- We are stronger together. When you hang out in the cancer centre, there aren't alot of secrets. Either you are fighting cancer yourself, or you are supporting someone who is fighting cancer. You don't have to make excuses why you are there, or go into detailed explanations. Cancer is the great equalizer, and there's something strangely comforting about the solidarity that builds as you start to recognize the same faces every day. Race, creed, belief, age, gender and sex don't matter. Cancer attacks everyone equally.
- Do unto others. The second day of mom's treatment, two of the gentlemen, and I use that in the truest sense of the word, shared information about the designated parking area and a monthly parking pass. Having this small piece of information took away two big stressors in my mom's daily journey. I have since passed the information on to others. None of us heard it from hospital administration (although hopefully that will change after my battle with the bureacracy over a parking permit)-it came from fellow patients.
- Small things matter. Small things can make a big difference when you're facing a nasty adversary. Patients receive a printout of all their appointments on the first day, so you can see the journey ahead, and you know what you are doing and when. Changing an appointment is not a hassle. There are lockers with keys that patients can use if they need to change into hospital gowns. The main waiting area for radiation has coffee and tea and comfortable chairs. Volunteers restock the magazines on a regular basis.
- You have a name. Once you get into the treatment areas, you are not a chart. You are a person with a name, and people remember you and ask about you. They remember if you have a family, or grandchildren, they compliment you on a scarf or an outfit, and they treat you with respect. Efficiency does not have to be rude.
- Courage wears many faces. I interviewed Dr Craig McFadyen, surgeon and Regional VP of the Grand River Regional Cancer Centre a few months ago for an article about the Cancer Centre that unfortunately died when Waterloo Openfile.ca was tanked. He said that he was always humbled and inspired by the courage of the patients fighting cancer. “Every day you see extraordinary examples of courage in the Centre. Cancer is a tough enemy and we use things that can hurt you to cure you. The perseverance that people have to continue on and keep fighting inspires me every day.”
Monday, November 21, 2011
Lessons from the Cancer Centre
Since mid-October, I've spent every weekday morning sitting in the regional cancer centre while my mom has radiation for squamous cell carcinoma that didn't take the hint and go away surgically. While it can be a tough place to hang out, because reality tends to stare you in the face, it's also a good place for basic reminders on the importance of little things in our lives. Here's what I learned:
The Silo Mentality
I've just spent the last few days running through bureaucratic hurdles to get a piece of paper that is now sitting on the dashboard of my car. What should have been a simple process turned into a 3 day, blood pressure increasing, stress inducing nightmare because too many people were caught into a "not my job" mentality.
In a nutshell, here's what happened. Since the middle of October, I have spent every weekday morning at the Grand River Regional Cancer Centre with my mom as she has radiation for recurrent sqamous cell carcinoma. It's a particularly nasty and rapid growing skin cancer that has a habit of spreading elsewhere if you don't deal with it. Since it's been surgically evicted 4 times and came back, this time the surgeon suggested frying it instead.
Parking at the hospital is tricky and expensive. On the second day of treatment, two of the patients in the radiation centre told us about the designated parking area for outpatient oncology, and about a monthly parking pass which worked out much cheaper than paying by the day. My mom can't walk very far, and since the radiation has progressed, some days she's holding on to my arm for dear life. Having a designated area and the parking pass took one less stress away on what has been a tough grind. We have 6 appointments to go, and I still have to convince her 3 days out of 5 to tough it out and finish.
Everything went along smoothly until last Thursday. We were running a bit late and arrived in the designated parking area, only to encounter a security guard who was issuing tickets right, left and centre. I pulled out mom's schedule to show that she had daily radiation, only to be informed that I needed a permit to park in the area, and if I remained, he would ticket me $25. It was the first I'd heard of a permit. All of the spots in the area were designated for outpatient renal and oncology patients. Most of the spots required permits, but not all of them did, and I was always careful to park in ones that were not permit designated. When I told him if I moved my car, my mother would be late, he pointed out that it wasn't his problem we were running late, but I couldn't stay there. I asked him where to get one of these permits, because it was the first I'd heard of it, and he told me to go wherever she was having treatment, but "he didn't work in that area and it wasn't his problem." I sent mom ahead, praying she got there without tripping (she almost did.) and moved my car.
I asked at one desk and was told I needed to go to a different desk. I asked at THAT desk and was told to go back to the first desk. I asked about the parking permit and was told that the permits were only for patients who drove themselves, so my mother wouldn't qualify. I could either "drop her at the door" or she would have to walk from wherever in the parking lot. When I questioned the policy, and I'll state for the record that I was a tad irate and angry at this point, the person I was talking to refused to talk to me any further, and another person helpfully waved a piece of paper with the policy on it under my nose. I was so angry I was incoherent and shaking, my mom was stressed, and so we left.
I then fired off a complaint letter. When it wasn't answered, I contacted someone that I had dealt with when I wrote a story about the centre for the now dead OpenFile Waterloo Region. Five minutes after I contacted THAT person,I got a phone call, followed by another phone call. After I outlined what had happened, including the lack of communication and the disconnects, I received the permit, which is all I was trying to get in the first place. Turns out, the policy had been misinterpreted somewhere down the line.
Policies and rules are in place for a reason. However, there are larger rules that trump any piece of paper, and those are "do unto others..." and "use common sense." Common sense seems to be sorely lacking these days. I remember having conversations with a lifelong friend of mine when she was going through the Customs College at Rigaud, QC, on her way to be a border guard. I told her that there was no substitute for common sense on the line. For example, back when I worked at Passenger Ops at Toronto's Pearson Airport, we would often have a flight from Florida arrive around the same time as a flight from a drug-source country. According to the letter of the law, anyone who had bought more than they were supposed to were legally required to pay duties and taxes. So you could tie up the customs hall charging people $20-$30 extra dollars because they bought the bag of oranges and the mouse ears, or you could concentrate your efforts on the high risk flight.It's all about choices, and sometimes common sense trumps legislation.
