Only at MY House!

Yesterday, one of the items that topped my To-Do list was to phone our health insurance company and figure out if my husband could get a physical and medical update for our adoption BEFORE September 16th.  Last year he had one on September 16th and his doctor was going to slap on an extra $200 charge because the dates weren’t a year apart. 

Here is a brief sidenote on Rick’s doctor:  I used to go to this same doctor.  I liked him alright, but he seemed to be a bit heavy-handed with his prescription pad.  I would return home from his office and call a friend of mine in pharmaceuticals and ask which of the four scripts I truly needed.  Anyway, I don’t have to do that anymore because I coincidentally happened upon aforementioned doctor at a local resort.  Brace yourself.  He was donning a purple Speedo, sunglasses from the 80’s and had the solid white sunblock on his nose.  It did me in.  I could no longer use ‘Purple Speedo’ as my physician.

Back to yesterday.  I did not have my glasses within reach when trying unsuccessfully to read the phone number on my health care card.  I handed it to my daughter and asked her to read me the number.  She started reading, “9-1-1-8-4-5-3-8-5-3-2-0-0”, and I obediently dialed…. until I realized there were too many numbers and hung up. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “that is your group number.”  I retrieved the card and found the PHONE number myself and dialed correctly.  The phone call lasted about ten minutes, but at minute number nine, there was a knock on our front door. 

Another side note:  my two nephews were over at our house along with my three children…. and I was still in my pajamas with decidedly Ace Ventura bed-head hair going on.  Not exactly the get-up to be answering the door.

Back to our story.  I peaked through the eye hole and saw a police man standing on our front porch.  I remembered my hair and attire and made a dash for the back of the house.  All five kids met me there, with the phone still stuck to my ear, and I told my 16-year-old daughter (yes, the one who read the group number to me) to go answer the door while  I hid in the laundry room.

Mr. Police officer asked the five children staring at him if everything was OK at the house.  “Yes!”  they all answered in unison.  Mr. Police man continued, “Someone dialed 911 from this house and hung up.  We were unable to call back so we came to make sure everything is alright.”  I’m sure he got responses that included but was not limited to: “Sure!”  “Yeah, that was mom calling her insurance group number.”  “She’s in the laundry room in her pj’s.”  “She couldn’t answer the door because her hair is scary.”  “She’s been on the phone all morning.”  “We are waiting for her to make breakfast.”  “We’re all OK!” “We’re hungry.”  “Is that a real gun?”  And the nice police officer left the premises, wondering what in the world just happened.

I tell you that story to report that I’m impressed with the police service in our area!  In less than ten minutes from the 911 call, there was someone at my door to protect me and my children.  Or is it protect my children from me?  Anyway, thank you, Phoenix Police force!

With Friends like this…..

 

In times of trouble, who could ask for better friends than these?  As far as tough times go, these photos are from one of the toughest times in our marriage…. when my hubby separated his Achilles Tendon and had 3 or 4 surgeries (see, I’ve already blocked the details…)  The picture on the left is of our friends, Andrew Edwin and Jill Rene, who loving brought my convalescing husband his favorite dessert (black forest cake), a stack of movies for his week of confinement on the couch and they fully bandaged and wrapped themselves in sympathy.  Yes, Andy’s eye is taped shut and Jill is sporting a wrist brace.  Such thoughtful people.  As if Rick’s wound sucking machine attached to his leg would be less noticeable with these two around.

And Darla.  Little did she know the detour her day would take with one simple phone call to my house.  I’ll give you the brief rundown of the morning.  I awoke to find that the washing machine had died.  Kaput. Do not resuscitate.  DEAD. The kids slept over and Grandma and Grandpa’s house because Rick had surgery #3 early that morning.  Surgery went reasonably well, except for the entertaining hallucinations Rick experienced coming out of the anesthesia.  He insisted that someone stole his shoes, his wallet and his clothes.  He repeatedly asked in a LOUD voice for beer in the wake-up room (he doesn’t drink beer!?!) I was WAY too uncomfortable to bring him home in that state, so we hung out for a while until my real husband partially returned.  We did make it home, but only to discover that Grandma had nearly passed out at her house and my kids had to call 911 to get the paramedics.  They were in the emergency waiting room by themselves.  I couldn’t leave my newly discovered boozer alone, so I called my brother to gather my children from the hospital. 

Then the downstairs toilet, which my drugged husband would require, backed up all over my tile floors.  Disgusting.  Called the plumber.  Called the home builder.  Called the plumber again.  THEN, my Dad, who was at the hospital with mom, decided to walk across the street to grab a bite to eat and GOT HIT BY A CAR.  Good grief.  He was banged-up but ok.  He had Mom’s emergency room doctor check him out since it was so handy.

Enter: Darla’s phone call to see how surgery went.  I lost it.  I’m not sure which incident was the straw that broke the camel’s back…. the washer…. the start of a week of nursing my husband who had a gaping leg wound…. my mother needing an ambulance ride…. my children having to take care of their passing-out Grandma… the toilet… the kids being left unattended in the hospital…. my dad getting hit by a car….   So within the hour Darla arrived to clean my stinky tile floors wearing this attractive outfit.  “It sounded like you needed comic relief,” she professed. So true.

I love these friends.  Everyone needs friends like these.  Thanks guys.