Medical care in las vegas

For the past few days I have had bouts of lightheadedness, to the point of setting on the floor until it passes. I don't understand the reasons for it, only that it has happened. Earlier tonight I had an english class at the local community college location. On my way home it hit again, and has yet to subside some three hours later. My vitals are all normal, but still I have this dizziness. I have had vertigo before, but this doesn't feel the same. vertigo feels like it is in the ear. This feels like it's in my head.


Realizing that I have a chronic illness makes it more confusing. The Sarcoidosis in my lungs has kicked up lately, after my pulmonologist started playing with my medications. An immunosupressant drug he started me on gave me dangerous side effects, and ever since then things just haven't felt "right." I stopped that medication two weeks ago, but I am having unusual symptoms that I don't think I can contribute to the drug changes.


All this sounds very melodramatic, but the purpose of this post is the realization that unless an ambulance drags me in to the emergency room, the doctors in Las Vegas haven't a clue how to deal with my illness. My pulmonologist finally referred me to UCLA two weeks age, stating that he has done all he can for me, and now I must see someone with more experience with Sarcoidosis. I made my appointment with UCLA. Their first available is in four months! Therein lies the rub. 


Medical care in las Vegas feels like a sick joke, pun intended. When I need to wait four months to see a physician in another state because the doctors here can't understand my disease enough to recommend treatment, there's something wrong. Waiting a third of a year in and of itself is ridiculous. Medical care in this city is more medical careless. People die every day here from conditions that are misdiagnosed, untreated, or just plain improperly diagnosed or treated. For as much as I don't want to be a statistic, I must realize that this in probably one of the worst places to have a chronic, rare illness, as each doctor gets a new set of the same tests, basically starting over with each new visit. That is after you wait for months to even get seen.


I don't know what will happen with this current problem, which seems to include my vision and tinnitus in my ears, but I am certain that an E/R trip would yield no results, and would just be a waste of time.

Zales Hails

Finally today I heard from Zales Corporate Customer Service. The representative was very polite, and offered us a $500 credit towards a replacement ring (from their selections) or a $200 cash refund. The missing Tanzanite was a $2000 stone, trillion cut. What they have offered is an insult. We were given a take it or leave it option.
On Monday we will be presenting this situation to our attorney for legal advice. I am amazed at how easy it is to be taken advantage of in today's society. Two months ago a company in China gained access to my checking account, removing several thousand dollars before my bank brought it to my attention. At least the banks customer service refunded the money. Their customer service is still in working order.
As a business owner I understand the value of standing behind my product. I grew up in an age when your word was your bond, and deals were made on a handshake. Although society in general cannot function without rules and protocols, I will still operate my business and personal transactions on the age-old premises that my word is my bond and a handshake is irreversible. In the end, how I governed my life is how I will be remembered.

Zales Fails

While on our fifth anniversary cruise a year ago January, I purchased a trillion Tanzanite ring for my wife at a jewelry wholesaler in Grand Cayman. A month ago the stone fell out. We found the tanzanite stone and I took it to Zales to have it repaired. They charged me $75 to remount the stone. Four days later, the stone was gone, and this time we could NOT find it!
I took the ring back to Zales with my receipt, just to hear that they are not responsible once the ring leaves the store. They stated that they had never had a stone fall out, and didn't even have a protocol for this type of incident. I told them that they need to replace the stone with one of similar size, clarity and value ($2000). After three days, the store manager called me to inform me that the stone was actually a fake tanzanite, per the jeweler that did the work on the remounting. Felt like the fox guarding the hen house...
Zales store manager told me to leave the store, or she would call mall security. There was no apology, no admittance of responsibility, no recourse, and no way to prove that the stone was fake, except for the word of the person that did the shoddy job of remounting it.
Now we are out the stone and anniversary ring, and Zales has refused to respond to my complaint left on their website.
I am at a loss to understand how we, as Americans, have fallen to such a low that we actually don't expect customer service anymore. We assume that companies won't stand behind their work, and as a consequence, we aren't surprised when they don't. Zales was wrong for not properly mounting the stone. It stayed in the mount exactly four days, then fell out. We scoured the house looking for it, but to no avail. It doesn't matter whether the stone is real, fake, or Amethist (which is what they told us the stone really was, and wrote it on the receipt). Whatever stone they mounted in the ring, it should still be there. The store manager told me that she has no way of knowing how we treated the ring once we left the store with the remount. Just a note, my wife is disabled, and spends most of her time in bed, with the exception of occasionally walking the dog. They made it sound as if she was working heavy construction and the stone fell out as a result of unnecessary roughness.
Zales Fails in my book, and I am on a mission to make sure as many people as I can reach knows that Zales does not stand behind their work. There is no concept of customer service, and they will leave you high and dry, just like they did my wife and I. Be careful with Zales, because you too may get burned!

