYU) and a public one (like a hospital run by New York City). I've been in city run hospitals before (and I have to admit, the better ones; I've never been in a hospital that serves the Urban Aboriginies...errr...lower-income community, for example), and the difference is Night and Day.
The NURSES were able to answer my questions about specifics, like the medications my mother would be taking, her physical therapy requirements, and made an effort to update me on her condition after surgery approximately every 90 minutes. If the first nurse I was dealing with wasn't available, another one stepped right in seemlessly. They were knowlegable, they were dilligent, they gave a shit. Not like the union hacks at the City-run hospitals, and while I have to admit some of those came close to the NYU nursing staff, the number of those was very small, indeed.
My mother's anesthesiologist and orthopeadic surgeon (Doctor Zuckerman, the Chairman of the Department!) both spoke to us before and after the operation and layed out every stage of the proceedure from start to finish,and answered every question, no matter how stupid. In fact, Doc Zuckerman even cancelled his vacation to stick around this weekend, since he had had to reschedule her procedure earlier in the week, and he's already -- not 8 hours after surgery was completed -- answered a page from my sister to answer HER dumb questions, too. Cheerfully, no less.
I wonder how that will work when ObamaCare makes every nurse and doctor little better than a Teamster?
Another observation; surgeons apparently smoke. An awful lot. When they had some time between patients, you could find a small knot of them across the street from the hospital enjoying a quick cigarette. I guess it's one way they deal with the stress attendant with screwing with people's insides, and at least they're not in the local bars when they have the time. You'll also find the surgical staff out there having a ciggie as time permits, too. Not all, mind you, but a fair number.
Take THAT Mayor Bloomberg! If you had your way, cigarettes would be banned, and those doctors -- the best in New York City -- would be across the street in Stuyvesant Park scoring crack, wouldn't they?
Another thing that I found incredible was the clientele. We're talking people with all sorts of maladies from a torn ACL, degenerative arthritis to shattered spines...and all of them seem to come and go from the hospital with smiles on their faces. I have seen a woman in a wheelchair regularly over the last week, whose spine is deformed in such a way that she sits in that chair like a folded ruler. Her chin, literally, hovers above her feet. She was singing to herself this afternoon (on HER smoke break!) and told me how much better she's gotten since she started going to NYU for her treatments and therapy...rather than the crummy old Veteran's Administration hospital she used to go to (as I understand it, she was involved in a vehicular accident while on active duty).
I can't imagine what sort of care our troops are getting at the VA if a woman in that bad a condition can find it in herself to sing in the process of what I gather will be a very long ordeal of repeated surgeries and various therapies. It's the hospital, she tells me; they do things no one else can, and the people there care about their patients, and their reputations. Heck, within 3 hours of surgery this morning, they already had my mother up on her new replacement knee trying to walk. If she had been in a City hospital, they would probably leave her lying in bed until she was a mass of sores.
If ever there was an example of just how outrageously good our medical system is -- despite all the obstacles, the hassles, the stupid and petty regulations -- NYU Hospital for Joint Diseases is it. I would highly recommend it to anyone who has a bum hip, knee, genetic defect, disability or was the victim of a cruel accident. These last two weeks have been an education in dedication and skill.
This is the EXACTLY the reason why ObamaCare needs to be strangled in the cradle.
Thank you, NYU!
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