I fear an interloper threatens Marklewood, the “heart & homestead” that I share with my beloved. The drama that fuels the summer’s health decisions is quick to crush any embers yet struggling from an abuse of metaphorical privilege!
I can now better understand those Law & Order storylines that deal with black marketed transplant organs!
Of course, I’m kidding. I’m simply cloaked, however, by emotional blackmail, knee-jerk reactions, and the institutional politics from Medicare to Medicaid and to my health providers.
Me thinks “provider” is a current buzzword akin to “Human Resources” in the seventies and the late 80’s sweeping term “ambassador”. I refer to neither diplomat nor vintage GM motor-yawner. (“Welcome to Bloomingdales Mens Shoe Department. I am your footwear ambassador Vlad.” What? Think I’d use my real name?)
Now I best resume my ramblings as the dinner hour looms and the tree frogs chirp.
Like i said: oy.
Everybody seems to consider themselves the expert in my my life. Folks who have never even turned down this quiet country road are telling me how I should do this or that. One such concerned party officially recommends that I leave the pusses and just live somewhere else, perhaps while that dinner hour is still looming.
No one is listening. I am just getting pushed further and further away from my life’s inner circle. Of course, the pot at the end of this rainbow of a process is a new heart, a second chance. life itself. Yes, I realize that everyone has my health as their concern. However, I am still owed inclusion to decision-making and respect for my right to voice a concern, or even a protest.
For over a year, I have realized that the politics of such a wondrous and complex surgery can take odd twists. They certainly are beginning a new chapter as I am on an on-again/off-again basis with the transplant status list. You will only get a heart if. If. If. If.
Of course, I shall comply. I want to live a long healthy life. But I want to stay with my family as long as I possibly can. “As a precaution” just doesn’t cut it in a life-altering and potentially devastating decision. No, I will not take unnecessary risks.
As of my latest assessment, I am still of sound mind and I am well aware of Monday’s options. I am not going to do something stupid.
But I’ll make a deal with you, O’ Unnamed Source of Woe. Stop referring to me as if I am now living life in the third person. At that time, we can probably have another heart-to-heart tête-à-tête. (In the deepest of Southern annals, one might call it a “Prayer to Jesus Meeting”, pardon any latent evangelism.)
Don’t worry, Cousin Damian. I shall comply. I always do. Tonight, though, I felt due a Susan Hawyard moment.
The dinner hour is slapping its timepiece. I’ll leave you in peace.
For the record, Jamie was always my favorite of Jack McCoy’s ADAs.
(Image: “Self Portrait as Skyscraper” by Julie Heffernan, 2012.)