No longer Hamm I am

After 57 years, I am no longer Catharine Hamm.

It feels strange to write this and felt even stranger to have done it. I was more nervous at the DMV and Social Security than I was on my wedding day, as evidenced by the fact that I screwed up the DMV form twice. It’s such a habit to write “Hamm” under “Name” that I did that. Of course, the DMV thought it was a little odd that I was changing my name from Hamm to Hamm and pointed out that I probably needed to write “Skolnik” under the name.

I did, and, for some reason, promptly ripped up the form. (In my defense, I thought I was ripping up the incorrect version.) Yes, I was rattled. But so was the DMV clerk when I pointed out she had erred by forgetting to put my motorcycle license classification on the form. She looked at me and at my old license and then flounced off. How dare I be an old lady on a motorcycle? But I digress. (You'd be surprised if I didn't, wouldn't you?)

The license and Social Security are just the start. Next will be the passport, the deed to the house, my trust, my mother’s trust, my credit cards—the list is staggering.

Which raises this issue: Why do it at all? It’s such an old-fashioned notion to take a spouse’s name. After all, when I had the chance to change it on my marriage license, I didn’t. Now it’s almost four years after the fact.

One easy but not simple answer is my husband’s daughter’s wedding—my stepdaughter.

The fact that I’m calling her my stepdaughter says something about how far our relationship has come in eight years—from sniping and snotty to solid and caring.

She is getting married in April and is leaving her maiden name behind.

But until that date, we are Carl and Catharine and Jessica Skolnik. We are a united front against all forces that would seek to make this less than the happiest day of her life.

And although Carl has seen repeated demonstrations of this, I wanted him to know with certainty that I also stand with him and by him in all circumstances, except for maybe when he is declaring the Three Stooges the funniest act ever and his absolutely wrong-headed views on the death penalty. (By the way, don't mention this change to him just yet. He doesn't know--won't until the holidays are officially here. It will either be the worst gift ever or a lovely surprise. In either case, I want to see his face as he tries to absorb this.)

I’m not leaving Hamm behind completely. I will still be Hamm professionally—maybe because there’s no form to fill out that says, “I used to be known as this and now I’m this.” I’m still CatHamm on Twitter. Heck, this blog site is still Hamm Party of One. I mean, just because Tide takes on a few new ingredients in its detergent mix, it doesn’t leave its old name behind. And as my digitally savvy friends point out, your name is a brand. (Alas, Hamm happened to be a brand—of really bad beer. Maybe I should rebrand…No, no, too much to think about.)

Leaving Hamm makes me a tad wistful. I was the last one in the family; there are no kids to carry on the name. But other than the novelty of it, there is no particular nobility in being that party of one in a family that included more than its share of scandals and scoundrels and sad stories. Not that the Skolnik side is much better. We are families, after all. It's part of the package.

Besides, what families are without troubles? As I reflect at this time of the year on the Holy Family, I am awed by their unity in times of joy and times of trouble.

So this Irish German Catholic girl has cast her lot with the Russian Hungarian Jews. We are the Skolniks. United we stand.

