Steven Harper's Blog, page 30
February 19, 2022
Blackhawk Internet Down
Thursday morning when I got to work, I learned the Internet was down in the building. No computer network, no web, no phones, no attendance program, no PA system. I couldn't even access my lesson plans--I store them in my network drive and don't print them out.
I remember back when the Internet was a new thing for the school. The district offered "everyone who wants one" an email address. I was one of the few people who took one. We had four computers for teachers to use. I kept my materials on 5 1'2" disks. It was a wonder when we got our first grade book program: GradeQuick. But all that was optional. You didn't have to touch a computer if you didn't want to--and most of the staff didn't want to. Eventually, as the World Wide Web merged with the Internet, the school started requiring computer usage. Everyone had to have an email address, and everyone had to check their email at least once per day. Then we were required to use an electronic grade book (but you could still use a physical book, and many teachers did).
Eventually, we moved more fully online. Physical grade books vanished. (I don't know of anyone who uses one anymore.) The Internet powers our phone and PA system, and we were able to put phones on teacher desks. (Other professionals have had phones on their desks for over 100 years. I finally got one just after 9/11.) Everyone has a ton of network space. The video library, once fully stocked with video tapes and DVDs has disappeared, since everyone simply streams everything. Copy machines have been combined with printers, and are networked to the computer system. All teachers have a district-issued computer and smart projector. All teachers have a Google Classroom account. A lot of changes during my career in Wherever.
But it all means that when the Internet goes down, it's a major disaster. We can't take attendance. Hell, we can't even make copies. And I'm not the only teacher who stores lesson plans in the network drive.
Fortunately, my first hour was in the middle of something that didn't require the Internet, so while they were working, I worked on my own connection. I have a hotspot on my phone, but the school computers are finicky and don't like connecting to anything but our in-school Internet service. It took quite a lot of finagling, but I finally got my computer to recognize my phone and got online. Yay! I could take attendance and access my network drive!
It still made for a frustrating day. The copiers were down. My desk phone was down. The PA system was down. If I moved my cell more than a few feet from my desk, it would drop the hotspot, so my phone was chained down.
On top of it all, we learned that the outage was caused by a broken cable, and it wouldn't be fixed today. Likely, we'd have no Internet Friday as well.
I was actually fairly lucky. My lessons for the day didn't require Internet access. I didn't need to copy or print anything. Lots of other teachers were stuck. One science teacher, who had an online day planned, ended up playing Mythbusters episodes on DVD for his classes.
Also, the lesson for my seniors went very well. I'd assigned them the article "It's Not Your Opinion. You're Just Wrong," so they could start to see how adding "In my opinion" in front of a statement didn't make the statement correct; you can have a wrong opinion. We discussed this, and then I had them write a set of statements: a fact, an opinion, a mixed statement, and a flat wrong opinion statement. We shared them with the class, and they actually got into it. I think many of them began to understand the point.
So that went well, at least. But it was a relief when the day drew to a close and I could shut off my hotspot.
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I remember back when the Internet was a new thing for the school. The district offered "everyone who wants one" an email address. I was one of the few people who took one. We had four computers for teachers to use. I kept my materials on 5 1'2" disks. It was a wonder when we got our first grade book program: GradeQuick. But all that was optional. You didn't have to touch a computer if you didn't want to--and most of the staff didn't want to. Eventually, as the World Wide Web merged with the Internet, the school started requiring computer usage. Everyone had to have an email address, and everyone had to check their email at least once per day. Then we were required to use an electronic grade book (but you could still use a physical book, and many teachers did).
Eventually, we moved more fully online. Physical grade books vanished. (I don't know of anyone who uses one anymore.) The Internet powers our phone and PA system, and we were able to put phones on teacher desks. (Other professionals have had phones on their desks for over 100 years. I finally got one just after 9/11.) Everyone has a ton of network space. The video library, once fully stocked with video tapes and DVDs has disappeared, since everyone simply streams everything. Copy machines have been combined with printers, and are networked to the computer system. All teachers have a district-issued computer and smart projector. All teachers have a Google Classroom account. A lot of changes during my career in Wherever.
But it all means that when the Internet goes down, it's a major disaster. We can't take attendance. Hell, we can't even make copies. And I'm not the only teacher who stores lesson plans in the network drive.
