Content Warning: This poem addresses the current situations resulting from USPS delays on medication deliveries.
My spouse and I are okay; we stand in solidarity with those currently struggling and fighting to obtain their life sustaining medications.
We are a household that requires medication for daily survival. Without it at least one member of our household will not survive. While we are able to pick up our life-sustaining medications at a drive through pharmacy in town, many people do not have that option. This may be because they are in a rural area, or because their insurance only covers medications from a mail-order pharmacy, such as in the case of the VA. In the state of Montana, the United States Postal Service is the primary resource for delivering critical medications to rural communities that make up the majority of our state.
United States citizens are dying due to USPS delivery delays.
USPS is a critical service and is in serious trouble. There are too many sources available for me to cite them all here; that means you can find them yourself easily. I’m worried that this time, buying stamps is not enough.
I spent the weekend cleaning To keep our fears at bay As tracking notifications continued With each ping – a new delay As ICUs are filling; filled Don’t call 911– Nowhere you can go Homebound isolation burial As medications fail to show So many insurance companies Require mail-order specialty 90 day supplies [Won’t pay otherwise] But ours only does 30 day And the postman might not show: How many people are going to die? I don’t have tracking notifications– No pings, nor badges For human suffering. I’ll focus on cleaning; What I can control: A clean and comfortable coffin In which to hold each other Before we go.
If this poem inspires you to get involved, what you can do is call your representatives and let them know the situation with USPS is critical.
I didn’t mean to time the release of a story related to waking up in a hospital with a pandemic. Today is Day 17 of a fever of ~100-101 F (37.7 – 38.3 C). I have ice on the back of my neck as I write this. There will be a delay in the release of part 2.
It’s all surreal, right?
I grew up among hardy people that believed in staying put when the hurricane came and destroyed the town (this literally happened and I was out of school for 2-3 months in high school while we rebuilt the town). One of the places I lived was almost wiped off the map by the 1918 Influenza pandemic. Entire families died – their bodies buried in mass graves next to their homes by the brave neighbors who ventured into the houses later. The houses and all of their belongings were either burned or were left to rot until us, curious, mischievous rural kids with nothing better to do broke in and wandered around those unwired houses like the generations and generations of kids before us. Look but don’t touch. The objects are cursed and haunted by the disease. Even then the belief was that the ghost of the disease persisted and could kill.
On that note, stay tuned for a short story exclusively posted here since I’m taking a week off. Don’t expect it to be edited well because, frankly, I feel like s***.
Take care and I hope everyone is staying well. As always, thank you for reading. Without you I’m writing words into a void.
Check out this thing called the Waffle House Index – it’s used by FEMA to determine how bad a natural disaster is in the United States based on the number of Waffle Houses still open in an area. I’m not joking. It’s a real thing. Waffle House is historically known for being open 24/7/365 and has called itself a “trucker shelter” during inclement weather.