I’ve reached a point in my life where there isn’t much left. Having a decent reading on my blood pressure machine before I take the medicine my doctor prescribes to control my blood pressure is a small victory. When my heart rhythm is normal it’s like a winning lottery scratch off card. I have atrial fibrillation. Oddly enough, it was diagnosed on almost the same day I retired.
There are always two or three nurses who act as if they’re happy to see me. They greet me, with a kind smile and few words of encouragement. During my first couple of procedures I was afraid, terrified, and the kind words were a comfort. Though, I suspected they were mostly rote, and offered only to mollify me, make me supple and manageable. But I appreciated their kindness. I still do.
With a practiced efficiency they place little stickers on my chest and abdomen, and insert an IV needle into a vein on my arm. While they are working away, preparing me for my procedure, they ask about my day, and the book I bought along. They take my blood sample and check my blood pressure and my pulse, and they are gone, drifting in and out. We’re all waiting for the doctor, but they’re mobile, they aren’t tethered to a machine. They have clothes that fasten with buttons, snaps and ties, completely modest, and appropriate.
It comes down to me, laying in an uncomfortable bed, waiting for the results of a blood test, waiting for a cardiologist, waiting for an anesthesiologist, waiting. Occasionally the curtains will open and a nurse, or one of the people between nurse and doctor will peek in, ask a few questions, they might have a clipboard with something that needs a signature.
When it starts, it goes quickly. Things move, a blur of motion. A machine is wheeled in, postcard sized patches are applied to my chest and back and there is a crushing, cold/heat added to my IV and next thing I know, it’s over. My heart rhythm is normal, for a while. All I remember is the agony of anesthesia. They give me a cup of coffee, and I’m on my way.
In a way it’s like a family reunion, we meet and talk and there is some pain, some numbness, and we go our own way. Until next time. I like to think they are looking forward to my next visit already.
In the city where I live the garbage dumpsters are picked up by the city, and the city pays a private company to empty the recycling dumpsters. In our neighborhood recycling is picked up on Friday, almost without exception, unless there is a holiday. After a holiday they come on Saturday. Not every holiday triggers the delay, and I’m not sure how they decide, or who makes the decision. Yard waste is picked up on the same day as recycling, but only on alternating weekends.
Trash is collected on days that rotate. Five areas of the city are each assigned a color. Holidays move your color forward a day. It seems complicated. But, the city is willing to send you an email, and let you know what day they are coming. Which, if you don’t mind reading your email, works well. I read mine, I’m not busy.
Last week the trash was picked up on Wednesday, and the recycling was picked up on Friday, yard waste was still a week away. I know, I keep track of those things.
I pay attention to who has the correct dumpster out on the right day, why not, I have time.
Last week, on Friday, on my way back from my daily trip to the grocery store, I saw a poor sap who had both dumpsters on the curb. All the way home I thought about his reaction when he got off work, and went to retrieve his dumpster, the disappointment spreading across his face when he saw only one of his dumpsters was empty. I waited by the front door, just to feel his anguish. It was a small victory for senior citizens everywhere.
I’m a sad little man. A sad little man whose dumpsters are out on the curb with an unnatural frequency. Hey, we all need a hobby.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
