This was the London Royal Humane Society’s name in 1774, before it decided to opt for something a little clearer, and, err, less Monty Pythonesque. I swear I am not making this up. I will always wonder what “immediate relief” was offered for persons “apparently dead,” and whether they meant apparently dead as in, apparently dead but not really, or apparently dead of drowning but actually had a stroke or got hit with a brick. Also, what did they do with the not-quite-drowned, who did not yet “appear” dead? Did they wait for them to apparently die? Or where they the province of the Institution for Affording Eventual Relief to Persons In Danger of Being Apparently Dead from Drowning? We will probably never know.
Greetings, mes Chers.
So, not only did I completely lie about writing part II of my activities in the next couple of days, but I grossly underestimated my immune system’s capacity to fail [Warning: This Post is incredibly long-winded and self-indulgent. Do not read on an empty stomach]. Two days after celebrating my return to health, I got horribly sick all over again. Two weeks later, I can’t really say I’m much better (or worse, for which meagre compensation I suppose I ought to be grateful). Now, I know I’m a bit of an insomniac who likes to run herself into the ground, but I also take tons of vitamins, herbal remedies and eat pretty healthily, so it’s a little bit exasperating to have such a pathetic excuse of a first line of defense against germs. More than one nutritionist/allergist has suggested I get myself tested for food allergies, because it might be continual exposure to an allergen that is chronically depressing my immune system. Somehow, this would make me feel a lot better. Like then, my immune system would have an excuse for being so pathetic, and I could either change my diet or just remind myself, that hey, it’s super busy dealing with my allergies so it’s not really its fault that I catch everything. And yes, I DO tend to personify my immune system. Also my hair, and various inanimate objects.
I discovered recently (thank you Hyperbole and a Half http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com, the only blog I occasionally remember to read, whose author, I cannot help feeling, may be my long lost twin, because we think in nearly identical ways) that I’m one of those people who sees numbers and letters as attached to certain colours (I mean I knew I did, I just didn’t know it was a thing certain people experienced), and personifying random things, like spoons and chairs is part of this trait – synesthesia I think it’s called. It’s supposed to mean that I’m also good at math, but I’m afraid, as you all know, THAT sure didn’t pan out. Although possibly my unholy nightmare of a grade three teacher beat the mathematical abilities out of me, and it’s her fault and not that of my brain that I can barely add. It also means that I hoard things and feel sorry for items on sale and want to buy them, even if they’re hideous or just totally bizarre, because I secretly feel that they feel left out for not being taken home by someone. The Island of Misfit Toys totally upset me as a child and still kinda freaks me out every time I watch Rudolph. I think it would’ve scarred me for life if they didn’t all get “adopted” in the end.
Anyway, so I got hideously sick again, and a number of the symptoms led me to believe I might well have an ear infection or something, so I wanted to make a doctor’s appointment. But I also knew, as a foreigner with student travel insurance, that I had to contact my insurer first before I took any action or it might not be covered. And thus I embarked on one of the most maddening and inefficient undertakings yet on this trip. See, first of all, bear in mind that my internet and mobile connection at my apartment is sketchy at best. For whatever reason, our building seems to be kinda in a dead zone, so phone calls out, whether via skype or normal phone, particularly long distance, are very fraught endeavours involving a lot of dropped calls and swearing. Second, I lost my voice, so I could only rasp semi-intelligibly at people across the already bad line. Third, nothing worked the way it was supposed to. Naturally.
Before I left I did all my homework and signed up and/or notified everyone I could for my coverage. The person at Ihaveaplan sweetly handed me several different plan ID cards with the numbers to contact if anything should go wrong health-wise. It was supposed to be an easy procedure involving a quick call to a knowledgeable person on a 24 hour hotline. If anyone ever tells you that this is how your travel insurance works, either you have a much less stupid plan that I have, or they are LYING. No one seemed to feel that they were the person I was supposed to be calling. My “travel health Passport” card offered me two numbers, an emergency number and a regular number. A possible ear infection hardly seemed like an emergency, so I called the regular number. It took me to a Blue Cross operator who assured me that they knew nothing about my plan and could not deal with me. They insisted that it was entirely up to my university provider of their plan to tell me what to do. But unfortunately, not only does the university provider have limited hours, but they only list a 1-800 number to call, which my UK mobile refused to recognize and skype kept dropping the call. In the end I think I talked to about 8 different people, all of whom insisted I needed to call someone else, often the person I’d just got off the phone with who had directed me to them. Finally, I ended up dialing the emergency number and whisper-yelling at the person who picked up that I didn’t care what they thought about the possible emergency-ness of ear infections, no one would help me and I was not hanging up till someone explained to me what the hell I was supposed to do so I could go to a clinic the next day.