My Favorite Christmas

MY FAVORITE CHRISTMAS

By

MICHAEL MACQUARRIE

Copyright 2010

Cannot be reproduced in whole or part without the written prior consent of the author, Michael MacQuarrie

As a bachelor, with no family nearby, I would volunteer my time on Christmas day to cover shifts for those with families, so they could spend the holiday with them. I would also serve food at homeless shelters in Chicago. This year I was feeding the homeless. Volunteering was a tradition since my divorce five years earlier, as it helped me feel a little less lonely, giving back to those who were in need for a little compassion and kindness.

I had just completed my 24 hour paramedic shift. My last call was to the residence of an elderly woman, who, on Christmas Eve, crawled under her tree to plug in her toy train set. Her adult children and grandkids had arrived for dinner to find her motionless under the tree. Horrified, they called 911. 

When we arrived we knew instantly that she had passed some time earlier, as rigor was already setting in. Her family had to endure watching us remove her lifeless body from under the tree, twisted and rigid in a way that prevented us from positioning her securely on the stretcher. I requested that the parents please remove the children from the room, so as not to traumatize them further. However, they refused, stating that it would be their last time to see their grandma. Shaking my head and upset at their selfishness, I believed that the children would probably need therapy in years to come. We respectfully removed grandma from under the tree and put her on the stretcher and into the ambulance.

As paramedics we are trained to distance ourselves from emotional responses encountered while performing our duties, but as a human being, I must tell you it’s not possible. You always carry some remnant, some thread of your experiences with you through your life, good or bad. They becoming part of who you are and contribute to the person you become. I knew I would carry this experience with me for a very long time. So far, this Christmas wasn’t off to a good start.

I just had enough time to make it for breakfast. Changing out of my uniform and donning an apron as we started serving christmas breakfast to the homeless. We prepared ourselves for a busy day, as there were over 80,000 homeless in Chicago that christmas, and we had our share of them coming in from the sub-zero cold for a hot, free meal. Already we could see the line running around the building and down the block. Last year we actually ran out of food, but this year there would be enough to go around. Breakfast consisted of turkey, ham, meat loaf, mashed potatoes, yams, green beans, creamed corn, something I couldn’t quite identify, cornbread, and pumpkin pie. It was the same as the dinner menu. Everyone was given one food ticket, which they presented as they entered the food line. Hot coffee, hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows, and Kool-aide were on hand to wash everything down. It was going to be a good christmas day for the homeless, as we began to feed our share of people at our small kitchen. 

The line always started with families, mothers with children, then individual adults, one-by-one, shuffling along with their trays while we served them an assortment of christmas delights. Cafeteria-style was the rule, and we did all the serving to assure that no one person was taking too much food. As the line wrapped around the front of the building and fed through the door, we noticed a commotion between two people, a man and a woman. That’s when I saw her. She was perhaps 6 or 7, screaming as the man struck the woman in the face, knocking her to the floor. 

All eyes were now on the scuffle in the doorway, as the crowd backed away from the fight for safety. Security started moving toward them, and a bystander grabbed the little girl and pulled her back from impending danger. It was too late, however, as a shot rang out and echoed through the building like a large cave. The man shot the woman in the stomach, then turned the gun toward the little girl, pulling the trigger once more. She dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes,  and blood began to seep through her jacket over her right chest. The man turned and fled through the front door, with security, mostly off-duty policemen, hot on his heels. What happened next felt like slow motion.

“Someone call 911,” I yelled as I jumped the serving table and ran up to the little girl, pulling off my apron as I ran. People were screaming and women crying as I slid to the side of the little girl, opening her jacket to expose the gunshot wound. I could see blood bubbling with air, gurgling through the hole in her chest. I knew instantly that she had a hole in her lung, and was loosing precious air as it escaped through to the hole to the outside. 

