"Physician, Heal Thyself"
In the dawn of the "blogging" era, I found myself drawn to it... not so much because I was salivating for online validation, but because I was searching for fonts, one day. Not long after having my love for writing re-stimulated, I began relating my experience in biking cross-country in 1979, as part of Bikecentennial (following the Lewis & Clark trail, backwards, typically).
Technology being what it was in those early days of online journalling, my photos looked like crap. I knew, at some point, I was going to have to go back and do them all over again--a major stumbling block for the Great Procrastinator.
But, I've been thinking a lot about it, lately... as my first week of tackling the coast range in cold, rainy weather (with sixty extra pounds of gear) probably has a lot to do with my recent knee explosion. Well, that's part of it, and also standing over a light table for twenty-six years (for twelve hours at a time), and not knowing when to quit when my body protests.
Though I don't particularly think of myself as a Big Pussy, that first week of forcing miles of precipitous ups-and-downs on a severely strained joint awoke me to levels of pain that I didn't think existed...salved by two days off in Pacific City, Oregon. Of course, helping to consume twenty-eight pounds of Pacific clams, copious amounts of beer, and learning the joint-lubricating properties of aspirin turned out to be pretty medicinal, too. After that, I was sufficiently "healed" to pedal the other four thousand miles to get back to Virginia... and see how beautiful and diverse is this country and its people.
No Regrets.
Unfortunately, I remember the definition of "excruciating", now... though with every day, the pain subsides, the internet taught me how to rehabilitate, I'm finally learning to eat at normal intervals and take vitamins, and can get back to taking care of normal, everyday things that won't take care themselves. I'm not ready to be an invalid, living alone in squalor and defeat.
But, with unemployment, my health benefits fell by the wayside... and, not having the "convenience" of medical attention, I'm probably going to pay for the inattention. That awakes my distaste and outrage about the state of Medicine in America for those that have no access because they Just Aren't Lucky Enough.
Born to a single mother who also was born to a single mother, health insurance was unattainable. And, by whatever motivations drove her, she could neither stomach the suffocation of marriage or be satisfied with working for someone else, as my brother and I grew to adolescence. Boys being "boys", and the uncanny truth that those with less seem to get sick more, the pittance of child support wasn't enough. Consequently, we had to rely upon free school lunches and Medicaid.
Broken bones were reset, and not so much of a burden. Infections and viruses came-and-went, without a disruption to "lifestyle", such as it was. But, in the summer of my brother's eleventh year, he lost his boundless energy: the quality of which would tire Ulysses. He couldn't assuage his thirst. And, soon, all he wanted to do was sleep. It was clear that something was very wrong. An emergency trip to the hospital, miraculously before he could slip into coma, confirmed the worst: diabetes.
A few years later, in another summer, I took a trip to the bathroom... and there was blood. It was my turn to make the mad dash to the emergency room, which turned into two weeks of proctoscopes and a liquid diet: intestinal perforation. One doctor took me aside to discuss what the options were, telling me that "first, we split open your belly". By whatever Powers That Be, the wound healed on its own in the course of those two weeks. Not long after, though, I was called back for tests, because I was in a ward with a tuberculosis patient, recently discovered. They were concerned with my blood sugar levels.
It was as if the horror was about to begin, anew.
Luckily, for me, I was uninfected and sound. My bother wasn't so "lucky". As we grew to be men, I got stronger and found my own way in the world... while he, through DNA, attitude, denial of his condition or for whatever "reason", spiraled into blindness, kidney failure, neuropathy, and despair. It became too much for him to bear, and he chose to end his suffering.
This is not so much an accusation of Medicine. For those days, when hospitals weren't so suffused with greed and intolerance and still functioned as non-profit institutions, the level of care was acceptable. Those without financial means learned to deal with the long waits in the "clinic"... the dismissal of clerks and doctors that noticed our lack of coverage... and the shortcuts in care. The only real accusation I can make is of one particular doctor, who told my brother in his last days that his need for painkillers was "addictive" and that he was a "parasite". For him, I hope justice reigns.
This is a different world, now. The Bottom Line is the substitute for "First, Do No Harm". Incredibly, doctors oversee torture. Insurance companies dictate the level of care. What was imperfect, but functional, seems more like the Belly Of The Whale.
Something has to change. This "triage" of who deserves adequate care, and who does not, is neither acceptable or sustainable. This cannot be what America is about.
Still, I have no regrets for whatever responsibility I have for my own infirmities. Life is risk, no matter what choices are made.
But, when faced with a return to the emergency room, and having to rely upon the graces of the State, it wasn't the pain that medical attention would bring that made me choose to attend to myself. It was the thought of returning to the abyss of unending bills, unspoken assumptions of taking a "free ride", and being shuffled into substandard care that kept me from dialing 911.
I may walk with a limp, invite a recurrence if i choose to kneel, or worse, until I find employment, again. That's the choice I had to make. That's a choice no one should have to make.
