BATTERY MONTH

It has been said that amateurs study tactics, professionals study logistics. I have attempted to put things aside for rainy days, and, with Mr. Biden at the helm, and Mr. Buttigieg as Secretary of Transportation, well, my achy knees tell me that rainy days are a’coming.

This being November, it is Battery! Month! Semi annually, I inspect my batteries, and assess their charge. I inspect for signs of leakage, I test the strength (using a voltage meter: Radio Shack used to sell them for $10-$20, once upon a time), and contemplate whether I have enough of each size. Unlike ammunition, “MOAR!” is not always the correct answer, for, ammunition keeps nearly forever if kept cool, dry and in the dark. Batteries have a self discharge phenomenon, and both rechargeable as well as alkaline (and carbon-zinc), or “primary”, batteries, will lose their charge over time. (“Primary batteries” are single use, and their charge derives from the chemicals with which they are made. “secondary”, or rechargeable, batteries can be brought backup to charge, after discharge, although after a sufficient number of charge/discharge cycles, they gradually lose their ability to accept and hold a charge.) Therefore, in an ideal bunker, I would have just enough that I would have fully charged batteries in service, and enough fully charged replacements to cycle back and forth, so that no battery would die a lonely, unused, death, way back in the back of my battery shelf.

I am still striving for that level of efficiency.

When I checked this month, to my disappointment, I found that most of my rechargeable batteries had discharged. Once I see if they will accept and hold a charge, I will know if they are in need of replacement, or simply every 3 month assessment.

I have some primary cells, for items that are frequently used. I have an LED penlight fueled by AAA batteries, and another identical penlight, except that this LED emits in near UV. That is handy for illuminating rashes, sometimes revealing luminescence typical of certain strains of dermatophytes. You might recognize the rashes caused, such as “ringworm”, or dandruff, or athlete’s foot, among others. Not all the dermatophytes glow under UV, but when it does, it is an “AHA!” moment.

My SureFire and ITP flashlights ride in holsters on my belt. They are bright, “Light-up-the-yard” lights. There are two, because should one fail, it is likely that the other will function. There are two, because should one fail, it is likely that the other will function. I have spare batteries in my “Bag Of Tricks” (h/t to Felix The Cat)

Our vehicles each have a “torch”, to differentiate the hand held lights, from the headlamp, the light-up-the-interior-of-the-vehicle lanterns, or the LED warning flashers. One is powered by CR-123 batteries, two are powered by C primary cells (the torch, and one handheld flashlight)

The LED flashers are powered by AAA batteries, and are intended to allow oncoming traffic to see that there is something (Me!) in the roadway, in the event of a breakdown, collision, or other night time deviation from normal. It turns out, when you buy “budget” rechargeable batteries, they have fewer charge/discharge cycles in their make up, than quality cells. Guess which will replace the unsatisfactory batteries? Yep: buy once, cry once. Or cheap out, and cry. In the dark.

Each month has it’s own focus, such that I do not spend every single day off in any one month in my subterranean lair, checking off stores against a checklist. If all goes smoothly, I might get my inventory done in an afternoon. As a starting point for those who might be interested, I have included a representative sample of my battery-and-lights checklist.

BATTERIES

EDC: UV Penlight AA x 2

Penlight AA x 2

Surefire CR-123 x 2

ITP CR 123 x 2

Proton Light

Keyring LR 41 x 4

Badge LR 41 x 4

Bedside

Surefire G-2 CR 123 x 2

Ultrafire 18650 x 1

Camper: Lantern Box

Coleman Quad Lantern #1 D x8

Coleman Quad Lantern #2 D x 8

Siege Light #1 D x 3

Siege Light #2 D x 3

Siege Light AA AA x 3

CAR LIGHTS

TDW Car

Torch C x 2

Headlamp AA x 2

LED Beacons AAA x 3 each (6 beacons)

My Vehicle

Torch C x 2

Headlamp AA x 2

LED Beacons AAA x 3 each (12 beacons)

