I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Author: Sheila Morris

  • Easter: Comes the Resurrection


                   “Are you looking for Selma?” someone asked.

                I turned around to see an attractive, young Latino woman with a name tag indicating she worked in the assisted-living facility where my mother lived.  She smiled at me.

                “Yes,” I said.  “I am.”

                “She’s in our church service that’s just getting started.  I’ll take you to her.”

                I followed her down the hall past the main dining room.  I recognized several of the women who were preparing the tables for the Sunday noon meal.  It was Easter Sunday, and the tables looked lovely with centerpieces of fresh colorful flowers.  The main dining room was a very large, bright room with a row of windows in the rear that offered good views of the manicured back yard.  The round tables seated eight people.  The napkins and table cloths were white linen.  It was like a dining room in a resort hotel, or on the Titanic, I thought as I walked past it.

                “Here we are,” Rosa said.  She pointed to a room on our right.  I stepped into the space as she opened the door for me.

                The small, white, windowless room looked more suitable for a clandestine rendezvous than a worship service.  But the cluster of seated parishioners waited expectantly as an older man in a dark suit and tie supervised a younger man and woman as they prepared to lead the faithful on this holiest of days.  I searched the group for my mother but didn’t find her.

                “Sheila, is that you?  Well, darling, you didn’t call me.  I can’t believe it!”  I heard my mother’s voice and searched for the source.  And there she was, sitting in a wheel chair in the front row that consisted of six women in wheel chairs.  That’s why I hadn’t found her.  I wasn’t looking at the row of wheel chairs because I had never seen my mother in one before.  I was stunned and heart-broken.  Since my last visit a month ago, she wasn’t able to move on her own.  I walked to her and gave her a big hug and kissed her cheek.

                “I know I didn’t call.  I wanted to surprise you,” I said to her.  “I hope you’re glad I came?”

                She nodded, and her face lit up with genuine joy.  “Oh, yes.”

                Rosa brought a chair for me and set it next to my mother.  She introduced me to the volunteer priest and his assistants—a young married couple who were helping for the special service.

                “This is my daughter, Sheila,” my mother said to them.  “She’s come all the way from South Carolina.  It’s a thousand miles to South Carolina.” 

                They murmured their appreciation for my journey.  Then, they returned to their preparations as they lit votive candles placed on an old, tiny, wooden table next to the brown lectern a few feet away from us.  The trio appeared to be a bit disorganized as they attempted to separate well-worn prayer booklets from newer handouts made especially for Easter.  We were close enough to hear them discussing their roles for the service while they distributed the materials to the residents.

                “These people are Catholics, so we read a lot from books they bring,” my mother confided to me in a tone that was not her quiet voice.  “The songs are awful.  Nobody plays any music.”

                Indeed, Mom was right.  We read from the booklets whenever we all found the same page.  Our liturgies were frequently interrupted by arguments among the women in the front row involving page numbers and the bold lettering of responses.  The priest and young couple appeared unfazed and totally at ease with these outbursts regarding the order of worship and general confusion.  They stopped, turned pages for the women, and moved bravely forward with the readings of the day.  Thanks be to God.

                Mom was also right about the music.  It was terrible.  I felt sorry for the poor priest who tried to inspire us to sing.  Evidently, very few members of the makeshift congregation were practicing Catholics.  Those who were had forgotten the un-melodic songs.  Everyone attempted to make a joyful noise, but, in the end, the tunes lacked eighteenth-century chord structure, and the priest eventually gave up on us.  The room breathed a collective sigh of relief.

                The service culminated with the Eucharist, or Holy Communion.  One slight problem was that no one remembered to bring the wine representing the blood of Christ.  No matter.  The younger couple had brought the wafers purporting to be the body of Christ, and they moved through the room offering the bread to each member of the congregation.  Wine wasn’t mandatory for real communion, as their sweet smiles surely fed the souls gathered in that room.  Amen.

               When the service was over, Rosa came to collect her group that needed an escort to their area.  I told her I would take Mom, and I pushed my mother down the hall past the main dining room to the Memory Care Unit.  It was a short distance in literal measurements, but the length of the hallway spanned two different worlds.  I reached the locked door to the Unit and discovered the security code had changed since my previous visit.  I left Mom at the door and went to get the new code from an attendant.  By the time I returned, another woman stood behind Mom’s wheel chair.   She had decided to push the chair for some reason known only to her.   I held the door for them, and she rolled Mom into the secured section.

