precious

Your time is not precious. This is very easily confirmed. Just make an appointment with someone — a doctor, a contractor... anyone. Most often they will keep you waiting or be very late or cancel your appointment or not show up at all. Their time is special. Their time is valuable. Your time is worthless.

I turned 65 a month ago. Turning 65 qualifies me for a few benefits. I am now eligible to enroll in the nationwide Medicare program — which is the closest I'll ever get to the level of subsidized healthcare offered by nearly every other country on the planet. A little closer to home, I am now eligible to received a free SEPTA senior pass which allows me to enjoy (enjoy? riding SEPTA?) free rides on public transportation that is operated by SEPTA in the Philadelphia area. All I have to do is stop by SEPTA's main office, supply them with some basic information, show proof of age and they will give me an ID card right then and there. However, getting to SEPTA's office is terribly inconvenient. It requires a drive into center city and finding parking or taking public transportation which — ironically — I'd have to pay for. Also, SEPTA only has office hours at the same time as my working hours, which means I'd have to take time off from work to accomplish all this. As an alternative, I could go to my local State Representative's office. There, I can submit the same information, but I'd have to wait approximately four weeks for my card to arrive.

I had an upcoming follow-up doctor's appointment for which I had already taken a half-day of sick time from work. I figured that I could pop over to the State Representative's office before my doctor's appointment and get everything done in one day. I consulted the State Representative's office website and saw that their daily hours began at 10 AM. My wife had just applied for her SEPTA pass a few months ago at this office and they told her, if need be, they could come in at 9 AM, if that would be more accommodating. So, I called the State Representative's office one day prior to my doctor's appointment top confirm their promise of meeting me earlier. The friendly woman on the phone assured me — assured me — that the office regularly opens at 9 AM, regardless of the posted hours. She further assured me that I could happily come in at 9 AM and have everything taken care of in a matter of minutes. Before I ended my conversation, I very plainly made sure that I could come in at 9AM the next morning and the woman said — and I quote — "Absolutely!"

I was not convinced.

The State Representative's office is just a short drive from my house, no more than ten minutes. I arrived at the office at 8:55 AM. I parked, walked around to the front entrance and tugged on the door. It was locked... and through the front window I could see there was no signs of life inside. I paced the sidewalk out from for a little while, then I retreated back to my car. After fifteen minutes of still being the only car in the small parking lot, I walked back to the front door. It remained locked I checked the time on my phone, calculating in my head how long I could wait and still make my 10AM doctor's appointment. As I paced off my annoyance, a couple with a small child came up from the path leading from the parking lot.

"Are you waiting for them to open?," the woman asked. "Yes," I replied, then, despite not being asked, I continued, "They told be they would open at 9 this morning." I checked the time. It was now 9:30. The couple thanked me for the information and said they would return at 10. I, too had to leave in order to arrive on time for my doctor's appointment (because I am courteous in that way). In disgust, I walked back to may car.

I arrived at my doctor's office a few minutes before my scheduled 10 AM appointment. I checked in with the receptionist and took a seat in the waiting room... for my 10AM appointment. I waited. And waited. My name was finally called at 10:20AM — a full twenty minutes past the time I was expected to be there. When I arrived, I spotted my doctor wandering around the office and patrolling the hallways back where the exam rooms are. I was led to an exam room where I was instructed to take a seat and that the doctor would be with me shortly — which translates to more waiting.

Finally, the doctor came in and asked me how things were. I told her (she is an otolaryngologist) that I was having some difficulty hearing in my left ear. She took an otoscope and examined my left ear. Then, with some unseen tool, she extracted something from my ear canal that immediately allowed for all sound to be heard.  "Wow!," I said, "What a difference!" The doctor smiled, handed me a printout to give to the receptionist and promptly exited the room. The whole thing took less that ten minutes... that was half the amount of time I spent in the waiting room.

