2018.MAR.21 - Wednesday
We're off to a timely start this morning. Dad's physical therapy follow-up appointment is at 11, and my doctor's appointment is at 1:15.
This will be the first time I will have visited an actual physician (or, in this case, nurse-practitioner) since about 1998, so I think it might take a while to get my history and everything caught up. We'll get there early.
As we pass by the home of a neighbor who has recently departed, Dad remarks that there had been a lot of vehicles there yesterday: That old green pickup and a really nice new pickup, and a trailer and a big box van.
I knew that the green pickup was being towed to Arizona; presumably part of the inheritance of the daughter of the man who has recently passed.
"I didn't see any van. Maybe they had a lot more stuff to move than I thought."
"It was a great big box van." He squints as if trying to read the lettering on the side of the truck that was there yesterday: " R ... O .... H ..."
"Oh! That's the oxygen people. I did see that truck in town." We conclude that they must have been here to pick up the oxygen equipment that is no longer needed.
"The neighbor lady is looking for a dog ..."
"I didn't know they had a dog. What kind of a dog is it?"
"No, she hasn't lost a dog. She wants to get a dog. I told her that the pound has nine dogs, right now."
"Dogs eat a lot. Maybe she wants a really big dog ... " (Always, Dad's first concern is with the budget.)
"She said she wants one about the size of a pit bull, but it could be mixed breed. I hope she doesn't get a pit." I remark. "There's a really nice looking boxer at the pound right now. It's a female."
I proceeded to tell him about the antics of my two hellions, earlier this morning.
"I saw another neighbor just going out (of Cherry Creek) as I was coming up to your house this morning."
"Oh. Heading for town (Ely)?"
"No. She's going to pick up her daughter at the airport in Salt Lake. They're spending the night in Wendover, and be back tomorrow afternoon. I'm feeding the cats while she's away."
"When will her husband be back (from out of town)?"
"When I talked to her at the memorial, she told me that he had been stuck at the border for hours ... but I'm sure he's heading back, now. He won't want to miss seeing their daughter"
"Those borders close at ten o'clock, and then they don't open again until the next morning. He and Mom used to go down to the border at Yuma(?) to get their prescriptions refilled.
On a different trip: "One time, we crossed the border into Canada from Alaska. There were big signs saying that it was a crime to cross without permission, and if there's nobody there, you're supposed to call somebody to go through."
"A crime? Well, how likely would it be for them to pursue somebody just for crossing without permission?"
"Well it said that it's a crime."
"So did you wait there all night for somebody to come and give you permission?"
""No. We just went on through."
(Those renegades!)
"Later, we stopped at a rangers' station and we talked to those guys for a while. We told them what we had done. They didn't seem too concerned about it."
"Do you still want those old tires? What size tires do you want?" He asks.
"Size doesn't really matter. I want them for raised beds along my back fence. I'm going to plant pumpkins and squash in them."
"Do you want the sidewalls cut out?"
"Not necessarily, but that would make them easier to turn inside-out."
"Why would you turn them inside-out?"
"Well, then they have more room. They look like big urns.... our neighbor does that with theirs, and they plant tomatoes in them. They don't even look like tires, then."
"I'm going to cut the sidewalls out of some of 'em, and put them in that front yard that's fenced."
"Cool!" It seems like we may have just solved the problem of the growing collection of useless tires in Dad's "back forty".
The wild rose bushes along Duck Creek run-off are turning red with rising sap. Things will be greening up soon.
As the sleepy little town of McGill comes into sight on the horizon, I remember that I had made a mental note to share this story that I had seen on Facebook, yesterday.
We had lived in the 'Greek Town' section of McGill, and Dad remembers the Assuras family quite well. (The cousins mentioned in the attached article lived about three doors down from us, and the kids were our own age).
All Below Main Street: Greeks In McGill
He relates how the patriarch mentioned in the story had been responsible for bringing in much of the Greek labor force. "He would go over to Greece and bring them back with him," he told me.
I told him that, in the story, Dorothy said that this man was made a foreman over Greek workmen at the mine because he spoke both English and Greek, but that he had never made foreman's wages because he was a foreigner.
"Oh! There was a lot of that." he goes on. "And way back then, if a guy got killed at the mine, they'd just go get another one, and he'd take the dead guy's name, and so they didn't report any fatalities and kept the safety records clear."
