I'm in the process of applying for health insurance. It's a very pleasant process. As an individual with absolutely no bargaining power I'm in a powerful position to dictate terms to huge corporations run by people with Phds in Advanced Evasion. The insurance companies are spending a great deal of time -- a great deal of time -- scouring my medical history to make sure that I don't have a condition that may cost them money in the future. That's their business model, of course: to make money.
But I can see their point of view; it would hardly be fair to learn that I had some rare form of bone disease (which I'm pretty sure I have, by the way and if I don't I'm going to catch it) and then try to sign on for their benefits. But is the hangnail in 1972 really that important? Apparently so. They're probably going to put an exclusion in place, assuming they deign to cover me, for any hangnail related surgery in the future.
We are using an insurance broker to do this. This kind and decent man helped us in the past, and I got to know him a little bit. He was going through some shit with an ex-wife and I always inquired after his well-being. He has been shepherding our application through the maze this time. Yesterday, he sent SuperK an encouraging note about his progress, adding: "I feel like you guys are family."
I just keep clumping all of this stuff under the heading of "being of service." I wonder how often he feels that way about his clients. I bet he hears a lot of bitching.
I was at my parents house this week and Dad asked me to fix a broken toilet seat. I thought of Shorty changing a light bulb at his father's house. I'm crouched on a hard tile floor, my face in my parent's john, thinking: "I am too important to be doing this." It took me like a half an hour. A normal guy-guy could have done it in like 5 minutes. I got the lid and the seat all fouled up. The lid pointed up, but the seat was pointing down. I had to take it apart and do it again. I closed the bathroom door so I could swear in peace.
It's not like I don't have any experience sticking my face into a toilet. At least I wasn't retching this time.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Radical Asymmetrical Amputation
A few weeks ago SuperK got out of bed and felt something pop in her ankle. It's not that she's old but . . . well, you know. I'm just sayin'.
"My ankle hurts and my heel is sore," she said.
We decided that the best course of action would be to research the problem on the internet. It's my understanding that there's no misleading information on the internet; it's all vetted somehow. We mixed in some discussions with friends who have no medical training whatsoever; people who may have heard something about this condition on The TV. If it's on The TV, it's definitely true. That is without a doubt a highly regulated medium, and thus to be trusted without question. We topped this dysfunctional sundae with an EM suggestion or two provided by my best friend, the doctor, who gamely chimed in to the best of his ability despite the sketchy, incomplete information we provided. He was further hamstrung by the fact that he hadn't actually seen SuperK. God forbid we make an appointment and pay for his services.
"Now there's a tingling, pins and needles feeling running up my calf," she said. "My ankle feels OK but my heel is killing me."
Being good alcoholics we start the diagnosis at radical amputation just below the hip -- if they're going to take some leg off we might as well get our money's worth. The cost of the whole leg is actually a little less than just above the ankle. It's like if you buy a big bottle of detergent the cost per ounce is less than the smaller sized bottle. We assume that they'll want to cut off the other leg for symmetry sake, taking advantage of this month's Two for One sale, but Act Quickly! it's only good in January. Insurance will reject everything. "We're sorry," the letter will say, " but here at Big Insurance we don't pay for procedures of a purely cosmetic nature."
"My other heel hurts today, she said. "My whole leg is numb and my ankle is swollen."
"Wasn't the problem with your left leg yesterday?" I asked.
"I don't think so," she replied.
"Are you going swimming today?" I asked.
"I'm thinking about it," she said. "But now I'm short of breath and there's a sharp, radiating pain moving up my arm. I think I'm losing my peripheral vision, too."
"That doesn't sound good," I said.
"Didn't you have the exact same thing last year?" she asked.
I think I did.
"My ankle hurts and my heel is sore," she said.
We decided that the best course of action would be to research the problem on the internet. It's my understanding that there's no misleading information on the internet; it's all vetted somehow. We mixed in some discussions with friends who have no medical training whatsoever; people who may have heard something about this condition on The TV. If it's on The TV, it's definitely true. That is without a doubt a highly regulated medium, and thus to be trusted without question. We topped this dysfunctional sundae with an EM suggestion or two provided by my best friend, the doctor, who gamely chimed in to the best of his ability despite the sketchy, incomplete information we provided. He was further hamstrung by the fact that he hadn't actually seen SuperK. God forbid we make an appointment and pay for his services.
"Now there's a tingling, pins and needles feeling running up my calf," she said. "My ankle feels OK but my heel is killing me."
