Ms. Powerco: “Good Morning, WAPA Outages.” That’s short for the Water and Power Authority, the Virgin Island’s utility company.
Me: “Good morning. Our power has just gone out for the ninth time in the last 24 hours.”
Ms. Powerco: “I’m sorry, how many times did you say?”
Me: “Nine. Nine times.”
Ms. Powerco: “Nine times?”
Me: "Niyine times.” Despite my best Ed Rooney imitation, the tribute to quintessential 80’s movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off went right over her head. “What’s the problem?”
Ms. Powerco: “The whole feeder line is down. They‘re working on it now.”
Me: “Have you identified the problems yet? Isn’t there something that can be done to prevent this?”
Ms. Powerco: “I wouldn’t know. We’re not responsible for the physical plant.”
Me: “Excuse me?”
Ms. Powerco: “This is a physical plant problem. We’re not responsible for the physical plant.”
Me: “Well, if you’re not responsible for the physical plant, who is?”
Ms. Powerco: “The plant manager. You’d have to call him to find out what the problem is.”
Me: “But I don’t have the plant phone number -- I have *this* number. Don’t you think it would be helpful if you and the others who answer the outages line called the plant when the feeders go down so you could provide some actual answers to the people who call?”
Ms. Powerco: (Hangs up on me) *CLICK*
Ah, customer service, Virgin Islands style. There’s nothing like it anywhere.
Showing posts with label Island Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Island Life. Show all posts
Monday, March 15, 2010
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Why Is Getting Medical Care Down Here Such a Battle?
It’s happened again -- I have an infection and I can’t get treatment!
The lab culture results came back positive on June 11 -- as in almost a month ago. And these results show that I don’t have just any old everyday infection -- this one is only susceptible to IV or injected antibiotics. Great.
The results were faxed by the lap to my doctor. When I didn’t hear from him 10 days later, I personally faxed the results to the doctor and requested on the cover sheet that he call me. Not response still. So I called the doctor’s office and left a message asking him to call me. Nada. I refax the results with another request to contact me. Nothing. Another call, another message, and then another. Still nothing.
Finally, on June 30, the doctor FINALLY calls me and asks me what’s up. I tell him that I h]ave an infection that will only respond to IV antibiotics. He is annoyed when I cannot tell him -- off the top of my head at 7:30 am -- what specific drugs it will respond to. He orders me to call him back in an hour to read him to drug responsiveness list. Of course when I call, he is unavailable.
When he finally calls me back two hours later and I read the list of drugs to me (he still can’t find any of the THREE copies that had already been faxed to him), he tells me that they are all IV drugs. Excuse me? Didn’t I just tell you that the first time you called??
So then he tells me that I have to go in the hospital. I tell him no, I am not going to do that for the following reasons:
After heaving a deep, resentful sigh, he tells me that I MUST go in the hospital because he doesn’t like the home agency. I tell him I do like them, and trust them, and have references to back me up, and then ask him to write the orders. He tries again to tell me no, but I hold firm. Finally he succumbs -- or so I think -- and tells me to have the home agency contact him for orders. As I thank him, he blurts out, “No, this is wrong” but then sighs, tells me to AGAIN fax him a copy of the oab results and repeats that I should have the home health people call him.
Thinking I am finally going to get some treatment started, three weeks after a diagnosis was made, I call the home health agency. The owner there informs me that it is against Medicare rules for them to contact a doctor asking for orders for someone -- doing so is considered solicitation of business and strictly forbidden. The owner was familiar with my doctor (and agreed with me that he is passive-aggressive and difficult to work with), and confirmed that the doctor KNEW that it was illegal for them to call him on my behalf,
At this point I am angry and frustrated as all get out. In a final attempt to get this doctor to help me, I fax him a fourth copy of the lab results with a cover page that thanks him for his cooperation and asks him to contact me when a referral for home health care was ready to be picked up. What a shock -- I haven’t heard from him since (the fax was sent last Tuesday).
So tomorrow I start the hunt for a new doctor. I have been rejected my doctors on this island before for being too complicated, and I just dread the thought of having to go through another fight just to get a doctor, and then perhaps even more battles to get them to prescribe the home-based IV therapy I need.
I cannot believe that getting a doctor to cure an infection through] the most cost-effective and logical means possible is so frickin’ hard. What is WRONG with this island???
Should anyone wonder why we’re leaving Paradise as soon as we can get out of here, refer them to this blog entry.
The lab culture results came back positive on June 11 -- as in almost a month ago. And these results show that I don’t have just any old everyday infection -- this one is only susceptible to IV or injected antibiotics. Great.
