I am sure that I have ranted and moaned about every single one of my phobias and 'issues' on this blog at some point. Those of you who have had the misfortune to read Evil Cat of Hell since its inception are probably overly familiar with my neurosis. For those of you who are not long-time readers, these are the things that I am very, very afraid of. The things that make me break into a cold sweat. The things that make me feel as though I can not breathe. The things that give me a curious tight feeling in my chest, as though someone is revving up their dentist drill for open heart surgery:
1. Doctors.
2. Hospitals.
3. Medical personal.
4. Feeling poor and dirty in a medical facility (all of my fears of hospitals date back to being a poor kid and being looked down upon (or feeling looked down upon) when we went to the doctor on charity. I know, I know, I should get over it. But I haven't.)
5. Being physically humiliated, especially in relation to athletics.
6. Asking people for help.
7. Feeling as though I am trying to get away with something.
8. Dealing with bueurocrats.
9. Malls.
10. Suburban sprawl.
11. Navigating unfamiliar highway systems.
12. Driving other people's cars, particularly when they are suspicious of my ability to do so successfully.
13. Bueurocrats.
14. Social workers.
15. Dealing with car problems, especially when they are my fault. (well really, who likes that?)
16. Appearing noticeably out of breath.
17. Fluorescent lighting.
18. The people I care about dying or having major medical problems.
16. Folding tarps.
OK, perhaps it is an exaggeration to say that folding tarps brings me to the edge of an anxiety attack, but it is certainly one of my least favorite activities. Navigating unfamiliar highway systems is probably, to me, the least detrimental thing on this list. It is something that I always dread, but also something that often turns out better than I anticipated. Today was no exception. As for everything else....Well that's another story.
Anyway, I got up this morning at 6:30 to go running with our host, a sixty-something Scottish mountain climber and math professor. He proposed that we run two miles. I thought to myself, 'OK, that's a little more than I usually run, but I should be able to handle two miles, no problem.' It turns out that his idea of two miles is different than my idea of two miles. In addition to having a very different perception of distance, he didn't stop running at any point during our outing. I can easily run about two miles, but I usually stop at some point and walk for at least a block or two. I didn't want to embarrass myself by being the one to insist on stopping, so I kept running, getting more and more out of breath. Murphy has surely written a law about being out of breath and trying not to appear out of breath--if you attempt to disguise your condition, you automatically start breathing ten times harder. It's like trying not to cough while the school orchestra is playing pomp and circumstance in a quiet auditorium.
On top of that, I realized that I had horrible cramps. I didn't want to mention that either, so I didn't. After several miles (at least in my estimation) I was breathless, red in the face, in pain, and had to opt out for the last leg, having effectively been outrun by someone at least 30 years my senior.
In comparison, getting to the hospital was quite painless, even though I had to change freeways three times. I had been told that Peter, our host, would be glad to lend me his car to drive Jacques to his physical therapy appointments, but when I had asked he had seemed reticent. This made me feel bad because I felt weird that he wouldn't trust me to drive his car when he had apparently made the offer freely to Jack's previous caretakers. It also made me really nervous to drive the car.
The physical therapy went fine. Jacques' therapist was a large, upbeat woman named Karen, who had a no-nonsense manner and seemed genuinely concerned with Jacques' wellbeing. I felt a great sense of relief. The drive had been fine, the medical personnel were actually nice...."See," I told myself "All your fears are so unfounded. It's really time that you grew up and got over them." Just as I was coming to this conclusion (literally) the receptionist rushed into the physical therapy studio and began asking us weird questions about Jacques' lack of insurance.
We went back to the office where a very nasty looking blond girl waited for us. She embodied everything that makes me fear bank tellers and mall retail personnel--she had perfectly manicured fingers, streamlined hair, tastefully applied pancake make-up, and the sort of well-lacquered judgmental smile that always reminds me of a small town beauty queen. In short, she was well put-together. Her name was Leslie and she was Jacques' speech therapist.
"I thought Jack was a charity case for now until they figure something out," Karen said, giving Leslie a slightly menacing look.
