Flawless French…n’est-ce pas?

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What trip isn’t full of unexpected surprises?  What could be more boring than a flawless trip?

I convinced my brother to take me with him to the International Surf Film Festival in Anglet, France. It cost us a fortune. But once we put this boondoggle in motion, we couldn’t seem to stop the train.

Airfare was cheap the week before we left and cheap the week after we needed to be there. We threw caution to the wind, threw more money at the problem and eventually came home First Class! What the hell, if you’re going to break the bank, you might as well fly in style.

We landed in Spain and asked the taxi driver to take us to the train station so we could get  a cheap bus to Biarritz in France. He thought we asked him to take us to the train station in Biarritz….and this conversation was in English. When we realized our mutual mistake we just said take us to our hotel. It was a 60 Euro mistake.

Every single cab ride after that…where we went less than 3 miles cost us 25 Euro in France. We quickly learned how to take the bus for 1 Euro and returned to Spain on the bus for 7 Euro. Truly that was the kindness of the French people who taught theses crazy Americans how to save money.

Our biggest problem happened when my brother had to be at a filmmaker’s meeting at 3:00. We made it to the venue just on time. But nobody knew where Bruno, our contact was. My brother called Bruno, who told us we had to be at the lighthouse. We could see the lighthouse in the distance. We knew this would be another 25 Euro cab ride if we could get someone to call us a cab. See in these beach resort towns, there are no cabs. The only way to get one is to call…..and speak French. I’ve been practicing my French for years, and eventually, I did call…and they asked me to speak English. We managed to get to the lighthouse after realizing that the French for lighthouse is not “maison lumiere” but “phare,” which was on the map, thank God, because how the hell would we know that word?

Phare!!
Phare!!

At the phare, we still couldn’t find Bruno. I’d like to say we found cotton candy, cool rides and funnel cake, but it was just a phare.  My brother called Bruno again, and he said:

“Non, I said ze white house!” in a French accent, which is where communication broke down.

Of course, Bruno doesn’t know what a lighthouse is……it’s a phare, to him. By the way, we were standing in front of the white house when we called Bruno the first time. Seventy-five Euro later, we were too late for the meeting.

Everything else was perfect. The weather, watching a film festival on the beach in France, the surfing for aficionados like my brother, the food, the shopping, the wonderful,

French Surfing!
French Surfing!

wonderful French people.

Only two more things were unforgettable:

My brother is a vegetarian. It was a bit of a challenge to find anything without meat or seafood. But we managed and restauranteurs did their best to help us. So in a bold move, on our last night there, when the owner of the restaurant tried to make something for my brother to eat, we wanted to thank him for his kindness.

I said: ‘Mon frere adore tous les voitures francais! Il est magnifiques!

I wanted to say: “My brother adores all the French food. It is magnificent.”

If you speak French you know I said: “My brother adores all the French automobiles. They are magnificent!

Beautiful Spanish hotel with a bidet!
Beautiful Spanish hotel with a bidet!

And in Spain…… I dropped my toothbrush in the bidet.

“You Just have to Laugh….”

©CathySikorski 2016

L—-OWWWW—-BOUTAINS?

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I’m a shoe freak. The only thing Imelda Marcos had over me was more resources, like the treasury of the Philippines. This debilitating disease began in 9th grade. My Mom suggested that if I wanted those adorable spats made of burlap and burgundy patent leather, I would have to get a job. Money has never been a motivator for me…but shoes…oh yeah, I’d get three jobs for the perfect pair of shoes.

The purchase of those spats was like a first kiss. The love affair began. See, my high school girlfriends were the quintessential little 5-7-9’s of the ’70’s. I was not. But my feet, oh my feet were double A Narrow with Quad A Narrow heels. Yes, my feet were skinny!!! I could buy shoes, shoes and more shoes and they would fit. They would flatter. My feet in my shoes were the Twiggy of toes. Sometimes it felt illicit, other times just downright exhilaratingly perfect.

So on my daughter’s wedding day, when the bride presented me with a hat box the size of a turkey platter filled with a magical pair of Christian Louboutin’s, rouged underside and all, I was beyond excited. My other daughter, who inherited the shoe gene, was found in a corner sniffing the Louboutin’s like airplane glue.

But the shoes didn’t fit. Off to Neiman Marcus we journeyed to exchange those black pumps of pleasure for a pair perfect for my pedicure. Alas, Louboutins are not for every foot. My precious feet, who had served me well for so many years as the thinnest most easily fashioned part of my Italian-Slavic heritage, failed me like the ugly step-sisters of Cinderella. I  would not be undone.

