Mommy, I'm Home 2.0

My 46-year-old brother-in-law has been on disability since he contacted a heart infection six years ago and was placed on the transplant list for a new ticker. For a number of years, he was not able to work and had to declare bankruptcy.

Because the doctors have been able to keep his heart beating with a variety of very pricey drugs, he’s actually doing fairly well now and has been able to resume most activities. Work is now a possibility. However, insurance is not.

He has been covered by Medicare since the government deemed him to be “disabled.” His wife works two jobs and has insurance coverage at one of those jobs. However, no insurance company will  insure my brother-in-law because he is a million dollar liability just waiting to happen. (He will eventually need a heart transplant with or without the drugs.)

His disability status is up for review this month and it is most likely that given his current condition the government will rule that he no longer qualifies for disability — thus ending his Medicare coverage as well. Even with a job, without Medicare or private health insurance, he can not afford the pricey drug cocktail that is keeping his heart pumping.

As a result, he’ll most likely end up back in the hospital on life support again within a few months of stopping the drug regimen he’s currently on. Here’s the kicker, though: Because he can not get private insurance on his own and Medicare (funded by the feds) is kicking him to the curb, he will then be covered by Medicaid (also funded by the feds and state government) — assuming, of course, he survives the inevitable cardiac incident that will land him back in the ICU.

So here’s what I don’t get, the government is going to end up paying his health bill one way or the other, so why must he nearly die to have that medical coverage kick in?

After two weeks, I’ve finally finished my latest knitting obsession.

The hardest part of making these felted bags was finding a top-loading washing machine to felt them in. Front-loading machines don’t agitate, which is a requirement for felting. As luck would have it, I have a front loader.

Plus there’s the issue of the smell. Wet wool stinks, people! (Think kimchee stink… .) So I didn’t want to ask one of my friends or family if I could stink up their laundry rooms.

Instead, I spent Saturday morning at the laundromat.

Having never lived without my own washer and dryer (I know, poor privileged me…), I haven’t spent much time in laundromats; and from what I could tell during my brief visit over the weekend, I haven’t missed much.

If I make anything else that requires felting, I think I’ll have to give in and ask someone if I can stink up their laundry room since the water at the laundromat didn’t get as hot as I needed it to. As a result of the less-than-boiling water, the bigger of the three bags didn’t shrink as much of it should have.

Ever observant, The Midge declared that I could use it to carry around Chica. Chica, on the other hand, growled something about me using it to carry around The Midge.

Play nice, girls…