Teton Valley Health Care recently received a bronze level award from The Aster Awards for its website, tvhcare.org.
The Aster Awards, one of the largest national competitions of its kind, is hosted by Marketing Healthcare Today Magazine and Creative Images, Inc. This elite program recognized outstanding healthcare professionals for excellence in their advertising/marketing efforts for the calendar year 2014.
The 2015 Aster Awards received nearly 3,000 entries from across the United States as well as several foreign countries. All entries are judged by industry experts and are scored on multiple criteria with a possibility of 100 total points. Participant’s entries competed against similar-sized organizations in their specific groups and categories.
Awards were issued for entries that received top marks from judges placing them in the top 16% of the nation for advertising excellence. Judging criteria included creativity, layout and design, functionality, message effectiveness, production quality and overall appeal.
“The creativity of this year’s participating healthcare marketing professionals exceeded our expectations. The 2015 Aster Awards program contained some of the best and most creative advertising in the world,” said Melinda Lucas, Aster Awards program coordinator.
Teton Valley Health Care competed in the “Hospitals with under 75 beds” group, and earned a third place recognition among the website category’s 32 submissions.
All winners are posted on the Aster Awards website as well as published in Marketing Healthcare Today.
We can all remember our first car. Not the family station wagon. Not the hand-me-down from big brother that smelled like musky gym clothes. I’m talking about the first car that was entirely yours, even if it was used or “pre-owned” as car dealerships like to say.
A mid-1980s Honda Civic via WikiCommons
I was 26 when I purchased my very own brand new car. It was a 1986 Honda Civic wagon and I loved it. No air conditioner, no frills, vinyl seats and 48 mpg. Those were the days. I would drive from Salt Lake to Jackson Hole and back on one tank of gas. I would drive to San Diego, stopping every 40 miles to douse myself at the rest-stop water fountains during those 102-degree desert stretches, then drive soaked from head to foot with the windows down. Now that was air conditioning.
Imagine my excitement when I bought a new Ford Escape Limited in 2004. It was the second time in my life I’d bought a brand new car rather than used pre-owned. I knew the saying that once you drive it off the showroom floor, the car’s value drops 99%. I didn’t care. I was in fact overly proud of the purchase. As the old saying goes, pride goeth before a fall.
The Ford Escape AKA Mouse Mobile
The Escape was only two days old when I drove my two toddlers to the grocery store. Somehow, an entire jug of milk was spilled between the seats during a backseat conspiracy to search the grocery bags for cookies. I spent 2 hours scrubbing, spraying, rubbing and generally assaulting the area with cleansers. The smell of sour milk never left the vehicle. It was an omen.
One after another, horrible things happened in the Escape. A completely potty-trained child thoroughly wet his pants. Dogs threw up. A cat leaped onto my lap and peed while I was driving. Moldering carrots were found under the passenger seat. A slice of pizza worked its way into the spare tire well and grew fabulous green feathers.
Just before the Plague of Rodents commenced, I had what I thought was the capper to all of this evil. While driving my son’s friend home from a playdate, the cherub told me from the backseat that he needed to go number two. I asked him if I should pull over or if he could hold it until the upcoming gas station. He felt that he could wait. Two seconds later, he said “oh no” and then the fun began. My son caught a whiff and immediately vomited. Twice. I rolled down the windows. I opened the sunroof. I looked back to assess the damage and was struck by a force stronger than a tidal wave. We drove the rest of the way with our heads out the windows, tears streaming down our cheeks. I was triple charged for the car detailing.
Then came the Plague. It started with a few tiny droppings here and there on the car mats. I’d set a trap inside my car, catch a mouse and go on about my business. Then I noticed more droppings. I worked up to 4 traps placed at night and 4 mice in traps in the morning. I detailed. I vacuumed. I squirted VO5 hairspray. I tried sonic sound waves. I put bars of Irish Spring under the seats. The mice ate them.
Finally, I removed all of the interior side panels, trying to find the rodent welcome mat. Caches of seeds, dog kibble and fluffy mouse nests poured from every possible crevice. Entire generations of field mice had wandered about, given birth, raised families and died in my car. I admitted defeat and felt grateful that no one in our family had been struck with Hantavirus. Accursed vehicle. Stephen King could write a book about it.
The Mousemobile found a new home with a family that apparently does not have a battalion of mice seeking a motel on wheels. I gave full disclosure prior to handing over the keys. Buh bye.
Guess what I’m driving now? A used Honda Civic wagon. With air conditioning.
My friend, who I’ll call Empress in this story because she really is an Empress, is marking her two-month anniversary of Diagnosis Day.
In my friend’s case, the diagnosis is rheumatoid arthritis. R.A. is incurable, painful, debilitating and potentially fatal. Treatment plans vary according to the individual and healthcare provider. The disease, like many autoimmune illnesses, flares and then quiets like the hesitation between Fourth of July fireworks, making you wonder if each display is another burst of sparks or the blazing finale.
Anyone who has had a medical diagnosis of a nasty disease knows that this particular day will stand out among other days. For many, D-Day can offer a strange relief. Finally, there’s a name for all of the unexplained pain, dizziness or whatever bewildering symptoms. On my D-Day, my first thought was “Hey, maybe I’m not crazy after all.”
On my D-Day, my first thought was
“Hey, maybe I’m not crazy after all.”
I’d had two years of odd rashes on my face, legs and arms. My fingernails warped and rippled. I was always tired. My joints felt like balls of fire. My ribs and heart were sore. I was depressed yet caring for a 7-month-old son while pregnant with my daughter. When my physician called me at home one evening with the results of my most recent round of blood tests and told me that I definitely had systemic lupus erythematosus, I was almost delighted. Finally, a name! Finally, a reason! Finally, a treatment plan!
Photo credit: Albumarium/Chiara Cremaschi
The odd euphoria of D-Day ebbed quite a bit when I realized that remission was not around the corner and that the coming years would require that I change my expectations about certain facets of my life that I thought were part and parcel of who I am. Or was. Or will be.
Still, if I were to place SLE in one hand and my old self in the other, I would hold on to the Me with SLE. I used to let little things get to me but having this disease has forced me to see life from a different perspective. I don’t get ruffled easily. I avoid drama. I appreciate more. Sure, I miss out on some things due to pain, fatigue or my sensitivity to sunlight, but what I do have I hold more closely to my heart than I think I would have pre-SLE.
Empress is moving from the shock of D-Day through the grief of losing a part of yourself without really knowing what the part will be. Yes, there’s a reason for today’s blinding pain and the mental fogginess. The question really is all about tomorrow and the days after that.
Of course, no one knows from one day to the next what will be gained or lost. I would argue that for the most part, most people can live with the belief that tomorrow will be much like today in terms of physical and mental capacity.
For the person with a “Diagnosis” it’s virtually a certainty that each day will be uncertain. Sometimes, I see myself as an adventurer going into each day and night with hope and curiosity. Other times I’m grumpy and tired. We all build our own way of adjusting. I don’t know what the Empress will build for herself as an outcome of D-Day, but I’m hoping it will be a crystalline outgrowth: reflective, illuminating and precious.
Do you have a story about your D-Day that you’d like to share? Let me know in the comments below.