Small Handheld light CR 123 x 2

Large Handheld Light C x 4

Medic Bag Surefire CR 123 x 2

Field Phones

Set #1 (2 phones x 2 D cells each) D x 4

Set #2 (2 phones x 2 D cells each) D x 4

Night Vision

AA x 4

Red Flashlight Toolbox

Mini Mag Lights x 2 (2 AA ea) AA x 4

Ray o Vac x 1 (2 AA) AA x 2

Mini Mag 3 cell AA x 3

Sure Fire Hurricane Light (weak CR 123, holds 12)

CUMULATIVE TOTALS, FOR EACH TYPE OF BATTERY

AA x 24 in service at any one time

AAA x 64

CR 123 x 8

18650 x 1

LR 41 x 8

C x 8

D x 30

Advertisement

Revelations, and Pride In My Child

A couple of months ago, I was chatting with my daughter, Brenda. She somehow revealed that, years ago, when she was a single mother, working part time and going to school, money was tight.

I had kinda known that.

Just HOW tight, I evidently had not appreciated. She revealed that several times, she had gone to bed without supper, in order that her child could eat.

Let’s consider that, for a moment. It certainly elicits mixed feelings in me.

Foremost, pride. My daughter is professional, committed, and decisive. Her revelation reveals outstanding triage skills, as well as monumental commitment to her child.

Secondly, frustration. It is not as if I could not/would not remedy her pantry problems. Hell, I have been an overtime working fool nearly all my life, and another day of OT, in order to feed my child and grandchild, well, I suspect “BFD!” communicates my feelings adequately. (that is “big freaking deal”, although the second word generally refers to certain ancient and generally highly regarded fertility rites…).

Thirdly, frustration. (again). It is not as if I do not buy groceries, to this day, just as if I were still feeding four hungry adolescents. That both provides me with plentiful left-overs for my meals at work, as well as abundant food-in-waiting. The only thing stopping me from a pantry filling visit to my child, is her failing to tell me such might be useful.

Finally, it reinforces my appraisal of my child, that she is A WOMAN, and, like her mother, knows not of this “back down”, you might speak of, with regard to her children. Formidable, competent, decisive.

Sometimes, I am Humbled

Last week, I got back into my “groove”. I have had the reputation of sending folks to ED with greater frequency than my colleagues. So, this one gentleman arrived, in pretty remarkable abdominal pain. His exam was NOT reassuring, and I wondered if he had a hot gall bladder, or some other variety of intra-abdominal catastrophe-in-waiting.

Now, to be honest, I am not particularly young, nor am I particularly spry. Indeed, for the past several weeks I have been gimping about the clinic, as my one knee is undecided whether it will ache, give out, let my kneecap spin freely about my mid leg, or some unpleasant combination of the three. So, it is apparent to any observer who cares to notice, that my one leg is not making me happy.

Yeah, I know: STBM. (Sucks To Be Me), after a fashion.

So, this gentleman, in no small pain his own self, as a parting conversational gambit on his way to ED, and maybe surgery, wished, “I hope your leg feels better!”

Jeez! Some people! With all the setting good examples of compassion, and empathy!

Makes it difficult, sometimes, to be as cynical as I tend to be.

Communication Breakdown

So, TINS©, TDW-Mark II had set out, because TSIL-Mark II (The Sister In Law-Mark II) had undergone surgery of some sort, and required assistance in the couple of weeks post operation. TDW does not work outside the home, and I flatter myself that I am sort of self sufficient. So, off she went.

Her journey to Another Fly Over State was unremarkable. She arrived, and notified me of this fact. I cooked up a batch of food, ensuring a supply of left overs for my work day repast. I laundered clothing and suchlike, and folded and hung same. I washed the dishes, and then put them away. I went to work, came home, played with the cats, and generally bummed around.

Just like I was a grown up, and had, oh, heck, maybe, done all this stuff before, right?

So, one evening I had changed into pajamas, hanging my pants and shirt up on the hook in the closet. My routine is that I will, the next morning, retrieve said pants and shirt, and transfer all my whatnot from old clothing, into the pockets of new clothing.