Fortunately, my first hour was in the middle of something that didn't require the Internet, so while they were working, I worked on my own connection. I have a hotspot on my phone, but the school computers are finicky and don't like connecting to anything but our in-school Internet service. It took quite a lot of finagling, but I finally got my computer to recognize my phone and got online. Yay! I could take attendance and access my network drive!
It still made for a frustrating day. The copiers were down. My desk phone was down. The PA system was down. If I moved my cell more than a few feet from my desk, it would drop the hotspot, so my phone was chained down.
On top of it all, we learned that the outage was caused by a broken cable, and it wouldn't be fixed today. Likely, we'd have no Internet Friday as well.
I was actually fairly lucky. My lessons for the day didn't require Internet access. I didn't need to copy or print anything. Lots of other teachers were stuck. One science teacher, who had an online day planned, ended up playing Mythbusters episodes on DVD for his classes.
Also, the lesson for my seniors went very well. I'd assigned them the article "It's Not Your Opinion. You're Just Wrong," so they could start to see how adding "In my opinion" in front of a statement didn't make the statement correct; you can have a wrong opinion. We discussed this, and then I had them write a set of statements: a fact, an opinion, a mixed statement, and a flat wrong opinion statement. We shared them with the class, and they actually got into it. I think many of them began to understand the point.
So that went well, at least. But it was a relief when the day drew to a close and I could shut off my hotspot.
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February 18, 2022
Whoa!
Just to see what would happen, I baked some chocolate chip cookies using only brown sugar, no white. It's cuh-razy around here!
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February 13, 2022
Shoulder Surgery 16 (A New Doctor?)
I've detailed how the clinic staff made rape jokes at my expense while I was sedated. My doctor wasn't involved in these jokes, and as far as I can tell, wasn't aware they happened until I told him about them. He was horrified and apologetic--but he put everything on the clinic manager. He refused to get more involved, even when I told him the manager's response to the situation was tepid at best. I'm angry at the clinic staff, I'm angry at the clinic manager, and now I'm angry at the doctor. The last time I had a follow-up appointment with him, I had to have Darwin with me for support. When I go into that office, I get too upset.
The physical therapy clinic is attached to the doctor's office. They're a single business. None of the people there were involved with the rape jokes, and far as I know, they have no idea it happened. They've been nothing but professional and cheerful to me. Except they're co-workers with the people who do, and I've come to realize I'm angry at them, too, for continuing to work with people who denigrate patients. I think it's one of the reasons I shut down when I go in for PT.
So I've decided to look for a new doctor.
I avoided doing this for longer than I should have. I told myself that it's because the doctor I have performed the surgery and knows my case, that the PT clinic folk have been working with me from the beginning and are deeply acquainted with my setbacks and my progress. A new doctor would only be reading about my case, and not experiencing it. A new physical therapist would look at my records, but they would be the records of a stranger, not someone who they've connected with.
That's what I told myself, anyway.
But I came to realize that I don't trust my doctor anymore. I don't trust the clinic, either. The clinic manager hired people who mock and denigrate and bully their patients. She didn't require apologies to me from the staff, either. What kind of asshole DOES that? And how can assholes and bullies possibly give anyone quality medical care? When you don't care about your patients, you don't care about what kind of job you do for them. (I did point this out to the doctor, who became quite offended. "I give the best care possible at all times," he said shortly. My thought was, "And why would I trust your word on that? You're on a team of people who don't give a shit." I regret that I didn't say it aloud.)
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The physical therapy clinic is attached to the doctor's office. They're a single business. None of the people there were involved with the rape jokes, and far as I know, they have no idea it happened. They've been nothing but professional and cheerful to me. Except they're co-workers with the people who do, and I've come to realize I'm angry at them, too, for continuing to work with people who denigrate patients. I think it's one of the reasons I shut down when I go in for PT.
So I've decided to look for a new doctor.
I avoided doing this for longer than I should have. I told myself that it's because the doctor I have performed the surgery and knows my case, that the PT clinic folk have been working with me from the beginning and are deeply acquainted with my setbacks and my progress. A new doctor would only be reading about my case, and not experiencing it. A new physical therapist would look at my records, but they would be the records of a stranger, not someone who they've connected with.
That's what I told myself, anyway.
