More Healthcare Shit

 

(Larry has a doctor.)

Yesterday, I finally found my son a doctor who is willing to take Medicaid. He’s about a twenty-minute drive from my house.

The woman on the phone said, “Dr. Smith’s schedule is pretty busy. The earliest appointment for a new patient is in September.”

“I’ll take it! Beggars can’t be choosers.”

There was a long awkward silence.

“Sir, nobody said that you’re a beggar. We treat everyone here with respect.”

I laughed out loud. “I apologize. It’s only a saying. I certainly didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Yes, ma’am. Is there a clinic for poor folk? What happens if my son catches strep throat? Where would he go? Sometimes, these routine ailments can actually prove deadly.”

“In that case, you would have to take him to the emergency room.”

“Does Medicaid cover the cost for the emergency room?”

“Probably not.”

I laughed out loud again.

America is great if you are an arms dealer, a pornographer, or a successful politician. But for the rest of us poor sons of bitches, it seems to be a constant struggle between life and death. But I’m not going to complain. This is where I live, and I’m just going to have to get used to it…even if it kills me. Which is probably will.

After that, Mom and I drove to the Department of Health to show them Rice-Boy Larry’s vaccination record. All of that stuff has to be put into a computer system so that my boy can attend the local high school.

The guy at the counter told me that he’d call me in a couple of days to let me know if everything was straight. However, if Larry needs more shots, they have a clinic to take care of him on-site.

Mom said, “Let’s go to Walmart.”

I said, “Why? We were just there the other day.”

“Well, you and your boy need new underwear.”

I nodded. “That’s true.”

“Plus you can use your EBT card again.”

“I don’t think it covers the cost of boxer shorts.”

Anyway, we went shopping, and two small bags of underwear came to forty-five dollars. I also bought some water, a few bags of sunflower seeds, an apple pie, and a bathroom scale.

I made the purchase with my normal debit card. The final tally? 82 bucks.

On the way home, I struck up a conversation with Mom.

I said, “That EBT card is a miracle, isn’t it?”

She smiled at me. “It’s fantastic.”

“But I have to give the government information about the Dragon Lady if I want to continue with the benefits. Uncle Sam sent me a form.”

“Why?”

“I guess they’re trying to stick her for child support. But good fucking luck. I don’t even know where she lives.”

“Well, send it in. It would be a shame to lose all that assistance.”

“Oh, I plan to. Have no worries. However, I just hope it doesn’t hurt her chances of getting back into the country.”

Mom sighed deeply. “You truly are mentally ill, aren’t you? Fuck that bitch. Look at all the shit she’s done to you over the years.”

My thing is this. I’m probably going to be dead within the next five years, and I don’t want to hold on to any ancient grudges. Let bygones be bygones.

Don’t misunderstand me. I have zero feelings of romantic love for my wife. She abandoned the children and me, and she also drained the bank account. However, I do look at her as family. Which leaves me with a sense of responsibility toward her…no matter how evil she might be.

Anyway, when we arrived home, I weighed myself on the new bathroom scale. I’m 188 pounds. Final analysis? I’ve lost more than 80 pounds over the last three years. I guess that’s a good thing.

I simply hope that I don’t have cancer.

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