Right Here

 An ad pops up on the screen. 25 secretly gay couples, it reads. Do people still care about such things? I thought we were beyond such things, but then again I also thought abortion would remain legal. Progress is always met with a backlash. 

I woke up after having an erotic dream, a rarity for me. The night before I’d dreamed about my ex –not erotic, thank goodness, but a rather sweet dream about me meeting her family. Her son showed me a manga about a plump cat named Sukoko. Su koko in Japanese means “right here.” In their rec room I drew detailed self-portraits on a whiteboard, knowing as soon as I left they could be erased, but hoping they wouldn’t be.

Monday night the anti-fraud department of my bank called with an automated message asking me to confirm two transactions that had been made in Northern California. One was for zero dollars and the other was for a dollar. I said it hadn’t been me and they deactivated my card. I’ll be without one for five to seven business days, which is a pain but compared to what I’ve been through these last two weeks it’s just a hiccup. 

Just before my bank called, the man from the insurance company, whom I’d screamed at hysterically earlier that morning, called and said that things were fixed, that there had been a clerical error and my insurance was reinstated. I asked if I could get that in writing and he put me on hold while he asked his boss, then told me no. 

The next morning I got an email from the insurance broker saying I still owed twenty-five dollars on my premium. I had paid the amount they told me to and she had confirmed it, and now weeks later she was telling me this. I paid it then wrote her back a very caustic email. I couldn’t help it, I no longer felt capable of being diplomatic. The fee for making a payment online was twenty dollars, nearly what I owed. I don’t know how any of these people sleep at night. 

I called the wound care clinic and to my amazement, the computer said that I was indeed active again. I made an appointment with the doctor for Friday but they said they wouldn’t be able to get me into the chamber until next week. Without the sudden weight of uncertainty crushing me, I felt dazed rather than relieved. I ordered my new bank card and ran some errands. I bought some gerbera daisies at the hardware store. They were clearing out violas so I got some of those as well. They should last through the summer. If nothing else goes wrong, maybe I will too.

The Joy of Giving Up

         My insurance is still being held up. People are supposedly looking into it, but they said that all last week, and the week before. I was told on Friday that things had been fixed but they are not. No one I talked to has been any help, even though this isn’t something that just happened. Someone did something, or didn’t do something, and it seems like it shouldn’t be that difficult to find out where the mistake was made. I am paralyzed with rage. 

        This whole thing is a good reminder that you can do everything right and still have your life derailed. The healthy thing to do is laugh it off, realize you’re not special or unique or immune to poor luck, and keep on going. Chin up. Hang in there, baby. Keep calm and carry on. But if you’re prone to depression or pessimism, it’s easy to think, well why even try, if it’s all going to go to shit anyways. Cynicism is easy. Hope is hard. 

        I struggle with this. I have little hope, little belief that things will work out the way I want them to. Part of this is based on realty –for the most part, things have not worked out great for me- but part of it is obviously my shitty attitude. I don’t like this defeatist quality in myself and recognize that it makes things more difficult, but my attempts to change have been only marginally successful. Sure I’m less selfish than I used to be, I value life more, I would say I’m a much better person than I was ten years ago. But who fucking cares. It’s too late, the damage is done, and I am left here to stew, with few resources and no energy to haul myself out of this fetid broth. 

        If it sounds like I want to die, it’s because I do. I won’t act on it, because I would hurt too many people and realistically I’m too scared to go through with it. I’ve been through all that before –maybe that’s where I used up all my luck, not getting killed by that bottle of pills. But I don’t want to live like this anymore. It’s too much. I literally can’t take it. After a brief moment of hope that things were back on track, I can feel my brain once again shutting down. I’m unable to relax or distract myself. I spend hours lying on the bed staring out the window, unable to move, wishing it was over. 

I’ve been out of treatment for a week. All the good that was being done by the chamber is unraveling. My feet are both as fucked up as ever. I fear that surgery is going to be inevitable after all. All because some asshole somewhere fucked something up. I wish I knew who it was. I would like to claw into their stomach and tear out their pancreas and eat it raw. 

Tarantula

        I woke up and made coffee and crawled to my writing desk and I immediately felt it: the wall. I couldn’t do this any longer, couldn’t stand the waiting to hear about my insurance. I sent a desperate email to the third party caseworker begging her to contact me, then sat staring at the computer screen for a long time, not reading, just staring. I could feel myself shutting down, which is what I do in cases of extreme duress. It’s like the lights of an office building being shut off floor by floor. I could not do this any more. I didn’t know what that meant, but I was done. The well was dry, no water left for me for me to draw. I had pushed so hard and been so patient and now I couldn’t any more. 

