In our household, I do the laundry and my wife does the grocery shopping. When I need laundry supplies, I just write what I need on the grocery list and she buys it. From time to time, my laundry duties include removing stains. So I’m wondering: now that I’ve read this, do I just write “snake venom” on the grocery list and wait to see what happens?
Holy cow! I’ve been linked to before, but now Whomping Willow has blogrolled me, right between Frank J. and Mickey Kaus! So I’d damn well better post something.
(The following begins with a couple of paragraphs of medical technobabble, but don’t let that scare you off. It rapidly veers into other areas.)
On March 4, I went back to Dr. Talluto for my follow-up appointment, one month after being diagnosed with glaucoma. As instructed, I had been putting the Xalatan drops in my left eye, while leaving my right eye alone. The result: The intraocular pressure (IOP) in my left eye had decreased from 23 to 12.5. Since the goal had been to reduce the IOP by a third, this was excellent! I was surprised to learn that the IOP in my right eye had decreased to 15, almost as much improvement as in the right eye. Dr. T. explained that Xalatan isn’t just a topical medication — it enters the bloodstream and ends up affecting both eyes, although the effect is greater when the medicine is delivered directly to the target.
So it seems that Xalatan is effective. Dr. T. gave me a prescription for it and told me to come back in six months so that we can verify that it’s working. (She’ll do that by comparing digital 3-D photos of my optic disk from now and six months in the future. If they’re the same, that will mean the shape of the optic disk has stopped changing — meaning that the optic nerve damage has been arrested). Putting drops in both eyes is now a permanent part of my bedtime routine.
When she wrote the prescription, Dr. T. asked me whether my health insurance had a copayment for prescription drugs. I told her yes, and she said she would write the prescription for three-month supply of Xalatan with one refill, instead of a one-month supply with five refills. That way I would only have to pay the copayment twice instead of six times. But it didn’t work out that way. When I filled the prescription, the pharmacist informed me that Blue Cross/Blue Shield only allowed me to purchase a one-month supply. I called BCBS, and they confirmed this. There’s a mail-order pharmacy that I can use instead, but the copayment for that increases for larger quantities, and ordering a three-month supply would cost me as much as three one-month supplies. So there’s no real advantage to the mail-order option.
The actual expense is no burden. But I found this development thought-provoking for a different reason. I have always viewed prescription drugs as a temporary thing; I would get a prescription because I was sick or injured, and would take the medicine until it was all gone or I got better. Then I could forget all about it. But now, for the first time, I have a permanent medication. If I ever stop using it, I’ll go blind. So I have to permanently change my habits, and the cost of the prescription will be a part of my family’s budget indefinitely.
“So what?” you’re asking. Millions of Americans, mostly older folks, have to take prescription medicines daily and allow for it in their budgets. That’s true. But until March 4, I wasn’t one of them. As I headed home from the pharmacy with the medicine in my hand, I found myself thinking that this was a significant transition in my life — one of those lines we all cross on the journey from cradle to grave, but often don’t notice until later. Exactly what this one meant was a little hard to articulate, but it made me think of the letter that (I’m told) everyone receives when they turn 50, inviting them to join the AARP. The Letter is only a wake-up call. It doesn’t mean you have to retire or join the AARP, just that you’ve reached an age at which thinking about such things is no longer premature.
Middle age contains a lot of these reminders. Like the first fallen leaf of autumn, they tell you that a transition is under way, whether you’re ready for it or not. You don’t have to make any concessions to it right away, but you can no longer ignore it. Some of the signs of middle age are gradual things, or happen earlier to some people and later (or not at all) to others: pattern baldness or gray hair, having your youngest child become a teenager, seeing your first wrinkle in the mirror, and so forth. But The Letter is a discrete event that divides your life into two parts: one day you’re not eligible to join AARP, and the next day you are.
Filling my first prescription for Xalatan felt like that. Before March 4, I wasn’t taking any prescription medicines; the next day I was, and would be for the rest of my life. The message seemed clear: You’re not young anymore.
I can live with that.
The new dryer arrived, was installed, and actually works.