Being good alcoholics we start the diagnosis at radical amputation just below the hip -- if they're going to take some leg off we might as well get our money's worth. The cost of the whole leg is actually a little less than just above the ankle. It's like if you buy a big bottle of detergent the cost per ounce is less than the smaller sized bottle. We assume that they'll want to cut off the other leg for symmetry sake, taking advantage of this month's Two for One sale, but Act Quickly! it's only good in January. Insurance will reject everything. "We're sorry," the letter will say, " but here at Big Insurance we don't pay for procedures of a purely cosmetic nature."
"My other heel hurts today, she said. "My whole leg is numb and my ankle is swollen."
"Wasn't the problem with your left leg yesterday?" I asked.
"I don't think so," she replied.
"Are you going swimming today?" I asked.
"I'm thinking about it," she said. "But now I'm short of breath and there's a sharp, radiating pain moving up my arm. I think I'm losing my peripheral vision, too."
"That doesn't sound good," I said.
"Didn't you have the exact same thing last year?" she asked.
I think I did.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
What Do I Know, Anyway?
Last night a guy that I like a lot pulled me aside after the meeting, and asked my opinion about a woman in The Program that I also like a lot. The woman, not The Program, although I like The Program a lot, too. He had gone out on a date with this woman -- both are single and not in the newcomer category, as if either of those facts would justify me telling anyone what to do -- and wondered what I thought about her.
"I value your opinion," he said, totally charming me. I'll give up the keys to the vault to anyone who flatters me, even if it's the empty words of an evil manipulator. Flattery is a hot commodity. I'll take it.
"You seem to be successful in your relationships," he added. No one cares how long I've been sober but a lot of people are mightily impressed that I've been married for 20 years. I'M mightily impressed. I can only assume that SuperK is, too, although dismay may better characterize her emotions.
I had to take a minute to gather myself. I'm very, very careful to make sure that I don't gossip about somebody, especially not in The Program. My conversations with other alcoholics are protected by a code of ethics more stringent than the doctor-patient or lawyer-client relationship. I share anecdotes and the like only if I'm sure the other person would approve, and I err on the side of prudence.
To further complicate matters, I can only hypothesize about personal relationships. Sometimes I stare in disbelief when they work out and sometimes I'm stunned when they don't. I remember the advice I was getting when SuperK and I were dating; I had met her at her second meeting when I had a whole 8 months of sobriety. People weren't urging us forward. I think as a general rule we can agree that the odds are long on two wet-behind-the-ears drunks making it work, but obviously they're not impossible.
"I don't think she's going to pull a knife on you, " I offered.
"I value your opinion," he said, totally charming me. I'll give up the keys to the vault to anyone who flatters me, even if it's the empty words of an evil manipulator. Flattery is a hot commodity. I'll take it.
"You seem to be successful in your relationships," he added. No one cares how long I've been sober but a lot of people are mightily impressed that I've been married for 20 years. I'M mightily impressed. I can only assume that SuperK is, too, although dismay may better characterize her emotions.
I had to take a minute to gather myself. I'm very, very careful to make sure that I don't gossip about somebody, especially not in The Program. My conversations with other alcoholics are protected by a code of ethics more stringent than the doctor-patient or lawyer-client relationship. I share anecdotes and the like only if I'm sure the other person would approve, and I err on the side of prudence.
To further complicate matters, I can only hypothesize about personal relationships. Sometimes I stare in disbelief when they work out and sometimes I'm stunned when they don't. I remember the advice I was getting when SuperK and I were dating; I had met her at her second meeting when I had a whole 8 months of sobriety. People weren't urging us forward. I think as a general rule we can agree that the odds are long on two wet-behind-the-ears drunks making it work, but obviously they're not impossible.
"I don't think she's going to pull a knife on you, " I offered.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
An Evil and Corroding Thread.
Corroding: To eat into or wear away gradually, as if by gnawing; rust; consume; destroy; said of the action of chemicals.
The chief activator of our defects has been self-centered fear -- primarily fear that we would lose something we already possessed or would fail to get something we demanded.
Fear somehow touched about every aspect of our lives. It was an evil and corroding thread; the fabric of our existence was shot through with it.
When our failings generate fear, we then have soul-sickness. This sickness, in turn, generates still more character defects.
Our fears are the termites that ceaselessly devour the foundations of whatever sort of life we try to build.
