With Medicare You Can Afford to Break Both Legs!
Having snuck past the tequila of my 20s, defeated the heart-cracking stress of my reporter days, and still peering out from under a lifetime mountain of pipe tobacco, I am less than a month from turning 65.
This is unimportant. The head-to-toe black and white nuns at St. Jacques School long ago assured me that my life was unimportant. Death is the big bet, and we're all just praying our way to something beyond the coffin.
No. What's important in my failing to succumb to stress and the tequila-salt-lemon ritual is that I'm now eligible for Medicare.
If you're still young, the word "Medicare" smells like the inside of your grandmother's purse, and you don't like that smell, so you listen to music instead, or you smell the perfume on some girl's neck.
Someday, if you do not step in front of a city bus, if you are not gunned down in a school shooting, if Putin doesn't flip the switch and make the sun fall, you will be looking Medicare straight in the eye.
I got the card in the mail. I discovered Medicare has different "parts" offering different levels of service for different amounts of money. The Medicare people sent me a Bible-sized guide.
I have a master's degree in English Literature. I've made my living as a professional writer for nearly 40 years. I read real well.
Still, one thing I learned in 40 years as a reporter is if you don't know for sure, don't guess. It's better to find someone who knows and make them cough up the answer.