Adventures in Wonderland

Awhile back, I posted about my foray into the world of online dating (The Not-So-Young and Restless).   I’d like to report that the three sites I joined (E-Harmony, Our Time and Plenty of Fish) resulted in a shower of eligible men who wanted to meet me.  Unfortunately, I can’t.  As of early June, I’d met one guy, and while he was nice enough, there just weren’t any sparks at all.  For me, anyway.

I also had what looked to be a promising prospect with a guy from Sweden who’d settled in Jacksonville.  Ruggedly handsome, gainfully employed as an engineer in the construction industry, about my age—he was perfect!  He was on a project in Texas and wouldn’t be back in Florida until it was done, which he anticipated would be in about a month.  We’d traded e-mails for about two weeks when he sent this really effusive, overly mushy e-mail about how much he loved me and how I was his soul mate, etc. etc. 

That set off my alarm bells (hello! stalker!!), and I told him so in no uncertain terms.  He backed off, pleading a language barrier, and I gave him the benefit of the doubt.  After all, the only Swedish I know is what’s in IKEA.   We got back on track and he proposed we text.  I told him I don’t do texting (which I don’t), so he suggested internet messenger.    IM didn’t work for several days, because we could never seem to connect at the same time.

Finally, one night the stars aligned and we were online together.  I was in an airport waiting for my flight home, and had a few hours to kill.  I was sitting at the power-strip counter at my gate, and was soon joined by two other women about my age.  My Swedish Meatball and I were only a few minutes into our conversation when he started bemoaning the fact that he’d run out of materials.   He needed more materials to finish the job and come home.  I asked him several questions and got increasingly suspicious from his answers.  Finally, he mentioned that $7,500 was all that stood between him and the project’s completion.

“Oh my God, it’s a scam!!”  I have the annoying habit of talking to myself (or Margeaux) out loud.  To those of you who’ve been subjected to this habit, I apologize and thank you for not killing me.  I didn’t realize how annoying it was until I was subjected to it by a co-worker who kept up a running monologue throughout the day.

The two women sitting with me at the counter looked up from their own computers.  I briefly explained the situation.  One suggested that I try to put the bite on him for money.  I vetoed that idea—the last thing I needed was for him to claim that I was scamming him.  After that, we started coming up with everything we could think of to portray me as a most undesirable target.   By the time I caught my flight, I was sure he’d written me off.  Just to be on the safe side, I blocked him from contacting me again.

Another seemingly promising prospect also fell suddenly by the wayside.  This guy was retired military, now teaching at a local community college.  He was around my age and, from his e-mails at least, seemed normal.  He advertised that he was looking for a sane, mature woman who was drama-free.  After trading correspondence for about a week, he asked for my phone number.   All the dating sites advise against daters disclosing their personal information, like, oh…phone numbers.  Aside from safety concerns, I generally hate talking on the phone, so I politely declined and suggested a Starbucks meeting instead.

Imagine my surprise when, in response, I received a flaming e-mail from him stating that he WOULD NOT meet someone he hadn’t first talked with by phone.   I tried e-mailing a reply, but he had blocked me.  Huh?  I guess he was looking for a sane, mature and drama-free woman to balance out the qualities he lacked.  I still can’t figure out what’s so special about talking on the phone, but a lot of these guys want to do it.

After that encounter, I decided that Plenty of Fish should rename itself Plenty of Shit, because that’s what I was finding there.  I deleted my profiles from all three sites and decided to fish elsewhere: Match.com.  For any of you looking to join the world of online dating, I highly recommend this site.  It’s very user friendly, and it offers a money-back guarantee is you haven’t found a match within six months. 

As soon as my profile went live, I started seeing some traffic.  Not an overwhelming amount, but a few potentials a day.  Plus, the site suggests eight or nine matches a day.  One Daily Match’s profile, in particular, caught my eye: the tag line read “Semper Ubi Sub Ubi” (Always Where Under Where).  His answers to the standard questions were quirky and funny.  He was at the top of my age range—65—divorced, retired, Jewish, and in my town.  The profile photo showed a deeply tanned man with a gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match.  His eyes were warm and inviting, a bit guarded, but twinkling with mischief.   I sent him a wink and he winked back.

