OH, FOR MORE
TIME AT THE OFFICE

Journal of Healing – June 5, 2002

By Mary Koch

Voices from the past have been teaching me something about time management.

Managing time has been a problem for me ever since I married John E. Andrist. I've never known anyone who could pack more into a day than John, including endless hours at the office.

Sure, you're going to say. And what did it get him? A stroke at age 62. Life in a wheelchair.

Strokes are frequently blamed on a high stress level. Until last year we assumed that figured into John's case. Then we consulted a doctor who said his stroke could have been caused by an old back injury that resulted in his chronic back pain and put pressure on his brain stem.

That was reassuring. John's hard work was not his undoing. Also reassuring are those voices from the past.

One voice was in a letter we received last week from a woman who holds an important government position. John, she wrote, had encouraged and inspired her to pursue her career against all odds.

"He never made me feel like he was too busy to hear from me or listen to my whining," she wrote.

* * *

FUNNY. JOHN could ignore my whining.

"People think they can drop by and waltz into your office any old time," I would complain. "Tell them to make an appointment so you can get your work done during office hours instead of on the weekend."

He maintained his open-door policy. The letter that arrived last week was typical of many he has received.

Another voice was Tatsuo Kurihara, Japanese photographer and writer. He was in Okanogan for the opening of the new Matsura exhibit at the museum, and we enjoyed renewing his acquaintance.

Kurihara visited us 10 years ago while researching a book about Frank Matsura, the extraordinary photographer who recorded life in the Okanogan from 1903 to 1913. John was delighted to take time from work (or whatever) to discuss his passion for Matsura's photography.

John was temporary caretaker of Matsura's glass plates and negatives before the collection was moved to the museum. He spent countless evenings in the newspaper dark room printing Matsura photos.

His reward for all those evenings at the office is the knowledge that he has been a link among many links. He helped preserve a treasure of history and art for the next generation. His reward is seeing others take up that cherished responsibility.

* * *

STILL ANOTHER voice was Allen Gibbs, former public information officer for the Okanogan National Forest. Allen sent us an e-mail when he ran across the program for a play John directed in 1980. The play was "What's The Matter With Lester?"

The matter with Lester, it turned out, was that the biggest storm of the decade hit the week of the play. Attendance wasn't much higher than the sub-zero thermometer readings. But Allen's e-mail was a reminder that John didn't spend ALL his time at the office.

I've frequently heard this standard piece of time management advice: "You never hear a dying man regret that he didn't spend more time at the office." John isn't dying – far from it – but he doesn't regret time spent at the office.

"IT WAS HARD TO LET GO," he spelled for me this morning. A master of understatement, he is.

ALL THE NEWS
THAT ISN'T NEW

Journal of Healing – June 12, 2002

By Mary Koch

The management of this newspaper reluctantly brings you another interview with Dr. Schlock. Please keep in mind that Dr. Schlock's facts come entirely from newspapers. That means everybody could be as well informed — and irritating — as Dr. Schlock.

Journal of Healing: So, Dr. Schlock, what's new in medicine?

Dr. Schlock: Very little, it seems.

Journal: What do you mean?

Schlock: As it turns out, two-thirds of the so-called new drugs approved by the Food and Drug Administration aren't new at all. They're "modified" old drugs. Folks in the business call them "me too" drugs.

Journal: By "modified," do you mean improved?

Schlock: Well, I suppose you could say that — just like those "new and improved" laundry detergents advertised on TV. Actually, the FDA says modified drugs are not significantly more beneficial than their original versions.

Journal: If a drug is already working, why would a manufacturer bother to change it?

Schlock: C'mon. D'ya need a little ginko to get your brain in gear?

Journal: Um, let me think. Does money figure into the picture at all?

Schlock: Eee-up. The National Institute for Health Care Management Foundation says, on average, a me-too drug costs twice what the original did.

Journal: But doesn't the pharmaceutical industry need a lot of money to spend on research for developing new drugs?

Schlock: Correct. About 30 billion smackarolas a year.

Journal: Whew! That's what I call a drug habit.

Schlock: And like all drug habits, it keeps growing. That's about six times what they spent on research two decades ago. Problem is, the more they spend, the fewer new drugs they've managed to cook up.

Journal: The poor drug industry!