Seeing that I had some extra time, I headed back to the State Representative's office. There were two cars in the parking lot, possibly letting me know that they were, indeed, open. I walked around to the front entrance and it opened. I was greeted by a woman behind a desk who, if I didn't know better, was Amy Sedaris. I told her that I'd like to apply for a Senior SEPTA pass. She smiled and asked for the required information. When it came time to take my picture for inclusion on the card, the camera failed to operate. After several tries and  several comments of "Oh, this darn thing!," she led me back to another office and another woman (who resembled Aunt Bee from the Andy Griffith Show) who would continue to process my application and — hopefully — was equipped with a working camera. Her camera worked, but she was clueless as to how to access my already-started application. Amy returned and the two of them pondered the computer screen for a good long time. They also made chit-chat with me about the Phillies (prompted, I suppose, by my Phanatic sneakers) and the weather. Eventually, they figured things out and my application was submitted to SEPTA.

I debated with myself about telling them that I was assured they would open the office at 9AM and that, based on that assurance, I was at their front door at 9AM. I ultimately decided not to bring it up. It was pointless and would accomplish nothing after the fact. Well, it may have accomplished pissing them off.

After all, my time is not precious. Theirs is.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

only you know and I know

Both of my parents died from colon cancer in their 60s. That puts me — statistically — on the bad side of susceptibility of getting colon cancer. I have been to my doctor many, many times since my parents passed away. Whether it was for a yearly check-up or a follow-up for one of several hospital visits, my doctor has always asked me — in his run-down of "the usual questions" — "Have you had a colonoscopy?" As I shifted uncomfortably upon the examination room table, rebuttoning my shirt, my answer has always been the same. And that answer is "No." His reaction is always the same. He frowns, tells me I should really have one, and then he hands me a many-times Xeroxed list of area doctors who will happily perform the procedure. I take the paper, fold it up and, when I get home, I toss it on the pile of other copies of the same information I have received on previous visits.

It's not like I am afraid of getting a coloscopy. I'm not. Not at all. My brother — four years my senior — has had about a thousand since he turned fifty (the ideal age at which the medical profession suggests that a regimen of coloscopies begin). A friend of mine encouraged me to get one, reporting that the drugs they give you to knock you out prior to the actual procedure are — and this is a direct quote — "fucking awesome." You would think that the promise of an experience usually associated with the side effects of a Grateful Dead concert would be enticement enough to get me to make an appointment, but.... I still didn't. The actual reason (excuse?) I have been lax in scheduling a colonoscopy is convenience... or in my case inconvenience. Yeah.... I know. LAME! That is that lamest excuse. But, taking a sick day off from my various jobs has been — for lack of a better word — a hassle. When I worked at a law firm, my boss would throw so much guilt on me when I scheduled a vacation, as though the most important person at a multi-office law firm was the graphic designer. My next three jobs didn't offer as many sick days and vacation days as I would have liked, so a day off was pretty precious and I didn't feel a preventive care procedure was worth a day off from work. (Stupid, right? Yeah, I know.)

In January, I was in the hospital for a few days and, as my discharge instructions recommended, I scheduled a follow-up visit with my family doctor. As usual, as my visit drew to a close, the subject of a colonoscopy breached the line of questioning. My doctor cocked his head at me, expecting my answer to be one he had heard before. Then, he asked if I would be willing to take a Cologuard home colon cancer detection test.. He offered this alternative as sort a a "secret weapon" to counter my usual "no" response. Once I agreed to the Cologuard test, he muttered "you seem to be afraid of a colonoscopy" and he trailed off. I agreed to the Cologuard, dammit! and I'm not afraid of a colonoscopy! I thought. Instead, I forced a grin and said nothing. A Cologuard test was ordered for me and I was told it would arrive at my house in a few days.

Because of the television programming I usually watch, I have seen a lot of commercials for the Cologuard home test, mixed in with those for other prescription drugs, incontinence remedies, retirement homes, Medicare supplements and reverse mortgages. The Cologuard commercials are clear in their purpose, but are somewhat vague on the actual procedure. To be honest, I didn't pay that close attention to them. 

As promised, a few days after my doctor's visit, a plain white box arrived at my house. I actually ignored it for a couple of days. I also ignored the texts that the good folks at Exact Sciences (Cologuard's distributor) sent me on a twice-daily basis. Finally, I watched an instructional video that one of the texts contained.