After about a week of exchanging Haiku-like e-mails, we arranged to meet.  Drumroll, please.  We hit it off immediately—what started out as a happy hour meeting turned into a full-fledged, six hour date.   We’ve seen each other once or twice a week for the past month and we usually Skype at least once a day.  He’s wicked smart, funny and adventurous.   His name is William.  Having never lost my Louisiana penchant for nicknames, I’ve tried to give him several, but haven’t hit upon the right one yet.  I usually call him Will or Will.i.am.

It’s interesting how my outlook on dating has changed since my younger days.  The goal to dating back then was to find the best husband, father and life-mate I possibly could.  I found that person in Bunny, and now I don’t feel the need to fall in love or find my soul mate or get married again.  My only dating goal is to have fun with people who make me happy.   

Will and I enjoy each other’s company, whether it’s over dinner or moving furniture.   One of his favorite amusements is riding shotgun while I drive—I’m prone to mild, profanity-laced road-rage—and roaring with laughter over my comments.  We make each other smile and constantly learn things from each other.  I’m having a great time with someone who makes me happy, which is exactly what I set out to do.   

What the Hell is Topsy? And What Does it Have to Do With Healthcare?

Since all the furor over Obamacare seems to have settled to a dull rumble, now may be a good time to raise the issue here.  Affordable health care has very much been a part of my life for the past few years, between Bunny’s cancer and the treatments and my cervical spine fusion back in 2010. 

For years, we had insurance coverage through Bunny’s job, and a very small amount of his salary went toward the group premium.  No sweat.  We had access to the best doctors we could find.  Once Bunny ran out of FMLA time and his employer terminated him, we were in COBRA territory.  COBRA is supposed to provide health insurance without a gap—you pay the premium, and your coverage continues until the insurance at your next job kicks in.  Sounds good, right? Ha!

I was acquainted with COBRA from changing jobs many years ago—it’s expensive.   Very expensive.  For the exact same coverage we had before, we now paid as much for health insurance as we did for our monthly mortgage payment.  I don’t consider it “affordable” when you pay as much for the roof over your head as you do for health insurance.

Not paying for COBRA wasn’t even an option: Bunny needed chemo and blood transfusions.  He got desperately ill with the least provocation.  Worrying about the extra expense added to his already-anxious demeanor.  I assured him that everything would be okay, but he worried nonetheless: if we spent all our money on medical care, there’d be nothing left for me once he was gone.  At the time, we didn’t realize how little time he had left, and he was prepared to continue treatment as long as there was hope.

Finally, he hit upon a solution, borrowing a page from some of our friends who’d done the same thing years earlier: if things got too bad, we would divorce, and he could qualify for Medicaid and get medical care that way.   Knowing how much the whole situation upset him, I agreed, but I thought to myself: how fucked up is it that people would be so worried about having health care that they would dissolve an otherwise happy marriage?  Then I started hearing stories from every corner of the country about people who had done the exact same thing.

I’ve been on board for universal health care since way before Hilary’s plan.  I’ve always believed that health care is a basic necessity that everyone should have.  Socialized medicine?  That label doesn’t bother me.  When people need it, they should have access to it, and it should truly be affordable.

I’d never discussed the issue with my daddy, other than in passing.  My daddy has worked in health care his whole adult life, so he knows more about it than the average dad.  He’s also maddeningly logical in his thinking—kind of like Mr. Spock on Star Trek.  E-mails from him never took up more than a few lines, so I was surprised a few weeks ago when he sent me a draft of an e-mail he was sending to a friend who was losing her mind over Obamacare.  With his permission, I’m reprinting it here:

**********************

"It growed like Topsy”

I can remember the late 40s & early 50s, when the only wonder drugs were the sulfa drugs (developed in the 30s), newly released penicillin (if your doctor trusted it) and of course the patent medicine spectrum (Hadacol) . Immunizations were the most visible sign of medical research. These were affordable to even the poorest people.