“Is there a doctor in here?” I screamed to make sure I could be heard above the commotion. After a moment of silence, someone yelled “I’m a retired Army Medic, can I help.” Glancing around I saw a man in his sixties pushing his way through the crowd. “Check on the woman” I yelled as he approached. “Got it” he replied, dropping to his knees to check her condition. I then turned my attention back to the girl, who was now starting to turn blue around the lips and finger tips. “Someone get me some plastic wrap, hurry!” I heard the scuffle of feet as I swept my hand under her jacket and across her back to feel for an exit wound. There wasn’t one, so I focused on whether she was still breathing and if she had a pulse. It was weak and thready, but still there. “Did someone call 911?” “On their way, “ came the reply from the food line. 

Shaking her gently I said, ”Hey sweetheart, open your eyes...” There was no response. The Army Medic yelled, “This one’s awake, bleeding is controlled, and she’s asking about her daughter.” I glanced his way to notice that he had taken off his shirt and was using it to apply pressure to her gunshot wound. “Good work,” I snapped, realizing we were doing all we could with what we had. “Where’s the plastic wrap?” I caught sight of a shiny plastic roll tumbling end over end in my direction. An unseen hand snatched it from the air and gently handed it to me. “Here you go mister.” The stranger gave me the wrap and asked if he could help. “Go watch for the ambulance,” I replied, as I began to unroll a section of plastic film.

I wrapped the plastic around her tiny body, clothes and all, keeping the plastic in direct contact with her skin next to the hole in her chest. The apron secured everything in place. The blood stopped gurgling, and the blue lips started their return to pink. She was still in danger, and I knew a fast trip to the hospital was the only thing we could do for her now, as they had the tools needed to save her life. I glanced to the floor and saw her blood-stained food voucher stuck to the tiles. That’s when I heard the wail of the sirens as the two Fire/Rescue units pulled up to the door, the stranger directing them in.

As they approached, I gave the chief medic a quick report, noticing she looked familiar. We had gone through training together years before. We gave each other friendly glances and recognition smiles, then returned to the little girl, who was packaged and ready to be transported to the hospital. I saw the little girl’s mom getting loaded into the other rig, realizing this would turn out better than it started, thanks to the team effort we shared on Christmas Day. I jumped in the back of the rig with my old classmate, and we shared the care for the little girl all the way to Cook County Hospital Trauma Ward.

Once our patient was in the care of the trauma team, I began to clean the blood off my hands. My old classmate came back to see how I was, and how I had been. I had forgotten how attractive she was, as several years had passed since we last spoke. She was recently divorced, and as we talked I learned that this wasn’t her shift. She was covering for someone so he could spend Christmas with his family. “You do this every year” She asked? “yep, for five years now, ever since my divorce.” “Wow, good for you. Why don’t you let me buy you lunch?” She smiled and gave me a glance and a wink. I knew this would be my best Christmas ever! 

Great Uncle Earl

Written by Michael MacQuarrie

Copyright 2010

This may not be used in all or part without prior written permission from the author, Michael MacQuarrie

Thanksgiving Day is traditionally a time for family gatherings, a time to give thanks and reflect over the last year as we celebrate life, love and health together. Every year my family would meet at my grandparents home in Ottumwa, Iowa, to share this holiday and enjoy good country cooking. The highlight was always the stories the old folks would tell about times they had experienced throughout their lives, and nobody was better at this than my Great Uncle Earl.

At 6’ 3”, 240 lbs, Uncle Earl was a big, burley man. Crusty with age and ornery from experience, his stories were always the highlight of the holiday. My Aunt Mary, his late wife, had died ten years earlier, and Uncle Earl had been alone ever since with his memories and stories. He had plenty of time to rework and develop his stories over the years, and we always enjoyed the new slants and versions his stories would take. You          see, Uncle Earl was a war veteran of the big one, WWII, and he loved to tell of his many and varied experiences, much to the delight of the kids. For years I was one of those kids, and grew up wanting for more stories from my Great Uncle Earl.

Last Thanksgiving was the best yet, with great food, great family, and great stories. After dinner we all sat around waiting for the turkey to settle, anticipating when Uncle Earl would weave his latest great adventure. Typically he would start with “In my day...” and the story would develop from there. This time, however was different. He began with “Did I ever tell any of you that I was a fighter pilot with the Flying Tigers?” 