"Not my job" and "not my department" seems to be common responses these days, and nothing can escalate a situation faster than being shuffled around from place to place. While it may be true that the situation is not in the job description, taking a couple of minutes to help out another human being is in our life job description. How different would life be if we didn't need a "random act of kindness" day because we were all just looking out for each other.
Hopefully, my battle with bureacracy will help some other cancer patient or family member down the line. We're all in this life together.
In a nutshell, here's what happened. Since the middle of October, I have spent every weekday morning at the Grand River Regional Cancer Centre with my mom as she has radiation for recurrent sqamous cell carcinoma. It's a particularly nasty and rapid growing skin cancer that has a habit of spreading elsewhere if you don't deal with it. Since it's been surgically evicted 4 times and came back, this time the surgeon suggested frying it instead.
Parking at the hospital is tricky and expensive. On the second day of treatment, two of the patients in the radiation centre told us about the designated parking area for outpatient oncology, and about a monthly parking pass which worked out much cheaper than paying by the day. My mom can't walk very far, and since the radiation has progressed, some days she's holding on to my arm for dear life. Having a designated area and the parking pass took one less stress away on what has been a tough grind. We have 6 appointments to go, and I still have to convince her 3 days out of 5 to tough it out and finish.
Everything went along smoothly until last Thursday. We were running a bit late and arrived in the designated parking area, only to encounter a security guard who was issuing tickets right, left and centre. I pulled out mom's schedule to show that she had daily radiation, only to be informed that I needed a permit to park in the area, and if I remained, he would ticket me $25. It was the first I'd heard of a permit. All of the spots in the area were designated for outpatient renal and oncology patients. Most of the spots required permits, but not all of them did, and I was always careful to park in ones that were not permit designated. When I told him if I moved my car, my mother would be late, he pointed out that it wasn't his problem we were running late, but I couldn't stay there. I asked him where to get one of these permits, because it was the first I'd heard of it, and he told me to go wherever she was having treatment, but "he didn't work in that area and it wasn't his problem." I sent mom ahead, praying she got there without tripping (she almost did.) and moved my car.
I asked at one desk and was told I needed to go to a different desk. I asked at THAT desk and was told to go back to the first desk. I asked about the parking permit and was told that the permits were only for patients who drove themselves, so my mother wouldn't qualify. I could either "drop her at the door" or she would have to walk from wherever in the parking lot. When I questioned the policy, and I'll state for the record that I was a tad irate and angry at this point, the person I was talking to refused to talk to me any further, and another person helpfully waved a piece of paper with the policy on it under my nose. I was so angry I was incoherent and shaking, my mom was stressed, and so we left.
I then fired off a complaint letter. When it wasn't answered, I contacted someone that I had dealt with when I wrote a story about the centre for the now dead OpenFile Waterloo Region. Five minutes after I contacted THAT person,I got a phone call, followed by another phone call. After I outlined what had happened, including the lack of communication and the disconnects, I received the permit, which is all I was trying to get in the first place. Turns out, the policy had been misinterpreted somewhere down the line.
Policies and rules are in place for a reason. However, there are larger rules that trump any piece of paper, and those are "do unto others..." and "use common sense." Common sense seems to be sorely lacking these days. I remember having conversations with a lifelong friend of mine when she was going through the Customs College at Rigaud, QC, on her way to be a border guard. I told her that there was no substitute for common sense on the line. For example, back when I worked at Passenger Ops at Toronto's Pearson Airport, we would often have a flight from Florida arrive around the same time as a flight from a drug-source country. According to the letter of the law, anyone who had bought more than they were supposed to were legally required to pay duties and taxes. So you could tie up the customs hall charging people $20-$30 extra dollars because they bought the bag of oranges and the mouse ears, or you could concentrate your efforts on the high risk flight.It's all about choices, and sometimes common sense trumps legislation.
"Not my job" and "not my department" seems to be common responses these days, and nothing can escalate a situation faster than being shuffled around from place to place. While it may be true that the situation is not in the job description, taking a couple of minutes to help out another human being is in our life job description. How different would life be if we didn't need a "random act of kindness" day because we were all just looking out for each other.
Hopefully, my battle with bureacracy will help some other cancer patient or family member down the line. We're all in this life together.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Across the Rainbow Bridge
In 1992, I made the acquaintance of a six-month old brown spotted tabby, who was peering hopefully at me from a cage at the humane society. His previous owners had moved, and they put him up for adoption with all his papers. He stuck a paw out and suckered me in, and I took him home. His name at the time was Jesse, which I thought was a dumb name for a cat, but what to call the handsome fellow? When I tried to clip his claws that evening, everytime I thought he was going to settle down and accept things, he came back with another round of growls, teeth and claws...so I named him Rocky. Yesterday, I had to make the heart rendering decision to help him across the Rainbow Bridge. At the age of 20, he was still determined to snoop around, living up to one of his nicknames "Inspector 12."
My previous Tortie had been named Tisha, but we called her Tickey. My mom kept calling Rocky Tickey at the beginning, so he quickly became known as "BooBoo cat" after the cat in Laverne and Shirley. Because he was a prim and proper cat, he was usually referred to as Mr. Boo.