Then I was put on hold, long distance for 20 minutes, while she figured out what do to, followed by another 20 minute conversation where she seemed to be recording my information on stone tablet, judging by the amount of time it took her to get my name and birth date down. Then, we had the following conversation.
Operator: Okay, so I’ve got your information, what’s the problem then?
Me: I think I have an ear infection and I need to know what procedure to follow or who to notify to insure that my visit to the doctor is covered by my insurance.
O:… Okay…Are you sure you have an ear infection?
M: Um, no, (since I’m not a freaking doctor), but I feel really ill and I’m in a lot of pain.
O: Ah… well… let me check something again, I’ll be right back
10 minutes later
O: Okay, so you think you have an ear infection?
M: Yes. Also, ebola.
O: Well, we have to open a file.
M: A file?
O: Yes, we will use your information to start a case file on you.
M: And then?
O: Well, we send it to the insurance provider and they will notify you in a few days if your visit is covered.
O: Well, we send it to the insurance provider and they will notify you in a few days if your visit is covered.
M: … And in the meantime???
O: You must do what is medically necessary.
M: UH? And that means?
O: You must do what is medically necessary (sounding like secret code).
M: Okayyy…. And what if it isn’t approved?
O: Then you have to pay for it.
M: And I won’t know until after I see the doctor?
O: Yes.
M: So, why do I have to call in advance then?
O: Because we have to open a file.
M: Right. Well. Um… thanks.
O: No problem. Have I addressed all your concerns today?
M: …
Keep in mind that by the time I got off the phone it was 2 am and I was so sick I wanted to cry and smash things and then die. Awesome. Several days later I was informed via email that my visit to the doctor was “allowed” and “covered.” Sweet of them to let me know, I thought. I like to picture how this would’ve gone down if I’d been in a car accident, was unconscious, and someone else had to check whether my visit was covered. Probably it would hilarious, but I would also probably die of a brain haemorrhage while my concerned advocate waited on hold.
That night, I had one of my more fabulously weird dreams. I can dream pretty bizarre and vivid dreams at the best of times, but fever and cold meds tend to up the odds. This time around, I dreamt (because my psyche is basically the plot to a Disney film), that I was a princess who had to marry a prince to restore peace between our warring countries. To achieve this laudable peace, I was sent to find him in a marble maze that vaguely resembled the guildhall complex in London. See, I could only marry him and achieve peace if I found him and we recognized each other, and ourselves, for who we were. Now this may seem obvious and simple, but my brain had a few more tricks up its sleeve. So I kept walking past him and sometimes, I’d recognize him, but I wouldn’t know who I was, and other times I knew who I was, but not who he was. Likewise, he sometimes knew me but not himself, etc. To make it worse, sometimes, I WASN’T me, or he wasn’t him. I kept walking past him faster and faster hoping that if I walked fast enough we’d both be ourselves and know who we were at the same time and be able to finally end the war. Just at my highest level of panic, I woke up and remembered that I was just a delirious PhD student who needed to visit the doctor and thankfully wasn’t responsible for world peace.
Meanwhile, back in the realm of the actual, the doctor I went to see next day, who didn’t seem fussed either way, whether I was on an insurance plan or dropped off from Mars with an intergalactic infection, thankfully sorted me out, without needing to ascertain if my visit was “medically necessary.”
 |
| Vikings invade London. Again. |
In other news, just to make me angrier than ever with my medical insurance, I just found out that my entire claim for the summer got sent back. Half of it because, the student plan misdirected me to send my receipts to the new provider instead of our previous one, and second, because Blue cross managed to lose my receipts and now denies ever receiving them. Meanwhile, BC is steadfastly refusing to return the receipts that should’ve been sent to the previous company, because “that’s not what they do.” Also, I cannot talk to them in person about it, I have to talk to my university provider, who diligently listens to my questions and problems, miss-records them, contacts Blue Cross and then writes me to tell me a) things I already know about B) things I didn’t request to begin with because that wasn’t my particular problem.
Because the past month has truly been the queen of ludicrous bureaucratic tangles, on top of everything else, not only did my bank account info get stolen by a fraud ring so that the bank decided to freeze my cards (all the while insisting that I could still use my online account, which turned out to be completely UNTRUE and required a collect call that I couldn’t make from my mobile cuz that’s not allowed for some reason in the UK), but some paperwork for my research grant got messed up (my travel dates somehow never reached them even after obsessive double checking on my part before I left), and I suddenly had to race around gathering letters from committee members and writing appeasing letters to mollify a very annoyed granting agency. Honestly. And I was wondering why November was such a lack-lustre month. Writing all this down, I’m kinda amazed ANYTHING worked out. Or that I had time to eat breakfast.