Well, when I do so, and leave my cellphone in my pants pocket, and retire to another room altogether to watch “Battleship New Jersey” videos (highly recommended, BTW!), or The History Guy videos (another enthusiastic Thumbs Up! Recommendation!), well, I cannot hear the ringer on my phone. Since I am not youthful, and do not have a pristine medical record, and, as well, TDW-Mark II is a bit of a worry wart, well, when I do not answer my phone, nor the texts, and this continues for something like a half an hour, well, she gets excited and calls a friend of ours, who also lives in town, requesting that he meander over and verify that I am not folded up on the floor, with the cats poking me and asking when I will arise, and feed them. Or something.

So, much to my surprise, our friend rang my doorbell at something like 2200 hours, and explained the preceding paragraph to me. I retrieved my phone, and promptly called TDW, and reassured her that I was NOT a crumpled heap of geezerhood at the bottom of the stairs.

The ringing in my ear, from the chastisement I subsequently received, has nearly resolved, as I write these words.

FPC: Phenomenal Phone Company

A long, long time ago, in a state capitol city not so very far from here, I was seated in the basement of The Enormous Hospital System Mothership, where She Who Would Become TDW-Mark II was undergoing surgery of some sort. I was seated next to, well, let’s simply call him my father in law.

At this point in the celebrations, the divorce from The Plaintiff had concluded, and she and I had a week-on-and-week-off child custody arrangement. My adolescent children had cell phones, and had both me and their mother on speed dial.

So, Number Three Son had occasion to call me, but I could not make out what he had to say, and my attempts to re connect with him were for naught.

I did not know if this was generic adolescent ‘gotta call dad’, or something emergent. That latter was very unlikely, but, after all, I have kinda spent my life in the “this is sort of an emergency” business, and therefore considering that possibility is an occupational hazard. Therefore, since I was NOT at home, and, should my children need me, their ability to communicate that to me in a timely manner was mission critical, well, The Phone Company, and their inability to connect a freaking call something like 12 blocks from the freaking state freaking capitol, well, to understate the thing, I found it unsatisfactory.

Father In Law offered the use of his phone, on Another Carrier. I entered the number of my son, hit “connect”, and, par miracle’!, just like that, I was speaking to my son!

We concluded our conversation, since it was a generic “ought to call dad” call, and I asked Father In Law if I could make one more call. He assented.

I then called “customer service” (spit!) of The Phone Company. I explained my problem, and how this was not acceptable. Phone Company Minion asked my location, and I described myself as being one floor down from street level, in waiting lounge of Enormous Hospital System Mothership. Minion then regaled me with a bit of RF theory, to wit: “You cannot reasonably expect a cell phone to have a reliable signal when you are underground!”

I asked Minion, do you have caller id?

Affirmative.

Could you tell me the originating telephone number for this call we are having, right now?

He read back Father In Law’s phone number.

Is that a Phone Company number? If not, what carrier services that number.

Why do you ask?, responded the Minion.

“Because, that is the carrier who is henceforth going to be receiving checks from me approximating $200/month, because my phone, my childrens’ phones, and the phone of every mo$%#r f@!%&er who will stand still long enough to hear this story, will be giving their business to this carrier, whose phone I presently hold in my hand, in this basement, as you and I converse!”

Having said that, I realized that there is no satisfying way to slam down a cell phone. I miss plain old wired phones.

Gotta Scratch That Itch!

A week or two ago, my MA returned from her lunch, and showed me her parking lot find: a couple of dirty syringes, with bent needles. “I found them on the ground behind my tire”, she related.

My thoughts were, ‘what sort of fool, even among the universe of fools who inject drugs, leaves a freaking needle on the ground in a parking lot, where children come and go on their way to their own physician appointments?’

@

So, just the other day, TDW-Mark II needed to recharge her cash card. Off to her bank we went. The gentleman attending to her transaction appeared to be somewhere in his twenties, whereas I, myself, am approaching 70 (and so closely approaching 70, that 70 has started to tap his brakes, and slow down, in hopes that I would not admire his bumper so closely anymore!).

TDW was making conversation with this gentleman, and he was owning that this sort of transaction was unfamiliar to him. TDW then up and chirps, “It must be hard on poor elderly people, who don’t have computers, or know how to use them! That whole smart phone, and computer banking thing can be rough on the elderly!”

I looked at her for a moment, and spoke up. “Am I not standing right here? You CAN see me, right? Really? I. Am. Right. Here!”

