Sick Leave

I was just standing in the kitchen Saturday evening and talking to my daughter when a fairly intense pain suddenly flared up in my left hip. It came out of the blue and was strong enough to make the trip up the stairs a bit of a struggle. I muttered to myself, once again, about how it sucks to be growing older and hoped a good night’s sleep would take care of it.

On Sunday, I could barely walk.

Having gone through something similar with my shoulder a few years back, I self-medicated with some expired anti-inflammatory pills, checked my doctor’s office hours for Monday, and then called my boss with the potentially, probably, bad news. With three of my colleagues away as it is, my absence meant a lot of scrambling and improvising for the few remaining teachers.  But then, what else can be done? As my boss said to me when she called back later, my only job for the moment was to take care of myself. Health comes first.

Sunday night, in bed, my condition reached peak pain. It got so bad that I actually panted. At 2 am, I stumble-schlepped myself to the bathroom and back, took another pain pill ahead of schedule and then somehow managed to fall into a shallow sleep.

I had to wait till 1 pm on Monday to see my doctor. When she heard I was having yet another one of these inflamed joint bouts, she announced that she was going on a mission to get to the bottom of it. Over the next four hours I was pricked with needles three times, I gave up a substantial percentage of my blood supply, and I peed on demand. I also posed (almost) nude for hip and lung x-rays. I allowed Vaseline to be smeared on me repeatedly for thyroid, hip and breast ultrasounds. I was shanghaied into my very first mammogram. Finally, I was also informed that I am officially on sick leave until my doctor informs me otherwise. I was ordered to come back on Thursday with another urine sample and to take it very easy in the meantime.

Strangely enough, I came home feeling much better.

Two of my thoughts since have been that 1) a person in pain will do pretty much anything a doctor tells them to and 2) the Austrian health care system is something of a miracle.

Take the mammogram part, for example. That’s a procedure I have been successfully avoiding for decades, despite the reminders I get biannually from my insurer. But today, when the doctor’s receptionist swiped my insurance card, a notice popped up in her computer that I was eligible for the examination at no cost. She asked me if I wanted to get that over with too while I was there. It would only take an extra five minutes. Of course I said no, but my husband, who was there with me, intervened and said I should just do it. I was trapped. Whoever designed this breast cancer prevention program knew what they were doing – how to reach the resisters and rope in the unwilling.

Now, of course, I am happy that the long war within me was ended by this surprise attack.

My own doctor’s reaction to my condition also fits right in with the design of the system as a whole. One of the policies intentionally tries to maintain enough general practitioners and to distribute them around the country where needed. My doctor knows me well by now and she admitted that she was taking full advantage of my visit to check everything she wanted – because she knew it might be years before I showed up again. She ordered all the tests and examinations; she made sure I got them done right away at the nearby health center in the brand new, state-of-the-art radiology office. And because she ordered them, everything was covered. All the results will be sent back to her and she will decide on my treatment, if any, with a complete picture from all the various experts at her disposal.

 

Back at home, I started googling about the costs of all these tests in the States. Of course the information was all very complicated depending on where you live, whether and how you are insured and how much your co-pays are, but it was pretty clear that those four hours of tests could have set me back as much as $2000 dollars. In contrast, all I had to pay for that Monday was the prescription fees: a grand total of $9.

Maybe the greatest miracle of the health system here are the thoughts that never crossed my mind as I headed toward the doctor’s office in pain. Can I afford this? Can I afford to take a day off of work? What a gift it is that for everyone – and I mean everyone – such factors don’t even make it into the equation.

 

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The World is Theirs

 

My three yearlong (!) quest to get the American citizenship for my adopted daughters reached its finale today. This last act began when we took a mini-mother/daughter trip to Vienna. Our first stop: the American Embassy where we had appointments to hand in their passport applications along with a bunch of documents and photos (no glasses!) and self-addressed stamped envelopes and . . .

The extremely friendly security guards greeted us with big smiles and asked us each in turn to put our bags in the scanner. When mine went in, a picture sort of like one this (taken from the internet) popped up on the screen:

I stared at it in horror. A string of theories about how a gun could be in my bag – all of them ludicrous – began spinning around in my head. The guard began to laugh and said “Don’t worry! That is a fake picture. It’s put there to test me – to make sure I am paying attention.” He handed me my bag.

