I just tried to watch Jimmy Kimmel’s monologue on the Las Vegas massacre. After a few seconds I had to stop. With me he’s preaching to the choir. It’s too painful to be reminded we let this to happen. We choose not to stop it.
How can anyone hear the audio from the shooting and not wonder why this level of death machine is allowable? I just don’t get it.
I have friends who are sportsmen. I don’t want to restrict their fun, but I do ask they allow themselves to be inconvenienced for the common good.
This is the time to talk about gun control. Right now while we’re angry. Right now while we’re grieving. Right now while we can close our eyes and hear that sound.
“The Alien,” I said. “I hate it. It freaks me out” It does! No one wants something the size of a bottle cap embedded in their chest.
Yesterday was treatment day. Carrie was my nurse. She is most days.
As she prepared the potion to be dripped into my chest we chatted about my catheter port. It’s how I get IV fluids. It’s a small receptacle under-the-skin below my right shoulder. Small tubes connect it to my central artery. A needle still breaks my skin but it’s orders of magnitude less invasive than a normal IV line.
“The Alien,” I said. “I hate it. It freaks me out”
It does! No one wants something the size of a bottle cap embedded in their chest.
On the other hand it’s been used over twenty times. That’s a lot of times my arms or hands were spared.
“I’m glad you’ve got it,” Carrie said. She wondered how my veins would have stood up to this amount of use?
I have a love/hate relationship with this thing in my chest. I’m not getting rid of it any time soon.
It was very difficult for me to watch TV as Irma, Jose and Maria flattened much of what they touched.
Two problems. First, I’d rather get my hurricane data raw, not digested by someone like (gulp) me. Second, I know how this story ends.
You probably don’t look at them too often, but most meteorologists have at least a passing acquaintance with the typhoons and cyclones that rage in other parts of the world. Poor people don’t have the mobility to get out of the way nor the infrastructure to quickly recover. We see it all the time.
Yes, Puerto Rico is part of the United States, but a very poor and often neglected part. We’re already hearing about suffering and disease. It will only get worse.
It’s going to be difficult to move supplies and personnel beyond the cities for a long time. I’m surprised I’ve haven’t seen or heard more about helicopters. Much that’s needed will have to be airdropped.
Be prepared. This tragedy is just beginning to play out.
I’m going to tell you about my insurance problem, but you’re probably not going to believe me.
It is impossible to get a statement of my account! There’s none on the website. There’s none anywhere.
My suspicion is even they don’t know for sure who did what to me and when.
Make no mistake, this insurance policy has served me well. I have paid for drugs and not much else.
Actually it’s drugs where the problem lies. My insurer allows some drug charges directly billed by the provider. The insurer never enters these charges in their books (or so it seems). I’m not sure they’re even told I’ve been billed.
If these outside charges put me above my cap, charges to me should stop. I don’t think they do/did.
And, again, there’s no way for me to see an accounting of the services provided or how much was paid. It’s crazy.
It’s possible I struck gold today in my call with Brandy at Blue Shield. She sounded excited to do the sleuthing. I’ll report back later.
Today we played the “Addresses From my Past” game. The agent read three addresses then asked which I’d lived at. She did it twice. One was the condo H and I bought in 1984. The other was my apartment in Buffalo. I moved there in 1980!
“New expiration date,” Helaine said while looking at her grey and blue, jet plane festooned, VISA card.
We now expire in 2020. To the best of my knowledge we’ve NEVER had a card last all-the-way through. There’s always a problem, mostly fraud.
Helaine got a text from Chase last weekend. We avoided contact (the way you try and keep an airplane middle seat empty) until they finally stopped a purchase in a store. New cards came yesterday.
One of the stranger parts of this all-too-familiar ballet was convincing VISA I’m me!
Today we played the, “Addresses From my Past,” game. The agent read three addresses then asked which I’d lived at. She did it twice. One was the condo H and I bought in 1984. The other was my apartment in Buffalo. I moved there in 1980!
That’s one complete and scary dossier they’ve got on us. “Creepy,” said Helaine. Yes, it is.
Now comes the tedious job of changing numbers with merchants who keep my card number on file. I hate this part with a passion.
Isn’t there a way to keep this stuff safe? Is tighter security really more expensive than what’s happening today?