I am amazed. My good friend, who graduated from U of R, who is a doctor and who helped me so much when I first found out I had cancer, called the clinic where I am trying to get an appointment. He spoke with someone about the problems I am having getting an appointment and getting records from one place to another. As he says, "I tried to grease the wheels a little." The clinic would accept the information from Illinois, and he provided the contact info for them. So he said if I don't hear by Thursday, to call them.
I called the clinic today to follow through with the HIPA request, and while I was giving them the information about the need for a letter on their letterhead requesting the records be faxed to them, the person said, "Oh, I see you already have an appointment set up."
"I do?" I gasped.
"Yes," she replied.
"When is it for?" I asked.
"Let's see. Looks like September 11." she replied.
"Really?" I thanked my lucky stars she had inadvertently mentioned it. I wondered when I would have found out. A million questions followed. What time? With whom? Where is that located? How do I get there?
She patiently answered my questions, then said, "They will mail you a packet of information that tells you all you need to know including maps and everything."
Wow! I am delighted. AND I marked it in my calendar before I put other meetings and sessions there and end up with a conflict. Seeing how its less than 2 weeks from now, I don't want to miss it.
She ended our conversation with, "Of course, if your information isn't here yet, the doctor won't see you."
Gulp. I vow to contact both clinics next week and verify that stuff has been sent, then call the clinic here to verify that they have it in hand. Yikes!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Busy days
Yesterday was somewhat of a nightmare with printers gone beserk at work and students trying desperately to print their schedules and assignments and grad students on a different schedule needing to print online articles.
Gremlins came in the night when no one was looking and mixed up all the connections. So the Info Commons PCs SAID they were printing to Huan Yu, but really they were printing to Ischema - on a rather unpredictable basis. And the lab computers SAID they were printing to Liliana, but really they were printing to Elijah, but since the 2 printers sat next to each other, no one knew until one of the printers stopped and we thought it was the one that it wasn't.
Are you confused yet? So were we. Turns out we had the same IP address on more than one printer and the computer was firing at will. They had it all sorted out by this morning though, thank goodness!
Because there were a million other details to be handled. I came in with one task that I was determined to complete, and every time I began to work on it, I was called away for one reason or another. They were all important issues that needed to be addressed, but it was just non-stop.
Before I realized it, the day was gone (I had even forgotten to eat lunch) and I was late picking up the boys for the soccer pool. Wow! I may have discovered a whole new diet program. Its a good busy though, not a stressful one. The time sure flies by. And the boys didn't really seem to mind that they missed the uphill run part of practice.
Sometimes you hit a stride and luck out. Gotta run. I'm back at the library and its nearing midnight and closing. We get to do almost a real closing tonight. Locks are working, gates are closing, and I think we may pull it off.
Gremlins came in the night when no one was looking and mixed up all the connections. So the Info Commons PCs SAID they were printing to Huan Yu, but really they were printing to Ischema - on a rather unpredictable basis. And the lab computers SAID they were printing to Liliana, but really they were printing to Elijah, but since the 2 printers sat next to each other, no one knew until one of the printers stopped and we thought it was the one that it wasn't.
Are you confused yet? So were we. Turns out we had the same IP address on more than one printer and the computer was firing at will. They had it all sorted out by this morning though, thank goodness!
Because there were a million other details to be handled. I came in with one task that I was determined to complete, and every time I began to work on it, I was called away for one reason or another. They were all important issues that needed to be addressed, but it was just non-stop.
Before I realized it, the day was gone (I had even forgotten to eat lunch) and I was late picking up the boys for the soccer pool. Wow! I may have discovered a whole new diet program. Its a good busy though, not a stressful one. The time sure flies by. And the boys didn't really seem to mind that they missed the uphill run part of practice.
Sometimes you hit a stride and luck out. Gotta run. I'm back at the library and its nearing midnight and closing. We get to do almost a real closing tonight. Locks are working, gates are closing, and I think we may pull it off.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Enlightening
If you want a real lift in your spirits, you need to find a lighting store and experience a kilowatt surge! Saturday we went to Home Depot to find a light bulb for Drew's desk lamp. It requires a high intensity bulb, and the usual haunts don't carry them. Drew was overwhelmed when we entered the store and immediately wanted to wander in every direction and gawk at all the "cool stuff." He did manage to hang with me until we found the right light bulb, but then took off to explore.
While I was waiting for him, I found myself drawn to their lighting section. If you have never been, I highly recommend it. Pick a large Home Depot - one with at least ten aisles of lights. You will be amazed and wonder how they manage to stay afloat after paying their electric bill!
They have every type of light, lamp, ceiling fan, fixture you can imagine. They use glass light bulbs, the new spiral ones, halogen, laser, and solar. With dozens of lights on, you feel the warmth of their glow literally as you approach each aisle. Some aisles feature mood lighting, some outdoor lighting, some dining room lighting, some living room lamps. One whole aisle had motion sensor lights, and as you walked down the aisle, each lamp turned on with your passing - how cool was that!
I wandered from aisle to aisle, soaking in the light. Sometimes I just stood and enjoyed the brightness, the variety of style, the warmness. I found myself walking slower and slower, repeating some aisles, wishing the trip would not end. Light. It is an amazing thing. You can't help feeling better when you are exposed to it. It lifts your spirits.
And I needed that for today. Once again I tried to get an appointment with the oncologist here. I endured endless transfers and 'on-holds' but I persevered. Finally I was told that unless I am in a crisis, I am not likely to get an appointment for at least 4 or 5 weeks. I explain the situation. She agrees that I should probably be seen earlier, but that I would not be given an appointment until my Yale clinic had sent my records. Problem? Yale likes to burn the info to CD and mail it. This clinic will accept only faxes. She tells me to call Yale and ask for a fax. I remember that my records are carted about in paper in boxes - file folders can't hope to contain it all. It would take an army days to fax all that stuff unless they can somehow transmit from their computer. And to print it all out? That would take a forest!
I call Yale. They explain that they cannot release my information until they get a fax from here requesting it. Some HIPA rule. For my protection. The medical records woman tells me that if the clinic won't cooperate here, to call her back (I reached her in less than a minute) and she will call them and straighten it all out. I call the clinic here. They have gone home for the day. Try again tomorrow. Take a deep breath. Remember the warmth of the light.
I am David. I can take on Goliath. God will show me how. But it better happen soon. I am beginning to have some problems and I know time is running out. 8 weeks to way too long to be struggling with the system. Give me a break. There must be a way to get into this darn clinic somehow. My patience is wearing mighty thin. I'd like to smack somebody, but I have no idea who. All I have are 16 different phone numbers (everytime I call I am given a different number that I 'should' have called) and a bunch of faceless voices. These people are beserk.
I am documenting for all I am worth. Someday perhaps I can use the experience to improve others chances of getting seen quicker. For now, I'm going home soon and slide into bed with a sigh. Tomorrow is another day. Maybe I will have better luck.
While I was waiting for him, I found myself drawn to their lighting section. If you have never been, I highly recommend it. Pick a large Home Depot - one with at least ten aisles of lights. You will be amazed and wonder how they manage to stay afloat after paying their electric bill!
They have every type of light, lamp, ceiling fan, fixture you can imagine. They use glass light bulbs, the new spiral ones, halogen, laser, and solar. With dozens of lights on, you feel the warmth of their glow literally as you approach each aisle. Some aisles feature mood lighting, some outdoor lighting, some dining room lighting, some living room lamps. One whole aisle had motion sensor lights, and as you walked down the aisle, each lamp turned on with your passing - how cool was that!
I wandered from aisle to aisle, soaking in the light. Sometimes I just stood and enjoyed the brightness, the variety of style, the warmness. I found myself walking slower and slower, repeating some aisles, wishing the trip would not end. Light. It is an amazing thing. You can't help feeling better when you are exposed to it. It lifts your spirits.
And I needed that for today. Once again I tried to get an appointment with the oncologist here. I endured endless transfers and 'on-holds' but I persevered. Finally I was told that unless I am in a crisis, I am not likely to get an appointment for at least 4 or 5 weeks. I explain the situation. She agrees that I should probably be seen earlier, but that I would not be given an appointment until my Yale clinic had sent my records. Problem? Yale likes to burn the info to CD and mail it. This clinic will accept only faxes. She tells me to call Yale and ask for a fax. I remember that my records are carted about in paper in boxes - file folders can't hope to contain it all. It would take an army days to fax all that stuff unless they can somehow transmit from their computer. And to print it all out? That would take a forest!
I call Yale. They explain that they cannot release my information until they get a fax from here requesting it. Some HIPA rule. For my protection. The medical records woman tells me that if the clinic won't cooperate here, to call her back (I reached her in less than a minute) and she will call them and straighten it all out. I call the clinic here. They have gone home for the day. Try again tomorrow. Take a deep breath. Remember the warmth of the light.
I am David. I can take on Goliath. God will show me how. But it better happen soon. I am beginning to have some problems and I know time is running out. 8 weeks to way too long to be struggling with the system. Give me a break. There must be a way to get into this darn clinic somehow. My patience is wearing mighty thin. I'd like to smack somebody, but I have no idea who. All I have are 16 different phone numbers (everytime I call I am given a different number that I 'should' have called) and a bunch of faceless voices. These people are beserk.
I am documenting for all I am worth. Someday perhaps I can use the experience to improve others chances of getting seen quicker. For now, I'm going home soon and slide into bed with a sigh. Tomorrow is another day. Maybe I will have better luck.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Summer Days
This morning the pastor encouraged us to spend the Sabbath day resting, and despite the myriad chores calling my name, I decided that she was right. I needed to be quiet and restful today. Mostly I stayed indoors doing nothing in particular (OK, I indulged in music). Then I decided to take a walk. Drew and I haven't been to a park in a few weeks, what with Kiel's departure and other activities. But Drew wasn't interested in going anywhere, so I let him rest in his way, and I took the walk alone.
What a glorious day! Clouds sheltered the brown grass from the scorching sun while locust punctuated the air with their shrill protests. Bees wandered everywhere, plunging deep into the hearts of warm fruit melting off branches. Birds perched tiredly on wind-tossed bushes, silently and half-heartedly pecking at ripe berries.
The wind ruffled a sea of buttercups and clover beneath my feet as I meandered in and out of the tree canopy shade overhead. Everywhere the smell of warm hay and grass engendered little whiffs of memories of days long past and eras unencumbered by PDAs and cell phones, hectic schedules and multitasking.
For a brief moment I was transported to the back of Gram Appleby's brown clapboard house in Scotia where on hot summer days the chickens in the coop stirred up dust and hay, scratching and clucking for bugs that inadvertently wandered over from the nearby garbage pit. I could almost see Gram's full length blue print apron as she tossed scraps over the wire fence, laughing through her coffee stained dentures at the antics of Biddy and at my scaredy-cat apprehension lest one of those cluckers peck me.
Seconds later I could have sworn Karen Armstrong's farm with its enticing hay mow was nearby. Once in a blue moon I got to visit their farm and spent hours sliding down that prickly hay shoot, laughing and cavorting with a dozen kids while we waited for the watermelon to be sliced. Ooh, the sweet juice ran all down our arms and dripped off our elbows, but we didn't care and we didn't bother to wash before jumping back in the hay mow to slide some more.
Not long after that, I could smell the rich black earth of Mom's garden in Fort Covington - her back forty where the vegetables for our winter meals were carefully grown and tended. She grew all sorts of weird and yucky things there, the likes of which any decent growing girl would turn her nose up at. Problem was, Mom never let us get away with refusing to eat good food (*her* definition of good, that is). I remember sitting at the kitchen table long after everyone else had left, staring at a pile of rutabaga and crying to no avail. I could not leave that table until the rutabaga was gone. I tried. I really tried to eat that horrible stuff. It was bitter and strong and stringy. I gagged and coughed and wailed. But there I sat. Until I discovered that I could slip most of the slimy stuff into the silverware drawer, strew the rest about on my plate, and be set free.
I was never sure if Mom found out. I wasn't smart enough to sneak back later and really discard the telltale signs. She must have known, but she never said anything to me. It was as hard on her as it was on me to go through one of those "Eat and be happy you have something to put in your stomach" sessions (we had long since stopped responding to her statement that there were starving children in India by telling her to mail them our unwanted dinner - it never got the desired results).
Then for just a moment, I thought I caught a whiff of Charley Lake where Dad had bought up an old hunter's shack and we spent time wading about in the mucky water (it was still knee deep about halfway across the lake) catching salamanders and frogs and splashing about on hot summer days, teasing the younger kids with threats of bloodsuckers spawned in the murky bottom mud.