But I came to realize that I don't trust my doctor anymore. I don't trust the clinic, either. The clinic manager hired people who mock and denigrate and bully their patients. She didn't require apologies to me from the staff, either. What kind of asshole DOES that? And how can assholes and bullies possibly give anyone quality medical care? When you don't care about your patients, you don't care about what kind of job you do for them. (I did point this out to the doctor, who became quite offended. "I give the best care possible at all times," he said shortly. My thought was, "And why would I trust your word on that? You're on a team of people who don't give a shit." I regret that I didn't say it aloud.)
I also came to realize I was acting a little like an abused spouse. I was avoiding change. I don't know what a new doctor and PT team would be like. Angry as I am at the current clinic, at least I know what they're like. I know how their scheduling works, I know the PT facility. The place is conveniently located, to boot.
A new team is an unknown, and my shoulder is a serious and scary part of my life, filled with many unknowns. Adding another unknown is frightening. It would also take up more time. A first appointment with a doctor is a long, long process. A first time at PT is another long process, filled with tests and questions. And pain. ("How far can you stretch this muscle? Does it hurt when I do THIS?")
I can almost hear the abusive husband. "You want to LEAVE ME? Who would take you as a patient? You whine and complain and make stupid demands. And the medical community is tiny. We all talk to each other. I'll make sure they know you're the guy who records procedures and talks lawsuits, and they'll get pissed at you. You were worried about the care you got from us? Wait'll you try someone else, dumbass. Your pain is just beginning."
And while this thinking has a certain amount of logic, it's also self-defeating.
So I looked up another joint specialist, and found out there's one almost as close by as my current one, and they have an attached PT clinic. Well, how about that? I made an appointment for next week, surprised at how nervous I felt while making the call. And it turned out I had already seen this doctor once, several years ago, when I was having trouble with my elbow, so I was already in their system.
I'm still uneasy about changing practices. The abuser is still yelling in my head. I tell myself that going to the appointment doesn't require me to change practices. I can stay at the original, if I want.
We'll see how this appointment goes.
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Shoulder Surgery 15 (Range of Motion)
My range of motion with my arm is improving steadily. I'm even a little ahead of schedule for mobility. I can raise my right arm straight up, though with effort, and if it has support, I can stretch it up and back. I can hold about eight pounds with my arm outstretched, though the idea of trying that makes my physical therapist nervous. And I can reach behind my back and just barely touch the small of my back. This is max flexibility for some people, but tor reference, I can normally touch either of my shoulder blades with either hand, so I have a ways to go. T--, my physical therapist, says this is the last movement to come back.
The early improvement is partly because of my inborn hyper-mobility (we used to say "double-jointed") and partly because I do a hella lot of painful exercises every single day at home.
Three times a week I trudge into physical therapy and endure the therapist's painful ministrations. I feel like someone who was forced to volunteer for a lab study in pain. I find myself shutting down, pulling inward. My responses to T--, my physical therapist, are quiet and usually about my therapy. T-- often makes attempts at small talk. He kind of reminds me of a chatty barber that way. I give short answers and try to turn the conversation around so he'll talk about himself. I can stay behind my wall.
The clinic sees other patients at the same time, of course. Mondays are the busiest, with about seven or eight other people there when I arrive. Most of them hop around cheerily around the clinic, smiling and laughing.
"I'm here for my torture session!" "You all know everything about pain!" "Okay, I'm ready for the next set!" "Hey, my knee barely hurt that time. Cool!" "Oops! You caught me cheating. Heh heh!"
I don't know how they do it. I hate every moment I'm there. When T-- tells me what exercise is next on the list, I give a silent nod and set to work. I endure pulley stretches or having my arm pulled out of its socket with a sort grim determination. I hate that I spend roughly half my non-working hours dealing with my shoulder, and only get madder when I think about it. Every hour doing this is an hour of my life lost. I push myself, set my back against the pain and shove through it until I'm sweating and gasping solely in order to shorten my PT time. I don't have the emotional energy for cheer.
At one point, T-- said conversationally, "So are you at the point where you can say it all this was worth it?"
I simply said, "No," and went back to stretching.
The pain has decreased. I take Vicodin maybe one day in three or four. I even get brief periods where my arm doesn't hurt, which gives me hope that it's over, until it comes roaring back. At one point, I found myself feeling the pain was . . . normal. Even a good thing. The kind of pain when you pull a scab away--it hurts, but it feels good at the same time. That thought upset me. Pain has become so intertwined with my life that it's become a positive. I punched back hard at that thought to end it.
And I keep working.