But enough rambly ranting. I owe you an update of my fabulous activities, not just my near apoplectic experiences. I know you’re all breathless with anticipation.
Let’s see, when last I left off telling you of my activities, rather than the slings arrows of my existential angst, I was off to Richmond for the day, to wander along the river and look at the deer. Which was lovely and the deer were everything I dreamed that English deer might be.
Also, there were Ents.
See?
Shortly thereafter, I relocated to East London to housesit for my host supervisor. And I got all giddy enthusiastic about everything again, because his house had… a dishwasher, a dryer AND a shower!!! It was like A PALACE. Although, I missed my roommates not being around to convince me that the odd random house noises weren’t serial killers or zombie invasions. You know the scene in the horror movie where the girl’s alone in the house, and there’s a crash in the basement, and she decides that, though it’s “probably just the cat,” she has to go downstairs to investigate? And then something hideous eats her? That’s totally me. I don’t know why, but somehow, worse than getting eaten but whatever is waiting down there, is NOT KNOWING whatever is waiting down there. Like I’d much rather die knowing WHICH monster or serial killer is in my basement, than live not knowing. Perfectly rational, right? This was also when I got sick for the first time, so I wasn’t exactly at my most sane.
By the way, do you ever have a terrible day, and you’re about to complain about it to someone, and then they’ve TOTALLY had a far worse day, and while, you feel really bad for them, you also feel super annoyed, because your day is NOTHING now? During those moments, I always want to be like, oh yeah? Well *I* just survived a zombie apocalypse. Top THAT. Cuz really, who could?
In the meantime, because OBVIOUSLY being sick doesn’t mean I should stay home after the archives and rest, I had a theatre blitz. During November, I saw Crazy For You, Chicago, Wicked, and Driving Miss Daisy. They were all FABULOUS. I would’ve attended more, but eventually I crashed, plus I’m only allowing myself discount tickets, which somewhat limited the blitz. Chicago was probably my favourite musical, because I’m a cynic at heart, but Miss Daisy was the most stunning talent-wise, with Vanessa Redgrave and James Earl Jones. Even if she IS an Oxfordian, I forgive Redgrave because she’s wonderful.
I also developed a burning desire to visit Epping Forest while I was, relatively, near by. In fact, I wanted to walk there, and really thought I could though I know about my terrible sense of direction, and was aware that it was about a 10 mile walk. But I thought it’d be a good weekend activity when I was marooned out in Walthamstow because they kept shutting down the tube for upgrades, and I figured I could bus back. Partly, I liked the idea of visiting an actual forest, and partly I wanted to visit Queen Elizabeth (the first)’s hunting lodge there.
I mean seriously? Beware Cattle? Where I come from, that would be a farm. A FOREST in my country has warnings about bears and cougars, not cows.
It was still sufficiently woodsy for my tastes, but brought home forcibly the annoyance of being a Girl Travelling Alone. Cuz there were all these windy, overgrown paths that I really wanted to explore, but they were also pretty deserted, and out of my home context, its always difficult to figure out how safe a particular area is to wander about alone. Now you may think I’m being paranoid. However, not only do I have a patented Crazy-magnet – in any situation, left to my own devices, I will somehow draw in the one mentally unsound person present, like a moth to a flame – but, the first time I set out for the forest and headed into the woods, I met a genuinely sketchy person. Up until that point, I’d mostly been thinking gleefully of wandering off into the wilds for an afternoon, with my own worry my probable lost-getting. Halfway down a trail, I spotted a middle-aged man, with a small dog peering out at me from the trails edge. As soon as he saw I spotted him, he dove back into the undergrowth, and by the time I got level with wear he was, no sign of him. Suspicious, but stubborn, I continued onward for a bit, then looked back. Sure enough, there he was peering out at me again, and once again he dove back into the bushes. Since I was also beginning to feel this trail was going to get me hopelessly lost, I decided regretfully to turn back. Cuz, though I may be a coward, I’m not a complete fool, and this didn’t seem like normal behaviour. And naturally, he was totally hidden when I passed back that way but re-emerged to spy once I was past. Now, perhaps he was just a harmless eccentric who is terribly afraid of women walking alone in the woods, but it seemed unwise to bet on that. This is the infuriating thing about hiking on your own. Especially because I have this burning desire to get into as remote spots as possible, but am at the same time pragmatic enough to realize that this is not really a very bright plan. As a result, I spent a lot of time dissatisfiedly skirting the edges of Epping Forest, wishing I had a crossbow or amazing martial arts abilities, or could unless my inner wear-bear.
Oh well, at least I learned what Elizabethans like for dinner.
