Too Many People

Whenever* I read or hear about "global warming," I'm put in mind of the abortive Zero Population Growth movement of the 70's. If that had taken hold, things might be different.

Now the state wants to restrict or forbid fireplace burning. When I remind my daughter that not so long ago, all buildings were heated by wood or coal, she says, "But there were fewer people then." Well, someone wanted to do something about it in the 70's. (By the way, a local county is giving rebates to people who convert to a wood pellet stove. Aren't wood pellets wood? What kind of doublespeak is that?)

Naturally, in olden times, the population was controlled by war, disease and pestilence. But we haven't had a good population-reducing war in years, and the drug companies have made us so healthy that we can "live" in a "skilled nursing facility" well into our nineties. It seems the Muslims have the right idea. They're killing each other. Maybe we should let them, so as to, as Scrooge said, "decrease the surplus population."

I don't know what we can do about the drug companies, but perhaps we should eschew the life-saving potions and die at a respectable age so there will be more clean air and less "global warming" for Louie's ungrateful children and grandchildren.



*The proper application of the word "whenever." Unlike every TV court show where some illiterate says, "Whenever we went to the parking lot after the movie, " when the application is clearly, "'WHEN' we went to the parking lot. . . ." (Of course, they usually follow it with ". . . me and Maria met LaTasha," an obvious bastardization of "Maria and I. . .")

Who's Got the Rolling Papers?

Surprise! Who would have imagined that if the state banned tobacco in prison, someone would smuggle some in? Criminals engaged in a black market where a pack can fetch up to $125 -- unbelievable! "I've never seen anything like it, babbled Lt. Kenny Foonman of the Big Jail Center. Apparently, Kenny's led a sheltered life.

At another big jail, cigarettes triggered a brawl between 30 Latino and white inmates over control of tobacco sales. Not racism, but free enterprise. "It's almost becoming a better market than drugs," says an anti-gang officer at Pelican Bay, the biggest, baddest jail of all.

Unlike illegal drugs, which bring harsh penalties, punishment for inmates caught with tobacco range from just a written warning (in their "permanent record") to extra work duties.

That'll stop 'em.

Odds and An End

The kitchen was the least efficient area of the facility with resignations and firings common. Some days one person had to prepare one or more meals. During the week-long flu outbreak, the staffing was particularly stressed, with illness added to the mix.

The smells emanating from the kitchen were as indistinguishable as the food, and not always pleasant, and I still doubt that eggs for breakfast an average of five days a week is particularly healthy.

An inordinate number of the staff are related to each other and/or the residents. I can't prove that means anything.

Three regular forms of "entertainment" were not for me:

Bingo -- It's boring even if you're playing with people who can understand, stay awake and pay attention.

"The Price Is Right" -- It's always annoying, especially as background noise every weekday morning, and

The community sing -- Call it fun, call it church, call me gone.

I almost forgot to tell you about the older social services lady who scurried about the facility. With a shock of bleached blonde hair, she floated like a wraith in her ankle-length black or deep maroon dresses with black shoes and black nylons. No, really, every day.

I knew it was time to leave when I began to look forward to the "Ice Cream Social" each Friday. (After all, it was REAL ice cream with Hershey syrup. . . . )

The facility provided one final annoyance (until I see the bill). They told me a walker and a wheelchair would be delivered to my home. I would rent the chair for $35 a month and insurance would cover the cost of the walker. It turns out that, although the medical supply house's yellow page advertisement promises delivery "in the county and surrounding areas," that doesn't mean 10-12 miles into the adjacent county, even though I suspect the UPS rates are pretty much standard for the whole state.

When my daughter went to pick them up, the wheelchair rental was actually $5 per day. I'm doing without. For the walker, they wanted the money up front. I got them on the phone and assured them the insurance would cover it. "No, that's not our procedure," they said.

"Perhaps I should go somewhere else," I said.

My daughter was given the walker, nothing down, but with the admonition, "Good luck with your father." Was that a double entendre?

May No One Ever Forget Louie

When I remember Louie, I think first of the three weeks I spent at the "facility" after he left. The halls were quiet at night, the CNAs were more attentive, and most of the services (except the food) had improved.