That's all me. I came up with all of that stuff on my own. I didn't lift it verbatim, word for word, from any literature.
They say that Eskimos have many names for snow and Bedouins have dozens for sand storm. Alcoholics are like that with fear. We're afraid of everything all the while pretending that we're not afraid of anything. We deny its existence; we say that we're mad and depressed and anxious. Those words sound braver and more complicated, more worthy of our complex personalities and tragic nature.
I started to get afraid about something yesterday that I was powerless to resolve immediately. I like to fix problems right away. I don't like to wait for answers. So a guy from the program wanders in while I'm having my post-swim coffee and we shoot the shit. Then I get a call first thing this morning from a different guy and talk some more. A lot of the time if I just get into bed and go to sleep problems start to resolve of their own accord or solutions present themselves.
This requires patience, whatever that is.
The chief activator of our defects has been self-centered fear -- primarily fear that we would lose something we already possessed or would fail to get something we demanded.
Fear somehow touched about every aspect of our lives. It was an evil and corroding thread; the fabric of our existence was shot through with it.
When our failings generate fear, we then have soul-sickness. This sickness, in turn, generates still more character defects.
Our fears are the termites that ceaselessly devour the foundations of whatever sort of life we try to build.
That's all me. I came up with all of that stuff on my own. I didn't lift it verbatim, word for word, from any literature.
They say that Eskimos have many names for snow and Bedouins have dozens for sand storm. Alcoholics are like that with fear. We're afraid of everything all the while pretending that we're not afraid of anything. We deny its existence; we say that we're mad and depressed and anxious. Those words sound braver and more complicated, more worthy of our complex personalities and tragic nature.
I started to get afraid about something yesterday that I was powerless to resolve immediately. I like to fix problems right away. I don't like to wait for answers. So a guy from the program wanders in while I'm having my post-swim coffee and we shoot the shit. Then I get a call first thing this morning from a different guy and talk some more. A lot of the time if I just get into bed and go to sleep problems start to resolve of their own accord or solutions present themselves.
This requires patience, whatever that is.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Incomprehensible Demoralization!
Demoralize: To lower the morale of, weaken the spirit, courage, discipline, or staying power of; to throw into confusion.
We are given a choice when we enter The Program. We can either continue to drink, blotting out the circumstances of our miserable existence the best we can until we die a painful, slow, agonizing death, unhinged and alone, or we can accept that there is a spiritual solution to our disease. It's not always an easy choice. It's almost never an easy choice. The Book uses the phrase "incomprehensible demoralization." That's a good phrase.
We pause, a few beats too long. The silence gets uncomfortable.
"Uh, can I get back to you on that?"
I went to Costco yesterday. On weekends the store sets up little sample stations where customers can try different food products and infect themselves with the germs of small, sick children who have touched everything on the tray, while simultaneously sneezing and coughing. At one stand I fumbled a cracker smeared with an inoculation of something supposed to simulate a real food product of some kind. It fell to the floor and exploded. I took a napkin, bent over, and cleaned up my mess, grateful that I didn't use one of my favorite expletives to express my displeasure.
"Thank you, sir, I really appreciate that," the nice lady said. I got the feeling that she was surprised. I got the feeling that most people left the detritus there for her to clean up.
I approached another stand.
"How ya doin"? I asked the hostess.
"OK," she replied, a little warily.
I got the feeling not too many people asked how she was doing. I got the feeling they stuffed the food in their mouths and continued to walk. I always thank them for the food sample, like they're handing out stuff they paid for. I pretend that I'm interested and find that, after a while, I become interested. She was a nice woman. We talked for a minute. She was getting off work in a few minutes and was pretty happy about it. I could relate to that.
I think this falls under the guise of service.
I spit the meat like thing she had given me into my napkin and threw it on the floor, cursing loudly.
We are given a choice when we enter The Program. We can either continue to drink, blotting out the circumstances of our miserable existence the best we can until we die a painful, slow, agonizing death, unhinged and alone, or we can accept that there is a spiritual solution to our disease. It's not always an easy choice. It's almost never an easy choice. The Book uses the phrase "incomprehensible demoralization." That's a good phrase.
We pause, a few beats too long. The silence gets uncomfortable.
"Uh, can I get back to you on that?"
I went to Costco yesterday. On weekends the store sets up little sample stations where customers can try different food products and infect themselves with the germs of small, sick children who have touched everything on the tray, while simultaneously sneezing and coughing. At one stand I fumbled a cracker smeared with an inoculation of something supposed to simulate a real food product of some kind. It fell to the floor and exploded. I took a napkin, bent over, and cleaned up my mess, grateful that I didn't use one of my favorite expletives to express my displeasure.