I took him back to my apartment the first day. He stepped out of the cage, looked around, spotted the food and the water and settled in. The very first night he curled up on the bottom of my bed, and there he stayed for the next 20 years. When I married Dave, he and Boo had a battle of wits. Dave had decreed no cats in the bedroom. For the first 3 months after we were married, he banished Boo at bedtime, and Boo spent the rest of the night yowling outside the door, or scratching at the carpet. After 3 months, he had the carpet down to backing in the area by the door. I convinced Dave to try a cat bed. Boo would start the night in the cat bed, and then once Dave was asleep, he would sneak onto my side of the bed and hunker down. The jig was up the night Dave woke up and looked at the bottom of the bed and realized the mound of blankets had ears and eyes shining back at him. For the next 2 weeks, Dave would spring upright several times a night, jack-in-the-box fashion to try to catch Boo on the bed. One night I was going to bed with a migraine, and I pointed and Boo and told him to lie down., and then I pointed at Dave and told HIM to lie down, and the battle was over. Boo stayed on the bed. In later years, he slept between us, often curling into the curve of Dave's legs.
Boo was a protective cat, and if he slept on your head, there was trouble a foot. Invariably, something befell the person he protected. My mom fell and broke her hip the day after Boo had slept on her head. I was in a bad car accident, and Dave fell going out the steps and sprained his ankle. Each time, Boo had slept on our heads. I learned to pay attention at my peril.
For all he was protective, Mr. Boo was also prim and proper. He had a very strong idea about how a cat should behave. He was always impeccably groomed, and he would never have sit completely on our laps-he would sit near us or beside us, but never on us. If he was feeling particularly friendly, he would sit on the arm of the chair and put 2 paws on my lap. Only 2 paws, mind you, boundaries had to be maintained. Max didn't have much dignity, and Boo was appalled by his antics. Max once jumped to the top of the bedroom door, and managed to get himself straddling the door-right paws on one side, left paws on the other. Boo was on the bed, and he stood up, executed a 180 degree turn and turned with his back to Max. He wanted nothing to do with THAT-Max was on his own! I suspect Boo was a British Colonel in India in a previous life.
Boo never got too upset about things. He outlived 2 other cats, and survived the arrival of our daughter. She was a bit bouncy for his taste when she was small, but he got quite fond of her when she was old enough to give him chin rubs. He stayed upstairs most of the time in the last years of his life, so she never formed an attachment. When the house got quiet when she was finally in bed, he would emerge and hop up beside me in my chair for a visit. He liked the gas fireplace, and he was very fond of the air conditioning in our bedroom. IF the air wasn't on this summer, he stayed on the floor on Dave's side of the bed. As soon as the air came on, he would be back on his spot on my side of the bed, although he always moved to Dave's side in the evening, just so that Dave would understand that he had shared my bed long before Dave did!
He seemed to get old overnight, and the last few days have been tough. I didn't want my dear old friend to suffer, and it seemed on Saturday that he was asking for my help to cross the Rainbow Bridge. I know that sounds flakey, but it was true. He was ready to move on. He deserved to die with the same dignity that he lived his life, and he couldn't groom himself any longer.
So here's to my dear old friend. You made me laugh, you protected me, you kept me company and you sailed through all the chaotic times calmly and serenely. You never once scratched or bit when the kid was small and a bit too enthusiastic with petting you. You accepted (grudgingly) other animals into the house and you still enjoyed chasing your old mousey right to the end.
Be at peace Mr. Boo. I hope there's lots of new places to explore. I'll miss you terribly.
My previous Tortie had been named Tisha, but we called her Tickey. My mom kept calling Rocky Tickey at the beginning, so he quickly became known as "BooBoo cat" after the cat in Laverne and Shirley. Because he was a prim and proper cat, he was usually referred to as Mr. Boo.
I took him back to my apartment the first day. He stepped out of the cage, looked around, spotted the food and the water and settled in. The very first night he curled up on the bottom of my bed, and there he stayed for the next 20 years. When I married Dave, he and Boo had a battle of wits. Dave had decreed no cats in the bedroom. For the first 3 months after we were married, he banished Boo at bedtime, and Boo spent the rest of the night yowling outside the door, or scratching at the carpet. After 3 months, he had the carpet down to backing in the area by the door. I convinced Dave to try a cat bed. Boo would start the night in the cat bed, and then once Dave was asleep, he would sneak onto my side of the bed and hunker down. The jig was up the night Dave woke up and looked at the bottom of the bed and realized the mound of blankets had ears and eyes shining back at him. For the next 2 weeks, Dave would spring upright several times a night, jack-in-the-box fashion to try to catch Boo on the bed. One night I was going to bed with a migraine, and I pointed and Boo and told him to lie down., and then I pointed at Dave and told HIM to lie down, and the battle was over. Boo stayed on the bed. In later years, he slept between us, often curling into the curve of Dave's legs.
Boo was a protective cat, and if he slept on your head, there was trouble a foot. Invariably, something befell the person he protected. My mom fell and broke her hip the day after Boo had slept on her head. I was in a bad car accident, and Dave fell going out the steps and sprained his ankle. Each time, Boo had slept on our heads. I learned to pay attention at my peril.
For all he was protective, Mr. Boo was also prim and proper. He had a very strong idea about how a cat should behave. He was always impeccably groomed, and he would never have sit completely on our laps-he would sit near us or beside us, but never on us. If he was feeling particularly friendly, he would sit on the arm of the chair and put 2 paws on my lap. Only 2 paws, mind you, boundaries had to be maintained. Max didn't have much dignity, and Boo was appalled by his antics. Max once jumped to the top of the bedroom door, and managed to get himself straddling the door-right paws on one side, left paws on the other. Boo was on the bed, and he stood up, executed a 180 degree turn and turned with his back to Max. He wanted nothing to do with THAT-Max was on his own! I suspect Boo was a British Colonel in India in a previous life.
Boo never got too upset about things. He outlived 2 other cats, and survived the arrival of our daughter. She was a bit bouncy for his taste when she was small, but he got quite fond of her when she was old enough to give him chin rubs. He stayed upstairs most of the time in the last years of his life, so she never formed an attachment. When the house got quiet when she was finally in bed, he would emerge and hop up beside me in my chair for a visit. He liked the gas fireplace, and he was very fond of the air conditioning in our bedroom. IF the air wasn't on this summer, he stayed on the floor on Dave's side of the bed. As soon as the air came on, he would be back on his spot on my side of the bed, although he always moved to Dave's side in the evening, just so that Dave would understand that he had shared my bed long before Dave did!