                She continued to push the chair slowly through the community room and down a smaller hallway to Mom’s room.  As I opened the door, she wheeled my mother into her room and stood silently behind her.  Mom seemed to notice her for the first time.

                “What are you doing here?” she asked sharply.  “You don’t belong in my room.”

                “They told me to come in here,” the woman replied defensively.  “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

                “Yes, you do,” my mother said with a degree of exasperation.  “And, I want you to go this minute.”

                “Mom, I’ll take her to her room,” I said.  “Give me a second, and I’ll be right back.”

                The elderly woman was attractive, but she had a vacant look in her eyes that appealed to me for direction.  I took her hand and led her out of Mom’s room and down the hall to the left.

                “Do you know which room is yours?” I asked her.  She shook her head.

                We stopped at each of the five apartment doors on Mom’s hall.  It was like a college dormitory, I thought.  Each door had the occupant’s name on a small brass plate.  We stopped in front of every one of them.

                “Are you Alice?” I asked.  She considered that name thoughtfully, and then shook her head.

                “Are you Mary?” I asked at the next door.  Without hesitation, she shook her head vigorously.  Definitely not Mary.

                “Well, I know you aren’t Ben,” I said, as we moved along.  Apparently, she wasn’t so sure.  She stared at Ben’s door.

                I felt someone behind me and turned to see Rosa walking quickly toward us.

                “Willa.  Here you are,” Rosa said.  “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.  We were worried.”

                The woman whose name was Willa dropped my hand and reached for Rosa’s.  She smiled and relaxed.  Someone knew who she was.

                “I was running out of doors,” I said.  “I’m glad you found us.  Willa was fine, but I think she was worried, too.”

                Rosa led Willa away, and I watched the two of them.  Willa was like a lost gentle lamb that had been rescued by a familiar shepherd.

                “It’s time for lunch,” Rosa said.  “Do you need help with Selma?”

                “No, I’ll bring her now.”

                I dreaded lunch in the Memory Care Unit.  We ate in a modest room around the corner from the common living area.  The tables had the same white linen napkins and table cloths like the ones in the main dining room and a reasonable attempt for floral centerpieces, but it was decidedly different.  The first thing I noticed on this Easter Sunday was there were fewer people in the group.  The tables were arranged to seat two or three now instead of the longer ones that had accommodated six and eight.  Many of the usual faces were gone, and I wondered if death had taken them, or if the economy forced their caregivers to move them.  I counted twelve, and I remembered the number had been twenty-two when Mom joined the Unit two and a half years ago.  Six of the twelve had been with her from the beginning.

                I knew the staff, and they made a place for Mom and me at a table for two.  This involved changing the routine seating arrangements and wasn’t easy.  Willa was sitting alone and happily exchanged her chair to sit in Mom’s regular place next to Jean, who showed her displeasure by slapping Mom’s hand when she moved.  Mom quickly notified everyone in the room, and Jean was properly admonished by the staff for her inappropriate behavior.  Jean and Mom had a shaky relationship at best, and I had a feeling this conflict wasn’t unusual.  Jean didn’t display a shred of contrition, and Mom forgot it ten seconds later when her fried chicken arrived.

                The food was delicious, and Mom and I both enjoyed the meal and being together.  She told me to be sure and save room for dessert because on Sunday, we got ice cream sundaes.  We did get them, and they were as good as she promised.  Our conversation was the only one in the room, however.  The others were quiet as the three women who served us moved among the residents to encourage them to eat.  Jean continued to pout and complained periodically that Mom was too loud and that the woman who was sitting with Mom wasn’t supposed to be there.  Communion with attitude.  Amen?

                The traditional Easter egg hunt came to us mid-afternoon through the children of the staff members.  The day was beautiful, and the fenced courtyard area was the perfect setting for a party.   Those in our lunch group pushed their walkers or were wheeled outside into the bright sunlight, and those who could sat in the Adirondack chairs under the portico.  I met three other daughters who were visiting their mothers today and was glad I was there with my mother.

              Willa was one of several women who made their own Easter bonnets in a pre-party craft activity.  She was quite pleased with it and carefully held it in place on her head the entire afternoon.  Mom missed the bonnet fun, but she loved watching the children find the eggs with the candy in them.

