“You have no idea what it’s like to be called into a sterile conference room with a hospital administrator you’ve never met before and be told that your mother’s insurance policy will only pay for 30 days in ICU. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be advised that you need to “make some decisions,” like whether your mother should be released “HTD” which is hospital parlance for “home to die,” or if you want to pay out of pocket to keep her in the ICU another week. And when you ask how much that would cost you are given a number so impossibly large that you realize there really are no decisions to make. The decision has been made for you. “Living will” or no, it doesn’t matter. The bank account and the insurance policy have trumped any legal document.
If this isn’t a “death panel” I don’t know what is.
So don’t talk to me about “death panels” you heartless, cruel, greedy sons of bitches, who are only too happy to keep the profits rolling in to the big insurance companies while you spout your mealy-mouthed bumper sticker slogans about the evils of socialism. You don’t even know what socialism is. You don’t know what government healthcare is. You have no fucking clue about anything except that you lost the last election and you’re pissed off."
-Southern Beale (via AMCJ)
If we are told to be angry, then this is real anger. Bleeding anger. It is never triggered nor harnessed; it is constant and inexhaustable. It is not manufactured, fabricated, or parlayed for theater. It serves no agenda. It is unswayed by unruly mobs and will never manifest itself into sign or slogan. It offers no cathartic release or epiphanic transcension to a "better place." It is anti-anger. And by its hell-born existence it makes a mockery of the noise and rancor that accompany the images of fauxrage on our televisions.
Step into the rain: secondrain.blogspot.com