Patient Backlash
I've received a couple of great comments about my last post, “Tickety Tick Tick Tick,” and I’d like to share them with you.
My friend Val Komkov-Hill has this to say: “Can’t tell you how much I related to your doctor story. Mine is not as dire but at Christmas my PCP, let’s call her Dr. No Nonsense, said my lab tests had found hematuria (red blood cells in my urine) and set me up to see a urologist, who, of course I could not get in to see until two weeks ago. (four months later) Good thing I wasn’t, you know, dying. I had shifted my Yoga classes since I had to show up when they deigned or it would be another 3 month wait while I stewed about whether or not I had bladder cancer. The DAY before the appt. they called and said there was a problem because my Blue Cross insurance listed a different PCP, one I hadn’t seen in 20 years. I said no it did not and got my BXBS card out to read the correct PCP printed on it. They said I needed more proof, could my doctor refax insurance info, or they would have to reschedule. Heaven forbid they didn’t get their pound of flesh. Again, like you, calls to my PCP’s clinic that never got answered by a real person, and me finally driving over in a huff, much like you, to talk to a REAL person. Long story short, got problem solved, Bladdercam (ouch) showed pristine bladder. Kidneys singing happily. All well. Except, I got a call from the urologist two days ago. My sample I left for more testing was somehow leaked (translation: some fool dropped it or lost it) could I come back and pee again. Fine, let me drink a gallon of water and I’ll be on my way.”
Hm. Val’s comment has that same buzz of rage beneath the surface that I felt while writing my post.
When I ask Val if I can quote her, she says, “Ha, I don’t mind if you use my name. I used to be so terribly shy and modest but after awhile, having been probed and x-rayed, and palpated, and poked, I kind of got over it.”
A person who wishes to remain anonymous shares the following: “Your story of dealing with doctor, nurse/receptionist, pharmacy, reminds me of experiences Jean Craig spoke of in her book Between Hello and Goodbye. It’s all so very frustrating."
Yes, yes, it is.
My friend Val Komkov-Hill has this to say: “Can’t tell you how much I related to your doctor story. Mine is not as dire but at Christmas my PCP, let’s call her Dr. No Nonsense, said my lab tests had found hematuria (red blood cells in my urine) and set me up to see a urologist, who, of course I could not get in to see until two weeks ago. (four months later) Good thing I wasn’t, you know, dying. I had shifted my Yoga classes since I had to show up when they deigned or it would be another 3 month wait while I stewed about whether or not I had bladder cancer. The DAY before the appt. they called and said there was a problem because my Blue Cross insurance listed a different PCP, one I hadn’t seen in 20 years. I said no it did not and got my BXBS card out to read the correct PCP printed on it. They said I needed more proof, could my doctor refax insurance info, or they would have to reschedule. Heaven forbid they didn’t get their pound of flesh. Again, like you, calls to my PCP’s clinic that never got answered by a real person, and me finally driving over in a huff, much like you, to talk to a REAL person. Long story short, got problem solved, Bladdercam (ouch) showed pristine bladder. Kidneys singing happily. All well. Except, I got a call from the urologist two days ago. My sample I left for more testing was somehow leaked (translation: some fool dropped it or lost it) could I come back and pee again. Fine, let me drink a gallon of water and I’ll be on my way.”
Hm. Val’s comment has that same buzz of rage beneath the surface that I felt while writing my post.
When I ask Val if I can quote her, she says, “Ha, I don’t mind if you use my name. I used to be so terribly shy and modest but after awhile, having been probed and x-rayed, and palpated, and poked, I kind of got over it.”
A person who wishes to remain anonymous shares the following: “Your story of dealing with doctor, nurse/receptionist, pharmacy, reminds me of experiences Jean Craig spoke of in her book Between Hello and Goodbye. It’s all so very frustrating."
Yes, yes, it is.
Crystal Bridges
On May 9th three of us drive to Crystal Bridges of American Art in Bentonville, Arkansas—it’s about an hour from Eureka Springs, where we are staying with friend and former Lubbock resident, Alice. This area of northwest Arkansas is now like a typical sprawling suburbia—replete with all the generic retail outlets one expects to see in such a setting—except that this megalopolis is not a satellite of any city. The nearly 500,000 people of northwest Arkansas live in a handful of burbs stretching from Bentonville in the north to south of Fayetteville, where the University of Arkansas is located—and all are serviced by I-540, which connects with I-40.