I will not elaborate on the actual details of preparation, procedure, post-procedure and getting the completed test back to the company for analyzation. However, I am well aware of what everyone who has taken a Cologuard test at home has done. And, conversely, they are aware of what I did. I know what you were instructed to do and, if you followed the instructions, I know what you did. I will not say what we did. Now, we are like Freemasons. We are now part of a secret society with covert, unspoken rituals known only to those who have been let into the fold. We did these things behind closed doors. Alone... while hundreds or even thousands of other folks were doing the same thing at the same time. We don't wear a badge or any kind of insignia to identify ourselves to each other. We know that we are not the only ones who did what we did. In five years, over two million people did what we did. When we see someone at the UPS office holding that square white box, we know the sequence of events that transpired to bring you to this moment.

We just know.

My test came back negative. Let's just leave it at that.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

box set

A few doors up the block is a house where an older woman lived. Recently, due to her advanced age and declining health, the woman was relocated to an assisted living facility. After the woman was settled into her new home, her daughter and her son-in-law moved into the house.

Apparently, the woman's daughter began emptying out the house. Perhaps in an effort to working towards selling it. Or possibly to unclutter a lifetime's worth of accumulation and make the house more livable. Whatever the reason, day after day, a large cardboard box would appear at the curb. It was filled with an unusual assortment of household items, glassware, dishes in once-trendy patterns, magazines and books. Way at the bottom, there was usually some sort of costume jewelry (we presumed) or some gold-leaf appointed oddity that could only be classified as "bric-a-brac." One of the open flaps of the box presented the single word invitation "FREE" scrawled in black marker, as though a box filled with someone's obvious castoffs wasn't enough of an enticement. The clarification that this stuff was being offered gratis was — in my opinion — overkill.

Mrs. Pincus is not one to shy away from a bargain. She loves yard sales and estate sales and sales sales of any kind (Soupy Sales notwithstanding). Many a road trip has been detoured by an alluring display on some local's driveway or the promise of great deals as proclaimed by signage in the window of a store. But, a boxful of stuff barely fifty feet from our front door is the veritable motherlode. As we embark on our daily walks, Mrs. P regularly checks the contents of "the box," often finding something that could be put up for auction on eBay or, at the very least, put out on a table at our own annual yard sale.

Understand that "the box" is not just a collection of random crap that someone never, ever wants to see again. Well... a lot of it is. But, more than once, my wife has nabbed a little tchotchke that has sparked a surprising bidding war on eBay. Mrs. P has begun to look forward to checking out "the box," sometimes twice, at the beginning and end of our walk.

Just the other day, we saw a fresh sampling of items placed at the curb for the taking. Situated among a stack of instructional sports books, a small wooden cabinet, an unidentified plastic fellow with big inquisitive eyes and a bulky pair of ski boots was an unopened, still-intact six pack of Boost^®, which according to the product's official website is: "a nutrient-rich drink that's great as a mini-meal or an in-between meal snack, designed to produce a lower blood sugar response in people with diabetes."

Why the occupants of the house didn't want it is beyond me.

I began to think. Sure, Mrs. P has taken stuff from "the box." and, obviously other people have taken stuff from "the box," as we have seen folks milling about the container in much the same way we have - bent over, gingerly rearranging the contents and then scurrying away with some treasure. I wondered, though, did someone wander along, spot a six-pack of Boost^® and think: "Just what I needed!" I can imaging the poor sap downing bottle after bottle of the drink, eventually feeling ill and consulting a doctor after experiencing stomach cramps, cold chills and all sorts of discomfort. The doctor would ask a list of routine questions, trying to pinpoint the source of his patient's illness. "Did you eat or drink anything unusual?," he'd ask. The patient would explain that he consumed several bottles of the nutritious Boost^® drink, a ritual he's done for some time. The baffled doctor, continuing his probe, would ask: "Was the product past its 'Good Till' date? Which store did he purchase the drink from?" "Oh no," the patient would scoff dismissively, "I didn't get it at a store! I picked it out of a box by the curb next to a pair of ski boots." The doctor would then quickly make a few notations on the patient's file before kicking him the fuck out of his office.