Schlock: Not so poor. After-tax profits in 1999 averaged 18.6 percent. America's drug industry succeeds by doing exactly what every other manufacture does. Detergent, cars or pills – it's all the same. You package and you market.

Journal: What do you mean?

Schlock: Well, for example, you take a popular tranquilizer — so popular, it's almost a household word. You put it into a pink and lavender capsule, give it a new, feminine-sounding name, raise the price and advertise it to women suffering from "premenstrual irritability. "

Journal: If they were irritated before, just think how mad they'd be if they find out they're paying more for the same old thing. You got any more news that isn't new?

Schlock: Sure do. A new government study has determined that nurses save lives. Not only that, nurses help hospital patients get better, faster.

Journal: It took a government study to figure that out? You'd think it'd be obvious.

Schlock: It wasn't obvious to Congress. About 10 years ago, nurses went to Congress complaining about the way HMO's were trying to save money. The HMO's were replacing registered nurses with lower-paid, lower-skilled workers. That, said the nurses, put patients in danger. Congress decided the issue should be studied. And so, last month, a study concluded that patients in hospitals with a low number of RN's are more likely to suffer complications, stay in the hospital longer and even die.

Journal: DIE?

Schlock: Dr. Jack Needleman from the Harvard School of Public Health says he estimates "hundreds or, perhaps, thousands of deaths each year are due to low staffing."

Journal: So now that 10 years have gone by, what do you think Congress will do?

THE ROAD TO FREEDOM
ISN'T NECESSARILY A FREEWAY

Journal of Healing – June 19, 2002

By Mary Koch

Is there any rite of passage more liberating than getting your driver's license? Remember when you were a teen-ager? You finally got your hands on that piece of paper and the manacles of childhood were instantly ripped asunder.

Then there's the flip side: that rite of passage when slowing reflexes or failing eyesight force us to relinquish our license – our freedom – to drive. Safely in the middle generation, I've been watching both passages in our family. I can cheer on our student-driver grandchildren, knowing I won't have to pay the increased insurance premiums or worry about that first fender-bender.

At 85, my mother is one of the last in her crowd still driving. She's been generous about giving her friends rides to church and medical appointments in her VW Rabbit. In that generous spirit, she once told me, "I've decided that when I quit driving I'm going to give you the car."

"Great!" I said. "I've been wishing I had a small car to save wear and tear on John's van." The van, with its wheelchair lift and other heavy-duty equipment, is not the ideal vehicle for solo, short errands. But apparently I sounded a little too eager.

"I'm not talking about right away," Mother said dryly. I made a mental note not to bring the subject up. Ever.

* * *

QUITE RECENTLY Mother announced she was ready to give up driving. It was her decision. We were proud of her for making it before it was forced upon her. There ought to be some kind of ceremony honoring those who manifest wisdom along with aging.

I had an appointment in Redmond coming up. I decided to combine the trip with a visit to Mother in Tacoma so we could discuss the car. I left Redmond for Tacoma at 5 p.m., putting me into one of the nation's most congested traffic corridors at precisely the wrong time of day.

Our transportation system is so nuts, it makes our health care system look sensible by comparison. At least in health care, we victimize only some of the people – the uninsured and under-insured. In traffic, rich and poor suffer alike. The guy ahead of me in a brand-new Lexus was moving no faster than I in John's 9-year-old Chevy van. When we were moving.

Afraid that someone is going to rob of us of our independence, we cling to our steering wheels, imprisoning ourselves in gridlock, choking on air polluted with carbon monoxide. What's left of our battered souls, we lay on the global auction block to ensure the gas pumps will keep flowing.

"This is liberation!?" I mused as I crawled along the so-called "free"-way.

* * *

THE NEXT morning, I looked at Mother's car with a steely, objective eye. Would a second car represent liberation? Or would it represent yet one more complication in a life sufficiently complicated as it is? The latter, I decided. The car stays in Tacoma.

While I was making this liberating decision, John was enjoying his own freedom on wheels. Because I had the van, he had to travel to a therapy appointment by wheelchair.

I asked Russell, who was with John for the day, if he minded pushing John to the Ash Street Clinic. Russell didn't mind, but John did; he minded very much. He made it clear that he intended to steer his battery-powered chair the eight blocks by himself. And he did.

No brand-new teenage driver ever tasted liberation any sweeter.