annette2009's Open Salon Blog

Meeting Marcela in Buenos Aires

Tue, 1 Dec 2009 01:12:19 -0500

I have not been writing on Open Salon for weeks now, and I’m afraid I may have lost many of the connections I made here. I’m actually publishing a Christian children’s musical, and the proof process and the studio recording have taken every available neuron.

But I wanted to post about our incredible family vacation to Argentina, first because this country must zoom to the top of your dream vacation list, and second because I want you to meet (if you have not already) a generous, exuberant friend named Marcela, known on Open Salon as Marcela in English.

Buenos Aires City Hall, Jacaranda Tree in bloom

We were invited by friends to crash their family trip to Argentina, and I confess that had you asked me to name the first things that came to mind when you named the country, I would have said, “tango, beef, Evita Peron,” and then been pretty stuck. Embarrassing, really, my lack of knowledge, and because of the rush to finish the script, I didn’t even properly correct my ignorance before traveling. I skimmed one guide book on the plane and basically entered Buenos Aires with no idea what to expect.

And maybe that was for the best, because I was so delightfully surprised by the beauty of the city and the warm, happy embrace of the people. We were fortunate to be traveling with friends who were fluent in Spanish, and also had the advantage that this family had relatives in Buenos Aires, a lovely family who picked us up at the airport, greeted us with a kiss on the cheek, welcomed us into their home, and spent the better part of their week taking us to restaurants and shows and sites they thought we might enjoy.

But I’m fairly sure that even without this incredible connection, we would have fallen in love with Argentina. In fact, I wrote 17 pages of notes on the sites and adventures I loved, and will try to do the trip some small justice by listing just a few. One of these listings will be about Marcela, and what she has proclaimed to be the first Pan American OS meeting.

WONDERS OF ARGENTINA: A LIST BOTH TOO LONG AND INADEQUATE

LA RECOLETA CEMETERY: We discovered this site by chance around the block from our immaculate hotel. Entrance was free; maps were available for a few pesos. We wandered in through Greek columns and found towering marble and granite mausoleums with huge, magnificent statuary: angels reaching to the heavens, cherubs weeping, marble depictions of the person who had died. Some tombs were immaculately kept; others were in disrepair and you could peer in through broken stone and glass to see coffins and stairs that led underground to the crypts. We turned a corner, got behind a line of people, and suddenly found ourselves in front of the mausoleum of Evita Peron.

The cemetery also had live residents: beautiful cats of every variety wandered the grounds and stretched out on the dark stones, lazing in the sunshine. I don’t know the tradition behind the cats: are they guardians? Spirit guides? Or simply lucky felines fed and cared for daily by cemetery volunteers? La Recoleta Cemetery closes at five, but between the huge, dramatic statues and the stalking cats, this could be one of the creepiest places possible to spend a night!

A marble angel ponders the deep questions

SHOPPING: On the weekends, long aisles of colorful tents seem to bloom right out of the landscape, with artists and vendors offering gemstones, jewelry, multi-colored cashmere scarves and sweaters, oil paintings, and whimsical wire sculptures. For the high-end shopper, there are miles of shops open daily. We visited La Florida and browsed cutlery, jewelry, and every imaginable style and color of leather good: pants, shirts, coats, belts, and shoes. Some bartering happens, but not too much. When our friend dickered too long over the price of a shirt, the shop owner finally threw up his hands in disgust and said, “`Esta es Argentina, no Turkey!”

My hubby found a tango partner amidst the shops!

FOOD: What would you like with your beef? You can find any style of cuisine in the city, but beef is the feature in Argentine restaurants, every possible cut: from Bife con Lomo (t-bone) to Asada (thin strips from the ribs) to tongue. Our meals often started with empanadas, followed by fresh-baked bread and (numerous!) bottles of Argentina’s famous wine, the deep, rich, smooth Malbec.

And when do you eat? Never before 8:00 p.m., mi amigo, and if you go that early, you miss the show. Crowds are lined up out the door of the popular restaurants at 11:00 p.m. for dinners that may last two hours or more. Vegetables and fruits are local and seasonal, nothing frozen or canned, and all made when you order it. The texture of the beef is a bit tougher as the cows are grass fed, but it is also more flavorful, and served in astonishing portions - during my first dinner, all I could think was, Gosh, I’ve never tried to eat half an entire cow.