The ailing computer came home from the shop, but the problem wasn’t solved. It continued to crash frequently for no apparent reason. I took it back to the shop and got a second opinion from a different technician. The motherboard is damaged and will have to be replaced. There’s nothing wrong with the CPU or memory modules, so we could theoretically just move them to another motherboard — except that no motherboard that could use them is being made anymore.
We could buy an old one on eBay, but what would be the point? No, this means we have to buy a new motherboard and CPU and memory, and build a new computer in the case of the old one. This is probably a good idea anyway, as the computer in question is increasingly unstable. For example, inserting the FlashPath adapter for my digital camera into the floppy drive causes the machine to reboot. So does opening the little plastic door that covers the front-panel USB port.
Last night, I tried to order the replacement components from TigerDirect, but I couldn’t remember the password for my account there. When I tried to use the “I Forgot My Password” feature to have the password e-mailed to me, it didn’t work. Nothing came.
This morning, I phoned TigerDirect customer service, waited on hold, and eventually spoke to a live human being. He investigated and told me that their e-mail servers are currently suffering from some kind of major problem caused by large amounts of spam. He recommended that I create a new account using an alternate e-mail address, and use that to place the order. I did.
Two MP3 players I ordered for Ben and Ruth arrived. They don’t work.
And Marie went to her dentist to have a toothache diagnosed. Result: she needs a root canal and a crown, which will cost over a thousand dollars.
Over the last month or so, I decided to stop procrastinating and get some broken things fixed. I took apart a leaking toilet, replaced all the non-porcelain parts, and put it back together. I had the broken driver’s sun visor in my car replaced. I replaced several flaky light fixtures. I took a nonfunctional VCR to the repair shop. I sent the older of our two TiVos to Texas to have its ailing modem repaired and its hard drive and memory upgraded. I bought refill kits for our laser and inkjet printers, both of which were running low. I purchased replacements for Ben’s dead Palm and the dead video adapter that he had been using to play computer games. And I had the broken fuel door on our minivan replaced.
The various mechanical devices in my household took notice of what I was doing, and realized that if I wasn’t stopped, they would all have to work at the same time. Unthinkable! They decided to retaliate. The toilet started leaking again. One of the new light fixtures developed exactly the same problem as the one it replaced. The new video adapter caused the computer to crash every half hour or so. Our dryer started making loud squeaking noises, and then stopped working completely on February 9. The color inkjet cartridge didn’t work even after it was refilled. (I ordered a replacement.)
Today, the repair technician came to look at our dryer and pronounced it dead. (I bought a new one, to be delivered Wednesday.) The replacement color inkjet cartridge arrived in the mail — and also didn’t work. (Apparently the printer is busted.) The replacement sun visor in my car broke in exactly the same way as the original one.
I should just give up, but I’m too stubborn to let a bunch of stupid machines defeat me. The crashing computer is now in the shop, and the TiVo arrived in Corpus Christi today for its overhaul. I bought replacement water hoses for our clothes washer (even though the original ones weren’t even broken yet!) and installed them today. I’ll have another go at fixing the leaky toilet sometime this week, probably buy a new inkjet printer as well. After the new dryer arrives and the computer and TiVo return home, they’ll undoubtedly meet with the new printer, the washer, the toilet, and the light fixtures to plan their next move.
Actually, I suspect that those devices are just the foot soldiers in this war; I’ll bet it’s really my computers that are doing all the planning and giving the orders. Even this one, the computer I’m typing on right now, is in on the plot. I know this because I discovered, as I logged onto Blogger, that the Tab key on its keyboard has stopped working. You’re all part of the conspiracy, aren’t you? Yes, dishwasher, I’m talking to you. Your drying cycle has never worked right. And you, microwave oven! I don’t trust you any more that your predecessor, the one that committed suicide by setting a potato on fire! I know you’re all out to get me! But I’m ready for you! I’ll —
I’m playing the License Plate Game again this year, and it’s going much better than in 2003. I only have 35 of the 50 states so far, but among those 35 are some that are quite rare in North Carolina. I spotted a Minnesota plate on Tuesday, and yesterday I saw one from Idaho. Idaho was one of the two states I never managed to get last year, so checking it off was especially satisfying.