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The early improvement is partly because of my inborn hyper-mobility (we used to say "double-jointed") and partly because I do a hella lot of painful exercises every single day at home.
Three times a week I trudge into physical therapy and endure the therapist's painful ministrations. I feel like someone who was forced to volunteer for a lab study in pain. I find myself shutting down, pulling inward. My responses to T--, my physical therapist, are quiet and usually about my therapy. T-- often makes attempts at small talk. He kind of reminds me of a chatty barber that way. I give short answers and try to turn the conversation around so he'll talk about himself. I can stay behind my wall.
The clinic sees other patients at the same time, of course. Mondays are the busiest, with about seven or eight other people there when I arrive. Most of them hop around cheerily around the clinic, smiling and laughing.
"I'm here for my torture session!" "You all know everything about pain!" "Okay, I'm ready for the next set!" "Hey, my knee barely hurt that time. Cool!" "Oops! You caught me cheating. Heh heh!"
I don't know how they do it. I hate every moment I'm there. When T-- tells me what exercise is next on the list, I give a silent nod and set to work. I endure pulley stretches or having my arm pulled out of its socket with a sort grim determination. I hate that I spend roughly half my non-working hours dealing with my shoulder, and only get madder when I think about it. Every hour doing this is an hour of my life lost. I push myself, set my back against the pain and shove through it until I'm sweating and gasping solely in order to shorten my PT time. I don't have the emotional energy for cheer.
At one point, T-- said conversationally, "So are you at the point where you can say it all this was worth it?"
I simply said, "No," and went back to stretching.
The pain has decreased. I take Vicodin maybe one day in three or four. I even get brief periods where my arm doesn't hurt, which gives me hope that it's over, until it comes roaring back. At one point, I found myself feeling the pain was . . . normal. Even a good thing. The kind of pain when you pull a scab away--it hurts, but it feels good at the same time. That thought upset me. Pain has become so intertwined with my life that it's become a positive. I punched back hard at that thought to end it.
And I keep working.
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February 4, 2022
Shoulder Surgery 14 (Follow-Up)
Yesterday was both physical therapy and the doctor.
At PT, they're "changing it up," which means "we're giving more exercises to do that hurt even more."
The doctor, meanwhile, was happy with the mobility I was regaining but was unhappy with the amount of ibuprofen I told him I was taking daily and with the fact that I still have to take Vicodin two days in three, so he gave me a scrip for a different pain med, which apparently takes some getting used to. I felt off-balance after I took it the first time yesterday, like I had stepped a few inches to the left without my body following me. This morning, though, I woke up and my arm wasn't hurting for the first time since the operation, though it hurt again the moment I moved it. Still, it's progress.
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At PT, they're "changing it up," which means "we're giving more exercises to do that hurt even more."
The doctor, meanwhile, was happy with the mobility I was regaining but was unhappy with the amount of ibuprofen I told him I was taking daily and with the fact that I still have to take Vicodin two days in three, so he gave me a scrip for a different pain med, which apparently takes some getting used to. I felt off-balance after I took it the first time yesterday, like I had stepped a few inches to the left without my body following me. This morning, though, I woke up and my arm wasn't hurting for the first time since the operation, though it hurt again the moment I moved it. Still, it's progress.
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January 30, 2022
Oops
So today was an okay pain day. Then I touched the refrigerator and got a sharp static shock. Reflexively I yanked my hand back. This was a mistake. Now I'm wearing my sling again.
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January 29, 2022
Brush With COVID
Woke up at about 2 AM with my nose running like a faucet. Took most of a box of tissues to clear it out. Took some antihistamines and went back to bed. Today, I felt run-down and awful, and my nose kept running. Unhappily, I scheduled a COVID test at a nearby urgent care.They ran a rapid test and a longer test. The rapid test came back negative.
Good.
A (small) part of me has been doing the just-get-infected-and-get-it-over-with thing, but the smarter part of me points out that COVID would set my PT back at least a week, and that even though I've been vaccinated and boosted, it would be no fun to be sick anyway.We'll see what the longer test says.
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Good.
A (small) part of me has been doing the just-get-infected-and-get-it-over-with thing, but the smarter part of me points out that COVID would set my PT back at least a week, and that even though I've been vaccinated and boosted, it would be no fun to be sick anyway.We'll see what the longer test says.
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January 27, 2022
Shoulder Surgery 13 (The Splint)
Today marked one month after surgery, and at PT, T-- told me that I could remove the splint.