A word about the service: I’m just guessing from observation, but waiting tables must be an honored profession here. I saw locals come in and embrace their server as they were being seated, as if greeting a good friend. Many servers almost seemed like co-owners of their restaurants, quietly proud of their delicious offerings. Every gesture seemed special: even opening the glass bottle for my new favorite drink, agua con gas zumo limón, was done with a flourish. Ask for hielo, ice, and it is served in a small individual silver bucket with little tongs. Dinner might last hours, with spirited conversation, wine, loud laughter, more wine, beef, sí, refill that wine glass just one more time por favor!, dessert, espresso. No “30 minutes or it’s free” concept here: eating is a pleasure and a social event. And Lord help me, the desserts – crepes filled with rich dulce de leche and a crunchy burnt sugar topping similar to crème brulee, served with ice cream. I had to discreetly unbutton my jeans on the 13-hour flight home.

TRAFFIC: Buenos Aires has well-marked freeway lanes, traffic lights, and stop signs, all of which are apparently optional. I would never attempt to drive here. Cabs are plentiful and inexpensive, and you can just close your eyes until you get to your destination. On the drive to the airport, we did have the surprising experience of waiting in a toll booth line while all around us people began honking. I couldn’t believe how rude and impatient the drivers were acting until my host explained an Argentine law: toll booths are not allowed to impede traffic flow. If traffic stacks up, operators are required to open the gates and let people through for free. The honking drivers were merely giving loud reminders about the law and trying to save a few pesos.

IGUAZÚ FALLS: I have never been to Niagara Falls, so Iguazú was an astonishing delight. Two great rivers, the Parana and the Iguazú, meet here and spill violently to the unseeable depths of a gorge created by volcanic activity millions of years ago. Moss-covered stone steps and long metal bridges lead to numerous views of the Falls, the most dramatic being Devil’s Throat, where the water throws up huge sprays and shrouds the rocks in mist.

Bridges often take you right over dizzying views!

Swallows dip in and out of the falls, and butterflies land on your shirt and hat and hands. I felt lucky, magical as the gem colored insects sat on my fingers, opening and closing their lovely wings and tasting my skin.

MARCELA IN ENGLISH: I had written to Marcela months ago when we first planned the trip, and she immediately wrote back, suggesting tours and destinations, and inviting our family to meet her. When we booked our hotel, we found we had unknowingly chosen a place only ten blocks from her home. As she says, the world is both large and small, all at the same time.

The first Pan American OS Meeting

I called when we arrived and waited in the lobby to meet her. I confess to being nervous: I’m outgoing, but always insecure about meeting new people. These nerves were completely unfounded. Marcela arrived, I called her name, and she immediately turned and walked swiftly over, kissing me on the cheek, a joyous, exuberant welcome. We talked for a moment about what I had seen so far, and pondered where to go for coffee. I confessed that I really wanted to try the traditional Argentine drink yerba maté, though I was a bit nervous about it. Maté was one of the few things I had read about online: a mildly narcotic, highly energizing herbal brew that many Argentines consume first thing in the morning and throughout the day. I had read this was a drink often shared among friends, and though the taste would definitely surprise, it would be a serious affront to make a face, or to drink it incorrectly. But I somehow knew immediately that Marcela would be gracious about introducing it to me, and she promptly borrowed a gourd maté cup from the hotel staff and ordered a bowl full of loose green herbs. As with all eating in Argentina, the drinking of maté is a bit of a ritual: Marcela filled the cup with the aromatic herbs, poured in the hot water, and we watched the air bubble up through the leaves as it brewed. When it cooled just a bit, she took the first sip through a metal straw that has tiny holes like a sieve to filter the leaves from the liquid. Then she passed it to me.

How to describe maté? Definitely an acquired taste. My husband, who spent much of his childhood around horses, says the aroma reminds him very much of alfalfa hay. And the taste: Marcela took mercy on a newcomer and poured two packets of sugar to the brew, and still it was very bitter. But it was not so bitter that I made a face, and as I drank more, I began to truly enjoy it. I kept accidentally moving the straw, something Marcela gently corrected several times as this clogs the maté sieve. The maté effect: well, I wasn’t filled with energy as I half expected (and hoped on such an activity-filled trip!). But I was more alert.

