Well, I did it. I visited the health services office in Portland, the one for seniors and the disabled. The case worker to whom I’ve been assigned was a lovely person, compassionate, kind—just the kind of person you hope will do this kind of work (J.R.’s friend, and my original case worker, too, are this way, I might add).
The worker took my application. There are many things more to get and do, but at least it’s started. The very soonest I would be able to get medical help (without being tortured at a hospital first) is several months away. Social security: try two years or so. At best. The poor woman ran over the appointment time by more than an hour because, well, shall we just say “her overwrought client needed more Kleenex than most.” (I tend to go through a box or so whenever I grapple with a tough reality. It will pass.)
I’m just not strong enough to do this now, and I am not pursuing it. Everything I’ve put behind me, rather successfully, I think (and there is so so so so so much of which none of you, not one of you, is aware) is now having to be uncovered. I’m not doing it. I went in; I tried. I succeeded because I tried, right? I did the best I could do at this juncture. It wasn’t pretty.
End of story.