Well, here I am.
It got done.

The piece that made me robotic – my spine – has been compromised. Well, more than that. It’s gone.

I have one more date to add to my calendar – Oct 15.
It’ll be added to the day Dad died, the day it went in, and now the day it went out.

The infection wouldn’t fade.

Forgive the typing.
I’m reaching across a bed platform, and it’s not comfortable. I’m afraid to move it forward cause it’ll become unplugged. That means I’ll lose power to the phone too.

So, this isn’t the ideal situation.

Yes.
It hurts. It hurts a lot, but I’m not on the narcotics.
I’m doing what I can to regain some sort of control. I’m not going to have access to narcotics for all my life, and I don’t want to be addicted. So if I can handle it, I can.

Oddly, I don’t miss it. At least I don’t think my body realizes the 37-year-old bar is gone. It’s just adjusting, I think. Once it realizes it, life might be a little different. The brain will have an ‘oh shit’ moment. Then, the pain and mental kickback will happen. But right now, I’m in that area of precious disbelief.

No…. They didn’t let me keep a piece.
I really tried. I wanted a piece of my spine. But there was something about biohazards, and I broke two of his drill bits.

Still… I really wanted a piece of it. After all, it’s part of me. I paid for it. Mentally. Physically. I sacrificed my future.

Denied,

I feel like I deserve something for all these shots and horrible sleeping. I think the people here are good. They’re trying but it’s just crap.

I don’t want shots.
I don’t want to be addicted.
I don’t want to be belittled.

But there’s a huge difference between want and need.
Do I really need the shots?

Question –
When did Americans aspire to be poor?

If I had a full-time job and good insurance at 80/20, I would be broke. I’d be in debt.

Multiple doctors, weekly wound-care visits, mailed medical supplies, missed work, and two operations.

Removing the rod was just one.
Now plastic surgery has to come on to finish me because I’m ‘tricky.’ They’ll have to get creative with my muscles to cover the opening.

Not looking forward to that. ANOTHER operation with my body stuffed with forever chemicals.

I’m guessing I’ll be in the hospital for at least two weeks, if not longer.

How could someone afford to be middle class?
Why not just curl up into the bosom of the nanny state?

It’s not worth it, really.
Working hard doesn’t pay student loans. It doesn’t get a house. It doesn’t help you raise a child.

Honestly, why bother?
Why bother trying?

The best I can do is become a fascinating case study for the next generation.

It’s sad,