We shared the maté, my husband, Marcela, and me, and she wrote us a list of parks, foods, and sites she thought we would like. I am happy to say we experienced them all: the parks with incredible rose gardens and the jacaranda trees with their light-blue flowers, the special shops and markets, and the alfajores, delicious cookies filled with dulce de leche and coated with coconut.

Before I had arrived, Marcela had suggested I learn some key Spanish phrases, and I was so grateful for her advice. No one ever acted rudely because of my awkward Spanish, but people also did not speak perfect English, which is something I actually loved. The shops here are not catering to lazy, free-spending Americans. You need at least a smattering of the language; it is only respectful. Also, clustered amongst the high-end shops and restaurants, we did find a few American staples: McDonalds, Burger King, Starbucks, Hard Rock Café. But none of these were ever full. Marcela recounted that when McDonalds opened, she and her friends were eager to try this American icon, and were so shocked when workers watched as they ate and encouraged them to leave immediately when they were finished. Business suffered: eating on the run is not the Argentine way. Now, Marcela explained, the McDonalds has workers to provide newspapers and refill coffee, encouraging people to linger. I never saw a line at Starbucks, with their paper cups of coffee to go. But the outdoor cafés serving pastries, coffee, tea, and maté, these were always filled with people slowly savoring the food, books, conversation, and sunshine. I am happy that the American way does not seem to be taking over here. Buenos Aires reminds me a bit of Italy or Greece, but somehow seems even more culturally itself. Between the empty fast food restaurants and the graciously stubborn Español in the shops, the message seemed to be, You bend to Argentina; it does not bend to you.

We stayed eight days in Argentina, and did not see or do a tenth of what it offers. We saw the tango show, but did not visit the gaucho ranch. We saw the Falls but not Los Glaciares National Park or Patagonia. We shopped, but did not see the museums or the theatres. We left wide eyed and eager to return.

Nothing seemed more emblematic of the entire trip than my meeting with Marcela, a friendship that is one of the happiest developments from my time in Open Salon. Marcela is warm, generous, joyful, quick to laugh, eager to share knowledge and friendship. She signs her OS messages “Kisses, Marcela,” because she, like so many in Argentina, say hello and farewell with a gentle hug and kiss on the cheek. Marcela is exuberantly in love with her country, and also brilliant. She runs her own company, offering private tutoring in English, Spanish, and Portuguese.

This post is far too long, I know, but I wanted to at least try to convey the wonders of a country I had never dreamed of visiting, and also to invite you to become acquainted with Marcela in English, because you might someday get to travel to the magical city of Buenos Aires, and she will be there, kissing you on the cheek and going to all efforts to make your stay in her country rich and joyful.

New friends sharing Mate: Marcela, my daughter, and me

Out of the Closet: I'm Bi-Political

Wed, 9 Sep 2009 02:09:12 -0400

Today I got a phone call from an acquaintance who would like my endorsement of his candidacy for state office.

I inquired why he is running against the current representative, and he tells me that, as a former representative, a certain “watchdog group” gave him exceedingly high ratings - in the 70s! – whereas the current representative only earned a 14.

So I looked up this watchdog group online. They’re called the Eagle Forum and they were founded by Phyllis Schlafly. Highlights include opposition to environmental legislation, noting, “Republicans in the House are not allowed to use the phrase ‘cap and trade.’ They have to say ‘cap and tax.’ If they slip up, they are fined.” Senator Inhofe of Oklahoma reassured a conference crowd that new environmental legislation “would never pass the Senate,” saying, “only 34% of Americans in a recent poll blame humans for global warming.”

Another big favorite feature of the site – a Twitter feed stating: “I pledge to serve my Lord God – NOT the president!” Very sweet; very charming.

Now obviously this potential candidate does not know me at all. But I’m starting to wonder if this might be because I don’t know me, either – at least not politically. I think I might be bi-political. I swing both ways.

For instance, I am distressed about the music on the radio stations that cater to every teen I know. Let’s look at today’s playlist:

“Disco Stick” – Lady Gaga “Let’s have some fun… this beat is sick… I want to take a ride on your disco stick…I’m on a mission… and it involved some heavy touching, yeah… you’ve indicated your interest, I’m educated in sex, yes, and now I want it bad, want it bad…”

(“Well,” I say to my daughter, “I guess she’s not talking about Pogo.”)