"Thank you, sir, I really appreciate that," the nice lady said. I got the feeling that she was surprised. I got the feeling that most people left the detritus there for her to clean up.
I approached another stand.
"How ya doin"? I asked the hostess.
"OK," she replied, a little warily.
I got the feeling not too many people asked how she was doing. I got the feeling they stuffed the food in their mouths and continued to walk. I always thank them for the food sample, like they're handing out stuff they paid for. I pretend that I'm interested and find that, after a while, I become interested. She was a nice woman. We talked for a minute. She was getting off work in a few minutes and was pretty happy about it. I could relate to that.
I think this falls under the guise of service.
I spit the meat like thing she had given me into my napkin and threw it on the floor, cursing loudly.
Friday, January 22, 2010
WRONG!
I live in a city where the overwhelming majority of people have very different political views than I do. We disagree on matters of a moral, social, and religious nature as well, again overwhelmingly. I'm in a teeny, tiny, vanishingly small minority. It's kind of fun most of the time being a contrarian for the hell of it kind of guy, but it can also be frustrating. A lot of these folks are pretty militant about this stuff. They aren't interested in what I have to say because I'm so clearly WRONG! and they're going to have to spend the time to show me why this is so.
In a way it's like the good old days when I sought out places to drink that were filled with people who thought and acted like I did. If you sit around swapping war stories and slapping people on the back who ape your opinions it's inevitable that you're going to fall under the illusion that everyone believes the way that you do and if they don't then they're WRONG!
This is all well and good. I don't have to talk to these people if I don't want to. If I'm unhappy where I live I can move somewhere else. Where we have to be careful is in our meetings. Last night someone tossed off a dismissive, belittling comment typical of this area that suggested that I'm a bit of an idiot. Now I'm not saying I'm not a bit of an idiot, as so many of you have made abundantly clear over the years. I don't have any trouble with someone calling me an idiot to my face, as has happened millions of times. But not in a meeting. We don't criticize anyone's views or opinions on the outside world.
Shame on me for showing so little spiritual growth that this offended me, but shame on him for stomping all over Tradition 6. Now I look at this dude with a jaundiced eye, and my liver is working just fine right now. This is jaundice by choice. I'm having trouble separating his program, which I admire, from his politics, which I do not.
Early on in my sobriety I was in a meeting where people were tossing around the phrase "recovering Catholic" in their comments. I don't think they meant any harm. Some of the stuff was pretty funny. I think they were trying to explain how we can take anything good and wreck it.
One woman finally piped up: "I'm a Catholic and my faith is very important to me." She was offended by what was being said. If she had been brand new, maybe she wouldn't have come back.
I'm glad no one offended me at my first meeting. I was looking really hard for a reason not to come back.
In a way it's like the good old days when I sought out places to drink that were filled with people who thought and acted like I did. If you sit around swapping war stories and slapping people on the back who ape your opinions it's inevitable that you're going to fall under the illusion that everyone believes the way that you do and if they don't then they're WRONG!
This is all well and good. I don't have to talk to these people if I don't want to. If I'm unhappy where I live I can move somewhere else. Where we have to be careful is in our meetings. Last night someone tossed off a dismissive, belittling comment typical of this area that suggested that I'm a bit of an idiot. Now I'm not saying I'm not a bit of an idiot, as so many of you have made abundantly clear over the years. I don't have any trouble with someone calling me an idiot to my face, as has happened millions of times. But not in a meeting. We don't criticize anyone's views or opinions on the outside world.
Shame on me for showing so little spiritual growth that this offended me, but shame on him for stomping all over Tradition 6. Now I look at this dude with a jaundiced eye, and my liver is working just fine right now. This is jaundice by choice. I'm having trouble separating his program, which I admire, from his politics, which I do not.
Early on in my sobriety I was in a meeting where people were tossing around the phrase "recovering Catholic" in their comments. I don't think they meant any harm. Some of the stuff was pretty funny. I think they were trying to explain how we can take anything good and wreck it.
One woman finally piped up: "I'm a Catholic and my faith is very important to me." She was offended by what was being said. If she had been brand new, maybe she wouldn't have come back.
I'm glad no one offended me at my first meeting. I was looking really hard for a reason not to come back.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
TERMINATION!