- OK. This is the sort of thing I would expect to hear about the Chinese laborers -- not European immigrants.
He goes on to tell me about a famous local legend (which I am very familiar with), wherein several Chinese men were killed in a cave-in near Lane City, and they just left them buried in the tunnel and closed the mine.
- I have since learned that the accident at the Chainman mine occurred in 1877, but that there are no news articles from that period, because the newspaper office - which was then located at the county seat of Hamilton - had burned down, taking many records along with it. Chances are, it wasn't reported.
Chinese Immigrants Helped Build Nevada
In more recent times, another company began excavation in the old mine tunnel, but when they unearthed human bones, they closed the tunnel back up again.
"When I worked on a powder crew" (before he turned 20); sometimes we would unload two railroad cars full of dynamite. Each car could hold 800 boxes, and each box held 50 pounds."
"That's a lot of dynamite!" I affirm - just to let him know that I'm paying attention.
"Yeah. Back then, you could just buy as much dynamite as you wanted. You could buy it at the hardware store."
"I know. I remember."
"That was before we started using ammonium nitrate. It only took a little tiny bit of that to do as much as dynamite." He continues: "Then we heard about an explosion at Texas City, Texas that blew up two ships. Somehow, some oil had leaked into the cargo of ammonium nitrate, and all it took was a spark to set that off."
"I have been to Texas City, Texas, back in oilfield days."
"So we figured that if it was powerful enough to blow up two ships, then it could probably work for blowing holes in rock".
He continues telling me about his job "prepping the prill". "It came in bags (he shows me the size of the bags, holding with his hands wide and high about the size of five pounds of potatoes, I reckon), "and the opening had ears on it."
"So you have an oil can with a spout on it, and it goes between those ears. Then you pour in some oil - a very specific amount - and you let it set. It sets for four days, and you turn it every day to make sure the prill is saturated ..."
I'm astonished. What a freakin' hazardous job that would have been! He laughs at my wide-eyed expression ... as I ease into the left turning lane to enter the DMV
"Oh, nice!" I am beyond pleased to see that there is only one car in the parking lot, so hopefully this will go smoothly. I draw number 11, and immediately my lucky number is called. We sign the Jeep title in appropriate places, present my insurance receipt (which isn't the card the clerk needs, so she calls the insurance company and asks them to fax over the right one. Yeah!). In less than half an hour, I am the licensed and registered owner of my 2006 Jeep Grand Cherokee.
We're already way ahead of my anticipated timeline for this day.
Now, I suggest a quick stop at the Family Dollar or Shopko to pick up some " slick shiny" socks.
He had told me about going into his sock drawer the day before, and that he had found there, some socks that were much too small for him, so they must have been my mom's. He says he'll give them to me, if I remind him about it.
Finding the stocking aisle didn't take long. The largest size they have is 9-12. He decides to get them anyway, and hopes they will stretch.
I decide that I need new socks, too, and grab a six-pack of boys' ankle-length grey ones. And while he is visiting the restroom, I locate a trash can with wheels and a tight-fitting lid.
"How much did you pay for that trash can?" he asks me, once we're back in the car.
"Twenty dollars."
"Whshooo! That's pretty spendy for a garbage can."
"I know it is, but I don't have one, and it has wheels on it (making it easier to transport to the car), and (most importantly:) it looks like it will be dog-proof."
"Well, I guess if it keeps you from losing a lot of dog food, it will pay for itself before very long." I'm not sure what he means by that, unless he thinks I'm going to use it to store dog food in. I'm not. I'm simply hoping that it will be the solution to two of the renegades getting into the garbage every time they're left unsupervised.
We're still a bit early for physical therapy, but there isn't enough time to get into anything else, so I drive us back to Wm Bee Ririe, let Dad out at the door and go park in the back near the door. I notice a neighbor's rig in the parking lot.
Dad's sitting in the main waiting room when I get there. The aforementioned neighbor is talking to someone, and I'm glad I don't have to try and make small talk with him. I don't know whether Dad is even aware of who is standing there talking. I head over to the admissions desk, where -- after a few futile attempts to make myself understood - we're told that we don't need to check in there for the rest of the month. I'm pretty sure this only applies to physical therapy; not doctors.