The salesman, Walter, dressed in a pin-striped suit with perfectly matching lavender tie and pocket square, was very careful to bring me the size I requested. It felt like my banker was kneeling at my feet. I know it was absurd, but the two teenagers next to me with 20 boxes of Louboutins opened around them, made me shove those tight ass shoes onto what were now my apparent barge feet, even harder.  It occurred to me that perhaps I needed a larger size. This wasn’t like the mother-of-the-bride dress. I had no problem asking for a bigger pair of shoes. Apparently, this is a refreshing concept to Walter. In this hallowed shoe boutique, a salesman would never suggest to the lady that she may need a (gasp) larger size! The look of relief on Walter’s face when I said perhaps a 9, rather than my usual 8 and a half would do better, was like giving him early parole.

Hmmm. I guess I’m  not the only one who likes to think my skinny feet are the most alluring part of me.

We chose a pair, a beautiful pair. But not without suffering. These shoes hurt. The chosen pair hurt less than every other pair. But still. Walter assured me that if I don’t wear them, I can return the shoes 10 years from now.

I called my genetic shoe clone daughter. Her advice was that there are legions of blog posts dedicated to how to tape my toes and wear Louboutins in spite of themselves. I adopted the Louboutins but they may go back to the orphanage.

Today the bride and I went to the SAS shoe outlet. (Senior’s Attire Sucks). Okay, it stands for San Antonio Shoes. And they’re ridiculously comfortable and ugly. My Mom made me take her there last year. She ‘bribed’ me by telling me she would buy me a pair of shoes. Ha! Ugly expensive shoes? Who would wear those? I am not eighty yet. I am still capable of making a fashion statement. And there they were, black patent leather loafers with a red penny holder and red soles. Oh….my…..God…. They were adorable and super comfortable. Well, I”m not 20 anymore either. Yeah, I got those shoes last year. But I didn’t want to fall into the black whole of old lady shoes, did I?

Louboutin 2But my Louboutins?!?!?!?

The red patent leather sandals from SAS (Style and Sass…that’s my new name for them) are going to France with me next week. The Louboutins, which say “Paris” right on the inside of the shoe are still waiting to see if they are Orphan Annie or Oliver Twist……to be continued….

“You Just have to Laugh…..”

©Cathy Sikorski 2016

You might be a Caregiver….Part One

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Just as I was sitting down to bring you the next installment of caregiving comedy, my computer decided the last laugh would be on me. Done, died, dead. With no warning, no goodbyes, no fond farewells, just dead.

These two weeks provided lots of time to come up with all the joys that caregivers experience. So in a huge nod to Jeff Foxworthy, I bring you the first installment of:

“You might be a Caregiver……”

  1. If you know Medicare’s phone number and website without Googling….You might be a Caregiver….
  2. If your search for an Assisted Living Community for your Mom starts to look like a nice vacation spot for you and your spouse….You might be a Caregiver
  3. If you cancel your dentist appointment to attend Ice Cream Social Wednesday at your Dad’s nursing home, because you want the ice cream….You might be a Caregiver
  4. If you know your parents’ Medicare number, AARP number, United Healthcare number but not your own cell phone number…You might be a Caregiver
  5. If you feel the need to correct WebMD about all the missed additional symptoms of a urinary tract infection….You might be a Caregiver
  6. If your iPhone calendar has words on it like ‘catheters’, ‘hearing aid’, ‘urologist’, or ‘dentures’…..You might be a Caregiver
  7. If going to the Emergency Room is like Cheers where they know your first name and how you take your coffee…..You might be a Caregiver
  8. If you took the black Sharpie to your husband’s underwear to mark it for the wash instead of your Mom’s for the nursing home…..You might be a Caregiver
  9. If you’ve had more knock-down, drag-out fights with Insurance Companies, Hospitals and Doctor’s office than Muhammad Ali…..You might be a Caregiver
  10. If everyone around you thinks you are speaking in tongues because you are constantly saying, PT, OT, UTI, or DME….You might be a Caregiver

And this is only the beginning, my friends. After all, this is a new computer, so there’s lots of room for humor here now!

“You Just have to Laugh……”

©Cathy Sikorski 2016

You talkin’ to me?

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So these stories about medical insurance could go on endlessly, but they give me such good material.

