A plan number,

A Plan Number!


—Inspired by a Shakespearean play I saw on black and white TV when I was a kid

The pharmacy that fills my prescriptions called and needed my Oregon Health Plan (OHP) number. So I pawed through my wallet and found nothing. I do have Medicaid (What happened to Medicare?). I was supposed to have died last year, but I didn’t. So the government took away my Medicare benefits for still being alive. (When I was in Hospice back in 2017, I had a second MRI of the area my biopsy came from in 2016. It didn’t show any new tumors, so I must be cured. DUH!!!)

Nurses and others at the Hospice got on my case for wanting to die. They even called the EMTs and Police on me for trying to kill myself by refusing food or liquids. Next stop: Psych Ward. I passed the Mini-Mental and told the cop that it was MY RIGHT to refuse food or drink. After that I found a room in the place where I now live.

Looking at the MRI of the area my biopsy came from a year later says nothing about metastases, especially the micro-metastases that can’t be seen by the human eye. My GP respects my approach to dying, and now that pain and anemia from the cancer is becoming more and more apparent, I may be able to get back on Medicare, as if nothing had happened, if I want.

I found my OHP number. Maybe I should have it tattooed on my arm, along with DO NOT RESUSCITATE on my chest. Dr. Jung has the right idea.

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