October 22nd, 2021
Don't Go Fund Me
The fine people who run the Arizona state healthcare system recently sent me a letter indicating my need to pay $180.90 per month (in order to continue residing in my luxury suite). This is based upon my income. Income? No, I do not have any. So I spoke with D.J. (She's the Minister of Finance here). And she's baffled, too. Perhaps even befuddled. Beguiled? Nope. So DJ tells me to call "this number" - hint: she's pointing at my paperwork for emphasis
After she departs, I call "this" number. And after being rerouted and redirected I make First Contact.
Her name is Gina-Tina. I'm not sure which, or even if it's both, so I take the easy way out by choosing to hyphenate her.
Gina-Tina's initial phone behavior leads me to believe she's a medical marijuana advocate, very recently advocating… during her lunch break. Right off the bat, she asks me how I earn my income. So I admit to her that I haven't been gainfully employed since 2012, because I am disabled.. except that I'm not really disabled, because I do not have a diagnosis, therefore, I do not receive disability. She then tells me there's nothing she can do, except recommend that I apply for unemployment.
Unemployment! Huh? After nine years?
Briefly reflecting, Tina-Gina admits that a successful employment claim is somewhat unlikely. She says I need to call social security, regarding my income. So I tell her again, that I do not work, nor do I receive income. She asks me if I am absolutely sure.
"It says here that you received $300."
I did not.
Gina-Tina states that according to the paperwork, ANGIE paid me $300 in 2019. Yes, it's in all CAPS, on my form and Tina-Gina's.
She asks if that's my wife's name. It isn't (because that's a pretend name I used here, to protect her sovereignty… but it also isn't, because we are legally no longer married.. which means that I do not have a wife).
"That doesn't make sense, are you saying that because she paid me $300 one time, back in 2019 (she didn't), I have to pay $180.90 per month for an indeterminate period of time in order to make up the difference?"
That's right about when Gina-Tina's mind short circuited. Dead silence on her end. Ceaseless noise and innumerable distractions on mine.
"Is she perhaps giving you $300 monthly?"
I insist that ANGIE isn't paying me squat. And if she was paying me that absurdly large sum, a whopping $300 per month, I'd have gotten my laptop speakers repaired long ago (they failed back in 2017). Or heck, why not fix the actual laptop (cover broke in 2019, rendering it inoperable). Beyond that...
"I haven't been out of bed since 2015. I can barely move. Even if I had income, what would I purchase? I don't wear clothes. I don't gamble. I can't even eat no more."
By now, my roommate Jeff is laughing hysterically.
Gina-Tina responds, "Are you saying you haven't had a job since 2015? Is your wife disabled, too? How do you earn money? How do you survive? This doesn't make sense."
Ugh! I want to be clever. I also wish to humor my roommate, but this isn't the time nor the place.
"I think you need to speak to my supervisor," I tell her, halfway assuming her internal gears have ground to a halt.
Eventually she transfers me to Daniel B's extension. I leave a detailed message. As this is NOT a life threatening emergency, I do not hang up, and call 9-1-1.
Daniel B. never calls me back.
Faster Recovery
[although positive in nature, this subsection is probably all kinds of boring - SKIP if you feel like skipping]
Want some good news? Sure you do. My recovery times after having completed my Bedside Commode Olympic Event have decreased (generally). My post-exertion ritual today resolved as follows:
Initial - 45-minutes of not physically moving while taking intermittent deep breaths three minutes apart.
The Worsening - one hour of "no more deep breathing" .. short shallow breaths instead.. not easy to catch my breath. General achiness all over, but not severe. Try unsuccessfully to nap.
Improving - breathing mostly normal, achy and tired.. take a couple brief naps. Merely feel unwell and hungover now (past two hours). No poisoning today.
Nice News
The best news is that my heart rate dropped back to normal almost immediately after exerting. Last week it was often stuck in an elevated range (between 95-100bpm) for up to six hours post-exertion (anything measuring at or above 91bpm also means random disconcerting ectopic heartbeats). The elevated heart rate also tires me out more quickly, as well. Heart unnecessarily pumping..
Almost nearly exciting positive stuff here, right?
03:36:31
"I'm sorry, Neal.., Neal..., Neal… " someone is poking at my foot. It's damned irritating.
"Why are you doing this to me, I need to sleep?" My disembodied voice says.
