
Yesterday I explained why I'm writing about doctors and/or medical professionals. If you haven't done so already, you can read it here: http://http//beatriceblount.blogspot.com/2009/11/doctor-doctor-give-me-news.html
Friday, November 6, 2009
Doctor, Doctor: Here's The Story
9 comments
Posted by
Beatrice Blount
at
3:07 PM
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Doctor, Doctor: Give Me The News
5 commentsMy dad is the pastor of a church that many of you attend, have attended, and/or vow to/never to attend in the future. You might already know that next week's service is out of the ordinary. Senator Bill Frist will be speaking, and I'm actually pretty excited about that. I'm not a political junkie, and I'm certainly not a Republican junkie (though if I was I'm sure I would hide the fact behind very expensive ties and discrimination towards lower-income families).
No, I'm not looking forward to this speaking engagement because he is a big shot D.C. guy with all kinds of political history and influence. I'm looking forward to hearing what he has to say because he is doing something important to help people. Of course, public service on either the red or blue side of the coin does something important to help people. I'm still nice enough to believe that politicians start their career because they want to make a tangible difference in the lives of those around them. Regardless of what school of thought they adhere to, I think that many of those in political service do want to have a positive influence in our communities.
Senator Frist has been involved the last few years in a group called Hope Through Healing Hands. I went to their website: http://www.hopethroughhealinghands.org/ to get this info (which is not copied by permission, just in case anybody asks).
Hope Through Healing Hands is a nonprofit 501(c)3 whose mission is to promote improved quality of life for citizens and communities around the world using health as a currency for peace.
Through the prism of health diplomacy, we envision a world where all individuals and families can obtain access to a skilled, motivated, and supported health worker, within a robust health system-domestic and abroad. Specifically, we support partnership in service and training for sustainability.
Under the umbrella of health diplomacy, we include child survival/maternal health, clean water, extreme poverty, and global disease such as HIV/AIDS, TB, and Malaria. Strategically, we promote Global Partnership by working hand-in-hand with leading organizations who best address these issues in developing nations.
Pretty cool, right? And whatever his views on how such a plan would be carried out in our country, I think it is really, really great that he (and many other nameless people, such as their receptionist) is involved in an effort to help people with their practical needs.
So...what is this about? Well, in addition to having Mr. Dr. Senator Frist speak, our church is taking the opportunity to thank the medical professionals that attend our church. My dad also urged people to write their own caregivers just to say thank you, to let them know that you appreciate their work and service. He reminded us that it is really hard right now for medical personnel. They went to school using exorbitant loans, and spent many late nights eating Cup O' Soup and not having any normal relationships while they learned about the intricacies of catheter insertion disasters. Sure, they might currently drive a car that costs more than my house, but they also have to jump through all kinds of hoops in order to not be sued by people that don't know enough to not drink antibacterial hand cleanser. Their please-don't-sue-me-insurance fees are astronomical and they still often don't have any normal relationships because they have to attend weekend seminars entitled Doctors: Stop Smoking or Remember To Remove The Sponge After Surgery. Despite the very high importance our society places on medical professionals, and specifically doctors, they really don’t lead a life of wealthy leisure.
The idea of writing your doctor can sound sort of cheesy. Show Your Random Whatever How Much You Care Day isn't normally the kind of thing I jump on board with. When Pastor Appreciation month rolls around, I roll my eyes around. And that isn't very nice of me. But there it is. I do Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and Female Appreciation Day (a lonely party, please join me next year) and call it done. But I’m going to do what my dad asked this time. He is just as shocked as you are.
I can get super frustrated with the current healthcare situation. It once contributed to my homelessness, and also contributes about twenty points to my blood pressure number. I'm still not sure if it is the top or bottom number, but either way...not something that eating oatmeal four times a day for thirty days is going to solve.
But then I thought about my doctor. And I thought about all of the other doctors and nurses and surgeons and psychiatrists that through their combined efforts have brought me to this day. And I was, in fact, grateful.
I haven't had cancer or a heart transplant. I haven't been hospitalized for anything more serious than having a baby. So why would I feel such sentiment towards my healthcare providers?
The human body is a fascinating and scary thing. After all the years of research and questioning and hypothesis, there is still so much that we cannot understand and unlock about the skin-covered shell in which we live. Amazing, isn't it? And yet, still scary because at times we know there is nothing…nothing to be done for a body that is ravaged with an invading tumor.
