valeriesbookofme

  First I must defend my using the term "guinea pig". I have great respect for guinea pigs. I took care of one for several months many years ago. He came, along with a solitary goldfish in a huge tank, with the house that I was renting/housesitting while the owners were away on sabbatical. His name was Squeak and he lived in his very own bedroom in a two storey house in Westdale, which is a suburb of Hamilton. When I had said I would look after their house, the owners were a bit nervous because I had a cat, a large white cat named Princess. I promised that I would keep the door to Squeak's room closed unless I was in there, feeding him or changing his shavings. I actually spent a few hours with him from time to time because my very new, very mysterious loaned computer from McMaster University was in there. It was DOS and the only thing I ever learned to do on it was play PacMan. But we won't go down that road of my antipathy toward all things DOS and why I was so thri...

  Yesterday was the final day of my 8-day assignment in a 4th grade class; I’ve written something about that assignment in a previous post, “Revolt of the Guinea Pig,” It’s been a challenging 8 days which, as Dickens might have said, brought out the best in me and probably the worst in me as well. But yesterday morning I had that experience that every teacher dreads—shelter in place, also known as possible shooter situation. I had arrived at the school at 7:20 thinking how wonderful it was that our heat had broken a bit. The skies were overcast, we’d had rain the day before, there was a cool breeze. As I walked to my classroom (photos below of what the buildings look like), I waved to the students already gathered on the other side of the gate, who were waiting to rush in, some to the cafeteria for their breakfast, some to the playground to run and hopefully get some of that energy out before the bell rang at 7:55. I unlocked the outside door to our building, walked down the corrid...

  I re-read what I had written about a month ago about the miracle of modern medicine. Today I am chewing on my words, wanting to spit them out. As I wrote in my previous post (I see it was actually only two weeks ago) the NP in my GP's office (this is like Morse code or something) had said I should see a cardiologist, mostly based on my saying that I became very tired in the afternoon, was occasionally short of breath and that my mother and grandfather had both had heart disease. I was a good little patient, duly calling up for appointments, nodding at tests, forking over the co-pays, all the while wondering, as I monitored my blood pressure day and night, if this wasn't a giant waste of time. In a month's monitoring my morning/evening blood pressure has never gone higher than 116/74 or lower than 86/68. And those are singular scores, most of the time the amounts have clustered near to the 112/73 zone. Perfectly, absolutely normal. I had my heart sonograph on July 27th and...

When I went to see the Nurse Practitioner a couple of months ago because I get so very tired--think I wrote about it in an earlier post--she suggested I go to see a cardiologist and gave me a referral. As is usual nowadays, I didn't actually "see" the cardiologist yet, I have to go through several tests beforehand. I suppose that minimizes the time that the cardiologist actually has to spend with a patient, less expensive, etc.  Anyway, I had an electrocardiogram a a few weeks ago and the cardiologist's nurse practitioner said there was a small "something"--to do with heart impulse voltage, something like that--that suggested to her I should have an echocardiogram and a stress test before I see said cardiologist. In case anyone isn't familiar with heart procedures, the electrocardiogram is kind of like a lie detector type test that just graphs heartbeats but the echocardiogram is, well, Wikipedia explains it well:  "An echocardiography, also known a...

  Our overnight excursion to Phoenix almost got scuppered when Quinn had one of her stomach migraines about 30 minutes into the drive. She started feeling sick so I pulled off the highway and she and Laurie got out. She retched several times, poor kid. Then they got back in and we drove to a Fry’s (supermarket) that was not too far away so that Laurie could get some things she felt might help. Quinn gets these “stomach migraines” every few months. Quinn and I waited out in the car while Laurie and Mercy trolled the aisles and then queued at the checkout counters (early morning Saturday shopping in this heat brings everyone out at once). I confess I kept the car running for the a/c because it was already over 100 degrees. I wasn’t sure whether we’d turn back or not. With a less determined soul than Laurie, we might have, and I was already wondering if I’d be able to get any money back on our hotel reservation. However, my daughter is steely when it comes to traveling and by the time...

 I went for my so-called “pre op” appointment this afternoon. The person, Maria, was simply an admin who handles the surgery scheduling and talks about the lens choice. She knows what she knows and no more, know what I mean? So when she said that the “better” lens would cost $3,500 per eye, that was that. Couldn’t tell me how the lens would improve my eyesight because she doesn’t know how myopic I have become and what I used to be able to see. Heck, I understand, only I really know and even I don't know what "normal" eyesight is.  She couldn’t even tell me what my insurance was actually covering. She was formal and slightly condescending. Maybe she gets a lot of flak from people who find out how much money they are paying out of pocket. Maybe she's used to people who have loads of money or better insurance plans. Whatever. We did agree that I would have "some" kind of lens and I would have the surgery so she got busy scheduling the surgery and the appointmen...

In order to answer that, let me explain how my work experience evolved. My very first job, a summer job as an au pair, was when I was 17. Before that I babysat for neighbors. The latter jobs were for extra money: my parents were generous in giving me a weekly allowance but my mother thought it would be good for me to get a sense of earning my own money. I grew up in a family where there was always ”enough” money for nice clothes, for books and movies and two week summer vacations. We had a car, a house, more than most of my school friends had. So I never had a driving need to want more ”money.” It’s interesting though that my sister, who was 10 years older than I, did have a driving need to have more. I’m not sure where it came from; if she were still alive we’d certainly have interesting conversations because we were so, so different from one another. A true instance where nature seems to have been more powerful than nurture.  Still we were similar in one thing: neither of us were...