An experience hubby and I had on the road today reminded me of when I was a child in elementary school in the mid-to-late 1950s and early 60s. There was a policy back then, about as unjust as any policy could be, of punishing the entire class when one or two pupils acted up. I suppose the philosophy behind it was that the innocent ones who had to suffer the consequences along with the guilty would take measures of their own to keep the offenders in line. But that wasn't the appropriate job of fellow classmates. That's what the adults were for. To go after those who misbehaved and ONLY those who misbehaved. One shouldn't be blamed, or punished, for an offense -- ANY offense -- that one hasn't committed!
Today, hubby and I stopped in at a new pizza establishment 40 or so miles from where we live. We looked at their menu, decided what we wanted, and asked the employee if we could pay by check. Her immediate question was, "Is it a local check?" The definition of "local" can vary. To some, local means the immediate area, to others it means the larger city in which one lives, and to still others it can include other nearby smaller towns. In our case, the latter was true.
When we told her where we were from, she wrinkled her nose and hemmed and hawed for a bit. People from our town travel often to this larger city to do business, so a regular influx isn't uncommon. Yet the way she was acting, you'd think we had touched down from another planet.
"Do you have a debit card or a credit card?" was her next question. We don't use debit cards, and in these tougher economic times we are sensibly avoiding adding any further charges to our credit cards. We are doing the responsible thing. We're paying down our existing debt, and have paid off a good measure of it. So, why were we now being treated like deadbeats?
Finally, came the excuse "We've been screwed over in the past, so now we have a policy of accepting only local checks." Again, she failed to define "local".
In today's world, with today's technology, it isn't at all difficult to locate and prosecute a bad check writer. Especially since nearly all our area businesses whose personnel don't already know us ask for ID, which we're happy to provide, and want a complete printed address and telephone number on the check, which we also cheerfully supply.
To use the excuse that others have written bad checks as a justification to deny honest people this legitimate option of paying for their purchases is just plain wrong. If you're a fair person, you don't penalize everyone for the bad behavior of a few.
We were being humiliated. We were being painted with the same broad brush as the criminal element. It was being arbitrarily and automatically assumed that we were going to be one of the "bad" ones without our ever being given the chance to prove otherwise. Moreover, this employee (or she may have been the owner or co-owner) was clearly telling us through her prejudiced attitude that she didn't really value our business. Only those who are "local" are valued customers. Other customers are little more than garbage!
Finally, I threw the menu down on the counter and hubby and I both stomped out of there. Neither of us was willing to be punished for the sins of others that we knew full well we had NO intention of committing! And we weren't going to waste our precious time trying to convince someone like that of our fundamental honesty. Why should we?
Instead, we drove to another establishment whose personnel were more than happy to take our money, regardless of how it was tendered to them. A customer is a customer. A sale is a sale. And a policy of treating people right and being fair is at the foundation of any successful business. The long-established ones know this. Some of the newer enterprises need to learn it.
So now there's a pizza place in northern Idaho that has made one less sale and has two less customers, all because of one woman's disdainful contempt for anyone she considers to not be "local".
Unfair discrimination usually bites its practitioner in the ass, sooner or later. And we are wondering just how long these people plan on remaining in business. Even in a larger city, word gets around. And in a small town, it's nearly always a given ...
-- folktress
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
ON THE NOT-SO-AMUSING CHALLENGE OF PROTECTING ONE'S PETS ...
In the privileged world of being someone's beloved pets, my kitties are at the top of the royal line. They receive more love -- and more protection from danger -- than most average household pets. But there are limits to what even I can do for them. They're cats -- and they have very independent natures and minds strictly of their own.
Case in point, the nightly struggle to get them indoors. Since hubby won't allow them into our residence, or even inside our metal pole shop, I had built for them a small log house which we refer to as the "cat-house". For some humor, I installed a red bulb in the light fixture over their tile porch. Yep, a tile porch. Our own log house has a wooden deck.
Inside, it has all the creature comforts and basic necessities any feline would ever require or desire:
There's a communal feeder that dispenses upon demand an 18- or 20-pound bag of MeowMix. It has a five-gallon water jug underneath that dispenses water into an open pocket alongside.
They have a huge blanketed basket bed, a carpeted cat hotel, a six-foot high carpeted cat tree with a ledge, a bed, a tube in which to hide or rest, and one of four sturdy legs wrapped in sisel to use as a scratching post. There are two carpeted window ledges where they can sit and enjoy the surrounding view. During our hot summers, the windows are open and they can sit in front of the screens.
Their litter boxes are in there, also, and are scooped and changed regularly.
It even has a heater in the ceiling with a thermostat to keep them warm during our brutal winters.
The door to this cat-house is a regular-sized human door with a cat door cut into the bottom of it that lets them enter and exit at will during the day. There's a slide that fits into the frame of that door and blocks access in or out. It keeps night-time predators from feasting on feline, and it keeps my kitties from roaming all night.
In the late evening, I slide this barrier into the frame of the little cat door, AFTER I have the first cat inside. Then, if the others haven't followed, the challenge becomes to round up the stragglers and get them in, as well.
Here's where the "fun" begins! Sometimes one or two of the other cats will voluntarily enter their sanctuary after the alpha male. Most of the time, they remain outside and refuse to come in. If I try to go after them to pick them up and carry them in, they see me coming and take off at an impossible clip.
Or they play a favorite game of theirs (NOT mine!). They'll sit perfectly still and let me approach them, then as soon as I can reach them, they take off running, only for a few feet or yards, then stop and sit still again. Sometimes one of them will "let" me catch him or her, at which time he or she gets scooped up and taken to the "royal palace". That little kitty has decided -- made a quite intentional choice -- to go inside. Playtime is over, and now it's meal time or beddy-bye.
There's a limit to what I can and will do to protect these childish little idiots. They know full well that if they want a meal, they can find it inside their own custom house. If they want shelter from a rainstorm, ditto. They know this. They're smart. So when they decide to frolic just a little longer in the fading sunlight, after they see me lock in one or more of their comrades, both they and I know it's sheer defiance. It's a battle of wills that they usually ultimately win.
Why? Because I refuse to make a fool of myself chasing them all over creation when they dash across the vast field or vanish into the nearby forest. I make every reasonable effort to get them to shelter before it gets dark, but I have my own supper to eat and bed to retire in, and if they're determined to stay out all night, there's a point when I simply have to give in.
Cats are survivors. They usually can find their own hiding places under heavy machinery or equipment, or will catch a rodent or two if they get hungry during the night. They never really lose their natural wildness ... domestication simply tempers it by providing conveniences, and socialization makes it possible for them to live the good life. But they never lose their most basic instincts.
Still, every now and then, one of them runs into terminal trouble. It rarely happens, but I have had one or more cats disappear on occasion, never to be seen again. When, if it had any sense at all, it could have been locked safely indoors for that night, it instead decides to roam or hunt on its own, and the kitty's good luck eventually runs out. I can't help that. One can only do one's best. Nature is nature, and cats, too, are part of the food chain.
We who own pets and do our darndest to keep them safe, healthy and happy, have to be philosophical when these things occur. If we don't, we could easily become basket cases. We know we've given our animals the best life possible. But they do have their own wills, and if they're determined to act against their better good, sometimes there's little we can do to stop them.
At least we have the solace of knowing we've tried ... And the next time we meet up will be at the foot of the Rainbow Bridge, ready to enjoy a whole new adventure.
-- folktress
Case in point, the nightly struggle to get them indoors. Since hubby won't allow them into our residence, or even inside our metal pole shop, I had built for them a small log house which we refer to as the "cat-house". For some humor, I installed a red bulb in the light fixture over their tile porch. Yep, a tile porch. Our own log house has a wooden deck.
Inside, it has all the creature comforts and basic necessities any feline would ever require or desire:
There's a communal feeder that dispenses upon demand an 18- or 20-pound bag of MeowMix. It has a five-gallon water jug underneath that dispenses water into an open pocket alongside.
They have a huge blanketed basket bed, a carpeted cat hotel, a six-foot high carpeted cat tree with a ledge, a bed, a tube in which to hide or rest, and one of four sturdy legs wrapped in sisel to use as a scratching post. There are two carpeted window ledges where they can sit and enjoy the surrounding view. During our hot summers, the windows are open and they can sit in front of the screens.
Their litter boxes are in there, also, and are scooped and changed regularly.
It even has a heater in the ceiling with a thermostat to keep them warm during our brutal winters.
