Counting Hemoglobin Levels

I wake up at 4:00.

My eyes just open. Just like that. I look at my laptop, all black and off in the dark. I look at the clock on the microwave, now 4:02. I slide from under the sheets and turn on my laptop. I make a fresh carafe of coffee and get online. I pump out some emails. I catch up, keep up, and print up emails. There are amazingly a lot to go though and a lot to do. But I love it. What else would I be doing at 4:30 in the morning? Emailing and blogging.

I went downstairs for breakfast and lunch. The bad thing is...and I don't know if you've ever had it happen to you...but I'm lactose intolerant. Still I put low fat milk in my coffee. Well, that shit gives me the most bloodcurdling gas you can imagine. So, I walk down the hall and ring for the elevator and just before the elevator arrives I blow a mean one out the ol' gasket. I check the inside of the elevator and after finding it empty, I slip in, with an obvious vapor trail following me into the elevator.

Well, would you happen to guess, it stops on the floor under mine, and in walks a man, also heading downstairs for breakfast. I'll call him Mr. A. As the elevator continues down, Mr. A gives me a dirty look. I continue to stare ahead at the door. The elevator stops again and Mr. B steps in. As the elevator descends Mr. B looks about while Mr. A tries to look innocent, and I'm in the corner choking down a laugh. I want to stick my fist in my mouth, I'm ready to roar.

We all leave the elevator with Mr. B leading the way. We get on line in the cafeteria in the same order and get breakfast and lunch bags. I'm the last, and I get my shit and split. On reaching the elevator, I barely get in. Upon entering I find Mr. A in the corner. He presses the door open button before it can close and walks off the elevator. Wow. The power of the fart.

It is soon time to leave for WECare. I'm not looking forward to this mental time trap. I've been here before so there are little surprises. I get to Vandam street from the Way. I get to the vestibule and sign in for the seventh floor of a very corporate looking building. This is the clean, pretty face of the Mines Of Moria. This is exactly like Duffield Street, except they have more chairs and keep things moving slightly faster, so there are fewer people waiting to see someone.

Only slightly faster. Like, when I walk into their high-tech looking waiting area and go up to the reception desk. Three women are there, chatting and laughing and not looking up. I'm standing right there in front of them, I am an imposing presence and yet they continue to ignore me. I practice patience, I really do. After over five minutes, one of these bitches looks up and asks: "May I help you?" I show her my appointment letter: I have an appointment. She takes the letter, date stamps it and looks up: "Have a seat."

A ten minute wait for a one minute job. Can you believe that?? I wanted to go back there and smack a new flavor in her mouth. Send her fucking teeth flying. That's how these people are here. You are here to serve them, not the other way around. I notice though, after sitting down, those who came up to the desk, looking like wanted felons were taken care of right away. These bitches are scared of getting assaulted after all.

My name is called in less time than I could have expected. A woman named Helga, led me to a faraway cubicle in a rat's maze of cubicles. We sit down and she begins to explain to me the process of what this meeting is about and what is to be expected of me, IN A HEAVY SLAVIC ACCENT. I know she was trying to pronounce her words clearly, but FUCK ME! I studied every word that she was saying to me, trying to absorb the flavor of what the fuck she was talking about. The long and short of it was that I was so fucked up physically due to my Congestive Heart Failure that they were going to keep me on my current schedule and weekly exams. No Job Farm for me.

I sat back in my chair. How many times are you happy that your heart liver, kidneys, pancreas AND lungs are busted down and their readings are close to failure. It scares the shit out of doctors that are unfamiliar with my medical history. Fuck, it scared the shit out of me when they told me seven years ago that I had five years to live. I've out lasted that prognosis, and my doctor now says that I'm in pretty reasonable health. Not prime, physical health, but good health. I've got many more years to go before shit starts falling off.

But no job farm for the hobo. That's as good as it gets. Just the monthly check in to see if I'm dead yet. I'm not lying. The day that I miss one of these meetings is the day that they'll cut my benefits because who wants to be sending money to a dead man? Well, I left so fucked up after my meeting with Helga that I got on the wrong train in the Way and ended up in Queens before I figured out what the fuck was going on. I reversed trains, got off at 42nd street Bryant Park, and walked underground to the 7 train to Times Square, 42nd Street. From there, I caught a number 3 train. It was one grueling trip home.

I went shopping for some quick comfort food, and then hit the homestead. This was it. I was in for the night, hanging out on the web.

For some reason, even though WECare gave me another dumb, fucking appointment next week, I feel vindicated and freed from another axe fall. But like I said about being caught in the machine. The tired gears are still grinding. I have my Fair Hearing in Six days.

Six days from now...before my benefits go poof.

It's not over yet.

Hb