My Mom called me a few days ago to tell me that she received eighteen EOBs (Explanation

What do you mean you're not Zsa Zsa?
What do you mean you’re not Zsa Zsa?

of Benefits forms) from her medical insurance. If you’re not an EOB counter, 18 is a Zsa Zsa galore. A normal amount might be 2 or 3 on a busy day.

The reason she received 18 is because of the huge mix up created by her medical insurance 15 years ago. Fifteen years is a lot too–a whole teenage year of angst. Now, there are two insurance companies trying to figure out how to pay each other back for 15 years of screwing up.

Half of the EOBs indicate that Insurance Company B paid claims formerly paid by  Company A, and everyone is happy about that.

The other half of the envelopes  were filled with EOB’s and checks. Lots and lots of checks. All these checks are payable to my Mom for claims going back to 2007.  Insurance Company B has paid all that money that is supposed to go to various medical providers to my Mom.

So somehow my 87-year-old Mom is supposed to divvy up these checks, figure out who needs to be paid and how much and hope that the medical providers can properly credit her account, some going back 9 years. Really?

I got on the phone.

I have come to love you so much, my dear readers, that you won’t get every bit of every one of the 4 hour-long conversations I had with Insurance Companies A and B.  You know some of this is priceless.

“Hello, my name is John, thank you for calling Insurance Company B, how can I help you?”

“Hi, John, my name is Cathy, I’m calling for my Mom, who is sitting right here with me.”

I hand the phone to my Mom because I know that John needs to interrogate her. She also needs to give John permission to speak to me. After they complete that happy dance, Mom hands the phone back to me.

John asks me for my address.

“No, John, you can’t have my address. You can have my mother’s address, as she is your insured. I have called your insurance company thousands of times and no one has ever asked me for my address.”

“Oh,” said John, “I have to speak to my supervisor.” I’m pretty sure this is John’s first day of work.

He comes back five minutes later and tells me he can’t talk to me if I won’t give him my address. I am undaunted.

I hand the phone to my Mom. He asks for her address, birthdate and phone number. My Mom tells him everything he requests. Then she says,

“Now I want you to talk to my daughter because I have no idea how to deal with any of this.”

She hands me the phone. John and I have a long conversation about how to deal with this complicated problem. John cavalierly tells me that this happens less than one percent of the time. How he knows this from one day on the job, I have no idea. It is, however,  supposed to reassure me.

“John, just stop sending checks to my Mom.”

“I have no idea why that happened. They should be going directly to the provider. I have 458 claims here to be processed for your Mom over the last 10 years. But we could just start over. We could reclaim those checks and redo those claims. I don’t know……”

“NOOOOO, John, DO NOT DO THAT!” Yes, I meant to use capital letters, because it was a capital letter kind of response.

“But……,” said John…..”we……”

“No, John, just NO. Do not add insult to injury. Just stop doing what you’re doing.”

“Is there anything else, I can help you with , ma’am?”

“No, John.” I so wanted to say….”But you did talk to me without ever getting my address, didn’t you? ”

I win!

We all know I haven’t won…but

“You Just have to Laugh…..”

©2016 Cathy Sikorski

 

 

Would you mind? There’s prizes!!!!

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If you’ve been a caregiver could answer any of these five questions? I would be ever so grateful. And to show my gratitude to my faithful blog reading community three of you will get a signed copy of my new book, due in November 2016!  If you’ve answered any questions just write, “Done!” in the comments here and you will be eligible! I will list the winners in June! Thanks again for all your support! Cathy

https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/BSLDCJF

 

And now, a Massage from the Swedish Prime Minister….Monty Python

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As we were discussing our daughters’ fierce food requirements when they come to visit, my friend, Pat revealed that she feels the same way as I do about  the wonders of kale.

Pat’s daughter is a vegan and my daughter is very careful about her diet. When these girls  come to stay at our respective homes, we grocery shop for them, we cook for them and we try very hard not to make a mistake, insult their food, or give them any excuse to never return.

Each and everyone of you knows that kale is the Super Woman of super food. When you ingest kale, you are creating a vortex of health, wisdom, happiness, hale(ness?) and heartiness throughout your body. Kale will not be denied. It will make all things well in the world, especially in your colon, pancreas, pituitary gland and all those other internal organs you play like a fiddle.

I hate kale. I hate mean girls and I hate kale.

Do not give me recipes for kale. Do not tell me to eat kale chips, kale salad or kale smoothies. I tried. I hate it.

This is where Pat explained to me, that her daughter explained to her, that in order to release the power and joys of kale you need to massage it.