Into the elevator and down to the basement, where we're greeted almost immediately by our friendly 'wound care specialist', who guides us into the same cubicle we had occupied before. He is as jolly as the last time we'd seen him.
He sets Dad up in a bed/chair and goes off to find scissors. Dad slides off his shoes, exposing bare feet, then pushes up the legs of his jeans, revealing that the right un-bandaged leg still has some redness, but there isn't much evidence of the cellulitis that one of the new prescriptions is supposed to be addressing.
The bright red bandage is cut off and the therapist seems utterly ecstatic, as he proclaims the legs almost healed.
"Congratulations!" he chirps, thrusting his hand out to be shaken. "You're a really fast healer!" (Good genes, again.)
He keeps on crowing and exclaiming "Congratulations!" - not realizing that his noise-making is what is keeping Dad from getting up; because the old man needs to focus on making his old bones move to get out of the chair, and every time the guy opens his mouth, the old one shifts back down onto the platform. Finally, the medico steps away, allowing Dad to get on with the task of putting on his shoes.
"I brought your socks," I offer, holding out a pair of his newly-purchased 'slick and shiny' stockings.
He looks slightly miffed at me and declines, putting his shoes back on without the nice new socks. I suppose that he doesn't want to appear helpless, as I'm sure it would be a time consuming challenge to get them on over his perpetually swollen feet. Just thinking about his sockless tootsies inside those bulgy black shoes make my feet feel squirmy.
Next on our agenda, he is in search of a "chore coat" to wear while he's tinkering around on his machines, so we're off to see if they have something suitable at the thrift store. You might not think that a blind man would have much interest in the sorts of projects that he does, yet he manages to complete some truly astonishing feats .... sometimes requiring just a bit of help with the detail work.
Before we get there, Dad suggests that I park at the sporting goods store so he can go and get his hunting/fishing license. I pull in at the first available space, and then realize that the door is sealed off, so I pull out again, and back next to the main entrance. I'll go along, just in case there is anything he needs to have read.
 |
Notice taped to the counter
the sporting goods store. |
The woman behind the counter asks for his old license, which peers out from a window in his wallet. She takes it and enters all of the information into a computer and returns with a paper card.
He's getting the senior discount: $13 for both hunting and fishing.
- Seriously, I don't know why a blind man wants a hunting license, but commenting would surely be a waste of breath.
I ask how much for just a fishing license (just in case I need to catch a meal, someday)?
"How old are you? "
"Sixty-three."
"Aw, you're just two years short for seniors'. It's $40. "
"Oh, well, I guess I don't need to go fishing this year anyhow."
It's early, and Dad says that he could spend a lot of time wandering around in this place. His attention is drawn to racks of camo gear. It's all lightweight stuff -- and no doubt, more expensive than he would want to wear for working in the back forty.
We get back in the car and drive about 100 feet to the thrift store, where we thoroughly investigate the rack of coats that's parked outside on the sidewalk. Finding nothing appropriate, we go inside to the 'men's department'. The selection is very limited, but I find one that's his size - approximately. "This looks like a Forest Service jacket" - I pull out the snappy green garment for him to feel.
"Oh. That's waterproof, isn't it?"
"Water repellent, I would say."
He tries it on, but struggles with the zipper. It has a rather small pull for his very large hands to manage and he is certain there is something wrong with the mechanics of the thing. I get it connected and he checks the sleeves to make sure they're long enough, puts his hands in the pockets.
"How much?" he needs to know - as if it really matters.
"Three dollars."
"Three dollars?" he snorts. "That's ... I can't really go wrong with that, can I!"
I laugh. "I know! Right?"
 |
| Frog Closure |
He seems satisfied with his find, but hints that he's going to want 'somebody' to sew a button on it.
"A frog, maybe?" He's trying to work out whether he actually heard what I said. "A frog button?" I clarify.
"I don't care what kind of button. A button." He takes the jacket up to the register.
While he is paying for his purchase, I make my mad dash to the housewares department, grab a light blanket with roses on it, and take it up to the counter.
"You can't get ANYTHING for three dollars! " He seems practically jubilant. "You couldn't even get burger at that joint over there." he motions toward the drive-in we had eaten at, last trip. That meal had cost $20 for both of us.