Provisionally.
If I'm in a crowded place (like the halls at work), I should wear it to protect my shoulder from being bumped. I may not lift anything heavier than a cup of coffee. I can't run, though T-- allowed me a brisk walk. If I'm feeling pain, I should put the splint back on.
So I'm sort-of splint-free. I'll probably continue to wear it at work for now--too many people in close quarters--but at least I have more freedom at home!
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Provisionally.
If I'm in a crowded place (like the halls at work), I should wear it to protect my shoulder from being bumped. I may not lift anything heavier than a cup of coffee. I can't run, though T-- allowed me a brisk walk. If I'm feeling pain, I should put the splint back on.
So I'm sort-of splint-free. I'll probably continue to wear it at work for now--too many people in close quarters--but at least I have more freedom at home!
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Shoulder Surgery 12 (Conversation With the Clinic)
Weeks ago, I talked to the director of the joint surgery clinic about how the staff, while I was unconscious, made jokes about how I was raped. The recap version is that she was horrified, apologized profusely, said she would talk to the staff, and get back to me.
A week went by. Then two. No call. Meanwhile, I found my emotions more and more difficult to manage. I have this splint and the pain in my arm as an unrelenting reminder that I had this painful surgery, which in turn reminds me of the ghoulish, leering staff. The whole thing is never far from my mind.
I wanted to call the clinic myself, but time was a problem. Most business days, I teach all day, then run down to physical therapy. I never get home before 5:00, and the clinic is always closed. Also, the idea of the next conversation was stressful. I knew it would be a difficult thing to get through.
Another week. And the more time passed, the angrier I became. For someone who said that this was a big priority and a big deal, the director was taking her time about handling it. She didn't even call to say, "Sorry for the delay--I'm still working on what needs to be done." Radio silence said that I wasn't a priority.
I finally called the clinic on my prep period at work. I was expecting to leave a voice mail, but to my surprise, I was connected to the director H-- instead.
"I'm so sorry I didn't call earlier," H-- said. "I was going to call yesterday, but the day just got away from me."
Uh huh. That only meant that I was a lower priority than whatever else was going on. A strange position for her to take, considering how miserable I could make life for the clinic if I chose.
"Also, Dr. B-- was out of town all week. He gets back tomorrow, and I wanted to talk to him before I called you," she continued. "But since you're on the phone now, we can talk."
But she could have called me to say this days ago, so I wasn't mollified. I said, "I see. So what's happening?"
H-- explained that she had talked to the individual staff members and told them what "your experience" was in the operating room, and she had told them that such behavior was completely unacceptable.
"How did they respond when you told them?" I asked. "What did they say?"
Beat.
"I told them about your experience," she replied, repeating her earlier phrase. "About what you said happened you. I wasn't really looking for a response. I reported to them your experience."
There was that phrase again. I caught what was happening. She was leaving the door open to a claim that I had dreamed it all, or misheard, or misunderstood. After all, hadn't I been anesthetized? Anesthetized patients sometimes hallucinate, and you can't trust your memory when you're on Versed.
I decided to get a little more aggressive. "But what did they SAY?" I said. "Did they deny it? Did they--"
"I didn't go into this with the idea that it may not have happened," she interrupted. "I'm on your side, here. This was your experience, and that's what matters."
Again with the "your experience."
"I need to know how they responded," I repeated. "Were they embarrassed? Did they refuse to speak?"
"There was a lot of embarrassment," she said. "Believe me when I tell you that."
H-- went on to explain that she had decided that all staff would attend a pair of sensitivity training workshops put on by an outside company. She also said that there were "other consequences" to some of the staff, though she didn't give details. I took it to mean that at least one person was suspended or demoted.
At one point, I reminded her that when the two people made their little jokes, everyone else had laughed, and no one--not one person--said anything like, "Hey! We don't talk about our patients that way."
"Well . . . " she said, "there were a lot of people in the operating room. It's a really big team. Someone may have been laughing about something else at that moment and you misheard."
Again, not quite questioning my version of events, but definitely leaving the "you were drugged, so how can you really know anything?" door open.
"I'm glad to hear about the workshops," I said, "but I need three things here. First, I need a personal apology from each of the people involved. It can be written, on the phone, or in person. Second, I need to see understanding from each person WHY this behavior was wrong. Third, I need assurance that this behavior won't be repeated ever again--not toward me or toward any other patient. You've largely satisfied the third requirement. I still need the first two."