Terminate: To bring to an end in space or time; form the end or conclusion of.
Exterminate: To destroy entirely; wipe out; annihilate.
So I've been trying to get my arms around the fact that SuperK was TERMINATED from her job. I'm sure it's a lot harder on her than it is on me but really, I'm mostly concerned about how it affects me. I wish her well all the while hoping that she's worried about how I'm doing. After all, something happened to her that's affecting me. Hardly fair to me.
To add fuel to the fire her mother is in the hospital and she's been in the middle of a Mexican Standout with her at best moderately dysfunctional siblings. Everyone is trying to avoid doing any work or spending any money while simultaneously trying to guilt and manipulate anyone else into doing the work and spending the money. If you don't think your drinking affects your kids you should watch a group of middle aged adults with well honed manipulation skills trying to run the show. It's quite a dance.
Finally, my mother has been in rare form trying to get the world to run her way irregardless of the wishes of others. I made the mistake of filling her in on SuperK's drama and had to listen to a steady stream of totally inappropriate advice, most of it geared to dealing with sane and reasonable people, which is not the case here. It's so bad that SuperK's the most normal of the bunch. Think about that for a minute.
Do I sound a little bitchy? I don't mean to. I think for the most part I've been pretty even-tempered handling all of this low grade chaos. When we really try to live the Program we do get better. We don't get great but we do get better.
Yesterday, however, I felt a little pissy all day long. I get home from my swim -- during which I had long, furious mental arguments with someone who had posted a comment on a social networking site that SuperK belongs to. It's not even my page; it's her page. I had no business sticking my nose in her business, long and big as it may be. A very stick-able nose.
I reread the aggravating post and sat down at her desk.
"May I?" I said politely.
"Be my guest," she replied, backing out of the room, making the sign of the cross.
20 minutes later I'm finishing up a brilliant, sarcastic, anger-driven grouch of a brainstorm of a reply to this individual on someone else's web page. I'm responding to someone I've never liked about a subject I can't do anything about that doesn't really affect me directly. I'm shaking with self-satisfied scorn. I post my reply while my wife is gone, just in case she objects to what I've written under her name.
I got up and walked around the room a minute.
"Good grief," I thought. "What in the hell?" I added.
Just like that, it can sneak up on you.
Exterminate: To destroy entirely; wipe out; annihilate.
So I've been trying to get my arms around the fact that SuperK was TERMINATED from her job. I'm sure it's a lot harder on her than it is on me but really, I'm mostly concerned about how it affects me. I wish her well all the while hoping that she's worried about how I'm doing. After all, something happened to her that's affecting me. Hardly fair to me.
To add fuel to the fire her mother is in the hospital and she's been in the middle of a Mexican Standout with her at best moderately dysfunctional siblings. Everyone is trying to avoid doing any work or spending any money while simultaneously trying to guilt and manipulate anyone else into doing the work and spending the money. If you don't think your drinking affects your kids you should watch a group of middle aged adults with well honed manipulation skills trying to run the show. It's quite a dance.
Finally, my mother has been in rare form trying to get the world to run her way irregardless of the wishes of others. I made the mistake of filling her in on SuperK's drama and had to listen to a steady stream of totally inappropriate advice, most of it geared to dealing with sane and reasonable people, which is not the case here. It's so bad that SuperK's the most normal of the bunch. Think about that for a minute.
Do I sound a little bitchy? I don't mean to. I think for the most part I've been pretty even-tempered handling all of this low grade chaos. When we really try to live the Program we do get better. We don't get great but we do get better.
Yesterday, however, I felt a little pissy all day long. I get home from my swim -- during which I had long, furious mental arguments with someone who had posted a comment on a social networking site that SuperK belongs to. It's not even my page; it's her page. I had no business sticking my nose in her business, long and big as it may be. A very stick-able nose.
I reread the aggravating post and sat down at her desk.
"May I?" I said politely.
"Be my guest," she replied, backing out of the room, making the sign of the cross.
20 minutes later I'm finishing up a brilliant, sarcastic, anger-driven grouch of a brainstorm of a reply to this individual on someone else's web page. I'm responding to someone I've never liked about a subject I can't do anything about that doesn't really affect me directly. I'm shaking with self-satisfied scorn. I post my reply while my wife is gone, just in case she objects to what I've written under her name.
I got up and walked around the room a minute.
"Good grief," I thought. "What in the hell?" I added.
Just like that, it can sneak up on you.
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