“Room Service” – Pitbull

“I’m the plumber tonight, let me check your pipes, oh you’re the healthy type. Well, here goes some egg whites. Now gimme that sweet, that nasty gooshy stuff. Let me tell you what we gon’ do. 2 + 2, I’m gonna undress you. Then we’re gonna go 3 on 3, you gon’ undress me. Then we’re gon’ go 4 and 4, we gon’ freak some more!”

(“Maybe they’re talking about Twister,” I say cheerfully amidst the eyeball rolls as I change the station. I just love my steering wheel radio controls.)

This stuff is everywhere, mixed in with Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus, and the Jonas Brothers, and call me a crazy conservative whack-a-loon, but I think raising teenagers to make responsible long-term choices is kinda tough when TV, movies, Internet, and radio are issuing frequent, catchy invitations to the drug/alcohol/sex orgy. I don't want to go as far as censorship, but I’d love it if artists and media companies blue-penciled themselves, just a bit. But there’s money to be made. Seems to me that entertainment media really likes the unfettered free market theory.

Then I open the paper and swing liberal. Turns out my state is the proud #1 in repeat teen pregnancies. We’re not even biggest, but we’re beating California, baby! And why? Well, call me an immoral devil spawn, but I think it might have something to do with our abstinence-based education laws. We’re not allowed to teach birth control in the schools. We’re allowed to teach abstinence, and the SHORTCOMINGS of birth control. In other words, condoms fail, kids, so don’t have sex! Ever! (And of course they listen! Don’t all teenagers listen?) Our state-funded clinics are required to get parental permission to give out birth control to minors – even if the teen has already given birth! My favorite quote about the sense of this policy, from Democrat Leticia Van de Putte, “I’ve been a pharmacist for over 30 years… and I can tell you, once they start having sex, they ain’t going to stop.” (“Fascinating,” says Mr. Spock.)

I swing both ways on healthcare as well. I’ve been in polite but persistent war with our lovely Aetna non-medically licensed bureaucrats who have questioned just about every test and procedure as my husband has been struggling through the Multiple Sclerosis summer from hell. I went to the dermatologist myself the other day, and my doctor burned off what she called a squamous cell carcinoma. Aetna refused payment, calling the procedure “cosmetic.” (And let me tell you, I do look sexy with my cute little scar and bandaid.)

So I want reform, but so far, I don’t have a great understanding of the plan, and the Democrats are frankly not doing a fantastic job of explaining themselves. Just today, I tuned in – with extreme trepidation – to Lou Dobbs. Senator Judd Gregg, R, faced off with Senator Bernie Sanders, D. Same talking points as usual, right up to the end, when Lou (“Tough, Relentless, Independent” – cough cough) asked, “Would our Senators and our Congressmen be willing to put aside the healthcare insurance they have now and take on the one that they would create?”

Mr. Gregg, the Republican, says he actually created a bipartisan bill that does just that. It has ten sponsors from both parties.

Mr. Sanders, the Democrat, gives us this zinger: “If the public option were there, and it were better for me than the Blue Cross, Blue Shield I have right now, I certainly would take it."

Dobbs: "Well, what if it wasn’t?"

Sanders: "Well, like every other American, I surely would not take it. It’s a choice. Nobody HAS to take it; people should have that choice."

Now I get what Mr. Sanders is saying… that’s why they call it the public OPTION… but really, buddy, Americans just aren’t good at nuance. They want to know you’re standing behind what you’re selling. It’s kind of like when Michael Moore was following around Republican members of Congress asking if their children were willing to serve in the war they were promoting. I for one would like to know that my representatives are enrolled in the plan they create because in my mind, this gives them quick incentive to fix anything that might be wrong.

So call me conservative; call me liberal; call me bi-political. I voted for you Mr. Obama. I really need some clarity I can believe in. And my prayers go with you as you walk in to address that joint session of Congress and America tomorrow night, because unlike that Eagle Forum twit, I proudly serve both God AND my President.

Pardon Me: Your Parapraxis Is Showing

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 09:07:06 -0400

Pardon me for pointing this out, but I can see your parapraxis.

I couldn’t help noticing. Long ago, I taught junior high English, and though I was more creativity nurturer than grammarian, my eyes naturally focus on spelling errors, homophone mistakes, and typos.