This led to more hemming and hawing. I understood it. Putting me in contact with the staff could open big cans of worms. An apology was tantamount to an admission of wrongdoing, and such an admission handed me grounds for a lawsuit. So far, H-- had been extremely careful to say that she believed me and my story, but not admit that it had actually happened. She handily skirted the idea of telling me the staff had admitted to saying what they had, too. Lawsuit avoidance. Yeah, I understood. But I didn't sympathize.
"The staff also told me that they did change your care based on what you told the anesthetist," she said. "They changed how they handled and moved you during the procedure with your background in mind."
Really? There was no mention of it on the sound file. No one said, "Since he's anxious about his assault, we'll have to do these things and those things." No one said, "Careful--don't move him that way. We need to do this instead." I know that, once the surgeon arrives in an operating room, the staff often stops talking and it's common for them to use hand signals to communicate, but "move the patient differently because he's anxious about sexual assault" isn't part of the operating room sign language dictionary. I filed this away for later exploration.
"I've also been talking to lot of people," she said. "The staff. The doctor. The licensing board. We have a LOT of people involved in this. This isn't a small thing to us."
I told her, "You keep giving me assurances, H--, but you have to remember that I =trusted= the staff with this information about me so they would know what care to give me, and they violated that trust in the deepest, most horrifying way possible. You work for the clinic and you work with this staff. You're part of the group that violated me, and I can't take your word on anything. That's why I'm demanding the apology, the knowledge about why it was wrong, and the assurance it won't happen again."
More discussion followed, and I was running out of prep time.
I finally said, "Look, I'm not interested in filing a complaint or anything. I just want those three things. Give them to me, and I go away forever."
Here, she bristled. "Look, I'm NOT here trying to make you 'go away' or to get rid of you. I find that offensive and . . . well, you're the one who was hurt, so me being offended isn't the issue here. My goal is to make you whole again as best I can."
But by now it was becoming clear that I wasn't going to get much more out of her. Certainly, I wasn't going to get her to agree to my conditions. So I steeled myself and moved forward.
"There's one more thing you need to know," I said. "I've been holding back a piece of information, to your benefit, really. It was simpler just to tell you that I overheard the staff talking, but that's not quite how it happened." I paused. "I had a recording device in the room with me. I have a sound file of the entire procedure, from beginning to end."
Silence on the other end.
"The conversation is clear, and so is the laughter. That's how I know what happened," I continued. "Would you like me to send you a copy of the file?"
Beat.
Beat.
At last, she said, "No."
I found that interesting. Though I wasn't quite sure how to take it. On the one hand, by refusing the file, she seemed to be saying that she was taking my original story for truth--she didn't need confirmation for something she already believed. On the other hand, refusing the file meant she still had a shred of plausible deniability left.
"Okay," I said. "Just know that I have it."
"I have to talk to the doctor when he gets back tomorrow," she said. "I'll call you after I do."
And that's where we left it.
Make no mistake, this whole thing, including my conversations with H--, continues to feed my daily anxiety. Talking to H-- hasn't helped yet, because she's still . . . working on things. Boy, do I want to be a fly on the wall for some of the conversations that have been taking place at that clinic!
Today was the week-ago anniversary of this conversation, and, despite her assurances, H-- hasn't called me back.
The longer this goes on, the more upset I become, and the greater my likelihood of me meeting with a lawyer.
But that makes a whole bunch of stuff awkward. The clinic that knows everything about my care is the one I'd be suing. The PT clinic has been very helpful and accommodating. The therapists know my case inside out and backwards. They're carefully and seamlessly ramping up my arm and shoulder. I've become comfortable with them, and the facility is conveniently located for me. If I have to change clinics, all that goes away.
So I'm . . . hanging. And I shouldn't be. The clinic should be bending over backwards to make me happy. Especially now that they know I have hard, courtroom-level evidence of what happened.
If H-- doesn't call tomorrow, I'll probably put out feelers for a lawyer.
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A week went by. Then two. No call. Meanwhile, I found my emotions more and more difficult to manage. I have this splint and the pain in my arm as an unrelenting reminder that I had this painful surgery, which in turn reminds me of the ghoulish, leering staff. The whole thing is never far from my mind.
