To the Point

Warning: Read this blog at your own risk. The author does not guarantee you will like the content herein. He cannot guarantee you happiness, wellness, satisfaction, comprehension or contentment.--TL Simons

Monday, April 29, 2013


The taxi to the ER cost ten bucks.

The EKG, IV and rigorous attention of two nurses and the ER doc will cost much more.

Everything scanned from the bar code on my wrist to a computation of facts, tabulating costs, rising debt.  Nitro, pills, pills, pills.

Am I dying?  Why are you asking me if I have money?  Now?

Sign this, sign this, sign this.  Hurry, hurry, hurry.

Overnight, attached to a myriad of technologies, rising, yet lessening fear.

Poked and prodded.  Blood drawn repeatedly, a few laughs, pretty nurses.  More and more cost, hearty bland food.

Enzymes, enzymes, enzymes.  Normal.

A cool liquid applied to my chest above the heart.  Echo test,  as the diligent tech appraises the situation.

Sound waves, an occasional misdirection.  Nothing serious.

Years ago I paid my taxes in support of several wars I hated, and now I have no money.  I protest!

I'm still alive, the much poorer, an American.  I can't afford this.

Money, money, money.


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