Why is it that summer days are so grand? Perhaps because there is no school and adults seem less harried and burdened. Perhaps because there are more daylight hours and you can play longer into the evening. Perhaps because people aren't stuck indoors, isolated from each other. Whatever it is, I am glad for summer days when life is easier and days are happier. And I am glad the pastor reminded us to celebrate by taking a rest. Tomorrow classes begin. I shall have to work hard to hang onto those summer weekends for as long as I can. Too soon, they will flee away to become only a memory jogged into consciousness by a languid walk on some future summer day.
Make a memory. Hang onto it for all you are able. You never know when you might need one.
What a glorious day! Clouds sheltered the brown grass from the scorching sun while locust punctuated the air with their shrill protests. Bees wandered everywhere, plunging deep into the hearts of warm fruit melting off branches. Birds perched tiredly on wind-tossed bushes, silently and half-heartedly pecking at ripe berries.
The wind ruffled a sea of buttercups and clover beneath my feet as I meandered in and out of the tree canopy shade overhead. Everywhere the smell of warm hay and grass engendered little whiffs of memories of days long past and eras unencumbered by PDAs and cell phones, hectic schedules and multitasking.
For a brief moment I was transported to the back of Gram Appleby's brown clapboard house in Scotia where on hot summer days the chickens in the coop stirred up dust and hay, scratching and clucking for bugs that inadvertently wandered over from the nearby garbage pit. I could almost see Gram's full length blue print apron as she tossed scraps over the wire fence, laughing through her coffee stained dentures at the antics of Biddy and at my scaredy-cat apprehension lest one of those cluckers peck me.
Seconds later I could have sworn Karen Armstrong's farm with its enticing hay mow was nearby. Once in a blue moon I got to visit their farm and spent hours sliding down that prickly hay shoot, laughing and cavorting with a dozen kids while we waited for the watermelon to be sliced. Ooh, the sweet juice ran all down our arms and dripped off our elbows, but we didn't care and we didn't bother to wash before jumping back in the hay mow to slide some more.
Not long after that, I could smell the rich black earth of Mom's garden in Fort Covington - her back forty where the vegetables for our winter meals were carefully grown and tended. She grew all sorts of weird and yucky things there, the likes of which any decent growing girl would turn her nose up at. Problem was, Mom never let us get away with refusing to eat good food (*her* definition of good, that is). I remember sitting at the kitchen table long after everyone else had left, staring at a pile of rutabaga and crying to no avail. I could not leave that table until the rutabaga was gone. I tried. I really tried to eat that horrible stuff. It was bitter and strong and stringy. I gagged and coughed and wailed. But there I sat. Until I discovered that I could slip most of the slimy stuff into the silverware drawer, strew the rest about on my plate, and be set free.
I was never sure if Mom found out. I wasn't smart enough to sneak back later and really discard the telltale signs. She must have known, but she never said anything to me. It was as hard on her as it was on me to go through one of those "Eat and be happy you have something to put in your stomach" sessions (we had long since stopped responding to her statement that there were starving children in India by telling her to mail them our unwanted dinner - it never got the desired results).
Then for just a moment, I thought I caught a whiff of Charley Lake where Dad had bought up an old hunter's shack and we spent time wading about in the mucky water (it was still knee deep about halfway across the lake) catching salamanders and frogs and splashing about on hot summer days, teasing the younger kids with threats of bloodsuckers spawned in the murky bottom mud.
Why is it that summer days are so grand? Perhaps because there is no school and adults seem less harried and burdened. Perhaps because there are more daylight hours and you can play longer into the evening. Perhaps because people aren't stuck indoors, isolated from each other. Whatever it is, I am glad for summer days when life is easier and days are happier. And I am glad the pastor reminded us to celebrate by taking a rest. Tomorrow classes begin. I shall have to work hard to hang onto those summer weekends for as long as I can. Too soon, they will flee away to become only a memory jogged into consciousness by a languid walk on some future summer day.
Make a memory. Hang onto it for all you are able. You never know when you might need one.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Angel
What a week of lovely surprises this has been! First ENC (Kiel's college) called RWC (my job) and asked about giving Kiel the tuition waiver this semester. The financial aid person went to great lengths to track me down in the midst of the craziness of move-in-orientation-faculty-workshop-retreats-teaching. He asked me some information, and I said that I'm not supposed to be eligible until I have worked six months - that would be next semester.
His response: "If ENC is willing to give it to him I am not going to question it." Wow! What a bonus for Kiel!
Then Drew's school emailed me and said they had received additional scholarship monies, and had reviewed my records and they are going to give Drew a small scholarship. Wow again! God is opening up the blessings and I am so happy to receive them.
A streak? Well, today my vacuum broke. I sighed and added it to the shopping list.
Drew: 5 polo shirts, 2 pair of jeans.
House: 1 vacuum.
Groceries.
Despite my best efforts, it took a grueling hour and a half to get stuff and bring it all home. I'm not a shopping groupie. I needed to hurry since I had promised to be at the library for closing because its such a new procedure and last night it didn't go exactly smoothly.
We hustled as we carted the goods up those dozen steps to the apartment building, struggled with keys only to find someone had left the door propped open again. I grabbed the mail, and headed for our door. Drew saw it first. Just to the left of the door under our welcome sign sat a small square box. I wasn't expecting anything. Drew picked it up. He puzzled over the unfamiliar address. From my brother and his new wife in New Hampshire.
Inside, we set things down and opened the package. How exciting to get something out of the blue! For no particular reason! I must admit I have been feeling a bit overwhelmed with all the new things at work, settling the household, getting Kiel off to college, and now accepting the conducting job at the church and realizing I have just one short week to do a semester of planning. What a boost this present brings in the midst of hecticity (OK, so I made up a word).
I slid the paper off the cardboard box, and flipped the flap open. I wiggled the styrofoam packaging out of the box and untaped the two sides. Nestled securely between the two halves was a beautiful Willow Tree praying angel, her wings looping gently around her back, her hands folded, praying. I love it. Its so indicative of this whole week coming and going.
First I prayed for help, then God sent me wonderful gifts, then I prayed to thank Him, then another problem to come to Him with, then this lovely gift to remind me that prayer changes - everything. Not because I say the right words in the right way. Not because I speak in a beautiful cathedral with the candles all lit. Not because its what we do before meals and bedtime.
But because my whole day is one continual conversation with God, as if He is hovering beside me all day long, ready to talk, ready to intervene, ready to listen. How arrogant of me to think God has nothing better to do than listen to my complaining, my whining, my occasional thank you, my list of requests. And yet.
And yet. And yet He does. He loves me as if I were His only child. He loves everyone that way. Even when I am not fun to be around. Even when I don't act much like His daughter. Even when I don't do the things He asks me to do.
I have one other Willow Tree angel. She sits on my bookshelf at work. She makes the sign language gesture for love, hands folded across her chest. She reminds me to love everyone who steps into my office, no matter what.
I will put this new angel on my nightstand to remind me - that God is a mere whisper away. To help, to love, to bless, to hear. Now more than ever I need to remember that.
His response: "If ENC is willing to give it to him I am not going to question it." Wow! What a bonus for Kiel!
Then Drew's school emailed me and said they had received additional scholarship monies, and had reviewed my records and they are going to give Drew a small scholarship. Wow again! God is opening up the blessings and I am so happy to receive them.
A streak? Well, today my vacuum broke. I sighed and added it to the shopping list.
Drew: 5 polo shirts, 2 pair of jeans.
House: 1 vacuum.
Groceries.
Despite my best efforts, it took a grueling hour and a half to get stuff and bring it all home. I'm not a shopping groupie. I needed to hurry since I had promised to be at the library for closing because its such a new procedure and last night it didn't go exactly smoothly.
We hustled as we carted the goods up those dozen steps to the apartment building, struggled with keys only to find someone had left the door propped open again. I grabbed the mail, and headed for our door. Drew saw it first. Just to the left of the door under our welcome sign sat a small square box. I wasn't expecting anything. Drew picked it up. He puzzled over the unfamiliar address. From my brother and his new wife in New Hampshire.
Inside, we set things down and opened the package. How exciting to get something out of the blue! For no particular reason! I must admit I have been feeling a bit overwhelmed with all the new things at work, settling the household, getting Kiel off to college, and now accepting the conducting job at the church and realizing I have just one short week to do a semester of planning. What a boost this present brings in the midst of hecticity (OK, so I made up a word).
I slid the paper off the cardboard box, and flipped the flap open. I wiggled the styrofoam packaging out of the box and untaped the two sides. Nestled securely between the two halves was a beautiful Willow Tree praying angel, her wings looping gently around her back, her hands folded, praying. I love it. Its so indicative of this whole week coming and going.
First I prayed for help, then God sent me wonderful gifts, then I prayed to thank Him, then another problem to come to Him with, then this lovely gift to remind me that prayer changes - everything. Not because I say the right words in the right way. Not because I speak in a beautiful cathedral with the candles all lit. Not because its what we do before meals and bedtime.
But because my whole day is one continual conversation with God, as if He is hovering beside me all day long, ready to talk, ready to intervene, ready to listen. How arrogant of me to think God has nothing better to do than listen to my complaining, my whining, my occasional thank you, my list of requests. And yet.
And yet. And yet He does. He loves me as if I were His only child. He loves everyone that way. Even when I am not fun to be around. Even when I don't act much like His daughter. Even when I don't do the things He asks me to do.
I have one other Willow Tree angel. She sits on my bookshelf at work. She makes the sign language gesture for love, hands folded across her chest. She reminds me to love everyone who steps into my office, no matter what.
I will put this new angel on my nightstand to remind me - that God is a mere whisper away. To help, to love, to bless, to hear. Now more than ever I need to remember that.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Orientation
40 students need to know how to do their job before Monday. Most of them were returning and already knew many of the pieces. Should be easy, yes? We set aside a day - 10 am to 3 pm - for orientation. Excluding lunch, that gave us 4 hours. 4 hours to bring them all up to speed on the new building.
And also the new organizational structure. And the new ID cards. And the new upgrade to the online circulation system. And the new courseware. And the new library personnel. And the new students. And the new procedures. And the new policies. And the new . . .the list was endless!
To make it even more interesting and challenging, the building, though officially open, is not ready for occupancy. It is not functional in many aspects you take for granted in well lived in places. For example, there are no Emergency Exit signs on alarmed doors, and we were constantly having to tell people to use the front doors. And half the computers (there are nearly 100) are not connected to any printers.
And today all the freshmen arrived, and none of them knew their net id and password or where to get that information. Well, it was an interesting day of trial and switching plans. My staff did an amazing job all things considered. And the pizza at lunch helped the students take away some good vibes.
By end of day, I sent the staff home early, and sat at the desk myself until closing. And even *after* locking the doors, the excited parents and returning students knocked to get in for a peek at the new digs, ready or not.
Whew! I can't even imagine what our first day of class will bring. Monday will be busy for sure. I will be here until midnight since its the first time we will be closing at night without workmen, facilities people, or security being about. I don't want the students and the evening supervisor to have to deal with all that on their own.
And threaded throughout the entire day was the frustration of trying to get that oncologist appointment. I finally got the go ahead from the PCP to make the appointment, and have actually spoken with three live people after innumerable hours on hold listening to lame elevator music.
Somehow, I still don't have an appointment. They will call me right back. Two hours later, I call again when I have a ten minute break. O, yes. The person I need to speak with is on the other line. They will call me right back. Two hours later while everyone else is munching pizza, I am on hold again. Now she is at lunch. She will call me at 2. And now its after 5. I don't seem to be having any luck getting ahold of the person who can help.
Its OK. I'm too busy now to see this doctor. After next week things will be calmer. Maybe then I can reach Sarah or Amy and actually get the ball rolling. Will it ever end? Will the hero rescue the damsel in distress? Will little Emily ever see her beloved doll again? Tune in again next week when the runaway train narrowly misses obliterating the dumb blonde. . .
And also the new organizational structure. And the new ID cards. And the new upgrade to the online circulation system. And the new courseware. And the new library personnel. And the new students. And the new procedures. And the new policies. And the new . . .the list was endless!
To make it even more interesting and challenging, the building, though officially open, is not ready for occupancy. It is not functional in many aspects you take for granted in well lived in places. For example, there are no Emergency Exit signs on alarmed doors, and we were constantly having to tell people to use the front doors. And half the computers (there are nearly 100) are not connected to any printers.
And today all the freshmen arrived, and none of them knew their net id and password or where to get that information. Well, it was an interesting day of trial and switching plans. My staff did an amazing job all things considered. And the pizza at lunch helped the students take away some good vibes.