This morning, as I was driving to work, I glanced at a passing minivan and was astonished to see that it had front and rear plates from Hawaii. On the other hand, I still haven’t sighted a license plate from Kentucky, which is practically next door. But with eleven months to go, I’m not very concerned about that one.
My glaucoma screening at Kelly Eye Center was today. The technicians measured my intraocular pressure (IOP) again and gave me another visual field test. They also measured my corneal thickness (which affects IOP, so you have to allow for it when comparing IOP numbers). Then Dr. Talluto dilated my pupils and used an ophthalmoscope to look through the lens of each eye and examine optic disk (the spot where the optic nerve connects to the retina). And she saw exactly what we thought she would: cupping of the disk, indicating damage to the optic nerve.
It’s official — I have glaucoma. But the disease is in a very early stage, and now we can treat it. Dr. Talluto gave me eye drops to put in one eye for the next month, while leaving the other eye untreated. This will allow her to measure how well the medication is reducing the IOP. I’ll visit her again on March 4, and she’ll decide what the next stage of my treatment will be.
Scene breakdown
Part 1
I can’t describe what goes on during the Prologue for two reasons: there’s far too much of it, and most of it I’m not even consciously aware of. The entire ensemble is on stage in this scene, and director Haskell has divided us up into various groups, each of which has its own little story line to play out. For example, the Landlord stands behind the barrel at stage left, serving drinks to the characters nearby. A pair of rogues work their way through the crowd, picking pockets. The Lovers stroll through the middle of it all, oblivious to everything but each other. And so forth. I only pay attention to the other characters that I interact with, so there are undoubtedly other bits of action being played out on the far side of the stage that I don’t even notice. I can’t really stop and watch the play, can I?
So let me just describe what the Prologue is like from my own highly subjective point of view. In my mind, the scene breaks down into a series of shorter encounters:
End of Prologue! As the ensemble members troop down the stair to the dressing rooms, the Fairy Helpers finally come down from their pedestals (where they have been pretending to be statues throughout the prologue), and sing a song introducing the Fairy Godmother. At first they can’t find her, but they finally figure out she’s inside the Christmas tree, rotate it so that the opening in the back is exposed, and she emerges to sing another song with them. While this is going on, members of the running crew (who are hidden behind a backdrop) grab handles attached to the Christmas tree and move it off, stage left. (I describe this because the tree’s location becomes important later.)
Down in the dressing room, it’s time for the ensemble members to remove their prologue costumes and makeup and get ready for the Ball. As with my preparation for the prologue, this is a race against time, but I no longer pay attention to the clock. What’s important now is not what time it is, but what scene is currently being played out on stage. As I work on my makeup, I keep one ear cocked to the sound of the monitor speakers in the dressing room ceiling. Through these speakers, we can hear the dialogue and songs of the current scene (and since we all have the scene breakdown memorized by this point, this is all we need to keep track of where we are in the play). Here’s what I’m doing as the scenes prior to the Ball progress:
“Hi Diddle Dee”: I remove my prologue costume: first the top hat and hood, then the ruff collar and shirt, and finally the pants and jazz shoes. All of these get hung up or stowed on the shelf above the hanger rod. The white socks also come off, leaving me in my briefs and undershirt. I put on a pair of drawstring sleep pants and go across the hall to the men’s room. (I can’t walk around in my underwear, and I’m not ready to put on my pants for the Ball. The sleep pants are loose and comfortable — especially in the dressing room, which sometimes gets a bit hot and stuffy.)
“What’s to Become of Me?”: I peel off the stick-on earrings and toss them in the trash. Using a facial cleansing wipe, I remove those parts of my makeup that aren’t compatible with the Ball: the teardrop lines, eyebrows, and eyeliner (which is the wrong color for the Ball), the lipstick, and the circles of rouge on my cheeks.
“Get to Work”: For our Ball characters, we have to put on Restoration makeup, which begins with a very light (but still skin-colored) base. After experimenting with different types of makeup last year, I ended up using highlight makeup from my starter kit over my entire face. I needed something very pale, but not as pale as Clown White, and that fit the bill. Since last year’s prologue makeup had a darker, more natural flesh-toned base, I just cleaned it all off and started over when applying makeup for the Ball.