Small Town Policing

So, once upon a time, my bad example led TDW-Mark II (The Darling Wife-Mark Two) to obtain her own concealed pistol license. She spent some time at the range with me, and eventually decided that she would carry a Springfield Armory XD pistol in 9 millimeter.

As these stories of mine develop, she was driving about our little town, and one observant police officer noted that she had a brake light out. He pulled her over to explain to her his observation.

Being a good doobie, she announced as part of her opening conversational gambit, “I am a CPL holder, and I have it here in my purse on the floor of the passenger side of the car!”

He acknowledged this tidbit, and invited her to carefully produce her license, registration, and CPL license itself.

She did so, and the officer walked back to his vehicle to run her plates and license.

He returned, and returned her cards to her. “So,” he asked, “What made you select the XD for your carry gun? My wife just took her CPL class, and is considering her own choice of pistol.”

TDW recounted her experience with my array of pistols, finding them overly large for her hands (Glock, Browning High Power), or not enough ammunition in the magazine for her preference (Revolver, Colt Government Model). “When I picked up the XD in the gunshop, it felt just right in my hand, and when I shot it, I did pretty good with it!”

They soon concluded their conversation, and she returned home, excited about her contact. “We simply had a nice conversation about concealed carry, and women’s choices in pistols, and why this or that pistol might be more or less suitable. It was kind of nice!”

Entry number 4,385 in my Catalog Of Why I Love Small Towns.

Kitten Tales, Part VII

So, TINS…. OK, this is not another firehouse/”sea story”. I was lolling around the house one evening, and TDW-Mark II came to me, cradling our petite, mostly white (well, most of the time…) cat, Trixie. Said cat appeared to have settled herself, right side first, into an ash pile.

This was concerning, since when the kittens had first joined our household, four of them had taken to exploring our heatilator style fireplace. Said explorations were made considerably easier (for the kittens) due to the fact that one of the grates, in place specifically to prevent such explorations, had become loose. TDW-Mark II had (a) noticed that the kittens were not accounted for, and, after a frenzied search, (b) had noticed that one of the older cats, Max, had, pointer style, settled in in front of one of the fireplace warm air outlets. When she (TDW) investigated Max’s pointing, she discovered four grimy, meowing, kittens, noses pressed against the grate.

She removed that grate, and extricated the kittens. They were brushed off, and pranced away, none the worse for wear. Since I believe that too much of a good thing is just about enough, we expoxied the offending grate back in place, replaced the unscrewed-so-we-could-extricate-kittens grate, and placed the fireplace screen in a closet, and backed a piece of furniture against the opening for the fireplace, after placing a large sheet of cardboard over the opening.

Remember that cardboard bit.

So, Trixie’s ashen demeanor elicited some concern that other cats might have taken up spelunking. A hurried cat census revealed that everybody was accounted for, and the only problems remaining were cleaning Trixie, and more effectively securing the fireplace.

Inspection revealed that the cardboard had been bowed, producing a kitten sized sort of funnel devolving into the fireplace. Well, THAT was a permanent fix! Worked fine, as well!

Second things first. I retrieved a sheet of plywood (now, kiddies, once upon a time, mere mortals could afford this thing called “lumber”. Indeed it was so inexpensive that folks built entire houses out of the stuff! In a manner similar to the query, how did Californians light their houses prior to using candles? Electricity!) I placed this sheet in front of the fireplace, between the cardboard and the opening, and wedged it in place with that furniture I spoke of 3 paragraphs ago.

TDW-Mark II had determined that Trixie T. Cat had a bath in her future. Golly, I was so, so, soooo looking forward to that!

Fortunately, Trixie had previously decided that she needed to supervise my med passes, as well as my shaving and my tooth brushing. In the process, she would bat at the stream of water coming from the faucet, then licking her paw as if in surprise at that wet stuff appearing thereon. And, repeat. So, the water-running-in-the-sink thing did not concern her. She was even relatively copacetic with the run-warm-water-over-the-kitten part.

Not such a fan of the baby-shampoo-on-the-kitten part. Pro Tip! If you have occasion to bathe a cat, even such a placid cat as Trixie, bathe said cat with DROPLETS of baby shampoo, NOT streams. That latter initiative will lead to a prolonged period of cat rinsing, and, well, cats have a limited desire to play in the water. Particularly when said water is all over them. Trixie rapidly reached the part of our tale wherein she declaimed “Let me the fook out of here! I. AM. DONE. HERE!”