By end of day, I sent the staff home early, and sat at the desk myself until closing. And even *after* locking the doors, the excited parents and returning students knocked to get in for a peek at the new digs, ready or not.
Whew! I can't even imagine what our first day of class will bring. Monday will be busy for sure. I will be here until midnight since its the first time we will be closing at night without workmen, facilities people, or security being about. I don't want the students and the evening supervisor to have to deal with all that on their own.
And threaded throughout the entire day was the frustration of trying to get that oncologist appointment. I finally got the go ahead from the PCP to make the appointment, and have actually spoken with three live people after innumerable hours on hold listening to lame elevator music.
Somehow, I still don't have an appointment. They will call me right back. Two hours later, I call again when I have a ten minute break. O, yes. The person I need to speak with is on the other line. They will call me right back. Two hours later while everyone else is munching pizza, I am on hold again. Now she is at lunch. She will call me at 2. And now its after 5. I don't seem to be having any luck getting ahold of the person who can help.
Its OK. I'm too busy now to see this doctor. After next week things will be calmer. Maybe then I can reach Sarah or Amy and actually get the ball rolling. Will it ever end? Will the hero rescue the damsel in distress? Will little Emily ever see her beloved doll again? Tune in again next week when the runaway train narrowly misses obliterating the dumb blonde. . .
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Car Pool
We met at Jitters, a local coffee place. A dozen adults huddled around two tables, pouring over calendars, spread sheets, address lists, and Google maps. You would have thought we were planning the next invasion of Mars!
It sounds so simple. Eleven children. One morning run. Get them to school on the east side of the city by 7:45. But complicate that with vans versus small cars, morning versus evening shifts, rotating 3 against 4 day schedules, and previous commitments, and with 6 you get egg roll.
Half the time I had no idea what these seasoned veterans were talking about. I just kept nodding my head, figuring that at some point I would understand. They were so serious. If I take your shift on Thursday, I need a second car because you have a van. And we need to split your four children into two different vehicles unless Sheila can sub for Ron, then we can have the Fentons go with George. . .
Good Lord. I don't know how they ever figured it all out. All I know is, at the end of the evenings, I drive every Monday morning and only have to pick up at one location. Except for the Friday where I take my rotating turn and the Tuesday I swapped for one of the Mondays and then I still only have to pick up at one location, its just a different location. . .
And then there were the 18 ways to get there that avoid construction and don't take all day to deliver kids to the right school. I won't even begin to consider that. Lord have mercy, you need a doctoral degree and a lifetime of experience. That doesn't even cover if you are sick. I just hope I don't get sick. Perhaps I will drive anyway. It would be much easier.
It sounds so simple. Eleven children. One morning run. Get them to school on the east side of the city by 7:45. But complicate that with vans versus small cars, morning versus evening shifts, rotating 3 against 4 day schedules, and previous commitments, and with 6 you get egg roll.
Half the time I had no idea what these seasoned veterans were talking about. I just kept nodding my head, figuring that at some point I would understand. They were so serious. If I take your shift on Thursday, I need a second car because you have a van. And we need to split your four children into two different vehicles unless Sheila can sub for Ron, then we can have the Fentons go with George. . .
Good Lord. I don't know how they ever figured it all out. All I know is, at the end of the evenings, I drive every Monday morning and only have to pick up at one location. Except for the Friday where I take my rotating turn and the Tuesday I swapped for one of the Mondays and then I still only have to pick up at one location, its just a different location. . .
And then there were the 18 ways to get there that avoid construction and don't take all day to deliver kids to the right school. I won't even begin to consider that. Lord have mercy, you need a doctoral degree and a lifetime of experience. That doesn't even cover if you are sick. I just hope I don't get sick. Perhaps I will drive anyway. It would be much easier.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Faculty retreat
Today the entire faculty of the college went to the Genessee Country Village and Museum to begin preparation for the upcoming semester. We were addressed by the president and the provost, discussed big picture topics such as the meaning of a liberal arts education, the importance of preparing students for life not just jobs, sang together, prayed together, and met each other.
After a delicious lunch (dessert was either raspberry shortcake or chocolate covered cream puffs!) we wandered about the village and museums before the afternoon sessions began. It was an interesting and informative day. We looked at a snapshot of our student body as well as our faculty. We talked about how we got where we are and where we are headed. I met new people and reconnected with those I spent the day with yesterday.
Its been interesting. Frustrating that I have a ton of things to complete before Friday's new library student worker orientation, but a needed foundation. Now, I get to take Drew shopping for school stuff. The coupons run out on Friday and this is one of the last chances I have to take advantage of the coupons. Good things to do. Good days to do them in.
After a delicious lunch (dessert was either raspberry shortcake or chocolate covered cream puffs!) we wandered about the village and museums before the afternoon sessions began. It was an interesting and informative day. We looked at a snapshot of our student body as well as our faculty. We talked about how we got where we are and where we are headed. I met new people and reconnected with those I spent the day with yesterday.
Its been interesting. Frustrating that I have a ton of things to complete before Friday's new library student worker orientation, but a needed foundation. Now, I get to take Drew shopping for school stuff. The coupons run out on Friday and this is one of the last chances I have to take advantage of the coupons. Good things to do. Good days to do them in.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Orientation
Today I met the 18 other new faculty who are beginning their time at Roberts Wesleyan College. What an interesting and varied group of people I am honored to work with. Some are new and experiencing teaching for the first time. Some are experienced, some returning after working elsewhere for a period, some have run for office, lived in other countries, were born in other countries, have families, are single - a wondrous mix of interesting and gifted people.
We spent the day together learning about RWC, the history, the mission and vision, the personnel, the expectations, the ropes, the technology - and who to call when you get lost. We dined at the president's house (an elegant and historic structure), and met division chairs. I have done orientation at a number of other academic institutions, and they all have their own approach. For the larger ones, just learning campus is a challenge. For the serious places, its all business. But this orientation felt like family. Little things that make you feel welcomed were attended to. Maybe I like a little hand holding. Maybe I am not as independent as I would like to think. At any rate, I hope this will be a productive and good year.
More important, I made three important contacts who offered to assist with Jairus House and provided me with names of individuals who will be valuable resources of information as I am setting things up. How exciting is that!
We spent the day together learning about RWC, the history, the mission and vision, the personnel, the expectations, the ropes, the technology - and who to call when you get lost. We dined at the president's house (an elegant and historic structure), and met division chairs. I have done orientation at a number of other academic institutions, and they all have their own approach. For the larger ones, just learning campus is a challenge. For the serious places, its all business. But this orientation felt like family. Little things that make you feel welcomed were attended to. Maybe I like a little hand holding. Maybe I am not as independent as I would like to think. At any rate, I hope this will be a productive and good year.
More important, I made three important contacts who offered to assist with Jairus House and provided me with names of individuals who will be valuable resources of information as I am setting things up. How exciting is that!
Monday, August 20, 2007
Opening Day
It was a long awaited soft rollout for our brand new facility. The President and VP came at 8 to be the first officially through the door at opening. At ten they held a prayer and dedication of the new building for staff, and a handful of people around in the summer came to see the new library.
Of course, we are not quite ready. The study cafe and computer lab are not finished due to flooring issues, so the furniture for those areas is scattered about the place here and there, cluttering up the nice clean look. The circ desk PCs are still a bit wet behind the ears and barely functional, requiring a few little workarounds until bugs get addressed. The instruction lab isn't quite up and running.
But it is love at first sight for all who enter. The building has been anticipated for many years and is the fruition of much hard work and many meetings and hours of planning. A dream has become a reality. How lucky I am to have arrived just in time.
Tomorrow there will be a reception on the terrace before the annual staff and faculty meeting and dinner. We are polishing and tidying as much as we can. I take joy at everyone's happiness. It wonderful to have a reason to celebrate.
Of course, we are not quite ready. The study cafe and computer lab are not finished due to flooring issues, so the furniture for those areas is scattered about the place here and there, cluttering up the nice clean look. The circ desk PCs are still a bit wet behind the ears and barely functional, requiring a few little workarounds until bugs get addressed. The instruction lab isn't quite up and running.
But it is love at first sight for all who enter. The building has been anticipated for many years and is the fruition of much hard work and many meetings and hours of planning. A dream has become a reality. How lucky I am to have arrived just in time.
Tomorrow there will be a reception on the terrace before the annual staff and faculty meeting and dinner. We are polishing and tidying as much as we can. I take joy at everyone's happiness. It wonderful to have a reason to celebrate.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Saying good bye
When I took my oldest son off to college more than a dozen years ago, it was hard to leave him there. Sure, I had other sons at home. But he was my first fledgling to leave the nest. He had contracted some sort of bronchitis and was on an antibiotic. I knew he didn't feel well, but he was adamant that he would be fine. We were such newbies at this.
We settled him in his dorm, and they had activities scheduled for the parents while the kids got registered and took care of other business. There was a reception at the president's house and an information session in the chapel where we were admonished to leave our children in their very capable hands and ignore calls of homesickness and not make any appearances until homecoming in late October.
I got calls from his dorm mates that he was deathly ill, not eating, not getting out of bed, not going to class. I called him. He was disgusted that I was bothering him. I let him be. I prayed like crazy. Somehow it all worked out. He managed to survive and thrive and graduate just fine.
So I wasn't expecting a hard time in saying goodbye to Kiel. I've been through this before, and this isn't his first year at ENC. We waited patiently while he found coach and signed papers and got his room key. It took less than twenty minutes to unload all the stuff, then we took him to get groceries. He didn't show his impatience, but I knew he only wanted for us to leave so he could connect with friends and jump into the swing of campus life. He was glad to be back, glad to be out from under my roof, glad to be in control of his own life (even though he was in fact glad that I paid for the groceries). He dutifully gave me the obligatory Mom smooth on the cheek, waved goodbye, and bounded off to see who was arriving.
The trip home was filled with music, tapes of a lecture series, and quiet conversations. I missed him already. My mind was really back in Boston, thinking about what he was up to, noting when he was with the team at their kickoff dinner, smiling that he would undoubtedly stay up late. I didn't miss his clutter when I got home. I won't miss his staying up late or grumpy morning risings. I am happy he is happy and that college is going well this year.
My nest is down to one. Drew is filled with soccer and school and friends and a life beyond mine and has been for a long time. Soon he will say goodbye. Of course, I know good bye is only for a season. Once they have their own identity figured out, they reconnect in stronger, more mature ways. They come back as friends. And that's good.
We settled him in his dorm, and they had activities scheduled for the parents while the kids got registered and took care of other business. There was a reception at the president's house and an information session in the chapel where we were admonished to leave our children in their very capable hands and ignore calls of homesickness and not make any appearances until homecoming in late October.
I got calls from his dorm mates that he was deathly ill, not eating, not getting out of bed, not going to class. I called him. He was disgusted that I was bothering him. I let him be. I prayed like crazy. Somehow it all worked out. He managed to survive and thrive and graduate just fine.
So I wasn't expecting a hard time in saying goodbye to Kiel. I've been through this before, and this isn't his first year at ENC. We waited patiently while he found coach and signed papers and got his room key. It took less than twenty minutes to unload all the stuff, then we took him to get groceries. He didn't show his impatience, but I knew he only wanted for us to leave so he could connect with friends and jump into the swing of campus life. He was glad to be back, glad to be out from under my roof, glad to be in control of his own life (even though he was in fact glad that I paid for the groceries). He dutifully gave me the obligatory Mom smooth on the cheek, waved goodbye, and bounded off to see who was arriving.
The trip home was filled with music, tapes of a lecture series, and quiet conversations. I missed him already. My mind was really back in Boston, thinking about what he was up to, noting when he was with the team at their kickoff dinner, smiling that he would undoubtedly stay up late. I didn't miss his clutter when I got home. I won't miss his staying up late or grumpy morning risings. I am happy he is happy and that college is going well this year.
My nest is down to one. Drew is filled with soccer and school and friends and a life beyond mine and has been for a long time. Soon he will say goodbye. Of course, I know good bye is only for a season. Once they have their own identity figured out, they reconnect in stronger, more mature ways. They come back as friends. And that's good.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Home cookin'
Morning needed to begin earlier than normal today. Kiel is going back to college. Last night he was allowed to select his "last meal" here in Rochester. He spent his time shopping for last minute needs, seeing friends, and gulping down pizza and wings. I gave up and went to bed almost midnight. He stayed up and dyed his hair a deep ruby red that only took around the fringes and roots. Not the effect he was going for, but somewhat intriguing.