Surgical procedures were primitive compared with those performed today on a daily basis. In Louisiana, the Charity Hospital System (taxpayer supported) provided care to anyone who could not afford (or was unafraid of the "charity" stigma) and was willing to be treated. Most of the private physicians in the state interned or completed residences in these facilities.

"Clinics" which were generally named for the physicians in the practice and reflected their personal training and attitudes had become available after the 30s as a result of the advent of medical-hospital insurance schemes, which were participated in by union members, state governments, enlightened employers and some individuals.

Transplants, implants and chemo were experimental and not available except to the wealthiest.

Generally, outside of state-supported hospitals, if you could not afford a specific treatment, you did not get it.

In sum, standardized medical care was a commodity which was not available to everyone and 'Nature abhors a vacuum'

Thus, the impact of Medicare $ on this system brought forth research, enhanced medical care, fraud, unnecessary treatment, unintended consequences, etc. (another vacuum waiting to be filled).

Now we have "Obama Care" which will have both good and ill consequences which are awaiting discovery.

Until we as a society are willing to honestly address the fundamental issues (medical ethics - an oxymoron?), the cycle will continue.

How much medical care for everyone do we really want?

Although I am willing to drive a clunker rather than a Maserati, am I willing to receive the same medical care as the poorest member of society? Should there be an available difference?

How much morality do we want to inject into the issue? birth control? abortions? pacemakers for 85 year olds regardless of mental/physical condition, CAT Scans and MRIs for someone obviously about to die?

Do I want a friend on the "Death Panel"?

I'm sure you can add a few others, but as usual it all comes back to $$, and a way to administer the system in such a way so as to please everyone.

­vox populi, vox dei

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Thought-provoking, for sure—the issues he raises could spark endless debates.  I was astonished that he could write so well!  My e-mail back complimented him on the content, and asked the burning questions: What the hell is Topsy?  And what does it have to do with healthcare?

“It growed like Topsy,” it turns out, is an arcane saying that developed after Uncle Tom’s Cabin was published.  Topsy was a character in the novel, and in the years following, "it growed like Topsy" became a popular saying to describe something that grew or increased by itself, without apparent design or intention.   Daddy had been introduced to the saying by his north-Louisiana cousins during childhood.  It was a new one on me, and on my (well-read) step-mother and (English professor) step-sister, as well.

Maybe Obamacare isn’t perfect, but it’s a step in the right direction.  I’m sure it will evolve over time as the bugs get worked out.  I don’t have all the answers, but I do know one thing: people should be able to pay a reasonable amount for the opportunity to access health care.

Rock Bottom

It’s been over a month since my last post.  Maybe you’ve wondered where I’ve been.  Have you ever heard the expression “hitting rock bottom”?  That’s where I’ve been—Rock Bottom--and I got there before I even knew I was headed that way.

            Late May and early June used to be a time filled with happiness.  Bunny and I celebrated our anniversary was on May 31^st, and my grandmother’s birthday was on June 2^nd.  We grew up right next door to my grandparents, and my grandmother was very much a second mother to us.  My mother’s birthday was on June 6^th.   When Trinity came along, her birthday was smack in the middle of my grandmother’s and mother’s, on June 4^th.   So every other day for about a week, our family had reason to rejoice.

            When my grandmother died nine years ago, we still remembered her birthday.  It wasn’t a terribly sad day, though, because she had lived a long, healthy life.   But this year, as the end of May inched closer, I grew increasingly anxious about my first anniversary without Bunny.  The fact that my computer crashed in late May didn’t help.  Then, on May 30th, I suddenly came down with the worst sore throat of my life, along with spiking a fever.

            From my symptoms, I was pretty sure that I had strep throat.  The doctor confirmed it, and put me on Penicillin.   For my entire life, I’ve never been allergic to any medications, so I figured I’d be good as new in a few days.  The best part was, the Penicillin was free—it’s one of the meds that Publix dispenses without cost. Score!