The door to this cat-house is a regular-sized human door with a cat door cut into the bottom of it that lets them enter and exit at will during the day. There's a slide that fits into the frame of that door and blocks access in or out. It keeps night-time predators from feasting on feline, and it keeps my kitties from roaming all night.
In the late evening, I slide this barrier into the frame of the little cat door, AFTER I have the first cat inside. Then, if the others haven't followed, the challenge becomes to round up the stragglers and get them in, as well.
Here's where the "fun" begins! Sometimes one or two of the other cats will voluntarily enter their sanctuary after the alpha male. Most of the time, they remain outside and refuse to come in. If I try to go after them to pick them up and carry them in, they see me coming and take off at an impossible clip.
Or they play a favorite game of theirs (NOT mine!). They'll sit perfectly still and let me approach them, then as soon as I can reach them, they take off running, only for a few feet or yards, then stop and sit still again. Sometimes one of them will "let" me catch him or her, at which time he or she gets scooped up and taken to the "royal palace". That little kitty has decided -- made a quite intentional choice -- to go inside. Playtime is over, and now it's meal time or beddy-bye.
There's a limit to what I can and will do to protect these childish little idiots. They know full well that if they want a meal, they can find it inside their own custom house. If they want shelter from a rainstorm, ditto. They know this. They're smart. So when they decide to frolic just a little longer in the fading sunlight, after they see me lock in one or more of their comrades, both they and I know it's sheer defiance. It's a battle of wills that they usually ultimately win.
Why? Because I refuse to make a fool of myself chasing them all over creation when they dash across the vast field or vanish into the nearby forest. I make every reasonable effort to get them to shelter before it gets dark, but I have my own supper to eat and bed to retire in, and if they're determined to stay out all night, there's a point when I simply have to give in.
Cats are survivors. They usually can find their own hiding places under heavy machinery or equipment, or will catch a rodent or two if they get hungry during the night. They never really lose their natural wildness ... domestication simply tempers it by providing conveniences, and socialization makes it possible for them to live the good life. But they never lose their most basic instincts.
Still, every now and then, one of them runs into terminal trouble. It rarely happens, but I have had one or more cats disappear on occasion, never to be seen again. When, if it had any sense at all, it could have been locked safely indoors for that night, it instead decides to roam or hunt on its own, and the kitty's good luck eventually runs out. I can't help that. One can only do one's best. Nature is nature, and cats, too, are part of the food chain.
We who own pets and do our darndest to keep them safe, healthy and happy, have to be philosophical when these things occur. If we don't, we could easily become basket cases. We know we've given our animals the best life possible. But they do have their own wills, and if they're determined to act against their better good, sometimes there's little we can do to stop them.
At least we have the solace of knowing we've tried ... And the next time we meet up will be at the foot of the Rainbow Bridge, ready to enjoy a whole new adventure.
-- folktress
Thursday, June 11, 2009
ON DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY AND OTHER RANDOM THOUGHTS ...
When I finally figure out how to upload a photo, I shall include one here, so all of you can see what this dizzy blonde actually looks like! First, however, I need to have a current picture taken of myself, one that turns out far better than my drivers license mugshot. It's incredible how awful drivers licence pictures can be! I know I'm much, much better looking than that!
I know of at least two people who at some time or other have read portions of or possibly all of my blog. There may be several others reading it, as well. I have no way of knowing this unless a few more folks leave some comments. I know that some of the subject matter may not interest some people, but I think I've posted enough variety that everybody should find something they enjoy reading here, or something which has helped them in some way or other. At least, something they can relate to. But I'll never know that unless I hear from some of you out there.
I just recently got sold on digital photography. I've been taking pictures of my flower garden with my hubby's digital camera. To my surprise, even though I didn't fully know how to use it properly, all of these photos have come out at least as good, and often much better, than my film pictures of previous years. The quality is exceptional!
Now, then, I've been generally leary about digital photography because it's too easy to get on the computer with it and cheat. By cheating, I mean falsifying the content of the original photo by adding things that weren't there to begin with.
For instance, a nature shot taken of a drake and a duck with six ducklings suddenly becomes something it wasn't when the duck turns into a super-mom with ten more ducklings added, via cyber-manipulation! That's not natural, and that's cheating.
I don't consider simple enhancement of the photo cheating. Things can be done to enrich the color, to soften the lighting, to improve the contrast, to crop out distracting items that have nothing to do with the focus of the composition. Those things have been done for years with regular film in a darkroom, and on the camera itself by using carefully selected filters over the lens. That's just making the photo better, while only slightly tweaking reality.
Cheating, which has at times also been done with film, is super-imposing images, double-exposures, adding things that weren't present when the picture was taken, cropping out vital information (not just distractions) so the picture actually does lie.
Nature photographers, in particular, are very sensitive about this, IF they are conscientous realists or purists. IF it's their desire, and it should be, to present nature truly, as they actually encounter it.
When it comes right down to it, many enhancements and deceptive tricks that used to be done in the darkroom or with the camera itself can also be done on the computer with digital photos, and so much more besides. The only real difference is that it's a lot faster on the computer, a lot less tedious work-wise, and a lot more creativity is possible. And it can be achieved by people who aren't necessarily photographic experts. It's a lot easier to do.
Now if someone wishes to create an art photo, and they're purpose is to be creative and artistic, the sky is the limit. The sky, and their creative imagination. That wouldn't be cheating. The purpose isn't necessarily to depict realism. It's not being done to illustrate an educational article, for instance, unless that article is about art and the artistic process.
In the past, there have been quality issues with digital photography, but these seem to have been resolved. Like with anything, a lot depends on the quality of the equipment you use. Buy a cheap camera, and you'll get cheap results. Buy a good one, and you'll fare much better. Ditto with the computer end of it. Good photographic software and an updated program will prove much more satisfying than an older program with cheap software. Even on the printer -- good photographic paper will produce a better image than non-photographic paper.
Then, it's a matter of learning how. And that can take awhile.
I hope to soon learn how to upload my personal photos into e-mails, website forums and message boards, and this blog. Someone needs to teach me. It will be a nice step forward when I can do this. And I'm sure it will make everything I do on my computer much more interesting.
**********
Speaking of my flower garden, I can't stay out of it these wonderful, gloriously warm days! Here in the inland northwest where we have painfully long winters, and snow in May and June isn't uncommon, it's so nice to have great weather like this so early in the season.
Everything is later, here, at this higher elevation where we live. When the daffodils blooming in town have faded, mine are just beginning to open their buds. When bearded irises have run their course elsewhere in our region and in the country, mine still have closed buds. Everything is later, and the growing season much shorter.
That's why I feel distressed when my mail-order plants don't arrive in a timely fashion. I've only got four months, if I'm lucky, to get things into the ground and growing before the killing frost of September hits, usually right on the first of that month.
My seasoned perennials don't mind. They've been going through this rigor for up to seven consecutive years. But the annuals, the newer, younger perennials just getting established, they need all the nice weather they can get, and a prompt arrival on the scene is important.
Many of the mail-order nurseries whose catalogs I've purchased from over the years have been pretty good. A couple not so good, and I'll never do business with them, again.
Some of the better ones: Bluestone Perennials, Springhill Nursery, and Wayside Gardens. Sometimes I order from High Country Gardens, and they've been pretty good, too.
A good website to find out people's experiences with mail-order nurseries is Dave's Garden. You can Google it, and go to the consumer watchdog forum. There, you'll find ratings of the various mail-order nurseries, and customers relating their own experiences with them.
For excellent products and service in garden supplies, Garden Supply Company can't be beat. I've done business with them for years, and they've never failed me. One year, they did send the wrong product, but customer service was very conscientious about remedying the situation. Anyone can make a mistake -- it's how they handle it that's important. I've been very happy, overall, with my experiences with them.
**************
Random thoughts -- kittycats.
If you're not a cat lover, scroll on by. But if you are, you'll love this story about RootBeer.
RootBeer is an orange and white shorthaired tabby, a neutered male. He was born with a deformity of his hind legs, what the orthopaedic vets call "swimmers legs". They're bent backwards, so he has to scissors, or criss-cross, when he walks. And he can walk. He can even run, to some extent, and get some good speed on him. He can't climb a tree, but neither can my three physically normal cats. They claw their way up the trunk about four feet, then decide it's not such a good idea and jump back down to terra firma.
I got RootBeer when he was only three months old. As a new kitten, the man who owned him brought him into our local animal shelter because he was unable to navigate the litter box. He was too tiny, then, and his hind legs were a hinderance.