I refrained from jerking him out of bed at my waking hour, and took care of a number of errands that needed doing (did you know that if you don't mail your plates back to Connecticut they will charge you tax?) and finished laundry, fed the dishwasher - all those things you want done when you are going out of town (and mostly out of self defence since you don't want to come home to a house full of dirty stuff).
My sister Jan had offered to drive us to ENC in her supersized van. I warned Kiel not to take his entire retinue of stuff, and he assured me he wasn't. But when we began packing things in the back where Jan had removed the seats I wasn't at all sure we would get everything in. 6 big bins loaded with important stuff, a mini fridge, a microwave, numerous suitcases and duffle bags, pillows, hangers - the list was endless! Somehow after pushing and pulling and ending up with stuff on the roof, we took off.
The trip itself was thankfully uneventful. We swung up to Lake George to have dinner at my parents. After a long drive, we were grateful for the coolness of the Adirondacks and the comfort of Mom and Dad's A frame nestled in the pine trees. Mom had put together a simple home cooked meal that really hit the spot. Chicken, baked potatoes, cranberry sauce, carrots, rolls and three kinds of fruit pie topped off with a cup of tea.
Even Drew, my fussy eater, dug in and had seconds. It was just the break we needed. Good food, good conversation, good family. Ah! What a great way to get rid of a son.
I refrained from jerking him out of bed at my waking hour, and took care of a number of errands that needed doing (did you know that if you don't mail your plates back to Connecticut they will charge you tax?) and finished laundry, fed the dishwasher - all those things you want done when you are going out of town (and mostly out of self defence since you don't want to come home to a house full of dirty stuff).
My sister Jan had offered to drive us to ENC in her supersized van. I warned Kiel not to take his entire retinue of stuff, and he assured me he wasn't. But when we began packing things in the back where Jan had removed the seats I wasn't at all sure we would get everything in. 6 big bins loaded with important stuff, a mini fridge, a microwave, numerous suitcases and duffle bags, pillows, hangers - the list was endless! Somehow after pushing and pulling and ending up with stuff on the roof, we took off.
The trip itself was thankfully uneventful. We swung up to Lake George to have dinner at my parents. After a long drive, we were grateful for the coolness of the Adirondacks and the comfort of Mom and Dad's A frame nestled in the pine trees. Mom had put together a simple home cooked meal that really hit the spot. Chicken, baked potatoes, cranberry sauce, carrots, rolls and three kinds of fruit pie topped off with a cup of tea.
Even Drew, my fussy eater, dug in and had seconds. It was just the break we needed. Good food, good conversation, good family. Ah! What a great way to get rid of a son.
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Willow
On the south side of Hubbard Park, just down the road from our complex, stands a mid-sized weeping willow tree. It shades the tennis court, and shelters a large rock marking the end of the parking spaces nearby. It seemed a normal tree to me. I never paid much attention to it except to notice that the graceful boughs tinker lazily in the breeze and that the shade feels delicious when I walk to work on a hot day.
On this particular day, the weather was neither hot nor cold. Beyond the tree and the park, the sky bled black with threat of storm while behind me the cheery blue sky sported goldfinches and robins. As I meandered down the roadway behind the fire station, I glanced up from the wildflowers that lace the road's edge and for the first time realized with surprise that there was more than one trunk to the little tree.
While it isn't an old tree, its trunk is gnarled and misshapen by some sort of tree virus, giving it the appearance of having the mumps in spades. From the rotund base rose numerous trunks, each with its own distinct strength. I began to count, but there were trunks behind trunks, trunks twisted around other trunks, leaves hiding some trunks, and with every trunk ending in the same base clump, I needed to get closer to see what was going on.
I bent low and swished underneath the branches, feeling the leaves brush my hair. I touched the nearest tall pole shooting upwards from a defect in the base, and began counting. Fourteen. There were fourteen branches rising up. From outside the leaf skirt, you couldn't see more than the solid unified bottom. It was only from within the leafy curtain that the true state of the tree could be discerned.
I ducked back under the branches, reflecting on the state of the willow. Maybe that's the way it is with people too. Maybe you see the good parts and appreciate what they offer. Maybe you don't see their pain and what is holding them together until you get up close. And even then, life's ravages may have resulted not in decay and destruction, but in creative ways of overcoming life's viruses, ways of keeping going that aren't necessarily the design or the plan, but work well nonetheless.
On this particular day, the weather was neither hot nor cold. Beyond the tree and the park, the sky bled black with threat of storm while behind me the cheery blue sky sported goldfinches and robins. As I meandered down the roadway behind the fire station, I glanced up from the wildflowers that lace the road's edge and for the first time realized with surprise that there was more than one trunk to the little tree.
While it isn't an old tree, its trunk is gnarled and misshapen by some sort of tree virus, giving it the appearance of having the mumps in spades. From the rotund base rose numerous trunks, each with its own distinct strength. I began to count, but there were trunks behind trunks, trunks twisted around other trunks, leaves hiding some trunks, and with every trunk ending in the same base clump, I needed to get closer to see what was going on.
I bent low and swished underneath the branches, feeling the leaves brush my hair. I touched the nearest tall pole shooting upwards from a defect in the base, and began counting. Fourteen. There were fourteen branches rising up. From outside the leaf skirt, you couldn't see more than the solid unified bottom. It was only from within the leafy curtain that the true state of the tree could be discerned.
I ducked back under the branches, reflecting on the state of the willow. Maybe that's the way it is with people too. Maybe you see the good parts and appreciate what they offer. Maybe you don't see their pain and what is holding them together until you get up close. And even then, life's ravages may have resulted not in decay and destruction, but in creative ways of overcoming life's viruses, ways of keeping going that aren't necessarily the design or the plan, but work well nonetheless.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
More games
So I met with the branch manager. I wonder as I enter the bank what he was told - that I am difficult and uncooperative? That I am threatening litigation? Probably. I sit for ten minutes before someone approaches me. I worry that I won't get things taken care of in one short hour. More letters have come overnight, more fees.
The manager is pleasant and apologetic. I mention that I have more letters. We sort through things. It seems overwhelming. He suggests we deal with one issue at a time. First the stack of letters that say they will not take another check but require a money order. He sets those up. Then the batch that will take a check but there are stated fees. He reimburses me so I can write the check. Then the stack that doesn't say what the fees are. We call them. I start using my cell phone. A credit card company I had paid off. The conversation takes too many twists and turns to keep track of. The upshot is that they are charging me an additional $75 and if I don't do a check over the phone today for a $15 fee, then the amount of penalty fees will double.
I look at the manager. He gulps and says they will cover it. I give them the check information, then close the card permanently. They hassle me repeatedly, making me jump through tons of hoops to close the card. The manager watches the agony. (Elaine would have talked with them herself and not made me do it).
I hang up. It was not enjoyable. The manager looks at me, then quietly says, "I am canceling my card with that bank. I am sorry you are having to go through this."
Yes. Someone finally got it. My pain has been understood. After that, he let me use the bank phone so I won't get charged for cell phone minutes. We ended up dealing with all told 13 of the 24 problems. I went over my lunch time by a half hour. I make an appointment to come back Thursday - I am sure there will be more letters. He shakes my hand and says, "I hope you'll come back."
I smile. "You'll be seeing me, I'm sure of it." I feel better.
The manager is pleasant and apologetic. I mention that I have more letters. We sort through things. It seems overwhelming. He suggests we deal with one issue at a time. First the stack of letters that say they will not take another check but require a money order. He sets those up. Then the batch that will take a check but there are stated fees. He reimburses me so I can write the check. Then the stack that doesn't say what the fees are. We call them. I start using my cell phone. A credit card company I had paid off. The conversation takes too many twists and turns to keep track of. The upshot is that they are charging me an additional $75 and if I don't do a check over the phone today for a $15 fee, then the amount of penalty fees will double.
I look at the manager. He gulps and says they will cover it. I give them the check information, then close the card permanently. They hassle me repeatedly, making me jump through tons of hoops to close the card. The manager watches the agony. (Elaine would have talked with them herself and not made me do it).
I hang up. It was not enjoyable. The manager looks at me, then quietly says, "I am canceling my card with that bank. I am sorry you are having to go through this."
Yes. Someone finally got it. My pain has been understood. After that, he let me use the bank phone so I won't get charged for cell phone minutes. We ended up dealing with all told 13 of the 24 problems. I went over my lunch time by a half hour. I make an appointment to come back Thursday - I am sure there will be more letters. He shakes my hand and says, "I hope you'll come back."
I smile. "You'll be seeing me, I'm sure of it." I feel better.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Let the Games Begin
Idiot! Moron! Twit! A thousand expletives passed through my mind as I sat across the desk from a not-helpful bank employee. HE thought he was being helpful. *I* found him condescending and arrogant.
We began on the wrong foot. As I was signing in to see the branch manager to follow through with the check snafu, per the direction of the woman who helped me before and who was most unfortunately on vacation, a gentleman in his early thirties approached. "Does someone need some help?" he smirked at me.
I explained that I needed to see the branch manager. "Oh, I think he is at lunch, but let me help you." Dubious, I followed him into his cubicle and explained the situation. "Oh, my. Oh, my. Well. I'm not sure what you expect us to do about it." he sputtered.
I explain that Elaine was calling each place and arranging an equitable plan to address correcting the problem, identifying if there would be any charges or fees, then putting that amount into my checking account so I could either do an electronic transfer or write a new check for the full damage.
"Well, I don't have the authority to do that," he stammered.
"I see. That's why Elaine told me to see the branch manager. If I could make an appointment. . ."
"We don't do appointments," he interrupted me. "You'll have to wait until he returns from lunch." I explain that I am also on my lunch and not willing to use up personal time at work to address a problem I neither created nor am responsible for.
"Well now you're upset," he whined. "I was only trying to help."
"Look," I responded, resenting the fact that he had just insinuated that I was the problem here and giving *him* a hard time. "I will not take time off work to deal with this issue. The bank made the mistake, not me. Just tell me when the bank manager takes lunch and I will come back tomorrow when he will be here even if I have to take an early lunch."
"You don't realize how lucky you are that you decided to open an account with us and not some other institution. Anyone else wouldn't even consider helping you whether it was their printing error or not. We bend over backwards here to help our customers."
"Good," I reply. "I just want to make sure the fall out from this will be covered. With 24 items outstanding, those fees will run into the hundreds of dollars, and I certainly can't nor should I be responsible for that since I didn't do anything wrong. You understand that there are time constraints involved here - the DMV is saying they will suspend my license, Wegmans has already suspended my shoppers card, the late fees are piling up. These things need to be addressed quickly before they spiral out of control. It is in your best interest to discharge things with some speed."
"Well, now," he squirmed. "I never said we were going to pay all those fees. We will help all we can, but . . ."
Exasperated, I now begin to show my frustration. "I have already spent hours dealing with this problem. Hours that I should be spending getting settled into a new apartment, a new job, family responsibilities. I ought to add up those hours and send you a bill. After all, I am taking care of bank business here."
"Oh, now you are threatening me. This is a legal issue. I don't get paid to deal with legal issues."
I sit back in the chair. I can feel my face clouding over. This whole conversation has not gone well. I don't know what to do next. I'm a smart person - obviously smarter than the guy across the desk. I should be able to turn this around and get what I need. My mind is going full tilt, I am biting my tongue. Then I remember. Silently I pray. Lord, help!
Suddenly, he jumps up and says, "Let me call in the person who is filling in for Elaine while she is out. She's new, and I don't think she can do anything, but she should be handling this, not me."
He returns with a young woman, and I explain the situation yet again. I want to see the branch manager. He should be cognizant of the situation. She sizes up what is going on, then says she is new and has only been with the institution for three weeks. However, she would be happy to make photocopies of my paperwork, the new snotty letters from the unhappy companies who had been given bad checks, and speak with the branch manager as soon as he returns from lunch. She will give him my phone number and he will call me and set up an appointment that is convenient for me.
Yes. It was all I asked in the first place. She blinks innocently and asks, "Are these all of the fees we need to take care of?"
"Absolutely NOT! There are 24 things outstanding, Elaine addressed three of them, here are another five. These rude and disturbing missives will continue to trickle in for another few weeks at least." I feel like no one is listening. PLEASE hear what I am saying and HELP!
"Oh," she gulps. "I guess you DO have a problem."
"No," I reply. "The bank has a problem and they are sharing it with me. I didn't ask them to either." She laughs and goes off to make copies, leaving me with the guy. There is an uncomfortable silence. He tries to smooth things over by repeating that he really was trying to help. Really. He meant well. I say nothing. He was not helpful.