He seemed to get old overnight, and the last few days have been tough. I didn't want my dear old friend to suffer, and it seemed on Saturday that he was asking for my help to cross the Rainbow Bridge. I know that sounds flakey, but it was true. He was ready to move on. He deserved to die with the same dignity that he lived his life, and he couldn't groom himself any longer.
So here's to my dear old friend. You made me laugh, you protected me, you kept me company and you sailed through all the chaotic times calmly and serenely. You never once scratched or bit when the kid was small and a bit too enthusiastic with petting you. You accepted (grudgingly) other animals into the house and you still enjoyed chasing your old mousey right to the end.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Tipping the Balance
I am a coper. I am the person you want in a crisis, because I can calmly deal with things. I go into efficiency mode, and deal with what needs to be dealt with. Now granted, I usually fall apart about 2 weeks later, but in the moment, I'm the person you want by your side. I have sung at the funerals of 2 of my aunts, some of my friends' parents and managed to get through things professionally. I am a coper.
Sometimes, though, it's the little things that can throw you. Mornings in my house can be a challenge. ADHD/OCD and Anxiety in a 6 year old fashionista do not make for calm and easy mornings. If I had a dollar for every "just a second" in my day, I could pay off our mortgage. Getting her up, dressed, fed and out the door to school on time takes more military precision than D-Day, plus alot of cajoling, reminding and the occasional threat. I have walked out of the room, gone upstairs, closed the bathroom door and let loose a primal scream on more than one occasion. It's better to scream at the shower curtain than my daughter, especially about something she can't help, but I am a trained soprano, so the scream is kinda loud, ya know?
My mom has had several recurrences of squamous cell carcinoma-aka skin cancer. It's ugly, it's invasive and it's fast growing. And if nothing else convinces you of the need for sun block, watching one of these things get cut out of your mom's head will do it. Watching 4 of them being cut out, and telling her to catch the blood drip after will do it for sure. After the last stint of surgery, the surgeon recommended radiation to fry the remaining cancer cells and convince them to go away. Since last week, every weekday mom and I trek to the cancer centre near our home so she can get zapped. It takes us longer to walk from the parking lot than it takes for her to have the actual treatment, but for 6 weeks, we'll make the daily round trip.
My mom is 85, and I know my time with her is finite. I've known it since we buried my dad 22 years ago. There's something about seeing the name of the other parent on the tombstone, with a blank space for the date that makes that clear. She's had a rough few months with health. While we've talked about her funeral and her wishes, I try not to think about that eventuality. Sometimes, though, I hit a tipping point.
Last week was school picture day. My kid is a blue eyed brunette who looks fabulous against a blue background, so I chose the blue background for her picture. The problem is, my child is currently fixated on all things black. She only wants to wear black clothing, she wants to paint her room black, I made her a winter hat that was black with sequins because the likelihood is much better that she will actually wear the thing. The flip side to this current favorite colour, of course, is that the previous favorite colour is so last season...and that happened to be blue. When she found out that I had chosen blue, she pitched a fit that may have triggered the earthquake in Turkey (no disrespect or mockery intended, may God protect them). According to her, "none of her clothes will look good against blue" (although she was planning on wearing a red and black top) and she didn't like blue and she wasn't going to smile and that was it, and then I couldn't understand what she said because she was caterwauling and screaming at the top of her lungs.
And I burst into tears. It suddenly occurred to me that this might be the last school picture my mom gets to see, and I wanted it to look nice. I don't know that my mom won't be here next year. But when you hang out in the cancer centre daily, reality stares you in the face. Some of these people won't make it through. My mother in law didn't. My friend Andrea didn't. My cousin-by-marriage Joe didn't. My aunt Betty didn't. My friend Ellen didn't. My friend's mom Edelgarde didn't. Cancer sucks.
And so, while I've been coping and managing, a meltdown over a blue background sent me over the edge. Because sometimes, it's the little things that tip the balance. I cried the tears I had been pretending didn't need to be cried and I let the scared kid come out for a minute before the competent adult took over again. And it was okay.
Sometimes, though, it's the little things that can throw you. Mornings in my house can be a challenge. ADHD/OCD and Anxiety in a 6 year old fashionista do not make for calm and easy mornings. If I had a dollar for every "just a second" in my day, I could pay off our mortgage. Getting her up, dressed, fed and out the door to school on time takes more military precision than D-Day, plus alot of cajoling, reminding and the occasional threat. I have walked out of the room, gone upstairs, closed the bathroom door and let loose a primal scream on more than one occasion. It's better to scream at the shower curtain than my daughter, especially about something she can't help, but I am a trained soprano, so the scream is kinda loud, ya know?
My mom has had several recurrences of squamous cell carcinoma-aka skin cancer. It's ugly, it's invasive and it's fast growing. And if nothing else convinces you of the need for sun block, watching one of these things get cut out of your mom's head will do it. Watching 4 of them being cut out, and telling her to catch the blood drip after will do it for sure. After the last stint of surgery, the surgeon recommended radiation to fry the remaining cancer cells and convince them to go away. Since last week, every weekday mom and I trek to the cancer centre near our home so she can get zapped. It takes us longer to walk from the parking lot than it takes for her to have the actual treatment, but for 6 weeks, we'll make the daily round trip.
My mom is 85, and I know my time with her is finite. I've known it since we buried my dad 22 years ago. There's something about seeing the name of the other parent on the tombstone, with a blank space for the date that makes that clear. She's had a rough few months with health. While we've talked about her funeral and her wishes, I try not to think about that eventuality. Sometimes, though, I hit a tipping point.