Oh, by the way, if you’re getting tired, you should STOP NOW. This post still goes on for several more pages. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…
At the archives, I valiantly pursued a series of dead ends. Looking back on November, the other day, I was wondering what on earth I’d been doing, research-wise, until I realized that I tend not to count anything that doesn’t pan out, any busy work (like conference proposals and seminar attending), or any background research I do. For example, I’m bouncing between about 5 different libraries, and each one has a distinct system that takes a considerable amount of time, even with knowledge of it, to learn the most efficient way to access its resources and sweet talk the librarians/archivists. But, true to crazy perfectionist form, if it hasn’t revolutionized my planned research, I somehow decide it doesn’t count as real work and therefore shouldn’t have absorbed any of my time. Which is silly and something I need to work on if I’m not going to drive myself completely insane.
I also squeezed a couple of weekend trips, to Cambridge and Norwich, and then to Edinburgh. I was lucky enough both times to get fabulous weather, which is pretty impressive for mid-November. At Cambridge, one of my committee members who happens to be spending his sabbatical there, kindly took me around to several of the most beautiful colleges, King’s College Chapel (where Tudor monarch worship as a replacement for Catholic saints is eerily apparent). We also wandering along the Backs, and I even squeezed a half day at the library and popped into the museum just before heading off to the train station. I would definitely like to explore Cambridge at a more leisurely pace, and felt instantly jealous of all the students who study there.
Then it was on to Norwich, to meet a long lost cousin none of us knew we had. Essentially, one of my grandfather’s brothers was stationed in Norwich during the war while recuperating, and it seems he did a little more than recuperate. It’s doubtful he even knew he left behind a son, and my cousin apparently only discovered his Newfoundland heritage when he got into genealogy and his mother decided maybe she should let him know who his actual dad was. Since then he has had a burning desire to reconnect with all that remains of his Canadian family. Now these kind of meetings can go either really well, or terribly ill, and I wasn’t at all sure what to expect. If this was a movie, this would be the beginning of an epic period piece/family saga, bridging the years and continents, and our meeting would uncover the secret of a lost love or buried treasure (I always sorta hope everything I undertake will uncover buried treasure or secret passage ways, but so far, no luck). It didn’t, but it did uncover a perfectly lovely branch of the family. D, his wife and I had a great day and a half touring around Norwich and trading stories about our crazy family members.
I, for example, learned that my cousin (his half brother) in Newfoundland is the proud owner of a scarecrow on his front lawn, holding a sign that states, “Thank you Mr Harper for ending the Long Gun Registry.” Somehow, I don’t think we’d see eye to eye.
Next weekend, I travelled up to Edinburgh. Now that was truly fabulous. My most recent old country roots are Scottish, so it was kinda exciting to finally get to a place where I actually KNEW my people came from, and see plaques dedicated to their activities and family tartans and things (basically, I’m a sentimental sap). Also to see little old ladies everywhere that were twins of my great aunt Nan, a wonderful, ferocious but tiny 90 year old Scotswoman when I knew her, who terrified my parents at my birth by nearly crushing my newborn head with the force of her traditional Scottish blessing.
Everything about Edinburgh was wonderful, and I really really want to go back and explore more of Scotland. Thanks to the great advice of R, who I got to reconnect with after much too long away, I installed myself at a fantastic B&B just outside the city centre, where they produced intimidating but delicious breakfasts that included both haggis and blood pudding. So yes, I’ve tried it again at last, and I have to say, I don’t think it’s ever going to be my thing. Haggis, on the other hand, was quite nice, but the “tatty” scones where my favourite.
I managed to squeeze in a visit to the library, which was all the more impressive since I forgot half my archive accessing credentials, and lost my BL card, which might have allowed me in without them. But fortunately, R’s husband works at the archives, and very kindly put in a word for me, so that they new I was a law-abiding grad student. What else did I do? Basically, everything. I went on a ghost walk at Greyfriars Kirk yard (and saw the castle-like school that was the inspiration for JK Rowling’s Hogwarts), I visited the Edinburgh Christmas market…. And that was pretty hilarious.
Here I am at a German Christmas market in Scotland that happens to sell First Nations dream catchers. Also frog Buddhas.
I visited the Castle, naturally, and went on a fascinating tour of the Real Mary King’s Close (Edinburgh has built upward over the centuries, so this sixteenth century bit is now underground), and hiked halfway up Arthur’s Seat before a rainsquall and the early sunset drove me back down. I also took a quick tour around the Scottish parliament and joined R’s book club for the evening. Oh, and bought myself a really nice whiskey, which, strictly speaking, perhaps I oughtn’t to have bought, but I don’t feel guilty AT ALL.
And that, my dears, is finally IT. This post has become the most gargantuan one yet, and you’re probably sick to death of me and my activities by now, so I’m going to sign off. Next up, England vs Sweden: The Christmas Experience.
Kisses and Penicillin.