But this year, I’m wearing Clown White for the prologue. I don’t really have to clean that off; I just have to make it a bit darker and more flesh-toned. So I take my prologue base from last year (the darker, more natural-looking stuff) and dot it on over the Clown White. Then I use my fingers to blend the two together, producing a pale flesh-toned base suitable for the Ball. I spread this over the holes I created with the cleansing wipes, then blend it all until my entire face is a single, even color.
“King Darling the Third”: I apply eyeliner similar to what I wore for the prologue, but this time with a blue eye pencil (to match my Ball costume, which is blue). As before, this means drawing a line along each lower eyelid and high, arched, blue eyebrows. I apply mascara again, since most of it probably got wiped off when I was removing the black eyeliner after the prologue.
“If I Gave You A Silken Ribbon”: Time to apply lip color. This is the same lipstick I used for the prologue, but now it only goes on the middle third of my lips, in a heart shape. I’ve already blended the pale base makeup over the remainder of my lips. Creating this heart shape takes a little more precision than applying lipstick to the entire mouth, so I use a small brush to put the lipstick on.
“Knock! Knock! Knock!”: The Fairy Helpers are now delivering invitations to the Ball, so I’d better get busy if I’m going to be ready to attend it. I apply rouge to my cheeks, but this time it follows the natural line of my cheekbones instead of forming circles as it did in the clown makeup. Finally, I brush on a layer of translucent powder, and the makeup is finished.
“At the Ball”: Instead of painted-on beauty marks, we use glitter appliques from a party store, which come in various shapes (stars, moons, hearts curlicues) and colors. These are attached with spirit gum. John, who sits to my left in the dressing room, is a wizard with spirit gum (his prologue costume includes a fake mustache and beard), so I have him glue two heart appliques to my face. I make one more visit to the men’s room, then start putting my Ball costume on. Removing the sleep pants, I pull on a pair of white tights, carefully working them up each leg and pulling them taut so there are no wrinkles or sags. Over the tights go a pair of blue satin knee pants with suspenders. Next, I put on a pair of ordinary black dress shoes and add shoe trims — elastic bands with gold metallic flowers attached, which snap on over the instep and transform the plain shoes into fancy footwear suitable for the Ball. I’m now wearing the bottom half of my costume.
“By My Fire”: The ensemble sings during this number, but we do so invisibly from the stage left wings. I go down the hall, up the stairs, and join the other ensemble members who are congregating in the wings as Cinderella sings the solo part of the song. Once we’re all in place, we sing our verse as Dennis, who plays one of the Ugly Stepsisters, directs us. (We can’t see Jane or hear the orchestra over the sound of our own voices. Dennis stands at the edge of the stage where he can see and hear, and relays the tempo to us so we stay in step.) After the song ends, I go back downstairs to finish getting ready.
As the Fairy Godmother is transforming the pumpkin into a coach and the mice into horses, I put on the rest of my costume: a striped vest, a frilly jabot that fastens around my neck, and a jacket that matches my knee pants. A lace handkerchief is required for one bit of the “Sneeze Polka” scene, so I fold mine up and tuck it between two of the buttons of my vest (my costume has no pockets). Finally, I take a white yarn wig off the styrofoam head on my makeup table and place it on my head. My costume is complete, and I climb the stairs to the stage-right wings, from which I’ll be entering for the Ball.
When I get there, Cinderella’s scullery-maid dress has been magically transformed into a ball gown, and the Fairy Godmother is instructing her helpers to go with Cinderella to the Ball. Numerous other ensemble members are gathering in the wings, but we have to be careful where we stand. In a moment, the Stepmama’s House set will separate into two halves, which glide offstage into the wings (guided by a track that’s attached to the floor). We actors have to stay out of the path traveled by these set wagons. No problem: while I’m waiting for my entrance, I stand inside the Christmas tree, which is nearby in the wings, upstage of the track that the set wagons run on. From inside the tree, I watch while the running crew techs move the wagons off, secure them, and then move away. At this point I step out of the tree and advance to the edge of the stage, where Gina (my initial dance partner for the Ball) is already waiting. I’m behind her, so I touch her shoulder to let her know I’m there. We’re in place and ready for the Ball.