RIP Our Blue Byrd of Happiness

Blue Byrd Hamm Skolnik, a Dalmatian, died Friday after a long battle with degenerative arthritis. She was, well, pretty old for a big dog but no one was really sure.
Blue was adopted by Catharine Hamm in February 2004. Her previous owners used her to capitalize on the popularity of Dalmatians after the 1996 remake of "101 Dalmatians." When her mothering purposes were over and her family moved, she was kicked to the curb and ended up with Dalmatian rescue. Catharine Hamm found her online--"we should have called it D-Harmony"--and it was love at first sight. The deal was sealed in Santa Monica, where Catharine took the unimaginatively named Perdita on a walk that would be like many of their walks--very slow because no blade of grass remained usniffed.
As part of the agreement with SavetheDals, the renamed Blue--for her blue eyes--had to participate in obedience training. In a class of 10, she graduated No. 10.
"She was a little conflicted," said her teacher. "She wanted to please, but she wanted to do her own thing. When I told her she couldn't have it both ways, she decided to have it her way. She essentially learned nothing, but she did enjoy the car ride to the park."
Blue soon gained three roommates--Maridith Ramsey, Catharine's niece, and two cats, Golde and Brigitta, in addition to the cats Bella and Beau who were already in residence but who preceded her in death. She showed a genuine statesmanship by largely ignoring all of them except Mari, whom she enjoyed tormenting. Later, she (Blue, not Mari) was adopted by Catharine's new husband, Carl Skolnik.
"She wasn't very bright," said Skolnik, adding, "She couldn't have spelled C-A-T if we had spotted her the C and the T. But she had a good heart."
Besides walks, Blue enjoyed breakfast, dinner, puppy treats and naps. She was especially close to Catharine's mother, Genevieve, because they identified with each other: Both were moms who tried hard to raise their children, although Genevieve, to our knowledge, never sold any of her children. Both suffered the ravages of age, including deafness (selective or otherwise), poor eyesight and mobility issues. And both expected to be treated like princesses because, dammit, they earned it.
Blue is survived by cats Beatriz Cecelia and Barnie Louise, and a host of family and friends who all helped make the last 7 years of her life as wonderful as the first few were awful.
-30-

Embracing Your Inner Cruella De Vil

Three years of guilt, frustration and heartbreak. Three years of hating myself for being the bad guy and making her move. Three years of sorrow for loss, for what comes next, for a life grown small.

When I made the decision (with support from my wonderful sisters) to move my mother from her house to a senior living facility closer to me, she was so upset she got shingles, which are nasty and often result from stress. (And, by the way, if you are sending a picture of your mother’s butt to your mother’s doctor so the doc can get a jump on the diagnosis, remember to erase that picture so that the next time you whip out your cell phone to show a new acquaintance pictures of your cat—taken before the butt photos—you don’t accidentally moon your new acquaintance with your mother’s butt.)

After the shingles went away, I found her lying on the floor one day. Urinary tract infection but maybe a small stroke. Then came the broken hip—you know, the one where she told me her knee was bothering her and I drove her to the ER, where they gently suggested an ambulance might have been a better choice. And then surgery to replace that hip, after which she thought I was my father and announced to me, “They tell me you’ve been dead for 19 years.” I resolved to do something about that little facial hair issue and the apparent pallor issue.

Then rehab and then coming home and all the confusion and finding full time help and then the inevitable worsening of her condition—forgetting where she was or big parts of her life story or not knowing where I was born or when, which made it much easier to lie about my age and feel good about it because if your mom doesn’t know, who does?

And always, the guilt. The guilt about ruining the end of her life. My mom gave me a sweater once that had the initials DOM over the left breast—Daughter of the Millennium. It was a gentle joke—I often referred to myself that way, just to tease my sisters—but in some small way, I believed it. But once the new century began, there was no more talk of this, and I knew I was seriously out of the running for any kind of honor, except perhaps the Cruella De Vil "Rhymes With Witch" Award.

Until one recent Sunday when my mom asked me again to explain to her why she was living where she was living. And I told her the story and I said, “You were very angry with me.” And she smiled and said, “Oh, honey, I had no business living by myself anymore. You did the right thing.” Absolution. Finally. From her.

And someday, maybe I’ll even forgive myself for doing what needed to be done. There’s a leadership lesson in there somewhere, but I don’t want to think about it too much because I bet Barack Obama doesn’t cry when he ponders his tough and unpopular decisions.

****
It is opening day of baseball season. My mother loves baseball, loves the athleticism of it, loves the Dodgers. I’m disgusted with the Dodgers because of the Divorce and how they phoned it in last season, but I agree with her about the grace of the game. She asks me repeatedly during the off-season: How many more days till opening day?

Finally the day is here, and I stop by her place with a new Dodgers jersey and she is delighted. I write down the time of the game and the channel and give it to the caretaker and tell Mom to root for the Dodgers in their home opener against the Giants. She is beaming as I leave and says, “You are the best kid.” I am beaming too.

At 90, my mother has taught me another important lesson: Life, examined as a selected series of moments, can be joyful. I asked her later whether she watched the game, and she didn’t remember. But it didn’t matter—finally—to either of us.

