Rivulets of Pluckiness: My Psychopathology (WITH UPDATE)

In the week since sending off my application for health insurance under the Pre-Existing Condition Insurance Plan * , I am feeling much worse.  In the course of the day, my mind wanders back to my last conversation with one of the world's most talented shoulder surgeons -- and my ludicrous questions to the very patient man.

"How will I know if it gets worse, if I need to come in?" and another 5 permutations of the same inquiry were met with a muttered:  "You'll know." 

Eyes downcast. 
No charge for the office visit.
Orders for joint aspiration under fluoroscopy -- the sixth -- which the hospital refused to schedule due to my lack of insurance.

My Teacherly Self has assured you many times, Faithful Reader, that there are, indeed, stupid questions.  My question'to ShoulderMan, however obtuse it might sound to you, was not stupid. It just didn't have an answer.

Given that fever, pain, sweats, and fatigue are daily occurrences, nothing to write home about, and certainly nothing to call the doctor over, how am I supposed to gauge... change?  That's one version of my question.  The throbbing, throbbing version?  How much can I stand?  How much, in the Name of God, should I stand?  What am I worth?

For instance, what am I to do or think when the pain begins to have that unmistakable infected ::twinge:: again, when using my left arm to do anything beyond putting a masterful grip on a paperback (currently The Cider House Rules by John Irving) causes an increase in fever and pain, even brings on The Febrile Shivers, when my hair is plastered to my head by what can only be called RIVULETS of salty sweat?  I confess that I cannot squelch the feeling that something ought to be done, that there ought to be some sort of response.  Hello?  Hello?

If you would like to make a call, please hang up, and try again.

Hey... I just noticed something:  It's a sign of my innate PLUCKINESS that I came up with RIVULETS.

[Possibly from Italian rivoletto, diminutive of rivolo, small stream, from Latin rvulus, diminutive of rvus, stream; see rei- in Indo-European roots.]

So, Friend.  What kind of psychological disorder is this, then?  Are my mind and my body in collusion? Are psyche and soma permitting a worsening of things now that addressing this bone infection won't q:u:i:t:e ruin me financially?  Or is it that now I am allowed, by a hyper-protective subconscious, to perceive just how bad things really are, and have been?  Whatever the underlying psychology, psychopathology -- I don't want to go down this road.  I don't want things to get harder. 

Yes, I hear that annoying high-pitched whine, too. 

I cannot go on like this -- this daily descent into Hell.  Have I garnered no new skills?  Why can't I look the other way, play the Polyanna Glad Game? 

I haven't phoned in my distress, nor emailed my Go-To-Guy Internist, because the one detail that never quite leaves me is the one where both ShoulderMan and Go-To-Guy cough-and-blurt that there is nothing more to do, except to remove my prostheses.  Permanently.

I can see how that would prevent the hardware from serving as petri dishes for further bonzo-bacteria... but it doesn't address the little buggers already in the humerus... Y'know? 

Impending Implosion Warning.  Impending Implosion Warning.  Impending Implosion Warning.

Thanks for the space and time to vent. 

{you know i want to apologize.  you know i do.  and so i ask myself:  whose blog is it anyway?  hmmm?}

* AUGUST 12, 2010: If you happen to be sporting your Dancing Shoes, prepare to do the Happy Dance! 

Today's mail included a slender envelope from the Pre-Existing Condition Insurance Plan, Administered by GEHA. 

 I admit that Fred was asked to pray before I opened it -- not some wimpy WASP-y mumblejumble, no!  Fred incorporates kippah, tallit, and tefillin -- and he looks quite fetching in his spiritual armor -- while he performs an impeccable High Mass in medieval Latin.  To cover all bases, we set out large baguette-shaped baskets full of French Existential classics, a sort of tired homage to Christ as the Bread of Life, and a nod-with-a-wink to actual bread to keep the actually living... alive. 

La Bonne et Belle Bianca felt it imperative that she don a long, white linen tunic, à la Isadora Duncan, and run on her tippy-toes -- in a weird crisscross pattern abbreviated by what might have been S.O.S. signals -- while waving smoking fronds of sage.

Marmy Fluffy Butt, after her great swath of tail was sufficiently poofed, led Dobby and Uncle Kitty Big Balls in a decorous purred rendition of Hymn of Hope, the famed devotional commissioned for the 150th anniversary of the First Baptist Church of Lapeer, Missouri.  Marmy is particularly keen on the musical notation for the piece that dictates it be done "reverently with quiet strength."

Thus fortified, I carefully slit open the envelope, hands trembling.  It was a flashback to the long ago days of college acceptances, with the significant improvement that the word approved was greatly bolded.

 As in:  approved approved approved !

When the sage ash settled, and the sacramental music faded into a bit of impressive jazzy scat, a few inconsistencies between the promised item and the item delivered were noted -- the monthly premium that was only to change when one shifted from one age bracket to another now may possibly change due to "market" forces; the deductible paid between now and the end of the year does not appear to be applied to next year's due, and a few other odd notes.  Each problem may be resolved by the more complete language of the full policy, which I haven't yet received.

Anyway, Dear Reader -- dance!  Dance with abandon, dance with joy -- I am insured! 

President Obama?  Thank you!