“Medicare Monday”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-19)

Note: This is a fictional story. But I hope, one to be made real, very soon.

D-Day. In this case, the D was for doctor.

I arrived at the University Hospitals complex earlier than expected. It had been two years and eight months since my last visit. So any notion of how long the journey would take was erased by neglect. Their parking lot simmered like a kettle on low boil. Cars entering and exiting, patients hobbling under the weight of affliction, others busily checking their phones before returning to duty. Each image struck nerves in my brain. I had been absent for a long time.

At a window inside, I waited for the receptionist. Her glasses were heavier and thicker than my own. She looked up as if I seemed familiar, yet forgotten.

“You name, sir?” she asked.

My voice cracked a bit. “Rodney... Rodney Ice.”

She blinked her eyes. “Have you been a patient here, Mr. Ice?”

“Yes,” I responded.

She scanned through entries on her computer. “I’m sorry, you are not listed here...”

“I have been away for some time,” I confessed. “Almost three years.”

Her blue eyes grew wider. “Away?”

“No health insurance,” I said. “It has been a marathon of endurance.”

She shook her head, while switching to another screen on her terminal. “Ah, we have you listed as inactive. Why no insurance? There are plans through the Affordable Care Act, Medicare, Medicaid, retirement plans, all sorts of ways to be covered.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “A pity that some people still fall through the cracks. People like me, for instance.”

She shook her head again.

I filled out new paperwork while waiting. The room filled with eager visitors. All hoping for a cure or comfort of some kind. Then, I was called for one of the examination rooms.

A young, perky assistant took my pulse and blood pressure. Her concern could not be hidden. She took my BP a second time. Then a third.

“Are you on any medicines, Mr. Ice?” she fretted.

“None,” I replied. “Not for almost three years.”

Her eyebrows raised and she exhaled noisily. “Three years?”

“That’s right,” I confirmed.

She took my BP once more. “This is very high. How long has it been since you had any meds for your condition?”

“January of 2017,” I answered.

She scratched at her brown hair. “How... have you... survived?”

“Prayer and bed rest,” I said.

The doctor knocked loudly, then entered before her helped had finished. “RODNEY! I thought perhaps you had moved away!”

I chuckled with relief. “No, still here, still in Thompson. Still living alone, with my dog.”

Doctor Puzjelski smiled with frustration. “You should have seen me many months ago. Do you realize the risk you took by going so long without any care?”

My face reddened. “I do. No one would help. I did not qualify for any assistance. I could not get hired after losing my job. My cane and obvious physical impairment frightened away employers, despite a good resume. I barely avoided being homeless at Christmas time.”

Doctor P. folded her hands. “So, what have you been doing?”

“Writing a lot,” I explained. “Staying active so much as I could. Trying to maintain a sort of routine. Difficult in the winter months, as the cold aggravates my arthritis and debilitated joints.”

“Have you seen your cardiologist?” she wondered out loud.

“No,” I declared. “Three yearly appointments missed, so far.”

“Have you had a colonoscopy due to your family history?” she inquired.

“No,” I repeated.

“An MRI on your hip and knees?” she stammered.

“No,” I answered yet again.

“You seem to have one word in mind today,” she said with regret.

“Very true,” I agreed. “No career, no insurance, no help.”

“You don’t take any pain meds?” she said quizzically.

“None,” I shrugged. “The painkillers worry me more than the hurt from aching bones.”

“So, you do have pain?” she asked.

“Every day,” I nodded. “Have gotten used to it over time. When it becomes too much, I simply go to bed. Rest, work, rest, work, rest. I can do that in retired life.”

Doctor Puzjelski smoothed her jacket collar. “So why now? Why see me today?”

My skin began to tingle. “I finally qualified for Medicare. It took two years after being approved for disability. A long wait.”

“Very long!” she exclaimed. “You could’ve had a stroke! Or had that hip or knees come apart!”

“Last year, my parents had to be taken out of their home, in West Virginia,” I added. “My father died shortly afterward. I had to clear their home with help from my sister and nephew. I was the executor of Dad’s estate and conservator for Mom. That meant frequent southern trips and appearing in court. Just getting Medicaid certification for my mother took from February to September. Lots of appointments, telephone conversations and written communication.”

“But nothing for you?” she said in amazement.

“No,” I replied.

She wrinkled her nose. “Forgive me, Rodney, but you walk like an old man.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Like my father, who was 88 when he passed away.”

“I need to run tests,” she declared. “You have put yourself in quite a situation, but I must say your stamina is a welcome surprise.”

“A family tradition,” I observed. “Dad continued to work until he couldn’t get out of his chair. Even then, he stayed active as a wordsmith. My friend Janis keeps me moving. We still walk on her road by Lake Erie.”

“WALK?” the doctor shrieked. “For pleasure?”

My eyes lowered with embarrassment. “I go slowly. Cane and limbs in motion. Thinking carefully about every step. Pacing myself.”

Doctor Puzjelski smiled. “Whatever you’ve been doing has worked.”

“It has,” I laughed. “I am still here...”

“Well now, this is where it all turns around,” she spoke confidently. “Now that you have Medicare, we can begin to get you right again. Get you feeling better about yourself.”

My hand clasped hers, gratefully. “I am ready!”

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