Home Health Care

My neighbor is having medical problems. He retired two years ago. He is collecting a magnificent pension, supplemented by his savings and private investments. He also has hidden sources of income: his children are indebted to him. He squeezes them, but that is no business of mine. But that was two years ago, when he retired. He threw a party where he served screw top wine, bottom feeder beer, and bulk chips from the Chinese variety store. The steak and lobster were for later, for himself. He bragged about his travel plans to Cuba and showed a brochure of his new car which he was picking up after he got back from Havana. But that was two years ago; now he is home, and sick. But I, Fenris Badwulf, I care. I went by, good neighbor like, to provide the home health care your confiscated income pays for, but the socialists do not provide. I care ...

My neighbor is older than me. Older enough to remember when doctors made house calls. He could use a house call. He worked hard to make sure that the health care system was expanded to provide services for imported never workers, serial criminals, and dullards whose golden traits were consistent voting for more benefits. My neighbor earned his great pension working as a hander out of benefits for never workers. House calls by doctors were a manifestation of white racism; my neighbor worked hard to get that to stop. Now, his life is stopping. Kinda ironic, I thought.

He had given me a copy of his house key some time ago. And instructed me to come by if I did not receive a daily 'All is good' email from him. I got no email from him yesterday; and for the two days previous, he was complaining about 'not feeling well'. I care. I went by. I was providing the health care that the state had failed to provide.

Always check the air for a bad smell before you check on someone who has not checked in. There was mail in his mail box. I sniffed the air as I put on my gloves. Then I opened the door.

No, the neighbor was not dead. He was in the toilet, groaning. I made him a cup of tea. I was half finished my cup when he finally got out. He apologized, had a pinched look to his face. A faint sheen of sweat. It was difficult for him to focus and he kept squinting.

I finished my tea and started another cup. The neighbor was distracted. Was he having a bad reaction to medication? A stroke? Just going bat shit crazy from cabin fever? I am not a doctor. I just pay for universal health care that is not universally applied. Too bad the neighbor was not a member of an oppressed group. Instead, he was merely a member of the generation of self aggrandizing baby boomers that had racked up state debt, bloated the bureaucracy, and flooded the country with shiftless never workers. I looked at him and used pop psychology to solve the problem of his ailment. I petitioned the subconscious: what was wrong with this guy? Why was he struggling in the toilet? Why was he dazed, confused, and squinting? What was the origin of his sweats, his squinting vision? Of course, the answer popped into my head: this man needed prunes.

Of all the fruits and vegetables, prunes have caused more wars and prison riots. Without relief, inmates trapped in a roughage challenged diet soon turn to murder and riot. When irregularity strikes, madness soon follows. The warlike barbarians that burnt and sacked the Roman Empire were only made peaceful when they overran the areas of Europe where the prune was found. The Vikings, being without a steady source of prunes, descended upon Europe. One is never wise to underestimate the power of the peace of mind and tranquil spirit that comes from the contentment that is the gift of prunes.

Those boomers, they need prunes. Not all of them are getting their quota, though. They are developing that pinched look. The sheen of sweat. The squint that comes from never being able to focus. The subtle feeling of impending doom. The certainty that there is a demon living in the guts, waiting to hatch, and crawl through the liver and heart to bust out the ribs. Our failed health care system does not address this crisis. It speaks to hiring of incompetents, of providing spicy food in hospitals, and the provision of mutilation. Bah. I care. My neighbor is lucky to have Fenris Badwulf for a neighbor. Do you care? Do you make gifts of prunes to the damned generation of baby boomers? Or do you watch them descend into misery and a slow horrible death?

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.