                The Latino women who took care of my mother and the others brought their children to enjoy the search for the pastel-colored plastic eggs filled with candy in the tranquil setting of the facility’s outdoors.  Eggs were hidden everywhere, including on and around the residents.  Jim, a tall, sad, unshaven man who never spoke and who struggled to move opened the egg Rosa placed in his shirt pocket and ate the candy before the kids arrived.  He wasn’t waiting.

                The small group of children burst into the courtyard with an exuberance all youngsters bring to filling an Easter basket.  Ages ranged from four to twelve, with one six-month-old baby girl held by her mother.  They were dressed in their Sunday best.  Little boys had ties and jackets, and little girls were in pretty dresses.  It could’ve been a movie set, I thought, because they were strikingly good-looking.  They flew around grabbing eggs with gusto, and their baskets filled quickly.  They were noisy, laughing, talking, and incredibly alive.

                It was the Resurrection.  For a few brief minutes, the stones were rolled away from the minds buried deep in the tombs of the bodies that kept them hidden.  The children raced around the residents searching for treasures and exclaiming with delight when one was discovered.  One little boy overlooked a blue egg under a wheel chair, and Jean tapped his shoulder and pointed it out to him.  He was elated, and flashed a brilliant smile at her.  She responded with a look of pure delight.  The smiles and murmurings of the elderly were clear signs of their obvious joy and happiness that proclaimed the reality of Easter.  Hallelujah. We were all risen.

                Memories were made and lost that afternoon.  The children who came to the place where their mothers worked to find eggs among the old people were unlikely to forget this day.  Years from now some will tell the stories of the Easter Egg Hunt with the Ancient Ones.  The stories will be as different as their own journeys will take them.  For my mother and her friends, no stories will be told because they won’t remember.  My mother doesn’t know I was there for her on Easter this year, and that’s to be expected.  But, I remember I was, and it’s enough for now.

                I was born on Easter Sunday morning in April 1946, and that makes this year my sixty-fourth Easter.  I recollect a few of the earliest ones from my childhood, and they are good memories because they are about the love and warmth of my family.  I also remember having a hard time finding eggs in the church hunts.  But, to be honest, in recent years, Easter Sundays have been difficult to distinguish from any other day of the week.  When I moved away from my family in Texas as a young adult to explore my identity and resolve my conflicts within myself, I didn’t know I’d be gone for forty years.  I also had no way of knowing one of the costs of my freedom from family togetherness was my absence from family rituals.  Distance, travel time, money, job obligations, girlfriends—these were the obstacles I had to overcome for visits home.  Or, maybe they were just excuses.  I usually made the trip at Christmas, and less frequently, one more time in the summer.  But never for Easter.

                This Easter was special for me because it was a day with no excuses necessary.  I shared a Sunday sundae with my mother today at a table neither of us could have envisioned a few years before.  It was just the two of us, and, if there were barriers between us that once seemed too impenetrable, they were now lost in the cobwebs of time. 

                We are all risen, indeed.

  • A Thousand Miles From South Carolina


    A Thousand Miles From South Carolina.

  • Self Pay


                   The temperature in the waiting room was cool as I signed the doctor’s daily appointment register at the front desk.  I was number eight on the afternoon’s sign-in sheet.  I looked at the line across from my name, and the moment I had dreaded for months was upon me.  I had played and replayed the question in my mind.

                 Any changes to insurance since last visit? Yes / No     

                I circled “Yes” and spoke to the young, attractive receptionist, who was intently focused on her computer screen and hadn’t appeared to notice me.  Her expression was harried, as if she was so far behind in her duties she would never catch up.

                “Excuse me,” I said.  “I circled ‘Yes’ today for change of insurance because I no longer have insurance.”  I looked apologetically at her and spoke in my best “inside” voice.  I didn’t want the other people in the room to hear me confess my failure to produce the key to the kingdom of good health care.        Her fingers froze on the computer keyboard.  Her reaction confirmed my biggest fears.  She sighed heavily and began to disassociate herself from her mental and physical connection to the World of Important Matters.  Without glancing at me, she began to rummage through manila file folders in a drawer beneath her workstation.  At last, she pulled a single form from a folder, wrote something on it, attached it to a clipboard, and pointed to a round glass holder containing four ballpoint pens.  “Fill this out and bring it back to me when you’re finished,” she said flatly.  “Bring an ID with you, too.”  She still hadn’t looked at me, and as I picked up the clipboard, I had a sinking feeling that I was wearing Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak.