But lately, I have started to think of these word errors as accidental treasures, little slips of the keyboard that reveal far more about the writer’s thoughts than the word they may have intended.

A few months ago, I even started saving my favorite OS parapraxes. The first apt word slip I noted was from a writer explaining how her own inner voice is often the most critical one she hears. She speaks about her terrible “self depreciation.”

And I thought, yes, that’s exactly what self deprecation does – it depreciates your soul, makes you feel unwanted, of less value, an ugly, salmon-colored polyester shirt on a bent metal hanger stuffed into a clearance rack.

I copied and pasted the phrase “self depreciation” into a Word file and a little parapraxes collection was born. Here are a few of my favorite pieces.

Many OS writers speak about the uncertainty of finances… except that one gifted writer accidentally calls it the “uncertainly” of finances, which expresses to me exactly how this feels: one day, you blithely toss off a statement like, “I certainly will…” and the next day the earth shakes under your feet and that mean little prefix “un” sneaks in and snatches away your confidence and your “certainly.”

Another writer describes her confusion upon reading terrible news: “The words blurred, incompressible.” And does this word not define incomprehension? The words won’t compress; they swim around like huge, ugly fish, scales flashing, disrupting work and conversations and sleep.

When we’re afraid, the fear even affects our description of breathing. Recounting a long day of wondering whether his magazine job would be cut, one writer says he awaited the news with “baited breath.” And how often has this been your exact experience of anxiety, like your next breath might cause the shoe to drop, the axe to fall, like the very act of inhaling might reel in the catastrophe?

A lovely OS writer chronicles a job that many of us will be facing over the coming years – becoming a parent to our parents. She says – perhaps intentionally – that she has become her mother’s “soul caretaker.”

I thought of this writer’s phrase last month when I visited my own mother, who takes care of my grandmother, age 99. During my last visit, I tried to give mom a break and take over the nighttime dressing routine. My sweet grandmother did everything but slap my hands away. She kept calling for my mother, only she didn’t use her name; she called her “Rachel,” the name of a long-dead friend. But she knew who she wanted – my mother, and my mother only, could help her out of her clothes and into pajamas. Her hands fluttered and shook in terrible panic and anxiety until my mother came into the room and began helping her unbutton her shirt. My mother is my grandmother’s “soul caretaker” indeed.

Many of us on OS chronicle the joys and heartaches of raising children. One of my favorite writers describes having to stand back and watch your children endure hurt, saying, “These are the things in life that plaque the mind.” And as a worried mom, I can tell you that my children’s hurts definitely plaque my mind, squeezing out sense and intelligence and reason. Nothing “plaques” like powerlessness, watching from the pier as your child flounders in the current, knowing you can’t jump in there and save them, you really can’t; they have to learn to swim on their own.

Parapraxes, or Freudian slips: often they reveal depths of anxiety or sadness, but sometimes they reveal a sense of hope. One writer, having struggled through a time of stress, describes falling in love again with her hometown. She says that although shadows linger, she sees “that bright light of hope just peaking out.” Beautiful pictures accompany her essay, and I send a good thought that her hope is not merely peeking, but, as she said, “peaking” – a sun full in the sky, blazing good feelings and warming everything in her world.

And if hope is not peaking in your world, hold on with me to this one last, beautiful slip of the keyboard:

“A journey isn’t complete until you reach your designation.”

My Alternate Google Lives

Tue, 7 Jul 2009 11:07:25 -0400

This morning, feeling a bit stressed and anxious in my actual life, I decided to take a little virtual vacation and research my alternate lives on Google. I typed in my first and last name, wondering about the big questions, “Who am I? What am I accomplishing with my life?”

I’m happy to report I’m doing interesting work all over the nation. I’m a psychoanalyst in Missouri, an antiques collector in Georgia, and a professional chef in Nashville, Tennessee. I make pastries – beautiful, decadent pastries!

I’m a real estate agent in California, and I’m really struggling right now, but my dentist practice in Oregon is expanding. We specialize in helping people who are terrified of dentists. We are very liberal with the laughing gas.

I won the lottery! Okay, not the big one, just $25,000, but it sounds great and I look very excited posing with my big check. I also won a National Merit Scholarship. Go me!

