Hi readers. I’m going to soften the blow to my own resilient ego by using the word, ‘our’, as opposed to the word ‘my’. But you’ll know the truth.
I’ve said for many years I’d never go to a doctor again, said it because I believed it was true at more levels than are required for a quorum by the Universe. But I’m going to blame it on the cats. I’ve got to know what-the-hell this series of ‘attacks’ Jeanne mentioned in a commentary limerick are all about. Got the cats I’m trying to, sworn to try to outlive, provide sustenance and shelter for.
And something sneaked in to rob my macho and erode my confidence that’s going to happen if I don’t let a sawbones have a looksee. I’d figured the entire thing was just a single-incident, but that doesn’t turn out to be the case. In fact, a person looking at the way the incidents run who didn’t know I’m the luckiest man on the planet, and that symptoms mean nothing in my Universe would come away with the biased view that I’ve got something called pulmonary edema.
Which, if I’ve got, I might need to have some input from opinionated physicians concerning how best to proceed.
I don’t believe the VA owes me a damned thing, don’t believe there’s any moral nor any ethical reason health care for any non-service connected condition ought to be available to me that isn’t available to any other citizen, and that it would be irresponsible for me to avail myself of it. But here in the real world of cats and asphyxiation I’m not about to let little matters such as morals, ethics and social responsibility stand in the way. I’m going down to Odessa to the Social Security office, get a Medicare card, then take that and my DD 214 over to the VA hospital in Big Spring and tell the lady at the desk, “Tell me thank you for your service.”
Not because there’s anything anyone ought to be thanking me for, but because hells bells, I’m as qualified to take advantage of any opportunity to rob money out of the poor-box as any of the rest of these veterans. Maybe afterward I’ll get me a cap with VETERAN – First Cavalry Division. Maybe join the American Legion, VFW. Maybe get me a flag and posture around pretending to have a streak of wisdom somewhat unique picked up by trying to get a dose of clap in Asia half a century ago.
But failing all those other things, I’m going to have the VA medicos look me over, offer to pay for a freaking oxygen bottle and plastic hose. That’s the main thing.
I’m paying the price, even though I never killed any Communists to protect our freedom the way we’re enjoying the bejesus out of celebrating it today. I’ve given up all my vices, with the possible exception of coffee. Got lots of coffee already bought which I might give away or mightn’t. But other than that I’m dangerously, disgustingly clean living.
At the moment I’m in Andrews, Texas. Blew two tires getting here, and when the tires disintegrated they took out all my plumbing on the rear of the RV.
Life, however is good, and I’m grinning into it wondering just how many more delightful surprises I can survive before the whole thing gets humdrum and boring.
If you’re searching around looking for the luckiest man on the planet: as some guy playing Doc Holiday in a movie asserted, “I’m your huckleberry.” Don’t try being me if you’re not a professional at it.
Old Jules
So Far From Heaven 