                I selected a pen and sat down to complete the form.  It took me longer to pull my driver’s license out of the stubborn leather slot in my billfold than it did to finish the paperwork.  Name, address, telephone number, date of birth, emergency contact, social security number.  The remainder of the lengthy document required detailed insurance information, but that had been marked through with a large “X” by the receptionist when she handed me the form.  She had written SELF PAY above the “X.”  In red ink.  I felt a sense of impending doom.  

               I couldn’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t have health insurance, and I had recently celebrated my sixty-fourth birthday.  Eighteen months ago, my employment was terminated due to a medical disability from ophthalmic herpes zoster, or shingles, in my right eye and other places in my head and on my face.  I participated in my employer-sponsored COBRA plan during those eighteen months for ongoing coverage, but on day one of the month nineteen—BAM!  No more insurance.  I had explored alternatives for personal insurance policies, but costs were prohibitive.  Medicare, the government-sponsored program for senior citizens, wasn’t available until my next birthday.  Alas, I was like a tightrope walker on a rope suspended high above a river rising as quickly as the price of my medications.  I was alarmed.  No, beyond alarmed.  I was afraid of a future with no insurance safety net.

                I took the clipboard and ID to the front and laid it down on the receptionist’s desk.  She was again immersed in her computer screen and clearly involved in the World of Important Matters.  Then, without looking up, she said, “Thanks.  Have a seat, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”  My Invisibility Cloak worked well, I thought.

                I returned to the chair I had claimed and sat down.  I looked around the large waiting area and saw five other people waiting to see Dr. Thong—one of a group of four dermatologists who shared the practice.  Their business had clearly expanded in the ten years I had been an “established” patient.  The building was the same as when I first started coming to see them, but now the group occupied the entire space.  The entrance was moved, and the lobby area was much more elaborate.  A new, large, trendy flat-screen television hung from the wall to allow good visibility from any vantage point.  One of the major cable news networks showed financial data from Wall Street at the moment, but the sound level was appropriately low and inoffensive.  The brown faux leather chairs were definitely an upgrade from the uncomfortable ones in the previous lobby, too.  The quiet room shouted first-class.

               Two hands on a large clock on the wall near the front door marked our waiting time.  I was at twenty minutes when I heard the receptionist call my name.

           “Miss Morris,” she said.

           I rose and walked to her desk.  For the first time, she looked at me.  Not smiling or friendly, but she did look.

         ” Here’s your ID.  Someone will call you in a few minutes.”  She had placed my ID on the counter.  Was it possible my I nvisibility Cloak had been stolen while I listened to the financial news?

         I picked up my driver’s license and sat down again.  I busied myself for several minutes with re-arranging the items in my billfold so that my ID was easier to reach.  That done, I daydreamed about the old days when I had good health and little interest in doctors or insurance.  Occasionally, the door to the examination rooms opened, and a nurse called someone’s name.  At thirty-three minutes and counting, I noticed that only two of us were left in the waiting area.  Time must truly be money for Dr. Thong, I thought.

           “Miss Morris,” I heard.  I was startled from my musings about the lobby, doctors, medicine, and insurance.

          I stood and walked toward the smiling lovely young nurse who held the door to the examination rooms for me.  She was dressed in a loosely fitting blue uniform that looked like the ones worn by actors in the medical dramas on television nowadays.  Not the super-starched white uniforms of the medical series of the 1970s like Marcus Welby, M. D., but she looked good in blue.  She was pretty in that wholesome all-American look and seemed very efficient as she carried what I presumed was my chart.  Her smile belied her no-nonsense demeanor.

         “And how are we doing today?”  She motioned me to follow her past the maze of tiny rooms with the doors shut.

         “Well, it’s not my best day, but I’ve had worse.”  I walked as fast as I could to keep pace with her.

          She smiled on, indicating a room with an open door, and I went in first.  I sat down on the large, gray, leather exam chair with a thin layer of white paper pulled over it to prevent my germs from being spread to the next person.  The agreeable young nurse continued smiling as she sat on a stool across from me.  She studied my chart thoughtfully.

         “Are we having any new problems today?” she asked.