Two months earlier, when I first moved in, I had the room to myself. The hall outside was a jungle. There was always loud talking, and TVs blared late into the night. I was bedridden and completely at the mercy of the staff.

In about a week, Louie arrived. He had asked to be transferred from Room #2 where his roommate was mentally incompetent and would frequently scream out for no apparent reason. Louie was a thin, swarthy, 60-year-old man who looked like someone who would draw scrutiny at any airport. Actually, he was of Italian heritage, and a gentle, thoughtful person. He had fallen on a glass-top table and lay in a pool of his own blood for two days. By the time I met him, he was walking again, but therapy preferred he use his wheelchair. He had been committed to the facility by his brother and nephew,who, it turns out, just wanted to get rid of him and not ever have to check in on him again.

Louie and I discussed the shortcomings of the facility every day, and he wandered the halls at all hours observing and complaining for the two of us. His unique personal problem involved an inability to eat the food without vomiting, so he took to ordering out which, unfortunately, aggravated his diabetes. But his mind was clear, and his good humor helped me to survive the ordeal.

As the days passed, he made some friends (and some enemies), but conditions improved. The staff began to realize that not everyone was deaf and brain-dead. Apparently, Louie was sometimes abrasive with others, and this quality eventually got him sent home, which is what he really wanted. I was appalled, however, when I heard his nephew say, as he picked him up, that he was just going to take Louie home and drop him off. Wherever Louie is now, I hope God is watching over him, because, apparently, his family isn't.

The Staff

After the "celestial transfer" people, the most efficient crew at the "facility" is the laundry. These ladies are pleasant, polite, have residents' clothes back within 24 hours, and keep the copious clean linens coming My room was next to one of the linen closets, and they always called me by name (not "Honey").

Almost as efficient are the ladies of housekeeping, except that my toilet received too little attention, which I learned during the last three weeks, when I was finally able to use it.

The physical therapist is skilled, but stretched too thin. I befriended him, and that relationsip may have interferred with the strictness that I probably would have benefitted from.,

There is a maintenance man. He is a spiffy-dressing martinet who doesn't seem to do much of anything. His mother is one of the residents.

There is a janitor who mops and buffs the halls. He "can't" do much else, because all the tools and supplies are jealously locked away in the maintenance man's closet.

Several tiny offices are inhabited by women who are usually at the computer and/or fax machine keeping in touch with Corporate, Medicare or Medicaid. These cubicle-sized rooms are variously labeled Head Nurse, Admissions, Billing, Case Management(?), Social Services, and Nutritionist.

The entire enterprise is presided over by The Administrator, a very tall, affable gentleman who thinks he's in charge. He has only been there a few months, and one gets the impression he'll be the next scapegoat when something goes wrong.

The actual power seems to be wielded by a loud, morbidly obese woman who patrols the nurses' station in an oversized rolling office chair. She is always there. . . about 72 hours a week. No one does anything without her approval. In response to any questions or complaints I may have had, I was directed to ask her. I avoided the temptation, because, to me she was instantly unlikeable. I don't abide rude and crude.

Delicious? Nutritious? Not!

There is no doubt, I'm a fussy eater. I have reached a time in my life when I never again have to eat anything I don't want to. In the past, I have eaten thousands of institutional meals at numerous schools and in the Army, and those which I received at the "facility" were, by far, the least tasty. I ate as much of each as I could without gagging. I will resist the temptation to chronicle some of the awful meals that neither I nor anyone else ate. Suffice it to say, things from cans (primarily fruits and vegetables) were the only foods that were consistently edible. That is, except canned beets and canned spinach, which nobody eats.

Corporate in Albuquerque provides the "recipes," and smiles all the way to the bank.

In memoriam

It is the Chinese Year of the Pig. We have taken in Wilbur, a grossly overgrown pot-bellied pig. He is a horny porker who needs companionship. I have suggested we get him a whore. Too bad Anna Nicole Smith died recently.

We also have horses, and when I see them running with their tails held high, I recall the departure of Molly Ivins.

