Two Crimes, no Goods…

When I left the office of Doctor Hernandez, it was an extensive expedition wandering like a nomad moving to the front of the building. With the military, it was always “hurry up and wait,” thus my reason for sitting and hanging out until my transportation arrived. When the transport van showed up, the driver, Jim, lowered the lift, put me on it, and I rose at a snail’s pace until I could get into the vehicle. He carefully strapped me in as if I would explode if jostled, tightening every strap so I did not move during the trip. Like a gun, I was locked, cocked, and ready to rock, so Jim drove me home, where things stayed quiet the rest of the day.

The next few days ran as usual as I ate, wrote, and slept, although not necessarily in that order. Monotony ran supreme as I waited for the post office to deliver my package from the VA pharmacy. My rash had grown again like persistent poison ivy covering the top of my forearm, almost twice the size of a dollar bill. I used one of the over-the-counter lotions recommended by dermatologists, but it did little other than soothe some dry skin. My persistent rash was getting old, making me feel like mother nature and father time argued about giving me a reprieve.

Finally, five days later, my prescription arrived in the mail, and the excitement showed on my face like a five-year-old opening a toy at Christmas. Showing up in the evening was perfect timing because it got applied twice daily, so I started with an evening application. I twisted off the cap, flipped it around, used the plastic pin to puncture the foil, and spread some of the rehabilitating ointment. The query that put me in a quandary was about the new medication and how long it would take for the red rash to recede.

After five days of using the new prescription, no change relieved me of the medical malady which marred my arm. My brutal blemish had once again grown and wrapped around the underside of my forearm like a toothless shark bit me. The skin was not only dry but had become flaky and caused a gnarly residue of skin ash wherever I rested my arm. My puzzling predicament confused me, as I once again needed the help of a professional of the medical variety.

He added, not subtracted, when I told my doctor that my rash had not shrunk or decreased any small percentage in a week. Dr. Hernandez did not change my prescription; instead, he added to the list of my pharmaceuticals. He added cream to my ointment, telling me that two were better than one. Once again, I told the doctor I would wait for the snail mail from the United States Postal Service to receive my pharmacy package.

Six days after beginning the new cream, the differences were slight in visuals and significant in mental effects. The discouragement was that the rash had grown again, changing my mental status to gregariously grumpy Gus. Yes, I understand that gregarious and grumpy are opposing attitudes, but I wanted to point out that nothing could steal my positivity. Once again, it was time to seek the help of a medical professional and find my red rash remedy.

I talked with my doctor again, and Dr. Hernandez explained the next step in getting expert advice. He shared that gaining a dermatologist was my next move, a seventy-minute drive to Gainesville, Florida. When I told Hernandez I did not want to travel over an hour for a rash, he laughed and said there was another way. The doc told me I would attend a photo shoot here in town starring my rash with no travel necessary. After the Veterans Administration imaging session, they would forward the pictures to dermatology in Gainesville, Florida. At that point, I would wait for a reply via snail mail.

It was disconcerting to see the medical world veterans must fight through to get our needed help. And how a simple rash turned into a forty-seven-step procedure that I had to dance through like a ballerina in The Nutcracker. There is always too much money for tank and bomb builders, but other than in rare cases, our veterans do not get what we deserve. Nearly 50,000 of my brother and sister veterans are homeless in America, which our politicians should be ashamed of.

Like the Energizer Bunny, the rash kept going.