I had to put this on paper.  The presidential elections have hit me hard.  I didn’t expect it, still don’t understand it.  So I tried to put it in words today.

Dear Future President:

You may be the last president of my life.  Because of that, please hear my story.

I did everything right…everything everyone says you should do.  

 I’m in a new class, a self-proclaimed “Desperate American.” 

1. My parents weren’t poor and they weren’t rich.
2. I paid my own way through college.
3. I have no debt.
4. I’ve saved a lot of money.
5. My starter home is paid off.
6. I drive an old, paid-off car.
7. I have my own business.
8. I pay my taxes.

And sadly, I was born with vulnerable health.  I do have health insurance, provided for those who are regarded as uninsurable.  For $700 each month, I have insurance that will not cover the services and the drugs that have kept me healthy enough to work for a living.  I’m a dedicated patient and take good care of my body.   I pay, out of pocket, tens of thousands of dollars each year to preserve my life.

I’ve taken no handouts.  I didn’t blitz on a big house, boat, nice cars and exotic vacations.  I simply survived. 

Each day I wake up in despair and fear.  My country has no safety net for me… the one who did everything right.   My healthcare costs will quickly deplete my savings.

What do I want?

I want less fear.  I want the rare chance to wake up in the morning and think, “it’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away.”  

I have no power in America’s circle of influence.  I ask you to use yours to throw me a rope.
I, and many other “desperate Americans” need something we cannot provide for ourselves.

This hurts.  This time I’m asking for that handout… that momentary reprieve… that great and tumultuous reinvention of America’s health care system. 

In return, I promise not to bankrupt the system by trying to live long.  When my time comes, I will go in peace at home, not surrounded by doctors and life-saving medicine.

Sure, aging brings pain.  It brings much comfort too.  Society doesn’t expect you to look as good.  You’re even allowed to get away with saying what you think…and they listen without offense…regarding your words as very wise. 

I remember in my 30s, stepping on a weight scale up to 14 times a day, just to make sure no ounces crept in.  I didn’t drink water for fear it would add a pound or two.  Then one day, I grabbed the ugly scale and threw it in the garbage.  I had nightmares for two weeks.  Now I’m more at peace.  And when I go to the doctor and they asked me to step on their scale, I turn my head and tell them not to say a thing about my weight.

Statistical Living-by Linda Athis

I measured my heart rate.
Stepped on a scale.
Embraced the practice of self-inflicted pain…
my personal wail
against age.

Nearby, elders watched
with a non-malicious glee.
They knew the secret:
Time and gravity bring all to their knees.
Ten out of every ten people die.

Now I,
Much older,
threw out my scale.
Vowed to stroll, not race,
grateful to do that alone,
inhaling all beauty
I never saw
while dueling with time.

I bow in peace at my role, my place.
I lived not to gain power, money, pleasure,
but faced my most formidable goal:
To treat myself with kindness,
and unfold my soul.

Don’t Even Try 

You can’t fold a pile of laundry all at once.

Get mad if you must.

Each piece demands to be folded,

by itself.  In its own time.

Age Revelation

Two tiny holes in a dishwash rag.

My earlier mind would have thrown it out.

Replaced it with a costly designer piece.

My later mind likes the touch

of fabric supple from use.

This one is saved.

Wannabe clouds are prisoners on earth.
Then the jailhouse blasts open.
Merciful heat helps them soar
to meet and marry atmosphere.

They have history.
Perhaps once
they fed trees in forest dirt,
drizzled lazily
on tense city sidewalks
stabbed by sexy stilettos.
Or lingered in rain gutters,
passing the time,
in a choking yearn for skyward release.

You, like future clouds,
cannot choose your appointed time.
The wait can be long,
or callously short.

Then one day a sun’s ray,
at a most uncommon moment,
selects only you.
Jolts you with joyful heat,
as you rise to join an atmosphere
much easier to bear.

When your genes pull the trigger,
and call you home,
you go in terror,
so acutely alone.

No dear love, no parent, friend,
can die for you.
This moment you fear
in your deepest gut,
is not what you believe it to be.

Go on!
Give a long
exhale…
of ecstatic relief.

Fall into fresh arms.
Let death become your lover,
and gentle escort to a new world.