I first encountered it at the Odessa, Texas, VA medical facility when I was parking my RV at Eddie Brewer’s in Andrews while trying to get the VA to check out my medical problems. Which they never did while I visiting them at that facility, but they did take a urine sample, did some blood work. And asked one hell of a lot of questions.
Those people spent at least an hour asking me whether I’d done any recreational drugs, which I admitted I had. Whether I’d had much recreational sex, which I again admitted I had. Whether I’d ever considered suicide, which I’m not certain how I answered. And the entire pantheon of other questions I didn’t consider any of their business.
Including, “How many guns do you own?”
I’ll have to confess I don’t always tell the truth when I’m asked such questions as those, but particularly when questions are asked about my ownership of firearms. I’ve indulged in falsehoods. And I’d done so on so many different occasions and in so many different ways I honestly can’t recall whether I own any guns, or don’t.
Anyway, when Odessa and Big Spring Veterans Administration Medical Facilities convinced me around Christmas of 2013 they had no intention of trying to know more than I told them about my physical problems, I went back to Kerrville, Texas. Checked into the local hospital emeergency room, which most of you readers will recall from this blog.
And when a week inside that one didn’t clear up my confusion about what was wrong with me, I got into the RV and drove far enough north for Jeanne’s sons to bring me to KC. Where I spent another week or so in the hospital and actually learned a lot about my condition.
Enough, I hoped, to give the VA another try insofar as treatment. VA Kansas City, it was.
And here’s the untanglement of the entire reason for this post, other than taking another opportunity to whine about what a weakling unhealthy specimen I’ve become.
Damned KC VA Medical people sat my ass down early in the process and asked me all those same questions I’d been asked in Odessa. And again wanted to know how many guns I own. And again I can’t recall how I answered them, except I’m fairly certain I denied owning any.
And maybe I was telling the truth, maybe not. I honestly don’t know and don’t plan on finding out anytime soon. What the hell do I care whether I own any guns? It ain’t as though I’m going on any shooting rampage or need to stick up a convenience store. If I ever discover I need to own a gun I’ll try to muster the energy to dig around in my belongings somewhere.
But hells bells, with bullets so expensive I couldn’t afford to buy a magazine-full so’s to be able to stick up a liquer store anyway. I might as well point my finger from inside my jacket pocket at them and swear in a loud voice, “This is a screwup! Don’t be a hero!”
The VA didn’t ask me whether I had any ammo for the hypothetical firearms I don’t have any of.