How much did you spend?" he inquires as we're driving away from the store.
"A dollar seventy-five" I smile. (If I had come in alone, it would have probably ended up being closer to $10.)
Things continue to move along swiftly, and we still have plenty of time before my appointment at 1:15, so next stop is his barber shop for a trim.
He likes the lady barber, and we keep coming back, even though he invariably complains that she didn't cut enough off, so he'll have to come back in sooner. We agree that if there are many people waiting today, we'll put this off for another week. (I'm hoping we won't need to -- these ultra long shopping trips are getting old.)
There's a little boy in the chair. His hair is so short, I think he's nearly done ... but then I look around at the kid's burly dad, and his head is just slightly ahead of clean-shaven. The barber runs her clippers around the boy's short dark hair until only stubble remains.
Planning ahead now, Dad hunts through his wallet for a $20 and slips it into his shirt pocket, thus we'll avoid the usual search at the final transaction. It's fifteen dollars, and he always tells her to keep the change.
As the boy is leaving with his parents, Dad quips to the kid that he's all 'spiffed up' now. The kid grins.
This isn't going to be a very long process, so I am content to watch the TV show that's playing quietly. It's a 'true crime' program like many that I have tuned into, when I lived at Dad's, and still watched TV. They're interviewing an undercover cop who was tasked with infiltrating a crime family's illegal gambling operation.
Apparently, the barber is watching too, while trimming the old guy's hair. She tells about the show that had been on prior to this one, in which two undercover cops had gotten into a gunfight with some thugs, and one was shot.
"So they're at the hospital and the doctor comes out and asks if the gunshot victim drinks a LOT?" She laughs, "And the guy goes, 'Man, we haven't been sober for sixteen months!'" It's so amusing to her, maybe she thinks I didn't get it, so she repeats the scenario, laughing as hard the second time as she had the first. 'Man, we haven't been sober for sixteen months!'"
Coming out of the barber shop, we still have plenty of time to kill, so Dad suggests lunch at the Hotel Nevada, just around the corner. I know it's been quite a while since he's been in there, so I give him an update: "It's a Denny's now."
"Oh? I didn't know that. They used to have a really good little steak for about four dollars."
I drive around the block and enter the parking lot from Aultman Street. There are only two empty spaces, so I pick the one nearest to the door, across the lot. There is a disabled car there, with the wheel off. The couple with the car are milling around.... since I have nothing to offer, I just try to get out and away from the situation, while Dad gets gradually out on his side. I describe the scene on my side of the car.
"Are they homeless?"
"No. Their car is broken."
The east end lobby of the Hotel looks pretty much the same as it always has. He knows the way to the restroom, and avails himself of that facility, while I wait in the corridor, browsing through tourist pamphlets.
We stroll on down the lane and up the ramp to the coffee shop. He seems determined to find his own table, but I take a stand by the hostess station until he catches the signal and returns.
A youngish guy comes up and guides us to a booth. It's a bit of a letdown to see that the old photographs that used to adorn these walls have been replaced with vintage photos of Denny's restaurants. 'Fifties music plays in the background.
"This hotel used to be a really high class place,"
"I know. It was one of the most popular places to go for prom dinner.
"Your mother and I, we came in here on one of our first anniversaries. The waiter had on a black vest, and he had a towel over his arm, and everything." He has related this exact scenario to me every single time that we have been at this establishment together. We used to come fairly often when he was the driver.
"And now, it's a Denny's."
"They used to have a really good prime rib lunch here for about seven dollars." (And not that long ago, I seem to recall. )
The service is standard, and food a little below that. I once had a worse quesadilla - in Montana. Only once. This one is slightly less offensive. Slightly. Dad's little country-fried steak with mashed potatoes and corn from the seniors' menu doesn't look any better than the frozen entrees he buys at the supermarket, but he cleans his plate completely.
On the way back to the car, he once again stops at the restroom in the corridor. A pamphlet had caught my eye on the way in, so this time I have the opportunity to read it: Troy, Nevada; a ghost town I had never heard of, located out in the desert "100 miles from Ely and Eureka" according to the flyer. It's printed incorrectly, and rather than turning it over, one has to flip it over and rotate. That might be why I picked it up and took it along. I wanted to peruse it a bit more closely.
