Housekeeping, Physicians, and the Fitz
My “lifetime guaranteed” shower curtain rod fell down after six months of use. I managed to get it relatively snugly back into place, but it fell again four days later.
The receipt is somewhere. But I tossed the packaging. Is it worth it to haggle with the big-box vender? I thought not. So I — reluctantly – bought a new “lifetime guaranteed” shower curtain rod, at a different store. It’s working – but I saved the receipt and packaging, just in case I feel like fighting to get my money back when it quits.
The washing machine that came with the house I moved into won’t fill with enough water to do more than half a load. And it only accepts hot. So, I must do the laundry in tiny increments – in steamy water. I guess I need a new washer. Or I could give up clothes. And sheets. And towels.
Then there’s the dishwasher which works fine, except it won’t drain. I have bailed it out by hand three times. Three’s enough. I wash my dishes in the sink.
Theoretically new appliances would make life easier, but the inspiration for home improvement is tainted by the feeling that what I seek will be of dubitable quality, while its purchase will provide some billionaire with another gold toilet bowl.
I’ve been needing some medical attention lately. And my insurance company directed me to a large medical facility in my new hometown that doesn’t seem to have any doctors. It probably does—but they’re not apparent. Generally speaking, I’m fine to see a nurse practitioner or a physician’s assistant. Most of my maladies are simple enough. But lately I’m feeling in need of some serious medical knowledge and experience. Becoming a physician’s assistant doesn’t require any more education than I had—albeit with a different focus—and I know I didn’t feel adept at diagnosing and curing all speech and language problems just because I was technically licensed to do so. So, I can’t help but wonder if my malady falls within the scope of my primary care provider’s expertise—or not.
The medical facility probably employs fewer doctors and more assistants to increase the profit margin.
And if I die between visits, it won’t even register. Nobody there knows I exist—unless I make an appointment.
Maybe I’m just an old lady longing for the proverbial “good old days,” but it seems like profit margins have become the scourge of progress rather than its inspiration.
Or maybe it’s always been this way.
I recently finished a wonderful book: The Gales of November: The Untold Story of the Edmund Fitzgerald. I learned a great deal about the sinking of the famous Great Lakes freighter—the biggest, most elegant cargo ship of its day, continually breaking records for speed and large loads at a time when the area’s shipping industry was crucial to the nation’s economy.
I learned how captains cut corners so shipping companies could make a bigger profit. Crews earned hefty pay, making it worth it to aid and abet the corner cutting. Perhaps even inspiring pride in how close the corners were cut.
Rules were tightened up after the disappearance of the “Fitz” and its entire crew of 29 men. But the general principle remains: shower rods that don’t hold, washers that don’t work, theoretical supervisory physicians, and billionaires that don’t give a damn.
“The Fitz” sank in November 1975. I was a mere 21 at the time. I guess maybe profit over people was a thing even in the good old days. But then again, in my childhood, my mom bought a used washing machine that worked for years, and our family doctor regularly made home visits.