Ours is a no-kill shelter, but they still weren't sure just what to do with RootBeer. They didn't think anyone would want to adopt a deformed kitty. But he managed to charm the socks off all of those folks down there, and rather than euthanize him, they decided to take a chance and put him into foster care in the longshot event someone just might want to give him a permanent home.
The lady who took him into foster care used to manage our local radio station. The station is located in the same business complex as hubby's shop, and he knows her well, and she knows him.
I was at the complex one day when she was in the hallway, carrying little RootBeer in her arms. His cute little face and normal front legs were sticking out over her folded forearms, and that's all I saw, at first. My own orange and white tabbly had mysteriously disappeared (probably became part of the food chain, sadly, as we are surrounded by wilderness and he did like to roam.) I took one look at RootBeer and just had to go up and pet him.
He had that sweet little face no cat lover can resist, and we began bonding while I was petting him. That's when Sherry explained that he was in foster care through the local humane society, and looking for a new home. When she saw how the kitty and I were bonding, she then removed a forearm to reveal the hind legs. She said he was born that way. At that point, I didn't care! He was going to be MY kitty!
We put little RootBeer on the hall carpet so I could see how he walked. He scissored his way down the corridor a few feet, stopped, looked up at me with pitiful eyes and went, "Meow! Meow! Meow!" Naturally, I picked him up and petted him. He had pressed my sympathy button, and he was a quick learner! I put him down again, and he scissored a few more steps on his backward turned heels, stopped again, and repeated the pitiful look and plaintive meow. And this sucker responded predictably. Once again, I picked him up and petted him.
Smart kitty! Caught on to that one right away, and has been using it ever since, milking it for all it's worth! I don't mind a bit, of course, as he has turned out to be a very affectionate, loving little kitty.
I officially adopted him shortly thereafter, first getting him neutered (as is a requirement for adoption) through the animal shelter. That was in August of 2000. An orthopaedic vet warned us at the time that little RootBeer might only live a year because his deformity could cause spinal and stomach problems that could prove fatal. He said that usually cats with that problem don't make it for very long.
That was nine years ago! Today, he is healthy, feisty, loving and full of life. And he is very vocal and demanding. In otherwords, a spoiled brat. I wouldn't have it any other way, though! I don't know which of us has gotten more out of the relationship -- him or me. We both have definitely benefitted in some very big -- and small -- ways. He's had a loving home for the last nine years, and my soul has been nourished for that same length of time.
*************
And so ends this post of more random thoughts. Please DO let me know you are reading this by posting a few comments of your own. I would love to hear of your own experiences in these areas and others. Or, just generally what you think about what you've seen here. Don't be afraid to be honest. We need more honesty these days ... Now, more than ever.
And so I sign off warmly, as --
-- your folktress
I know of at least two people who at some time or other have read portions of or possibly all of my blog. There may be several others reading it, as well. I have no way of knowing this unless a few more folks leave some comments. I know that some of the subject matter may not interest some people, but I think I've posted enough variety that everybody should find something they enjoy reading here, or something which has helped them in some way or other. At least, something they can relate to. But I'll never know that unless I hear from some of you out there.
I just recently got sold on digital photography. I've been taking pictures of my flower garden with my hubby's digital camera. To my surprise, even though I didn't fully know how to use it properly, all of these photos have come out at least as good, and often much better, than my film pictures of previous years. The quality is exceptional!
Now, then, I've been generally leary about digital photography because it's too easy to get on the computer with it and cheat. By cheating, I mean falsifying the content of the original photo by adding things that weren't there to begin with.
For instance, a nature shot taken of a drake and a duck with six ducklings suddenly becomes something it wasn't when the duck turns into a super-mom with ten more ducklings added, via cyber-manipulation! That's not natural, and that's cheating.
I don't consider simple enhancement of the photo cheating. Things can be done to enrich the color, to soften the lighting, to improve the contrast, to crop out distracting items that have nothing to do with the focus of the composition. Those things have been done for years with regular film in a darkroom, and on the camera itself by using carefully selected filters over the lens. That's just making the photo better, while only slightly tweaking reality.
Cheating, which has at times also been done with film, is super-imposing images, double-exposures, adding things that weren't present when the picture was taken, cropping out vital information (not just distractions) so the picture actually does lie.
Nature photographers, in particular, are very sensitive about this, IF they are conscientous realists or purists. IF it's their desire, and it should be, to present nature truly, as they actually encounter it.
When it comes right down to it, many enhancements and deceptive tricks that used to be done in the darkroom or with the camera itself can also be done on the computer with digital photos, and so much more besides. The only real difference is that it's a lot faster on the computer, a lot less tedious work-wise, and a lot more creativity is possible. And it can be achieved by people who aren't necessarily photographic experts. It's a lot easier to do.
Now if someone wishes to create an art photo, and they're purpose is to be creative and artistic, the sky is the limit. The sky, and their creative imagination. That wouldn't be cheating. The purpose isn't necessarily to depict realism. It's not being done to illustrate an educational article, for instance, unless that article is about art and the artistic process.
In the past, there have been quality issues with digital photography, but these seem to have been resolved. Like with anything, a lot depends on the quality of the equipment you use. Buy a cheap camera, and you'll get cheap results. Buy a good one, and you'll fare much better. Ditto with the computer end of it. Good photographic software and an updated program will prove much more satisfying than an older program with cheap software. Even on the printer -- good photographic paper will produce a better image than non-photographic paper.
Then, it's a matter of learning how. And that can take awhile.
I hope to soon learn how to upload my personal photos into e-mails, website forums and message boards, and this blog. Someone needs to teach me. It will be a nice step forward when I can do this. And I'm sure it will make everything I do on my computer much more interesting.
**********
Speaking of my flower garden, I can't stay out of it these wonderful, gloriously warm days! Here in the inland northwest where we have painfully long winters, and snow in May and June isn't uncommon, it's so nice to have great weather like this so early in the season.
Everything is later, here, at this higher elevation where we live. When the daffodils blooming in town have faded, mine are just beginning to open their buds. When bearded irises have run their course elsewhere in our region and in the country, mine still have closed buds. Everything is later, and the growing season much shorter.
That's why I feel distressed when my mail-order plants don't arrive in a timely fashion. I've only got four months, if I'm lucky, to get things into the ground and growing before the killing frost of September hits, usually right on the first of that month.
My seasoned perennials don't mind. They've been going through this rigor for up to seven consecutive years. But the annuals, the newer, younger perennials just getting established, they need all the nice weather they can get, and a prompt arrival on the scene is important.
Many of the mail-order nurseries whose catalogs I've purchased from over the years have been pretty good. A couple not so good, and I'll never do business with them, again.
Some of the better ones: Bluestone Perennials, Springhill Nursery, and Wayside Gardens. Sometimes I order from High Country Gardens, and they've been pretty good, too.
A good website to find out people's experiences with mail-order nurseries is Dave's Garden. You can Google it, and go to the consumer watchdog forum. There, you'll find ratings of the various mail-order nurseries, and customers relating their own experiences with them.
For excellent products and service in garden supplies, Garden Supply Company can't be beat. I've done business with them for years, and they've never failed me. One year, they did send the wrong product, but customer service was very conscientious about remedying the situation. Anyone can make a mistake -- it's how they handle it that's important. I've been very happy, overall, with my experiences with them.
**************
Random thoughts -- kittycats.
If you're not a cat lover, scroll on by. But if you are, you'll love this story about RootBeer.
RootBeer is an orange and white shorthaired tabby, a neutered male. He was born with a deformity of his hind legs, what the orthopaedic vets call "swimmers legs". They're bent backwards, so he has to scissors, or criss-cross, when he walks. And he can walk. He can even run, to some extent, and get some good speed on him. He can't climb a tree, but neither can my three physically normal cats. They claw their way up the trunk about four feet, then decide it's not such a good idea and jump back down to terra firma.
I got RootBeer when he was only three months old. As a new kitten, the man who owned him brought him into our local animal shelter because he was unable to navigate the litter box. He was too tiny, then, and his hind legs were a hinderance.
Ours is a no-kill shelter, but they still weren't sure just what to do with RootBeer. They didn't think anyone would want to adopt a deformed kitty. But he managed to charm the socks off all of those folks down there, and rather than euthanize him, they decided to take a chance and put him into foster care in the longshot event someone just might want to give him a permanent home.
The lady who took him into foster care used to manage our local radio station. The station is located in the same business complex as hubby's shop, and he knows her well, and she knows him.
I was at the complex one day when she was in the hallway, carrying little RootBeer in her arms. His cute little face and normal front legs were sticking out over her folded forearms, and that's all I saw, at first. My own orange and white tabbly had mysteriously disappeared (probably became part of the food chain, sadly, as we are surrounded by wilderness and he did like to roam.) I took one look at RootBeer and just had to go up and pet him.