See.... "the box" is more than just a source of merchandise.

www.joshpincusicrying.com

here we come, on the run, with a burger on a bun

I regularly get offers from Groupon, the international "deal-of-the-day" website featuring various discounts on products and services, since I inexplicably signed up for emails about a year ago. As of today, I have taken advantage of exactly none of the offers.

Earlier this week, between the spa treatments, discount car parking at the airport and cheap tickets for a Bush concert (are they even still a band?),  I got an interesting offer from the good people at Groupon. I read it and re-read it a few times to make sure I was seeing it correctly. The offer was for a hamburger and French fries every day for a year at a place called PYT, in the hip Philadelphia neighborhood of Northern Liberties. PYT has gained near legendary status locally for their outrageous take on the classic burger (using donuts and Eggo waffles as buns; introducing peas & carrots and Scotch eggs as toppings). They also breached the infamy barrier when an incident over gratuity involving Philadelphia Eagles' running back LeSean McCoy made national headlines. I've never eaten at PYT, although, based on photos from their website, the burgers are astonishing – some bordering on obscene. Plus, I don't eat meat.

PYT's Groupon for a year's worth of burgers and fries costs $144. The regular price is figured at a couple of bucks shy of $4400, as most of their menu items run around the ten dollar mark. There is a short list of stipulations for the offer, like limiting the selection to burgers and fries only (PYT does offer other types of food, as well as alcoholic "adult" milkshakes). The deal is not transferable, so don't get any ideas about sharing this with a friend. They also limited the offer to "dine in" only. This was met with complaints, as the "no take-out" rule was not initially outlined in the original offer. PYT owner Tommy Up explained that anyone who feels he or she was misled could get a refund. "The intent of the burger deal," he said, "is to make new burger-loving friends." If you read the reviews on yelp.com, PYT can use all the friends it can get. The joint has garnered quite a reputation for having a less-than-gracious waitstaff. Some waiters have been described as "rude," "pretty bad," "slow" and "not attentive at all."

PYT's Turducken burger is included.

But, let's get back to the deal at hand: one burger and one order of fries every day — every day! — for a year. How often can someone actually eat a giant, decadent burger and a full plate of fried potatoes? Once a week? A couple of times a week? Can someone consume a (and I quote from the menu) "banana-sriacha marinated juicy beef patty with applewood bacon on top between two deep-fried, kettle chip-coated peanut butter and jelly sandwich buns" seven days a week? Can a Bengal tiger even do that? When I first received the email, I sent a text to my son (also a vegetarian). I know he has eaten at PYT (they offer veggie burgers) with his girlfriend (a carnivore but we love her just the same). Assessing the value, his reply about the offer was: "That's an affordable way to die."

I wonder if Groupon considered pairing the PYT offer with a discounted consultation with a cardiologist?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

too much pressure

I took a day off from work for a dentist appointment. I was scheduled for Phase 2, Part 1 of a multi-part reconstruction of the inner workings of my mouth. After receiving a top partial bridge, I would now begin the procedure for being fitted for a matching bottom partial — all because I ate several thousand Snickers Bars between 1966 and.... last week.

So, my day off was all planned. Get to the dentist nice and early. Out by 10 AM and home to the TV for a full day of Love Boat, Green Acres, The Patty Duke Show and Dennis the Menace. I was seated in the dentist chair and a technician began wrapping a Velcro cuff around my arm to take my blood pressure. After the cuff tighened and released the pumped air, he asked, "Are you nervous?"

"No.," I replied. I wasn't. A dentist visit doesn't really bother me.

He pressed on. "Did you drink any coffee this morning?"

"Yes.," I answered.

"Are you on high blood pressure medication?," he continued, as though he was reading a checklist.

"No, I'm not."

"Well, relax," he said, "and I'll be back in  a few minutes. Maybe it'll go down."