        Finally, with what felt like my last scrap of willpower, I called the wound care clinic. I left a message on the machine in which I told them how helpless and hopeless I was. I don’t know what to do, I said. I need help. Please.

        An hour later the scheduler called and said she was connecting me to someone from the hospital’s insurance department. I told her the same thing I had been spending all week telling various representatives, and like so many of them, she said she would look into it and get back to me later that day. In the meantime, she said I should reach out to my employer –she kept calling it “my former employer,” which was disconcerting- just to let them know about the issues I’d been having. When we got off the phone I wrote an email to HR and accounting and resumed my staring.

        A few hours later the phone rang. It was the insurance woman from the hospital. “It’s all straightened out,” she said. “You’re re-enrolled.” I felt a great rush of air, like I’d been floating in a vacuum that was suddenly filled with oxygen. I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. She said there had been some miscommunication but they’d gotten some kind of confirmation from my “former employer” and that I was covered as of April 1st, which was two and a half weeks ago, and that as long as I kept making my monthly payments, I should be set. I thanked her profusely and got off the phone, in shock that the wall was no longer there, that with just a few words, it had vanished.

        The scheduler called back a little later and said that my chart still showed me as not being covered, but she would call me when it changed so we could resume treatments. It felt like so long since I had seen any of them.

        That night some friends invited me to one of those big Literary Arts readings at the Shnitz. I hadn’t been to one in years; tickets are expensive, and I don’t know or care about most of the readers. This was a poet who had just published a prose book about nature and her relationship to it. She was bubbly and perky and spoke almost exclusively in truisms. She used the phrase “Be true to your authentic self” multiple times. 

        She started her talk with BBC footage of a pebble toad, a tiny, drab creature from Venezuela. The toad is climbing up a steep sheet of rock. At the top it encounters a tarantula, and instantly releases its grip on the rock and tumbles down, down, what seems like hundreds of feet, bounding like a ball to land with no injury to its bumpy little body. She referred to the toad many times during her talk as a symbol of resilience. Her view of the animal kingdom was completely benign, and she spoke like someone who had never endured any hardships, or had shoved them down so deep she refused to acknowledge them. “Live your life with wonder,” she chirped again and again. 

        As we walked back to the car we cut through the park, bejeweled with strings of lights. We passed the museum and I imagined ghostly images of my time working there wafting up from its bulk. Flickering projections of everyone I had encountered there, all the artworks that had kept me company over the years. 

        My friends laughed as I fumed about the evening’s lack of substance. “This is what we love about you,” they said. I am an angry, bitter man, a plummeting toad, refusing to live my life with wonder. It didn’t matter. The wall had come down. I went home and fell into bed and slept like a stone. 

Fear of Being Alone

        The world’s oldest conjoined twins died last week at age 62. They lived most their lives in Reading, Pennsylvania, which is where my mother’s family is from. My youngest aunt is the same age as the twins, and was born with Rubinstein-Taybi syndrome, a genetic condition that was only recognized a few years before she was born. She is mentally disabled; she can speak but her conversation and ability to comprehend are severely limited. My grandmother took care of her until she was too frail to do so, then both went to live in assisted living facilities.

        Lori and George were not mentally impaired, and lived on their own starting in their twenties. Their skulls were attached at the forehead, and they shared some brain matter and blood veins but were otherwise two distinct individuals. George was much smaller, the size of a child, and rode in a specially designed stool. 

        My mother told me once that when she was taking her sister shopping, they turned an aisle in the store and the twins were there. My aunt had immediately said, “Oh, hi Lori. Hi Dori.” Apparently they knew each other from a work program they had both been part of years earlier. 

        I asked my mother if she had heard the news of their deaths, and if she remembered the story of running into them. She said she had no memory of it. I wondered if I had made it up. But The scene is so clear in my head, where did it come from? She did say that my grandmother used to brag that she knew them when she volunteered at the facility they lived in when they were young. She had tried to get my mother to work there, but my mother said when she visited she was too disturbed by the conditions. All the beds were like cages, she said, and the place stank of urine. 

        It’s fortunate that the twins were able to get out and live on their own; it seems that they had a supportive community of family and friends. There are interviews with them online, in which they talk about their lives. George aspired to be a country and western singer, and for a while went by the name Reba, ultimately identifying as a man and changing his name to George. Lori had a number of boyfriends and was even engaged once, though the man died in a car crash before they could get married. I can't help but be fascinated by the footage of them navigating the world. They come across as completely accepting their condition, and say that they cannot imagine their lives separated. 

