That's not what the Death card means

Well, fuck me.
written 2015-10-21 14:56:46

It has not been a great week.

Last week, I went in for a physical. Generally speaking, I don't care for doctors, or the parade of bullshit that going to the doctor entails. My current doctor has an online site that you have to use if you want to schedule an appointment. Each of the last three times I tried to use it, they called me on the phone to schedule it.

At the physical, the doc tells me my blood pressure is high. Of course it is, doc. She bumps up my medication by a fraction, which means I need a fractional prescription, which I can add to my existing prescription. No big deal. Just another kink in what could have been a simple transaction.

Then my mom came to town. I recently asked her for some financial assistance, since I am (four months now?) unemployed, and Sallie Mae keeps asking for their monthly pound of flesh. She said she couldn't help me, which is a pity, but it's not her job to be responsible for my financial failings. (Actually, she cosigned my loans, so she literally is responsible for my financial failings. Which makes me feel super good, I tell ya.)

On her visit to PA, I took her to see our cousin and his new baby, and then our other cousin and her less new babies. It was basically a "you've made me a failure as a grandmother" tour. I cannot apologize enough, ma.

Later that week we had dinner, and then pie and cake for a family birthday. (Not mine. Forgetting my birthday is the new family tradition.) And it turns out a significant percentage of my family smokes weed, and my mom is tired of lying about it. I thought that was a good thing, though she's not willing to let my teenaged relations ask open questions about it or try it. Little does she know...

So this week, I get a job offer. First one in months! I say yes, they ask if that means I'm interested, I remember that this is a business of liars and the lying lies they tell, I say I really really want to work. It starts Thursday. It's in Wilmington. It could be worse, but it's still pretty fucking bad. But work is work. I'll take it.

I also have to have an uncomfortable call with the student loan people. See, I asked them if I could go on income-based repayment, because the rules for that are very sweet and supportive to the failed loan-taker. They said yes, but then they screwed up all the details so that not only can I not get any help for my private loans (I knew that) they treated each of my loans like a single debt, so I didn't get the help I needed, and the minimum payment I was offered by the federal government became 7x the minimum payment - one for each individual loan.

Fuck. Well, some light will dawn with this job. Right?

Except, the stress of all this shit is hovering around me like a vulture. And naturally, it strikes when I need it not to: right before this job. Sudden crippling back spasms, impairing my ability to walk or stand upright. It's impossible for me to imagine getting to Philly and then Wilmington - even on a train - with this pain and weakness.

So, I better go see the doctor again. HA HA HA. Actually, I lucked out, I got in to see a doctor. It went like this:

DOC: So, back spasms?

ME: Yeah, I wouldn't be in here complaining about it, but I really need to go to work tomorrow. I've been unemployed for months.

DOC: Cool. Try yoga, and call us back if you think you want to eventually get a physical therapist.

I could go on, but you get the notion. I ask about medication, and he gives me some bullshit about positivity and core strength. He also drops this pearl on me: "It's all connected. If you hate this job you're going to, find something you really love. Then the stress and the back pain will resolve itself." But for right now, no, you can't have any medication that will help you get a job you need to stay out of default. Sorry. Next.

If one more happily-employed, independently wealthy motherfucker could say this to me, that would be great. My unemployed, can't-stand-up, miserable ass loves hearing all about it.

So here I am, at home at 3 PM on a weekday, back hurts, might not be able to stand up tomorrow morning. And I'll find out at 6 AM when my alarm goes off for the 2.5 hour commute to Wilmington whether I get to do it or not. And I cannot believe that staggering to work in Delaware while my back periodically stops working... this is my preferred outcome.

--Philadelphia, PA, 2:48 PM, EDT, 10/21/15, "was it a millionaire / who said imagine no possessions"

amusing postscript: The loan company made me promise them a $150 payment for "good faith" when I asked for a couple of months of grace. This doctor visit cost me $25 to be told "you should stretch some". Being poor is expensive.

[ archives | front page ]