I had never thought much about physical disabilities until the autumn of 2012, when an airplane flight from Hell from Wichita, KS, to Denver – long horror story ... please don't ask! -- squeezed me into a last-row seat of a tiny Embraer jet aircraft for four hours, resulting in a severely compressed sciatic nerve that basically crippled me for several months. At first, the pain was so intense that I thought I would die, then later on, the pain was so intense I was afraid I would not. (My wife and I slept in our first-floor guest suite for some period of time.) Gradually, thanks mainly to the intervention of an excellent chiropractor, I incrementally, over a period of about four months, recovered to the point that, instead of walking half the length of my driveway, I can now walk perh
Several weeks ago, as this “Skeptic’s Column” column is written (14 Jan), I came down over the weekend with my usual annual case of the “cruds”: stuffy nose, scratchy throat, sinus drainage, etc., etc. No fever, but inside my head, I could hear the wheezing, especially as I lay in bed at night. It sounded like a gunny-sack filled with cats being tortured. (Apologies to cat lovers. I am one. But it sounded like it sounded. So sue me.) Worst of all, I could only log perhaps 2 hours sleep per night. The tortured-cat symphony kept me awake.
So next morning, I hauled my sleep-deprived, zombie-ized, bleary-eyed, Walking Dead carcass into one of those walk-in clinics a couple miles from my house. (My wife drove the car. I did not trust myself.) The doctor on duty took my temp and
Now that -- thanks partly to Republican intransigence about "repeal and replace" -- ACA / Obamacare (which, remember, are the same thing) is in the news again, and, especially when confronted with the Republican alternatives, people have gotten to know and to fall in love with Obamacare all over again, I thought it might be useful to post this column from a couple of years ago about the "mechanics" of Obamacare. Had the Republican repeal effort succeeded, I believe we would have had one more instance of Joni Mitchell's perennial question: "Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got til it's gone?"
In case you think the story of Chicken Little’s cry “The sky is falling!” is something from a fable, you should know that a cognate form of this fable has been acted out i