She returns and gives me back my papers, assuring me that the branch manager will contact me that afternoon. She apologizes for the misunderstanding and hopes I will not let this unpleasant incident ruin the rest of my day. "Don't worry," she says as I am leaving. "We'll take care of everything."
I believe her. I am still nervous about getting stuck paying stuff I shouldn't have to pay. But I am hopeful that I will have better luck tomorrow.
We began on the wrong foot. As I was signing in to see the branch manager to follow through with the check snafu, per the direction of the woman who helped me before and who was most unfortunately on vacation, a gentleman in his early thirties approached. "Does someone need some help?" he smirked at me.
I explained that I needed to see the branch manager. "Oh, I think he is at lunch, but let me help you." Dubious, I followed him into his cubicle and explained the situation. "Oh, my. Oh, my. Well. I'm not sure what you expect us to do about it." he sputtered.
I explain that Elaine was calling each place and arranging an equitable plan to address correcting the problem, identifying if there would be any charges or fees, then putting that amount into my checking account so I could either do an electronic transfer or write a new check for the full damage.
"Well, I don't have the authority to do that," he stammered.
"I see. That's why Elaine told me to see the branch manager. If I could make an appointment. . ."
"We don't do appointments," he interrupted me. "You'll have to wait until he returns from lunch." I explain that I am also on my lunch and not willing to use up personal time at work to address a problem I neither created nor am responsible for.
"Well now you're upset," he whined. "I was only trying to help."
"Look," I responded, resenting the fact that he had just insinuated that I was the problem here and giving *him* a hard time. "I will not take time off work to deal with this issue. The bank made the mistake, not me. Just tell me when the bank manager takes lunch and I will come back tomorrow when he will be here even if I have to take an early lunch."
"You don't realize how lucky you are that you decided to open an account with us and not some other institution. Anyone else wouldn't even consider helping you whether it was their printing error or not. We bend over backwards here to help our customers."
"Good," I reply. "I just want to make sure the fall out from this will be covered. With 24 items outstanding, those fees will run into the hundreds of dollars, and I certainly can't nor should I be responsible for that since I didn't do anything wrong. You understand that there are time constraints involved here - the DMV is saying they will suspend my license, Wegmans has already suspended my shoppers card, the late fees are piling up. These things need to be addressed quickly before they spiral out of control. It is in your best interest to discharge things with some speed."
"Well, now," he squirmed. "I never said we were going to pay all those fees. We will help all we can, but . . ."
Exasperated, I now begin to show my frustration. "I have already spent hours dealing with this problem. Hours that I should be spending getting settled into a new apartment, a new job, family responsibilities. I ought to add up those hours and send you a bill. After all, I am taking care of bank business here."
"Oh, now you are threatening me. This is a legal issue. I don't get paid to deal with legal issues."
I sit back in the chair. I can feel my face clouding over. This whole conversation has not gone well. I don't know what to do next. I'm a smart person - obviously smarter than the guy across the desk. I should be able to turn this around and get what I need. My mind is going full tilt, I am biting my tongue. Then I remember. Silently I pray. Lord, help!
Suddenly, he jumps up and says, "Let me call in the person who is filling in for Elaine while she is out. She's new, and I don't think she can do anything, but she should be handling this, not me."
He returns with a young woman, and I explain the situation yet again. I want to see the branch manager. He should be cognizant of the situation. She sizes up what is going on, then says she is new and has only been with the institution for three weeks. However, she would be happy to make photocopies of my paperwork, the new snotty letters from the unhappy companies who had been given bad checks, and speak with the branch manager as soon as he returns from lunch. She will give him my phone number and he will call me and set up an appointment that is convenient for me.
Yes. It was all I asked in the first place. She blinks innocently and asks, "Are these all of the fees we need to take care of?"
"Absolutely NOT! There are 24 things outstanding, Elaine addressed three of them, here are another five. These rude and disturbing missives will continue to trickle in for another few weeks at least." I feel like no one is listening. PLEASE hear what I am saying and HELP!
"Oh," she gulps. "I guess you DO have a problem."
"No," I reply. "The bank has a problem and they are sharing it with me. I didn't ask them to either." She laughs and goes off to make copies, leaving me with the guy. There is an uncomfortable silence. He tries to smooth things over by repeating that he really was trying to help. Really. He meant well. I say nothing. He was not helpful.
She returns and gives me back my papers, assuring me that the branch manager will contact me that afternoon. She apologizes for the misunderstanding and hopes I will not let this unpleasant incident ruin the rest of my day. "Don't worry," she says as I am leaving. "We'll take care of everything."
I believe her. I am still nervous about getting stuck paying stuff I shouldn't have to pay. But I am hopeful that I will have better luck tomorrow.
Monday, August 13, 2007
No Call
So what happened? The receptionist had assured me that they would call me the very next day with a referral number. NOW what? I sighed and reviewed my forms. I didn't see anything amiss. I decided to call the insurance company and ask how referrals work. Maybe there was something I was supposed to do.
After wading twice through the phone tree (first time I struck out) I was pleasantly greeted by a Girl. I told her I was expecting a referral from my PCP and wanted to know how the process worked. She explained the steps and said that doctors don't always get them called in to them immediately - it could take a week or more before Dr. Ver called.
WAIT - that's not my PCP. In fact, it is the doctor I had when I lived here previously and was with a totally different insurance company. I told the Girl that the PCP was incorrect. She said she would be glad to indicated that I had changed PCPs.
I must have snorted out loud. What change? Where they had gotten a wrong name from, I didn't know, but *I* hadn't changed my PCP. How long do they keep these records? and Where do they keep them? Some area database that all the insurance companies access?
Well, she made the change. I asked her to change it for Drew too since I was sure his record would be wrong (it was). Then I called the doctor's office. The receptionist shuffled through paperwork trying to find my piece of paper. Finally she found it and told me that the referral hadn't taken since they were not listed as my PCP. I told her I had just discovered that and made the change.
So she said they would contact the insurance company and she would call me back this afternoon with the needed number. Well, its now early evening and no call. I know they are busy, that following through on these little details is not easy. Sigh - I will call them tomorrow, not too early, and hope for the best.
I did try calling the oncologist directly to see if he could pull a few strings, but I couldn't even get up to bat - they have an immutable phone tree that is insurmountable until you are a patient and have that magic number. Well, these things have a way of working out to my best interest. I shall be interested in learning why the delays. Timing is everything, as the saying goes.
After wading twice through the phone tree (first time I struck out) I was pleasantly greeted by a Girl. I told her I was expecting a referral from my PCP and wanted to know how the process worked. She explained the steps and said that doctors don't always get them called in to them immediately - it could take a week or more before Dr. Ver called.
WAIT - that's not my PCP. In fact, it is the doctor I had when I lived here previously and was with a totally different insurance company. I told the Girl that the PCP was incorrect. She said she would be glad to indicated that I had changed PCPs.
I must have snorted out loud. What change? Where they had gotten a wrong name from, I didn't know, but *I* hadn't changed my PCP. How long do they keep these records? and Where do they keep them? Some area database that all the insurance companies access?
Well, she made the change. I asked her to change it for Drew too since I was sure his record would be wrong (it was). Then I called the doctor's office. The receptionist shuffled through paperwork trying to find my piece of paper. Finally she found it and told me that the referral hadn't taken since they were not listed as my PCP. I told her I had just discovered that and made the change.
So she said they would contact the insurance company and she would call me back this afternoon with the needed number. Well, its now early evening and no call. I know they are busy, that following through on these little details is not easy. Sigh - I will call them tomorrow, not too early, and hope for the best.
I did try calling the oncologist directly to see if he could pull a few strings, but I couldn't even get up to bat - they have an immutable phone tree that is insurmountable until you are a patient and have that magic number. Well, these things have a way of working out to my best interest. I shall be interested in learning why the delays. Timing is everything, as the saying goes.
Friday, August 10, 2007
PCP
Sounds like an illegal drug. But its shorthand for Primary Care Provider, and I finally got to see mine. It was late in the day - 4:30 was the supposed time, but well after 5:30, I found myself standing in an examining room on the fifth floor listening for footsteps.
In the room next to mine, a newborn cried loudly and angrily, then subsided into a happy gurgle of nursing. Minutes later a toddler in the room on the other side began a non-stop chatter about blue shoes and happy feet. He repeated his words ad infinitum until all adults ceased from responding even condescendingly.
The nurse had long since finished poking and measuring me, the reams of paperwork sat silently on the table. I wandered to the window and raised the blinds. Before me, a panorama of green trees, 6 lanes of traffic, and the rooftops of mall buildings. Red tail lights streamed heavily toward the west, hindered by bull dozers and steamrollers wending their summer chores across the intersections.
Snatches of conversations wafted up and down the hallway outside the door. I tried to breathe deeply and relax. My blood pressure was high. I suppose it is the not knowing, the understanding that this is one step on an unknown path. Not that I don't trust God to see me through. I am not sure I am quite ready, not quite in the right position, haven't quite gotten all the pieces in place to be able to minimize the impact if it comes.
The doctor finally swept into the room. She remembered me from Drew's appointment. I didn't waste words on chatter. Look, here's the deal. She listened. She asked good questions. She assured me she would do the referral that day, agreed that I should not waste any more time. While she did not know the specific doctor recommended by my Yale oncologist, she told me the reputation of the clinic was excellent and that I would be well cared for.
She signed me up for baseline tests, scheduled a followup appointment, recommended that I do a complete annual in January, and told me not to worry about the blood pressure until life settles down and I have seen the specialist. She was going to be good. Supportive. Knowledgeable. I felt confident that she was a good choice.
As we were leaving the room, she laid her hand on my shoulder, and said, "Its OK. We're going to take care of this." Um. We shall see. We shall see.
In the room next to mine, a newborn cried loudly and angrily, then subsided into a happy gurgle of nursing. Minutes later a toddler in the room on the other side began a non-stop chatter about blue shoes and happy feet. He repeated his words ad infinitum until all adults ceased from responding even condescendingly.
The nurse had long since finished poking and measuring me, the reams of paperwork sat silently on the table. I wandered to the window and raised the blinds. Before me, a panorama of green trees, 6 lanes of traffic, and the rooftops of mall buildings. Red tail lights streamed heavily toward the west, hindered by bull dozers and steamrollers wending their summer chores across the intersections.
Snatches of conversations wafted up and down the hallway outside the door. I tried to breathe deeply and relax. My blood pressure was high. I suppose it is the not knowing, the understanding that this is one step on an unknown path. Not that I don't trust God to see me through. I am not sure I am quite ready, not quite in the right position, haven't quite gotten all the pieces in place to be able to minimize the impact if it comes.
The doctor finally swept into the room. She remembered me from Drew's appointment. I didn't waste words on chatter. Look, here's the deal. She listened. She asked good questions. She assured me she would do the referral that day, agreed that I should not waste any more time. While she did not know the specific doctor recommended by my Yale oncologist, she told me the reputation of the clinic was excellent and that I would be well cared for.
She signed me up for baseline tests, scheduled a followup appointment, recommended that I do a complete annual in January, and told me not to worry about the blood pressure until life settles down and I have seen the specialist. She was going to be good. Supportive. Knowledgeable. I felt confident that she was a good choice.
As we were leaving the room, she laid her hand on my shoulder, and said, "Its OK. We're going to take care of this." Um. We shall see. We shall see.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Burn
It started out to be a grumpy morning. Drew hadn't finished cleaning the kitchen last night (how quickly the magic vanishes), and I wanted to make some ice tea to take to work with me. Problem was, I couldn't even *find* the sink. There was no help for it, I would have to load the dishwasher. Of course, that meant I had to UNload it first. I hate mornings that start out wrong.
I flew around taking care of things with one eye on the clock, watching precious minutes tick away. Every few minutes, I called Drew (yes, back to that again) to no avail. By the time I had access to the sink, I no longer had time to make the tea. I needed to shower and dress. I would be lucky to grab my lunch and get out the door on time.
In one last-ditch hope of connecting with ice tea, I yelled down the hall to Drew to fill the kettle (I didn't have time for the filter pitcher to finish filtering the water) and put it on the burner. Drew finally appeared, drowsy and half coherent. He stumbled in the general direction of the kitchen, and I headed for the bathroom.
Minutes later, as I entered the tiny kitchen, I heard the kettle begin to whistle. Drew wanted to know what I was doing with the hot water. "Making ice tea," I snapped, grabbing up the kettle and pouring it over the ginger peach teabags. Before I realized what was happening, the lid fell off and steam from the boiling water flew up and burned my fingers.