As the Mouse Ponies pull the coach offstage with Cinderella inside, the ensemble sings: “Cinderella, Cinderella, Cinderella, now it’s time your every dream came true!” The last note has to continue until the coach is offstage, so we hold it until the Fairy Godmother signals our cutoff. The FGM says, “I see by the stars that it’s time I was getting to the Ball as well! But of course I must remain invisible — for now.” As Jane plays the opening bars of the Ball music on her keyboard, Gina and I (and the rest of the ensemble) rush out onto the stage, take our places, and start to dance the Polonaise. The Ball has begun.
On December 4, I went to my optometrist’s office for an eye exam. I needed contact lenses to wear on stage during performances of Cinderella, and to get those I had to have an up-to-date prescription. Therefore, an eye exam. I got the prescription, but Dr. Samuels told me that one of the routine tests had produced an unexpected result. One of my eyes had a greater internal fluid pressure than the other. “I’d like you to come back in a month to repeat the test, so we can figure out whether this is a temporary aberration or a measurement error,” he said. “If it’s real, it could be an indication that you’re at risk for glaucoma.” I scheduled a follow-up appointment.
That appointment took place last Friday, and the result of the second test was the same; the difference in pressure is real. And another test showed a slight, barely measurable decrease in my field of vision — exactly what you would expect in the very earliest stage of glaucoma. We don’t know for sure whether I have the disease, but I certainly fit the classic pattern. The next step is to go to a glaucoma specialist for an optic nerve scan. Dr. Samuels gave me a referral to a specialist in Raleigh, and I have an appointment to see her on February 4.
I didn’t actually know what glaucoma was, so I did some Web research with Marie’s help. Basically, it’s a degenerative disease (usually, but not always, associated with excessive pressure inside the eye). If not treated, the disease damages the optic nerve, causing the visual field to narrow gradually over time. This leads to “tunnel vision” and eventually to complete blindness. There is no cure; damage caused by glaucoma is permanent. However, glaucoma can be treated with medication (or, in some cases, surgery) that prevents the damage from happening in the first place. If the disease is detected early, the prognosis is excellent.
As it turns out, there is a history of glaucoma in my father’s family, and it illustrates the importance of detection and treatment. My grandmother, Ruth Morris Berry, had glaucoma — and so did her father, Willie Morris. Willie’s was never treated, and he eventually became blind as a result. Grandma Ruth’s glaucoma was diagnosed and successfully treated with medication. Both of them lived into their nineties, but my grandmother didn’t go blind.
If I do have glaucoma, it has been detected very early. I know this because December 2003 was not the first time I went to Dr. Samuels to get contact lenses for Cinderella. I did exactly the same thing in December 2002, and my intraocular pressure was normal. So the glaucoma, if such it is, developed sometime during 2003.
I’ll know for sure when I visit Dr. Talluto on February 4. If she determines that I have glaucoma, the most likely result is that I’ll have to use eyedrops every day for the rest of my life. It’s possible that I’ll have to have laser surgery. But I won’t lose my sight — thanks to Cinderella, and to medical science that’s almost a century more advanced than when Willie Morris was my age.
Bob recently wrote about Laura’s experience — and his own, in 1979 — with chicken pox. I thought I would add my own CP story, since it’s a fairly unusual one. I contracted the disease in 1988, when I was 28 years old.
Ruth was two years old at the time, and had caught CP in the usual way, from some other kid at her day care center. She developed a full-blown case: mild fever, followed by blisters all over her body. We had been expecting this to happen; no CP vaccine was available at the time, so this was just a standard rite of early childhood. Ruth didn’t seem to mind much (at the age of two, she didn’t care how the blisters made her look, and if they itched, she didn’t complain much). A week or two later, she was fully recovered and back at day care. Marie and I heaved a sigh and turned our attention to other matters, believing that the CP episode was over.
