Proffered treatment for what allegedly ails me was, to be charitable, ineffective. At 3:30 this morning I finally fell asleep in the big chair in the living room, and after two and a half hours of fairly fitful slumber, if little thrash, I woke up dizzy and disoriented, and stumbled twice on the way to the bathroom.
As the phrase goes, I can’t go on living like this. In fact, this may be even more appropriate a description than I thought: while combing through the insurance materials online I still haven’t received anything resembling a card from the bastards I discovered that they will not cover my antihypertensives unless I throw away 120 days of my life experimenting with stuff that may or may not work, but which will cost less. It is precisely crap like that which will drive us into some form of government-inflicted health care; right now, the system we have is about as popular as Rod Blagojevich, and for many of the same reasons.
(Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m lucky to have anything in this day and age, especially this day and at my age. It’s probably just a matter of time before they put a bullet in my head, or someplace equally nasty, in the name of the Holy Bailout.)