The Age of Medicare
This past year, I heeded warning signs that informed me I needed to sign up for Medicare by age 65. At first, I had no idea what this meant. I read through the material I received, reflected on what I had learned from my mother as she shepherded her mother and homecare clients through the process, then reflected on what I learned joining with my brothers to help her navigate the system for herself. I was clueless. I didn’t get it. I bailed on a community Medicare presentation at the local library because I thought it was a for-profit scam. As my deadline approached, I decided to call the number on the material I received from the “scam” business. I immediately connected with a young woman who kindly helped me navigate the system. I am now enrolled in Medicare.
I appreciate that I received help to navigate the transition from my former health insurance to Medicare. What now? What does it all mean? I’m not sure. I guess I am sixty-five and as “on my own” when it comes to healthcare as I’ve always been. I did not have kids, and though I have been a coach all of my life, working with many, many youth and young adults, there is no one who is checking in with me. Healthcare shouldn’t be a lonely mystery of how to understand my advancing years. I always thought that aging would be an experience of joining and communicating with those who come after me learning more about themselves as they help me advance. That is what I learned, helping those who went before me. Except, it doesn't seem to be what is happening in my case. I have pondered this phenomenon from all possible angles. I can see a missing element in our healthcare — shouldn’t I be able to select the box of ending this life if that is what I want?
I believe in parallel universes. When I research quantum immortality, I grasp that I have died many times over, and at some point, my “final” death will occur. Yes, I died as an infant when I was used for sexual purposes; yes, I died as a teenager when I was targeted for more advanced sexual purposes; yes, I died each time I tried to take my own life; yes I died when I was in a fatal motorcycle accident; yes I died every time I tried to reach out and speak of what I had experienced and no one could hear me. Now I’m sixty-five and healthcare won’t change any of this. Fortunately, parallel universes are a gateway to the unknown, to places where healthcare are unimportant.