It's getting close to time to be at the clinic. The couple with the bad wheel are still in the parking lot, but it looks like they've got some assistance, now. As I'm getting into the car, the lady says, "We're just glad it waited until we got here, to fall off!"
"The wheel fell off?!"
"Yeah."
"I hate it when that happens!" I wasn't just being a smart ass; that actually has happened to me -- and I was on a bridge at the time. Suffered whiplash for many years after that.
"What was that all about?" Dad wants to know as he gets into the Jeep and buckles his seat belt.
"Their wheel came off."
"Well, what did they want?"
"They didn't want anything from me. Somebody is there to fix it, now."
"What's this?" he picks up the Troy pamphlet.
"It's for a ghost town named Troy, that was about a hundred miles out of Ely."
He had never heard of it either. That, in itself, makes me want to go out there and look for it. The info recommends a 4x4 high profile vehicle.... not someplace you'd want to go in search of in snowy or muddy conditions. July might be a better time.
I think we have just enough time to get gas at the Texaco on the way to the doctor's office.
"Nineteen dollars. Two sixty-three." As usual, the pump has refused to produce a receipt, and I am not going inside to retrieve one.
"We should have made arrangements for you to go and visit with Donna while I'm at the doctor. Then you wouldn't have to be sitting in the waiting room." I comment.
He gives me a look and shifts in his seat.
So here we are again, at this place we had avoided all those years, and now have visited every week for the past month - and then some.
I am coming in to see about getting rid of a bump - probably a cyst - that has been on the back of my head for several years. Why didn't I get it looked at before? Two words: No insurance.
Having no information to go on, I had just gone along with what the appointment maker offered. In the waiting room I realize that this section of the clinic may be primarily for pediatrics. Great.
Dad asks what the sign on the TV says?
"It says, "Do NOT touch the TV."
"How do you turn it on?"
"It doesn't have any buttons. I imagine that somebody has a remote."
Eventually, a nurse in jolly green scrubs takes me around the corner for preliminaries. I estimate her to be about my age, and then realize she's probably twenty years younger. My self perception has not come to terms with reality, yet.
Once on the dreaded scale, eyes pop and jaw drops. Never, in my wildest dreams did I ever think I could grow this large! No doubt, my pulse rate is going to be quick, after this bit of shocking reality .... Not that I hadn't noticed the steady weight gain, and even my "fat clothes" shrinking - I just hadn't put a number on it, and it's more than 20 pounds beyond my speculation. This is bad! Really bad.
"Nobody likes seeing their weight." she assures me. Thank god, she isn't a petite little trinket, herself!
She takes me back to the waiting area with nothing to read but a bulletin board heavy with info about childhood diseases and domestic violence.
....... and we wait ........
Eventually, the green nurse returns and directs me into an examination room. She checks my blood pressure. I tell her it's apt to be a bit high.
"Are you nervous?"
"I am." Inordinately so. I've been avoiding even thinking about this, and now I'm in a cold medical environment waiting to expose my darkest secrets. (I used to have more interesting ones.)
"So, what brings you here, today?"
"I have this big bump on the back of my head." I point to the offensive item that I have never seen with my eyes, but am intimately familiar with by feel. I bend forward and push the hair back.
"Oh! Hmm ... that looks like a sebaceous cyst."
Pretty soon, a guy in scrubs comes in, introduces himself as Dr. Gardner, and asks to look at my bump.
"Oh. Uh huh. Yeah, you're going to want to get set up to take that off."
"Surgery?"
"Well, yeah .... Unless you'd just like us to hold a prayer vigil?"
"Nah. I've already tried that."
............. waiting ............
I'm not particularly impressed with the non-punctual young practitioner, with her tiny little eyes and goofy demeanor. She's probably used to dealing with small children.
She seems to be in a really big hurry to get my medical history (really, why couldn't a nurse have taken care of these details?) Any medications? Any allergies? Alcohol or drugs? Do you smoke? Major surgeries?
Family history: Diabetes? yes Heart Issues? My grandparents had some? Cancer? Let me count the ways! Mom had CLL leukemia, my grandfather ...
"Where?"
"Everywhere. Downwinders - first generation."
"Oh."