Okay, seriously, I’m done now.

I don’t even know what that  means…massage the kale. Do I need massage oil for that? Can instructions be found in the Kalema Sutra?

Looks pretty, but is it worth it?
Looks pretty, but is it worth it?

I’m not massaging my kale. I don’t even massage my husband.  If anyone’s getting a massage here it’s me. I will buy non-dairy yogurt, gluten free bread, only shredded Brussels sprouts for the healthy visitors in my house . But even if it makes kale taste like anything from Ben & Jerry’s, I refuse to massage the kale.

Yes, I’m far from perfect. Yes, I eat and drink things that are naughty. And in the interest of full disclosure, I snarfed up all the Easter Candy. left over wedding favors and the real Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in the freezer last night before our daughter came home for a lengthy visit. I say that as a point of pride, not shame (about the food, not my daughter). After all, I was creating a healthy food environment for my house guest, right? Oh, the things we do for company.

As for my personal constitution, all my grandparents lived well into their 90’s and I’m certain that not one of them ever massaged a leafy green vegetable. So I’m good.

“You Just have to Laugh…..”

©2016 Cathy Sikorski

 

 

Medicare….not for the weak……

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As I continue down this unrelenting path of caregiving, even in death, I can’t help but see the irony in statements that come my way like, ” what are you doing now that your brother-in-law has died?”

I’ll tell you what I’m doing:

“Hello, Medicare? I’ve now sent you a request for permission to speak to me as Executrix of my brother-in-law’s estate with all the supporting documents. I’ve waited the requisite 50 days for you to process it. I’ve waited longer than that because the first instructions I received were to take those documents to my local Social Security Office, which resulted in absolutely nothing, and now I have finally received a letter saying you will talk to me. Yay.

Medicare Person: What can I help you with?

Me: I’m trying to find out when a claim I have submitted will be paid?

Medicare Person: Why did you submit the claim Ma’am?

Me: Because the provider refused to submit it. They provide drugs and drug paraphernalia to the nursing home where my brother-in-law was residing at the time. They insist that they can only bill for the drugs to Part D Medicare and they have no authority to submit for the other items like IV poles, IV flushes and anything needed to actually administer the drugs.

Medicare Person (the THIRD Medicare person, because the first two couldn’t find the other conversations I’ve had and insisted that no such conversations took place). Yes, I’ve found the conversations you’ve had on April 4th , 11th, and 22nd.

Me: The last person I spoke with who connected me with you said she couldn’t find those conversations.

Medicare Person: Well, you’re both right. She can’t see these conversations, she’s in a different department.

Me: So, she couldn’t transfer me to you without wasting 30 minutes of my time and me insisting I speak to this department?

Medicare Person: I apologize for that Ma’am.

Me being Silent,

Medicare Person: Well, Ma’am I can’t find your claim. it takes 50 days to process.

Me: I filed that claim 120 days ago, and when your Medicare person CALLED ME ON APRIL

Provisions for speaking to Medicare
Provisions for speaking to Medicare

22 while I was standing in the middle of Times Square, and I popped into the closest restaurant and ordered a $12 glass of wine while on hold with your person, she told me that she was looking at my claim, it was paid to the nursing home and they would have to pay the provider. Then she proceeded to send me the wrong Medicare notices so I could prove to the nursing home, they owed the provider and the Estate of my brother-in-law was not liable for this bill.

Medicare Person: I can’t find that claim Ma’am. And so the only thing I can do is request a review.

Me: Okay

Medicare Person: I’m not allowed to request a review until 150 days has passed and it’s only been 120 since you filed the claim. A denial can take up to 150 days to process.

A missing claim is like a missing person. Maybe they went missing on their own. Maybe they are just at a friend’s house and forgot to tell you. Maybe they will use a credit card and then we can trace where they are and stop all this nonsense. But instead of waiting 48 hours, you have to wait 150 days. Imagine telling any person you’ve ever worked with that it will take 150 days to look at a piece of paper you sent them.

Medicare Person and I  then went on to discuss the many fun and esoteric ways that Medicare can screw up a claim.

Medicare Person: I know this is complicated and confusing Ma’am.

Me: I understand perfectly, everything you’ve told me. It’s not complicated or confusing to me, it’s just crazy! (Yep, I really did say that).

Medicare Person: Well, I know it seems complex, but we train for WEEKS to process this, so it would be harder for you to understand.