Keep this backdrop in mind as you picture Alice Walton’s Crystal Bridges (not to be confused with our friend Alice). As we go through the unassuming entrance, we drive along a wooded area on a smooth new asphalt road. The shoulders are abundant with what look like spring daisies—whites and yellows clumped together so tightly that there exists little space between them. We see that the outdoor parking is full so we investigate the indoor lot on the Lower Level. There is one disabled parking spot left, and so we take it. Alice uses the electrified system in the back of her van to lower her electrified wheelchair to the ground. Ken and I trot to keep up with Alice who zooms ahead. Inside Ken “checks in” (one only has to pay $5 for the special showing of The Hudson River School Exhibit). Otherwise, entry to Crystal Bridges is virtually free to anyone. It is our plan to eat lunch in the museum’s restaurant, Eleven. Unlike some museums it is designed to handle large groups. Even though Eleven is apparently full, we have no problem securing a table for three. The cuisine and service are great, and we leave fortified to begin our trek through the museum.
I first became aware of Crystal Bridges on CBS Sunday Morning—a piece that emphasized the visual and architectural aesthetics of the museum itself. On our visit the museum is teeming with people—families, school children, and seniors, people with all kinds of accents—not just the locals. Alice says that when she visited in the winter, the place was empty. It is now overloaded with friendly and polite docents, because the rules must be enforced: no flash photography (none at all for The Hudson River School Exhibit); no drinks or food, no gum, no pens; no pointing at a painting. And you can get no closer than eighteen inches to a work. If you must read the identifying information, lean in directly in front of the sign, not the painting.
I first became aware of Crystal Bridges on CBS Sunday Morning—a piece that emphasized the visual and architectural aesthetics of the museum itself. On our visit the museum is teeming with people—families, school children, and seniors, people with all kinds of accents—not just the locals. Alice says that when she visited in the winter, the place was empty. It is now overloaded with friendly and polite docents, because the rules must be enforced: no flash photography (none at all for The Hudson River School Exhibit); no drinks or food, no gum, no pens; no pointing at a painting. And you can get no closer than eighteen inches to a work. If you must read the identifying information, lean in directly in front of the sign, not the painting.
Crystal Bridges is constructed of a series of halls or pods that lead easily from one to the next. Each is large in length, width, and height. Very few paintings take full advantage of the latter—which portends well for artists of the future—whose works may indeed aspire to great heights. The halls move through more than two hundred years of American art (Colonial, 19th Century, Modern) until finally you end up in the Contemporary Gallery, which includes Abstract Expressionism—a breath of fresh air, if you will, after traveling through the past. Here you see square inside square, squiggles, solid colors, all of them providing a visual relief from two centuries of more figurative works. This pleasant progression seems a tribute to the museum staff’s layout of the paintings.
After four and a half hours I decide to go outside. Even though it is 68 degrees in the sun, the air is cooler than inside what could well be the most modern museum in the country. I photograph the patio/amphitheater area and take exterior shots all of the halls or pods. Crystal Bridges is landscaped beautifully and contains a substantive sculpture garden. Unfortunately, this visit we do not have time to investigate it.
Ms. Alice Walton, daughter of Sam Walton, has been reviled by some for having the audacity to snatch up what are considered to be very important paintings that some feel should never have left their former homes (yet usually paying handsomely for each piece), but after seeing what Ms. Walton has created here, one certainly cannot fault her with not having a great sense of philanthropy. We can complain all we want about Wal-Mart’s faults, foibles, and failings, but Ms. Walton has amassed a world-class collection of art and installed it in a world-class facility—one that virtually anyone in the world can walk in and see . . . enjoy . . . appreciate . . . savor. If she has provided the proper endowment—and one must assume she has—this initial collection is something that can only grow and last well into the future. And maybe, just maybe, Wal-Mart will mend its ways (or is that a political matter of applying more pressure?). We can always hope.
Our day ends with a quick trip south on I-540 for an early dinner at P.F. Chang’s located in a shopping area that in Alice’s opinion outclasses the mall in Fayetteville. On the way back to Eureka Springs, just past dusk, we cross over the (yikes) one-lane Beaver Bridge that we used earlier in the day when the sky was bright, and it makes me feel as if I’ve passed from one world to another—back from the flat, sprawling megalopolis of Northwest Arkansas to the bucolic life of rocks and rills that seem as timeless as art itself.
See more pictures of our trip by going to Photos, "2010 To Present."
Our day ends with a quick trip south on I-540 for an early dinner at P.F. Chang’s located in a shopping area that in Alice’s opinion outclasses the mall in Fayetteville. On the way back to Eureka Springs, just past dusk, we cross over the (yikes) one-lane Beaver Bridge that we used earlier in the day when the sky was bright, and it makes me feel as if I’ve passed from one world to another—back from the flat, sprawling megalopolis of Northwest Arkansas to the bucolic life of rocks and rills that seem as timeless as art itself.