Last week was school picture day. My kid is a blue eyed brunette who looks fabulous against a blue background, so I chose the blue background for her picture. The problem is, my child is currently fixated on all things black. She only wants to wear black clothing, she wants to paint her room black, I made her a winter hat that was black with sequins because the likelihood is much better that she will actually wear the thing. The flip side to this current favorite colour, of course, is that the previous favorite colour is so last season...and that happened to be blue. When she found out that I had chosen blue, she pitched a fit that may have triggered the earthquake in Turkey (no disrespect or mockery intended, may God protect them). According to her, "none of her clothes will look good against blue" (although she was planning on wearing a red and black top) and she didn't like blue and she wasn't going to smile and that was it, and then I couldn't understand what she said because she was caterwauling and screaming at the top of her lungs.
And I burst into tears. It suddenly occurred to me that this might be the last school picture my mom gets to see, and I wanted it to look nice. I don't know that my mom won't be here next year. But when you hang out in the cancer centre daily, reality stares you in the face. Some of these people won't make it through. My mother in law didn't. My friend Andrea didn't. My cousin-by-marriage Joe didn't. My aunt Betty didn't. My friend Ellen didn't. My friend's mom Edelgarde didn't. Cancer sucks.
And so, while I've been coping and managing, a meltdown over a blue background sent me over the edge. Because sometimes, it's the little things that tip the balance. I cried the tears I had been pretending didn't need to be cried and I let the scared kid come out for a minute before the competent adult took over again. And it was okay.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Business Rule 101-Thou shalt not piss off a Social Media Savvy Writer
This post is inspired (or maybe provoked is a better word) by an experience I had with Staples Canada customer service earlier today.
I have been in the market for a new computer desk. The desk I have is a lovely hardwood desk, but it's the wrong height to be a computer desk and it's not wide enough. I've had it since I was in high school, but I don't think I ever used it as a desk.
There are space limitations in the room it's destined for, and I finally found the perfect desk at Staples and ordered it online. It stated next day delivery, so I've been sitting twiddling my thumbs all morning. Staples will only tell you that the item will be delivered "sometime between 9am and 5pm". Okay, that's not helpful in today's day and age but anyway...
I finally pulled up the confirmation email and I called the customer service number to see approximately when in the 9-5 window I could expect to see my new computer desk, which I would still have to assemble.
That's when the problems began. Now let me preface this by saying that I have been both a customer service representative, and a manager of a customer call centre. I know from customer service call centres and shoddy customer service is not acceptable to me. I won't accept crappy customer service.
I got the customer service person on the line, gave my order number and asked for a status update.
I was mistaken on the delivery date-mainly because I never know what the date is unless it's a date I have to remember-like deadlines and birthdays. The shipment was due to be delivered tomorrow, not today. Okay, my bad. I can own that. However, I won't be around tomorrow and there isn't anyone I can ask to be here-especially all day. I asked the customer service rep if we could reschedule.
I was told in no uncertain terms that it was not possible to reschedule. It would be delivered tomorrow, and if I wasn't there, too bad. They would try again another day. I asked if the shipment had left the warehouse yet. Nope, still in the warehouse. Well then why can't it be rescheduled to Wednesday? Nope, can't do that. Why not? Not our policy...Why not? We just can't reschedule...The CSR couldn't explain WHY it couldn't be rescheduled, only that they would make 3 delivery attempts and send it back to the warehouse. If I didn't like it, I could cancel the order. Take it or leave it.
I went around the mulberry bush for a few minutes, and then told the customer service rep that the policy was not acceptable, it made no sense, and I wanted to talk to her manager. She put me on hold for a minute, and then came back on the line with the same old lines. I interrupted her, because to be honest I was pretty annoyed at this point, and told her that I wanted to talk to her manager. She told me the manager didn't want to escalate the call, I could take the delivery schedule or cancel the order. I cancelled the order.
I then took to Twitter to tweet about the poor experience, AND I called Staples Head Office for good measure and complained to someone there. Hell hath no fury like a writer with a sense of efficacy, CSR experience and a social media presence.
The person on the end of the Staples twitter account reacted immediately and asked for details. The person at head office was not pleased with how things had been handled and was going to advise someone somewhere about it. I'm still not happy, so here I am in the blogsphere as well.
So here's what I do know. Having a delivery window of "sometime between 9am and 5pm" is ludicrous in today's day and age of text and electronic communications. People are busy, and the days of the housewife being home all day to wait for a delivery are long gone. If you tell me that it will delivered between 9-11am, I can plan accordingly. 9-5pm is a bit ridiculous...
In today's day and age of email communications and computer d-bases, it should be a simple matter to change the delivery date, especially since the boxes are still sitting in the warehouse. One keystroke could have saved a great deal of grief, aggravation and ill-will.
Social media means that good and bad experiences are instantly communicated. The first thing I did when I got off the phone was find out if Staples had a Twitter account, and tweeted my bad experience. I had a response in minutes. I then googled their head office and spoke to someone there. I'd always had good dealings with Staples, and our local store staff are great. However, this experience has tainted my impression of the store, although the quick response to the tweet was impressive.
It's common lore that people tell 5 people about a positive experience, and 10 people about a negative one. The advent of social media can multiply that reach 10 fold. Companies need to be aware of that.
In the mean time, I'm out one computer desk and the room upstairs is a mess. Guess I'll be staying at the kitchen table a bit longer than I planned.
I have been in the market for a new computer desk. The desk I have is a lovely hardwood desk, but it's the wrong height to be a computer desk and it's not wide enough. I've had it since I was in high school, but I don't think I ever used it as a desk.
