Our Woman in the H'burg

I cancelled my health insurance.  My mother and father have paid it for over a decade.  We all wanted me to have the best chance possible to be healthy and happy.  Health insurance, in theory, should have gotten me the best medical care available locally.  This is not what has transpired.

Never having been to a psychiatrist before, I was held hostage the full 3 weeks covered for psychiatric hospitalization at the end of 2012, surviving something akin to a thyroid storm.  Of course, it's more complicated than that.  I was in survival mode without the right to a ponytail holder, a proper toothbrush, or an ink pen.  They even did the Japanese-prisoner-of-war technique of pretending to check on me every 15 minutes, 24 hours a day, 3 weeks straight making sure bright fluorescent lights shone into the room.  I wasn't going to sleep, regardless, in this stressful situation.  The good nurses were mostly glorified security.  And, I have an end of life colon that works well enough; it tries not to have excrement the diameter of a Number 2 pencil. I think I know why I had an appendix.

On Halloween 2014, I went nervously to have a CT of a pelvic mass I feel through my skin.  I was injected with what I was told to be dye.  I ended up with what I am assuming to be blood poisoning.

This is just part of my story. 

The Death Machine of Healthcare rolls on in Mississippi . . .

I can close my eyes and see all of the cogs and wheels made up mostly of people and coaxial cable, databases, apps, wireless, too

sharing data, sharing targets, sharing victims

Who does the choosing?

Broken pelvis

Swollen glands

Who is in charge

Nobody knows who is?

They know my face and my name before I enter the building

4'11" on a good day, I'm not one of your children.

 

Nope, I'm not dead, again.  

I'm tired, and I turn 40 this year.

I will keep trying to regiment my life with running, yoga, and healthy eating.  I really do try.

©2015 D. Moss