He had that sweet little face no cat lover can resist, and we began bonding while I was petting him. That's when Sherry explained that he was in foster care through the local humane society, and looking for a new home. When she saw how the kitty and I were bonding, she then removed a forearm to reveal the hind legs. She said he was born that way. At that point, I didn't care! He was going to be MY kitty!
We put little RootBeer on the hall carpet so I could see how he walked. He scissored his way down the corridor a few feet, stopped, looked up at me with pitiful eyes and went, "Meow! Meow! Meow!" Naturally, I picked him up and petted him. He had pressed my sympathy button, and he was a quick learner! I put him down again, and he scissored a few more steps on his backward turned heels, stopped again, and repeated the pitiful look and plaintive meow. And this sucker responded predictably. Once again, I picked him up and petted him.
Smart kitty! Caught on to that one right away, and has been using it ever since, milking it for all it's worth! I don't mind a bit, of course, as he has turned out to be a very affectionate, loving little kitty.
I officially adopted him shortly thereafter, first getting him neutered (as is a requirement for adoption) through the animal shelter. That was in August of 2000. An orthopaedic vet warned us at the time that little RootBeer might only live a year because his deformity could cause spinal and stomach problems that could prove fatal. He said that usually cats with that problem don't make it for very long.
That was nine years ago! Today, he is healthy, feisty, loving and full of life. And he is very vocal and demanding. In otherwords, a spoiled brat. I wouldn't have it any other way, though! I don't know which of us has gotten more out of the relationship -- him or me. We both have definitely benefitted in some very big -- and small -- ways. He's had a loving home for the last nine years, and my soul has been nourished for that same length of time.
*************
And so ends this post of more random thoughts. Please DO let me know you are reading this by posting a few comments of your own. I would love to hear of your own experiences in these areas and others. Or, just generally what you think about what you've seen here. Don't be afraid to be honest. We need more honesty these days ... Now, more than ever.
And so I sign off warmly, as --
-- your folktress
Friday, June 5, 2009
WHERE ANGELS WON'T GO ...
Actor David Carradine was found the other day hanged in his hotel room in Thailand, where he was working on a movie. The circumstances are suspicious, and police suspect suicide.
Friends who last saw him alive have noted that he was cheerful and in good spirits. That he always seemed to be that way. Who would have known? And it still isn't certain there wasn't some outside foul play.
If David had felt compelled to take his own life and showed little or no signs of such contemplation, we must remember he was an actor, and a good one. Those with such talent can convincingly present a happy face to all the world while something dark and terrible is happening inside of themselves.
We must never judge anyone who commits suicide, if that's actually what David did. Even the Catholic Church, which once banned parishioners who killed themselves from Christian burial, has become more enlightened about such tragedy, leaving the final judgement up to God, as it should be. For only God truly knows the horrible place that soul was in, and how difficult it can be to emerge from it.
We don't know if David was a Catholic, and whether or not he was is irrelevant. What is important is that the rest of us understand, as well as possible, what severe clinical depression is all about. Those who have experienced it need no explanation, and those who never have might never fully comprehend. A single word sums it up best -- the closest our vernacular language can come to capturing its essence -- "ABYSS".
What is an abyss? It's a deep, black bottomless pit. It has no toe-hold and no hand-grips and no way to climb out on one's own. One just keeps floundering hopelessly. They can't reason their way out, they can't even seem to pray their way out. They just keep plunging farther and farther into a deeper, darker, ever-murkier no man's land. In the throes of severe clinical depression, one feels utterly and overwhelmingly powerless. And so untouchably alone, as they have entered a place where angels won't go, and it seems that even God has abandoned them. If ever there were an accurate description of hell on earth, severe clinical depression is it.
How can we judge anyone who has gone there? It's not for us to call into question that person's character, for it can happen to the best of us. The lucky ones return to some semblance of joy -- with the appropriate outside help. And souls in the abyss always need help. If they're to emerge at all, that's the only way they can do so! Others aren't so fortunate. They don't come back.
If I sound like I'm speaking from experience, I am. I've been there -- and back -- more than just once. I know what I'm talking about. It's a horrible and terrifying place to be, and I wouldn't wish it on the worst of my enemies.
So if it is ultimately found that David Carradine commited suicide, let's wish him a peaceful eternity surrounded by nurturing love he is able to experience. And let God deal with it, for He has sufficient compassion to do so.
-- folktress
Friends who last saw him alive have noted that he was cheerful and in good spirits. That he always seemed to be that way. Who would have known? And it still isn't certain there wasn't some outside foul play.
If David had felt compelled to take his own life and showed little or no signs of such contemplation, we must remember he was an actor, and a good one. Those with such talent can convincingly present a happy face to all the world while something dark and terrible is happening inside of themselves.
We must never judge anyone who commits suicide, if that's actually what David did. Even the Catholic Church, which once banned parishioners who killed themselves from Christian burial, has become more enlightened about such tragedy, leaving the final judgement up to God, as it should be. For only God truly knows the horrible place that soul was in, and how difficult it can be to emerge from it.
We don't know if David was a Catholic, and whether or not he was is irrelevant. What is important is that the rest of us understand, as well as possible, what severe clinical depression is all about. Those who have experienced it need no explanation, and those who never have might never fully comprehend. A single word sums it up best -- the closest our vernacular language can come to capturing its essence -- "ABYSS".
What is an abyss? It's a deep, black bottomless pit. It has no toe-hold and no hand-grips and no way to climb out on one's own. One just keeps floundering hopelessly. They can't reason their way out, they can't even seem to pray their way out. They just keep plunging farther and farther into a deeper, darker, ever-murkier no man's land. In the throes of severe clinical depression, one feels utterly and overwhelmingly powerless. And so untouchably alone, as they have entered a place where angels won't go, and it seems that even God has abandoned them. If ever there were an accurate description of hell on earth, severe clinical depression is it.
How can we judge anyone who has gone there? It's not for us to call into question that person's character, for it can happen to the best of us. The lucky ones return to some semblance of joy -- with the appropriate outside help. And souls in the abyss always need help. If they're to emerge at all, that's the only way they can do so! Others aren't so fortunate. They don't come back.
If I sound like I'm speaking from experience, I am. I've been there -- and back -- more than just once. I know what I'm talking about. It's a horrible and terrifying place to be, and I wouldn't wish it on the worst of my enemies.
So if it is ultimately found that David Carradine commited suicide, let's wish him a peaceful eternity surrounded by nurturing love he is able to experience. And let God deal with it, for He has sufficient compassion to do so.
-- folktress
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
SOME THOUGHTS ON HONESTY AND FAIRNESS ...
One of my major pet peeves -- more than a peeve, actually, it brings out the worst in me -- is being deceived (as in lied to). It doesn't have to be a big lie, or a serious lie. It need only be an attempt to pull the wool over my eyes. I hate being lied to -- period!
In fact, it doesn't even need to be a full-fledged, outright lie. It can be a partial truth, a slight misrepresentation, or simply misleading. Bottom line, it makes me feel like a fool when I trust it, only to find out it isn't all it's cracked up to be. And I hate being made to look foolish.
If the truth really does set one free, why aren't more of us truthful more often? Why isn't there greater honesty all around?
Well, here's why:
There has to be trust on both sides, and too often there isn't. Being honest is only one side of the truth coin. Fairness is the other. If we expect folks to be honest with us, they have the right to expect us to treat them fairly in return. If telling the truth is going to get one unfairly discriminated against, why tell the truth? If being honest is going to result in unjust treatment, then for goodness sake, invent a good story! One would be foolish not to!
Another factor is how we go about honesty. While the truth can set one free, the truth can also needlessly hurt. Note that I said needlessly. Once again, it boils down of how we treat others.
Case in point, your daughter comes out of her room wearing an absolutely horrific outfit, and fully intends, in fact relishes, being seen in public in it. You can honestly tell her what you think, and your level of tact will determine the consequences.
You can say, "How can you possibly wear a stupid outfit like that? What's the matter with you? Don't you have any brains?"
Or, you can say, "That isn't what I would wear, but I'm not you. I appreciate your individuality and I respect that you have your own personal tastes. You have the right to be yourself -- but are you sure that really is you?"
What a tremendous difference in tone! The first is an extremely disrespectful assault against her as a person (yes, even youngsters deserve respect, believe it or not!). In essence, it tells her you think she's no good.
The second respects her as a person, but suggests that she needs to be more honest with herself.