I am by nature a nervous worrier. I’m quite sure that it comes from my grandmother, although it might just be that grandmothers are, by their very nature, a worried lot. I (and the grandmothers of the world, apparently) rely on a nurse to tell us at four o’clock of the morning that our infant isn’t dying of a rare tropical disease brought on by smelling some fancy coconut candle at the mall. When my daughter went to Vanderbilt Children’s E.R., I could have wept when the doctor took charge and helped my blue-tinged toddler to breathe again. And let’s not forget my favorite job of all: the lowly receptionist. Poor things, they are the first line of defense for or against you. I’ve personally been guilty of asking the front office workers to please diagnose my child over the phone and could they please DO SOMETHING!?
In all of these situations, I know that it is highly possible that the nurse, the doctor, the receptionist, or whomever is helping me, will leave my crazy presence to return to a break room full of mealy cantaloupe cubes and burned coffee. And in that break room, various medical workers will chuckle and roll their eyes at my stupidity and fear. They will wonder why, with no symptoms or problems, I brought myself to their office to hear that everything is “A OK Mrs. Cagle…here’s your paper go check out at the front desk see you at your next visit remember to sneeze into the crook of your arm.”
What I’m getting at, slowly yet hopefully surely, is this: regardless of their feelings towards my excessive use of WebMD’s symptom checker tool, they treat me. They hear my fears, answer my questions, and tell me what I can expect for a given query. It seems obvious and simple, but the reassurance and knowledge they give is invaluable to me.
Some doctors just suck. I know this, you know this, and they probably even know it. But we aren’t talking about them. If you don’t have a doctor that you like…find a new one! Or complain and call until they are forced to give you the attention you need in order to keep yourself healthy and sane. (Note: Beatrice Blount does NOT condone excessive shows of frustration and/or stupidity, such as blowing up a doctor’s office or kidnapping a nurse.)
The best doctors give you knowledge paired with a great gift: dignity. Asking a nurse why you pee in rainbow colors is really, really embarrassing. And I’m sure it is really, really hard for said nurse to answer without his or her mouth twitching. But if they are still held by the ideals that once captured their young hearts, they will be able to answer you while remembering that you have feelings that need to be handled with care.
I could just copy and paste each of my doctor’s names into a pre-written letter that says something like this:
Dear Dr.__________,
Thank you so much for your continued efforts to make me not afraid of touching doorknobs during flu season. I realize that you might have to have an extra cup of coffee or smoke break before I come to your office. I just want you to know that the kindness is noticed, and I’m grateful that you haven’t told me the lie that you are closing your practice to patients who cannot meet certain criteria. Thank you for answering my frantic calls about heart murmurs and tapeworms. Just so you know, my husband has blocked all medical websites from our computer, and this should cut down on my learning about new diseases and conditions that probably will never affect me.
Yours sincerely,
Beatrice Blount
I’ve been lucky to personally receive amazing, dignified care on numerous occasions. I’ve also been fortunate in hearing other’s stories about health care workers that treat disease, fear, and uncertainty with the greatest of compassion. I don’t want this blog to get too long, so I’m going to put those stories in a separate post this afternoon. Also, my 3 year old is demanding computer time and won't be put off a second longer.
For now, let’s just say I appreciate my doctor, and my nurses, and the lovely pharmacist who didn’t chastise me when Sabra yelled an inappropriate word. You keep this nervous lady from being institutionalized, and I love you for it. Except for the one doctor who threatened to send me to the crazy house. I don’t love you and I gave you bad ratings on the Rate Your Doctor website.
Posted by
Beatrice Blount
at
7:47 PM
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Alien Ankles
4 commentsI have been very lax in posting things as of late. Some days this is because all I want to do is look on eBay for a cheaper version of a bag I really, really, really want. At other times, I fail to write because I'm slightly (ever, ever so slightly) hormonal with twenty-five pounds of baby baggage and think that I shouldn't say anything because I have nothing nice to say. Mostly, however, I've been writing and just not posting.
I've looked at a few message boards and zoologist opinions, and have found that overall it is thought of as a type of sloth without hair and strangely formed arms. One website claimed it to be the lovechild of Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter, which might be funnier if I knew more about Ann Coulter. I'm not sure what I think, as I am totally unqualified to make any conjectures into the field of unidentifiable objects. When I find such objects in my pantry, I throw them away and think no more of them. The grand exception to this practice is the Pantry Incident of September 2009 in which I unwittingly made cheap vodka from a bag of forgotten potatoes. After discarding the bag of smelly goo, I doused the area in anti-bacterial something or other. This created an odor that I hope to never meet again, and I was forced to generously sprinkle (dump) every box of baking soda I could find into the lower portion of my pantry. I lit an unknown amount of candles, and the kitchen appeared to be holding a vigil to the utterly deceased potatoes. I have yet to clean the hastily applied baking soda, because I would probably just make a larger mess. Additionally, the smell still lingers in a haunting sort of way, reminding me that pantry cleaning should probably be a weekly chore. My neighbors, who already think poorly of me, would no doubt swear in court that I have a cocaine business running right out of my own pantry. My neighbors have fake flowers planted in their yard, which makes them experts in all things proprietary.