         “Actually, I am,” I replied.  “I have a new trouble spot on my face that’s been there for two months.  It’s probably like the other ones Dr. Thong biopsied last year, but he always wants to know about the ones that don’t go away.”  I had a history of malignancies from skin cancers on my face, and any lesions from the herpes virus that refused to disappear in a reasonable time were suspicious, according to Dr. Thong.  He was scrupulous about early detection of any potential problems.  I had always admired that quality in him.  An ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure.  Wasn’t that what my daddy had always told me?

         I saw the nurse was taking notes, and I added, “Oh, and I got a tick bite about six weeks ago when I was in Texas.  It still hurts and itches, and I wondered if it’s okay.  It’s in an awkward spot at the top of my right hip, and I can’t see it.”

        “Tick bite,” she said, and wrote more.  Her good humor seemed to be fading for some reason, though.  The perky smile was gone, and that made me uneasy.  “I see you’re due for your annual full-body check today.  I also see you have no insurance.  Do you still want to do the exam?”

          I was taken aback by the question.  Was it possible to not have an annual check-up?  The thought had never occurred to me.  I had been having annual checkups, well, annually, for my entire life.  My mother took me every year when I was a child, and I continued each year of my adult life.  So, at sixty-four years of age, I’d had my share of regular doctor visits.  Of course, I reasoned quickly, maybe that just applied to my primary care physician.  The dermatologist might be different.  But, then, they had never given me a choice before.  What was going on here?  My anxiety level leaped ahead several notches.

         “Well, yes,” I said.  “I’ll go ahead with the full-body exam.”

         “Okay.”  Closing my chart, she stood up and went to a cabinet in the little room.  She retrieved a large neatly folded piece of white paper and handed it to me.  “Here’s a sheet for you. Get undressed, and Dr. Thong will be with you in a few minutes.”

         I took off my clothes and unfolded the white paper sheet.  It was enormous and unwieldy, but I managed to cover my naked body in what I imagined was an absurd look.  I now sat on paper and was covered with paper.  When I moved, the paper made an annoying crackling sound.  I was very uncomfortable and quite cold.  My mental state matched my physical discomfiture.  Would that man never get here?  I looked at my watch, and my 2:00 p.m. appointment had lasted forty-five minutes so far.

         Shortly thereafter, I heard whispered conversation outside my door followed by a quick knock and the appearance of Dr. Thong with yet another nurse.  They were both dressed in the same spiffy, blue, multi-purpose unisex uniforms.

         Dr. Thong looked remarkably the same every time I saw him.  He is a small Asian man in his late forties with flawless skin and an inscrutable expression.  His eyes betray nothing, but they are not unkind.  When I worked as a stockbroker before my retirement, he indulged in small talk and liked to give me his favorite stock tips.  He amused himself that way, and I was happy to have something to distract myself while he inspected my complexion.  Post-retirement chitchat was limited, however.

         “So, let’s have a look at you,” he said with no preliminaries.  He began with my hands and arms and made his way to my back.  “And, where is this tick bite that everyone is so concerned about?  Oh, I see it now.”  He muttered something to the nurse who wrote feverishly on my chart. 

         “Okay, nothing to worry about there.  It’ll get better on its own.”  With that dismissal, he moved around to the front and concentrated on my face.  “Now, let’s see this other problem a little closer.”  He hummed to himself thoughtfully.  “How long has it been there?”

         “A couple of months,” I said.  “It just doesn’t want to go away.”

         “Well, let’s see if we can make it go away faster.”  He motioned to the nurse, who handed him a contraption that looked like a bug spray can.  He gave three quick squeezes that made loud puffs of very cold air that hit the offensive red spot on my face.  Then, I felt an unpleasant burning sensation.  He took another look, appeared satisfied, and returned the can to the nurse, who struggled to write notes and handle the can simultaneously.

         “That should do the trick.  Very good luck,” he said.  “No problems.”

         “Thank you,” I said.

         He turned to leave and had his hand on the door.  “Anything else this time?”

         “No,” I replied.

         “Goodbye, then.”  He was gone.  No biopsies, no be sure to make an appointment for six months, no admonitions to wear sunscreen, nothing.  Just three puffs, and he was up, up, and away.  I sat transfixed and horrified by the visit.  I felt a “disconnect” between this doctor and my well-being.  I had a vision of being dismissed as an old woman whose health no longer required attention in a world of cheerful young medical professionals who moved briskly from one tiny sterile room to the next without making eye contact with the patients in those rooms.  It was a scary feeling.

