I started a blog at Blogger because I changed email
addresses and forgot my password at Wordpress. Most of the stuff I've
written over the years is kind of dumb, but some of it might be worth
preserving. I'm copying it over here so that when I forget my login info again,
I can just copy it from this one place.
Communication is an intriguing monster. In theory, the same set of words spoken by different mouths and heard by different ears should be interpretted in the same manner. Of course we all know that there are body-movements and vocal tones that convey much more than mere words, and communication is really much more elaborate than a series of well-placed syllables. That being said, I still believe that there are certain personal biases and shotcomings that seem to make communication efforts even more of a gamble.
My wife has terrible luck communicating with banks and financial institutions (I tell her it’s due to her beady eyes and seedy appearance), and I have similar problems with doctors and pharamacies.
I just got off the phone with our oldest daughter’s pediatrician. She is a very nice doctor; she’s quite cordial, and pleasant to deal with on the phone. She called to finally clear up some confusion that I had been having with the clinic she works with.
I needed a consent form signed for Amelia to receive PT/OT through her school. No biggie, I took the form by the clinic during my lunch break, and they assured me that I should be able to pick it up by the end of the day, but asked me to call first…just in case, you know. So I did. At 4:30, I explained my situation and my intent to pick up the form on my way home from work (which took some doing, because of my communication condition). I was told (with an exasperated sigh) that there is typically a 24-48 hour wait for forms like that. Fair enough, I guess.Today, I called back. I explained my story to the receptionist. She cut me off mid-way (I believe, because my words sounded like babble to her), and she forwarded me to a voice mail system. I got to explain my story once more to the machine, who was at least patient enough to hear me out (though I’m pretty sure it rolled its LEDs once or twice).
About two hours later, I received a call from the doctor, who vaguely remembered the form. She told me she would look into it an call me back. With her second call, she explained that no one knew that I was coming to pick the form up (I suppose I had been vague by asking if I could come by to pick it up), so they had already mailed it off to the school. Now, I know this sounds like a gripe, but it’s really not. I am convinced that there is some kind of gene (extra or missing, I’m not sure) that makes it near impossible for me to explain myself clearly in the medical realm.
Naomi has about given up on asking me to pick up prescriptions for her and the kids, because it’s always an ordeal for me, and it usually becomes an ordeal for her, as well. We figured it’s pointless to make two trips. (Though, I think she still sends me on occasion, because it’s a guaranteed way to get me out of the house for a while.)
At least twice, I have gone to pick up prescriptions which are not on file (but mysteriously reappear when my wife approaches the counter); I have been told that the pharmacy did not have such-and-such in stock (though apparently the Such-and-Such shipment arrives just before Naomi does) on a couple of occassions; and I leave empty-handed more times than not. It’s my curse.
Naomi, on the other hand cannot deposit a check to save her life. She has had quite a bit of trouble getting her driver’s license, and those pesky ole’ terrorists have made banking difficult for the rest of us, so our account is only in my name for the time being.
When Naomi tries to deposit checks made out to her, checks made out to me, or checks made out to both of us, she almost always returns empty-handed. (Well, not exactly…actually, with a check in her hand and a scowl on her face). She has similar results at each branch she visits. No one wants to accept a check from her. I, on the other hand, very rarely run into any sort of hassle.
She tried to deposit one of our tax refund checks. After driving across town to answer the same set of questions from two separate branches, she still had the — at this point, very crumpled — check in hand. It was time for me to intervene.
I drove through the lane, and sheepishly answered “No”, when the observant teller asked if the account was a joint one. The air was heavy with suspense as I awaited the stern explanation of why I couldn’t make the deposit of the check (with both our names) to my account (with just my name). I knew my favorable lucky streak had ended, and the deposit would be a no-go. Finally, the speaker crackled, and I braced myself for the worst. “Have a nice day, Mr. Stewart,” she said with a friendly smile as the canister carrying my receipt shot through the overhead plumbing. I drove off with a sigh of relief.
Mundane activities such as depositing checks have never worried me in the past. They almost always go off without a hitch for me, but seeing Naomi’s terrible track record, I have become paranoid and anxious. Similarly, I think she never thought twice about picking up a prescription before she met me. Now, she breathes a little easier as she leaves the counter with drugs in hand (and not just because half her presciptions are for an inhaler).
Maybe it’s genetic, or maybe it’s some sort of subconsious profiling, or maybe it is some vast consipiracy conducted by a covert government agency. Whatever the case may be, I think we complement each other nicely with our mixed bag of difficulties. Now, if only one of us could learn to order a pizza…
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