Health Care Crisis

Perhaps Google earns money off my raw content, and since I am not earning money off my raw content, then why am I investing so much of my time, breaking so many eggs, shredding my wounds? A Blogger account is not much, in terms of a legacy, if it can even be counted as one. Let me return to the poor vaunted Louise Norlie, secretly telephoning me from her backyard in New Jersey. "Most people go with their aide," she said, with an implied perplexity at my lack of having one. But in the ten years plus of having one, then using my own money to borrow Tim, I was abused, for the most part, by the African Americans taking the job. Not all of them, but a significant percentage. Every "aide" I had except for the new one, whom I have only used once, has discomfited me, if not abused me with micro-behaviors, and this is all I have to look forward to. Dealing with low income stressed strangers who have their own triggers. I did not go through six fucking years of university to make getting a diaper change my life time award, but my age is pushing the turning point where I'll have no choice but to depend on ignorant women with bad teeth for my care.

My last advice to Louise, by the way, is to assert herself for herself. Stop looking for apron strings, or for someone like me to draw you out on a specialized list serv, or for someone like me to engage with you because we both have other aesthetic needs beyond medical model maintenance. Go out, take a risk, meet a boy. Have sex. Do something rather than sneak telephone calls to wounded warriors.

Marie and I haven't spoken in over a week. A record for me, but father's sister and I have worn each other out. She doesn't want the same services offered by PCA that I also refuse at my peril, but it was her choice not to have hospice care for Lillian, my favorite grandmother, or my uncle, her husband, who died of lung cancer while she still smokes three packs a day. Nor is my father getting care for my stepmother Louise, with her RA. Did he marry her to punish himself for me, his dead son? I don't know, but he is eighty and cannot give his wife nursing care.

Louise hates us, my sister says. I don't doubt it. Maybe that is guilt over my mother, or that my physical vulnerability reminds her of her own, but let's extrapolate, even though I am not Timothy Taylor: You probably have an uncle Joseph with cognitive limitations signifying mild dementia, or an aunt with a broken wrist who can no longer climb stairs, with MRSA exposure and infection. If a mostly stable quadriplegic like me can fall out of production due to transit restrictions and major fallout with compliance, with the parental generation of her family now falling into "nursing home eligibility" (I welcomed padre into the club not many weeks back when Marie and I discussed the Louise crisis). My stepmother always is a crisis-- how are we going to afford the direction in which we're heading? You may think my euthanasia advocacy cruel, but demographics estimate global population will reach 11 billion by 2100. We're crushing ourselves.