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Swinging on a Star 2021

The Surgical Cut


A surgical cut to treat a disease, or dis-ease, is the most efficient treatment, once all of the other methods have been tried, and have failed, or been prudently ruled out. Surgery is not the first choice, unless it’s the only choice. And, by that point in clinical time, a dire emergency has presented itself. The physician then had better be better at making good decisions, than at quoting statistics, and at cutting to cure the patient, not kill him.


The art of healing has been politicized in America to the point where the hands of the most talented and knowledgeable doctors have been tied by government intervention into their profession.

I’ve only recently discovered that the American Medical Association. the AMA, represents a rather small percentage of practicing, and licensed, physicians. There are the doctors who practice medicine, and there are the doctors who hold a license to practice medicine. The administrators are the scoundrels who hold that almighty license, but they do not practice the art.


And we need to be as thankful as possible for that unpleasant situation that spares any patient from Dr. Fraud or Dr. Feelgood. Those quacks are represented by the Mountebank Class, the medico-experts, the most glaringly narcissistic of whom is the Frankenstein monster of the Covid-farce.


That annoying gnome with the ghastly wig just keeps spewing more ridiculous names of The Variants on MSNBCNN, the Government Channel. He sleeps over in Studio D, just so that he’s there, at a moment’s notice, when the un-vachinated threaten to disturb the eco-system of the parasitic planet that this grifter inhabits: Club Fed Med-Funding.


(And Motley Crue got the caduceus right on that album cover.)

Of that small number of U.S. physicians in the AMA, a fairly high percentage consists of unionized doctors. Yes, I said, UNIONIZED. Those “doctors” work in health-care warehouses, operating, sometimes with a knife, in assembly lines. The AMA sold out its doctors in the same way than any other lobbying blob sold out its paying members, the rank-and-file that the grossly highly paid executives at the top must find very rank, odious, in fact.


Those persons with medical degrees do not dirty their hands with actual medicine, just with grabbing gobs of money. They cut inside deals with Congress and with federal agencies. It’s the only cutting they do, and they pride themselves on the multi-million dollar incisions into the body politic that they perform, behind closed doors, or in front of the propaganda-camera. Every time you see that Pompous Pinhead NIH Worm, just consider it another creepy ploy to keep the budgetary bilge flowing to his gigantesque laboratory on the Potomac.


When I was a much younger woman, I became involved with medical students and the study of medicine at the George Washington University. I used to refer to those years as my decadent years, until I realized that I was the pristine one, observing their degeneracy on display and in training. Their filth did not rub off on me, but I’ve spent years sanitizing my memories of the noxious mind-sets of certain arrogant males who went on to become doctors, very fat and very lazy doctors.

I even predicted to one of them, “You’re gonna be a very fat, very lazy, and very bad doctor.” And I was right! Decades later, I looked him up, and the sight was sickening! His online reviews were even worse, consistently and horridly subpar. He couldn’t even qualify as a lab rat.


Among this group of future physicians-in-the-petri-dish were the wealthy med students who had bought their way into the GWU med school. Those specimens were the most appallingly ill-equipped to deal with the human condition — with any condition! Whenever they were not smoking pot, they were selling it. Yes, the big-pharma dealers of today are the marijuana dealers of the inner city of Washington, D.C. of yesterday. Somehow, that toxic linkage seems fitting, and logical.


Those swelled-head potheads were also busy trying to advocate for the legalization of pot as a medical remedy. Within the past few years, those disgraces to their profession have victoriously met their nirvana, perhaps while also flying on a cannabis-cloud 9, high as a kite while at work in some unionized managed-care facility. The unionization protects these charlatans from malpractice suits. What protects the victim-patient is, mostly, God-only-knows — God.

Then there was the smaller number of earnest, enthusiastic, and non-self-medicated, med students. They were the poor ones, who volunteered to put in extra hours at the abominable city hospitals in the area. Their unpaid work was crash-course training for their futures; they needed to cram in as many cases and learning moments as possible before they handed their lives over to Working In A Rural Hospital to pay off their catastrophic medical school debts.


Because at that time, in the 1970s and the 1980s, the countryside in America lacked competent doctors, surgeons, nurses, and even administrators. An intern got extra pay just for going there, to Hickville. Fast-forward 40 years, and now it’s the city that hemorrhages capable physicians who simply want to get away from working in a war zone.


