You Got To Speak Up

Dena was on the phone with a Fidelity Investments account representative trying to get the address corrected. After stealing a quick smooch on the cheek I could hear that the voice was male. Quickly, I scribbled a list of other key questions to ask him, and slid them onto the desk in front of her:

- Is he Jewish?
- Does he eat meat?
- Has he been, or does he plan to be, a sailor?
- Does he believe in global warming?
- How tall is he in sneakers?

Just as I laid them down, she starts saying "Thank you very much, yes, you've answered all my questions..."

"Nooooo!" I mouthed in a frantic whisper, gesturing wildly toward the paper.

Then she hung up.

Now I'm paranoid about her next routine visit to the doctor. In fact, I'm paranoid about all the previous ones too. If she won't ask simple questions when I'm there to practically force them in her face, what dread disease information might she be failing to obtain from her physicals? Doctors don't just come out and TELL you that you have rickets or scurvy or polio. That's how they make the money, by letting you rot inside until you're too weak to move and got no choice but to pay for the pills. You have to make lists, and you got to ask, UP FRONT. Big Medicine loves to play the game and mess with our heads. It's a waiting game, them versus us. And I play to win. I ain't standing by and letting them smile at Dena and tell her a mouthful of nothing. I don't take no bull. Watch out, doc. The Mac train's coming.