I wanted to call the clinic myself, but time was a problem. Most business days, I teach all day, then run down to physical therapy. I never get home before 5:00, and the clinic is always closed. Also, the idea of the next conversation was stressful. I knew it would be a difficult thing to get through.
Another week. And the more time passed, the angrier I became. For someone who said that this was a big priority and a big deal, the director was taking her time about handling it. She didn't even call to say, "Sorry for the delay--I'm still working on what needs to be done." Radio silence said that I wasn't a priority.
I finally called the clinic on my prep period at work. I was expecting to leave a voice mail, but to my surprise, I was connected to the director H-- instead.
"I'm so sorry I didn't call earlier," H-- said. "I was going to call yesterday, but the day just got away from me."
Uh huh. That only meant that I was a lower priority than whatever else was going on. A strange position for her to take, considering how miserable I could make life for the clinic if I chose.
"Also, Dr. B-- was out of town all week. He gets back tomorrow, and I wanted to talk to him before I called you," she continued. "But since you're on the phone now, we can talk."
But she could have called me to say this days ago, so I wasn't mollified. I said, "I see. So what's happening?"
H-- explained that she had talked to the individual staff members and told them what "your experience" was in the operating room, and she had told them that such behavior was completely unacceptable.
"How did they respond when you told them?" I asked. "What did they say?"
Beat.
"I told them about your experience," she replied, repeating her earlier phrase. "About what you said happened you. I wasn't really looking for a response. I reported to them your experience."
There was that phrase again. I caught what was happening. She was leaving the door open to a claim that I had dreamed it all, or misheard, or misunderstood. After all, hadn't I been anesthetized? Anesthetized patients sometimes hallucinate, and you can't trust your memory when you're on Versed.
I decided to get a little more aggressive. "But what did they SAY?" I said. "Did they deny it? Did they--"
"I didn't go into this with the idea that it may not have happened," she interrupted. "I'm on your side, here. This was your experience, and that's what matters."
Again with the "your experience."
"I need to know how they responded," I repeated. "Were they embarrassed? Did they refuse to speak?"
"There was a lot of embarrassment," she said. "Believe me when I tell you that."
H-- went on to explain that she had decided that all staff would attend a pair of sensitivity training workshops put on by an outside company. She also said that there were "other consequences" to some of the staff, though she didn't give details. I took it to mean that at least one person was suspended or demoted.
At one point, I reminded her that when the two people made their little jokes, everyone else had laughed, and no one--not one person--said anything like, "Hey! We don't talk about our patients that way."
"Well . . . " she said, "there were a lot of people in the operating room. It's a really big team. Someone may have been laughing about something else at that moment and you misheard."
Again, not quite questioning my version of events, but definitely leaving the "you were drugged, so how can you really know anything?" door open.
"I'm glad to hear about the workshops," I said, "but I need three things here. First, I need a personal apology from each of the people involved. It can be written, on the phone, or in person. Second, I need to see understanding from each person WHY this behavior was wrong. Third, I need assurance that this behavior won't be repeated ever again--not toward me or toward any other patient. You've largely satisfied the third requirement. I still need the first two."
This led to more hemming and hawing. I understood it. Putting me in contact with the staff could open big cans of worms. An apology was tantamount to an admission of wrongdoing, and such an admission handed me grounds for a lawsuit. So far, H-- had been extremely careful to say that she believed me and my story, but not admit that it had actually happened. She handily skirted the idea of telling me the staff had admitted to saying what they had, too. Lawsuit avoidance. Yeah, I understood. But I didn't sympathize.
"The staff also told me that they did change your care based on what you told the anesthetist," she said. "They changed how they handled and moved you during the procedure with your background in mind."
Really? There was no mention of it on the sound file. No one said, "Since he's anxious about his assault, we'll have to do these things and those things." No one said, "Careful--don't move him that way. We need to do this instead." I know that, once the surgeon arrives in an operating room, the staff often stops talking and it's common for them to use hand signals to communicate, but "move the patient differently because he's anxious about sexual assault" isn't part of the operating room sign language dictionary. I filed this away for later exploration.
"I've also been talking to lot of people," she said. "The staff. The doctor. The licensing board. We have a LOT of people involved in this. This isn't a small thing to us."
I told her, "You keep giving me assurances, H--, but you have to remember that I =trusted= the staff with this information about me so they would know what care to give me, and they violated that trust in the deepest, most horrifying way possible. You work for the clinic and you work with this staff. You're part of the group that violated me, and I can't take your word on anything. That's why I'm demanding the apology, the knowledge about why it was wrong, and the assurance it won't happen again."
