Atlanta International Ballet

(I wrote this in the Delta SkyClub overlooking Terminal T and Terminal A at Atlanta in September, en route home from a terrific weekend in Houston with Glenn and his mom, helping them with a few projects.)

I have a terrible confession to make.  While I, like so many others, have my own stories of horror about bad airport experiences, on the whole I actually enjoy being at one.  I welcome the sense of adventure they represent.

I enjoy watching the busyness, the hurrying ballet of men and machines.  Perhaps the first thing to notice is the graceful pas-de-deux at a single gate.  The aircraft noses in to a gate while the ramp chief guides them in, with the final "X" of his sticks to stop it precisely as needed.  The trains of baggage carts snaking about.  Some of the baggage trains are purposeful: pulling up to a luggage ramp or taking loads from the plane to the baggage center.  Others, not so much, and it's harder to tell whether perhaps some cart driver isn't perhaps just out for a spin.  It's fun to guess which are which.

That same dance repeats itself over and over up and down the rows of gates, with aircraft pulling in, aircraft backing out, some headed left, some headed right.  Look along the ramp and see the different classes of aircraft, all wearing the same Delta livery: rows of MD-88s and 737s, the workhorses, bound for places such as Raleigh-Durham, or Baton Rouge, or Chattanooga.  And here and there, the majestic 747s, the impressive 777s, and perhaps a foreign-flagged A380, each bound for exotic locations such as Rome, Rio, or Johannesburg.  I sigh a little, never having been to any of those places, wondering what adventures could happen there, and marveling at the sense of possibility that inheres to each aircraft.

When the kids were younger, we'd actually do a day at the airport as a family event.  We would go to National Airport and sit in front of those enormous windows looking out onto the ramp and the runway.  David would point to a plane and ask where it was going; I would see it's a United flight, and they only go to Chicago from DCA, and so I could sound truly impressive by telling him "Chicago."  Or the American Airlines flights: "Miami or Dallas." And then of course he'd pick a US Airways flight, which of course could be going anywhere from DCA.  Smart kid, testing how much Dad knows.

Now that they're older, we don't do that anymore.  And as I begin to contemplate what retirement could be like someday, I do wish I could do more of this with Mary: exploring new cities, jetting off to a new adventure now and again.  For now I have to content myself with imagination and wonder, and appreciation for the subtle rhythms and the varieties, in an international airport.

Is There A Doctor In The…Neighborhood?

I have to find a new GP…and I really don't want to wade into that swamp.

My doctor for the last twenty years has "retired"--I put it in quotes because he has stepped out of the practice and has opened a boutique concierge-care service for those (not me) with plenty of disposable income.  I loved seeing him: once, when I began having trouble with my knee, I led with the classic, "Doc, it hurts when I do this." "Well, don't do that," he knew to reply. I also enjoyed having a doctor whose body-mass index was roughly mine, as it tended to cut down on the "you really need to lose weight" commentary.

His former practice remains, and in fact for a couple of things here and there I've been in to see the nurse practitioners.  But I need a new doctor, and I don't really have an attachment to anyone else at that old practice--which has become more difficult to drive to since we moved here in 2004.  It's gotten really old to have to drive at least half an hour to see the practice--and that's non-rush-hour traffic.  Surely there has to be someone much closer by who can be what I need.

I've begun the process, as it seems one does these days, by searching online and through my insurance provider, to see who in the area out here by the house actually takes my insurance.  I then began checking other websites: healthgrades.com or WebMD or any of a dozen other places, all in an effort to learn more about the candidates nearby.  But what am I looking for in a doctor?  In many respects I have no idea.  For instance, I seem to have two principal choices in age: either folks who are over 55 (experienced, not much I could throw at them they haven't seen; but, prone to retiring themselves in the next decade or so), or around 30-35 (likely having the freshest training from med school; but do I really want a doctor younger than me? Isn't that what old people have?).  Or, do I take a sexist approach and rule out all the women, regardless of qualifications, so I don't have to discuss prostate health with one as I age?  Do I care about where he went to med school?  Not so much as I do whether he's been disciplined by the state board…all of which is out there now.

And other considerations exist that weren't dreamt of two decades ago when I found my retiree.  How user-friendly is his website? Will he interact via e-mail, or does every question have to be done in person at an appointment (at $20 apiece)?  And how many layers of answering-system hell do I have to endure to make a simple appointment?

It all feels so…commercial, like I'm comparison shopping for a new car.  Or vaguely "gotcha," as if the negative comments posted up about a doctor are truly representative of his service, instead of just being the pissed-off ones who are prone to posting anyway.  Gone are the days, it seems, when everyone knew the doctors in town, which ones were good for which kinds of patients.

I'm left with a sense of dread as I begin this effort.  I hope it won't be as difficult as it appears likely to be.

Year-End Gift Lists

The kids have begun their work on updating their gift ideas lists, ahead of Christmas, and Mary and I have too.  We've also added a category for Mom, for those Up North who may want ideas for her for the holidays; as she adds more ideas we'll keep this current.

Perspectives

Monday night I heard from a friend of mine who hails from several states away; his teenager that day had taken active steps towards self-harm and threatened to keep at it, so he was at the ER.  He spoke harrowingly of a beloved child who that day could not see the love, could only see the darkness and who had "had it" with the darkness and just wanted out.  We spoke only briefly, as he had so much to tend to (securing a referral to an adolescent psychiatric facility, juggling paperwork and a distraught teen); we texted; and I so much wanted to be there to do something to help.

The next day, on taking my mom around to various appointments, I learned the twinges in her right leg come from a spinal stenosis that's not severe enough to merit surgery, just fortnightly visits to Centreville for cortisone shots; the fall she sustained from the bed Sunday morning meant a visit to the optometrist; her cat needed food from the vet; and all in all I didn't make it in to the office until after 1, wherein I learned of the various lacks-of-progress in various projects, and generally had a quite frustrating afternoon at the office.

Sometimes I believe God places things in front of us by way of a message.  The message of Monday night, interpreted in the light of Tuesday, was, to me, "You might find this frustrating, that's true.  But you really don't have it that bad at all, do you?  You are blessed; whether you stop to acknowledge it is up to you, but y'know what, you really aren't that badly off."

Garrison Keillor said it well: Thank you, dear God, for this good life, and forgive us if we do not love it enough.