But we were wrong. The next weekend, I developed a low-grade fever, and when a couple of small blisters began to form on my skin, I realized what was happening. I couldn’t believe it. How could I be getting CP at age 28? I didn’t actually remember having it as a child, but I had assumed that it took place when I was too young to recall. I mean, what were the odds of my having gotten all the way through childhood without ever being infected? But just to be sure, I called my mother and asked her: did I have CP when I was a kid? She couldn’t remember. “Then I never had it,” I said. “Trust me, Mom, if you had ever seen this disease, you would remember it.”
This couldn’t be happening. I was 28 years old, and coming down with chicken pox. Why hadn’t my mom ever warned me that I had no immunity against this virus? Oh, right, like that would have done any good. What would I have done when Ruth came down with it, moved to a hotel for two weeks? By that time I was already infected; the virus is contagious before symptoms develop. If I had known that I was susceptible to CP, that just would have given me one more thing to worry about that I basically had no control over. I had been better off not knowing.
By Monday morning I still only had a few blisters, but I knew that the worst was still ahead. At the time I was working at IBM on my very first technical writing contract, and of course we had a major deadline approaching. I decided to go in to work and get as much done that day as I could, before the disease forced me to take time off. But when I explained the situation to Jane, my supervisor on that project, I forgot that she had previously worked as a nurse. She asked what my temperature was, examined the incipient blister on my forehead, and said, “Go home and call me next Monday.” She knew I was going to be out of commission for at least a week.
I have read that before the CP vaccine was developed, mothers of small children often practiced a more primitive form of immunization known as “chicken pox parties.” They would deliberately expose their young children to a kid who had the disease. The idea was that, since your children would have CP sooner or later, it was better to get it over with while they were young. (This also let mothers control when their kids had the disease, instead of being caught by surprise.) In the week that followed, I often wished that my mother had done this, because the worst thing about CP is that it looks awful. Looking in the mirror, I would see my face and body covered with red, fluid-filled blisters. I won’t link to any photographs (you can search for them yourself if you like), but it looks like something out of a horror movie. And the blisters itch like mad. I used topical remedies (Aveeno oatmeal baths and calomine lotion) as much as possible, but it was still very uncomfortable. And you mustn’t scratch, because if you break the blisters, permanent scarring can result. Blisters formed on my scalp (making it impossible to even comb my hair), inside my mouth, and even in my esophagus. It became difficult to eat solid food, and painful to swallow anything. (Except milk, for some reason. I pretty much lived on milk for several days.)
But really, the worst thing about having CP as an adult is the way it makes you look, because it means you’re trapped at home. I spent the entire week in our apartment, because I knew that if I went out in public, people would scream and flee in terror. Having watched Ruth’s case run its course, I knew that this was only temporary. But it was still depressing.
Eventually the blisters healed and I was able to rejoin society. But despite my best efforts, some of the blisters did get broken prematurely, and I still have scars on my face as a result. They’re not very noticeable, but if I point them out, you won’t have any trouble seeing them. (Oh, and let me just mention that when a CP blister inside your mouth breaks, the resulting taste is nauseating. Fortunately, this only happened once.) And, of course, I still have the virus. Once you’re infected with varicella zoster, it remains in your body, dormant, for the rest of your life. It’s not contagious, but factors like stress or fatigue can cause it to flare up again in the form of shingles. So I can never be sure that the virus won’t decide to torture me some more in the future. (But I have nothing special to complain about there; virtually everyone born before about 1990 has also had CP, so we’re all carrying dormant varicella zoster around with us every day.)
Ben wasn’t born yet when this happened, but he went through the usual CP experience when he was two or three. And shortly after that, the vaccine became generally available — just too late to do me or my children any good. But, I told myself, Ben was the last Berry who would ever have CP. Future generations would all be vaccinated, so none of my grandchildren would ever have the disease. But Laura’s experience indicates that it’s not a clear-cut as that. However, as Laura’s doctor pointed out, even if the vaccine doesn’t prevent you from getting CP, it tends to result in a much milder case. So even if my grandchildren won’t be completely immune, I can still hope that they won’t have to go through what I did.
(I know that sounds self-pitying, and that’s not really what I had in mind. I realize that as medical problems go, CP is not much worse that a bad cold. And when I think about my father, who’s been dealing with much more debilitating and painful afflictions for years, I’m embarrased to be making a big deal out of a simple childhood disease. All I’m saying is, CP is NO FUN AT ALL, and I’m glad that future generations will mostly not have to deal with it.)
