So Trumpcare is making its way through the government hoops and checkpoints that corporate interests bills take to get through various branches of government to become law.

The people in government whose job it is to figure out how much a bill would cost haven't had time to analyze the bill, naturally. It's being rammed through as hard as possible to try to get passage before what is indubitably going to end up to be a insurance company blowjob surfaces. They want this passed and they want it passed right now, before people twig on.

The grassroots objection to Obamacare is centered on the idea that, because of the nature of insurance, costs go up as costs go up. If there is flooding in one part of the country, your house insurance rates go up - not because you're a greater risk, but because the company had to pay out money to settle claims and needs more money to stay afloat.

The same is true if they do risky investments in the stock market to get more CEO profit, and those tank. Pay up, sucker.

The Republicans had eight years to come up with a better plan than Obamacare, which they themselves gutted, and which itself is based on Mitt Romney's right wing plan in Massachussetts

To literally NOBODY's surprise, the plan they eventually came up with allowed insurance companies to raise rates arbitrarily, kick people off the roster deemed "too expensive", deny any pre-existing conditions (which include being raped) and generally act in ways that are classically ILLEGAL when dealing with insurance.

I was sitting in a movie theater, my wife telling me that under TrumpCare, she'd be denied coverage, after all - alcoholism, suicide attempt and depression are "pre-existing conditions" too bad, no insurance for you, you will possibly cost the system money - we just want people who just pay in. And this of course has hamstrung any attempts I've had in recent months trying to act in various suicide prevention forums to encourage people who are literally staring at a noose to get to the ER - because most of the time all they'll end up with is a five thousand dollar bill they can't afford, and a scarlet A branded on their permanent record. While musing on these two horrible facts, the state of Georgia put up a PSA talking about how we needed to talk about mental illness, see the signs, and encourage people to get help. Really? And what, pray tell, is exactly going to be "in it" for anyone involved?

Who exactly are these people who so desperately want to preserve corporate profit, when groups like Mad As Hell Doctors have crunched the numbers and figured out that we could pay for every medical procedure for every man woman and child in this country for LESS than we're ALREADY PAYING OUT IN TAX RIGHT NOW if we got rid of the horribly inefficient, price gouging mess that insurance companies have overlaid on the American people? A hint comes from a particularly obnoxious and fantastically special asshole by the name of Mo Brooks, an Alabama congressman who states that people who live "good lives" have no pre-existing conditions. Using the classic "it's clearly your fault" line that conservatives love so much, they ignore the fact that, well, for example Jimmy Kimmel's son was born with a heart condition. I realize that Brooks' probable response (in private) would involve the use of the words "Hollywood", "deviant" and "deserved" because the child dared to be born to a la-la land reprobate, right?

Mind you, these are the same people born into rich families and who inherit generations of wealth who insist that everyone gets that way because they pull themselves up by their own bootstraps.

And who have the kind of health care plan, in Congress, that basically allows them to reroute any medical bills they incur to the taxpayer.

It's Sunday morning with the saints and sinners, assorted families large and small, attending Mass at The Sacred Heart Chapel of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, located across one parking lot and a single lane street from my home. I find comfort in the comings and goings of the church, and plan to start attending once I feel capable of the up and down sitting, standing and kneeling I know from being raised Roman Catholic. I have several songs stuck in my head, you all know how that is, one being...Let all the heavens and earth rejoice and sing on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day, in the morning...

Sorry about that. Don't think of red geraniums to forget that song. I've tried; it doesn't work although I went so far as to buy two red geraniums, even planted them in concrete containers at the front corners of our property where in the past I planted other flowers mainly for the enjoyment of people walking past, my neighbors to the left or right, depending on your point of view, my neighbors across the street and all the churchgoers. I am merely the gardener according to the gospel of geraniums or according to my sons and the happy girlfriend who notice these things I do and refrain from doing, as if I'm some wayward teenager.

The other song fragment I have stuck in my head is...The green grass grows all around, all around, and the green grass grows all around...which I often sing aloud right after the Christmas one even though it's Spring. I guess my brain is still moving back and forth in wonder about still functioning, albeit differently, since my four hospital stays which started back before Christmas. The doctors all say I wasn't THAT oxygen deprived, but it's not their brains behaving strangely. Again, I apologize for a song about grass but offer the solution I tried which was to buy an enormous Boston Fern and hang it in my parlor. This works, but only as I enter the room because the fern is rather dramatic and I hope I don't kill it.

I'm not even dressed for the day and the doorbell rings. Peeking through a cracked stain glass window my husband made one Christmas for me, toiling away in pipe smoke and obscurity in the old basement with unsafe steps, boxes and more boxes of now vintage canning jars which the three watchers enjoy drinking from, skeptical of my stories that once upon a time I actually grew cucumbers to make pickles, tomatoes to make sauce and blackberries to make jam. A package is cheerfully delivered by Amazon Prime, a frequent occurrence at this address. My son appears from thin air and holds the box with joy, a new graphics card, and my head is filled with computer words like compatible, motherboard, and some number of gigabytes.

Unfortunately, it's only a brief respite from songs stuck in my head...Moon River, wider than a mile, I'm crossing you in style, one day...good thing I have three hanging baskets of Mille Fleurs, two orange and one pink at both sides of the house and one underneath a tall blue spruce planted fifty years ago by my youngest stepdaughter, a seedling from school. It's been raining almost every day but when the winds come hanging baskets dry out and need attention from me, the resident and constant gardener who had no say in a Memorial Butterfly Garden planned by my husband's daughters at his former place of work, an Environmental Education Center five minutes drive from here. Good thing I had yet another song up my sleeve...Oh, to live on Sugar Mountain, with the barkers and the colored balloons...

My sons, daughter and I were invited back in mid-December to set aside the date with no mention of other guests, refreshments or a family luncheon afterwards the details of which I found out from several strange phone calls from his schizophrenic sister in New Jersey and his confused sister in California who kept asking to speak with her brother, seemingly unaware he was dead and going on about "a workshop we were all attending", which I finally put two and two together, her being the same age her mother and my husband both were diagnosed with Alzheimer's. I relayed my concern as well as a brief account of my health status to the daughters.

There was a terse reply to which I responded by boxing up all things they had requested three days after his death, ...Just a box of rain, wind and water, believe it if you need it, If not then pass it on... with books, "things from before YOU were part of the picture", all the cards and letters they sent him after the divorce as well as things he wrote or drew, old photographs, the ex-wife's divorce demands, as much as I had the energy for over the course of two days. My son and his helpful girlfriend carried eight heavy boxes or maybe it was ten, leaving them the day before at the EEC. Doing this was healing, exhausting, amusing and sad. I hand wrote a letter wishing them all deep peace ...Peace like a river ran through the city, we were starry-eyed, we were satisfied... and hope that they would finally know how much they were loved. I got no feedback for weeks until one strained sentence arrived in an email that made me glad I'd decided not to attend because even when my husband was alive, his side of the family never accepted me.

We are having a sun day here in the Pacific Northwest and it makes us all insane, as the vitamin D floods our starved systems. Clinic may be poorly attended tomorrow as everyone forgets after this sort of sun day. I took a long walk with a friend this morning, looking for baby ducks. We found babies, but it was Canada Geese, very protective of nine downy goslings. They are still in the extreme fluff stage. The parents stood and swam watch, necks coiled even at mallards who got too close.

Our town usually has sun consistently starting at July 4th, so the rare weekend sunny glorious day is amazing. The sailboats are out racing and everyone wanders outside staring at the sky that is not grey.

I vote that Congress have medicaid coverage for life, because I feel sick at what they are doing. Let them try getting services....

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