        My aunt still lives in a small care facility in Reading. My mother takes her out shopping and to mass once a month. They always go to Friendly’s, and my aunt always orders hot dogs and mac and cheese. She is usually good-natured, but any disruption to her routine is met with childlike sulkiness. Our grandmother always claimed that she was an actual angel from heaven. I used to roll my eyes at this, but now I think it’s nice to imagine that rather than bland, shapely beings, that a heavenly host could be obese with a trach tube and a 40 point IQ, or that two could be fused together at the forehead, making us marvel at what it must be like to never be alone.

The Revolution will not be covered under your current plan

      The best advice I can give anyone is this: do not get sick in America. The aggravation and humiliation of navigating the insurance necessary to cover even the simplest ailment will make you feel like you've entered a Kafka novel.

      I would never want to buy a gun, but if I did, I should definitely be put on a watch list, because I have had it with this shit. Putting aside my distaste for violence, the trouble is, there are too many people to take out to really make a difference, and they are anonymous and safely hidden. Eliminate one CEO or hedge fund manager or even a room full of shareholders and dozens will spring up to take their place. You'd need a phalanx of semiautomatic guillotines to lop off all those heads.

      No, violence is not a practical solution. I guess the fact that I can still think in terms of practicality and impracticality means I'm not that far gone yet. But I feel so helpless and trapped and enraged, I feel like I'm about to explode. They say that patience is always the answer, but I have been extremely patient through all this and it hasn't done a lick of good. I'd take action but you can't force someone to return your calls, and there is no office I can march down to and lodge a complaint at. I'm no good at organizing and am not charismatic enough to lead a movement, to rally the people to action. The only thing I'm any good at is being sick. And as I  said,  whatever you do, you must never get fucking get sick in America.

A Cloud of Bats

         I continue moving the last of my things from the old apartment. It’s amazing how even when there seems to be nothing left, there’s always some little cache of crap you forgot. It feels never ending but I plod along, trying to ignore the dark thoughts that swirl like a cloud of bats around my head.

        The company handling my transition into paying for my own insurance is not returning my calls or emails. They cheerfully processed my payment, but the money hasn’t been sent to the hospital yet, and I remain uninsured. It’s extremely nerve-wracking. Just keep calling, everyone says. They’re just doing their job, and their job is to make your life miserable. I hope they rot in hell.

        It’s been ten days since I’ve been in the chamber. It feels like years. Shelley called today to see if I was coming in Monday. I was ridiculously happy to hear her gravely voice. I explained the situation and started to cry. She said not to worry, that the oxygen takes a long time to work its way out of my system and that they’ll hold my place for me. She says KC was just saying when my treatment is over, that we should all go out and get a drink. I’m so touched by this that I start to cry again. After all, are they not my family? Is the wound care clinic not my home? 

        Back at my other home, I spend the morning carrying every painting I’ve ever made, at least the ones that are too large for boxes. The emotional upheaval brought up by this feels violent and probably not good for me, but these fucking things have to be moved. I throw out a few of the unfinished ones I know I’ll never get to. I feel guilty giving up on them but there’s only so much room, only so much time. I can’t wait until I no longer have to navigate the labyrinth of my possessions, can’t wait until everything is packed away and in its place, and I can go on with my life, such as it is. 

        I know I brought this on myself; the move was my choice, was my attempt to seize control and be assertive. But this is so hard. I feel wrung out and frightened at how fragile my situation really is. My entire life is here, these drawings and paintings and photographs the only evidence that I existed, and you could fit it all into a good sized dumpster. 

The King of Cups

         One day in the late nineties, I was walking from the subway to my friend’s Park Slope apartment, when I found a playing card on the sidewalk. I picked it up, as was my habit; I had an idea of making some kind of art project out of all the single cards I collected. This one was not a regular card, but featured a picture of a king with a goblet floating above his hand. I was excited: I had never found a tarot card before, and while I’m not especially superstitious, I do love symbols and metaphors. Maybe this card was meant to guide me, in some way. 

        Upon doing some research, I was confused. There was a card called the King of Cups, but the figure on its face was traditionally seated on a throne and wore a fish amulet, with another fish leaping from the water behind him. I figured this was just a different interpretation, though I was also puzzled by the number 12 on the card, which I couldn’t find any reference to. But the king is usually seen as being creative, compassionate, and wise, with a balanced mind and heart. He seemed like a good protector, and for years I used him as a bookmark before eventually taping him to the wall beside my bed. 

        I took it down the other day as I prepared for my move. I thought I’d use the Google search feature to see if I could discover anything about this particular card. It came right up when I took a picture of it. It was indeed a King of Cups…only not from a tarot deck. It was a common playing card designed in Spain in the late 1800s and used all over the world in casinos. I was disappointed to learn that my talisman was nothing more than a scrap of mass-produced rubbish. But I still remember that instant of discovery, I can picture that street corner, still remember what it felt like to bend down to pick up an object that I believed, for a moment, might change my life.