Which would garner the better result? It should be obvious.
It goes back to fairness. If one wants honesty, one has to be fair. A major reason why people lie or distort the truth is that they don't feel safe being truthful with certain individuals. They don't feel they can be entirely open without adverse repercussions they don't deserve. They fear misinterpretation or misunderstanding. They fear they won't be listened to, or will be judged without merit. They fear butting up against a closed mind and a hardened heart. Will the person they're communicating with be reasonable? Most importantly, will they be believed when they tell the truth, or will they end up being accused of lying? There's nothing worse than being called a liar when you know you aren't! The fear factor in some cases can be quite valid.
Now, let me be perfectly clear about this: I'm not referring to a situation where someone has committed an offense and is trying to dodge accountability. People do lie to keep from having to own up to their wrongdoings. That's different from what I'm referring to, here. Fairness is always a two-way street. If you've harmed someone or broken the law, you need to be truthful and accept the consequences. On the other hand, if the punishment isn't going to fit the crime ... you see where I'm going with this? There has to be justice on both sides.
Finally, being truthful is itself an act of respect. Lying indicates contempt. Lying to someone, especially in a close relationship, violates that person. Even a small lie can be a personal affront. That's why I find stonewalling offensive. A straightforward good-faith question deserves a straightforward, truthful and good-faith answer. Politicians stonewall continually. Is it any wonder nobody trusts them? Stonewalling is just one step away from lying. What is the stonewaller trying to hide?
The other side of this question is can anyone -- even the most well-intentioned, experienced and honest candidate -- get elected by being entirely candid? Can the voters be trusted to vote the issues? Can the media be trusted to be objective and unbiased in their reporting? I think we all know the answer to that!
Two way street. Honesty and fairness! On both sides, and from all concerned. In an ideal world, that's how it would be. In this one, it's how it should be, but too often isn't.
And as long as that's the case, there will always be liars and those who wrongly judge honest folks. We can improve things immensely, though they will never be perfect. The question is, are we willing to do so? As with most things in life, it's a matter of choice.
-- folktress
In fact, it doesn't even need to be a full-fledged, outright lie. It can be a partial truth, a slight misrepresentation, or simply misleading. Bottom line, it makes me feel like a fool when I trust it, only to find out it isn't all it's cracked up to be. And I hate being made to look foolish.
If the truth really does set one free, why aren't more of us truthful more often? Why isn't there greater honesty all around?
Well, here's why:
There has to be trust on both sides, and too often there isn't. Being honest is only one side of the truth coin. Fairness is the other. If we expect folks to be honest with us, they have the right to expect us to treat them fairly in return. If telling the truth is going to get one unfairly discriminated against, why tell the truth? If being honest is going to result in unjust treatment, then for goodness sake, invent a good story! One would be foolish not to!
Another factor is how we go about honesty. While the truth can set one free, the truth can also needlessly hurt. Note that I said needlessly. Once again, it boils down of how we treat others.
Case in point, your daughter comes out of her room wearing an absolutely horrific outfit, and fully intends, in fact relishes, being seen in public in it. You can honestly tell her what you think, and your level of tact will determine the consequences.
You can say, "How can you possibly wear a stupid outfit like that? What's the matter with you? Don't you have any brains?"
Or, you can say, "That isn't what I would wear, but I'm not you. I appreciate your individuality and I respect that you have your own personal tastes. You have the right to be yourself -- but are you sure that really is you?"
What a tremendous difference in tone! The first is an extremely disrespectful assault against her as a person (yes, even youngsters deserve respect, believe it or not!). In essence, it tells her you think she's no good.
The second respects her as a person, but suggests that she needs to be more honest with herself.
Which would garner the better result? It should be obvious.
It goes back to fairness. If one wants honesty, one has to be fair. A major reason why people lie or distort the truth is that they don't feel safe being truthful with certain individuals. They don't feel they can be entirely open without adverse repercussions they don't deserve. They fear misinterpretation or misunderstanding. They fear they won't be listened to, or will be judged without merit. They fear butting up against a closed mind and a hardened heart. Will the person they're communicating with be reasonable? Most importantly, will they be believed when they tell the truth, or will they end up being accused of lying? There's nothing worse than being called a liar when you know you aren't! The fear factor in some cases can be quite valid.
Now, let me be perfectly clear about this: I'm not referring to a situation where someone has committed an offense and is trying to dodge accountability. People do lie to keep from having to own up to their wrongdoings. That's different from what I'm referring to, here. Fairness is always a two-way street. If you've harmed someone or broken the law, you need to be truthful and accept the consequences. On the other hand, if the punishment isn't going to fit the crime ... you see where I'm going with this? There has to be justice on both sides.
Finally, being truthful is itself an act of respect. Lying indicates contempt. Lying to someone, especially in a close relationship, violates that person. Even a small lie can be a personal affront. That's why I find stonewalling offensive. A straightforward good-faith question deserves a straightforward, truthful and good-faith answer. Politicians stonewall continually. Is it any wonder nobody trusts them? Stonewalling is just one step away from lying. What is the stonewaller trying to hide?
The other side of this question is can anyone -- even the most well-intentioned, experienced and honest candidate -- get elected by being entirely candid? Can the voters be trusted to vote the issues? Can the media be trusted to be objective and unbiased in their reporting? I think we all know the answer to that!
Two way street. Honesty and fairness! On both sides, and from all concerned. In an ideal world, that's how it would be. In this one, it's how it should be, but too often isn't.
And as long as that's the case, there will always be liars and those who wrongly judge honest folks. We can improve things immensely, though they will never be perfect. The question is, are we willing to do so? As with most things in life, it's a matter of choice.
-- folktress
Sunday, May 10, 2009
BITS AND PIECES (RANDOM THOUGHTS)...
It's called "Liquid Fence". The way it smells, they should have called it "Liquid Offense". It's a deer and rabbit deterrant that you spray in your flowerbeds and around their outer edges to prevent these critters from ravaging your garden. Yes, it works -- it works very well. It's only drawbacks are that you have to reapply it after each rain (or if you water heavily), and it's quite expensive.
As for the smell, that soon vanishes from human perception, but animals can still smell it very strongly.
Recently, I was on a gardening message board, and received this tip: They now have pellets that work much the same way, but last a lot longer. The product is called "Shake Away", and the pellets consist of the urine of predators deer and rabbits naturally, instinctively avoid. You shake these pellets around vulnerable plants and the outer edge of your garden, and these critters think there are predators nearby who could eat them. I'm going to try that one ... Sounds like it might work quite well.
Another idea I've recently been toying with is a motion detector that emits the realistic sounds of a mean barking dog when activated. Not only would this deter deer and other garden pests, it could help prevent burglaries, as well. Few would-be burglars will attempt to break in if they think you have a viscous dog on the other side of your door.
I put a lot of work and love into my garden, and I hate to see my heart and soul work destroyed by hungry munchers who have an entire forest and open field area beyond to feed in. It would be different if they had no other food source. They do! And the garden is nothing more to them than a convenient salad bar. And a free one, at that!
****************
More from when I was growing up on my family's lima bean ranch ...
We had a rabbit problem, too. Rabbits could do significant damage to the bean crop, and to our profits for any given year. Dad would go out into the field and shoot rabbits. Then he would bring back their carcasses and skin them. If the rabbits weren't sick, we could eat the meat.
I vividly remember the skinning platform -- a small table Dad had attached to the outside of his workshop. He would skin the rabbits there, and he always checked their intestines. If these looked normal, the rabbit was safe to eat. If they had a certain color or other abnormal look to them, the rabbit was diseased, and we didn't eat it.
Rabbit meat, to me, always tasted like chicken. I really couldn't tell any difference. None of us ever got sick eating rabbit meat, and it was really quite delicious.
I can just hear the environmentalists groaning! Well, folks, in those days, just as now, some people made their living by farming. Money was tight in my family, and we had to protect our investment any way we could. If it meant shooting a few rabbits so we could have a decent crop that year, so be it. We had to be realistic. We weren't and aren't cruel people. But neither could our Dad let our family starve.
One always hoped, of course, that natural predators would keep the rabbit populations in check. That didn't always happen. Sometimes there weren't enough predators, and the rabbits got out of control. This is why maintaining the balance of nature is so important. Eliminate too many prey individuals, and predators starve. Eliminate too many predators, and prey overruns an area and the whole ecosystem suffers. Balance. That's the key. That's how God in his infinite wisdom designed our world -- to be balanced.
****************
Today is Mothers Day. Hubby and I are taking my mother-in-law (his mother) out to brunch.
