About that VA...

Can you say cognitive dissonance?

I’ve written about the amazing experience we had with the VA six weeks ago.

Scratch all that.

The amazing “hip kit” never showed up. The Audiology department never returned my phone calls. My dad received a letter from the VA asking about a claim he filed over 60 years ago, giving him one year to respond. He doesn’t even remember what the claim was about—something to do with his time in Korea, but nothing to do with his current disability.

It’s been frustrating and disappointing.

Today, though, we went back to the clinic to get him assessed for a mechanized scooter. I picked him up early because he had to check out of the rooms he’s been in (the fourth move in six weeks, for those playing at home). I got all his stuff loaded into the car and drove 40 minutes up to Daytona Beach.

We got there early and I settled him in the waiting area. I walked to the Audiology department, ready to raise hell to get him an appointment. I needn’t have gotten so worked up. Instead of having to make a fuss, I walked right up to the counter and met a lovely, kind woman who apologized profusely that I hadn’t received a return phone call. She said, “I hate to say it, but I’m not surprised.” When I asked if I could make him an appointment there and then, she smiled and said, “Of course. But unfortunately, we’re scheduling for September now, unless there’s a cancellation.” I told her to go ahead and schedule him. God knows, at 92 he needs appointments as soon as we can get them.

She began typing and I watched as her brow furrowed. She looked askance at the screen and then looked up at me. “You’re not going to believe this. I have a cancellation for tomorrow. At 9:00. Could you do that?”

I laughed and assured her that no matter what it took, I would get him there for the appointment. She kept shaking her head, telling me this never happens. Before I left, she printed out the appointment for me and wrote down the direct line to the department with an extension that will get me to them without having to languish on the main voice mail. She was friendly and kind and my ire dropped a notch. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Christina,” she smiled.

I shook her hand and thanked her. “See you tomorrow!”

As I walked back to the area where my father sat, a physical therapist called his name. He’s hard of hearing (did I mention that?) so I walked quickly and waved my hand to catch her attention, then pointed to him. We went inside the physical therapy area and she began examining him. One of the tests was for him to stand and sit as many times as he could in 30 seconds.

He was able to do it twice, groaning and wincing in pain. It was awful.

She asked him questions about what he was able to do and then brought out a sample scooter. He stood to get on it, again crying out in pain. She showed him how the seat turned so he could get on it easily, then turned to face the front. She demonstrated the controls, joking with him not to yank too hard so he didn’t just take off and run over one of the other physical therapists.

His smile lit up the room.

The physical therapist had him drive the scooter through the therapy area and out into the lobby. I stayed behind because I was fighting back tears. After five minutes, he drove back to our room, nearly giddy with excitement.

He was mobile, at long last.

She asked him if he wanted the gray (like the test drive model), blue, or red. He told her he didn’t like to be flashy, but could he see pictures? She showed him the website—first the blue one (“Wow, Cissy—look at that!”) and then the red. That was it. He fell in love at first sight, and in two months will be the proud owner of a red electric scooter. It drives 14 miles on a charge and he won’t be housebound for the first time in over two months.

But I wasn’t quite ready to stop being mad at the VA. I told the therapist about the missing hip kit and she looked through my dad’s online history.

“I see that it’s in process,” she said, “but it doesn’t look like it’s been shipped.” She smiled. “I’m pretty sure I have most of this in stock. I can go grab this for you right now.”

OK. I’m done being mad. Institutionally they may suck, but individually they are amazing. When she came back with everything he needs, I asked her name.

“Riley,” she smiled and shook my hand. I thanked her and tried not to cry.

I loaded up my dad and all his new gear into my car and took him to his new digs. It’s a charming little studio apartment across the street from the beach, a three minute drive from my place. We are praying hard that he is able to move into my next door neighbor’s house in the next two weeks and he’ll finally be settled.

Nice story, Cindy. What’s the lesson?

Words matter. Soulless words on an answering machine mean one thing. Genuine, kind words from a caring human mean something else. My anger at the VA in general had no place in talking to the VA in specific. Christina in Audiology and Riley in Physical Therapy are people who care about patients, who work hard to meet their needs.

I’m grateful for the lesson: Take a deep breath before unloading on someone. Remember the delta between institutional indifference and personal concern. Don’t ever forget to thank someone—by name—when they are kind and when they are a part of something beautiful.

Like making an old man smile.

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If you’re in Florida, I’d love to meet you and share more about midlife reinvention and my contemporary romance novels, Bread Pudding in Barcelona, Something Will Sing to Your Heart, and A Thistle in the Cevennes. It’s never too late to be who you’ve always dreamed of being.

Midnight Moon Books and Boutique, 13 June, 1:00 – 4:00 pm

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Needful Books and Things, 4 July, 1:00 – 3:00 pm

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The New Romantics, 19 July, 2:30 – 4:30 pm

3018 Corrine Drive Orlando, FL 32803

Page & Pen, 3 October, 11:00 am – 5:00 pm

Oviedo Mall, 1700 Oviedo Mall Blvd, Oviedo FL 32765

The Book End at the Halifax Arts Festival, 7-8 November, 9:00 am – 5:00 pm

166 South Beach Street, Daytona Beach, FL