Back to the Panamanian UO. What do you think? Part of me wonders if the kids went searching the garbage cans outside of the Panama Wax Museum and created something creepy. Otherwise, I'm of the opinion that environmental toxins makes sense. It could have been a sloth-like creature that met with a large bag of wasted potatoes. Once you've seen evidence of what oil spills and high lead contents can do, you have to at least agree that an animal mutation is possible.
I said that these kids sparked interesting debates on time travel. This isn't exactly true. But for some reason, when people talk about aliens, I always think of time travel. They don't have to be in the same thought category, and surely one could exist without the other. But I'm of the opinion that either one could be possible. There isn't concrete evidence to support those ideas, but for some reason that doesn't really bother me. I think of all the discoveries throughout human history that have been so 'out of the box': electricity, space travel, organ transplants...and I just don't have the heart to shut my mind's door on the possibility that anything can happen. (Yes, this does contribute to my anxiety levels. But it also makes me more creative.)
I learned early on that most Sunday School teachers do not share these views. "After all," they said, "wouldn't God have told us if there were other life forms?" I argued that God didn't tell us lots of things, but maybe thought it would be a good idea if we used our gift of a brain and tried to discover the vast mysteries and intricacies of the world. God didn't tell us that penicillin was a good idea. He let us discover that radioactivity could be a good thing and that Pluto is/is not a planet. I think it would be very dull indeed to live in a world where there is no mystery. How sad would it be to have nothing to grapple with or doubt? Anything really can be possible, even if it is just for a little while, until you (or someone smarter than you, hello Marie Curie!) prove otherwise.
So at least for now, I like to think that time travel is possible. I'm not sure why, but I think that God is into fantasy literature. Yes, he made things orderly. But he also made things straight up odd. We think of the body's process of oxygenating blood to be orderly. But that is only because we discovered that it has an order. Until then, it was fantastical and unknown, and could at any moment be changed! Don't you find that idea totally amazing and exhilarating?! No? Well...maybe you should go back a few centuries. I'll push you down a black hole worm tunnel when you aren't looking.
So now I've talked on and on about my potato blight and why I was shushed in Sunday School. I meant to talk about headline #2 for a bit. But it just might speak for itself.
Shoe Designer Christian Louboutin: "Barbie's ankles are too fat!"

Yes, he did. Perhaps he doesn't know she's fake? Shouldn't he first argue that she is painfully short, if concerned with her proportions? Why, when presented with the world's mysteries and concerns, would he think that anybody cares about plastic ankles? Is his life really that empty? Didn't he know that women around the world would mock him and his stupidity? At the same time, could he not see that he would make these women completely PISSED OFF?! I mean, her ankles are the size of my fingernail! WHAT on EARTH?! I've never been a huge Barbie fan, but I also don't want her to feel bad about herself. She's changed from being That Whore Next Door to Every Woman, and try as you might you just can't hate her. She's about 8963 steps up from those skanky Bratz dolls AND she has a job. She is the modern American woman, and there is just no reason to talk about her ankles. Her ankles are fine! Even if she had big scary cankles, surely we can think of better things to talk about...right?
In summary, I think that Christian Louboutin was environmentally poisoned by the potatoes in my pantry. His brain was addled and mutated, and now he sees the world around him as though looking through a fun house mirror. It might be humane to throw sticks and rocks at him until he gives up the ghost of his craziness on the banks of a Panamanian creek.
This blog brought to you from the future.
Posted by
Beatrice Blount
at
9:24 AM
Friday, September 18, 2009
To Force The Hand
7 comments
Posted by
Beatrice Blount
at
10:17 AM
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Ruby Slippers?
6 comments
Posted by
Beatrice Blount
at
11:33 AM
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The F Bomb
9 commentsLast night I was waiting in the uncharacteristically long pharmacy line for Moira's steroids to be filled. I was tired, the kids were slaphappy, and I had a cart full of melty things like popsicles. I was...impatient. The kids were...impatient.
As I explained thankfully but now forcefully to the pharmacist, Moira should not have a red flag on her account because she has never had a reaction to any medicine. She looked at me, willing me to remember what meds could have caused this red flag. I looked at her, willing her to give me the liquid and let me leave with my kids who were chanting random rhymes and giggling hysterically.
Sabra decided that simple rhyming wasn't getting enough attention from the gigantic line of people snaking the aisles behind us. She started yelling all the scandalous words she knows, including fart, tinkler, and stinkfartboogerbutt. She and Moira were red with glee. I kept giving them The Mom Stare and hoping they would be filled with fear. They weren't.