The results were faxed by the lap to my doctor. When I didn’t hear from him 10 days later, I personally faxed the results to the doctor and requested on the cover sheet that he call me. Not response still. So I called the doctor’s office and left a message asking him to call me. Nada. I refax the results with another request to contact me. Nothing. Another call, another message, and then another. Still nothing.
Finally, on June 30, the doctor FINALLY calls me and asks me what’s up. I tell him that I h]ave an infection that will only respond to IV antibiotics. He is annoyed when I cannot tell him -- off the top of my head at 7:30 am -- what specific drugs it will respond to. He orders me to call him back in an hour to read him to drug responsiveness list. Of course when I call, he is unavailable.
When he finally calls me back two hours later and I read the list of drugs to me (he still can’t find any of the THREE copies that had already been faxed to him), he tells me that they are all IV drugs. Excuse me? Didn’t I just tell you that the first time you called??
So then he tells me that I have to go in the hospital. I tell him no, I am not going to do that for the following reasons:
- It is unnecessary because there is a home health care agency on island who can do the IV therapy in my house. Why should I take up a hospital bed (which are always filled) for something that can be done just as well in the comfort of my own home?
- I cannot afford to go in the hospital. (Medicare would bill be a $1000 copay plus 20 percent of the balance due.) It would be cheaper for everyone involved for me to be treated at home.
- The hospital cannot provide me with the daily meds I take. They make me bring my own, then try to take them from me so they can give them to me when they feel like it.
- The hospital does not have a shower bench for their accessible shower. I would have to bring my own bench from home or go without showering for the entire time I am in there. Who go through all that humiliation when I have an accessible shower at my house?
- There is only one accessible bathroom I can use in the hospital. It is located in the x-ray department, two floors below the patient rooms. I have to ask permission to leave the floor to go use it. Again, accessible bathroom at home that I can use whenever I feel like it.
After heaving a deep, resentful sigh, he tells me that I MUST go in the hospital because he doesn’t like the home agency. I tell him I do like them, and trust them, and have references to back me up, and then ask him to write the orders. He tries again to tell me no, but I hold firm. Finally he succumbs -- or so I think -- and tells me to have the home agency contact him for orders. As I thank him, he blurts out, “No, this is wrong” but then sighs, tells me to AGAIN fax him a copy of the oab results and repeats that I should have the home health people call him.
Thinking I am finally going to get some treatment started, three weeks after a diagnosis was made, I call the home health agency. The owner there informs me that it is against Medicare rules for them to contact a doctor asking for orders for someone -- doing so is considered solicitation of business and strictly forbidden. The owner was familiar with my doctor (and agreed with me that he is passive-aggressive and difficult to work with), and confirmed that the doctor KNEW that it was illegal for them to call him on my behalf,
At this point I am angry and frustrated as all get out. In a final attempt to get this doctor to help me, I fax him a fourth copy of the lab results with a cover page that thanks him for his cooperation and asks him to contact me when a referral for home health care was ready to be picked up. What a shock -- I haven’t heard from him since (the fax was sent last Tuesday).
So tomorrow I start the hunt for a new doctor. I have been rejected my doctors on this island before for being too complicated, and I just dread the thought of having to go through another fight just to get a doctor, and then perhaps even more battles to get them to prescribe the home-based IV therapy I need.
I cannot believe that getting a doctor to cure an infection through] the most cost-effective and logical means possible is so frickin’ hard. What is WRONG with this island???
Should anyone wonder why we’re leaving Paradise as soon as we can get out of here, refer them to this blog entry.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The Lizard Challenge
For those who have never been to tropical climates like Florida or the Caribbean Islands, there are little gecko-like ground lizards EVERYWHERE. 
They provide a great service for us people by eating mosquitoes and other small bugs, and by keeping our cats endlessly entertained as they crawl up the screen, perch on the window louvers, and skitter from place to place. They rapidly become a pretty benign factor of life, and are, as the Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy describes the Earth, mostly harmless. Annoying, especially when they manage to get into the house, but mostly harmless.
Today, however, the HipHubby (HH) ran into a lizard with a major attitude problem, and a suicidal disregard for the odds.
After doing some routine yard maintenance -- mowing, whacking the weeds, and beating back the infiltration of tan-tan trees (garbage trees that are the scourge of the island) -- my HH sat down on one of the chairs on our front porch for a few minutes before coming in to shower. As always, there were dozens of lizards sharing the porch with him, including one teenage male sitting on the rail directly across from where HH had plopped.