"I'm sorry, but I don't have clearance." Leslie smiled. Leslie never stopped smiling. Her cold and bulging eyes reminded me of the predatory oscars that have turned our aquarium into a barren underwater wasteland.
"I can't see Jack until we have some kind of word on his payment plan," she said. "You two will have to come upstairs and talk to some people." Karen attempted to argue a little more, but Leslie was obviously not going to budge.
This is where the open-heart surgery feeling comes in. Jacques' finances are completely up in the air at the moment. He owes hundreds of thousands of dollars, and is not eligible for financial assistance because he owns property. I had and have no answers to this problem, but felt that it would be a distinctly bad idea to sign anything, confirm anything etc. Without researching the situation, I didn't want him to admit to having something that might disqualify him for aid. I had no idea what information the hospital already had, or what, if anything, had been decided by Jacques' actual family members. I also wasn't quite sure I could trust Jacques to keep his mouth shut. He's doing a lot better but he's still a little out there. Summoning my nerve, I said (very firmly, if I do say so), "Leslie, can I have a word with you?"
I tried to explain to her three things:
1. Jacques is not as lucid as he seems. (true)
2. Jacques is not at a point where he should be making any kind of major decisions. (true)
3. I am not a family member, nor do I know what the family's financial plan is for this situation. (true. I don't think they do either, though.)
4. Jacques is depressed and emotionally and physically fragile and thought he was coming in for his therapy appointment, not to make any major decisions about his future. (also true).
5. We would be perfectly willing to postpone the speech therapy until someone who really knew what was going on could talk to the hospital personel about Jacques' finances. We could just go home, and I'd tell Jacques brother to get in touch with them about the problem.
Leslie would not be deterred and insisted that we accompany her to the office upstairs. At this point we were shuttled through several dingy offices, where I tried to explain to various suspicious beaurocrats that neither Jacques nor I had any idea what was going on with his financial affairs. Can you imagine me and Jaques with a head injury trying to evade specific questions about Jacques' holdings, finances, bank balance or social security status? It was like something from a dystopian novel. We finally ended up in a closet sized fluorescent-lit room with a social worker. I had already taken her aside and told her the same thing I'd told Leslie, but to no avail. Jacques was not helping matters by trying on trappings of threadbare dignity and attempting to ask the social worker leading questions.
Finally we escaped without signing anything or confirming anything verbally. I practically had to drag Jacques out of the ill-lit closet because he was sort of confused about what was going on (though he understood most of it.)
I walked, shaking, from the hospital. I'm sure none of this sounds that bad to the rest of you, but it really was my worst nightmare (short of the death or serious injury of loved ones...oh wait....).
We got back to the car and I collapsed into my seat. By this point, Jacques was also quite shaken and very upset about his predicament. I turned the key in the ignition, desperate to get as far away from the hospital as possible. Nothing. I had turned on the headlights to navigate the parking garage and forgotten to turn them off. The car was dead. Moreover, the car was wedged into a super tight parking spot, with cars on either side. There was no way bumper cables would reach from our battery to anyone other than one of the adjacent cars. Both of them had hospital parking stickers, indicating that we might be there for the long haul. The inside of the car was summer hot. and Jacques was beginning to look really out of it. Just as I was despairing completely, a very nice Mexican gentleman in a mini van asked if I need any help. Actually he gestured, because he didn't speak any English. I explained to him in gibberish Spanish (at this point I was somewhat of a wreck) that there was no way to move the car. He very stolidly unhooked his own battery, carried to the front of the car, and hooked our cables to it! Miraculously, the car started.
Anyway, after getting lost in the never-ending Suburban strip mall that is la Jolla, Jacques and I finally made it 'home'. 'Time to fucking de-compress,' I thought to myself, cracking an ice cold beer. 'Nothing can get to us now.'
I suggested we lie in the sun in the yard so I could read aloud from 'Down and Out in Paris and London', a book Jacques has been enjoying tremendously. Jacques asked Peter if maybe there was something he could lie on, as the ground is still wet from yesterday's rain.
What did Peter bring? A fucking tarp. A big, damp, dirty tarp. It is sitting outside the front door at the moment. I have not yet mustered the courage to fold it.
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