Yesterday’s breakfast with the family was uneventful and pleasant, as most are these days. In her mid-90s, my mom has chilled, and rarely harangues me about anything any more. It’s almost like having a normal mother in a normal family. As if I know anything about normal.
Why, there was even a funeral of a family friend a week or so ago, and Mom only urged me to attend twice. When I said no and no again, she didn’t ask a third time, and she hasn’t said even once how disappointed she is that I didn’t go and weep and blow my nose during the service.
After breakfast, we went to visit my sister Hazel, who’s disabled and lives in a nursing home. That was pleasant, too, or as pleasant as possible. Hazel is still Hazel in her head, has her wits entirely about her, but she can’t verbalize. Which must be a living nightmare, but she deals with it, smiles, and she’s always happy to see us.
The routine is, we say hello to her, tell her whatever family news there is, and then the crowd of us — yesterday it was me, Mom, sis Katrina, bro Clay, and sis-in-law Karen — talk among ourselves, and sing old hymns. It’s December, so it was mostly Christmas carols. Hazel mouths the words.
In the middle of all this ordinary low-key interaction, Clay mentioned Vietnam veterans being spat at when they returned from that war. He said it in passing, half a sentence as a comparison with something else, and I don’t remember what the something else was, but the spit was a jolt between the hymns and very basic chit-chat. There it was, though, and I couldn’t let the lie lie, so when Clay finished his story, I said:
“Can’t let the bit about spit pass. It’s bogus. It’s right-wing propaganda. Vets weren’t spat on at airports.”
Clay, who says he’s not a Republican but has voted for Trump three times, insisted that it’s true.
I replied with the baseline factoid that many years passed between the alleged flood of loogie showers and the first public mention of it. Anyone who spits on a stranger is likely to get punched, so where are the contemporaneous news accounts of soldiers punching protesters over being phlegmed in the face?
Clay’s response was that he personally has two friends who were spat upon at airports when they returned from Vietnam.
My response was to chuckle.
Then the conversation turned to other things. For perhaps two minutes, we’d discussed Vietnam veterans being spat on, and I hadn’t raised my voice. Or at least, I don’t remember raising my voice, and I’m glad about that. I don’t want to be shouting at my big brother.
There are many millions of anti-factual Americans, though, and the MAGA crowd hates facts, so I hate staying quiet. But I also hate getting loud, so usually I don’t engage with people who have anti-factual beliefs. Family is the exception.
Anyway, now it’s the next morning, and curious, I searched the internet. Here’s what I found. Should I send the link to Clay, or just forget about it?
♦ ♦ ♦
Had a doctor’s appointment on Friday, which included this semi-interesting exchange with the nurse or technician, after I’d been shown into the tiny examination room but before seeing the doctor. The technician said she wanted to check my glucose, and asked me to extend a hand so she could prick my finger. I gave her my left hand, she jabbed my index finger to draw blood, then touched the blood with the testing strip protruding from a glucose monitor. My wife was diabetic, so I’ve seen this procedure many, many hundreds of times.
The lady looked at the monitor and said, “Wow — your glucose level is a perfect 100. You’re doing very good!”
I nodded, and she added, “Especially since it was so high, 337 when you were in the hospital.”
“It was? I didn’t know they’d tested my glucose in the hospital.”
“Well, that’s why you were hospitalized.”
“Uh, no. I had blood clots in my lungs. I’m not diabetic.”
She tilted her head like I’d said pee makes a fine salad dressing, and looked at the screen of her computer. “Are you Michael Schambach?”
“Not right now.”
I ain’t annoyed. Mistakes happen. I got a free diabetes test, and aced it — and I do eat lots of ice cream and pie, so diabetes is now one less worry in the back of my mind.
If anything, it’s cool that not only did the technician apologize, but she must’ve mentioned it to the doctor, because when the doc came in a few minutes later, she apologized, too.
People make mistakes. Good people own up to it. These are good people. And I officially don’t have diabetes.
♦ ♦ ♦
Do two semi-interesting stories, back-to-back, add up to one interesting story?
12/21/2025
Leave a Reply