My own mother is now gardening in a place where flowers never die ... and where they can become any color you wish just by wishing it! What a wonderful place that must be! And she's there right now! Happy Mothers Day, Mama!
Mama entered that lovely place late January of 1993, just two weeks shy of her 70th birthday. Her struggle with cancer -- and with its treatments -- was finally over. Ironically, it wasn't cancer that killed her. It was the treatment of a treatment that did her in! Yes, the treatment for a treatment! Here's what happened:
Mama's cancer had begun to spread. At that time, there was an experimental medication that was showing good results at preventing its further spreading. The problem was, this medication had a serious side effect. It caused blood clotting.
One day, Mama was at the park with some friends when she began manifesting symptoms thought to be those of a heart attack. She was rushed to the hospital, and it was finally determined she had a blood clot in her lung. And that it was caused by her cancer medication.
They dissolved the clot, and she was fine. But after that, she had to take a blood thinner -- Warfarin, also known as Coumidin, and this had to be very closely monitored. Too little, and she would clot, too much and she would overbleed. And this is what finally happened.
Mama would experience occasional nosebleeds when the Coumidin got out of balance. Usually, Dad was able to stop them. One morning, however, she had one he couldn't arrest. And the next thing he knew, Mama had collapsed on the bedroom floor. She had suffered a massive bleeding episode deep in her brain, where it was inaccessible and couldn't be stopped.
Now in this case, her medical team had tried like the dickens to stay on top of it. There was no known negligence. Using a blood thinner is like walking a tightrope. It's dangerous -- VERY dangerous. But in her case it was also necessary. That's life ....
*****************
And these are a few more random thoughts from ...
-- folktress
As for the smell, that soon vanishes from human perception, but animals can still smell it very strongly.
Recently, I was on a gardening message board, and received this tip: They now have pellets that work much the same way, but last a lot longer. The product is called "Shake Away", and the pellets consist of the urine of predators deer and rabbits naturally, instinctively avoid. You shake these pellets around vulnerable plants and the outer edge of your garden, and these critters think there are predators nearby who could eat them. I'm going to try that one ... Sounds like it might work quite well.
Another idea I've recently been toying with is a motion detector that emits the realistic sounds of a mean barking dog when activated. Not only would this deter deer and other garden pests, it could help prevent burglaries, as well. Few would-be burglars will attempt to break in if they think you have a viscous dog on the other side of your door.
I put a lot of work and love into my garden, and I hate to see my heart and soul work destroyed by hungry munchers who have an entire forest and open field area beyond to feed in. It would be different if they had no other food source. They do! And the garden is nothing more to them than a convenient salad bar. And a free one, at that!
****************
More from when I was growing up on my family's lima bean ranch ...
We had a rabbit problem, too. Rabbits could do significant damage to the bean crop, and to our profits for any given year. Dad would go out into the field and shoot rabbits. Then he would bring back their carcasses and skin them. If the rabbits weren't sick, we could eat the meat.
I vividly remember the skinning platform -- a small table Dad had attached to the outside of his workshop. He would skin the rabbits there, and he always checked their intestines. If these looked normal, the rabbit was safe to eat. If they had a certain color or other abnormal look to them, the rabbit was diseased, and we didn't eat it.
Rabbit meat, to me, always tasted like chicken. I really couldn't tell any difference. None of us ever got sick eating rabbit meat, and it was really quite delicious.
I can just hear the environmentalists groaning! Well, folks, in those days, just as now, some people made their living by farming. Money was tight in my family, and we had to protect our investment any way we could. If it meant shooting a few rabbits so we could have a decent crop that year, so be it. We had to be realistic. We weren't and aren't cruel people. But neither could our Dad let our family starve.
One always hoped, of course, that natural predators would keep the rabbit populations in check. That didn't always happen. Sometimes there weren't enough predators, and the rabbits got out of control. This is why maintaining the balance of nature is so important. Eliminate too many prey individuals, and predators starve. Eliminate too many predators, and prey overruns an area and the whole ecosystem suffers. Balance. That's the key. That's how God in his infinite wisdom designed our world -- to be balanced.
****************
Today is Mothers Day. Hubby and I are taking my mother-in-law (his mother) out to brunch.
My own mother is now gardening in a place where flowers never die ... and where they can become any color you wish just by wishing it! What a wonderful place that must be! And she's there right now! Happy Mothers Day, Mama!
Mama entered that lovely place late January of 1993, just two weeks shy of her 70th birthday. Her struggle with cancer -- and with its treatments -- was finally over. Ironically, it wasn't cancer that killed her. It was the treatment of a treatment that did her in! Yes, the treatment for a treatment! Here's what happened:
Mama's cancer had begun to spread. At that time, there was an experimental medication that was showing good results at preventing its further spreading. The problem was, this medication had a serious side effect. It caused blood clotting.
One day, Mama was at the park with some friends when she began manifesting symptoms thought to be those of a heart attack. She was rushed to the hospital, and it was finally determined she had a blood clot in her lung. And that it was caused by her cancer medication.
They dissolved the clot, and she was fine. But after that, she had to take a blood thinner -- Warfarin, also known as Coumidin, and this had to be very closely monitored. Too little, and she would clot, too much and she would overbleed. And this is what finally happened.
Mama would experience occasional nosebleeds when the Coumidin got out of balance. Usually, Dad was able to stop them. One morning, however, she had one he couldn't arrest. And the next thing he knew, Mama had collapsed on the bedroom floor. She had suffered a massive bleeding episode deep in her brain, where it was inaccessible and couldn't be stopped.
Now in this case, her medical team had tried like the dickens to stay on top of it. There was no known negligence. Using a blood thinner is like walking a tightrope. It's dangerous -- VERY dangerous. But in her case it was also necessary. That's life ....
*****************
And these are a few more random thoughts from ...
-- folktress
Friday, May 1, 2009
TRUE MEDICAL STORIES THAT SHOULD CURL YOUR HAIR!
My father passed away in 2007. The cause? It was definitely known that he had lung cancer, but it was reasonable to suspect that he also had either a ruptured hernia or colon cancer, as well. It appeared his colon had finally ruptured during the wee hours of dawn, and of course, that would have killed him almost instantly.
The following are several completely true stories of people close to me and my siblings, and close to Dad, who were killed, in my honest opinion, by an uncaring and incompetent medical establishment.
One involves a special friend of my mother's. Shortly after Mama passed away in 1993, Dad became close with one of her best friends, Arlene. Arlene was a nice lady, and we all liked her. We were happy for our dad. They went on ocean cruises together and were enjoying a very nice relationship.
One day, Arlene noticed she had trouble swallowing and had developed a chronic sore throat. She had one of those HMO doctors, in whom she mistakenly placed her trust to protect her well-being and be genuinely interested in properly diagnosing and treating her medical condition.
This HMO doctor gave her some medicine for her sore throat. It did absolutely nothing to help. It proved totally INeffective! She went back to this doctor again and again and again, and each time he failed to correctly diagnose and treat her. Finally, after about her fifth or sixth visit, he told her he didn't know what was wrong with her, he thought it was all in her head, AND he was "sick and tired of listening to her complaints"! Imagine that! A medical professional to whom one would normally be expected to take one's medical "complaints", saying something like that! A despicable attitude, at best!
Arlene then asked this calloused and UNcaring doctor to refer her to a specialist, since he was unable to determine what was wrong with her. HE REFUSED !!!
When she relayed this experience to our dad, he told her to see a specialist immediately, and he would pay for it.
Arlene did so, and it was discovered she had throat cancer. It was discovered, but not in time! Everything was subsequently done for her that could have been done, but she couldn't be saved.
This HMO doctor, and by association the entire HMO system, killed this vibrant woman for the mere sake of saving a few dollars. The Almighty Dollar Bill was more important than the human life they contributed to snuffing out!
That's my first true story.
The next one involved our Aunt Elaine. She, too, had put her faith in the HMO system, believing that, surely, they would behave responsibly.
Aunt Elaine, in her upper 80s, had developed pneumonia. For some reason, the facility she was at was inadequately equipped to treat her properly. She needed to be transported to another hospital, but because her HMO wouldn't pay for ambulance service, they insisted she ride to this alternative facility in a private automobile, with NO medical assistance along the way!
Dad could see she was in no condition to handle such a trip, and he offered to personally pay for an ambulance to take her there. He begged them to call one for her, but was told they simply weren't allowed to do so, even if the HMO wouldn't have to pay the tab! It was against the terms of her HMO, any way they tried to do it!
