Sister of Perpetual Growth

Requirements: Pet the kitty.

Jeff Bezos, owner of Amazon and richest person in the world, has a net worth of $113.1 BILLION in 2018, according to Forbes. This man could singlehandedly END WORLD HUNGER for nearly FOUR YEARS. all on his own, with money he has access to right this moment.

 http://www.ctvnews.ca/health/death-after-34-hour-er-wait-was-preventable-judge-1.2144671

Brian Sinclair’s death was completely preventable, yet he waited 34 HOURS in the ER for treatment that would have taken 30 minutes to an hour at most.

(Brian Sinclair’s death, by the way? It’s a terrible tragedy… but the problem there was not that health care resources are spread too thin. It was racism. They saw a native man and assumed he was homeless and drunk, not in distress. As the study I cited above shows, racism is also a factor in US health care.)

So basically, you’re paying a lot more, at both the end-user and governmental levels… but you’re not actually getting a lot more.

Finally: You know what else Canada has that the US doesn’t? Wait time guarantees that require offering a faster alternative if they’re blown.

All those stories of Canadians coming to the US? Yeah, they’re basically made up. Even the highly shady right-wing think tank that Fuckface von Clownstick got the story from, trying to make the best possible case for privatization, only found that 1% of Canadian patients received health care abroad. One. percent. And that’s not “went to the US for health care,” that’s “received health care literally anywhere else for any reason, including just happening to be in another country when we got sick or injured.”

The actual numbers? Well, this study is old, but… out of a pool of 18 000 respondents, they found twenty who went to the US specifically for care.

Twenty. 0.11%.

They found that this data was consistent with Canadian payment records and US border region hospital data, so… yeah. It basically doesn’t happen. And when it does? Frequently that’s because there is an issue with the normal procedures in Canada… so the provincial government covers the cost of getting the patient to the US and treating them there.

‘Cause let me tell ya, as someone with a few chronic issues, if my choice is a 20 minute trip to the local hospital in bad traffic, where I’ll at least get coping treatment while I wait or an hour trip, plus border wait, to the States? Yeah, I’ll go local every time. The whole not having to shell out money thing is nice.

Wait times happen because the health system has a supply/demand mis-match, thus priority has to be given to some patients over others. Wait times based on medical need mean that people with less severe issues will wait longer.

This is unfair, says the person against socialized health care, because who has to wait for service shouldn’t depend on the severity of their issue, but instead, their capability of paying for the access. 

i didn’t realize it for the first few years - something shifting, something so subtle. the winter makes us all cold, the summer makes us all a little out of our minds. i just loved her, because she was incredible, and i was the luckiest person alive.

it’s just that i realized that spring came with sudden bursts of cold. it’s just that summer frequently raged in with fire sprouting from her lips. it’s just that winter was the worst of all, her eyes dead. it’s just that autumn loves me different; throws herself into it without the clingy sweat of summer. i used to love that summer girl, you know? i loved how wild she was, the way in summer she took every risk she could. but i carried her home drunk one too many times, cleaned up one too many of the messes she made for no reason than to enjoy the sensation of burning. and winter was worse; the shutdown, the isolation. how she became distant, a blizzard, caught up in her own head, unable to tell me what was wrong and unable to think i actually wanted to listen.

she comes home, her hair bleached white. a dark smile on her lips. the shadowy parts of her are back. they loom like icicles overhead. she kisses me with her body held at a distance, a peck on my cheek that feels like an iceberg. she makes polite conversation and we go to bed early, our bodies untouching. 

it is a lonely season, i think on the ninth day of this. winter is cold. winter is known for the death of things. when i look at her, i see the girl i fell for, inhabited by an alien. she was the first women i loved so much i felt it would kill me. i can’t leave. when i wake her up with my crying, she tells me to shush and go back to sleep. she’s different like this, quiet, doesn’t eat. 

three days later i stare at myself in the mirror. i wonder if it’s me. if the fat on my body or something in my face or the wrinkles and she doesn’t love me. i try prettier lingerie, lean cuisine, i try different hair, more makeup, try harder. it doesn’t work. she looks at me the same; that empty gaze that neither loves nor condemns my actions. 