I knew if I dropped the kettle as every instinct told me to do, I would not only douse myself with the boiling water, but I would plaster Drew who was standing next to me. So I held the darn kettle long enough to set it back on the stove, then crumbled to the floor holding my hand and yelling.
If only I had taken time to get a potholder! The incessant clock kept ticking. Work was calling. I was going to be late if I didn't hurry. I grabbed a baggie, filled it with ice, and bolted out the door sans ice tea, sans lunch, sans sanity!
I figured in an hour or so it would be fine. How wrong I was. Every time I took my fingers from the ice they burned hard enough to bring tears. I had meetings all day - I couldn't just sit down and nurse my burn. In between meetings I ran to the staff lounge to get more ice from the freezer. During one breather, I went to see the nurse and try to locate an ice pack. She offered me several, but they weren't very cold, and I had a hard time breaking them to activate. Besides, they only lasted 15 minutes or so. She tried spraying my fingers with a benzocaine mix, but that just aggravated the burn.
I dashed home on lunch break to bring back more ice. Several times when meetings were going long, I excused myself to refill my little ice container. Concerned colleagues were sympathetic, and even pointed out the irony of burning yourself making ICE tea! I was beginning to feel a bit woozy and nauseous but I was determined to keep going. I would have rather just gone home, but I don't know what lies ahead. If I do have to have treatment again, I can't afford to use up precious sick time on something that isn't leveling me flat.
So I kept attending the meetings, kept typing one handed, kept responding to calls and emails until the end of the final meeting. At 4:30 I finally threw in the towel and crept home. For the rest of the evening, I sat with my hand in a bowl of ice - sipping ice tea! Naturally, neither boy was home, and of course I ended up having company three times - not having had any visitors since moving in.
I wondered if I were going to be able to sleep since I had to keep refilling the ice supply. As I retired, I turned it over to the Lord. Somewhere around midnight, I fell asleep, and when I woke, my hand was fine. No blisters, no pain, a bit of redness, good to go.
My friend suggested I make ice tea the new fangled way and use a powder mix. Burn or no burn, it doesn't taste the same. Besides, they don't do herbal tea (well, OK, there is some, but I don't care for it). As for the bottled stuff, it all seems to have sugar in it. So the answer is, keep making and drinking ice tea, but use a potholder and make it the night before ( - :
So I kept attending the meetings, kept typing one handed, kept responding to calls and emails until the end of the final meeting. At 4:30 I finally threw in the towel and crept home. For the rest of the evening, I sat with my hand in a bowl of ice - sipping ice tea! Naturally, neither boy was home, and of course I ended up having company three times - not having had any visitors since moving in.
I wondered if I were going to be able to sleep since I had to keep refilling the ice supply. As I retired, I turned it over to the Lord. Somewhere around midnight, I fell asleep, and when I woke, my hand was fine. No blisters, no pain, a bit of redness, good to go.
My friend suggested I make ice tea the new fangled way and use a powder mix. Burn or no burn, it doesn't taste the same. Besides, they don't do herbal tea (well, OK, there is some, but I don't care for it). As for the bottled stuff, it all seems to have sugar in it. So the answer is, keep making and drinking ice tea, but use a potholder and make it the night before ( - :
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Inner Darkness
I love smart buildings. Its so nice to have the lights come on when you enter a room, and go off when you leave. Its nice to be able to program the room temperature to be comfortable when you are likely to be there, and conserve energy when you normally are not there.
Sometimes though, the building outsmarts itself. Like this morning. One of the women staff members was in the ladies bathroom, taking care of business, when all of a sudden, the lights went out and she was plunged into darkness.
Now this bathroom is in the interior of the building and doesn't have any windows, so it was really dark. She moved quickly from surprise to annoyance, and waved her arms around in the air to trigger the motion detector to switch the lights back on.
Nothing. She waved harder. Still nothing. Apparently the sensor is by the door, and is not affected by motion in the stalls. Bugger. She could hear voices outside the door, and was about to call for help when she realized they were all male voices. Scratch that. She waited for a bit, hoping someone would come in and trigger the lights. But the building isn't open yet, and there aren't many females *in* the building, and there are other bathrooms.
Then she remembered her cell phone in her pocket. She hesitated, feeling silly calling someone to come to her aid just to turn the lights on. And then she realized that her cell phone had a flashlight! Ta-da! Technology saves the day.
We all laughed when she told us - and realized that someone needs to change the setting on the motion dectector. At least to give a longer time frame before shutting off, if not to move the sensor to a more effective location. Yes, as marvelous and intelligent as this new building is, it needs tweaking over the next year or so until all the little human elements have been rectified. A work in progress indeed.
Monday, August 6, 2007
1 little digit
I have little respect for banks and insurance companies. If you need anything from either of those institutions, you are likely to first drown in paperwork, and then spend hours navigating their convoluted and frustrating systems.
Why was it that I thought returning to a bank I had previously done business with would be easier? I must have been having a chemo moment. First they made me wait to open the account because I refuse to take time off work to do it, and on Saturday the wait time to see the right person was at least an hour, precious time I could ill afford to waste (they don't make appointments - they looked at me like I had three heads when I asked for one).
Then they made we wait 7 business days before they would let me have access to the money I deposited (out of state checks take longer to clear). Then they forgot to give me any starter checks (most places won't take them anyways) and I had to go back and get some. My debit card was being mailed to me, and the password mailed in a separate letter - neither of which arrived for 10 days. Once I did get both, I had to call three numbers to activate the darn thing.
Finally, finally, the box of checks arrived. Two boxes in fact. How delightful! A bonus. I should have known better. I opened the first box, and looked at the bank routing number and my account number. Both right. Address correct. Good to go. Or so I thought. I blithely went about writing more checks than my norm between paying final bills for CT and opening new accounts here, getting those myriad little things you need to set up housekeeping and keep body and soul together.
The bomb dropped late Saturday. The car finance company called to tell me my bank had informed them that the account had been closed. I thought they had inadvertently tried to withdraw from my CT account. I patiently explained the whole thing - repeatedly - to at least 14 people as they kept bumping me upline. I was getting pretty frosted, I have to say. The last gentleman, through gritted teeth, finally read me off the numbers and that's when the light dawned.
It *was* my new bank that was telling them my account had been closed. I could not believe it. Not only did I have to eat humble pie for being convinced that they were at fault, I couldn't talk to anyone about it because the bank was closed. He put a "note" on my account.
If more than just this place had experienced such a response from my bank, I wondered how big the problem was. According to my ledger, I had written 23 checks. 23 times penalty and late fees - yikes! This could be a huge mountain! I began to stew about it, and realized how unproductive that was. It would have to wait until Monday, no help for it.
Everytime I found my mind wanting to revolve around this little issue, I placed it in God's hands and went on to think about other things. I had to repeat that action a few times (-: In fact, I started to mention it to a few people, and they all said they had experienced similar difficulties and their banks had refused to pay the fees and penalties. They wished me well.
Monday I prepared for work, thinking in my head how I was going to storm in there and demand that they take care of this AND pay the fees, and then I remembered that I had given it to God to take care of. It was hard to resist telling God all the pieces that had to be properly addressed and that I didn't want to come out on the short end of the stick since I had done nothing wrong.
He must have smiled at how ridiculous I sounded. I knew He was more than capable of straightening it all out somehow. So in the car, just before going in, I prayed again asking that I be sent directly to the right person, then determined to be calm and pleasant. After all, I could take my business elsewhere if they didn't cooperate (God smiling again).
I signed in and sat for only a half a minute (they weren't kidding when they said no wait during the week days). This woman was indeed the right person. When she heard my statement of facts (proudly I report that I was unemotional about it), she rolled her eyes and looked at my account. Turns out that there are two little "transaction numbers" - not part of the routing number or the account number - and one of them was incorrect. Just one. One little digit. That was causing all the trouble. She took the incorrect blank checks, then asked for a list of where each check had been sent (ALL OVER!).
Patiently for the next 2.5 hours, she called each place (after I dug the number out of my daytimer, receipts, car, phone book, etc), explained the situation, and asked the best way to rectify things. We got a variety of responses. Some took the new number over the phone. Others said to mail it in attention some name in accounts/accounting. Others told us to wait until we got the letter, then just send a new check (Elaine wrote a lovely letter of explanation asking that I not be faulted for the problem). We laughed at the phone tag she played in almost every place. Several times she had to say, "But they are the ones who referred me to you." It got sillier and sillier as we tracked down each errant check. Surprisingly, once you got to the right person (an exercise in perseverance) most places agreed to waive the fees and penalties.
There were a few places where she will follow up because she got to voice mail only. I left with a few numbers to locate and bring to her, and the name of the branch manager in case Elaine had left on vacation when the letters start arriving. She paid the one place that was charging a fee, and assured me that the bank would take care of any other fees that arose from the incident. Other than wasting the better part of a rainy Monday morning, my blood pressure stayed within acceptable limits, and it turned out to be something of a lark watching someone else do battle with the big boys for a change.
Now about the reimbursement for the time spent . . .
Why was it that I thought returning to a bank I had previously done business with would be easier? I must have been having a chemo moment. First they made me wait to open the account because I refuse to take time off work to do it, and on Saturday the wait time to see the right person was at least an hour, precious time I could ill afford to waste (they don't make appointments - they looked at me like I had three heads when I asked for one).
Then they made we wait 7 business days before they would let me have access to the money I deposited (out of state checks take longer to clear). Then they forgot to give me any starter checks (most places won't take them anyways) and I had to go back and get some. My debit card was being mailed to me, and the password mailed in a separate letter - neither of which arrived for 10 days. Once I did get both, I had to call three numbers to activate the darn thing.
Finally, finally, the box of checks arrived. Two boxes in fact. How delightful! A bonus. I should have known better. I opened the first box, and looked at the bank routing number and my account number. Both right. Address correct. Good to go. Or so I thought. I blithely went about writing more checks than my norm between paying final bills for CT and opening new accounts here, getting those myriad little things you need to set up housekeeping and keep body and soul together.
The bomb dropped late Saturday. The car finance company called to tell me my bank had informed them that the account had been closed. I thought they had inadvertently tried to withdraw from my CT account. I patiently explained the whole thing - repeatedly - to at least 14 people as they kept bumping me upline. I was getting pretty frosted, I have to say. The last gentleman, through gritted teeth, finally read me off the numbers and that's when the light dawned.
It *was* my new bank that was telling them my account had been closed. I could not believe it. Not only did I have to eat humble pie for being convinced that they were at fault, I couldn't talk to anyone about it because the bank was closed. He put a "note" on my account.
If more than just this place had experienced such a response from my bank, I wondered how big the problem was. According to my ledger, I had written 23 checks. 23 times penalty and late fees - yikes! This could be a huge mountain! I began to stew about it, and realized how unproductive that was. It would have to wait until Monday, no help for it.
Everytime I found my mind wanting to revolve around this little issue, I placed it in God's hands and went on to think about other things. I had to repeat that action a few times (-: In fact, I started to mention it to a few people, and they all said they had experienced similar difficulties and their banks had refused to pay the fees and penalties. They wished me well.
Monday I prepared for work, thinking in my head how I was going to storm in there and demand that they take care of this AND pay the fees, and then I remembered that I had given it to God to take care of. It was hard to resist telling God all the pieces that had to be properly addressed and that I didn't want to come out on the short end of the stick since I had done nothing wrong.
He must have smiled at how ridiculous I sounded. I knew He was more than capable of straightening it all out somehow. So in the car, just before going in, I prayed again asking that I be sent directly to the right person, then determined to be calm and pleasant. After all, I could take my business elsewhere if they didn't cooperate (God smiling again).
I signed in and sat for only a half a minute (they weren't kidding when they said no wait during the week days). This woman was indeed the right person. When she heard my statement of facts (proudly I report that I was unemotional about it), she rolled her eyes and looked at my account. Turns out that there are two little "transaction numbers" - not part of the routing number or the account number - and one of them was incorrect. Just one. One little digit. That was causing all the trouble. She took the incorrect blank checks, then asked for a list of where each check had been sent (ALL OVER!).
Patiently for the next 2.5 hours, she called each place (after I dug the number out of my daytimer, receipts, car, phone book, etc), explained the situation, and asked the best way to rectify things. We got a variety of responses. Some took the new number over the phone. Others said to mail it in attention some name in accounts/accounting. Others told us to wait until we got the letter, then just send a new check (Elaine wrote a lovely letter of explanation asking that I not be faulted for the problem). We laughed at the phone tag she played in almost every place. Several times she had to say, "But they are the ones who referred me to you." It got sillier and sillier as we tracked down each errant check. Surprisingly, once you got to the right person (an exercise in perseverance) most places agreed to waive the fees and penalties.