WEEKS? WEEKS? I’ve been dealing with Medicare for 25 years. And in all your weeks of training, the best you guys have ever given me is ridiculous, arbitrary waiting periods to process claims, a myriad of departments who don’t speak to each other, wrong information that has cost me precious time, and heartburn without the doughnut, wine or deep-fried food I deserve to go with it.

So glad your weeks of training have made you an expert.

I didn’t say any of that, I just got out my corkscrew and toasted the Universe for the never-ending supply of blog posts!

You Just Have to Laugh…………

© Cathy Sikorski 2016

A Rose by Any Other Name………..

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One can never have too many friends, or that ‘s what I used to think.

I was lucky enough to spend the weekend in New York City with my great husband and dear friends. We took full advantage of our time there. We made plans to have dinner, see an intimate venue magic show at the Waldorf Astoria, spend the next day at the Chelsea High Line, Chelsea Market, have dinner yet again at a great restaurant and see the IMG_4139Broadway show, An American in Paris.

Sounds great, right? And it was, but logistics had to be implemented every few hours.

These particular friends are great for lots of reasons, not the least of which is that down time and private time is always built into our joint ventures. So, we are glad to have cell phones and texting at our fingertips to make plans to meet up after we go our separate ways.

Just to make sure everyone was on board, I sent a group text to each of our friends with our meet up place and time in a few hours after breakfast. Weirdly, I kept getting a text from the gal asking me things like:

“Who is this?”

“Am I supposed to be somewhere?”

“I don’t know, what this is about?”

Since her guy was the typical texter, I thought, “well, maybe she doesn’t have my cell phone number in her phone.”

So I’m texting her back with polite messages like:

“it ‘s me, Cathy. ”

“We already made plans, I’m just giving you the time.”

“Just meet us in the hotel lobby.”

But I’m thinking, “geez what the hell is wrong with her? Obviously, it’s me and where and when we are meeting should make perfect sense to her.”

I keep reading  these messages from her and it hits me.  Her name is Terri. I have three friends in my phone named Terri. Terri K, Terri N and Terry R.

Terri K. was not the one I was in New York with. Terri K was at least two hours away in Pennsylvania losing her mind wondering why I was insisting she get her ass to New York City in half an hour.

Terry R was wondering why her boyfriend’s cell phone was texting incessantly with a group text message from someone neither of them knew.

I still think I could always use more friends, but Terry R’s boyfriend said I’m not allowed to add any more people named Terri  or Terry to my catalogue.

IMG_4138When Terri K saw my Facebook pics from the NYC trip, she was disappointed she didn’t make it on time, but hey, I gave her plenty of  notice.

“You Just have to Laugh…..”

©2016 Cathy Sikorski

 

Hello…it’s me….

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I just returned from three weeks away to get a good head start on my next book.

I have been running from one person to another who just needs to see me. I don’t care how far technology has come, people want to actually see you. My mom, my friends, my book club, my uncle, my sisters, even my cleaning lady. And I want to see them.  It has made an impact on me. I realize that human contact, not just phones, or email or even Skype take the place of eye to eye, hand on the arm, hugs and kisses. Actually talking in person to someone can make your life better.

Never more so was this clear,  yesterday when I sat with my Mom as we made yet another phone call to the Veterans Administration. It was not frustrating or anger-inducing as I have recounted in the past, but it was a hoot.

It was reminiscent of a phone call I had made just days earlier to Medicare.

This was the Medicare call with a robot voice who was trying to get me to the right place:

Robovoice: Please state the purpose of your call.

Me: “Claims”

Robovoice: I heard ‘disability’ . Is that correct?

Me: “No, Claims.”

Robovoice: I heard ‘enrollment’ . Is that correct?

Me: “No, Ugh. I just want to talk to someone!”

Robovoice: I heard eligibility. Is that correct?

Lest you think I’m making this up, my friend was in the room listening, so she can confirm that this was a real conversation. I hung up and started all over again. My friend said, ” well there’s a blog.”

With my Mom and the VA however, we used this great service where they called us back rather than keep us on hold. In 10 minutes, a real person was on the phone answering our questions. She was kind, courteous and extremely helpful in leading us to the correct information.

The only problem was the phone connection was so terrible that she and I had to repeat every single sentence. I don’t know why, but neither of us got crazy over this. We just kept repeating. Finally, she said she could send me an email to make sure we had what we needed. Of course, do I have an easy email address? No, why would I?

This is how that conversation went:

Me: My email address is my name. I’ll spell it c-a-t-h-y

VA  lady: Is that J-R-P-P-I?