somewhere in februrary i lose it. we’re fighting again, from car to restaurant to car to home again. we fight about stupid things, small things; i tell her i feel she doesn’t love me, she says i’m not listening. the circle goes around and around, old pain peeling back, new pain unhealing. i sleep on the couch.

i wake up when i hear her crying, white hair around her all messed up. the kind of sobbing that only comes at two in the morning, heavy and thick and hurting. my winter girl. my heart is breaking. she looks up at me like i’m her anchor. “i’m sorry i’m like this,” she says. and i start saying, it’s okay i’m here we’re married, but she just shakes her head and says, “I know this isn’t the real me.”

i hold her cold hand. she stares at the blankets. “i am different in winter,” she whispers, “i know i am and i’m sorry.” she looks at me. “why do you think i dye my hair? cut it off? get rid of the old me?”

i tell her it’s okay. we’re together and it’s okay, and then she whispers, “i’m sorry you married four of me.”

we lay there like that, her head on my chest. she falls asleep. i stare at the ceiling, thinking of the way she sounded when she was crying. how i helped put her in that pain. how i promised in sickness and in health and everything in between.

the next day i spend at the library. there aren’t enough books on how to love someone with seasonal affective disorder so i make my own, notes and pages and little ideas on post-its. and i take a deep breath and make myself a promise.

she comes home to her favorite dinner and we kiss and she’s uneasy but that’s okay. the next day i bring home flowers and the next day she finds little love notes in her pockets. i love her quiet, the way winter demands, understand her sex drive is faltering; spend more time just cuddling. we drink wine and we kiss and some part of her starts relaxing. 

the truth is there is no loving someone out of their mental illness. the truth is that you can love someone in despite of it; love them loud enough to give them an excuse to believe they can make their way out of it.

and i learn. i remember the rebirth of spring, when she starts thawing. we kiss and have picnics in pretty dresses. i remember her joy at little birds and her rain dancing. i fall in love with the flowers in her cheeks and the little bursts of cleaning. i fall in love with summer’s slow walks and milkshakes and shouting to music playing too loud on the speakers. i fall in love with her dancing, with the sunfire energy. and when winter comes; i am ready. i remember that snow used to look pretty. i fall in love with the hearth of her, with the holiday, with the slow smile that spreads across her face so shyly. i fall in love with how she looks in boots and mittens and every day i find another reason to love her the way she deserves - they way i always should have.

she comes home with her white hair and dark smile and a package in her hands. i ask to see what it is and that small shy grin comes creeping out. it’s a sunlamp packed in with medication. she looks at me with those wide eyes and that beautiful winter blush. “i’m trying to get better,” she whispers, “i promise.”

recovery doesn’t look immediate. sometimes it isn’t neat. i can’t say we never fight or that we’re suddenly complete. but each day, that tiny girl’s strength gives me another reason. i love her. i love her while she tames the roller coaster of spring; i love her for reigning in the summer storms; i love her for taking her winter and trying to be warm. it is hard, because everything worth it is hard. she spreads out her autumn leaves; mixes the best parts of her into everything. learns to take winter’s silence for a moment before yelling in summer. learns to take autumn’s spice and give it to spring. we are both learning.

one day she comes home and her hair is different, but it’s a style i don’t know. i kiss it and tell her that she’s beautiful and the inside of me swells like a flood. i’m so glad that she’s mine. every part of her. the whole. i am the luckiest person on earth. and i always have been. but she’s hugging me and saying, “thank you for helping me,” and i can’t explain why i’m crying.

this is what love is; not always an emotion but rather your actions. the choices we make when we realize our lives would be empty if the other was absent. this is what love is: letting them grow, helping them find their way in out of the cold. this is what love is: sometimes it takes work to see how the thing you planted together actually grows.

“Ah! Another like me! We’re few and far between these days, aren’t we?”

And I was like oh man this guy’s sense of humor really aligns with mine! And I laughed and made some other joke about being immortal and thought that was the end of it,

but this man.

He stood by the register for five more minutes. Maybe more. Which let me tell you is an EXCRUTIATING amount of time for something like this to happen.

And he just kept upping the ante!! He starting talking about some REALLY specific details regarding day-to-day life in the 1300s to the point I started getting worried that I’d misled a genuinely immortal being to believe I am also immortal.

He eventually politely left when I got too busy with other customers to awkwardly respond.