"Vitals," her voice responds.
Of course. Why not?
"I don't have any. Come back later," I insist.
Then I see the time on the crooked wall clock. It's 3:36 in the morning. The woman with the voice sees me seeing the clock.
"Because your unit tested positive for Covid, we have to do vitals every four hours. New precaution."
I suggest that not allowing us to sleep will kill us faster than the damn virus. She chuckles.
I fall back asleep. Eventually. Then two hours and fifty-one minutes later, another CNA is nudging me.
"Good morning, time for your vitals."
"Fine. I'm up. I'm up. I give up. I give in. Oh... and you needn't bother. I'm 106 over 67," I suggest out loud. But instead, I measure 107 over 66. She's needlessly impressed.
Video Call Girl, Interrupted
I had an excuse, and I used it. I asked my wife to call me sometime over the weekend, as I wanted/needed to discuss my mysterious monthly income issue.. thinking she might offer some context or clues.
Hours later she called me, in the midst of sounding busily engaged. Which she was. Her youngest grandchild was in the house, scheduled to spend the weekend. He's the one who violently yanked out my feeding tube once upon a time. He's also the one who the daughter-in-law is constantly trying to pawn off on any and all takers. At three years old, he's a human buzzsaw. A whirlwind of destruction. A veritable EF-5 tornado.
I ask to do a video call, so that's what we do. The kid greets me, straight off. Then suddenly he's banging on my old snare drum. No. I cannot escape the noise. But I enjoy watching him bounce back and forth, to and fro, like a pinball.
I see my wife's face from all angles, and I hear her words. That's the important thing. I get to experience her for a short time, as we discuss my mysterious income. I also get the grand tour of our home (as she's chasing him around). I hadn't been out there for several years.
The few pieces of artwork remain unchanged. The computer desk in the corner is arranged as it's always been. An unfamiliar couch? Yes. A new kitty tower? Yes, that too. Not much else. Sparse. No knickknacks cluttering. Mostly bare walls. And a crowded bookshelf.
The child is wearing her down. Anyway, she has to go feed him. I say goodbye. My screen fades to black.
H
CNA said I should listen to Joe Dispensa.
Don't Go Fund Me
The fine people who run the Arizona state healthcare system recently sent me a letter indicating my need to pay $180.90 per month (in order to continue residing in my luxury suite). This is based upon my income. Income? No, I do not have any. So I spoke with D.J. (She's the Minister of Finance here). And she's baffled, too. Perhaps even befuddled. Beguiled? Nope. So DJ tells me to call "this number" - hint: she's pointing at my paperwork for emphasis
After she departs, I call "this" number. And after being rerouted and redirected I make First Contact.
Her name is Gina-Tina. I'm not sure which, or even if it's both, so I take the easy way out by choosing to hyphenate her.
Gina-Tina's initial phone behavior leads me to believe she's a medical marijuana advocate, very recently advocating… during her lunch break. Right off the bat, she asks me how I earn my income. So I admit to her that I haven't been gainfully employed since 2012, because I am disabled.. except that I'm not really disabled, because I do not have a diagnosis, therefore, I do not receive disability. She then tells me there's nothing she can do, except recommend that I apply for unemployment.
Unemployment! Huh? After nine years?
Briefly reflecting, Tina-Gina admits that a successful employment claim is somewhat unlikely. She says I need to call social security, regarding my income. So I tell her again, that I do not work, nor do I receive income. She asks me if I am absolutely sure.
"It says here that you received $300."
I did not.
Gina-Tina states that according to the paperwork, ANGIE paid me $300 in 2019. Yes, it's in all CAPS, on my form and Tina-Gina's.
She asks if that's my wife's name. It isn't (because that's a pretend name I used here, to protect her sovereignty… but it also isn't, because we are legally no longer married.. which means that I do not have a wife).
"That doesn't make sense, are you saying that because she paid me $300 one time, back in 2019 (she didn't), I have to pay $180.90 per month for an indeterminate period of time in order to make up the difference?"
That's right about when Gina-Tina's mind short circuited. Dead silence on her end. Ceaseless noise and innumerable distractions on mine.
"Is she perhaps giving you $300 monthly?"