So, they bundled Aunt Elaine up as best they could with her oxygen apparatus, and dad had to drive her to the other medical center, several miles away. Yes, he got her there, but just as he had tried to tell those people, those conditions had proven too much for her. She was dead the very next day! Had she been able to avail herself of ambulance services with the necessary professional staff to assist her along the way, chances were very good she could have been saved.
Another HMO killed another human being for the sake of money!
Now comes the story of dad, himself.
Dad didn't have an HMO. He had medicare and private insurance. Thank God. And they didn't give him one bit of trouble about paying for his medical services. Dad's problem was with the medical establishment, itself. Here's what happened to him:
Dad knew he had lung cancer. But he was also painfully aware that he was physically unable to pass anything through his colon. When he relayed this to his oncologist, the doctor seemed oblivious to the fact that there was a second problem that needed addressing -- one that might have been at least as serious as the lung cancer. He kept insisting on focusing exclusively on treating the lung cancer while ignoring the colon problem. He finally told our dad that he thought his colon was "the least of his worries." What an irresponsible thing to say!
At dad's dogged insistence, his medical team finally agreed to do a full-body CT scan to try to determine what was causing his colon blockage. Dad knew he had a hernia, and that may or may not have been the culprit. Whatever was blocking his waste materials from passing, something was definitely wrong down there!
The full-body CT scan was performed, and, unbelievably, dad was told they "couldn't find anything" out of the ordinary! Couldn't find anything ???? Did they actually bother to LOOK ???? Was their technology really that inadequate ????
Time went on, and dad still couldn't pass very much. They had given him all kinds of supposedly powerful laxatives, but nothing worked.
The next step was to try to locate the problem through an MRI. Dad said the MRI was noisy -- sounded like a machine gun going off every few seconds. When the results came back, dad was told that this, too, had failed to reveal anything.
HOW can such things be possible in this day and age when we can send probes to Mars and Jupiter, walk on the moon, and maintain a space station ??? HOW can both a full body CT scan and an MRI fail to detect a problem so obvious as a full or near-full blockage in one's colon???? One would reasonably expect something like that to stick out like a sore thumb! Yet, time and again, Dad was told they "couldn't find anything"! And this writer wonders how hard anyone even bothered to TRY ????
The next procedure was a colonoscopy. Dad followed all the preparatory procedures one has to do at home prior to having one of these. The cleaning out of the colon (as best as possible, considering his blockage made this very difficult).
Dad's oncologist had finally agreed to refer him to the nearby gastroenterology clinic, and there he had consulted with a lady doctor who had set up the colonoscopy. She had led him to believe that she would be the one performing it. When we arrived there, however, Dad found out that a different doctor would be doing the procedure -- a man he had no prior consultation with.
First came setting up the equipment. The technicians at that clinic were totally inept. As dad laid there watching them fumble, they couldn't figure out how to assemble the apparatus, couldn't find the parts they needed, had to drag out the operating manual to try to find out, and, finally, had to bring in their supervisor, who found the needed parts in a drawer, and helped them ready the equipment for the procedure. It was obvious these girls had been very poorly trained. Some confidence that must have inspired!
Dad had his colonoscopy, which we had fully expected would be a complete one -- that is, would have explored and investigated the ENTIRE colon. When there's a serious blockage, isn't that a reasonable expectation ????
When it was finished, this unfamiliar doctor, whom I found woefully uncommunicative, having to literally pry answers out of him, said that Dad's colon was so distended that he was unable to get his instrument all the way through to the end of it, and therefore couldn't see everything. He said he couldn't find anything in that part he was able to look at, and he assumed -- mind you, assumed -- there wasn't anything present in the part he couldn't see! How can one assume nothing is there if one can't see it ???? Was it simply a case of "out of sight, out of mind" ????
In all fairness, this doctor did offer to do a second exploration, going in the opposite direction, but by that time Dad was so fed up with this whole farcical comedy of errors that he declined any further attempts. He had never liked dealing with doctors, and he had become, by then, understandably so disgusted he was ready to forget the whole thing. I drove him home, and that was the end of it.
My brother returned and took over dad's care, and I flew back home to Idaho. I suddenly got a call from my brother a short time later, saying that Dad had to be hospitalized for an emergency regarding his colon. He had found himself in excruciating pain, and there seemed to be immediate danger that it would finally burst. When he arrived at the hospital, they immediately began syphoning off -- pumping out -- all the accumulated waste matter that had collected there because it couldn't be naturally eliminated. And there was a massive amount of that stuff. They finally got rid of it, and Dad felt much better. In that one instance, they were able to save him.
The next move was supposed to have been surgery. They were finally going to open up Dad's abdominal region and physically remove whatever was blocking it. They knew about Dad's hernia, but the surgeon seemed to believe that wasn't it.
In the meantime, Dad's lung capacity had steadily decreased and he was requiring the maximum amount of oxygen his home unit could deliver, just to be able to continue breathing. Ultimately, it was determined that Dad was too weak to survive surgery. That he would have died on the operating table, and no surgeon wants to be responsible for that.
Dad was given only two more weeks to live. He was sent home and placed under hospice care. By then, Dad had developed such a huge and hard knot in his colon that it had become plainly visible --and tangible -- from the outside. The hospice nurse, herself a colon cancer survivor, could physically feel it, and feared it could rupture at any minute. That's why we all suspected it was most likely a tumor that had been growing all along, unabated.
Dad lived for less than a week after that.
This last story is perhaps the saddest, of all. There was no HMO involved, and the doctors had the freedom to do what was necessary within the window of opportunity to quite possibly save his life. Whether politics were involved to a certain extent, or sheer arrogance on the part of the medical team, or inadequate training and incompetent personnel, or, as I strongly suspect, just plain laziness and no small measure of indifference -- Dad was 82 and the general attitude seemed to be that he was just an "old man" who wasn't going to be around much longer, anyway -- whatever it was and for whatever reasons, Dad's medical team had failed him miserably. They wouldn't listen to him, they wouldn't cooperate, and in the end they simply gave up on him. One can say they went through the motions, but never really made the effort to make a real difference.
And this, folks, is why I keep blogging about our horribly broken and corrupt medical system in this country. People like our dad had been raised to respect doctors -- to trust their judgement -- and to expect them to know what they're doing and do what they should. Time and again, this has turned out to not be the case! And folks, we need to start doing something about it, NOW !!! For far too long, we've passively bowed to the supposed authority of fancy certificates hanging on their walls, and it's time we grabbed a few of these people by the collar and educated them as to who they are truly working for! They are supposed to be working for US -- their patients, not for the insurance companies, not solely for the clinic or hospital administrations, and not exclusively for themselves!
This kind of travesty has got to stop, and stop very soon! It's up to US, folks! The government can only make matters worse. WE, the people, have to stand up for our right to get what we pay for from the medical establishment, and that includes proper diagnosis and treatment in a timely fashion, tests and screenings that are properly administered and accurately read and interpreted, straight and truthful answers to our questions which are freely given without our having to threaten a lawsuit before they're finally communicated to us, and above all, respect and caring regardless of prejudicial attitudes and assumptions about age or gender, which really have no place in any of the healing professions.
Until this happens, you are going to continue reading these posts, however tired you might become of seeing them. Maybe if you get tired enough of it, you'll be prompted to address the problems and injustices that make these necessary topics for discussion.
And it's best this occurs before another doctor or insurance company kills you or one of your loved ones!
-- folktress
The following are several completely true stories of people close to me and my siblings, and close to Dad, who were killed, in my honest opinion, by an uncaring and incompetent medical establishment.
One involves a special friend of my mother's. Shortly after Mama passed away in 1993, Dad became close with one of her best friends, Arlene. Arlene was a nice lady, and we all liked her. We were happy for our dad. They went on ocean cruises together and were enjoying a very nice relationship.
One day, Arlene noticed she had trouble swallowing and had developed a chronic sore throat. She had one of those HMO doctors, in whom she mistakenly placed her trust to protect her well-being and be genuinely interested in properly diagnosing and treating her medical condition.
This HMO doctor gave her some medicine for her sore throat. It did absolutely nothing to help. It proved totally INeffective! She went back to this doctor again and again and again, and each time he failed to correctly diagnose and treat her. Finally, after about her fifth or sixth visit, he told her he didn't know what was wrong with her, he thought it was all in her head, AND he was "sick and tired of listening to her complaints"! Imagine that! A medical professional to whom one would normally be expected to take one's medical "complaints", saying something like that! A despicable attitude, at best!
Arlene then asked this calloused and UNcaring doctor to refer her to a specialist, since he was unable to determine what was wrong with her. HE REFUSED !!!
