I opened the news this morning to a very similar headline topping the page. I wrote a rather bleak post, mostly about me, and, by damn, I intended to publish it.
Now it’s four in the afternoon, and I’ve managed to save the post as a blank page. And no, it’s not a sign from god; it’s the result of a brain injury. I’m sick to death of the brain injury. I’m sick to death of clerks who don’t know their jobs, and send me overdue notices for bills they sent to the secondary as primary. And, I’m not even a medical clerk.
I am a few visits from the end of my physical therapy medical allowance. I learned there is cognitive therapy across the hall. I signed up. Medical Mutual counts it the same as physical therapy, which I will continue to take. I’m angry. They can come and get me. They can garnish my wages. (That’s a joke.) They can garnish my Social Security. I don’t care. The savings will just go twice as fast. Three years and gone. I don’t care. It’s not my fault I don’t have a job.
Just to stay cranked up, I made an appointment with the orthotist. He can make that brace work for me, or make me a new one. I think that’s most of what I covered this morning. Oh, yes, I have an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon to evaluate my hyperexending knee, injury courtesy of a fast trip down the floor of a bus.
I recall the balance of my rant—I’m not going on vacations with grandchildren. They’re well into teenager hood now and are developing lives of their own, so I suppose I shouldn’t gripe too much.
In the meantime, the turfed yard is growing grass, big and small, and pig is happy.