Hi readers. Thanks for coming by for a read.
Those of you who’ve read here a while probably remember when I did my dramatic exit scene from Texas. Middle of the damned coldest winter in memory, hopped in that RV trying to beat death to Kansas. Two cats freezing and scared, me pushing things to a razor edge because I was determined to die somewhere the felines would have a home when I kicked.
Made it as far as one of those north Texas towns above Dallas, checked into a motel to croak. And Jeanne’s sons dropped what they were doing and came down to drive me the rest of the way.
I had every reason to believe one of a couple of unhappy body parts was going on strike and planned to kill me. The VA in Texas tried hard to avoid giving me the bad news by not examining me, but I sneaked past them into a private emergency room. Old Gale hauled me to town when I was in bad enough shape to agree to it. Took care of the cats while the Kerrville hospital made faces at one another every time they got the results of another test.
So I had every reason to believe my goozle was an ugly cancerous disaster, funny como se llamas on my lungs, but that those couldn’t get to me fast enough to kill me. My ticker was going to do that honor.
So when I arrived in Oz and checked into the Olathe Medical Center through the Emergency Room I figured there was a middling chance I wouldn’t be coming back out with the amount of alive I had when I checked in.
But the cats were taken care of. Every time a sawbones wanted to look at something else going ugly or stinking on my old jalopy of a body, I said okay. And afterward he, or she would come around looking somber, suggesting we have a better look and by the way, I hate to tell you this, etc.
But I’ve digressed. My point I want to make to you is that nobody anywhere along the program was saying, “On the off chance you don’t croak this is going to cost one hell of a lot of money. Let’s discuss whether you could pay it in your wildest, most optimistic dreams.”
Hell, I’m a Social Security pensioneer. Whatever medical care I get is through the VA, or Medicare paying the bills that have any reasonable hope of getting paid. There’s copays, and I had a vague awareness of the fact it exists, but hell, I was having conversations with the grim reaper. I wasn’t worrying about bill collectors.
And seemingly neither was anyone else. Sons of bitches thought I as dying, every swinging Richard of them. Maybe if they thought there was any hope I wouldn’t someone would have sat down with me and said, “Uh, you know, if you die you’re going to be okay. But if you don’t, we’ve got people over in accounting who are going to try to make the REST of your life challenging. Maybe you thought you had it bad before you came in here, but dying’s just a way to escape the accounts receivable people down the hall. People do it all the time.”
Okay. This defibrillator and the VA paying for physical therapy did a lot, and I believe, my home remedy herbal cancer killer took care of the goozle and lungs. For a while it still appeared the damned ticker could still croak me, but it gradually slid down on the job. Every physical therapy session I came away feeling better physically, and suspecting the financial world had some dark clouds looming on the horizon. Lucky the national debt already admitted nobody gives a damn about paying debts anyway.
Well friends and neighbors, barring any unforeskinned circumcisions I won’t be seeing anymore doctors for a year. They’ve got this ticker surveillance device hooked to me, reports to them all the time, and I’m down there three times a week on walking machines and sitting down peddler things, putting all this crap behind me.
And the bean counters are scratching their heads, dunning me and fretting over the phone about how I’m going to pay those copays that didn’t make any difference so long as I was exiting the vehicle. Every month they get their $10 checks, and the big ones rack up a charge to neutralize that in the form of a penalty because it wasn’t enough.
And threatening to turn it over to the Roccos.
Sheeze! I was needing a new adventure. Aside from some help from a few good friends, I haven’t had any personal debt since Y2K. If I didn’t have money I didn’t spend it, no matter what. Sometimes they turned off the electricity, and it stayed turned off until I got enough money to turn it back on.
I suppose this could be called the cost of living. I can send them $10 per month, they can call that $10 and raise, until nature can find some other way of wiping me off the Monopoly board.
But damn it’s good being alive.
Old Jules
So Far From Heaven 