         “You can get dressed now,” the nurse said.  “Just carry your chart to the checkout desk.  Follow the arrows.”  With that, she was gone, too.

         I glanced at my watch.  It was now 2:50.  My annual body check, complete with tick bite and face freezing, lasted approximately five minutes.  It took me longer to retrieve my driver’s license from my billfold for the receptionist. 

         I got dressed and followed the signs to the checkout desk.  A middle-aged woman wearing tiny reading glasses looked away from her computer screen to take my chart that now read SELF PAY.  I saw her comparing numbers in columns highlighted with different colors on a laminated sheet of paper.  Evidently, charges were relative, and she wanted to verify the amount for each procedure.

         “The total for today is $128,” she said sweetly.  “Will that be cash, check, debit or credit card?”  She paused, and then added, “I see no follow-up appointment is scheduled.  Do you think you’ll want to come back next year?”  Her tone was hopeful, and I saw she must be an asset to the practice by facilitating a warmer atmosphere during the payment process.

        “Debit card,” I said and handed my plastic card to her.  “I’m not sure about coming back, but thanks for asking.  I’ll call if I have a problem.”

        She quickly handled my payment and gave me my receipt.  I thanked her again and exited through the lobby area.   The hands on the clock on the wall showed 3:10 p.m.

         I officially joined the ranks of millions of Americans who are uninsured with little fanfare.  I now totally understood the magic of the phrase, “Your co-pay today is $35, and I’ll be happy to file your insurance claim for you.  May we schedule your next appointment?”  I complained each year that my co-pay increased.  I complained loudly that Dr. Thong was an “out-of-network provider,” which made my annual deductible higher for him.  And, of course, I complained regularly about the exorbitant cost of insurance.  Who didn’t?  It was acceptable cocktail-hour conversation.

        Now, we see through a glass darkly, I thought.

        In the spirit of fair play, I located my statement from my appointment with Dr. Thong the prior year.  I had two biopsies and an annual exam that day.  The office visit was $90, and the biopsies with laboratory analysis totaled $574.  I paid the $35 co-pay on the day of service, and my insurance carrier negotiated a reduction of $388 for reasonable and customary charges against the bill.  The insurance company eventually paid $45 to Dr. Thong, and I owed the balance of $196 to apply toward my annual deductible.  On the surface, my “self-pay” visit this year saved me $103.  Not to mention the fact that I no longer pay those outrageous insurance premiums.  Why don’t I feel better?

                  ———————————————————————————–

    The debate on healthcare reform and public policy in the United States follows the political fortunes of the fortunate.  In a country that prides itself on offering hope and freedom for all, we often reserve quality health care for the few who are wealthy enough to afford it.  The issues are complicated, and the systems and their operatives are deeply entrenched by decades of corruption and abuse that will make positive change a battleground for many years.  To sum up succinctly, it’s a mess.

    As my daddy used to say, “When you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s hard to remember your initial objective was to drain the swamp.”

    On March 23, 2010, the Affordable Care Act became law in this country.  It’s an attempt to wrestle some of the alligators that love to snap at the reasonable objective of quality health care for every citizen.  This particular swamp won’t be drained quickly or completely, as an assault on the law continues by its opponents through the judicial system in 2011.   For me personally, Self Pay is over since I turned 65 in April of 2011 and am now covered by Medicare, but that’s another story with a different swamp of alligators.

  • A Prize Fighter Named Pain


    A PRIZE FIGHTER NAMED PAIN

               Let me introduce you to my new friend Pain…well, not really new…and not actually a friend.

                I’m learning to live with him, but he’s a stubborn, persistent adversary.  I must have known him intermittently through my more than six decades of life, although the encounters were brief and unremarkable.  Painful episodes are the children of Pain.

                I met Pain himself three and a half years ago.  The mature, grown-up Pain.  He came to my body through the hardest part of me—my head.  He moved into the right side of my scalp and down my forehead to encircle my right eye and cheek.  He followed the nerves that travel through my face.  He had a cute little name that rhymes with Tingles.  Shingles.  Such a harmless name for the devil who rules my life.  He moved into his new home with the excitement of a pioneer staking a claim for a homestead in the Wild West during the glory days when every vista was unexplored territory.

