I arose late
for my Aortic Sonogram. It was scheduled for 8 a.m. and I woke up at 7:30. The
woman who scheduled it told me that I had to fast, nothing by mouth (what other
method is there?), from midnight, and to please arrive early in order to fill
out some forms. It’s part of the “Welcome to Medicare” program. When you become
my age you are enrolled in Medicare, an allegedly free-ish system to provide health
coverage to older citizens. It’s a way to see who is and who is not close to
death. I am at the time in my life where there are many agencies that want me
to pass away. They urgently desire for anyone who isn’t earning and buying and
paying taxes to die quickly with no complications, no lingering, no expensive
surgeries, treatments or hospitalizations. These are referred to as “The Golden
Years.”
So, “Welcome to
Medicare” (big smile and a handshake). During my last physical Doctor S.
noticed my age and said that he was “required” to assist me with the “Welcome
to Medicare” forms. There are always forms. He read off the questions and I
answered. We got to “Have you ever smoked?” and I said, “Of course”.
“But not now?”
“Nope. Quit 17
years ago.”
“Good for you
but you have to have a sonogram of your aorta. It’s required if you’ve ever
smoked or if you have a family history of aneurysms.”
Unfortunately,
both.
About ten years
ago I made a pledge to never use the word “aneurysm” and if someone spoke it in
conversation, or even if I overheard a stranger say it, I would rebuke them and
immediately leave the vicinity. An aneurysm is a blister, weakening or
ballooning of the wall of a blood vessel that, when it eventually bursts and
gives way, blood gushes and splatters just everywhere, causing strokes, heart
attacks, internal bleeding, a “high risk of death” and all the crap that I’ve
been trying not to think of but do anyway. It’s an ugly word that can only lead
to unhealthy obsession and distress.
At the
hospital, after registering and being asked more questions while the
receptionist filled out a computerized form, I was directed to the Imaging
Department where the technician asked me to lie on a padded table and pull up
my shirt. She then smeared a viscous, somewhat vulgar lotion on my chest and
stomach and prodded my lower torso with a hard plastic wand for about fifteen
minutes. At times the sound of my heartbeat filled the darkened room as she
broadcast it over a speaker so that she could hear if there were any audible
anomalies. To my untrained but anxious and sensitive ears my pulse sounded like
thunder; fast, thready, irregular thunder. A hyperactive kid stomping on a long
sheet of bubble wrap, but really loud. I expected the tech to say, “Wow,
there’s an aneurysm on your aorta the size of a ripe cherry.”
There was
nothing obvious in, on, or around the aorta that indicated that I would soon
die and relieve the concerned agencies; I will continue to be a financial burr
in their underwear. I wiped the lotion off of my chest with the provided towel
and went to the grocery store, my next stop on this aneurysm-free day.
Filling out
goddamn forms occupies a large part of my life. Ill die because I failed to
fill out a form properly. How happy they will be. Online forms, surveys, questionnaires, purchases, enrollment in
various organizations, the gathering of data for research, opinion, support,
customer satisfaction and aneurysm analysis,.
I use a plastic
swipe-card at the grocery store that gives me barely perceptible discounts on
certain items. A robot-woman’s voice says “Welcome, preferred customer” and
it’s a little like a lottery. I swiped my card and noticed that the cherries
which I thought were $1.99 a pound registered at 10 dollars for around two
pounds. Apparently my card, the one
I’ve been using for ten years, was no longer accepted by the scanner and I was
being charged the “non-discounted” price of $4.99 a pound, much more than I expected
or would pay.
I like fruit.
I’ve heard, and believe, that fresh fruit added to one’s diet is a good way to
avoid health problems like high cholesterol and aneurysms. I use the word
freely now. It’s too late to quibble.
I brought the
high price of cherries to the attention of a clerk and he gave me a package
with a new plastic card and a mail-in form. He explained that it would be
easier if I logged on from my home computer and filled in a questionnaire,
conveniently registering for the discounts and bypassing the U. S. Postal
Service. He also swiped his own card and I got the cherries for the discounted
price. God help me, I thanked him for his generosity.
The website for
the supermarket chain came up on my screen and I completed the form and pressed
“continue”. Nope. The scolding red line of text that says I didn’t fill in one
of the lines accurately appeared at the top of the page with a lot of
exclamation points and I was kicked back to the beginning and all of the info
I’d entered was blanked out, so I started over again. The section for my phone
number was marked with an asterisk. I retyped everything, paying particular
attention to the phone number. Another red asterisk. I was doing something
wrong, I guess. I knew the phone number was accurate. I separated the area code
and the last seven digits. Red asterisk. Eventually, I tried it with a couple
of hyphens separating the groups of numbers and it worked. I pressed “continue”
and after a long wait was told that I was now enrolled in their Savings Program
and was eligible for all manner of benefits. I declined a further relationship
with the grocery store and their dubious largesse. Upon exiting, however, I was
directed to log on to my email where I would receive a message from the company
that would allow me to “verify” my data. I bailed, booted up my gmail account
and saw that there was the expected notification in the inbox. All I had to do
was hit a link that would take me to another page where all I had to do was
acknowledge with another simple mouse click, that “Yes” I was me.
So now, while
they’re in season, I can buy cherries for a relatively fair price instead of
the inflated cost of $4.99 a pound. The cherries were a little tart but I ate
them anyway. Aneurysm. Jesus Christ, imagine the forms that I’ll have fill out
at the hospital if I survive.
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