I’m a college volleyball player, and several sports articles keep dinging me for my “attack errors.” (Hate it when I mistakenly attack!) I’m helping a friend in her struggles with obesity, and I’m getting married all over the place.

I’m a librarian in Pennsylvania known for my “professionalism and friendly manner.” I wear loose, flowing shirts, dangly earrings, long hair, and some very-retro librarian glasses. I like my smile. I also write book reviews for Amazon. Very few people read them, but everyone who did found them helpful.

I’m kind of a looker. I’m confident and buff in that volleyball jersey, and in my Alabama University photo, I look like a young, healthy Lindsey Lohan. I look exquisitely happy with my hub and our dog posing on a sunny Mexico beach. One of my Facebook pages has some pretty questionable pics. Really, girl, you should hide that particular tattoo. Shorten my name, and I’m also an African American gentleman from Germany who wears bowties.

I was intrigued to find that I am a biomedical expert “researching internal and external bacteria carried by broiler chickens for the food processing industry.” I conduct microbial colony counts of campylobacter, salmonella, and enterobacteriaceae. Some of my work is literal chickenshit, and though the site doesn't say this directly, I'm betting I'm a committed vegetarian.

I’m a family practice doctor, and maybe my photo is not so glamorous, but there’s something about the lack of makeup and gentle smile that makes me think that people trust me with their medical problems.

The real me, the me I know, pops up just twice, on Google page 5 – school board member and writer of a few long-ago newspaper articles.

And then, on Google page 8, I suddenly die, with no warning, at the age of 48. I’m cremated and my ashes are scattered on a pretty hillside in Kentucky. Thirty or so friends and family members are gathered to say their goodbyes. They’ve planted a red dogwood tree in my memory.

Maybe you'd like to take your own virtual journey and Google your alternate lives today. Maybe, like me, you'll start to wonder what things of worth you can add to your list this week, this day, because it is a bit jarring to see your name in print, and how you came to the end of things, suddenly, unexpectedly, on Google page 8.

Photos from Hypnosisandsuggestion.org, Indiebound.org, merff11 on photobucket.com, and mooseyscountrygarden.com.

True Adventures in Health Insurance-with Do-It-Yourself IVs!

Sun, 5 Jul 2009 13:07:41 -0400

My husband scheduled his own MRI.

He became ill in Orlando, developing excruciating pain on the left side of his back, across the shoulder into the left side of his chest, and down his left arm, with his hand going almost completely numb.

He has had multiple sclerosis for 14 years now, and you’ll have to forgive him taking matters into his own hands a bit, but we’ve been around the medical block a time or two, and he could anticipate the need for three appointments: his neurologist (in case the problem was a new MS lesion), a back doctor (in case the problem was a ruptured disc), and an MRI in either case.

So he scheduled his own MRI. Crazy, I know, to think you can have your own thoughts about the medical procedures you might need, but he called the MRI facility all by himself, and when asked the name of his physician, he said the name of the back doctor, a doctor referred to us, one we had never before seen. For clarity’s sake, I’ll call him Dr. New.

I’ve learned an important life lesson this week. Insurance companies really, really don’t like you to schedule your own MRI.

When we showed up for our doctor’s appointment on Monday, my husband barely able to talk through the pain, our long-time neurologist went into immediate action, ordering an EKG (because the pain was on the left side) and two MRIs. And he did not want the MRIs from the clinic where my husband had made his appointment. He wanted them taken at the hospital where he offices, as that facility uploads the images for immediate diagnosis.

So I called and canceled the appointment with Dr. New and with the first MRI facility.

Our neurologist then tried to schedule the MRIs at the hospital.

And our insurance company refused the order.

“There has already been an MRI ordered for this patient,” a representative told our nurse.

I called our insurance company and politely and contritely explained our mistake to a representative named Marcia. “My husband placed the first MRI order,” I said.

“Your husband placed the order?” Marcia said. “How could he do that? He can’t place his own order.”

“I’m truly sorry; I know he shouldn’t have,” I replied. “I’ve already called to cancel it.”

“You may have canceled it at the MRI office,” Marci shot back, “but you can’t cancel it with US. Only a doctor’s office can cancel that order. That’s the only way the computer will take it.”

“Okay, but the lady in Dr. New's office says they never PLACED the MRI order, so they’re not going to waste their time canceling it,” I said.

