Retardidment: The Medical Shit
Yes, I’m still alive. Some of you lame songwriter hopefuls might be disappointed in this news, but there you go. I’ve given you two posts prior to this on the topic of my retirement. If you’re mildly curious, go here. After that, go here. Thanks. For entertainment and shit, go here.
A huge part of retiring from the military after over two decades is the long, torturous process of everything that has to do with medical stuff. Again, like I mentioned, this is a DIY effort, so don’t look at the asshole in scrubs. It’s up to me, people. The key here, of course, is documenting problems. Those will lead to disability, which in English means, monthly check that’s tax-free.
This started with the glorious retirement physical. Now, since the military medical system was the better option once considered as the model for Obamacare, nothing fucking works right. I scheduled my appointment for the physical, only to find out the Pentagon clinic I was assigned to didn’t do retirement physicals. No problem, I just changed my PCM (doctor). That allowed a lot of time off from The Building, so I won that round.
Of course, they drained a gallon of blood, x-rayed the shit out of my upper body, and took random samples and scrapings. They sent me on my way without any further guidance or advice, of course. I’m obviously supposed to know how to do a job someone in the Army performs only once in a career, right?
After that, it was a waiting game. Three months passed, and I got pissed and called about my results. The clerk had no idea that BrainRants was calling. Of course I had to have some fun.
Me: “I need to get my follow-up for retirement.”
Clerk: “Okay, Sir, when can you come in?”
Me: “That’s problematic. I have to beat three people next week. And with this follow-up, I’ve been saving all my piss and shit for analysis.”
Me: “Yeah, literally no shit. I arranged a U-Haul trailer. Can the doctor meet me at the back of the hospital where you guys take in supplies?”
Me: “Oh, reminds me. I have a tub of semen samples, too. Can I just bring that along as well?”
All of my asshattery aside, it all comes down to documenting shit that’s wrong with you as-of the time you get out. Recall: check, tax-free. I’ll have to arrange that through a series of appointments myself, of course. That, and my family’s continued health care. More appointments on my time and my dime.
I have admit, though, that after 23 years of a career filled with activities that should be labelled, “do not try at home,” I’m in remarkably great shape. No meds, no prosthetics, and no ongoing brain-butcher (psychiatrist) time. The doc was shocked I’m not on any long-term medication. Why not? Everything works just fine, mainly.
Before I left, though, I mentioned that I needed a prescription for Coors Light…