            After about three days on the antibiotics, I noticed a rash on my arms and legs.  At first, I thought it was my eczema flaring up—I’d been taking a lot of super-hot baths when the fever was raging, and hot water is one of the things that triggers an outbreak for me.  Pretty soon, I noticed the rash in places my eczema usually doesn’t go.  Only two possibilities now—either it was the Penicillin or the strep, itself.  Either way, it wasn’t good.  Naturally, it was Saturday, and my doctor’s office was closed.  I stopped taking the medicine, called when the office opened again, and got switched to a non-Penicillin drug. 

            Up to that point, I felt like I’d been progressing really well (computer issues aside), especially given my recent victory at the Cochon de Lait.  One of my friends had even remarked about what a fortress of strength I was, given all the chaos of the last six months.  Despite the occasional mini-meltdowns, I believed it—I was strong, and I would get stronger every day.  Then came late May, and the start of the once-happy occasions that would now be hollow.  The fortress started developing cracks. 

On May 31^st, I was swaddled in flannel pajamas and quilts, fighting off chills and fever.  On my grandmother’s birthday, I was covered in a rash, suddenly allergic to a drug I’d taken without incidence my whole life.  As silly as it sounds, that reaction was the final insult—the straw that broke the camel’s back.  My loved ones were unexpectedly dying off, my emotions were unpredictable, certain people in my life were flaking on me at random, and now my body—the one constant that I could depend upon—was betraying me.      

I spiraled down into a well of depression, crying for no reason, by turns unable to eat or stuffing myself with food for comfort, and generally feeling alone and bereft.  I’d try to bolster myself by thinking of all the blessings I have, and then I’d feel guilty for being such a whiny baby because so many people have much bigger problems than I do.  Nights were the worst.  I’ve always loved to sleep, but I’ve also always had a difficult time falling asleep.  I envy people who can fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows—Bunny and my sister Julie being two of the worst offenders.   I couldn’t stop my brain from conjuring up images of my lost loved ones. 

And the dreams!  I’ve always dreamed very vividly, in full color, and the dreams I started having in early June were no different—quite realistic, in fact.  At the start of these dreams, Bunny was still alive, and I was both surprised and happy to see him.  Then he would unexpectedly die--often right in front of me--as I desperately tried to save him but couldn’t.  Every night, these dreams came, and I’d awaken in the middle of the nights, my face wet with tears.  In the old days, when I had a bad dream, Bunny—never waking from his own slumber--would pat me gently while I got my bearings.  His not being there for this series of nightmares made me miss him even more than I already did.  After awakening so abruptly, I'd be unable to go back to sleep.

            Slowly, I started inching my way out of the hole I’d fallen into.  One thing that kicked me into high gear was getting a very long letter from one of my oldest friends.  Hearing from her made me realize that I’m not the only person in the world whose life has unexpectedly turned upside down, and that I didn’t want to waste another minute feeling sorry for myself.  I started getting out more, seeing old friends and making new ones.  Spending time with my granddaughters also boosted my spirits.

            Prayer, of course, was another thing that soothed my raw emotions.  In addition, I  started reading one of Joyce Meyer’s books that I’d gotten for Bunny about two years ago, to give him inspiration to fight.  He never cracked it open, but I’ve read it twice now.     

I also started doing physical labor along with my normal desk job.  I’d bought an investment property in early May, and I threw myself into redecorating it so that I can get it rented out.  I do love to paint!!  Being there calms me like no other place on earth.  It’s right on the water, and I can just sit and watch the boats come and go and marvel at the beauty of nature. 

I don’t know that any one thing helped more than another, but by mid-June, I was feeling more like my old self than I had in the previous month.  Death is just a part of life, and sometimes it seems unfair about when or how, but we all have to go sometime.  I just hope I’m around for a long time to come—I’ve got a lot to do.