It doesn't take too long to establish that I am not going to go for all of the usual medical "requirements". Not doing all those tests. I haven't seen a doctor in nearly twenty years, and haven't needed one, so far.
Later, it occurs to me that there were no questions about my sexual history. Is it really so obvious: That there is NOTHING TO TELL?
Let's do small talk: "Have you always lived here?" she wonders
"I was born and raised in White Pine. I left for many years and came back" ... pregnant pause .... "and left again and came back and left ... " I snort, "I've been trying to escape my whole life, but I keep getting sucked back here, so I've stopped fighting it."
"I'm not from here."
"I know." We both laugh.
"I've been here about four years," she volunteers. "I really like it."
(No need to try so hard, sweetheart. I get it. You're obligated to be here for reasons I care nothing about, and will be gone at the first opportunity.) She may not realize - yet - just how deeply the tentacles of White Pine County ensnare the unsuspecting.
She has me get up on the paper-lined examination pedestal and performs a perfunctory examination; eyes, ears, and throat; feeling (but not really feeling) the glands in my neck, pushing on my abdomen, then listening to my breathing. That's when I remember to tell her about blood clots in my lungs. 1976. "Caused by what?"
"The infection, I presume."
Finally, she gets around to having a look at the offensive bump, and pronounces that it is, indeed, "a bump" and that since she does not perform that kind of removal, she's referring me to a surgeon.
"You'll really like Dr. Mugosa! He doesn't act like a surgeon. (Am I supposed to know what a surgeon typically acts like? Would that be something I might have picked up on during my Grey's Anatomy phase?)
We have accomplished so much already, it would be tempting to call it a day right now. But NO! Never 'waste' a trip to town. And so we press on to the NAPA store on Great Basin Boulevard in search of an air chuck for Dad's compressor.
The one he needs is out of stock, and the disinterested clerk says he'll order one and it should be in next week.
And finally to our 'favorite' stop of the week: Ridley's Market. He's got the usual list: meat, veggies, fruit, ceral (that is how he spells it), milk and bread. Most of this could be gotten at Bradley's Market in McGill - and it would take a fraction of the time, by virtue of the size of the store, and limited merch - but I do need chicken, and they have quarters on sale for 68 cents a pound. I clean out the last five packages in the bin.
We'll pass on Bath Lumber again, today. We are saving hundreds of dollars by avoiding that stop. I wonder if the staff there misses us?
For the first time, Dad expresses mild curiosity about what had compelled me to seek medical advice after so many years. "What do you have to come back for next week?"
"Surgery." I scrunch up my face at the thought of it. "I'll probably have to find somebody to drive me home." (And he does not need to come along, that day.)
"When we lived in New Mexico, Mick had some fibroids removed. She drove herself home. There was blood all over the place - but she drove herself all the way from -?-. I didn't even know she was going" he shakes his head.
"She was very independent." I nod, not the least bit surprised that she would do what she felt needed doing, without asking for his support.
"One doctor wanted her to have a hysterectomy, but she wasn't having any of that. So then she went to this other place, and they said they could try this other thing, so she did that. She never had any trouble, after that."
Things go quiet now, as I suppose we're both reflecting sadly on the events that happened later.
"They tried to tell me I have to go in for a bunch of pointless tests, now." We've had many discussions about just how I feel about the medical profession, and tests, and scalpels. "I told that doctor that I am not going to be pushed into doing all that, " I glance at him. "And she didn't push me. We agreed that I can always change my mind."
Again, we dip into the familiar pool of our experiences with the medical genre. The fact is that, if I were to become seriously ill, there is no one to take care of me; nor would I want to become a ward in some institution. "I mean, if I drop dead tomorrow ... so what?" My only real concern is that I don't know who would take care of my dogs, in that event.
Dad likes my cats. And Victor ... and even Ruby, if he would only admit that. Grover, on the other hand, would be the first to snag a bullet. I am his last resort.
Well, my fur kids AND the fact that Dad cannot be in Cherry Creek without me, or someone like me, to pick up the light work. That would be an issue far beyond my control, so I try not to dwell on it. Maybe that will never come up.
At Bradley's, it's the usual schtick: wine, meat, produce, bread. We JUST want to get done and get home ... and home is still about an hour away.
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