I insist that ANGIE isn't paying me squat. And if she was paying me that absurdly large sum, a whopping $300 per month, I'd have gotten my laptop speakers repaired long ago (they failed back in 2017). Or heck, why not fix the actual laptop (cover broke in 2019, rendering it inoperable). Beyond that...
"I haven't been out of bed since 2015. I can barely move. Even if I had income, what would I purchase? I don't wear clothes. I don't gamble. I can't even eat no more."
By now, my roommate Jeff is laughing hysterically.
Gina-Tina responds, "Are you saying you haven't had a job since 2015? Is your wife disabled, too? How do you earn money? How do you survive? This doesn't make sense."
Ugh! I want to be clever. I also wish to humor my roommate, but this isn't the time nor the place.
"I think you need to speak to my supervisor," I tell her, halfway assuming her internal gears have ground to a halt.
Eventually she transfers me to Daniel B's extension. I leave a detailed message. As this is NOT a life threatening emergency, I do not hang up, and call 9-1-1.
Daniel B. never calls me back.
Faster Recovery
[although positive in nature, this subsection is probably all kinds of boring - SKIP if you feel like skipping]
Want some good news? Sure you do. My recovery times after having completed my Bedside Commode Olympic Event have decreased (generally). My post-exertion ritual today resolved as follows:
Initial - 45-minutes of not physically moving while taking intermittent deep breaths three minutes apart.
The Worsening - one hour of "no more deep breathing" .. short shallow breaths instead.. not easy to catch my breath. General achiness all over, but not severe. Try unsuccessfully to nap.
Improving - breathing mostly normal, achy and tired.. take a couple brief naps. Merely feel unwell and hungover now (past two hours). No poisoning today.
Nice News
The best news is that my heart rate dropped back to normal almost immediately after exerting. Last week it was often stuck in an elevated range (between 95-100bpm) for up to six hours post-exertion (anything measuring at or above 91bpm also means random disconcerting ectopic heartbeats). The elevated heart rate also tires me out more quickly, as well. Heart unnecessarily pumping..
Almost nearly exciting positive stuff here, right?
03:36:31
"I'm sorry, Neal.., Neal..., Neal… " someone is poking at my foot. It's damned irritating.
"Why are you doing this to me, I need to sleep?" My disembodied voice says.
"Vitals," her voice responds.
Of course. Why not?
"I don't have any. Come back later," I insist.
Then I see the time on the crooked wall clock. It's 3:36 in the morning. The woman with the voice sees me seeing the clock.
"Because your unit tested positive for Covid, we have to do vitals every four hours. New precaution."
I suggest that not allowing us to sleep will kill us faster than the damn virus. She chuckles.
I fall back asleep. Eventually. Then two hours and fifty-one minutes later, another CNA is nudging me.
"Good morning, time for your vitals."
"Fine. I'm up. I'm up. I give up. I give in. Oh... and you needn't bother. I'm 106 over 67," I suggest out loud. But instead, I measure 107 over 66. She's needlessly impressed.
Video Call Girl, Interrupted
I had an excuse, and I used it. I asked my wife to call me sometime over the weekend, as I wanted/needed to discuss my mysterious monthly income issue.. thinking she might offer some context or clues.
Hours later she called me, in the midst of sounding busily engaged. Which she was. Her youngest grandchild was in the house, scheduled to spend the weekend. He's the one who violently yanked out my feeding tube once upon a time. He's also the one who the daughter-in-law is constantly trying to pawn off on any and all takers. At three years old, he's a human buzzsaw. A whirlwind of destruction. A veritable EF-5 tornado.
I ask to do a video call, so that's what we do. The kid greets me, straight off. Then suddenly he's banging on my old snare drum. No. I cannot escape the noise. But I enjoy watching him bounce back and forth, to and fro, like a pinball.
I see my wife's face from all angles, and I hear her words. That's the important thing. I get to experience her for a short time, as we discuss my mysterious income. I also get the grand tour of our home (as she's chasing him around). I hadn't been out there for several years.
The few pieces of artwork remain unchanged. The computer desk in the corner is arranged as it's always been. An unfamiliar couch? Yes. A new kitty tower? Yes, that too. Not much else. Sparse. No knickknacks cluttering. Mostly bare walls. And a crowded bookshelf.
The child is wearing her down. Anyway, she has to go feed him. I say goodbye. My screen fades to black.
H
CNA said I should listen to Joe Dispensa.