The one reality agreed upon by all of the med students with whom I associated was:


If you can’t hack it as a doctor in the real world, you end up at NIH.

A shudder, and roll of the eyes, usually followed that statement. I also learned a truly fine statistic, handed out to these young men by a Doctor Pfeiffer, a severe, strict but brilliant professor:


1/3 of the students have book knowledge

1/3 of the students have intuitive knowledge

1/3 of the students have both.


Anytime that I’ve entered a doctor’s office, for the first time, I immediately size up which 1/3 he, or she, is in. Typically, I do not tell the licensed and practicing professional my assessment, but neither does he, or she, inform me as to how I am being typed, categorized and miscast — into the wrong classification or segment of the bell-shaped curve.

I’ve had more than a lifetime of being hastily lumped into the middle of that curve of normal distribution; and that error is fraught with problems — for the doctor — who fails to see that I am not average, and I do not conform to the statistical norms that are, in themselves, not always accurate. It’s the aberrant case that will kill that type of doctor!


I am about as A-typical as a woman can get! Or want to be! As one Dear Doctor said: “This is not at all unusual for Super-woman.”


I’ve met one, exactly 1, astonishingly bold and blunt physician, who informed me that my body clock is not that of the majority of the masses, my age or otherwise; that I do not fit into the plurality of any of the numerical studies, those statistical compilations that he also derided as attaining too high and heavy a hand in the field of medicine.


Maybe you only need one, or two, wise sawbones (with book and intuitive knowledge) to school you about your own body. After all, you do live in it; the practicing physician merely examines it. The hilarious irony about this professional is that he graduated from the George Washington University School of Medicine, decades before I started my novelist-medical research there!

After my time with that erudite man of the healing art, my confident knowledge of my own body came head-to-head with the heads of subsequent, much younger and over-worked MDs. Instead of delicately positioning me on the correct end of the statistical globule, they labeled me as a square peg and tried to clumsily shove me into a round hole — until that square peg stood up and handed more than a few choice words to The White Coat.


I thereafter received a love letter, a First Notice of Inappropriate Behavior, for having told off a doctor who nearly cost me my life. I’d say the inappropriate behavior didn’t get properly filed on that medical chart. There wasn’t a malpractice suit, just a lot of forgiveness, coming from me, to a young man who had once been a good doctor — before 2010. Then he, and so many other dedicated professionals in the field of medicine, came undone. The personal fault lines were already there, but those inner stress fractures could not survive the seismicity of even more obscene government intrusion into their profession.


The abortion called Obamacare put many things to death. One of them is the type of globalist politician who sells out anyone, for any price. Taking care of our vets? ought not be a question of incredulity by any Presidential candidate. And now our vets have awakened to the necessity of having to make a surgical cut, emotionally, because a former President, facing his tragedy on the day of 9/11, is no longer heroic.

I believe that the emotional efficiency known as the surgical cut is in order for many millions of Americans.


The healing of this emotional surgical cut will be lengthy, but it will heal properly, because the truths of the past 20-30 years have, finally, become fully known. We can experience that “closure” that’s been hypocritically hyped for decades, even while just about everything going on in the Nation’s Capital secretly made damn certain there would be no end, no closure, to a chronic war.


How can a person ever recover from an assault that never ends?


After an onslaught to your dignity, the finality of the real truth, the full truth, does set you free; it soothes and restores the virtuous among us. We move on to the sense of decency that the indecent will never own, and can never steal from us. The obscene fate of the Vietnam vet, spat on and maligned by the Boomer brats, has been superseded by the precipitous obscenity that is the Fall of Afghanistan.

The surgical cut is also being made, unintentionally, and abysmally, by the flailing and failing physicians in government and in mis-managed care monstrosities. Those clowns and incompetents have driven up the price of everything medicinal, just to feed off of that trough.


A pig is a terrible thing for a human to become; but I’ve a sense those swine were born that way. Nature over nurture, in this case.


Bing did sing about the entire state of shame that’s befallen the nation since he first introduced this tune, with some adorable children, in the 1944 film, Going My Way. This life theme was composed by Jimmy Van Heusen, with lyrics by Johnny Burke. It’s a keeper!


A pig is an animal with dirt on his face

His shoes are a terrible disgrace

He has no manners when he eats his food

He's fat and lazy and extremely rude

But if you don't care a feather or a fig

You may grow up to be a pig.