The Public Option
Some things don't bear thinking on. Like what happens to Easter chicks and those free puppies at the mall. Or wondering uneasily about that child's shoe discarded and tumbling on the freeway? Or remembering my husband's body become wax, his skin turning loose and gray like a tattered garment, his mouth a dark O, as he realizes the ultimate betrayal of the body years before his time. His terrible awareness during the stroke: I had so many plans, and his wife's terrific rejoinder: I think we're on a whole new plan now, baby.
There's no time to brood over stuff like that. There isn't time to ruminate darkly over the mean prick at my support group who cut into my melt-down, noting prissily, Other people would like to talk too. There's no time to take satisfaction at the numbers of my group who shot him deathray looks, or for me to construct a stylish grouping of you-have-a-little-dick remarks to be delivered later and savagely. Nor is there time to take to my bed for a satisfying weepy escape, clutching a bouquet of radiology and ambulence bills to my soft breasts. I'm operating in 15 minute intervals now. and everything depends on other things.
The Benz is still mouldering bleakly in the garage, a victim of contingencies.The Iraqi garage-guys are close to me but still too far to walk home, and everyone I know is too booked up to take me . Then a friend calls me and she can do it, but only tomorrow. I'd told Lynn yesterday, I might have to miss seeing him, and his voice flooded with tears, Really? Then I realized I could grab a Cowboy Cab and get to Baylor that way, and I said, I'll be there, darlin'. Because isn't that what I actually promised 31 years ago?
There are my pals to contact, thank, and dissuade, like the guy who promises he can be in Dallas within 24 hours, bringing two ten ton army trucks, full of water, food, guns, and ammo. Me highly tempted to say either Jesus Christ! or Absolutely! picturing army vehicles rumbling down the freeway here, helocopters circling above the traffic like jumbo buzzards, then quietly deciding that he and I must have a talk, maybe quite soon, over his world destruction fantasies. There's my cookie-factory owning friend who promises clear bubbles of his pricey dough to Lynn's room for nurse-bribing purposes.
There's money to be lined up, payments to be arranged, put-off, and rescheduled. Me glancing nervously at the incoming bills, then recalling the wife of a client who perfectly fufills the biblical Good Woman ideal, with a modern twist. For she riseth at dawn, to upchuck bulemically and rag on the pool guy. Then, for her childs' sakes, she swoopeth upon insurence companies, to shriek at her HMO until night cometh. I make a note to call her, hoping to acquire the necessary shrew skills. I wonder if I'll be thrown upon America's only actual healthcare system: the bake sale. The one held in a windy parking lot, dirty newspapers flying around, and blown-up photos of the Poor Soul placed here and there, with fat teenagers offering a car wash as well.
There's no time to wonder about that either. But there's time, there must always be time, to hammer out an angry blog posting, as I'm drawn deeper into America's Healthcare Fun House, as I try not to bite some blank-faced functionary on the neck.
And there's time for some quick cat cuddling, as Antone Boudreau, Dickie Lee, and Lola rub around on my legs. It's not love really; it's about the roasted chicken I brought home the other night. They know I've got it stashed someplace.
That's me. Keeper of The Big Chicken.
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