There are space limitations in the room it's destined for, and I finally found the perfect desk at Staples and ordered it online. It stated next day delivery, so I've been sitting twiddling my thumbs all morning. Staples will only tell you that the item will be delivered "sometime between 9am and 5pm". Okay, that's not helpful in today's day and age but anyway...
I finally pulled up the confirmation email and I called the customer service number to see approximately when in the 9-5 window I could expect to see my new computer desk, which I would still have to assemble.
That's when the problems began. Now let me preface this by saying that I have been both a customer service representative, and a manager of a customer call centre. I know from customer service call centres and shoddy customer service is not acceptable to me. I won't accept crappy customer service.
I got the customer service person on the line, gave my order number and asked for a status update.
I was mistaken on the delivery date-mainly because I never know what the date is unless it's a date I have to remember-like deadlines and birthdays. The shipment was due to be delivered tomorrow, not today. Okay, my bad. I can own that. However, I won't be around tomorrow and there isn't anyone I can ask to be here-especially all day. I asked the customer service rep if we could reschedule.
I was told in no uncertain terms that it was not possible to reschedule. It would be delivered tomorrow, and if I wasn't there, too bad. They would try again another day. I asked if the shipment had left the warehouse yet. Nope, still in the warehouse. Well then why can't it be rescheduled to Wednesday? Nope, can't do that. Why not? Not our policy...Why not? We just can't reschedule...The CSR couldn't explain WHY it couldn't be rescheduled, only that they would make 3 delivery attempts and send it back to the warehouse. If I didn't like it, I could cancel the order. Take it or leave it.
I went around the mulberry bush for a few minutes, and then told the customer service rep that the policy was not acceptable, it made no sense, and I wanted to talk to her manager. She put me on hold for a minute, and then came back on the line with the same old lines. I interrupted her, because to be honest I was pretty annoyed at this point, and told her that I wanted to talk to her manager. She told me the manager didn't want to escalate the call, I could take the delivery schedule or cancel the order. I cancelled the order.
I then took to Twitter to tweet about the poor experience, AND I called Staples Head Office for good measure and complained to someone there. Hell hath no fury like a writer with a sense of efficacy, CSR experience and a social media presence.
The person on the end of the Staples twitter account reacted immediately and asked for details. The person at head office was not pleased with how things had been handled and was going to advise someone somewhere about it. I'm still not happy, so here I am in the blogsphere as well.
So here's what I do know. Having a delivery window of "sometime between 9am and 5pm" is ludicrous in today's day and age of text and electronic communications. People are busy, and the days of the housewife being home all day to wait for a delivery are long gone. If you tell me that it will delivered between 9-11am, I can plan accordingly. 9-5pm is a bit ridiculous...
In today's day and age of email communications and computer d-bases, it should be a simple matter to change the delivery date, especially since the boxes are still sitting in the warehouse. One keystroke could have saved a great deal of grief, aggravation and ill-will.
Social media means that good and bad experiences are instantly communicated. The first thing I did when I got off the phone was find out if Staples had a Twitter account, and tweeted my bad experience. I had a response in minutes. I then googled their head office and spoke to someone there. I'd always had good dealings with Staples, and our local store staff are great. However, this experience has tainted my impression of the store, although the quick response to the tweet was impressive.
It's common lore that people tell 5 people about a positive experience, and 10 people about a negative one. The advent of social media can multiply that reach 10 fold. Companies need to be aware of that.
In the mean time, I'm out one computer desk and the room upstairs is a mess. Guess I'll be staying at the kitchen table a bit longer than I planned.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Little Things
This post was inspired by Laura Wright's new Blog The ODD Mom. Laura has just started blogging, and she's on my must-read list. Go check her out.
My daughter has ADHD, OCD and Anxiety. Surprisingly, she can handle the big things pretty well-took my mother in law's death very well, and when my mother fell when she was there, she helped grandma bandage her hand (and injury that required 28 stitches to sew that skin back on-peeled it off the back of her hand) and then tried to clean up the blood for Grandma. Big things don't seem to phase her.
Her OCD and Anxiety means that little things, on the other hand, can throw her right into a tailspin. We had a meltdown in a store last week because she was in a panic about whether her stuffed bunny was in the car or had been forgotten. She bolted from me one time, and I caught her a nano-second before she ran into 4 lanes of busy rush-hour traffic because Bunny had been forgotten on a table at summer camp across the road. Barbies must be naked before they are put away for the night. They must go in a certain order into the box, and clothes must be below the dolls. She can't cope if it isn't done that way. Her hair is brushed before she brushes her teeth and she once locked herself in the bathroom for 20 minutes because I tried to hurry things along and brushed her hair while she was brushing her teeth. Her clothes go on in a certain order. She needs a clean spoon if she eats more than one thing requiring a spoon.
Her anxiety can be extreme. "But what if" enters into many conversations. She should go work for the Pentagon or CSIS-she can dream up scenarios that wouldn't occur to other people. Some of them are funny ("but what if someone breaks into the car and steals Bunny?" "Honey, if someone breaks into the car, Bunny is the last thing they'll be looking for." ) and some of them break my heart. We were going to a fall fair last weekend and she was having a meltdown because she only wanted one of us to go with her, and the other one had to stay home. She didn't care which one, but someone had to stay. We eventually found out that it was because she wanted someone to stay in the house to protect Bunny. Problem solved-Bunny came along in a zippered carryall bag. It took over an hour of her pleading with us before we found out. "Why do you want one of us to stay." "Because" "Because why" "I can't tell you." "Well then I can't stay home." "Please...." "Tell us why" "Because" "Because is a preposition not an answer-tell us why we need to understand" "I can't" and so it went...