More discussion followed, and I was running out of prep time.
I finally said, "Look, I'm not interested in filing a complaint or anything. I just want those three things. Give them to me, and I go away forever."
Here, she bristled. "Look, I'm NOT here trying to make you 'go away' or to get rid of you. I find that offensive and . . . well, you're the one who was hurt, so me being offended isn't the issue here. My goal is to make you whole again as best I can."
But by now it was becoming clear that I wasn't going to get much more out of her. Certainly, I wasn't going to get her to agree to my conditions. So I steeled myself and moved forward.
"There's one more thing you need to know," I said. "I've been holding back a piece of information, to your benefit, really. It was simpler just to tell you that I overheard the staff talking, but that's not quite how it happened." I paused. "I had a recording device in the room with me. I have a sound file of the entire procedure, from beginning to end."
Silence on the other end.
"The conversation is clear, and so is the laughter. That's how I know what happened," I continued. "Would you like me to send you a copy of the file?"
Beat.
Beat.
At last, she said, "No."
I found that interesting. Though I wasn't quite sure how to take it. On the one hand, by refusing the file, she seemed to be saying that she was taking my original story for truth--she didn't need confirmation for something she already believed. On the other hand, refusing the file meant she still had a shred of plausible deniability left.
"Okay," I said. "Just know that I have it."
"I have to talk to the doctor when he gets back tomorrow," she said. "I'll call you after I do."
And that's where we left it.
Make no mistake, this whole thing, including my conversations with H--, continues to feed my daily anxiety. Talking to H-- hasn't helped yet, because she's still . . . working on things. Boy, do I want to be a fly on the wall for some of the conversations that have been taking place at that clinic!
Today was the week-ago anniversary of this conversation, and, despite her assurances, H-- hasn't called me back.
The longer this goes on, the more upset I become, and the greater my likelihood of me meeting with a lawyer.
But that makes a whole bunch of stuff awkward. The clinic that knows everything about my care is the one I'd be suing. The PT clinic has been very helpful and accommodating. The therapists know my case inside out and backwards. They're carefully and seamlessly ramping up my arm and shoulder. I've become comfortable with them, and the facility is conveniently located for me. If I have to change clinics, all that goes away.
So I'm . . . hanging. And I shouldn't be. The clinic should be bending over backwards to make me happy. Especially now that they know I have hard, courtroom-level evidence of what happened.
If H-- doesn't call tomorrow, I'll probably put out feelers for a lawyer.
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January 22, 2022
Late Lunch or Early Supper?
At about 3:00, I realized I hadn't eaten lunch. I asked Darwin what we wanted to do for supper, and this touched off our usual, elongated discussion. Eat at home? I didn't want to face a sandwich or a microwaved frozen meal. Restaurant, then. But which one? Darwin plumped for a local low-level diner. You know--the one whose entire menu comes from the back of a Gorden Food Services truck. I didn't want.
There's a small, slightly upscale Italian restaurant right up the street from us. It's where Max took me for my birthday, in fact. I said we should order takeout from them. Darwin wasn't happy with the idea. "They have such a limited menu," he said.
I pulled up the menu online, and it was quite extensive. I read out some items I know he likes, and when I said they had chicken Parmesan, he agreed. Me, I ordered short ribs with roasted asparagus and an appetizer of sweet chili shrimp.
At the appointed time, Darwin popped out to pick it up. And everything was wonderful. The ribs were fork tender. Darwin's chicken was perfect. And the chili shrimp to die for. The diner has no idea!
So I'm going to be more forceful about restaurant choices!
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There's a small, slightly upscale Italian restaurant right up the street from us. It's where Max took me for my birthday, in fact. I said we should order takeout from them. Darwin wasn't happy with the idea. "They have such a limited menu," he said.
I pulled up the menu online, and it was quite extensive. I read out some items I know he likes, and when I said they had chicken Parmesan, he agreed. Me, I ordered short ribs with roasted asparagus and an appetizer of sweet chili shrimp.
At the appointed time, Darwin popped out to pick it up. And everything was wonderful. The ribs were fork tender. Darwin's chicken was perfect. And the chili shrimp to die for. The diner has no idea!
So I'm going to be more forceful about restaurant choices!
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