Wednesday morning, December 12, 2007
My computer just reminded me that I have an appointment with my cardiologist Friday afternoon at 2:00, which at first glance is no big deal, especially when compared to having my prostate checked; however, this woman is my HEART doctor and it has “sick sinus syndrome,” which requires that I have a pacemaker. Now, a pacemaker is no big deal—really!—until it gets to be five years old (which mine is and then some), which is when the battery begins to run out of energy (possibly!). Of course, this means that I have to have it checked often, like every month, to be sure it is in “Copper Top” condition (this was done last night!). The problem is this: no one ever tells me whether the battery is “full of energy,” “half-way full,” or “almost dead”. Since I am yet alive, I can only assume that it has at least enough energy for the moment!
Getting this pacemaker checked is quite high tech; I call somewhere in Connecticut or New York and speak to someone who does not speak true English (Southern!) and tell them that it is time for my pacemaker check. The rest is very routine: I place the telephone receiver onto a device that transmits an EKG from electrodes that are attached to my wrists to Connecticut or New York. This goes on for 40 seconds, and then I place a magnet over my pacemaker for another 40 seconds, which by the way shuts it off so they can determine how much energy is left in the battery (they NEVER tell me, however!), while I hope it comes back on (of course, the only way I can tell for sure is that I continue breathing!). Finally, I repeat step #1, only to hear, “PERFECT! Call us if you need anything!” Now, that “perfect” does NOT mean that my pacemaker’s battery is perfectly filled with energy; it simply means that the tech received a legible EKG.
As you might imagine, this continues to go downhill. This tech passes the EKG along to some monitor tech in India or Afghanistan or Iran, who decides if a REAL doctor needs to see it. If so, then the strip is sent via fax or carrier pigeon or email to a REAL doctor in Uzbekistan or Istanbul or Iceland, who determines if MY cardiologist needs to be brought up to speed. Well, this works out very nice because I get to see her once a year, unless her office calls to cancel my appointment due to some emergency, which means that it will be at least 6 more months before I see her. Well this ain’t (Southern for is not) rocket science; the way I figure it, it is entirely possible that I could have been dead for 19 months before MY cardiologist ever found it out, unless she reads the daily obits and happens to recognize my name.
For those of you who know me, you have probably already figured out that I have casually mentioned this to her, only to learn that she hates the way this is done, too, but Medicare won’t pay for it to be done in her office, so she has no other choice. Well, heck, even though I am eligible for Medicare, I only have part A because we (my wife and I) have other insurance until she turns 65 (which ain’t long), so Medicare wasn’t paying my bill anyway, but that isn’t the point.
The point is this: if we aren’t careful, the government is going to be taking charge of the treatment of our other heart—the one that really matters—and when it does, we won’t like it anymore than I like the way my physical heart is treated now. You can rest assured of this: if (probably, when) the radical Muslim world takes charge of the USA, what we know as freedom of religion will no longer exist and someone from Iran or Istanbul or some place, will be dictating more than you and I desire.
Just a reminder that complacency ain’t a good idea!
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