I drove to Welland, Ontario and back yesterday (2 hours each way) for my friend's mom's funeral. I dropped the kid at school and left, and had arranged for one of her friend's moms to pick her up after school for a playdate until I could get home. Vampira left her hairband ("her most favorite one in the whole world") at her friend's house and she was starting to panic. I called, talked to the little girl's dad and asked if they could bring it to school in the morning. No problem, I'm putting it in the backpack now. Crisis averted, kid went to sleep.
Fast forward to this morning and kid was trotting to school so she could get her hairband back. The little friend goes in a different door, so we waited by the door she goes in. When the bell rang, the little girl hadn't shown up yet, and Vampira was in a panic. She has a test today that we have worked all week to get ready for. When we left the house this morning, she was good to go. She knew the words, she could spell the words, she could write the words, she could recognize the words if I spelt the words...and I'm afraid it's all gone to pot because a hairband. Her brain may be stuck in the hairband loop all day.
She will have to learn to recognize and manage her OCD. People with older OCD kids say that it is possible and it will come. My little girl is 6 (okay 6 1/2) and she doesn't have the cognitive ability to recognize and interrupt the pattern. All she knows is that her hairband was supposed to be at school and it wasn't. Hopefully, the little friend was just late and all was well at recess, hairband returned to its rightful owner, or I will be heading to the accessories store after school.
Part of my job as her mom is to minimize her stressors. Sometimes that means sending 3 spoons in her lunch because she has soup, pudding and applesauce and can't use the same spoon. Sometimes it means walking her back to the car to show her her stuffed bunny is sitting waiting for her. And sometimes, it means buying a new hairband. Someone who was supposed to have training in children's mental health issues thought I was enabling her compulsion by packing different spoons which told me she didn't understand OCD. While it may be enabling to an extent, it's also making sure that Vampira will eat her lunch. She won't use the same spoon, and it doesn't matter if you wash it in between. I have bigger mountains to die on, so I pack three spoons.
I'm meeting with her teacher after school today just to introduce myself, introduce the kid's challenges and commit to working together. One of her other teachers commented a couple of days ago that a little thing like where she was going to sit really got her stressed. I'm glad the school community is starting to see it. If they can't I'll educate them and we'll work together.
I just hope the bloody hairband showed up...
My daughter has ADHD, OCD and Anxiety. Surprisingly, she can handle the big things pretty well-took my mother in law's death very well, and when my mother fell when she was there, she helped grandma bandage her hand (and injury that required 28 stitches to sew that skin back on-peeled it off the back of her hand) and then tried to clean up the blood for Grandma. Big things don't seem to phase her.
Her OCD and Anxiety means that little things, on the other hand, can throw her right into a tailspin. We had a meltdown in a store last week because she was in a panic about whether her stuffed bunny was in the car or had been forgotten. She bolted from me one time, and I caught her a nano-second before she ran into 4 lanes of busy rush-hour traffic because Bunny had been forgotten on a table at summer camp across the road. Barbies must be naked before they are put away for the night. They must go in a certain order into the box, and clothes must be below the dolls. She can't cope if it isn't done that way. Her hair is brushed before she brushes her teeth and she once locked herself in the bathroom for 20 minutes because I tried to hurry things along and brushed her hair while she was brushing her teeth. Her clothes go on in a certain order. She needs a clean spoon if she eats more than one thing requiring a spoon.
Her anxiety can be extreme. "But what if" enters into many conversations. She should go work for the Pentagon or CSIS-she can dream up scenarios that wouldn't occur to other people. Some of them are funny ("but what if someone breaks into the car and steals Bunny?" "Honey, if someone breaks into the car, Bunny is the last thing they'll be looking for." ) and some of them break my heart. We were going to a fall fair last weekend and she was having a meltdown because she only wanted one of us to go with her, and the other one had to stay home. She didn't care which one, but someone had to stay. We eventually found out that it was because she wanted someone to stay in the house to protect Bunny. Problem solved-Bunny came along in a zippered carryall bag. It took over an hour of her pleading with us before we found out. "Why do you want one of us to stay." "Because" "Because why" "I can't tell you." "Well then I can't stay home." "Please...." "Tell us why" "Because" "Because is a preposition not an answer-tell us why we need to understand" "I can't" and so it went...
I drove to Welland, Ontario and back yesterday (2 hours each way) for my friend's mom's funeral. I dropped the kid at school and left, and had arranged for one of her friend's moms to pick her up after school for a playdate until I could get home. Vampira left her hairband ("her most favorite one in the whole world") at her friend's house and she was starting to panic. I called, talked to the little girl's dad and asked if they could bring it to school in the morning. No problem, I'm putting it in the backpack now. Crisis averted, kid went to sleep.
Fast forward to this morning and kid was trotting to school so she could get her hairband back. The little friend goes in a different door, so we waited by the door she goes in. When the bell rang, the little girl hadn't shown up yet, and Vampira was in a panic. She has a test today that we have worked all week to get ready for. When we left the house this morning, she was good to go. She knew the words, she could spell the words, she could write the words, she could recognize the words if I spelt the words...and I'm afraid it's all gone to pot because a hairband. Her brain may be stuck in the hairband loop all day.
She will have to learn to recognize and manage her OCD. People with older OCD kids say that it is possible and it will come. My little girl is 6 (okay 6 1/2) and she doesn't have the cognitive ability to recognize and interrupt the pattern. All she knows is that her hairband was supposed to be at school and it wasn't. Hopefully, the little friend was just late and all was well at recess, hairband returned to its rightful owner, or I will be heading to the accessories store after school.
Part of my job as her mom is to minimize her stressors. Sometimes that means sending 3 spoons in her lunch because she has soup, pudding and applesauce and can't use the same spoon. Sometimes it means walking her back to the car to show her her stuffed bunny is sitting waiting for her. And sometimes, it means buying a new hairband. Someone who was supposed to have training in children's mental health issues thought I was enabling her compulsion by packing different spoons which told me she didn't understand OCD. While it may be enabling to an extent, it's also making sure that Vampira will eat her lunch. She won't use the same spoon, and it doesn't matter if you wash it in between. I have bigger mountains to die on, so I pack three spoons.