I remained in a state of mild shock as we made our way to Window 1, which was probably a good thing, because it temporarily supplanted my nervousness. Almost three years earlier I had visited this place and it turned out to be an awful experience. I was scared that something would go wrong again – maybe I had filled out the wrong form? Should I have brought the birth certificates and adoption decrees? The girls’ baby teeth?

But the woman at the counter was both officious and friendly. She stayed patient as I confusedly fumbled through the documents and then handed one over for the wrong daughter. When she learned what our situation was, she peered at me knowingly and said “You must have had to do a mountain of paperwork!”

“You have no idea!” I replied. “I think when these passports arrive, I’m going break out in tears.”

“Please don’t cry in here!” she half-whispered to me and then glanced quickly back over her shoulder.

As the woman checked the application and all the documents, I pulled out one of the girls’ decrees granting them the right to dual citizenship and asked her if she needed that too. Her eyes widened a little at the sight of it and she asked “How did you manage to get that?!” Apparently, it is becoming nearly impossible to be granted such permission from the Austrian government. She said that she had had to deal with Austrians who became naturalized American citizens and were then rudely informed that their Austrian citizenship was being revoked. It was possibly the one saving grace of my last horrible visit to this embassy that someone made me aware of the need to apply for dual citizenship permission before taking the next step. I don’t remember this information showing up anywhere else in process and I am sure it wouldn’t have occurred to me on my own.

Once the paperwork was all handed over, we were sent off to Window 3 to fork over the cash and then it was back to Window 1. The girls signed their passport applications in front of the new official and he told us we could expect them in the mail in about 10 days. We were done. The whole thing had taken about 15 minutes. I was almost sorry to have to leave.

As we walked back toward the security guards and exit, I noticed for the first time that the place was entirely empty except for us. I had been at this embassy many times over the years and the waiting room was always packed. I wondered what that was about. The last thing we did before exiting was to pass by the pictures of Twump and Pence and Pompeo. I felt sorry for the guard sitting at the desk across from them – just imagine having to look at those three all day long every day!

My daughters and I had a nice day of shopping, had lunch, went to the movies (“The Green Book”) and stayed in a nice hotel. The next day we caught the train back home. That was seven days ago.

I confess I continued to worry that something could still go wrong.

But today, the world is mine again.

 

 

Gerontogynophobia

 

It’s official. In the Best Vacations competition, Easter beats Christmas hands down. The weather is warm, the sun sets at 8:00 pm, there is no present-procurement stress, and no one asks if you want to go skiing. The supply of chocolate in the house grows dramatically, while the surplus of eggs in the fridge gets reduced. This last point is particularly fortunate, now that we are getting up to seven (!) a day (she says proudly).

Despite a long mental list of Easter vacation projects, including catching up some more with blog friends and long overdue house improvements, I — somewhat inexplicably — spent the first two days crocheting this giraffe. It is my very first stuffed animal:

This was all before Notre Dame started burning, before an overnight trip to Vienna with my two daughters, and before the Mueller Report landed with a thud, kicking off the collective hyperventilation of America’s journalists and pundits. No, for those two days, I happily binge-watched silly Sci Fi series and counted stitches. My greatest concern was what to do with the giraffe once I had finished. Gingerbread Man to the rescue! Since he is my only other crocheted stuffed animal thing, I introduced the two and they became immediate bff’s.

Speaking of new friends, I have one too. And it is none other than Mean Neighbor Lady! For more than two decades I suffered her Daily Disapproval Tours and disparaging comments about my (lack of) gardening skills.  Hundreds of times, when my Nice Neighbor Lady (NNL) and I walked our dogs past her house, I stood back silently while those two had a friendly chat or MNL gifted her a plant from her garden. All I ever got was half-nod and a grunt. MNL became a constant source of bemusement between NNL and me.

But then things changed. The thaw began with Dog Four and was helped along by the chickens. MNL and I began to have very short talks about various plants and I sometimes saw her bringing kitchen scraps to our goats. About two weeks ago, on my dog walk, I heard someone calling my name. I turned around and it was her. Up to that point, I wasn’t aware that she even knew my name.