Ben recently posted about the “science project” he and I did to dispose of a bunch of old batteries. He provided some great photos, but didn’t go into much detail about what we actually did. I’d like to describe the procedure we used.
First of all, let me explain how this project happened in the first place. Disposing of used batteries is a bit complicated for most people. First you have to do some research to find out where and when you can turn them in for recycling (at your local waste management authority’s household hazardous waste collection, or a business near you that accepts used batteries for the Rechargeable Battery Recycling Corporation). Then you have to pack up all your dead batteries and make a special trip to drop them off. But if you work at IBM, getting rid of your used batteries is much simpler, because IBM sites have special receptacles for batteries in employee break areas, right next to the recycling bins for aluminum cans and plastic bottles. So you just have to take your batteries to work with you.
Last summer, while visiting Marie’s family in Charleston, I noticed that they had a gallon pickle jar in their garage that was completely full of batteries. Marie’s brother Harold explained that he had been collecting them for some time (because he knew that they shouldn’t be put into the trash), but he wasn’t sure how to actually dispose of them. I told him about the receptacles where I work and said I would take care of them, and we brought the jar home with us.
But those IBM receptacles have a label warning that leaking batteries are not accepted. It was obvious that some of the batteries in Harold’s jar had leaked, and the stuff that leaked out of them had gotten all over the rest of the batteries. Most, if not all, of the batteries in the jar were probably fine for recycling, but they would have to be cleaned first. And that task was daunting enough that I put it off for several months, while the jar sat on our kitchen table.
Finally, I decided it was time to deal with the problem. But cleaning these batteries would involve more than just washing them off. I would have to chemically neutralize the leaked material. And not all of that was the same, because the batteries were of different types.
So the first step was to sort them out. This involved putting on a pair of latex gloves, unscrewing the lid of the jar, pulling out batteries one at a time, and sorting them into two plastic dishpans: one for alkaline batteries and the other for acid batteries. When I finished, there was a small amount of liquid in the bottom of the jar. Since the vast majority of the batteries had been alkaline, I concluded that the liquid was alkaline as well. I diluted it with a cup or two of water and then poured in some vinegar (a mild acid). This caused the liquid to begin fizzing — a chemical reaction was taking place, producing bubbles of gas — which meant that I had been right. It was alkaline. I kept adding vinegar and mixing until the fizzing stopped, indicating that the alkaline stuff had been neutralized. I diluted it with a lot more water and then poured it down the drain.
Now to deal with the batteries themselves. I took the dishpan containing the alkaline batteries, added enough water to cover them, and then added some vinegar. More fizzing. Ben continued adding vinegar while I stirred up the batteries with my gloved hands, until the fizzing stopped. I poured off the neutralized liquid, refilled the dishpan with warm soapy water, and washed the remaining crud off the batteries. Pulling out a few at a time, I rinsed them clean and handed them to Ben for drying; he put them into a cardboard box.
When all the alkaline batteries were clean and dry, we repeated the process with the acid batteries, using baking soda (a mild alkaline) instead of vinegar. Then I washed out the pickle jar with soap and water. The result was a clean jar and a cardboard box full of clean batteries. I inspected the batteries and found that none of them seemed to be leaking now. A few (like the 9-volt one that Ben took several photos of) had enough surface corrosion that I thought the IBM collection program probably wouldn’t want them. I set these aside for disposal at the Wake County collection site. The pickle jar went into our recycling bin with the rest of our glass jars, plastic bottles, and empty cans.
I could theoretically have taken the whole box of batteries to work at once, but it was really heavy. So I decided to spread them out over several days. I filled four quart-size Ziploc storage bags with batteries and took one of them to work with me each day until they were all gone. After three days of this, the receptacle in our first-floor break room was too full to take any more, but fortunately our building has another break room on the third floor. The receptacle there was almost empty, so I dumped the last bag of batteries in. The labels on these receptacles include a phone number to call when one is full; I called and reported that the first-floor one needed to be emptied.
Thus ends the saga of the Giant Jar of Batteries.