I'm meeting with her teacher after school today just to introduce myself, introduce the kid's challenges and commit to working together. One of her other teachers commented a couple of days ago that a little thing like where she was going to sit really got her stressed. I'm glad the school community is starting to see it. If they can't I'll educate them and we'll work together.
I just hope the bloody hairband showed up...
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Grade 1
My little girl started Grade 1 today. She wore her sparkly new shoes, her sparkly top, her jeans with sequins on them and her sparkly belt. She had her Hannah Montana backpack and lunch bag and was more than a little terrified.
My daughter suffers from Anxiety disorder, OCD and ADHD. She may or may not be FASD as well, but we have to wait until next March to have that confirmed. The labels explain the why she is, but not the whose she is. They are part of her, but I'm not going to let them define her.
School is tough on my kid. She's a worrier. She is a perfectionist and she'd rather say she doesn't know than to get an answer wrong. Her OCD means that things have to be done a certain way every time, and if things change unexpectedly she can be thrown off for the day. IF something has been promised, then it must happen as promised or she can't cope. Life is full of unexpected changes, so I've tried to mitigate that as much as possible. If there is only a possibility of something happening, I don't mention it until it becomes a certainty.
My little girl is very intuitive. She knows when someone likes her, and she knows when someone doesn't. She wants everyone to like her. That's going to be hard on her-in fact, it already has been. One of the challenges with OCD is sometimes she fixates, and sometimes it's on a person. (If I never hear another word about Hannah Montana I'll be a happy person) If the person is someone that she has decided is her new BFF, and it's news to the other person, we have a problem. I have to let the fixation run its course, but I have a sad little girl in the meantime when her adoration is not returned.
We had a couple of really bad days this weekend, because school was weighing on my little girl's mind. She thought she had to know everything for Grade 1 the first day of Grade 1. Since I'm her mom, and I know nothing, I solved the problem by hauling out the Grade 1 and Kindergarten curriculum books I'd already purchased. We started with Kindergarten, and worked through some pages so she could see how much she had learned. Then I asked her whether she had learned things in Junior Kindergarten or Senior Kindergarten. She's a bright kid, and figured out the pattern quickly-that learning builds from stuff you already know. Then I grabbed the Grade 1 book and we flipped through some pages. She quickly discovered that she already knows a bunch of Grade 1 stuff too. Problem solved, at least for now.
I'm worried about test anxiety. I'm worried that the school will use the labels to define her, rather than to help her be her best. I'm worried that my kid will be stressed and anxious. She had a rough year last year, but over the summer, I got my sunny bunny back. I don't want to lose that kid again.
The school, teachers and principal will just have to get used to this face because they are going to see it alot. A good friend of mine, whose son has Downs Syndrome, tells teachers that "my child can't rise to low expectations." I like that. Yes, my kid has some challenges, but that is all they are. She's a kind, sweet, smart, loving, funny little fashionista with strong opinions. She will do great things, with a bit of help, a lot of support and love in abundance (and maybe the occasional trip by a stuffed bunny in a backpack.)
My little girl started Grade 1 today, and I couldn't be more proud.
My daughter suffers from Anxiety disorder, OCD and ADHD. She may or may not be FASD as well, but we have to wait until next March to have that confirmed. The labels explain the why she is, but not the whose she is. They are part of her, but I'm not going to let them define her.
School is tough on my kid. She's a worrier. She is a perfectionist and she'd rather say she doesn't know than to get an answer wrong. Her OCD means that things have to be done a certain way every time, and if things change unexpectedly she can be thrown off for the day. IF something has been promised, then it must happen as promised or she can't cope. Life is full of unexpected changes, so I've tried to mitigate that as much as possible. If there is only a possibility of something happening, I don't mention it until it becomes a certainty.
My little girl is very intuitive. She knows when someone likes her, and she knows when someone doesn't. She wants everyone to like her. That's going to be hard on her-in fact, it already has been. One of the challenges with OCD is sometimes she fixates, and sometimes it's on a person. (If I never hear another word about Hannah Montana I'll be a happy person) If the person is someone that she has decided is her new BFF, and it's news to the other person, we have a problem. I have to let the fixation run its course, but I have a sad little girl in the meantime when her adoration is not returned.
We had a couple of really bad days this weekend, because school was weighing on my little girl's mind. She thought she had to know everything for Grade 1 the first day of Grade 1. Since I'm her mom, and I know nothing, I solved the problem by hauling out the Grade 1 and Kindergarten curriculum books I'd already purchased. We started with Kindergarten, and worked through some pages so she could see how much she had learned. Then I asked her whether she had learned things in Junior Kindergarten or Senior Kindergarten. She's a bright kid, and figured out the pattern quickly-that learning builds from stuff you already know. Then I grabbed the Grade 1 book and we flipped through some pages. She quickly discovered that she already knows a bunch of Grade 1 stuff too. Problem solved, at least for now.
I'm worried about test anxiety. I'm worried that the school will use the labels to define her, rather than to help her be her best. I'm worried that my kid will be stressed and anxious. She had a rough year last year, but over the summer, I got my sunny bunny back. I don't want to lose that kid again.
The school, teachers and principal will just have to get used to this face because they are going to see it alot. A good friend of mine, whose son has Downs Syndrome, tells teachers that "my child can't rise to low expectations." I like that. Yes, my kid has some challenges, but that is all they are. She's a kind, sweet, smart, loving, funny little fashionista with strong opinions. She will do great things, with a bit of help, a lot of support and love in abundance (and maybe the occasional trip by a stuffed bunny in a backpack.)
My little girl started Grade 1 today, and I couldn't be more proud.
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