I’ll point in the direction so you know precisely where HERE is. It’s what James Baldwin once called “a region of my mind.”
I had an appointment scheduled for tomorrow to go to the pain management center in Pittsfield, MA. It’s not going to happen. Pourquoi?
Because for me to get there, I’d have to drop $80 on a round-trip taxi ride. I have $80 at the moment, but I’d also have to fill a prescription and then keep myself fed (and the cat in litter) between now and the beginning of June. That is a long, long way to stretch not a lot of money.
I’m also trying out a new prescription psych med, and I’m not 100% sure how it will affect me. I’d rather be near my local emergency room in the off-chance (it really is an outside chance) that the new drug makes me feel depressed, manic, or suicidal. I don’t want any of that. Do I? Ahem.
See, the Elder Services office in Berkshire County has a few volunteer drivers who take old farts like me to and from markets or medical appointments, and nobody is available tomorrow. Everyone’s on vacay. What a great scheduling system. And what a break for me and the other old dodderers. I don’t have a Plan B except to hang out with my cat, lay back, scream, and watch MSNBC all day. Who can resist Eden?
So tomorrow I need call to reschedule and just pray that by the time the new appointment rolls around, one of the drivers is back, all to get a rip-snorting 22 cents per mile reimbursement to go a total of 30 miles, down and back.
So I’m back at the square where I can only dive for the bottle of Advil and invoke the spirit of Sir Richard Topcliffe. Elizabeth Tudor’s prime torturer is more a presence in my life right now than any doctor I’ve seen lately.
Get why I said I’m up to here?