The First Major Bump in Road Guera 2009

Remember my grand plan to be responsible and properly maintain my limper equipment? Well, so much for that idea, because, as I discovered yesterday, the wheelchair tinkerer now requires a fucking prescription for even the most basic repairs. I can no longer just send him a list and request assorted services, like brake adjustment and spoke tightening and seatbelt installation and armrest pad replacement. No, now I must have a doctor determine that my chair does, in fact, need the requested work. Because I, with my simpleton's mind, am incapable of knowing that loose spokes are dangerous.

For fuck's sake.

Now, if I want to maintain my chair, I have to first pay out the ass for a doctor to tell me that my chair needs maintenance. And I can't go to just any old general practitioner; nay, I have to visit an orthopedic specialist, because, apparently, his degree imbues him with super sekrit ocular powers far above my meager ability to see the loose spokes, sagging sling, and leprous arm padding. This specialist charges three hundred dollars for a consultation, to boot. So, in order to get my chair fixed, I have to have a doctor tell me that I need to have my chair fixed. He will charge me a third of my income to tell me what I already know.

The best part is that in order to see this shaman, I would have to pay fifty dollars each way in cab fare because the bus doesn't travel to his office complex.

So, to recap:

Cab ride to doctor's office and back: $100

Doctor's fee: $300

My estimated share of maintenance costs: $200

Service fee for the home visit by the tinkerer: $75

Total cost before the inevitable unpleasant surprise: $675

I don't begrudge the service fee or maintenance costs because you have to pay for service, but I'm pissed beyond measure at this latest hurdle to my already fragile independence, and I've had it up to here with the paternalistic, there-there head-patting that permeates the medical establishment. I'm crippled, not retarded, and yes, Virginia, there is a difference, one any doctor worth his degree should understand. I might need a doctor's input when it comes to the mysterious, internal vagaries of my body, but I don't need a goddamned doctor to tell me my chair needs service. I sit in it every day, and I know damn well what it needs and when it needs it. I don't need permission. I need service.

So, the maintenance is on hold indefinitely. I'll be looking like a deranged underpass hobo a little longer, and when forced neglect becomes catastrophe, I can rest assured that some imbecile in the local emergency room will wag his finger and cluck, "You should've taken better care of your equipment, and this might not've happened."

I tried, asshole, but no one would give me permission.


In lighter news, I thoroughly enjoyed The Mentalist last night. It's utter pap, and the leaps Jane often makes still defy human reason, but the cast has fabulous chemistry. Rigsby is adorable, and I want to hug and squish him, and Van Pelt reminds me of Hermione Granger in her desire to impress and fit in with the rest of the team. Lisbon is growing on me. I'm still ambivalent about Jane. He's a grating, cocky narcissist who somehow pulls people into the orbit of his charismatic charm. He's a likeable douchebag who's wonderfully human in his flaws even if his strengths are so obviously manufactured for the world of television as to be rendered incredible in the real world. It's hard not to root for a guy tracking the killer of his wife and daughter, even if said guy is so full of himself that it's a wonder he doesn't leak from his own orifices. Hey, there's a House/Mentalist crossover, there is.

( Red John Prediction )