Ten Steps to a Hotter Marriage

1. Nag your spouse about taking blood pressure
2. Refuse to speak to your spouse when he says he will not do it
3. After 36 hours of silence, congratulate yourself when he capitulates and says he will do it.
4. Do a little victory dance when he says he wants to go buy the BP cuff
5. Get the BP cuff home, try it out, actually take his BP
6. When he asks where it should be stored, suggest in the oven with the salad bowls.
7. Bask in his praise when he says that’s a great idea
8. Get up early Monday and make porkchops, which require broiling
9. Fail to remove salad bowls and BP machine from top part of oven
10. Remove smoking, melting BP machine from oven after your realize you have melted it. Serve with a nice Bearnaise sauce.

Help Me Sweet Jesus, Especially if You're a Cardiologist

Date: Dec. 9
Ring!
Receptionist: World's Lamest Medical Center. How can we not help you?
Me: I need to get an appointment with Dr. Cardiologist. My husband is short of breath, apparently is retaining fluid and is exhibiting classic symptoms of congestive heart failure.
Receptionist: What are his symptoms? Please repeat them so I can ignore you again.
Me: Rapid weight gain. Shortness of breath. Extreme edema.
Receptionist: How far is the patient able to walk without assistance?
Me: He can't walk.
Receptionist: So would that be 10 feet?
Me: He can't walk.
Receptionist: Less than 10 feet?
Me: Can't walk means zero feet. No feet can he walk.
Receptionist: So he is having trouble walking?
Me: Um, yes
Receptionist: Is he having trouble breathing?
Me: His breathing is labored.
Receptionist: But is he having trouble breathing?
Me: Yes, his breathing is labored.
Receptionist: So he's having trouble breathing?
Me: Yes.
Receptionist: After he walks?
Me: He can't walk so no.
Receptionist: So he is not having trouble breathing?
Me: Yes, he is but not after walking.
Receptionist: So he is not having trouble breathing after walking?
Me: No because he can't walk.
Receptionist: So he's breathing fine?
Me: No, he's having trouble breathing while he's stitting still.
Receptionist: But is he short of breath after he walks?
Me: Yes.
Receptionist: How far?
Me: Less than 10 feet.
Receptionist: So he can walk 10 feet.
Me: No.
Receptionist: Let me check the schedule for you.
Pause
Receptionist: The earliest available appointment is Feb. 15.
Me: But today is Dec. 9.
Receptionist: Yes. The earliest available appointment is Feb. 15.
Me: But today is Dec. 9.
Receptionist: Yes. The earliest available appointment is Feb. 15.
Me: Anything earlier? It's kind of an emergency.
Receptionist: The earliest available appointment is Feb. 15.
Me: It's an emergency.
Receptionist: Then you should take him to the emergency room.
Me: I don't want to go to the emergency room and sit for 37 hours.
Receptionist: Then you are refusing my advice?
Me: Well, I just don't think the ER is the right place for him.
Receptionist: Then you are refusing my advice?
Me: Um, well, yes, I guess I am.
Receptionist: Well, then, I am required by law to tell you that in refusing my advice you may be putting the patient's life in danger and that this could result in harm or death to the patient. Do you understand that?
Me: No.
Receptionist: What part of that don't you understand?
Me: The part where it's my fault.
Receptionist: Refusing my advcie may be putting the patient's life in danger and could result in harm or death. Do you understand that?
Me: I understand that he needs to be seen by a cardiologist and that one is not available until Feb. 15, so I'm not sure that refusing your advice actually does that.
Receptionist: Refusing my advice may be putting the patient's life in danger and could result in harm or death. Do you understand that?
Me: Yes, I do.
Receptionist: Is there anything else we can help you with?
Me: Please, no.
Receptionist: Is that a yes?
Me: No.
Receptionist: So that's a no?
Me: Yes, thank you.
Receptionist: So that's a yes?
Me: No, that's a no.
Receptionist: Thank you for calling the World's Lamest Medical Center. Have a nice day.
　
　

Tre(s) jolie: Can you spell Ethic$$$?

“Sir, just let me take your vitals.”

