deathtoyourmom

so i was again denied my medication.

i went in after work and the pharmacist said my cardiologist had called and said i had two refills, but not until i went in for an office visit.

i asked the asshole behind the counter why exactly he did not call me at work to tell me this, as i could have spoken to the cardiologist at a time when i could actually reach him.

he said it wasn't his responsibility.

i almost lept over the counter and said, "look, asshole, i haven't taken this shit in three days now. i FEEL horrible. just give it to me and i'll call him."

he said it wasn't his problem and went back to putting shit away, even as i was practically yelling at him to help me out.

i again felt like a fucking crack addict needing one more fix.

yeah, i need a fix. i need a fix really bad. i need my heart to beat normally. i need to be able to breathe normally. i need to sleep at night. fuck me for being just another addict to the conglomorate of pharmaceuticals.

++++

so i'm gonna have to call my cardiologist in florida tomorrow. he probably found out that i now have insurance. he's gonna make me schedule a stress test and another tilt-table test, which means two full days in the hospital, feeling like complete shit, strapped to a monitor, getting shit from nurses. the results are going to be the same: i have MVP, i have high blood pressure, i need to take medication. it's just another excuse to squeeze out another $5,000 in tests that i don't really need.

i hate doctors. all doctors.
i can't believe i ever wanted to be one.

the last time i went to see a doctor, she told me i had really lousy genes as she inserted a needle in my arm. i shrieked. i hate injections, IV's, transfusions. then she scolded me and said, "what the hell is your problem? you have how many piercings? i'm surprised you're not a heroin addict, that you're not enjoying this." had i not passed out, i would have punched her in the face and left.

fuck me for having lousy genes. i wasn't meant to live. neither was my father. when he was being birthed, he almost choked on his own umbilical chord. it was tied around his neck like a noose and the doctors cut it off of him while still in the womb. i, on the other hand, had such a high percentage of bile running through my system, i nearly poisoned myself. i didn't leave the hospital for a month. i was a sad little lump of flesh and arms in an incubator; there are pictures of me in this glass case, being nearly a month old, pale, still and unhappy.

it's very difficult to kill a blanco. granted, we are all set up to be time-bombs with our volatile genes, but nearly impossible to kill. my aunt finally died after four consecutive heart attacks; she had survived having six previous attacks, full-blown diabetes and multiple sclerosis. she went in for an unneccessary surgery and had the four attacks as a result of a complication. my grandmother beat cancer three times. my grandfather has survived two heart attacks and a stroke. my father had a heart attack at 42, and lymphoma at 48 and he is still kicking ass and taking names. my mother and her sisters all had breast cancer and recovered without incident. i've been declared dead on the operating table at least twice and have come back to wreak the havok that is rightfully mine. blancos are fucking difficult to conceive, but once begotten, we are doubly difficult to kill. we live to be at least 102. the only one who died prematurely, died from his own hand. but he wasn't blood, he wasn't one of us and thus he was weak.

i keep thinking about this notion of invulnerability as my chest grows tighter and my hands continue to shake. i will not let these assholes control me. i will make the phonecalls, i will, however opposed to it as i am, go through with the onslaught. there are too many people who depend on me, i can't fuck them over by sabotaging my health over pride.