There were a few places where she will follow up because she got to voice mail only. I left with a few numbers to locate and bring to her, and the name of the branch manager in case Elaine had left on vacation when the letters start arriving. She paid the one place that was charging a fee, and assured me that the bank would take care of any other fees that arose from the incident. Other than wasting the better part of a rainy Monday morning, my blood pressure stayed within acceptable limits, and it turned out to be something of a lark watching someone else do battle with the big boys for a change.
Now about the reimbursement for the time spent . . .
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Marcie's house
Kiel discovered that one of his classmates at ENC lives in Rochester. They looked each other up. Turns out his Mom works at Roberts, and she and I bumped into each other in the parking lot, and struck up a conversation revolving around boys in college and boys playing soccer. Last week she called me and invited the boys and I to Sunday dinner at their house after church. I was happy to accept. I always enjoy making a new friend, and she seemed easy to talk with.
I hadn't realized that she has six children, three older boys, one younger son, and adopted twin girls from Belarus. We showed up at the appointed time, and I was instantly transported to the days of my kids growing up. The household was in constant motion, and kid energy and excited voices were everywhere, punctuated by two dogs and a cat.
Their Dad was outside grilling steaks, and Marcie was whipping up a pineapple upside down cake for dessert. The kids were well versed in chores - one of the twins showed up and set the table, the other one got the drinks out, the middle son pulled chairs around the lunch nook.
One son was fussing about needing to leave for work, and another was on the phone seeing if the local video store had the latest version of a new game yet. Kids entered and exited the room every few seconds, chasing each other, carrying the cat outside, fussing over a lost toy. It was wonderful! I hadn't had so much fun since I was one of eight growing up.
I remember when I first was married, Dan used to go outside and stand on the porch when we visited my parents. He wasn't used to so much noise. Later when I had kids and my parents nest was emptying, they used to be bothered by the hubbub at my digs. Marcie laughed and said they have a neighbor kid who comes over for entertainment just to watch all the commotion.
By comparison, my life has certainly quieted down. Now that there is basically just Drew and I, and we pretty much occupy different areas of the apartment, I don't encounter the level of excitement and energy we found Sunday. I miss it, yet I am glad I don't have to deal with it all.
Later, after we ate and the kids were outside swimming in the newly refilled pool (with the frigid water), Marcie showed me her photo album of their trip to pick up the girls, and talked of their adventure in bringing them to America. The girls came to look at the well worn album and point again to things and places and people and outfits they recall.
It made me once again yearn to get Jairus House functional. One of the aspects of Jairus House is to have a place for children from other countries who are in need of medical treatments not available in their home country to be able to come and stay and get the help they need. While they are here, perhaps their home situation can be improved so they can return to their families in a better position than they left.
It is a long way off. But I have taken the first baby step. I filed the paperwork for declaring Jairus House a business entity. I am quietly excited. Now I need to put together my board before the paperwork can go through. I still need a couple more people. I am praying that the right ones come forward quickly. Then we can begin the process of filing for 501c3 status. That will take about 6 months.
Meantime, I hope I can readjust to the activity level of a home filled with love in full tilt. I was so touched when each one of the children followed their Dad's example and thanked Marcie for the meal before they left the table. Perhaps there is hope.
I hadn't realized that she has six children, three older boys, one younger son, and adopted twin girls from Belarus. We showed up at the appointed time, and I was instantly transported to the days of my kids growing up. The household was in constant motion, and kid energy and excited voices were everywhere, punctuated by two dogs and a cat.
Their Dad was outside grilling steaks, and Marcie was whipping up a pineapple upside down cake for dessert. The kids were well versed in chores - one of the twins showed up and set the table, the other one got the drinks out, the middle son pulled chairs around the lunch nook.
One son was fussing about needing to leave for work, and another was on the phone seeing if the local video store had the latest version of a new game yet. Kids entered and exited the room every few seconds, chasing each other, carrying the cat outside, fussing over a lost toy. It was wonderful! I hadn't had so much fun since I was one of eight growing up.
I remember when I first was married, Dan used to go outside and stand on the porch when we visited my parents. He wasn't used to so much noise. Later when I had kids and my parents nest was emptying, they used to be bothered by the hubbub at my digs. Marcie laughed and said they have a neighbor kid who comes over for entertainment just to watch all the commotion.
By comparison, my life has certainly quieted down. Now that there is basically just Drew and I, and we pretty much occupy different areas of the apartment, I don't encounter the level of excitement and energy we found Sunday. I miss it, yet I am glad I don't have to deal with it all.
Later, after we ate and the kids were outside swimming in the newly refilled pool (with the frigid water), Marcie showed me her photo album of their trip to pick up the girls, and talked of their adventure in bringing them to America. The girls came to look at the well worn album and point again to things and places and people and outfits they recall.
It made me once again yearn to get Jairus House functional. One of the aspects of Jairus House is to have a place for children from other countries who are in need of medical treatments not available in their home country to be able to come and stay and get the help they need. While they are here, perhaps their home situation can be improved so they can return to their families in a better position than they left.
It is a long way off. But I have taken the first baby step. I filed the paperwork for declaring Jairus House a business entity. I am quietly excited. Now I need to put together my board before the paperwork can go through. I still need a couple more people. I am praying that the right ones come forward quickly. Then we can begin the process of filing for 501c3 status. That will take about 6 months.
Meantime, I hope I can readjust to the activity level of a home filled with love in full tilt. I was so touched when each one of the children followed their Dad's example and thanked Marcie for the meal before they left the table. Perhaps there is hope.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
The Quilt
Fifteen years ago, I saw a wall mount for a quilt on sale and bought it, intending on making a quilt to hang on it. I looked at dozens of quilting magazines, patterns, historic books on quilt patterns, and real live quilts in bazaars, stores, and flea markets. After several years of searching, I found a pattern I loved. It wasn't called a quilt, it was called a cloth sculpture. Far from the normal thousands of tiny little triangles sewn together into some geometric shape, it was a beautiful picture of irises growing besides a blue pond (complete with frog). The colors in the printers' ink were exquisite, and it was so "me."
I began searching for fabric in the shades I knew I wanted. But somehow everytime I saw a color or print I liked, there were other more pressing needs. New shoes for the baby, special formula, medicines, field trips. I could never wrestle the funding out of our tight budget to swing non necessities like pretty wall hangings. Sigh. Never mind. Someday when the kids are older and the finances are not so tight, I will try again. So I tucked the pattern and the quilt hanger away.
Gradually, as we moved about, the dream faded. I faithfully brought the long, heavy wooden hanger with the Shaker knobs with us every time we moved. It sat in downstairs closets, upstairs storage areas, behind the washing machines, under the beds, over the garage for decades. At one point, out of sheer frustration, I made the boys hang it on the wall, just to be sure it still worked. The screws and fixtures were still taped to the end in a little plastic bag. They cussed and fussed getting it up there. I bought a tiny piece of fabric and stuck it between the rails. It looked silly.
I didn't bother setting it up in the next apartment. It stood beside the washer. Back in Rochester, I decided to hang it on the wall again, a silent reminder that I have failed to produce one single stitch to create that wall hanging of my dreams. Nevertheless, it was perfect for the dining area. Maybe I can get a sheet with a pretty color to hang there until I am willing to settle for some store bought thing. Perhaps I can at least hold out for hand made instead of machine manufactured.
Then my sister came over and saw it hanging there, and I admitted that I had nothing to hang in it, but would look for a quilt. "Quilt?" she asked. "Did you have something special in mind?"
"No," I replied wearily. "I have a purple floral theme going at the moment, but I doubt that I will find something that matches." Nor, I thought, anything that comes close to what I really want.
"Well," she said. "If you're interested, I have a quilt that Gramma Appleby made when she was young. Its at my house. It's mostly an ivory or cream color, but there are bits of other colors in the pattern."
"Something Gramma made? I'd love to see it." Wow - that would be fabulous. Family history, and from my Gramma's own hands. She brought it over, and it was gorgeous. Gram had embroidered her name and the date she made the quilt in a center block. Nellie R 1918. The workmanship was painstakingly perfect and of a quality you would be hardpressed to find these days. I was blown away. I expected anything from Gram's would have been worn threadbare, but this was in perfect condition.
Each block has 13 diamonds in rows of two and three. The edges are filled with half diamonds to make it square. The colors vary - reds, blues, pinks etc. Some cloth has a pattern in it, others are a solid color. I wondered if she had salvaged the fabric from worn-out garments. The background color and parts of each square were the same delicate cream color.
We held it up to the hanger, and it was exactly the right size, going from one end of the long pole to the other, and hanging down to within a foot of the carpet. (How could Kiel have know exactly where to hang it?). It made the little dining area cozy and inviting. I thought about my Gram and how much work had gone into this wonderful quilt, how much of herself she had invested.
Somehow, the iris sculpture paled by comparison. Even the boys loved it, and when I called my son in North Carolina, he was quite interested and seemed pleased. Its PERFECT! Now I should bring the small split bamboo rocker Gram gave me when I was in college back to my house as well. I refinished it as part of my wood working class back in the 70s, and Gram made me promise never to sell it or let it leave the family (I had it appraised once by a museum and it turns out to be quite valuable). When my kids were little, I feared for its safety and sent it to Mom's for safe keeping. Perhaps now is the time to let it come home. And just maybe, I can stay put long enough to enjoy it!
I began searching for fabric in the shades I knew I wanted. But somehow everytime I saw a color or print I liked, there were other more pressing needs. New shoes for the baby, special formula, medicines, field trips. I could never wrestle the funding out of our tight budget to swing non necessities like pretty wall hangings. Sigh. Never mind. Someday when the kids are older and the finances are not so tight, I will try again. So I tucked the pattern and the quilt hanger away.
Gradually, as we moved about, the dream faded. I faithfully brought the long, heavy wooden hanger with the Shaker knobs with us every time we moved. It sat in downstairs closets, upstairs storage areas, behind the washing machines, under the beds, over the garage for decades. At one point, out of sheer frustration, I made the boys hang it on the wall, just to be sure it still worked. The screws and fixtures were still taped to the end in a little plastic bag. They cussed and fussed getting it up there. I bought a tiny piece of fabric and stuck it between the rails. It looked silly.
I didn't bother setting it up in the next apartment. It stood beside the washer. Back in Rochester, I decided to hang it on the wall again, a silent reminder that I have failed to produce one single stitch to create that wall hanging of my dreams. Nevertheless, it was perfect for the dining area. Maybe I can get a sheet with a pretty color to hang there until I am willing to settle for some store bought thing. Perhaps I can at least hold out for hand made instead of machine manufactured.
Then my sister came over and saw it hanging there, and I admitted that I had nothing to hang in it, but would look for a quilt. "Quilt?" she asked. "Did you have something special in mind?"
"No," I replied wearily. "I have a purple floral theme going at the moment, but I doubt that I will find something that matches." Nor, I thought, anything that comes close to what I really want.
"Well," she said. "If you're interested, I have a quilt that Gramma Appleby made when she was young. Its at my house. It's mostly an ivory or cream color, but there are bits of other colors in the pattern."
"Something Gramma made? I'd love to see it." Wow - that would be fabulous. Family history, and from my Gramma's own hands. She brought it over, and it was gorgeous. Gram had embroidered her name and the date she made the quilt in a center block. Nellie R 1918. The workmanship was painstakingly perfect and of a quality you would be hardpressed to find these days. I was blown away. I expected anything from Gram's would have been worn threadbare, but this was in perfect condition.
Each block has 13 diamonds in rows of two and three. The edges are filled with half diamonds to make it square. The colors vary - reds, blues, pinks etc. Some cloth has a pattern in it, others are a solid color. I wondered if she had salvaged the fabric from worn-out garments. The background color and parts of each square were the same delicate cream color.
We held it up to the hanger, and it was exactly the right size, going from one end of the long pole to the other, and hanging down to within a foot of the carpet. (How could Kiel have know exactly where to hang it?). It made the little dining area cozy and inviting. I thought about my Gram and how much work had gone into this wonderful quilt, how much of herself she had invested.
Somehow, the iris sculpture paled by comparison. Even the boys loved it, and when I called my son in North Carolina, he was quite interested and seemed pleased. Its PERFECT! Now I should bring the small split bamboo rocker Gram gave me when I was in college back to my house as well. I refinished it as part of my wood working class back in the 70s, and Gram made me promise never to sell it or let it leave the family (I had it appraised once by a museum and it turns out to be quite valuable). When my kids were little, I feared for its safety and sent it to Mom's for safe keeping. Perhaps now is the time to let it come home. And just maybe, I can stay put long enough to enjoy it!