The Book of Job

        I figure it's just allergies, brought on by the unusually warm spring we’ve been having. I take a COVID test and it reads negative. While I know how unreliable those little plastic strips can be, I allow it to comfort me. 

        I go in for my treatment as usual but they send me home because my blood sugar is too low. I go back to bed and wake up hacking and sniffling. I finish watching the ugly, paranoid alien invasion show that is no doubt exacerbating my ugly, paranoid state of mind. Somewhere in there the Widder drops off some boxes along with fish from the food bank. I quickly fill the boxes, then try to sleep but only snatch a few minutes here and there. 

There is a poetry reading that night. Before I go, I take another COVID test and once again it’s negative, so I put on a mask and head to the reading. It’s a good reading but I feel my brain fogging over. When I get home I take another test and this one is positive. The following morning I take one last one and that too is positive. 

        By this time, a constant stream of mucus is flowing out of me, and only with great concentration can I keep from coughing. I run out of ibuprofen to dull the rolling headaches, and start getting the chills. I had COVID three years ago, but this time feels much worse. I know I should be grateful; it wasn’t so long ago that the idea of catching this was calamitous rather than merely irritating. 

        I call wound care and they say to not come in until next week, that the interruption in my treatment shouldn’t be an issue. I then call my primary and he phones in an order for Paxlovid to help diminish my symptoms. After waiting a while and not getting a response from the pharmacy, I give them a call. They say my insurance ran out, and without it the medicine costs $1500. The panic I’ve been trying so hard to tamp down roars to life.

        The timing of all of this could hardly be worse. I’m scheduled to get the keys to my new unit in four days, and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. My biggest fear with this move was that I would get sick or hurt myself. Is this a sign that I’m making a terrible mistake? I feel swept downward in a whirlpool of shitty circumstances, and everything I try to do to improve my lot just sucks me in deeper. I can see the humor in the whole ridiculous situation, but I'm having trouble laughing about it. Besides, it would hurt my chest to do so. 

The Widder drops off some more boxes, and I spend the day slowly packing books. I’m easily winded, and I lie down whenever I start to feel lightheaded, which is often. The cat seems puzzled that I’m home. I can barely walk, I can barely see, and now I can barely breathe. On top of it I’m trapped in my apartment until I’m not contagious. How many more obstacles do I have to hurdle? How small does my world have to shrink until there’s no room left for even me?

The Toretto Family

        Yesterday was Mike’s last day in the chamber. He was already in when I arrived, and had finished and changed and left when I got out, so I didn’t get to say goodbye. I felt a pang of sadness, though I hadn’t really known him. He was friendly enough, but when I tried to engage him in conversation, he just stared at me. I didn’t take it personally; judging by the smell of his clothes when he came in, he was probably high as shit.

        Mike was diagnosed with type one when he was 12, two years younger than I had been. He was obese but his glucose levels were always better than mine, despite what sounded like a horrific diet. “135 today. What did you have for breakfast?” the nurses would ask him. “A donut,” he would say. Or “Chicken and waffles.” All the nurses would cringe, but they had to admit, his numbers were good. 

        Last Friday, he had been under the care of CK. “Been two years since my wife died,” he said as she slipped the grounding bracelet around his meaty wrist. “I’m real lonely. It’s real hard to meet people,” he said.

        “You ever do online dating?” she asked. He made a scoffing sound. “I know it’s tough out there. You go to church?” He said no, a little sheepishly. “Me neither,” CK said, “But I hear it’s a good place to meet the ladies.”

“What I need is a nice girl like you. You always listen. Most people don’t listen. It’s too bad I’m not a younger man.” CK laughed. 

        “You just need a good wing man, Mike” I said. “When we get out of here, we should hit the town.” He stared at me like I was crazy, and then they slid him into the tube and we didn’t speak again.

When I went in this morning, they put me in his chamber. “We usually use the middle one for newbies,” CK explained. “You’re a veteran at this point.” It’s true; my eight weeks are almost up, though it’s likely they’ll extend my time for another month, since things aren’t healed up. I’m frustrated but also relieved that I won’t have to face the outside world quite yet. My entire life revolves around the chamber. It’s amazing how quickly we adapt to a new routine, no matter how strange. My old life feels like the distant past. 

“But this is Mike’s chamber,” I say. “Does that mean I have to watch action movies?”

“That’s right,” CK says. “No more artsy fartsy Russian crap for you. From now on it’s nothing but Fast and Furious.” 

I groan. “Maybe I’ll be lucky and catch on fire.” 

    CK grins and punches me in the arm, hard, then slides me into the tube and seals the lid and I know I’m finally home.