“Well, they’re gonna have to cancel it,” Marcia said. “Otherwise, your husband isn’t going to be having an MRI this week.”

I apologized profusely for our mistake in taking medical matters into our own hands and scheduling our own procedure. “My husband is in really terrible pain,” I said. “Couldn’t you please find it in your heart to just delete that first order?”

“It’s the computer,” Marcia said. “It won’t let us make any changes unless it comes from a doctor’s office, with a special code. No one here has the power to override the system. Not me, not the managers, not even the president of the company. No one.”

(Remember the all-powerful computer in the Terminator movies that becomes self aware and destroys the world? That computer currently runs the show at a prominent national insurance company I’ll call Ick-Na. You heard it here first.)

In the end, I had to (tearfully) convince a kind soul in Dr. New’s office to cancel an MRI that they had never ordered for a patient they had never seen.

Again we tried to schedule the two MRIs our doctor ordered.

Again we were turned down. A new insurance representative named Joseph told our doctor’s office they wouldn’t authorize two MRIs.

“Why do you feel you need both procedures?” Joseph asked.

“Because he’s experiencing intense pain in both regions,” our nurse said.

“Well, I guess you’re going to have to choose which region is most important, because you can only have one MRI, not two.”

Finally, Joseph whispered a secret: “If you go to the ER, and they order the MRIs, the insurance company will approve them because they’ll be deemed an emergency.”

The emergency loophole – spends thousands more, and you’ll get the tests you want.

Over the course of several conversations with Marcia and Joseph, I had the opportunity to ask about their medical backgrounds (none), and their location (Ohio, far away from medical events occurring here in Texas). I really wanted to ask them about the details of their incentive plans, or hear their company’s mission statement (“You don’t need a medical degree to eliminate waste!” or “Making patients so frustrated, they almost forget they’re sick!”).

But I would never anger our insurance company, because once they’re done obstructing the diagnostic process, they’re in position to obstruct the treatment process. Which of course they proceeded to do.

Our doctor prescribed IV steroids, but the nursing service he requested, one conveniently located near our home, was refused – too expensive. I guess it was deemed the Nordstrom’s of nursing services. Our insurance company wants us to use a different nursing service, perhaps more of the Dollar Store variety, located an hour from our home, and also one that doesn’t have an opening until Wednesday of next week.

I tried asking (begging) yet another representative if we could pay the price difference between the company our doctor chose and the company they preferred. No luck. Computer won’t allow it, and no one can override the computer. Nasa can’t override the computer. President Obama can’t override the computer.

These are the frustrations and gripes of a wife watching her husband soldier through more pain than I’ve seen him endure in our 21-year marriage. I realize we are luckier than most. Our insurance company, compared to many, is okay. They obstruct, but they usually pay. We are allowed to continue with our doctor, a warm and caring man who also happens to be one of the world’s best-known MS research physicians.

We are fortunate. There are people who can’t see the doctors they want, people being refused life-saving treatments, people who’ve lost their insurance or never could afford it at all.

So this brings me to my dilemma. Wakingupslowly wants us to contact our congressperson this week about insurance reform. I’d like to get involved, but what should I say? What plan will fix it so that office workers in Ohio aren’t second-guessing our doctor in Texas? What plan will end the catastrophic mismatch between people who are desperately ill and people who are desperately interested in saving money? What plan will reach the underinsured and the uninsured, the ones who can’t get treatment at all?

If someone would just walk me through it, I would lobby until I had no breath left.

Photos courtesy www.nobelprize.org, sparky/msnicole27 at www.photobucket.com, and www.dreamstime.com.

UPDATE: Remember that commercial where the doctor is giving surgery instructions over the phone, and the guy is sitting at his table holding a kitchen knife and saying, “Shouldn’t you be doing this?”

We are giving our own IVs! The nurse just came out, inserted the port, and instructed us in all of the procedures: sterilizing the – I don’t know what to call it – the tiny screw-top spout thingie, flushing the line with saline (making sure to get rid of that air bubble first), sterilizing again, attaching the steroid pump, sterilizing again, flushing with saline, and flushing with heparin.

The nurse is available by phone if we need her to walk us through it. Or, if we really have a problem, they’ll send her back out to do the procedure for us, but, “Really, this is so easy, anyone can do it.”

Do-it-yourself IVs… interesting and a bit surreal.