They combined the attention getting schemes, now making rhymes of 'dirty' words. They did elicit a few smiles from the toothless hag standing directly behind our cart.
I turned around to see if the pharmacist would PLEASE give me the steroids now when Sabra positively yelled at the top of her high-pitched voice FUCKAFUCKA!
I turned around, horror stricken. What a horrible rhyming combo to arrive at. Hopefully she would move on to 'puckapucka' and then 'guckagucka'. No such luck. For whatever reason, this word felt right. She shared it with Moira, and Moira liked it too.
Two children saying FUCKAFUCKA very, very loudly while the pharmacist tried to talk to me about the drawbacks of steroids in young children. Awesome.
At this time, the pharmacist went to go check something else on our account, giving me time to turn to my horrible little monsters and to put my hands on their mouths to illustrate that Mommy really meant that they were to cease their wicked devil conversation immediately.
Moira's face was subdued into a quiet grin. I removed my hand. Sabra's face was impassive, perhaps contrite...I removed my hand. And then, as if she had a bullhorn in her possession, she let lose with a string of FUCKAFUCKAFUCKAFUCKAFUCKA!!!!!
I looked around, expecting to find other customers smirking at the antics of my cute little 3 year old daughter. Instead I was met with a host of disapproving glares and furrowed eyebrows.
Naturally this brought out the hilarity of the situation, and I laughed maniacally while Sabra continued to yell expletives.
The pharmacist finally, finally caught on to the social cues that were pulsing around her throne room of medicine, and just handed me the bag and her sincere wishes that my night would be a good one.
And really, it was. My kids dropped the 'F' bomb at Target, but the popsicles didn't melt and Moira didn't grow face warts when the steroids touched her lips.
I dipped a few extra times into the Ben & Jerry's, though. It was called for, don't you think? I might write the company with a few suggestions on a new ice cream name.
Posted by
Beatrice Blount
at
11:21 AM
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The Sticker Chart
2 comments
Did you ever have a sticker chart?
I've told Moira that I'm not a complete dunce and I know how to make an Excel sheet but she just gives me The Look that clearly says I'm not altogether capable of creating such a holy object. She is a little bit right. I don't know where to buy those foil stickers. I don't know where teachers buy them, and I felt as a child that said stickers were a bit over the top. It added a stress rather than rewarded my obvious genius. I had to worry if I would get a good grade, but then I had to worry about the remarks the teacher would make in green ink. (She didn't use red because that struck fear, but really all she did was make me wary of green pens.) I had to worry about the sticker I might or might not receive and then I had to worry if it was as intricate or cool as the other kids'. I just feel that sticker politics do not add to a child's well being. And of course God saw fit to give me a child that would jump through a troop and leap over a wall to receive a sticker for any completed task. I digress.
Well, I was thinking last night about the sticker chart and how it might be helpful. With the oh-so-modern American life my family is participating in, I find that my Blessed Google Calendar is now operating as a personal assistant of sorts. Granted, it can't actually perform the tasks I record, but it does remind me in multiple colors on my phone, calendar, and email that I need to remember to Give Kids A Shower and Buy Lunch Meat So As Not To Send Kids To School With Dry Oatmeal Again.
I thought that it might be a good idea to make a sticker chart for Moira, Sabra, and myself. I could just see the cheery little charts attached to the fridge, showing our ability to stay organized in a whimsical cherry print with scratch-and-sniff stickers. The planets would align. The soon-to-be nursery would clean and assemble itself while I looked on, singing like bloody Mary Poppins. All that stood between me and a life of clean lines and a functional sock drawer was a piece of paper with foil stars.
We've all read that ridiculous email about what a 'housewife/homemaker/stay at home crazy' is worth. I'm guessing that some husband put that together when his wife told him how miserable she was trying to find self-worth in the front seat of her minivan. It was nice of that anonymous man to tell the world at large that a crazy lady drinking Bailey's in her coffee before 10 a.m. is worth more than a personal chef, chauffeur, assistant, launderer, maid, nanny, and gardener. But I disagree with the well-meaning spouse of a woman gone mad. I don't feel even a tiny bit more appreciated or fulfilled by knowing that people get paid to do this stuff. It doesn't help that no matter how many stars I get, there's always so many more blank spaces that loom large and white and taunt me with my lack of efficacy.
In short, the sticker chart doesn't work. Not for me, anyways. I'll still (try to) remember to get Moira a cute little chart with bubble letters that say 'do your best!' and applaud her faithfulness in picking up her toys. But her chart only has a few lines to fill. If I made her list, like mine, run multiple pages with cross references to Austin's schedule and the paycheck schedule and the sales on pudding cups at Target, I think she would become glassy-eyed and start gnawing at her cuticles.
Posted by
Beatrice Blount
at
11:15 PM