Friday, August 3, 2007
Closet Doors
I don't know why, but lately I can't stand to see a closet door open. In my Connecticut apartment, I found myself getting back up at night after settling in under my new quilt (which Drew arranged with my Mom to have made for me for Christmas - but that's another story) to close my closet door. Its not that I'm afraid, nothing like a child worried about the boogie man or anything like that. I'm sure at some point I will figure out the 'why,' but for now, I have to bite my tongue when Kiel leaves the front hall closet doors open.
My own closet here in Rochester is off what used to be a half bath attached to the master bedroom in which I sleep. I wish they had left it a half bath, we sure could use it. I dislike having to share a bathroom with boys (and they with me). There is a door to the closet, but not to the half bath. That doesn't bother me.
Then there is the hot water heater closet in the hallway (which is painted shut - I have an appointment Saturday for them to come and open it for us) and that doesn't bother me. Drew has a closet in his room, but I can't see it (and usually when I do look in his room, its not the closet that bothers me!).
The only other closet is the one Kiel is using located right by the front door. It is crammed full. Once Kiel goes back to school, it will likely thin out a bit in content. But when he forgets and leaves one side open, my skin crawls.
Maybe its because I need to feel like I am in control of my life, like chemobrain is not a factor in my functionality, like there aren't mounds of things requiring my attention that I don't always get to in a timely fashion. In reality, I have little control over things, but I like to pretend that I do. Maybe that open closet door is a reminder that there are hidden things that will come out one way or another - about my cancer returning, about the financial pressure of medical bills, about health options.
For now, I just keep closing the doors and hoping that Kiel's departure will mean that those doors stay shut! Meanwhile, I will unpack another box. I have determined that I will eliminate all the cardboard from my apartment and live like a "real person."
My own closet here in Rochester is off what used to be a half bath attached to the master bedroom in which I sleep. I wish they had left it a half bath, we sure could use it. I dislike having to share a bathroom with boys (and they with me). There is a door to the closet, but not to the half bath. That doesn't bother me.
Then there is the hot water heater closet in the hallway (which is painted shut - I have an appointment Saturday for them to come and open it for us) and that doesn't bother me. Drew has a closet in his room, but I can't see it (and usually when I do look in his room, its not the closet that bothers me!).
The only other closet is the one Kiel is using located right by the front door. It is crammed full. Once Kiel goes back to school, it will likely thin out a bit in content. But when he forgets and leaves one side open, my skin crawls.
Maybe its because I need to feel like I am in control of my life, like chemobrain is not a factor in my functionality, like there aren't mounds of things requiring my attention that I don't always get to in a timely fashion. In reality, I have little control over things, but I like to pretend that I do. Maybe that open closet door is a reminder that there are hidden things that will come out one way or another - about my cancer returning, about the financial pressure of medical bills, about health options.
For now, I just keep closing the doors and hoping that Kiel's departure will mean that those doors stay shut! Meanwhile, I will unpack another box. I have determined that I will eliminate all the cardboard from my apartment and live like a "real person."
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Laggin Behind
With the heat of the past few days, my body has been overwhelmed. I find myself running to the bathroom more times than I want to, and having to glob on the axle grease to keep any rashes from spreading. Puts a real cramp in the itinerary for walking and exercising.
But I do it anyways. If I can't walk outside to work, I go to someplace cool and walk inside. If you miss a day, its worse than standing still on a moving walkway. Its more like falling down an elevator shaft. Hard to get back on track. Drew disagrees with this philosophy. He feels that since he does a lot of outdoor exercise at soccer camp he should be driven there and back. I bite my tongue to keep the word Pansy from flying out of my mouth.
This morning he was adamant that he was not going at all. Too hot. When he realized that I wasn't letting him out of it, he was none too happy. He grumbled all the way there, stopping every few feet to rest, sitting on rocks and curbs and grass and benches and anything else he could find.
I was late to work. But since work is flexible right now with all the moving, and since it was important to "encourage" him that one does not stop or quit just because the going gets a bit tough, I patiently edged him onward, pointing out little things of interest. He was still not happy with me when we arrived, but he was there.
At the end of the day, he flopped down in my office, red as a beet. It had been a long and exhausting day, and he was not looking forward to the walk home. No help for it. We started off slowly, catching a hot breeze here and there. We wandered in a zigzag pattern to take advantage of every ounce of shade, our mouths parched in the glare of the late afternoon sun.
We decided to stop at Jitters, a local coffee joint, for a fruit smoothie, so we turned down the main road that we usually don't walk on. Between us and Jitters was a Lawn Care place, and to prove that they know how to grow a green lawn, they had their water sprinklers going full blast. We had no choice but to walk through them since they sprayed over the sidewalk to hit the strip of grass near the curb. The only way to avoid them would be to step into the road which was full of home bound traffic.
We looked at each other and smiled. Drew said, "I double dare you." Well, I have never been known for my ability to resist a dare, especially a double one. "Don't worry," he informed me in a solicitous sort of way. "I'll protect you," and he moved between me and the sprinkler head.
We halted at the edge of the wet sidewalk, waiting for the water to move out of range, then stepped quickly into the target zone. Drew took the first hit of delicious cold water square on the chest, yelling "I'll save you Momma!" He flailed his arms wide and waved them around as if to scare the water away. I laughed. Almost as soon as the water spray passed us, back it came and he didn't see it coming. I got my fair share as he tried manfully to jump between the water and me. He no sooner took care of that wave than the next one hit.
We whooped and hollered like schoolkids. It was wonderful. My glasses were spotted and my pants were freckled with wet dots. His tee shirt was drenched and his shorts dripped. In a few short minutes it was all over and we were on the other side, hopping up the steps to Jitters. Two dark-tanned people sitting on the deck smiled at our appearance, having observed the whole scene. The lady raised her eyebrow and peered at me over the edge of her sunglasses, as if apprising my mental stability.
But we were cooler despite the 98 degree heat, and happy to sip a berry thunder smoothie while waiting for Kiel to join us (and coincidentally bring the car so we wouldn't have to walk home). Some days are just pure joy.
But I do it anyways. If I can't walk outside to work, I go to someplace cool and walk inside. If you miss a day, its worse than standing still on a moving walkway. Its more like falling down an elevator shaft. Hard to get back on track. Drew disagrees with this philosophy. He feels that since he does a lot of outdoor exercise at soccer camp he should be driven there and back. I bite my tongue to keep the word Pansy from flying out of my mouth.
This morning he was adamant that he was not going at all. Too hot. When he realized that I wasn't letting him out of it, he was none too happy. He grumbled all the way there, stopping every few feet to rest, sitting on rocks and curbs and grass and benches and anything else he could find.
I was late to work. But since work is flexible right now with all the moving, and since it was important to "encourage" him that one does not stop or quit just because the going gets a bit tough, I patiently edged him onward, pointing out little things of interest. He was still not happy with me when we arrived, but he was there.
At the end of the day, he flopped down in my office, red as a beet. It had been a long and exhausting day, and he was not looking forward to the walk home. No help for it. We started off slowly, catching a hot breeze here and there. We wandered in a zigzag pattern to take advantage of every ounce of shade, our mouths parched in the glare of the late afternoon sun.
We decided to stop at Jitters, a local coffee joint, for a fruit smoothie, so we turned down the main road that we usually don't walk on. Between us and Jitters was a Lawn Care place, and to prove that they know how to grow a green lawn, they had their water sprinklers going full blast. We had no choice but to walk through them since they sprayed over the sidewalk to hit the strip of grass near the curb. The only way to avoid them would be to step into the road which was full of home bound traffic.
We looked at each other and smiled. Drew said, "I double dare you." Well, I have never been known for my ability to resist a dare, especially a double one. "Don't worry," he informed me in a solicitous sort of way. "I'll protect you," and he moved between me and the sprinkler head.
We halted at the edge of the wet sidewalk, waiting for the water to move out of range, then stepped quickly into the target zone. Drew took the first hit of delicious cold water square on the chest, yelling "I'll save you Momma!" He flailed his arms wide and waved them around as if to scare the water away. I laughed. Almost as soon as the water spray passed us, back it came and he didn't see it coming. I got my fair share as he tried manfully to jump between the water and me. He no sooner took care of that wave than the next one hit.
We whooped and hollered like schoolkids. It was wonderful. My glasses were spotted and my pants were freckled with wet dots. His tee shirt was drenched and his shorts dripped. In a few short minutes it was all over and we were on the other side, hopping up the steps to Jitters. Two dark-tanned people sitting on the deck smiled at our appearance, having observed the whole scene. The lady raised her eyebrow and peered at me over the edge of her sunglasses, as if apprising my mental stability.
But we were cooler despite the 98 degree heat, and happy to sip a berry thunder smoothie while waiting for Kiel to join us (and coincidentally bring the car so we wouldn't have to walk home). Some days are just pure joy.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
The New Digs
Today our offices were moved into the new building ~ hooray! While its far from complete and there are workmen sawing slabs of slate for the stairs and gluing paneling in place, my office is done. The modular desk unit with its proud cherry wood finish gleams in the soft light filtering in through the floor to seven foot height window that opens out onto the main floor's reference collection - my window on the library world.
It took less than an hour to unpack my lone box of files and desk accessories, and I had barely finished when the IT guys appeared to hook up my *new* computer, monitor, speakers, and computerized phone. Wires ran everywhere. While they were testing things, my speakers made this weird noise I had been hearing, and had asked about before. "What's that noise?" I asked.
"Unshielded speakers," they replied. "Anytime someone in proximity gets a cell phone call, you will hear that."
"How can I get shielded speakers?"
"You have to ask for them."
"Who do I ask?"
The guy smiled. "Me."
"Oh. Can I please have some shielded speakers?"
"Yup." and off he went to get me some. Before I had time to thank him, they were installed and the IT guys were on to the next station to set up for someone else.
I pulled the monitor closer to my face after they left, rearranged things to fit my work style (phone should be on the right side since I am not left handed), and stepped back to view my handiwork. I gasped in horror. From the door all I could see were the dozens of wires running from the cutaway on the desktop to all the gear. It was ugly.
Just at that moment, one of the IT head honchos appear in my door to see how things were working. I mentioned the wire mess. He agreed and looked a bit closer. Turns out there was a well in the desktop that was much closer to where I had positioned the monitor, and he quickly rewired the whole station to keep the majority of the wires out of sight and under the desk.
He said that after things had settled, they would be back to Velcro the wires underneath into a better organization. After he left, I settled into finding the right slant for the keyboard tray, the right height for everything, the tilt of the chair adjusted, the back of the chair adjusted. Before even an hour had passed, another person from IT showed up, checking in again to see if I needed something.
Not unlike trying on a new coat. You have to wiggle around to make sure the fit is just right. Don't forget to button all the buttons!
It took less than an hour to unpack my lone box of files and desk accessories, and I had barely finished when the IT guys appeared to hook up my *new* computer, monitor, speakers, and computerized phone. Wires ran everywhere. While they were testing things, my speakers made this weird noise I had been hearing, and had asked about before. "What's that noise?" I asked.
"Unshielded speakers," they replied. "Anytime someone in proximity gets a cell phone call, you will hear that."
"How can I get shielded speakers?"
"You have to ask for them."
"Who do I ask?"
The guy smiled. "Me."
"Oh. Can I please have some shielded speakers?"
"Yup." and off he went to get me some. Before I had time to thank him, they were installed and the IT guys were on to the next station to set up for someone else.
I pulled the monitor closer to my face after they left, rearranged things to fit my work style (phone should be on the right side since I am not left handed), and stepped back to view my handiwork. I gasped in horror. From the door all I could see were the dozens of wires running from the cutaway on the desktop to all the gear. It was ugly.
Just at that moment, one of the IT head honchos appear in my door to see how things were working. I mentioned the wire mess. He agreed and looked a bit closer. Turns out there was a well in the desktop that was much closer to where I had positioned the monitor, and he quickly rewired the whole station to keep the majority of the wires out of sight and under the desk.
He said that after things had settled, they would be back to Velcro the wires underneath into a better organization. After he left, I settled into finding the right slant for the keyboard tray, the right height for everything, the tilt of the chair adjusted, the back of the chair adjusted. Before even an hour had passed, another person from IT showed up, checking in again to see if I needed something.
Not unlike trying on a new coat. You have to wiggle around to make sure the fit is just right. Don't forget to button all the buttons!
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