Something about this particular lizard caught my Hubby’s attention, and their eyes locked. His brilliant orange throat pouch started to flare (the lizard’s, not the HH, who doesn’t have a brilliant orange anything), and the little guy started to engage in what we call the humpy dance, a combination of lizard push ups and head thrusts, with the occasional tail flick tossed in or good measure.
Not wishing to be rude, or perhaps suffering from a bit of heat stroke, the HH responded in kind -- bopping up and down in his chair in perfect time with the lizard, and never breaking eye contact.
And then something in this lizard’s tiny little brain snapped. Even though he was only about four inches long from the tip of his snout to the tip of his tail, he jumped down off the rail and, once at ground level, closed the distance between himself and my Hubby by half. His beady little gaze never wavered. Once in position, he started to dance again, this time bouncing a little more aggressively. The little guy’s throat pouch kept time with his bopping, and my HH kept time with them both.
Apparently this just pissed the lizard off. He again narrowed the distance by half and resumed his little war dance, this time keeping eye contact by craning his neck back so far the white of his chest was visible each time his orange pouch deflated.
This, of course, cracked my HH up. After regaining his composure (it would have been rude to laugh out loud at this gutsy -- not to mention foolhardy -- challenge), my HH leaned forward and asked the lizard, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
As if to answer, the lizard stopped dancing just long enough to run forward and take up a new position, directly between my HipHubby’s heavy work boots. The little guy may have a tiny brain, but you gotta give him credit for having the cajones of an iguana.
The HipHubby’s amusement at the situation was wearing thin at about the same rate that his concern over having a lizard run up his pant leg was growing. It was time, the HH decided, to put this arrogant little guy in his place. With his big blue eyes still firmly locked on the lizard’s little black ones, the HH picked up his right boot and brought it down with soft thud, quickly and firmly, right next to where the little reptile stood, still doing the humpy dance.
It didn’t so much as flinch, let alone move. It just stood there, doing little lizard pushups and puffing out its colorful throat balloon, now dwarfed by the large grass-stained leather boot only inches from the tips of its gangly little toes.
After complimenting the lizard on his chutzpah, the HH decided to have a little chat with the little guy about what was and was not a good thing for a reptile of that size to do when it came to interacting with humans. After firmly grabbing the lizard around his midsection and lifting him up to eye level, my HH raised the index finger to wag while he lectured, and the little pocket-critter bit him!
That was the end of the HH’s patience. After prying Gordon Gecko’s jaws off of his throbbing index finger (these tiny beasts could give a ferret a run for its money when it comes to jaw strength and sheer determination), the HH calmly informed the lizard of his “one strike, you’re outta here” policy. Incredibly, the lizard was still attempting to humpy dance and assume an offensive posture -- not at all easy to do when one in suspended in mid-air, but you’ve got to admire the effort, right up until the moment of his departure.
You’ve heard of the Highland Fling? We’ll down here we do what’s known as the “Island Fling” -- which basically involves turning lizards into unwilling Frisbees. Points are awarded for style, altitude achieved, and of course, distance. Although I wasn’t there to see this particular Fling, the HH assures me he scored straight tens for his success in lobbing this little ground lizard clear into our neighbor’s yard, easily clearing the eight foot fence along the property border
The score for this Lizard Challenge: HipHubby wins by a fling out.
They provide a great service for us people by eating mosquitoes and other small bugs, and by keeping our cats endlessly entertained as they crawl up the screen, perch on the window louvers, and skitter from place to place. They rapidly become a pretty benign factor of life, and are, as the Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy describes the Earth, mostly harmless. Annoying, especially when they manage to get into the house, but mostly harmless.Today, however, the HipHubby (HH) ran into a lizard with a major attitude problem, and a suicidal disregard for the odds.
After doing some routine yard maintenance -- mowing, whacking the weeds, and beating back the infiltration of tan-tan trees (garbage trees that are the scourge of the island) -- my HH sat down on one of the chairs on our front porch for a few minutes before coming in to shower. As always, there were dozens of lizards sharing the porch with him, including one teenage male sitting on the rail directly across from where HH had plopped.
Something about this particular lizard caught my Hubby’s attention, and their eyes locked. His brilliant orange throat pouch started to flare (the lizard’s, not the HH, who doesn’t have a brilliant orange anything), and the little guy started to engage in what we call the humpy dance, a combination of lizard push ups and head thrusts, with the occasional tail flick tossed in or good measure.