That is the bad news. The good news is that she articulated this complaint with pushing at us with her paws, claws retracted. Good on’er for the retracted part!

Soon, we had rinsed the shampoo from her, and wrapped her up in a bath towel, halfway drying her. Another towel, and she was as dry as we were going to get her.

We released her, and she walked away, pausing from time to time to shake one leg or another, as if to shake the remaining water off. She still looked bedraggled, but considerable less sooty.

By the following morning, between her own cleaning efforts, and grooming from her siblings, she was nearly entirely clean. And dry.

SNIPPETS V

STORY THE FIRST

So, TINS, TIWFDASL, just a couple of weeks ago, and, as I entered the room, I was greeted by the younger of the two women seated in the exam room. “There he is! You saved my mother’s life!”

While that certainly was a welcome greeting, I admitted that I was confused. The younger woman, evidently the daughter, filled in the missing pieces. Several weeks previously, she (the narrator) had accompanied her mother (the other soul in the room while we conversed) to a visit to our clinic. She (the mother) had been having a cough of some sort, and I had felt that something in the experience did not sound right. After some assessment in clinic, I had sent the mother to ED, and those worthies had identified a 100% occlusion of one of mom’s coronary arteries (the arteries feeding the heart). Mother had received a stent, and been sent home, and was still among us. Indeed, she was here, today, due to another cough.

Thankfully, today’s cough appeared uncomplicated, and I recommended my usual measures to ameliorate the post nasal drip that seemed to be the source of the cough.

Sometimes I get to think that I really do, from time to time, positively impact people’s lives. That’s nice to think.

STORY, THE SECOND.

Just the other day, I was shopping. Such is the life of a life saving, disease fighting, internet blogging champion (of sorts). As it develops, I am middling tall: 5-7 or so. It turns out that the pasta I was hunting for was on the top shelf, and several other people had purchased some, before me. THAT meant that I could just barely not reach the boxes. I had just realized that I, a tool using animal, could open my knife and extend my reach, tipping over the needed number of boxes, and add same to my cart. That is, I had just realized it, when a gentleman, taller than I, reached up, grabbed a box, and handed it to me, asking me if I needed more.

I requested two more, and thanked him, moving forward with my shopping.

A few aisles over I observed a woman attempting to retrieve an item from a shelf beyond her reach. Before I could respond, another (taller) gentleman stepped up, retrieved the sought item, and handed it to her.

Everyday, plain folks, acts of civility and kindness.

STORY, THE THIRD

We visited my wife’s sister, and her husband, recently. They live in rural Kentucky, and it is rather a change from their previous neighborhood in Metropolis. Indeed, it is a considerable change from my table-flat neighborhood of Un-Named Flyover State.

We arrived, following the directions provided, and noted that the terrain was, well, “hilly” does not really do it justice. As a consequence of that terrain, roadways tend to meander, circling around this hill, or weaving their way up to, over, and down that ridge.

We had spent something like 45 minutes meandering , as the road took us up in elevation, when I noted a sign ahead, announcing “Curves Ahead!”.

I turned to TDW-Mark II, and exclaimed, “Wait, what? THAT was the STRAIGHT part?”

STORY, THE FOURTH: OOPS!

So, TINS, TIWFDASL, and, well, things had come to a slow down. I was working with a physician, on this day at this clinic, and she had never handled an adrenalin autoinjector. We had one handy, and I handed it to her so she could examine it.

I was not quite quick enough, to admonish her to not remove the guard, nor to handle the trigger, on the one end of the device. Therefore, she did, successfully, remove the cap, and then trigger it, sending the needle into one of her fingers, along with some of the adrenalin therein.

The Good News was that, since she was youthful, she promptly withdrew her hand, and therefore only received a fractional dose. The bad news is that adrenalin is a very, very powerful vasoconstrictor, and therefore her affected finger became very, very white, and also burned. Oh, yes, it burned. I cast about, wondering if we had any phentolamine. (an alpha blocker: used to reverse the effects of, among others, adrenalin, when injected into an end capillary bed, Like you would find in your fingers.) Since ours was not an ICU, nor an ED, we did not have phentolamine, nor anything that would serve.