                Pain is a hard worker.  He never sleeps.  He is relentless in his pursuit of control and domination.  Medicines amuse him with their efforts to ease his grip.  He is like a prize fighter whose gloves are cinched for eighteen rounds.  Medication sends him to the corner to be renewed, but he’s up and ready when the bell sounds.  He is a bold opponent who stoops to cheap shots during the fray.

                When the sun goes down and the day ends, Pain only works harder.  Sleep and Rest flee from him.  He is their biggest fear and worst enemy.  He loves the darkness of the night because it reminds him of his own nature.

                Pain pummels me with a ferocious pounding unmatched by mortal foes.  I understand him better now, and I know his tactics.  I know that he leaves after a long fight to make me think that I’ve won.  I step into the center of the ring with my hands held high in a victory salute.  It’s clear—Pain is the loser.

                But, then, he comes back.  Sometimes to the head that now bears the scars of our warfare.  Sometimes with a fatigue that makes movement impossible because I have hit a wall that may as well be made of concrete.  Always to my eyes, which blur and burn and water incessantly as they produce protein deposits that splatter the annoying eyeglasses that now must replace other forms of vision correction.  As I grow older and my immune system weakens, Pain appears stronger and more powerful.

                I have a rendezvous with Pain, as the poet once said of Death.  I meet him when and where he chooses, and we engage in our struggle in quiet isolation.  The stakes are high in this duel with no seconds available to offer assistance and no valiant rescue on the horizon.

                 It is just Pain and me.

     

  • It’s Only Paper


    CONFESSIONS OF A FINANCIAL ADVISOR

                Forty years is a long time or a short time, depending on your perspective.  For example, if you’re talking about your work, career, job, employment, occupation, profession—it’s a long time.  If, on the other hand, you’re talking about life expectancy, it’s definitely short.  Context is everything.

                In order to spend forty years in some variation of giving advice to people about their financial futures, I had to be in love with numbers.  The love affair began at an early age when in elementary school my mind grasped the concept of “1 + 1= 2.”  Imagine the simplicity and order and, yes, the comfort of that equation.  Consider, then, the possibility of “2 – 1 = 1.”  Astounding.  Okay, maybe not astounding, but certainly intriguing to my young mind.  Addition, subtraction, multiplication, division.  Numbers could be manipulated and re-arranged in combinations that hid secrets or unlocked them.  Context was everything.

                At some point in my educational process, numbers were combined with dollar signs.  Dollar signs represent currency values, the medium of exchange for goods and services, or “must-have’s” and “can’t-resist’s.”  We become accustomed to seeing numbers with this “$” in front of them.  We learn that good news for us is a dollar sign followed by a large number, if it indicates what we have.  Bad news is a dollar sign followed by a big number, if it signifies what we don’t have.  Again, context is everything.

                Eventually, the numbers and dollar signs blur with the addition of a comma and several zeroes, which means that the numbers are so big that you don’t even want to discuss them.  Millions become billions that grow into trillions, and then someone wins the lottery.  Someone else loses her retirement savings.  A national election is won or lost as a result of the number of zeroes in the unemployment levels.  New words are discovered for numbers with dollar signs.  Net income before taxes, and net operating losses before moving corporate headquarters overseas.  Deficit—a nice, neat word for spending more than we have.  Surplus, a term of endearment.  Generally accepted accounting principles, a floating lifeboat in an ocean of corruption.  Stock markets that run up like bulls when greed has a green flag, or down like bears when fear chases them to their dens.  Ratios, which have something divided by something else. Price/earnings ratios.  The words melt in your mouth, not in your hands.

                Once upon a time, numbers were written by hand and manually checked for accuracy.  Checked and cross-checked to make sure that “1 + 1” still equals 2.  Long ago and far away, hamburgers with all the trimmings cost $0.25, and a gallon of gas was the same price.  Silver quarters and silver dollars were the currency of choice.  A penny saved was truly a penny earned.  And a copper one, at that.

                In the midst of those days, I consummated my love affair with numbers and became an accountant.  Not just a plain old accountant, but the ultimate—a Certified Public Accountant.  It wasn’t easy.  Professions rarely admit new members graciously, and it took three attempts for me to pass the entrance exams.  But, I knew my numbers wouldn’t disappoint me, and they didn’t.  They welcomed me into a world of debits and credits and spreadsheets that generated financial statements and the obligatory returns of the Internal Revenue Service.  It was a world I inhabited and embraced for twenty years.