I retraced my steps back to her. She wanted to know if it was true that the noise her grandson made when he rode his moped around the cornfields bothered . . . . . . my husband. I assured her that he had never complained. She replied, “That’s what I thought.” Then she offered me a plant from her garden. A week later she complemented my new flowerbed. On my next dog walk with NNL, she got the icy grunt and I got the friendly hello.

“I guess I’M her favorite now!” I crowed as we walked on.

 

I have no illusions that this new friendship will endure. One escaped goat munching on her flowers would surely be enough to end it. And then there is my well established fear of little old white-haired ladies, especially those with scowly faces.

I checked the official list of phobias to see if I could find my particular condition, but the closest things I found were a general fear of women and the fear of growing old. This made me realize something. Maybe it wasn’t the scowling little old ladies I feared; maybe what I really feared was becoming one of them myself. Which brings me back full circle to my giraffe.

Crocheting stuffed animals is something grandmas do!

In fact, my own grandma must have been almost exactly my age now when she made the Gingerbread Man. I did the math.  And in the ensuing years she proceeded to shrink as her hair turned white.

But then again . . . I came to think of her as one of the most beautiful people I knew – ever more so the older she got. She was still able to live on her own at the age of 90. She loved to dance. And she never scowled.

 

I Stand Corrected

 

Hey guys!

I just wanted to let you know that my most recent posts included a certain amount of . . .  misinformation (especially when I tried to make predictions), so this one should set the record straight on a few things.

So far we only have one new grandchild (but a second egg is in motion):

 

I still have fifty pages to go and there has been no 70° weather yet:

 

 

It took three visits from Vera to half deplete the cleaning supplies. I will continue to monitor the situation silently:

(Now, in defense of my recent posts, please notice the reports in today’s paper – “Desperately Seeking Young Teachers” and “Styrians are Keeping Chickens Again”)

The fourth correction to be made is that the picture in my last post was of my elder daughter’s second last high school test. Today she had the last one – in German, so no drama there. It’s now looking fairly certain that she will make the Honor Roll – no, scratch that. I did not say that. (“I will not make predictions. I will not make predictions . . .”) I was also sort of wrong about her being done with high school. She came home today with an English assignment to do. A sample test question for the upcoming graduation exam.

Her task is to write a blog post and to make things easier, she got this handy instruction/information sheet including useful phrases to use. I looked it over and it seems I have been doing this blogging thing all wrong for the past four years.

The info sheet begins by defining a blog as an “online diary” that deals with “political themes, private experiences, travels, music, art, sports, youthful topics, or work”. (So, no chickens, Cheetos, or childishness.) Each post should have a title with a lot of nouns (Oops!), and an introduction that encourages the audience to keep reading (Oops! Oops!). It should begin with a friendly and familiar greeting, like “Hey guys!”

 

Aside:

“I never do that,” I told my daughter.

“Yeah,” she answered, “but I have to or my teacher will deduct points.”

 

In my daughter’s case, the post must be three paragraphs on the topic of binge drinking, whereby the first includes a negative experience, the second lays out all the disadvantages and negative effects, and the third is there to “explain [her] view on the matter”.

Aside:

I asked: “Can you write that you have these views because the test question told you to?”

“Yeah,” she answered, “but my teacher will deduct points.”

 

In addition, her blog post should address the reader directly, include some questions, and conclude by asking for/encouraging comments. So, what do all of you think about all this? Have you ever seen rules like these? Is this how you write your posts? Let me know! I would really appreciate hearing your thoughts! Please share in the comments below! I’m not kidding. DO IT!!

And in case you need some help in writing your comment, here are some useful phrases you can use:

    • I have stumbled across your blog recently and I . . .
    • I must say that I really enjoyed reading your blog.
    • I am so happy to have read your blog and I can only recommend it.
    • Thank you for pointing out that . . .
    • I just wanted to say that I completely share your opinion.
    • Great job!

 

If that is not enough, you can check the comments in your spam filter for more.

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts!!