My dentist, Tandläkare, entered the room perusing the results of the sphygmomanometer. and shaking her head. She, too, told me to relax. A few minutes later, the technician returned to cuff-and-pump me once again. The reading was the same — 190 over 119. You read that correctly. 

Tandläkare was not comfortable extracting teeth with the possibility of the incisions spouting blood like the Trevi Fountain. We settled on an overdue cleaning instead. As she scraped and scaled what few teeth I have left, she instructed me to contact a doctor and "have this taken care of" before any further dental work could take place. I promised I would.

With my plans for an afternoon of black & white, poorly-written comedy temporarily shelved, I got home and called a number in our household phone book who I believed was our family doctor. It turns out I had not visited his office since 2008. I asked for and was able to secure an appointment for later in the day. Well, there goes my day off of classic television. I dozed off during McHale's Navy but woke up in time to head out for my appointment.

"Forever and ever
and ever."

The doctor asked my reason for the visit and I explained the series of events and my dentist's concern for my blood pressure. He asked me a bunch of general medical history question, as it had been so long since my last visit that my records had been moved to an offsite archive. He busily typed into a laptop as he asked about my diet, my physical condition, my parents and their health. He looked in my ears, tapped on my chest and pressed on my abdomen. Then he wrapped his own Velcro cuff around my arm and, as we discussed the sorry state of the 2014 Phillies, he pumped the little rubber bulb. Discussing the Phils was probably a bad idea, because the needle registered a whopping 210 over 121. The doctor scratched his head — wondering, I suppose, how I was still able to walk upright. A technician ran a EKG and another drew a vial of blood from my right arm. (Let me tell you, none of this remotely figured into my day-off plans.) A prescription was called to my local pharmacy for something called amlodipine besylate. I was instructed to take one pill as soon as I got home, one tomorrow morning, and one every morning until he says stop. I was told side effects could be swelling of the legs and possible erratic behavior (but, with me, that will be difficult to determine). I was given diet guidelines and told to watch my sodium intake. How much salt could there possibly be in a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby?

All I wanted was to watch a couple of fucking sitcoms on a day off from work. Instead, I end up facing the realities of growing old.

And so it begins...

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

day by day

Okay, so yesterday I was sitting in the waiting room of a doctor's office. There were a few other people — three men and a woman — each seated in a plain brown armchair, some thumbing through magazines, one reading a newspaper. I was the only person in the room who was under the age of seventy. One man and the woman were having an inane and pointless conversation about the availability of Phillies playoff tickets. Each offered incorrect information to the other about how they understood tickets to have been distributed. I was about twenty minutes early for my appointment, so I knew my name would not be called any time soon.

Suddenly, the door creaked open and another potential patient joined us in the waiting room. This man, a hulking figure with a shaved head, dark and weathered sport coat and ragged Dockers, lumbered to the reception area, his heavy shoes crushing the carpet with each step. To confirm his appointment, he announced his name to the woman at the desk. Silently, she scanned the appointment sheet. She gave it the once-over again. She studied it a third time, this time she used her extended index finger as a guide, running it over each and every entry on the sheet. She glanced up at the man.

"Are you sure your appointment is today?," she asked.

"Uh, I think so," he answered, shrugging his slumping, though massive, shoulders.

She scrutinized the list again, this time more slowly and meticulously than her three previous attempts. She briefly conferred with another younger woman in hospital scrubs seated at another desk.

"Could your appointment have been yesterday?," she asked.

"I dunno. I thought it was today., " the man muttered, the words slurring together, barely intelligible.

The receptionist politely offered a solution. "I can make an appointment for you right now, if you like. Maybe for later this afternoon. Would that be okay?"

"That'll be alright," he accepted.

The young woman in scrubs interrupted. "Here it is!," she said. She directed her speech to the man.

"Tomorrow!," she said, "Your appointment is this time tomorrow!"

"Okay," he said, "I'll come back tomorrow." He turned and headed towards the exit, almost knocking over a frail older man who had entered during this exchange.

My name was called and I was directed out of the Twilight Zone and into the first consultation room on the left.