The 35th Precinct

The wheelchair tinkerer came yesterday and pimped my ride fixed my chair. New seat back, new cushion, and new arms. I feel so pretty! No more Hobocrip. I hadn't realized how badly I was slouching until I sat in my new seat. I grew three inches. It's so much better, and in truth, it's been a boon to my confidence to know that I don't look like a panhandling con artist and that I'm not going to fall through the seat back and tumble ass over teakettle down a steep embankment.

The refurbishing cost $574, and unless Medicare pitches a fit and tries to claim the cushion is a luxury-a likely scenario, the more I consider it-I'll be responsible for $107. It's a bite, but not as agonizing as I'd feared.

Medicare chaps my ass, and I'm not just being figurative. I don't understand how they can claim that is cushion is a luxury for someone who has no choice but to sit 16+ hours a day in the same position. The lack of movement and blood flow makes the buttocks susceptible to tissue breakdown, which, if left untreated, can lead to lesions, festering bedsores, and, in severe cases, gangrene and death. It's ugly, nasty, hideously painful, and expensive as hell.

Let's break it down:

Cushion that prevents tissue breakdown: $474

Hospital stay that tissues breakdown often warrants, including antibiotics, excising of necrotized flesh, constant dressing changes, and rehab: $20K

But the blob of gel costs too much. Right.

Then again, these are the boobs that have classified things like oxygen, insulin, and wheelchairs as "luxury items" according to Medicaid in the state of Tennessee.

Because no one needs to breathe, control their blood sugar, or get out of bed and contribute to the world around them. That's frivolity.

Asshats.

I called the wheelchair tinkerers, and they will be here Wednesday morning to see what ails my jalopy and if she can be cured. I have no doubt that what I perceive to be a niggling, minor defect will turn out to be a Herculean defect, requiring not just repair, but a new chariot. If that happens, I foresee much duct tape in my future because I refuse to wrangle with Medicare over whether or not I can "make do" with the flimsy, aluminum, hospital-issue wheelchair. I can't, and anybody who has ridden in one for more than a jaunt to the hospital parking lot knows why.

Aluminum chairs were not made for long-term use. They are not sturdy, and sitting on the thin vinyl seat for more than ten minutes is an invitation to gluttial woe. They lead to pressure sores on the bum and elbows and forearms, and poor lumbar posture. The tinpot frame would be warped beyond salvation by the first Taltran employee to wield his tiedowns. I need the titanium frame, padded back and gel-cushioned seat that a heavy utility chair offers. I have needed it since my first chair at five years old. Medicare knows this.

And yet, every time I go to buy a new wheelchair, the screaming bitchfight and pissing contest begins. The doctor writes his prescription for the chair. I get measured for the chair, and the company submits the requisite forms to Medicare. Medicare sees the $3000 price tag and counters with a letter refusing to cover "luxuries" like swing-away foot rests for easy standing and transferring or gel cushions. They suggest a "more economical" aluminum model. The doctor girds his loins and dons his nastypants on my behalf, and after a fierce and spoogy wang-waving contest, the government relents, and I get permission to get through life as best I can until the next round.

Just once, I'd like to strap one of these pompous lawmakers into a wheelchair with no cushion and bounce him around the cratered city sidewalks for sixteen hours in the sweltering heat. I bet gel cushions would be a federal mandate faster than George W. Bush could hide his Dick Cheney porn collection. Sanctimonious asshats.

Maybe that should be Tom DeLay's punishment.

( The Only Trick-or-Treating I'll Ever Do )