The nurse—we’ll call her Priscilla—fiddled with the computer as she strapped the blood pressure cuff to Carl’s arm. She reset the computer once, twice, a third time, mumbling under her breath about how the unit wasn’t working right. Nobody else had difficulty with it in the 10 days he’d been in that room, so I instantly suspected that Prissy might be a problem. Just my wonderful grasp of the obvious kicking in again.

P woman finally got the BP and his oxygenation but forgot about his temperature. Perhaps it wasn’t a problem, even if he was being treated with large doses of antibiotics for pneumonia.

I felt slightly uneasy when I left for the night, but I felt slightly uneasy every night when I left the hospital. There was always something that seemed to go awry: blood sugars that dropped, inexplicably, into the 30s in the middle of the night (maybe they should have held off on the insulin?), breakfast trays that arrived with foods high in potassium (his potassium was so high after surgery he was moved into ICU because they feared a heart attack), test results that had been lost in the system for seven months and indicated a serious problem.

When I left, Prissy gave me her best condicloying smile (my word for condescending and cloying) because now she had the customer, er, patient to herself.

When I returned the next morning, Carl handed me an envelope on which a website had been scrawled.

It seems that in administering his medications, Prissy remarked to him about how many he took. He said he, indeed, took several meds but that he, indeed, had several medical conditions for which they were warranted.

She smiled brightly and told him if only he would try Tre, he probably wouldn’t need all those medications.

Tre, she told him, was a “biotactive nutritional essence” from GNLD. “It’s not just pomegranate juice,” she told him. It has lots of anti-oxidants and, of course, all GNLD products are “based in
nature, backed by science.”

Carl, who plays a lot of poker and has an excellent sucker detector, asked where one might get such a product.

What luck. It turned out Prissy was a GNLD distributor.

Surely, he would like some Tre, only $54.95 a bottle. He could afford it, she was certain, because he lived in those million dollar homes in the hills. (He doesn’t; he lives in a two-bedroom bungalow that could double as a bomb shelter, which I know to be true since I live here too.) So she wrote down her website.

Carl didn’t buy any Tre. And I don’t know if Prissy made her goals or got the $3,000 bonus or won that fabulous vacation to an exotic locale.

But I do know that, having seen the health care system up close, first with my parents and now with him, that I have run into a few scoundrels, including the nurse practitioner who cared for my mom and whose licensed was finally yanked for falsifying records.

I thought that was outrageous. But that was before I met Prissy.

This blog unintentionally left blank

The last two months have been taken up with caring for Carl, who has been in and out of the hospital three times.

It sounds ridiculous to say my time has been limited; I have 168 hours in a week just like anyone else. But we have spent hours and sometimes days waiting for care, a hurry-up-and-wait hamster wheel that left our heads spinning. Our time is their time and their time is whatever time they choose it to be. Here’s a little look by the numbers:
***********
18
Number of hours in emergency waiting for a bed (the first time) after admission decision
***********
37
Number of hours in emergency waiting for a bed (the second time) after admission decision
***********
4
Number of days waiting for an MRI while he was in the hospital
***********
2
Number of days waiting to reschedule same MRI because they could find no record of doctor’s orders to medicate the patient
***********
90
Number of minutes late they were in taking him for his second MRI appointment
***********
30
Nmmber of minutes the MRI actually took
*******
120
Number of minutes until he was back in his room
*********
3
Number of times the car had to be valet parked because there was not enough parking
***********
1
Number of times the valet went home without giving me back my keys (this happened to be the night of the MRI when he wasn't returned to his room until 12:15 a.m.
***********
1
Number of times I broke into the valet stand and took my keys
***********
90
Number of minutes wandering the parking garage looking for my car after I stole my own keys back
***********
3
Time in the a.m. I got home after wandering around looking for my car
***********
6
Number of items on his breakfast tray the first three mornings of his separate hospitalizations
***********
6
Number of items on his breakfast tray the first three mornings of his separate hospitalizations that are banned from his diet by dietitians who had been working with us before the hospitalizations
(white-flour bagel, juice, eggs, cream cheese, milk, banana)
***********
3
Number of times I complained about this
***********
0
Effect it had
***********
No total available
Number of times I wondered if health care reform could fix a system so broken that he emerged not as the Empowered Patient but as the Embattled Patient.