HAMPTON BAYS, N.Y. (AP)
The partially mummified body of a man dead for more than a year has been found in a chair in front of his television, which WAS STILL ON. . . .

Creature Comforts

The "care" facility is located on a small city block and shaped like an H, end to end, with two long halls bisected by the lobby (nurses' station) area and one short hallway. The back has a small parking lot, separated by an alley from the back of houses on an adjacent street. The rooms are double occupancy, and most share a small toilet with the adjacent room. Sprinkled among the rooms and several tiny offices are three poorly-kept patios where a few residents can smoke (and occasionally urinate and vomit). Fortunately, during my stay, the weather was usually cold, so I never went on the patios.

My room had a view of the alley. Occasionally, I saw a dog chained in the backyard of one house, but few people. Usually the scene was quiet, punctuated only be some CNAs or housekeeping staff having a cigarette. (I continue to be amazed how many "health care professionals" smoke, and how many eschewed the facility's "healthy" food for fast food.)

There was no temperature control in my room. Although I was told alternately, by the same person, that there was and wasn't a thermostat, it appeared to be a random on-off proposition. Sometime in the afternoon, the heat started to blow intensely until the following morning. It meant that during the sleeping hours it sometimes caused me to perspire. Two actions tended to alleviate the condition -- leaving the door, or cracking the window open. The door option was less desirable because the one hall light that stayed on all night was right outside. My first roommate and I made an accommodation to open the window, and we were able to close the door. My two subsequent roommates were much older and frailer, and they feared the open window, which was, after all, next to their bed. The first only stayed a week. (He begged his doctor to let him go home, even though he wasn't ready.) The other was there when I left. He was on oxygen from a noisy, heat-generating machine, and I had to request a fan be set to blow on me. The fan was not enough, however, and I was forced to leave the door open. Sleeping was sporadic but possible.

One weekend, when the temperature dropped to the 20's at night, the heat went out. Friday night I needed two blankets. Complaints on Saturday fell on the deaf ears of those who had no authority to do anything and no clue who to contact. Finally, at 5 p.m. on Sunday, a heating professional appeared and, in ten minutes, cured the problem. Shouldn't he have been there on Saturday morning? After all, it's a health care facility.

CNAs

I haven't checked, but I suspect there's an open advertisement in the newspaper in the nearby village where I was incarcerated in the "care" facility. You know, like the kind of employment ad car washes run in big cities. . . 365 days a year. It appears that the turnover is very similar. In my 2 1/2 months, I saw well over 100 CNAs wander through my room. They ranged in age from recent high school graduates on up, with the majority appearing to be 18-21. Some of those who were slightly older were said to be attending nursing school. There were only three young men, who seemed to be there because they were related to someone else in the facility.

CNAs fall into three general categories:

1. Newbies who got a job after a brief training period, and are earning a regular paycheck.

2. Those who have been around a few months and may or may not have developed some compassion , despite the monotonous and sometimes unpleasant nature of the work.

3. A few who have true compassion for the helpless residents, and when they call them, "Honey," it may actually be a term of endearment.

The other regular mantra of the CNAs was, "If you need something, push your call button."
Doing so caused two things electrical to occur. In the hall, a light went on over your door, and at the nurses' station, a panel lit up and a beep sounded. At no time, did I see anyone react to those two signals, and the beep could be heard any time one passed by.

Reaction to the lights over the doors was irregular, but especially during the two hours at mealtime. The CNAs had to deliver meal trays, spoon feed some residents, collect the trays, and estimate the percentage of food eaten and how many calories that comprised. Little else was done at this time.

The few fond memories I have are of the CNAs who were prompt in attending to my needs, especially at mealtime. Because of the thankless nature of the work, I took care always to thank the CNAs.