That was news to me, exciting news! As an adult I had obtained my pilot’s license a few years before, but had never known that Uncle Earl had flown with the Flying Tigers. I had read much about them and they were a favorite of mine.

“It was in April, 1941, when I arrived with the guys in Burma. I was a lieutenant under Captain Claire Chennault, who was in charge of the AVG (Airman's Volunteer Group) pilots, assigned to the Chinese Air Force. Burma is right next to China”  Uncle earl was just getting started. I had long been intrigued with the Flying Tigers, and knew about Captain Chennault, but now I know someone who had actually been there.  All his previous stories were about the South Pacific, when he was a Marine. Iwo Jima was one that he told over and over at countless Thanksgivings, and each year he saved more lives more and got more metals than the year before. 

My mom, his niece, got up from the room to help with the kitchen duties. Several of us remained to hear the next thrilling episode of Uncle Earl’s Flying Tigers. As he continued to weave his story magic, I was all ears! He started, “I remember one morning, right about sun-up, when the air raid sirens went off. We all scrambled for our P-40’s, mine was called “Mary Girl” after your aunt. She was sleek and fast just like your aunt, and took me places I’d never been to.” I thought excitedly how it really did sound like my Aunt Mary. It had been 10 years since she died, but I still had vivid memories of my favorite aunt.. 

“The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and there were spotty clouds. We didn’t have radar, as it hadn’t been invented yet, but we had spotters that were between us and the Japs.” Not politically correct, I thought, but it was appropriate for the time. He continued, “When they spotted the planes, they would radio ahead and give us warning. That’s when the C.O. (Commanding Officer) would awaken the sirens. We knew we had a better chance of surviving if we met them in the air, rather than getting caught on the ground.” I was setting on the edge of my chair. In my minds eye I imagined the scene, just like the 1942 movie “Flying Tigers,” starring John Wayne. I had seen this movie so many times I almost knew the dialogue by heart. Now that I think about it, my Uncle Earl kinda reminded me of John Wayne, complete with a swagger in his walk.

The story continued; “I was the first in the sky. My eyes were sharp as an eagle. I could always see them first, long before they saw me.” Now that sounded familiar, I thought for a moment, having remembered this quote from a book written by Chuck Yeager titled Yeager. He was the first to break the sound barrier in 1947. Oh well, it seemed to fit. Uncle Earl was just picking up steam. “I told the rest to climb above them, so they were under us, and we would be just to their rear. That was we would be in the morning sun, hard for them to see.” Uncle Earl stood up for dramatic effect. His hands were in the air, mimicking the airplanes to show us how they dove in for the kill. This was a good story. I was right there with him in that cockpit.

My mom was in the kitchen, talking with her sister, my Aunt Janice. They were looking toward the living room, whispering between themselves, snickering and shaking their heads. “Jealous” I said quietly, “that Uncle Earl was stealing the show.” That’s ok though, because it was Thanksgiving and this was a tradition. My attention turned back to my uncle, who had stopped for a few bites of cherry pie and homemade ice cream, my mom’s specialties. It was like a commercial break or intermission at the movies. Wiping his mouth with his open big hand, he jumped back into his story. 

“So there we were, the whole squadron, watching the Zeros (Japanese Fighter Planes) trying to sneak a surprise attack. They thought they were gonna surprise us, but we had the surprise for them. We dove, one after another, each taking a different plane. I hit first, strafing the Zero until black, oily smoke poured from it and it began to dive. Each of us took his turn, even though the Japs now knew we were there. That made everyone else's hits harder, but we were the better pilots, and took out six zeros, without any losses to our guys.” He sat up proud, and I gasped a “Wow” before he continued. “When we landed, my C.O. let me know that the Zero I shot down; a “confirmed Kill,” had taken out our barracks. We were homeless.” A laugh rose from the kitchen.

What a great story! We were all in awe for the rest of the day. I couldn’t wait to read more about the Flying Tigers. After my Uncle Earl went home, my mom and aunt wanted to let me in on a secret. “We know you enjoy your Uncle Earl’s stories, but the only thing he ever flew during the war was a desk in Topeka.”  

I really miss my Great Uncle Earl, who died on the following Christmas day. 

My New Blog

As an aspiring writer, I needed somewhere to showcase my short stories. This is my venue.