Welcome to Hootervile (No Pun Intended)

So, I arrive in Orlando on July 2^nd and Tim is there to meet me at the airport, thank goodness! We left the airport to begin the hour long drive to Daytona, or “Hooterville”, as Tim likes to call it. We stopped to pick Eddie along the way who was at the Mercedes Dealer, getting the Smartcar serviced. Clutched in my possession was two week’s worth of anti-anxiety medication which was all the psychiatrist at Overlake would give me.

Tim has a beautiful vintage home, built in 1922, the same age as my mom. He and Eddie have poured thousands of dollars into renovations and furnished it Mission Style furniture. They completely redid the yard and it is an abundance of exotic, tropical plants with a thick, lush green lawn. But the piece de resistance is the garage, the roof of which had collapsed at one time. They gutted it and built a loft which Tim had very generously given me as a work space. I was most happy when I was in the loft. 

Daytona is a seedy, weedy, run-down, depressed and depressing, past-it’s-prime little nowhereville, tourist town. Other than tourism, it has no industry. (There are some schools there, Daytona State College, and Embry-Riddle University). Its main claim to fame is the Daytona Beach Raceway for all those NASCAR fans. The rest of the town consists of strip malls, run-down hotels, boarded up motels, tattoo shops, tacky souvenir shops, empty, weedy lots.

The beach itself is the only redeeming factor about the whole place. But beware, if you want to take a walk/jog on the beach you’d better get up EARLY! Do not even bother to start your run after 7 AM. From that point on, it just gets hotter, and stickier, and stickier and hotter. You will arrive home after 45 minutes, with your face so sweaty your sunglasses slide off your nose. And that is the way it remains for the rest of the day, unbearable hot, stuffy and muggy. You don’t dare go out!

The place is populated by a mash-up of homeless hippies, aging baby-boomers, toothless meth heads, ugly people who walk around wearing practically NOTHING! Now this might be interesting if the people were good looking, but they are not! Most of the inhabitants are old, and baggy with sagging tattoos on leather like skin. The men go around shirtless on bicycles or motorcycles, their long, stringy, grey ponytails hanging down their burnt backs. Everyone is obese, young and old alike. The women, who bleach their hair to the color and texture of straw, sport several inches of black roots. They wear too small tank tops that expose bellies flowing over the top of super low rider, cut off jeans. If you come here, don’t bother to bring shoes. I really questioned whether I was still in the United States of America. It felt that foreign.

I began cutting back on my medication, trying to make it last. I told myself that I was OK, that I didn’t really need it. But the panic attacks continued. I called the 1-800# for 24/7 peer counseling for breast cancer victims. I had called them before. There was nothing they could do, but one counselor told me in no uncertain terms that I had to take my meds! She spoke very sternly to me. Where was I going to find a doctor in Hooterville?

Then, one night, after Eddie had returned to New York, I had one of the most severe panic attacks I had ever had. I left the house to run an errand in my new car. I did not know my way around Daytona. I did not know which way was East and which was West. I did not know North from South (The ocean was in the wrong place.)

As I came out of the store parking lot I turned in the wrong direction. I was forced onto a freeway on ramp, I-4, headed toward Orlando. It was dark and I could not see any landmarks. I reached for my new iphone and called Tim. I asked him for help. He said I had to stay on that road until the next exit and then turn around and come back. I drove, and drove and drove for what seemed like forever. I became more and more panicked. I was screaming and crying at the top of my lungs and clutching the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were white. Rufio jumped in the back seat and hid.

Two hours later, I finally got back to Tim’s, but I had to call him several times to find his house. I could not read the maps on my iphone.

When I got out of the car, I was paralyzed with fear and could barely speak above a whisper. My muscles were so tight, I was almost catatonic. I begged Tim to wait for me, to not go in the house, to help me, but he would not. When eventually I got inside he very sternly told me to sit down. I was sobbing and crying. “I don’t know how Ali puts up with this, but I’m not going to put up with this!” he scolded me. I couldn’t help it. It was out of my control. “I’m not a mental health professional! I am going to call 911.” I begged him no; I knew they would put me back in the psych ward. I promised him I would take my medication (which I did not have with me in the car) and go to bed.

The next day was Sunday. I drove myself to the ER. They put me in a room and made me wait 45 minutes. Then they told me they would not give me a refill on Ativan. I was furious.

I called my insurance company 24 hour nurse hotline to get help. The nurse repeated that it was very important that I find a doctor and stay on my meds. Did I need a family practice physician or a psychiatrist? I did not know.

I spent every free moment the following day, Monday, trying to find a doctor who was taking new patients. How hard could that be? Welcome to Hooterville.

I made dozens of phone calls until I got one to say yes. It was July 16, I was down to my last two pills. Probably I could have gotten what I needed at the run down, seedy, old apartment building on the corner. I know I could have walked into a gun store and bought a gun with no problem.

All of the doctors I called were not taking new patients at this time, or they would “review” my records and let me know in a couple of weeks. I never had so much trouble finding a doctor. I finally called Dr. Fermin Ano and they said they would squeeze me in. I drove down into a scary, unsavory part of town, clutching my plastic bag of meds like some despicable, desperate addict. So, it’s come to this!

I finally found the place next to check cashing places, liquor stores and convenience stores. It looked like a trailer that had been converted into a permanent building. It was dark inside, smelled musty, with a torn carpet and metal folding chairs in the waiting room.

Rebecca, his assistant, who smelled like cigarettes, handed me a cup for a urine sample. I don’t know why because I wasn’t there for a urinary tract infection, but I was in no position to argue.

When I saw Dr. Ano, I was shocked and almost started laughing. He is a tiny, old, Pilipino gentleman, about 5 feet tall, 80 years old with wisps of grey hair across his bald head. He looked exactly like Yoda from Star Wars only wearing a Hawaiian shirt. He spoke in a high pitched, squeaky voice with a heavy Pilipino accent.

When I told him why I was there, he looked at my list of meds and proclaimed, “You are severely depressed! This is not strong enough for a flea! I am going to change everything!”  I tried to protest, “No, this is what the psychiatrist in Seattle gave me; and it works as long as I take it. All I need is a refill” “Who is the doctor here?” the tiny man raised his tiny voice at me, “Stop trying to play doctor.” So, I shut my mouth, took the new prescriptions to the pharmacy and followed his instructions to the letter.

The following day, I was sick as a dog, nauseous, no appetite, vomiting, hunched over, unable to straighten up. I immediately called his office and told them I wanted my old prescriptions back. Tim was kind enough to go to the pharmacy to pick them up for me. Welcome to Hooterville.

At the same time as all this was happening I was playing 20 faxes with Bank of America, trying to get a loan. They wanted tax returns and W-2’s from 2010, all of which were in storage in the state of Washington. Tim suggested I go to the local IRS office. Yes, they have one in Daytona. The only problem is that they close for lunch between 12 and 1 and so does the Post Office. I guess Sally from the IRS and Daphne from the Post Office have to close up in order to get a break. Everything I needed to supply to the bank I had to obtain through other means. But I did it. I was determined. Welcome to Hooterville!