Offerings of the Wise
To What Green Altar: A Dementia Caregiver's Journal, Volume II
December 21, 2011 — Once I had a neighbor in Southern California who grew up in England in a rambling, old, drafty house that even the many fireplaces failed to warm, and with servants attending to every need. Consequently, here in America she was lost in the kitchen. One day she rang me up to ask how to boil water, or maybe it was eggs; I don’t recall, but it was something that simple. We both had school age daughters who were friends. She was married; I was single.
"Tell me, dear," she asked over the phone one day in her clipped British accent, "Are you getting any?"
"Um … {{{ }}} … what?"
"Are you getting any?"
"Uh, any? Like, any what?"
It turns out she meant spousal support, alimony. (No, I wasn’t getting any of that.)
When I ran my own businesses—hair design, catering—I assiduously supported my customers. In turn, they supported me; in fact, they’d go out of their way: for, on my bad days, they’d lift me up. It really was heartwarming. I did quite well operating in that thought; my customers were happy, we laughed a lot, and some of them remain my friends today. It works magic.
For five years Netflix and I maintained a good relationship; they’ve been supportive. But lately they’ve adopted the role of an ex-spouse wielding a number of smart-mouthed, disrespectful evil stepkids. Last night I had a disk that wouldn’t play, so I went online to report it and request a replacement. But I couldn’t sign in—even though my email address and password (in stars) were right there on the screen, Netflix told me they didn’t match. Probably you’ve been there. I phoned them. This female, who shall be named Rachel, asked me for the last four digits of the credit card I used for the site. I couldn’t remember which card I’d used, I told her. "Then, I’ll wait," she said, "while you go get your wallet and rifle through it." I’m not kidding: these were her exact words. "You must have other means of identifying me," I told her. She said, "I’m just going to put you on hold until you calm down." She gave me a time out. I hung up and called back. After an hour on the phone with various stepkids—including discussions suggesting pulling four-digit numbers out of a hat, I got Rachel again. I probably sounded like Jerry Seinfeld, from his TV show, opening the door of his apartment and finding, "Newman": "Rachel." By then I was asking for a month’s free service: eight dollars and sixteen cents—mere pennies; it was the principle of the thing. Supervisors told me it is not their policy to offer free service—"unless for special circumstances," said supervisor Molly: "It’s our policy." I asked when they had changed their policy; she said it has always been their policy, that’s how she was trained. "Then you were not thoroughly trained," I pointed out, "because a month’s free service has been offered me before for poor customer service." Anyway, it could have gone on. During the years I have had Netflix I have found the day crew to be much more accommodating than the evil stepkids of night. I’ll have to explore alternatives. Those may be limited because my computer doesn’t meet the requirements to watch most video online. Ultimately, I clicked on the button to set a new password, set the same password and cracked open the safe. But before it was done, I vented my frustration on someone else’s blog (where we’ve discussed Netflix and United States postal carriers getting our New Yorker magazines wet, ripping them, and then cramming them into our mailboxes). Those turkeys. I was steamed. Venting on another’s blog, though, is like throwing up on your next-door neighbor’s lawn. I thought I’d better come home and vent on my own blog.
Apparently Netflix1 doesn’t need my business, eight dollars and sixteen cents a month. (In the end, they gave me two bonus disks, however.) Conversely, Amazon offers excellent customer service—Amazon is simply an excellent company in no matter which of their varied venues you work with them. Oh, occasionally I’ll get a rep on the phone who sounds like she’s sitting in her living room in the Philippines eating peanut butter—I encountered two such yesterday—one named Clarence (yes, I spelled it back to her) and another young woman named Al Pacino (although, to my incredulousness, she did repeat her name as Albertina, I think), and a guy named Safari (I spelled it back to him. "Are you sure it’s not Peggy?" I asked him. "What? Peggy?" You have to have seen the TV commercial.
The best service comes from Apple, though. As with all of their products, their service comes impeccably packaged. "I have the good fortune of being selected to help you," emailed one rep. I smile. Not only do they help you promptly, they check back with you—like stroking your back and your arm to make sure you’re OK—and then they follow through until the problem is resolved and you are blissfully soothed.
And, of course, Emma and I are fortunate to have the unfaltering support of our healthcare aides and our hospice team.
Yesterday Jetta’s veterinarian had the florist deliver a pink carnation to us in her memory. Jetta has become a beautiful flower.
Then there are the irreplaceable offerings of my friends, those who came bearing food, drink and honey for my annual Christmas party the other night.
Support is important. In supporting each other, each of us makes an offering, gives of oneself; thus, we are exchanging gifts and we end up smiling.
Support—giving and receiving—is a place that feels like home inside one’s heart, that safe, secure place beside the hearth. In this spirit, therefore, I offer you, first, Keith Olbermann’s poignant reading of James Thurber’s "There’s No Place Like Home," and in parting, my favorite Christmas story, O. Henry’s "The Gift of the Magi."
May your holiday stockings overflow with light and love, keeping you happy, safe and warm. (Or, since I am publishing this story on Substack six months from Christmas, may your daily stockings overflow with light, love and abundance.)
~Samantha
*O. Henry’s story I offer in full on my blog. It is a dear story, short, and otherwise readily available.
This link to Olbermann reading Thurber worked as of this publication. Should it not work when you try it, you might google it, but James Thurber’s story is readily available in print.
Olbermann—Thurber: "There’s No Place Like Home":
To the credit of Netflix, their service has improved immeasurably. Others, no matter how important they say my business is to them, have gotten worse; they draw the shades and lock all the gates fortifying themselves against, God forbid, actually having to talk to you. Amazon has the best customer service by which other entities should learn. But they do have their glitches—like, “Oh, we’re sorry, something went wrong and that delivery has been delayed. Just wait two weeks and then you can cancel and get your money back. Meanwhile, we hope you like the picture of our employee Jim’s sweet dog.” This is always on an order of something I need tomorrow. They hold you hostage.
I came across this during my daily stalkings, a very abundant read.