The good news, such as it was, is that due to her youthful age, good health habits (spelled n-o-t s-m-o-k-i-n-g) and the fractional dose of adrenalin she had received, well, after around 20 minutes, her finger regained it’s color, the burning pain faded, and she returned to normal, simply just a bit more shaky than previously.

Subsequently, I obtained, and CONSPICUOUSLY labeled a trainer, specifically intended to harmlessly teach folks how to handle and operate an adrenalin autoinjector. This one has no needle, and no drug.

STORY, THE FIFTH

So, TINS, TIWFDASL….well, okay. I was NOT FDASL, rather, I was off, and, having accomplished all my chores (or, such fraction of “all my chores” as I was going to accomplish that day), my step son (son of TDW-Mark II) called. I had spoken to him about a range day, and he was off work that day, I was off work that day, and it was off to the range we went.

I took my Garand, my .380 pistol, and my 9 mm pistol. Of course, I grabbed the ammo can labeled 30-06 (for the Garand), .380 (surprisingly enough, for the pistol in caliber .380), and the ammo can labeled “9 mm” for, no doubt surprising, the 9 mm pistol.

Now, recall that I have been an RN for, lo, these many yeas. That I have passed uncounted thousands upon thousands of doses of medications, and double checked myself each time, so as to accomplish the “5 rights” of med pass: right patient, right drug, right dose, right route, and at the proper time. This was effected by reading the order, the med container, comparing each with the other, and then, DOING SO AGAIN.

So, we arrived at the range, uncased the Garand, and set up targets. Several dozen rounds later, we placed the rifle in the case, put the ammunition away, and took out the .380 pistol. Fun times.

When it came time to take out, and shoot, the 9 mm pistol, well, I went to the “9 mm” ammo can, opened it, and beheld something like 200 rounds of RIFLE AMMUNITION.

For those in the studio audience who are unfamiliar with Things Firearm, well, 9 mm is a pistol round, and rifle rounds are (a) the wrong size overall, (b) with the wrong projectile (bullet), propelled by (c) an entirely wrong charge of powder, leading to (d) entirely way, way more pressure once the cartridge is set off, for any common pistol to contain, meaning (e) should, somehow, a rifle cartridge be forced into the pistol that I had before me, anyone firing it, should they survive the resulting explosion, would forever after be known as “Lefty”.

Not mentioning the emotional distress I would experience should this pistol, one of my favorites, be reduced to shrapnel.

Sigh. It appears that I had horribly failed the ammunition labeling process, leading to jovial kidding from my step son. Other than that, a good day at the range.

And, the ammunition got re-(and correctly)-labeled.

Going Solo

There I was, Fighting Disease And Saving Lives, one weekend day, and I was soloing. Generally, our agency’s practice is to have two providers on duty at a time. On this particular day, I was “It!”, with no partner. The floor staff was sympathetic. I was all “Meh?” about things.

I was reminded of an old joke. It seems this fellow had had his fill of driving a lengthy distance, and elected to stop for the night. He stopped at one hotel, and was told that there were no vacancies.

He stopped at another, and yet another, only to be told, again and again, that there were no vacancies.

Finally, in response, he asked, “If the president of The United States was standing here, telling you that he needed a room for the night, are you telling me that you would turn him away?”

The desk clerk declaimed, “Of course not! Of course, we would make accommodations for The President!”

The traveler squinted at the clerk. “Well, I just read in The Daily Tattler that The President is in Bagwanistan this week. Since he will not be arriving, I’ll take his room!”

The application to my situation was to ask administration if there was anybody else working with me on that day. Of course, as reflected in the fact that there was, you know, nobody else there with me to fight disease and save lives, they would tell me that, no, there was nobody else to work with me that day.

In this imaginary conversation, I would next ask, “Suppose I got hit by a bus on the way in to work today? What would you do, then?”

The reply likely would be that “In that event, we would do (xyz)!”

Which, of course, would elicit the response, “Surprise! I did NOT get hit by a bus! Hey, howzabout (do xyz), and get me some freaking help, eh?”