Me: No, it’s C, my  name is Cathy.

VA lady: Okay, Jathy

Me: No, it’s C, like in chocolate. (Now I know ‘military C’ is Charlie. I have no idea why I said chocolate)

VA lady: OH “C”! Okay you’re name is Cathy!

Me: Yes, My last name is Sikorski.

Hello? Hello?
Hello? Hello?

My mother sitting next to me says: “Oh God, this will never work!”

I just jump in and spell my last name : S as in Sam, I as in Ink, K as in Kitchen, O as in Olive, R as in Radish, S as in Sam, K as in Kitchen, I as in Ink. I don’t know the rest of the military alphabet. This is my  version.

VA Lady: Okay, I’ll send you the email.

Me: You will send it by mail?

VA Lady; No, the email, I’ll send the email.

I had no hope of this ever happening.

And five minutes later, there it was in my inbox.

If only we could have seen each other, it would have been so much better. But my Mom and I had a great laugh as we sat together at her kitchen table.

“You Just have to Laugh….”

© Cathy Sikorski 2016

Let’s Shake on That……………..

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I had this brilliant idea that I would offer to house sit and dog sit for my dear friends while they went to New Zealand for three weeks. The biggest reason I wanted to do this, other than stay in their magnificent shore house, was so that I could make a real dent in my next book.

And it was working, for one day.

Then I got pink eye.

I went for a walk on the beach and by the time I came home, I  couldn’t see. I was sure it was because the wind was whipping pretty furiously but I persevered. I also thought that my eyes were red because, well the wind was whipping furiously!

After writing all morning and subjecting myself to a vigorous walk on the beach, my creative juices deserved a nap.

Upon waking, so ready to dive right back into that book, my eyes refused to open. They were sealed shut tighter than a child-proof cap on a bottle of Tylenol.

I’m in a shore town, in April. There’s nobody here. I don’t have a doctor or even an ER close by.  I drive to the CVS pharmacy hoping they have a Minute Clinic where I can get drops and be on my way. Really  hoping I don’t have to drive much further because I can’t see a damn thing out of my right eye.I keep wiping my drooling eye with a new tissue and immediately put it in a used grocery bag because I suspect I’m contagious as hell. I don’t want my steering wheel, door handle, or anything else to propagate this vile disease for the next three weeks of my self-imposed writing bootcamp.

CVS tells me the closest Minute Clinic is 100 miles away. Luckily, a beautiful Emergency Medical Tech is standing next to me and gives me directions to the closest Urgent Care, whilst moving very slowly away from me with every well placed word.

I find a great staff and physician at the Urgent Care. I tell the doctor I’m so glad I caught the pink eye before it infested both my eyes. He gives me a sympathetic nod. I got the feeling he wasn’t convinced this disaster was over. Kindly, he told me to call if I needed anything else.

I went back to the CVS, picked up the miracle antibiotic drops and went home to listen to YouTube videos. I couldn’t write because I couldn’t see. I went to bed secure in the knowledge that in the morning I would be clear eyed.

At 2:00 AM my writing life was over. At least for another day. I now had pink eye in both eyes. Since I’m not an idiot, I put the magic drops in both my eyes and four hours later rebaptized my suffering eyeballs.

Then I called the doctor to call in another prescription so that I would have enough drops to finish the job.

Not so fast.

The Urgent Care doctor was not surprised that he needed to call in the prescription. The CVS pharmacy, however was hog tied by my medical insurance.

“Sorry,” the pharmacist said, “but I can’t refill the prescription until next week. Because you just picked up that medicine yesterday, the insurance company won’t allow me to refill it.”

“But, but, but that was for ONE eye, I now have it in BOTH eyes!”

It didn’t look like this

The pharmacist flinched, not because this was a crazy request, but, I’m pretty sure because she was being begged by Quasimodo to fix this problem.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she said.

I couldn’t help myself. I had pink eye all over the place. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t drive, or go to a bar and drown my sorrows. I was typhoid Mary and couldn’t hide it.

So I wiped my eyes with the palm of my hand and stuck it out to the pharmacist.

“That’s okay, I’m sure you understand what it’s like to have this in both eyes. Thanks for your help.”

Her horrified face met my proposed handshake as she grabbed the phone. She called the insurance company and said to me: “Come back in two days, you should have enough medicine until then.”

She left my handshake hanging, but I was okay with that.

Message received.

“You Just have to Laugh…..”

©Cathy Sikorski 2016