I’m probably not that close to death, but who can tell? Certainly not my doctor, because my yearly health assessment — which has replaced annual physical examinations — will be done this year by — wait for it — a video call!

Jesus Christ in a wheelchair! How can that be anything but a sham? No stethoscope can go through a phone. Nobody does anything anymore. And the next time I’m in the Emergency Room, considering how many men I’ve met who claimed to be Jesus Christ but suffered various maladies other than mental illness, this time I probably will see Jesus Christ in a wheelchair.

Look. I can’t tell if I have prostate problems or not. How the heck am I supposed to do the finger exam? I can’t do it. PCPs don’t do it anymore. They don’t do much of anything. Just go into the exam room, sit on a chair, and wait. Don’t worry. It’s your way of telling the quack that you’re under no illusion that they give a rat fart about you, so you ain’t sitting on no fucking exam table. And before the quack even comes in, you get your vital signs taken by some underpaid and undertrained assistant who isn’t even a nurse. In fact, your quack probably won’t be a doctor at all. Most likely, it’ll be a nurse practitioner. That make you feel warm and fuzzy? Of course not, but it is a grave insult to me, a slap in the face with a sap glove. It’s unacceptable, and it’s bullshit. People are dying because of these pissy-ass doctors going “elite”: they will be your doctor for a fee. One that no insurance will ever cover. My doc wanted $2,000 a year just to keep me on as his patient. I should have reported the pukepot for the inappropriate touching he did while trying to get me to sign up. Fucker.

I don’t know what to do. I have more things wrong with me than anyone can fix. It won’t stop me trying to get care, though. Because now, I’m pissed. Now, I fight. Nobody tells me to do a health assessment over a video call. Nobody, because I’m not doing it and if I get any flak, I’ll have my full vocabulary of filthy words locked and loaded.

Because the ugly truth is, my blood pressure is up for the first time in almost 20 years. I know the arteriosclerosis and atherosclerosis are getting worse. This week I slashed my arm just to see how thick my blood was. I do take blood thinners, and in the absence of medical care, I had to see how fast the bleeding stopped. I cleaned the instruments with alcohol, washed the area to be tested, then doused it with rubbing alcohol and used cotton balls to swab the area and then I let it air dry. I used a sharp, fresh-stoned blade. It hurt a little, but fuck it. I’m so used to pain I doubt that the most sadistic torture specialist in the world could make anything but cuss words come out of my mouth. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting out even a groan. But I may tell him, “Fuck you. You got nothing on my father.“

The wound bled a lot. Reassured, I treated it as I was trained and moved on. If I have to check all the boxes myself, I’m going to send a bill to the insurance company. Just for yuks, even though I’ll be the only one laughing. They’ll ask me to go to the Emergency Room to get a psych evaluation. While I’m there I’ll meet Jesus Christ in a wheelchair, so naturally, I ain’t going. I haven’t been in a psych ward for 19 years, and that was because of suicide attempts. I wasn’t a psycho.

Actually I probably wouldn’t bat an eye at Jesus Christ in a wheelchair. I’ve seen worse things. But now, if I saw Jesus Christ on an electric Razor scooter, powering down the sidewalk, that could do it. I’d probably freak out.

I have much to do and little time to do it in. I refuse to die in 2024. Next year is okay. Not this one.

Come to think of it, maybe a trip to the ER ain’t such a bad idea after all. I’d see a real doc, and at the same time face my fear of meeting Jesus Christ in a wheelchair. Crutches ain’t so bad, I’ve seen that before. But a wheelchair would leave me open to temptation to say things not in keeping with my nature. Like “Rise, and walk! Your faith has healed you.”

This place…it’s a madhouse. Do people even try to get doctorates anymore, or are they taking Fellatio and Cunnilingus 101? The practical exams must be excruciating for professors to grade. But. It sure does beat basket weaving.