When she relayed this experience to our dad, he told her to see a specialist immediately, and he would pay for it.
Arlene did so, and it was discovered she had throat cancer. It was discovered, but not in time! Everything was subsequently done for her that could have been done, but she couldn't be saved.
This HMO doctor, and by association the entire HMO system, killed this vibrant woman for the mere sake of saving a few dollars. The Almighty Dollar Bill was more important than the human life they contributed to snuffing out!
That's my first true story.
The next one involved our Aunt Elaine. She, too, had put her faith in the HMO system, believing that, surely, they would behave responsibly.
Aunt Elaine, in her upper 80s, had developed pneumonia. For some reason, the facility she was at was inadequately equipped to treat her properly. She needed to be transported to another hospital, but because her HMO wouldn't pay for ambulance service, they insisted she ride to this alternative facility in a private automobile, with NO medical assistance along the way!
Dad could see she was in no condition to handle such a trip, and he offered to personally pay for an ambulance to take her there. He begged them to call one for her, but was told they simply weren't allowed to do so, even if the HMO wouldn't have to pay the tab! It was against the terms of her HMO, any way they tried to do it!
So, they bundled Aunt Elaine up as best they could with her oxygen apparatus, and dad had to drive her to the other medical center, several miles away. Yes, he got her there, but just as he had tried to tell those people, those conditions had proven too much for her. She was dead the very next day! Had she been able to avail herself of ambulance services with the necessary professional staff to assist her along the way, chances were very good she could have been saved.
Another HMO killed another human being for the sake of money!
Now comes the story of dad, himself.
Dad didn't have an HMO. He had medicare and private insurance. Thank God. And they didn't give him one bit of trouble about paying for his medical services. Dad's problem was with the medical establishment, itself. Here's what happened to him:
Dad knew he had lung cancer. But he was also painfully aware that he was physically unable to pass anything through his colon. When he relayed this to his oncologist, the doctor seemed oblivious to the fact that there was a second problem that needed addressing -- one that might have been at least as serious as the lung cancer. He kept insisting on focusing exclusively on treating the lung cancer while ignoring the colon problem. He finally told our dad that he thought his colon was "the least of his worries." What an irresponsible thing to say!
At dad's dogged insistence, his medical team finally agreed to do a full-body CT scan to try to determine what was causing his colon blockage. Dad knew he had a hernia, and that may or may not have been the culprit. Whatever was blocking his waste materials from passing, something was definitely wrong down there!
The full-body CT scan was performed, and, unbelievably, dad was told they "couldn't find anything" out of the ordinary! Couldn't find anything ???? Did they actually bother to LOOK ???? Was their technology really that inadequate ????
Time went on, and dad still couldn't pass very much. They had given him all kinds of supposedly powerful laxatives, but nothing worked.
The next step was to try to locate the problem through an MRI. Dad said the MRI was noisy -- sounded like a machine gun going off every few seconds. When the results came back, dad was told that this, too, had failed to reveal anything.
HOW can such things be possible in this day and age when we can send probes to Mars and Jupiter, walk on the moon, and maintain a space station ??? HOW can both a full body CT scan and an MRI fail to detect a problem so obvious as a full or near-full blockage in one's colon???? One would reasonably expect something like that to stick out like a sore thumb! Yet, time and again, Dad was told they "couldn't find anything"! And this writer wonders how hard anyone even bothered to TRY ????
The next procedure was a colonoscopy. Dad followed all the preparatory procedures one has to do at home prior to having one of these. The cleaning out of the colon (as best as possible, considering his blockage made this very difficult).
Dad's oncologist had finally agreed to refer him to the nearby gastroenterology clinic, and there he had consulted with a lady doctor who had set up the colonoscopy. She had led him to believe that she would be the one performing it. When we arrived there, however, Dad found out that a different doctor would be doing the procedure -- a man he had no prior consultation with.
First came setting up the equipment. The technicians at that clinic were totally inept. As dad laid there watching them fumble, they couldn't figure out how to assemble the apparatus, couldn't find the parts they needed, had to drag out the operating manual to try to find out, and, finally, had to bring in their supervisor, who found the needed parts in a drawer, and helped them ready the equipment for the procedure. It was obvious these girls had been very poorly trained. Some confidence that must have inspired!
Dad had his colonoscopy, which we had fully expected would be a complete one -- that is, would have explored and investigated the ENTIRE colon. When there's a serious blockage, isn't that a reasonable expectation ????
When it was finished, this unfamiliar doctor, whom I found woefully uncommunicative, having to literally pry answers out of him, said that Dad's colon was so distended that he was unable to get his instrument all the way through to the end of it, and therefore couldn't see everything. He said he couldn't find anything in that part he was able to look at, and he assumed -- mind you, assumed -- there wasn't anything present in the part he couldn't see! How can one assume nothing is there if one can't see it ???? Was it simply a case of "out of sight, out of mind" ????
In all fairness, this doctor did offer to do a second exploration, going in the opposite direction, but by that time Dad was so fed up with this whole farcical comedy of errors that he declined any further attempts. He had never liked dealing with doctors, and he had become, by then, understandably so disgusted he was ready to forget the whole thing. I drove him home, and that was the end of it.
My brother returned and took over dad's care, and I flew back home to Idaho. I suddenly got a call from my brother a short time later, saying that Dad had to be hospitalized for an emergency regarding his colon. He had found himself in excruciating pain, and there seemed to be immediate danger that it would finally burst. When he arrived at the hospital, they immediately began syphoning off -- pumping out -- all the accumulated waste matter that had collected there because it couldn't be naturally eliminated. And there was a massive amount of that stuff. They finally got rid of it, and Dad felt much better. In that one instance, they were able to save him.
The next move was supposed to have been surgery. They were finally going to open up Dad's abdominal region and physically remove whatever was blocking it. They knew about Dad's hernia, but the surgeon seemed to believe that wasn't it.
In the meantime, Dad's lung capacity had steadily decreased and he was requiring the maximum amount of oxygen his home unit could deliver, just to be able to continue breathing. Ultimately, it was determined that Dad was too weak to survive surgery. That he would have died on the operating table, and no surgeon wants to be responsible for that.
Dad was given only two more weeks to live. He was sent home and placed under hospice care. By then, Dad had developed such a huge and hard knot in his colon that it had become plainly visible --and tangible -- from the outside. The hospice nurse, herself a colon cancer survivor, could physically feel it, and feared it could rupture at any minute. That's why we all suspected it was most likely a tumor that had been growing all along, unabated.
Dad lived for less than a week after that.
This last story is perhaps the saddest, of all. There was no HMO involved, and the doctors had the freedom to do what was necessary within the window of opportunity to quite possibly save his life. Whether politics were involved to a certain extent, or sheer arrogance on the part of the medical team, or inadequate training and incompetent personnel, or, as I strongly suspect, just plain laziness and no small measure of indifference -- Dad was 82 and the general attitude seemed to be that he was just an "old man" who wasn't going to be around much longer, anyway -- whatever it was and for whatever reasons, Dad's medical team had failed him miserably. They wouldn't listen to him, they wouldn't cooperate, and in the end they simply gave up on him. One can say they went through the motions, but never really made the effort to make a real difference.
And this, folks, is why I keep blogging about our horribly broken and corrupt medical system in this country. People like our dad had been raised to respect doctors -- to trust their judgement -- and to expect them to know what they're doing and do what they should. Time and again, this has turned out to not be the case! And folks, we need to start doing something about it, NOW !!! For far too long, we've passively bowed to the supposed authority of fancy certificates hanging on their walls, and it's time we grabbed a few of these people by the collar and educated them as to who they are truly working for! They are supposed to be working for US -- their patients, not for the insurance companies, not solely for the clinic or hospital administrations, and not exclusively for themselves!
This kind of travesty has got to stop, and stop very soon! It's up to US, folks! The government can only make matters worse. WE, the people, have to stand up for our right to get what we pay for from the medical establishment, and that includes proper diagnosis and treatment in a timely fashion, tests and screenings that are properly administered and accurately read and interpreted, straight and truthful answers to our questions which are freely given without our having to threaten a lawsuit before they're finally communicated to us, and above all, respect and caring regardless of prejudicial attitudes and assumptions about age or gender, which really have no place in any of the healing professions.
Until this happens, you are going to continue reading these posts, however tired you might become of seeing them. Maybe if you get tired enough of it, you'll be prompted to address the problems and injustices that make these necessary topics for discussion.
And it's best this occurs before another doctor or insurance company kills you or one of your loved ones!
-- folktress
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