In Praise of Sleep

Am I the only one who finds it completely impossible to live with myself (let alone with the rest of the world) when I'm sleep deprived?

It's stunning how bleak everything seems when I don't get enough shut-eye. I even resent the cute little birds chirping outside my window. Can't you critters at least sing on pitch?! I can't decide whether to shoot the birds or jump off the balcony myself.

On the other hand, after a good night's rest (even better, a string of them), my melodramatic tendencies subside considerably and I am able to go about my business in a cheerful sort of way. The impossible takes on an aura of possibility. The annoyances seem less important. And the little birds become downright charming.

Amazing.


Image used under creative commons license. Photo by SMN.

Dealing with Drugs (not to be confused with drug dealing)

This is not a joke. But it is testament to the stunning inefficiency of our "state-of-the-art" healthcare system.

Background:

One day a friendly drug rep walked into my doctor's office.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!" the swankily-dressed drug rep proclaimed, "The FDA has approved a new and remarkable drug for your patients suffering from Megalufidum!"

(Disease name has been changed in accordance with the Patient Privacy Act of 1612).

"You'll be thrilled to know that instead of a 10-inch horse needle, this magical serum can be administered with a teeny tiny needle that does not inflict pain, but provides the patient with the sensation that he or she is sipping lemonade on a beach in Honolulu."

She goes on to explain how this new drug, Lemonada, has been clinically proven to be as effective as the old drug, Maximus.

"Furthermore," she says, "we are sensitive to the insurance travails you regularly experience trying to get Megalufidum drugs approved and paid for. Thus, as part of our welcome package, Lemonada customer service agents will do all the work for you to make this transition as smooth as possible. And if there are any insurance troubles, we'll provide Lemonada free of charge to your patients diagnosed with Megalufidum. You can rest assured: We CARE about your patients' health!"

My doctor is not one to fall for the antics of every drug rep who walks through the door, but he is sympathetic to the horse needle required to inject Maximus. He responsibly reads the research on Lemonada and is convinced of the drug's efficacy.

So at my next appointment, the nurse cheerfully tells me about Lemonada. It sounds good.

"I'll try it," I say.

I fill out a form that she will fax to the Lemonada folks.

"They'll take care of the rest," she assures me with a smile.

What Happened

After spending nearly 7 hours on the phone over four days that involved 2 doctors in two states, 3 clinic receptionists, 2 registered nurses, 2 pharmacists, 1 persistent drug rep, 1 patient training representative, 1 home health nurse, and approximately 9 customer "service" agents from my insurance company . . . .

I decided NOT to switch to Limonada for the following reasons:

a) The insurance would only cover a dosage lower than was not what my doctor recommended. The dosage I needed was going to cost $7000 (I'm not kidding.)

b) The "too good to be true" salespitch from the Limonada folks turned out to be, in fact, too good to be true.

c) My insurance went ahead and delivered Maximus to the doctor's office even though I had canceled the order and had verified that cancellation with at least three insurance reps.

Meanwhile . . .

The whole process had serious consequences on my mental and spiritual well-being since it a) drove me to the verge of a nervous breakdown and b) left me with such un-Christian feelings towards the insurance folks and drug marketers that I've probably lost any hope of a place in heaven.


P.S. I actually do not blame the insurance reps I spent hours on the phone with -- they are merely pawns in the hands of a broken, dysfunctional, self-serving system established by someone else.

Finally . . .

After five months of being cold most of the time, on Friday I experienced a rare and wonderful sensation: warmth. In my drafty, poorly insulated apartment. Without several layers of clothing, the heat turned up to unaffordable levels, or my little space heater dutifully forcing frozen electrons to burst out of their happy orbits.

In fact, I was even a tiny bit hot.

Of course, Saturday and Sunday were back to chilly, rainy, and gray.

But I'll take what I can get. Besides, the proliferation of bugs in my apartment can only signal that spring is on its way.

World Peace in the Basement

I just returned from teaching English at the Refugee Development Center. We meet in the basement of an old church in downtown Lansing. My class in some ways is a microcosm of the world -- the main difference being that my students peacefully co-exist. The largest group is from Cuba, but others come from Iraq, Egypt, Myanmar, China, Burundi, Somalia, Afghanistan, and Mexico. They are Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists and speak nine different languages. Each has come to America hoping for a better life for their children. Most are unemployed (the curse of Michigan), but each one would gladly have a job -- anything. The ones who are fortunate eek out meager livings working at a factory, doing housekeeping, or preparing food. The women cook and clean the house. Everyone watches a lot of television. They study English. The American dream seems awfully tarnished, but they don't complain - except about the weather. I don't blame them.

Meanwhile on Monday and Wednesday evenings, we struggle together to figure out words that are commonly taken for granted.

"Boyfriend? Like a small boy who is your friend?" one man asks.

"A cousin is your mother's sister's son or your father's sister's daughter or your mother's brother's son. You know - your grandmother's grandchildren!" I gaze out at a room full of blank stares. I had hoped that the funny-looking family tree I drew on the board might be helpful. But no - "cousin" turns out to be more complicated than I had anticipated.

We press on, forging through the linguistic impasses that continually creep up. The students whisper translations to help their friends or to double-check their hunches. They smile at me and play along with my sometimes misguided plans.

I tell them that my mother has seven brothers and three sisters. But she only has two daughters.

"How many children do you have?" they ask.
"I don't have any children."
"No children?" They seem surprised.
"You are not married?"
"No," I confess.
"What your birthday?" a middle-aged man (a former army officer) from Afghanistan asks. I know what he's trying to say.
"I'm 38." (Or am I 37? I never can remember these days.)
They don't know how to respond. Their faces reveal a combination of pity and astonishment.
"I'm old," I interject. "I need to find a husband." The Afghani man nods in agreement.
One of my Burmese students, a young woman with striking features and gorgeous brown eyes reassures me.
"I don't see 'old'," she says, "I see beautiful."

We spend the last ten minutes of class singing along with John Denver. I've discovered that people will often sing when they're too nervous to speak.

"'Cuz I'm leaving on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again. Oh babe, I hate to go. . . ."

The lyrics seem to resonate.

Now the time has come to leave you.
One more time, let me kiss you.
Close your eyes, I'll be on my way.
Dream about the days to come
when I won't have to leave alone. . .

Class is over and my students gather their things. Echoes of "Thank you, teacher!" fill the room.

"No," I think. "Thank you."