See more pictures of our trip by going to Photos, "2010 To Present."
Artfully Repurposing Our Trash Collectibles
Repurposing Keys Project If any of you have received the May/June issue of Sierra, you know of the column "Repurpose | Trash Into Treasure." This time the page demonstrates to the reader how to take old keys (and we all have a million of 'em, particularly since so many aspects of our lives have gone keyless). You can go to the Sierra Club Web site to locate step-by-step directions. Sierra Club based their project on one by Nicholas Torretta at viraroque.blogspot.com. Let me know of your own such projects.
I myself have begun to re-purpose non-recyclable items if I can. Remember the blue rubber rings that come around the necks of my pharmaceutical bottles? The plastic bread bag clips? Lids, lids, and more lids? I packaged up all those items featured in my "Item's That Won't Recycle" posts (see Archives) and sent them to artist friend Aidan Grey in Denver CO. Click on his name to read a review of his recent exhibition at Denver's Edge Gallery. In an e-mail, Aidan told me,"My next show is going to be 'trashGod,' making icons of the gods of trash and waste, to open at the end of July." I believe the show will probably be at the Edge. Check out their "Schedule" page, and I'll keep you posted in case you live in the Denver area or will be visiting during the time the show is open. I can't wait to see how Aidan re-purposes America's trash.
My Book World
Donald W. Richards, my mother’s first cousin, has published a novel entitled Call Me Elmer. Set in the late 1930s, this novel begins when a family traveling to a new life in the West accidentally leaves their eighteen year-old son behind during a rest break. He does wander away from the car, so, in a way it’s his own fault—but the reader has to wonder why a family would leave a member behind and not return to the scene. The young man, Mathew Russell, has no choice but to keep on walking and finds a job working for Middleton Farms somewhere, I’m guessing, in the Southwest (Richards never tells the exact location that Mathew comes from, nor the one where he winds up, giving the narrative an "Everyman" feel to it). Mathew makes quite an impression on the owners of the farm, not to mention their granddaughter, Kathy, and works his way up in the organization. He is not afraid to speak his mind and actually helps the Middleton Farm make some significant changes. Mr. Middleton, because he had lost a son named Elmer (Kathy’s father), re-names Mathew, and Mathew eventually adopts Elmer as his middle name. Taking the name is significant because “Mathew” seems to represent his old life and “Elmer” his new life with the Middletons. Accepting both near the novel’s end brings an integration to his life he doesn’t have at the beginning.
World War II interrupts Mathew Elmer’s relationship with Kathy and the Middletons, not to mention his university life and career aspirations. He plays a significant part in the war effort, recruited precisely because of his agricultural expertise. While in England Mathew encounters a man whom he identifies as his brother. The man, however, denies any knowledge of having ever known Mathew. This event could confuse the reader; it's sort of an emotional slap in the face. Is the brother angry that Mathew never tries to find his family? Is Mathew afraid to confront his brother with the question as to why the family never returns for him? At war’s end Mathew returns to Middleton Farms, and he and Kathy practically marry on the spot in 1945. Overall, the novel is quite enjoyable, and Richards’s elegant prose contributes to a fine reading experience. It’s a pleasure to read someone who has a strong command of the English language and can communicate his thoughts clearly. I wish Don well with Call Me Elmer as well as his next book, which he’s told me he’s close to completing.
Call Me Elmer is published by Ghost River Images, and you can probably purchase a copy by contacting the author at <[email protected]>.
World War II interrupts Mathew Elmer’s relationship with Kathy and the Middletons, not to mention his university life and career aspirations. He plays a significant part in the war effort, recruited precisely because of his agricultural expertise. While in England Mathew encounters a man whom he identifies as his brother. The man, however, denies any knowledge of having ever known Mathew. This event could confuse the reader; it's sort of an emotional slap in the face. Is the brother angry that Mathew never tries to find his family? Is Mathew afraid to confront his brother with the question as to why the family never returns for him? At war’s end Mathew returns to Middleton Farms, and he and Kathy practically marry on the spot in 1945. Overall, the novel is quite enjoyable, and Richards’s elegant prose contributes to a fine reading experience. It’s a pleasure to read someone who has a strong command of the English language and can communicate his thoughts clearly. I wish Don well with Call Me Elmer as well as his next book, which he’s told me he’s close to completing.
Call Me Elmer is published by Ghost River Images, and you can probably purchase a copy by contacting the author at <[email protected]>.
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