The Corporate Entity

Someone at the "skilled nursing facility" told me that my current "residence" was the flagship of the corporate entity. It was the first and only building they owned, and the remainder of the vast empire (several states) encompassed leased or rented "residences." I say, "someone told me," because if I had asked anyone else, the response would have assuredly been different. I have never before been associated with so many people who either 1. didn't know anything, 2. didn't want to admit they didn't know, 3. were instructed to avoid answering, 4. were instructed to lie, 5. lied as a matter of course, because most residents wouldn't remember, 6. said what they thought the questioner wanted to hear, 7. pretended to be too busy, or 8. falsely promised to check.

The only interest the corporate entity has is profit. Although the word "care" is bandied about, that care is for the bottom line. By general consensus, 40% of the time is taken up with paperwork. This is one area where a significant number of the staff agreed. Obviously, the purpose of this accounting is to satisfy the the governmental agencies while still maximizing profit. Each of the three entities has its separate rules and regulations, so that it is understandable that some of the staff might be confused, but one never hears, "I don't know, " or "I'm sorry, I made a mistake." It would be better if they made these phrases a part of the training, instead of the ubiquitous, "Honey."

I Break A Hip

I have not done the research, nor do I intend to, but some time in the past, the hospitals, health insurance companies, Medicare, Medicaid, and private industry conspired to create a medical system that ensures the maximum profit for the corporate entities and the greatest savings for the federal and state governments, which then are free to pursue more "important" issues (like war). The end product of this amalgamation is an institution called the "skilled nursing facility." YOU must do EVERYTHING in your power to AVOID ever finding yourself residing in one.

These institutions are run by a number of (mostly) young ladies called Certified Nursing Assistants (CNAs). After a short perfunctory training period, these girls are sent out to call each of the 60-70 "residents" "Honey," and ensure their personal hygiene. Because the vast majority of the very old "residents" are mentally incompetent and/or incontinent, this is a time consuming task. Of course, it can't really be considered "nursing." That function is assumed by two or three actual nurses each shift. These women mostly dispense drugs, and in case of emergency, administer CPR and ship the victims to either the hospital or the morgue, whichever is appropriate.

There is no doctor present on a regular basis. In the two-plus months I languished in therapy, I saw a doctor just once, when she stood at the foot of the bed of my first roommate, and, without examining him, prescribed additional drugs. After that, he slept most of the time.

My room appeared to be the only one which contained "residents" whose minds were intact and had any hope of ever leaving. Therefore, an empty bed elsewhere signaled another death, at least ten during my tenure. The one activity I can commend is the surreptitious, expeditious and sensitive way death was handled. Much of the rest of the experience was extremely disturbing, and you may commiserate with me here in future posts.

Thomas Sowell

Earlier, I may have directed you to Ruben Navarrette, a Mexican-American who speaks eloquently for his community. Now, I commend you to Thomas Sowell who encapsulates his black heritage in brilliant syndicated columns, especially that portion of the one which is quoted here.

". . . The biggest losers from the current Duke 'rape' case include not only the three students accused but also the black community, which has once more followed a demagogue who knew how to exploit their emotions for his own benefit.

"Some of these demagogues are white like [District Attorney Michael] Nifong but there are also homegrown black demagogues like Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson who have prospered greatly, and basked in the limelight, by leading other blacks into a blind alley of futile resentments and counterproductive self-dramatization.

"The biggest losers from getting sucked into these frauds are blacks, especially young blacks who go off on an emotional tangent that leads nowhere, at a time when there are so many opportunities in other directions, if they direct their time and efforts through education and other serious interests.

". . . [Young blacks are] hearing a steady diet of propaganda blaming all their problems on others and depicting 'society' as determined to keep them down, regardless of anything they might do to lift themselves up.

". . . The current self-destructive misdirection of energies in black ghettoes cannot be explained by a 'legacy of slavery' or 'racism.' For one thing, this level of self-destruction in black communities did not exist half a century ago, when racism was worse and the black population was generations closer to the era of slavery."

Bloviating

I am almost back. But as an easy start, I present the word of the title. It was uttered by Fred Dalton Thompson to describe the speech of the actress emulating Ann Coulter. You remember Thompson, who had the career I should have had: actor, lawyer, Senator, and back to actor. Interesting enough, the word gained its greatest popularity when used by President Warren G. Harding. And now it's back. Welcome.