                During that period, from 1968 to 1988, my faithful adding machine with the little spool of white tape that could be checked, torn off, and stapled to paperwork as a record of accuracy was my constant companion.  Regardless of the task, numbers were printed on white tape and preserved.  How could there be a shred of doubt about anything when numbers supported your position?  Need a bank loan?  Net income must be high.  Paying income taxes?  Taxable income must be low.  Which brings us to another new word—reconciliation, a word commonly used in domestic disputes but also invaluable in financial circles.  Numbers must be “reconciled” to tell different stories to different audiences.  Their historical framework must be plainly visible to the untrained eye.  Context is everything.

                And, then, one day towards the end of that time of long ago and far away, the numbers were swallowed by a machine called a computer.  They were devoured and simply vanished from their connection to the people and values they represented.  All control of reality was relinquished to a keyboard attached to a screen.  As I watched those screens over the next twenty years, numbers with dollar signs zoomed through cyberspace and into a Twilight Zone of futuristic projections with reckless abandon.  New Age economics clashed with Old World mathematics.  Did “1 + 1” still equal 2?  No one really cared.  Numbers were about possibilities, and the hopes and dreams of financial freedom with a few chronicled trends tossed in for good measure.

                By the year 2008, hamburgers with all the trimmings, in the world of the here-and-now, up close and personal, cost twelve quarters, and they weren’t really silver ones.  A gallon of gas cost more than the hamburger, and the price was determined by a four-letter word group called OPEC, which was run by men who lived across the Big Water and not just down the street.

                Since it’s impractical to carry enough quarters to buy hamburgers today for a family of four, we traded our coins for paper currency that is lighter in weight, which makes it easier to transport, and also encourages a whole new industry of manufacturing wallets and pocketbooks.  To ensure that Americans will purchase several of these to carry their currency, we have created “designer” brands with diverse colors, shapes, and sizes for the discriminating consumer.  Our paper dollars require protection and easy accessibility with a pronounced element of style.

                The paper money supply is monitored by various governmental agencies and the vast wasteland that is the financial media.  In the 21st century, it is now possible for all computers to talk to each other and for bank customers to swipe debit cards that look like credit cards to quickly access money from their bank accounts for purchasing goods and services without actually producing the paper.   Abracadabra.   Whoosh – the money flies out of one account and into another one as long as you remember your personal identification number which is subject to theft unless you protect your identity by paying more money to watchdog security systems.   Additionally, hundreds of thousands of advisors and analysts can experience the joys and frustrations of instant mass information, which bombards us every time we refresh our television or computer or iPad or iPhone or some other newer screens yet to be developed.   Experts are available for every topic.

                Question: “What do I need to do to save for retirement?”

                Expert #1: “You are alone. You need to do it yourself.  Stay tuned to my television show, and I will teach you the secrets that have made me the gigantic success I am today.  Subscribe to my newsletter.  Buy my books.”

                Expert #2: “You are not alone, but you can do this yourself.  If you call my toll-free number, someone will personally help you in this time of financial uncertainty.  We are your friends.”

                Expert #3: “You cannot do this by yourself.  You need to work with an advisor who understands your needs and objectives.  Professional advice is the surest way to success.  We care about you.”

                You see the problem.  So many experts, so little time.  And context?  Clearly, it isn’t everything any more.  Context is defined and massaged to frame five-minute segments on twenty-four-hour, seven-days-a-week news programs.  In five minutes, answers are given to economic questions that have plagued theorists for years.  Five minutes later, different responses to the same questions create confusion for the listeners brave enough to stay tuned.  In the immortal words of Andrew Shepherd, the President in The American President, “It’s a world gone mad, Gil.”

                As for me, my forty years with numbers were good ones and passed too quickly.   The people behind the numbers were always real and taught me many lessons that I would have never learned without them.  From parents planning for their children’s education, to seniors securing their estates for their families, to the gay and lesbian couples who were forced to find alternatives in planning for their futures because they had no legal status, I saw that the use of financial resources often reflected the caring character of my clients who owned them.  I am grateful to those clients and friends for their trust, which I diligently tried to earn through the values instilled in me by my dad—treat everyone equally and with respect because every person matters.  And, most importantly, keep your sense of humor.

                Once in a while, when you lose that comedic edge and worry too much about the numbers and dollar signs, try to remember that it’s only paper, after all.  And, for perspective and context, avoid watching more than one financial guru at a time on CNBC.