Not wishing to be rude, or perhaps suffering from a bit of heat stroke, the HH responded in kind -- bopping up and down in his chair in perfect time with the lizard, and never breaking eye contact.
And then something in this lizard’s tiny little brain snapped. Even though he was only about four inches long from the tip of his snout to the tip of his tail, he jumped down off the rail and, once at ground level, closed the distance between himself and my Hubby by half. His beady little gaze never wavered. Once in position, he started to dance again, this time bouncing a little more aggressively. The little guy’s throat pouch kept time with his bopping, and my HH kept time with them both.
Apparently this just pissed the lizard off. He again narrowed the distance by half and resumed his little war dance, this time keeping eye contact by craning his neck back so far the white of his chest was visible each time his orange pouch deflated.
This, of course, cracked my HH up. After regaining his composure (it would have been rude to laugh out loud at this gutsy -- not to mention foolhardy -- challenge), my HH leaned forward and asked the lizard, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
As if to answer, the lizard stopped dancing just long enough to run forward and take up a new position, directly between my HipHubby’s heavy work boots. The little guy may have a tiny brain, but you gotta give him credit for having the cajones of an iguana.
The HipHubby’s amusement at the situation was wearing thin at about the same rate that his concern over having a lizard run up his pant leg was growing. It was time, the HH decided, to put this arrogant little guy in his place. With his big blue eyes still firmly locked on the lizard’s little black ones, the HH picked up his right boot and brought it down with soft thud, quickly and firmly, right next to where the little reptile stood, still doing the humpy dance.
It didn’t so much as flinch, let alone move. It just stood there, doing little lizard pushups and puffing out its colorful throat balloon, now dwarfed by the large grass-stained leather boot only inches from the tips of its gangly little toes.
After complimenting the lizard on his chutzpah, the HH decided to have a little chat with the little guy about what was and was not a good thing for a reptile of that size to do when it came to interacting with humans. After firmly grabbing the lizard around his midsection and lifting him up to eye level, my HH raised the index finger to wag while he lectured, and the little pocket-critter bit him!
That was the end of the HH’s patience. After prying Gordon Gecko’s jaws off of his throbbing index finger (these tiny beasts could give a ferret a run for its money when it comes to jaw strength and sheer determination), the HH calmly informed the lizard of his “one strike, you’re outta here” policy. Incredibly, the lizard was still attempting to humpy dance and assume an offensive posture -- not at all easy to do when one in suspended in mid-air, but you’ve got to admire the effort, right up until the moment of his departure.
You’ve heard of the Highland Fling? We’ll down here we do what’s known as the “Island Fling” -- which basically involves turning lizards into unwilling Frisbees. Points are awarded for style, altitude achieved, and of course, distance. Although I wasn’t there to see this particular Fling, the HH assures me he scored straight tens for his success in lobbing this little ground lizard clear into our neighbor’s yard, easily clearing the eight foot fence along the property border
The score for this Lizard Challenge: HipHubby wins by a fling out.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Things I Miss About Living on the Mainland
In no particular order:
- Being closer to my family and friends.
- Home mail pick up and delivery.
- Stores and pharmacies that are open 24/7.
- Arbys. The HipHubby misses Burger King.
- Having a choice of doctors, especially specialists. Or having access to even one specialist that I need.
- Cottage cheese that costs under $5 for a large carton.
- Being certain that the stuff you want to buy over the Internet can be shipped to you.
- Free shipping (it’s a continental US thing only).
- High speed Internet access.
- Hospitals where you don’t need to spend three days laying on a gurney in the ER before a bed becomes available and you don’t need to bring your own blankets.
- Streets with names.
- Cable shows on demand.
- Home delivery of food -- everything from groceries to pizza and Chinese.
- Department stores that aren’t Kmart.
- Knowing that the abbreviation for my state will appear in every drop down list of addresses.
- Oil changes for my car that cost under $40.
- Toll free numbers that work.
- TIVO.
- Seven-Eleven and Slurpees.
- Real newspapers.
- Having checks clear in less than seven business days. (That’s how long it takes checks from the main land to clear in or local bank account.)
- Real estate agents who actually believe they work for the buyer, not the seller. (Even agents who assist buyers down here feel beholden to the seller since that is where their commission originates.)
- Stores that carry the items you need.
- Dairy Queen and Baskin Robbins.
- Real book stores and libraries.
- Voting for president and having real representation in Congress. The latter still doesn’t apply, of course, to the District of Columbia. (Grrrrrr.)
- No kill animal shelters.
- Less animal cruelty and neglect.
- Quality doughnuts! Most baked goods down here taste awful.
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